On Imperfect Copies + Beef and Broccoli
Reflections on missing things you’ve never known and Chinese takeout
Driving from the ranch down to the Jersey Shore a few weeks ago, we passed a sign memorializing “The Last Green Valley,” a National Heritage Corridor. I asked Mrs. CWD to write that phrase, The Last Green Valley, down in the notebook I keep in my center console, which I use to quickly take notes for things that might later be worth writing about1.
“The Last Green Valley” is such an evocative phrase. To me, at least, it connotes nostalgia, longing; wistfulness, reminiscing on what’s not quite, but almost lost. It’s a designation so uniquely American — a sentimental yearning for something that hasn’t yet disappeared. Going 80 miles per hour down the highway, I watched the sign fade into the rear view mirror, finally leaving it behind2.
One of the best English courses I took in college was a senior seminar on travelogues in pre-1850s America3. Beyond reading Letters from an American Farmer, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, and hyperbolized accounts of American pioneers being held captive by Native Americans, we also discussed the idea of a nascent American ideology — one being developed in real-time. Even before it was articulated as “Manifest Destiny,” there was the idea that there was always further to push, more peaks to crest, more bends to cross. In the early American ego4, there was no time to dwell on what’s passed or past — instead, “Press on!5” and let others deal with what you’ve left behind.
Thoreau captured this sentiment perfectly in one of his journal entries. Writing in 1857, after reading an early account of the Massachusetts landscape from an English settler6:
I take infinite pains to know all the phenomena of the spring, for instance, thinking that I have here the entire poem, and then, to my chagrin, I hear that it is but an imperfect copy that I possess and have read, that my ancestors have torn out many of the first leaves and grandest passages, and mutilated it in many places.
I first read this in the introduction to American Serengeti, and, man — did that quote hit hard. In American Serengeti, the author, Daniel Flores, depicts the American West and its megafauna before the arrival of white settlers. He describes the tens of millions of buffalo7, the pronghorn, the wolves, grizzly bears, coyote, and horses. He describes the plains teeming with life, the biodiversity, the grandeur. He contrasts this with the relative desolation of today. Reading this, I felt a literal pang of sorrow thinking about what we can no longer experience — those “first leaves and grandest passages… mutilated in many places.”
There’s a word that’s been invented to describe this idea: “Anemoia8.” It’s meant to evoke a feeling of nostalgia for something that you’ve never experienced. It’s the feeling I’ve experienced flying in a single prop plane over the forests of Vermont, remembering the vestigial memory of the landscape in Fennimore Cooper’s The Pioneers; driving through Yellowstone National Park, watching a lone pronghorn slip through a herd of bison; hiking pre-dawn through the trails outside our house, hearing the forest come alive. It’s the glimmer of what once was, of what’s almost still there. I even got it further along the drive down the Shore, passing through the gut of New Jersey, seeing the last remnants of marshland tucked amidst the industrial sprawl of Newark, waterfowl flying over eight lanes of highway.
As Americans, sublimity9 is in our blood, our bones — our soul. We’re meant to experience the stark beauty of nature, reflect in its grandeur, feel its pull. We’re fortunate to have it still so readily accessible — the aforementioned trail system is a thirty minute drive from Downtown Boston, and there are similar opportunities as close or closer to every major American metropolis. However, when it’s so easy to take this splendor for granted, it’s also so easy to miss it slipping away. This summer — and all year round, really — I encourage you to get outside more often than you stay in; experience nature in a way that stirs your soul. Take a drive through a Last Green Valley, whatever that be for you, and revel in what we have right in front of us. You’d hate to think, in later years, that all you have left is “an imperfect copy.10”
And while you’re doing all that reveling, you might as well make something delicious. Summer is in full swing, the garden or farmer’s market11 a true bonanza of opportunity. This week, we’re taking advantage of the broccoli that’s hopefully in abundance in your garden or shopping carts, and making a twist on a take-out classic: beef and broccoli — something of which I’ve tasted many imperfect copies.
This is inspired by the “‘Chinese’ Beef and Broccoli” in Josh McFadden’s “Six Seasons,” but really in name and basic ingredients only. Try it either way — it’s definitely a make-again in the CWD kitchen.
Add some broccoli florets — and the stem, thinly chunked, if you have it — to a cast iron pan with salt, pepper, olive oil, and a splash of soy soy. Throw the pan into the oven and set it to +/- 425(F), letting the broccoli cook as the oven heats up. In a small bowl, mix together some minced garlic, ginger, garlic scape12, rice vinegar, olive oil, honey, and lime juice into a nice dressing.
While the broccoli is cooking, salt and pepper your choice of steak13 and let the meat sit out as it comes to temperature. When the broccoli is almost ready, heat a cast iron pan14 to hot with some ghee or butter, then sear the steak, about two minutes a side, and toss the pan into the hot oven with the broccoli — cooking for another 2-3 minutes.15
Let the meat rest for a few minutes16, then slice thinly, and combine with the roasted broccoli and dressing in a bowl.
Mix well and serve over rice.
There you have it, folks — a more refined twist on beef and broccoli. I’m sure you could get creative here with what you use to dress the mix, using whatever you have on hand. You could go a little more traditional, adding in soy sauce and brown sugar; move away from the Asian palate and use a lemon and parm mix; go more basic and just toss it with a red wine pan sauce. Josh McFadden recommends a raisin vinaigrette. I’m sure you’ll be happy with whatever you do.
From here, I’ll leave you to your weekends. We’re past the halfway point of summer — now is as good a time as any to start checking things off your summer bucket list. Have you swum in a lake? In the ocean? Have you eaten vegetables fresh of the vine? Made a fire? Gotten tan? Poison ivy17? Climbed a tree, rolled in the grass, ridden a bike, eaten ice cream, drank lemonade, laughed with friends?
There’s still time to do all of this — and more — but you better get started!
This, I think, is certainly safer than trying to text myself notes — which I would never do — but maybe less so than leaving myself a voicemail.
Turns out “The Last Green Valley” was designated in 1994 as one of the last remaining large swaths of undeveloped land between Boston and New York — still a “dark sky” area, still rural farmland amidst coastal sprawl. In my mind, this was designated as such two hundred years ago, preemptive nostalgia for what American settlers already, subconsciously, perhaps, recognized as the last of what once was — a vestige of sublime beauty, quickly fading.
Taught, yes, by the infamous RCC — Rodiclani Clytus.
And still, probably, today’s.
This Calvin Coolidge quote always has happened to be one of my favorites. And despite the tenor of this post, I do believe that “pressing on” has solved, and will continue to solve, all of America’s problems!
What’s remarkable is that Thoreau was reading accounts from 130 some years earlier — and now, we’re reflecting on his thoughts with an even greater span of time in between. Oh, what infinite pains we must feel!
Bison, correctly — yes, I know.
From Greek ano- (“without”) and Latin memoria (“memory”).
I mean the Sublime in the Romantic sense — as Edmund Burke put it in his 1756 treatise On the Sublime, “[the] astonishment… and some degree of horror… [when] the mind is so entirely filled [with the passion and beauty of nature]… it cannot entertain [anything else].” As we called it in that American literature class, “the stark and terrifying beauty.”
While you’re at it, maybe pick up some trash off the side of the road, or from the hiking trail, or off the beach. Any little thing you can do to help preserve things for the next wave of adventures.
Or, yes, even Whole Foods, Market Basket, Publix, or Shaw’s.
If you have it — or just leave it out.
We used ribeyes.
This would also work well on the grill — it was just raining the night we made this, so indoor cooking was more appropriate.
You’ll want the steak just short of medium rare, as it will continue to cook as it rests and after you mix everything together still hot.
If you remember, you can deglaze the pan with either rice vinegar or Chinese cooking wine if you happen to have it around.
You could be Henry David Thoreau's son, too.
Also, I fear we may have to live in harmony with that pesky bird. The last thing we need is to be hauled off by NH Fish and Game officials. As Albert Schweitzer states, "Until he extends his circle of compassion to include all living things, man will not himself find peace." (Probably need to revise some of the wording in that quote to he/she/it/they so as not to insult anyone, or we may never find peace, regardless)
I gave birth to Socrates. Your musings are so deep and esoteric that I re-read several times, and savor.
However, getting down to earth, I drooled looking at the photos of the beef and broccoli.
I promise to swim in the lake sometime very soon. Just so you know, there is that double-crested comorant (endangered species, supposedly) that now permanently resides on the raft, which has taken away my desire to swim out to the raft. That bird eats, sleeps, and mostly defecates, so the raft no longer is the serene, peaceful, clean escape it once was. By the way, I did just find out that the Great Comorant is the most hated bird in the world....I understand why.