On Revelations

Newness, allusions; Dublin coddle.

I’ve determined that there is very little new left in the world. Look far enough back in history, read enough books, talk to your parents every once in awhile and you’re bound to discover that your stunning revelations were in fact revealed decades — or centuries, or millennia — ago. I don’t say this in a nihilistic way, but simply as a matter of fact. Wendell Berry would laugh at my ideas on radical eating — and so would Jim Harrison (I think him, especially) or Aldo Leopold or anyone who grew up on a farm where “radical living” was just living. This is a good thing: in looking to the past, it helps ground you in the present, prepares you for the future.

Despite the lack of new ideas, however, there is still newness left in the world. There’s that quote by Heraclitus about the river — you never step in the same one twice. It’s liberating — and exhilarating — to know that you can still discover things on your own. Radical living can still feel radical even if it’s been practiced forever; a child can still look out at the world with wonder, even if everyone else is jaded. No matter how many times I’ve seen one, my heart still races when I see a deer in the woods, a seed sprouting, a smile from Mrs. CWD. Time, I’ve decided, exists on a continuum, ever repeating, ever renewing.¹

I tend to reference dead (and alive) authors with some regularity. That’s because there’s a literary device I’ve come to like: paralipsis. It allows me to hint at big ideas already made without actually having to say anything, forcing the reader to make his or her own connections. Not only does this help me sound much smarter than I actually am, it also allows me to write shorter essays.² I can nod to Leopold and not have to rehash his arguments about the Land Ethic.³ I can bring up Lopez and let his Dreams speak for my own.

The downside to this literary hack is that it requires a reasonably well-read audience. Thankfully most of you are, because it would be a real shame if I talked about a tempest in a teacup and nobody caught the reference. Most folks aren’t, though, so I am running a risk — but for most of human history this wasn’t an issue: it was just a given that a person of a certain level of education would be versed enough in the literary canon to pick up on the allusions an author made. Heck, even the mostly illiterate mountain men read and discussed Shakespeare in their winter camps.

Something else those mountain men did was dream of food. After a year of subsisting on mostly wild game and water, bacon and a cup of coffee would seem awfully alluring. Like them, I will admit to fantasizing about meals during inclement weather.⁴ In typical New England fashion, we’ve been vacillating between the warmth of spring and the last cold, wet grasps of winter. The latter is the type of weather that makes one long for a bowl of something warming. We made this Dublin Coddle⁵ for St. Patrick’s Day last month and enjoyed it so much that we’ve brought it back into the rotation when the forecast calls for lows in the thirties and rain. It’s a dish that still manages to feel new — even if it isn’t.

Dice up about a quarter pound or so of bacon and begin to render it in a good-sized cast iron Dutch oven. As the bacon begins to crisp, add several sausage links, cut into quarters (we used Wade Truong’s Garlic and Sage recipe). When the sausages are browned, remove them and the bacon from the pot — leaving some of the rendered fat — and add a thinly sliced onion or two (we used shallots since that’s all that was available at the farm this week). Once those have softened and are beginning to brown, deglaze the pan with some stock, then add back in the bacon and sausage. Add a few potatoes (quartered if they are too big) on top, season with thyme, some bay leaves, and salt and pepper as needed, then pour in enough stock to mostly cover. Reduce heat to a simmer, cover, and let cook for 3-4 hours until everything is delicious.

There you go, folks: Dublin coddle. This reheats especially well, so don’t worry about making too much (though, we never do).

With that, I’ll leave you to your weekends. We’ll be starting more seeds, evoking more smiles, and generally embracing renewal. I hope you choose to do at least two of the same.

We’ll see you back here next week.

1. I quote Black Elk, via Jim Harrison (and him via his Native friend): “The power of the world always works in circles, and everything tries to be round.”

2. To bastardize Mr. Lincoln: I would have written a longer letter but I didn’t care to explain my allusions.

3. He’ll make himself clear enough.

4. It being part of CWD lore at this point that the newsletter was inspired about dreams of red sauce.

5. The recipe is slightly adapted from Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley’s, originally published on Meateater.