Coffee, Crawls & Cancer
Chef Jonathan Chase invites us along for morning in the garden on the coast of Maine
Jonathan serves up seconds this week with an intimate window into his life these days—post-retirement and on the all-clear, but still recovering, side of a grim cancer slog. I can relate to the slog, and it’s been a delight and no small comfort to reconnect after some decades over our mutual love for growing, gleaning, cooking, and the coast of Maine while we are both trying our darnedest to reclaim health and normal function in the world we know and love as ourselves and not our respective afflictions.
I hope you, too, will find solace, comfort, and inspiration in the morning fog and dew, a fine coffee ritual, and the revelation and sensual pleasures of an edible yard. Even if cancer’s not in your own picture, it seems like we can all use a little peace right now.
Big love, Ashley
I love coffee. I want it to be blacker than a moonless midnight in the middle of a dense pine forest and stronger than a coastal Maine nor’easter in February. Two large mugs will get me through an early morning garden crawl, the first one being hot enough to warm my hands that are cupped around a big mug. After that, any temperature will do.
I love my garden crawls. It is quiet at the beginning of the day, but there are calming sounds to be heard—chirping birds, the lonely cry of a loon, the firing up of a lobster boat wafting across Blue Hill Bay. As I venture outdoors, whether it be a frosty April morning or a sticky July sunrise, I begin with a look at the potted herbs on the deck outside my second-floor kitchen. I customarily grab a nibble of something, and the aromas, always more intense in the morning, add to the sensory pleasures that are only just beginning. I then descend from the deck and wander over to my high tunnel to open up the sides and end walls to let in the salty ocean air which the plants welcome. I am likely to inspect all crops, and there are changes every day.
I notice the first fruit set on my Green Zebra tomato plants that I grow for my friend, Jane. Esterina yellow cherry tomatoes will soon be ready for garden crawl snacking; they are addictively sweet. I pluck a young cucumber from a vertically trellised vine that will go into a salad. Squash blossoms are becoming more plentiful; they too will find their way to the dinner plate. I pull weeds that were not present yesterday, or not noticed. Pollinating bees buzz around the pepper blossoms. I am tempted to sample a few haricots verts from their vigorous vines, but I know better than to touch a bean plant when it is wet. My shoes and the cuffs of my pants are now fairly well soaked from the heavy morning dew.
From the high tunnel I move to the outdoor, in-ground garden. Sugar Snap peas on their 6-foot vines will be ready for a Fourth of July feast, and beet greens can be harvested in small amounts to accompany other salad greens in my big wooden bowl. Now is the time to gather these tender leaves as they will quickly wilt if harvested at mid-day.
At the top of the stairs awaits a harvesting tool, a vessel in which to collect the gathered greens, and the second mug of coffee. Invariably garden dirt and straw mulch will accompany me into the house. My loyal dog, Arnie, is by my side throughout, and it is his scent that keeps the deer at bay – sort of, as I discover that they have munched on a few sunflower plants and zucchini leaves. I also, but reluctantly share my strawberry patch with Cedar Waxwings and Catbirds.
As I near the end of my garden crawl, my coffee is cold (if there is any left), and the rest of my day is about to begin. This year, that includes cancer recovery.
Do I love cancer? Not so much. I would not wish it or its brutal chemotherapy treatments on anyone. It has altered my life in many ways, including my coffee habits and garden crawls, but it has also taught me so much in a good way. I was very, very sick. But I learned how to walk again after being pretty much paralyzed from the knees down, with minimal feeling in my toes. I learned how to write my name again. I learned how to use a walker and eventually a cane. I learned how to get up a flight of stairs. I learned how to bathe and go to the bathroom without assistance. I learned how to use a device designed to help me put on my socks. I learned some tricks to help me get dressed. I learned how to get in and out of a car and eventually drive again.
The list goes on, but what I really learned was not so tangible. Being a “do it yourself-er” for most of my life, I learned that being able to graciously accept help when offered is a strength and not a weakness. I learned that caregivers are a special breed and that the combination of compassion, humor and professionalism is quite a powerful tool in the road to recovery. I learned that these caregivers like to hear their names spoken—“Juanita, can you help me?” works a lot better than “hey nurse.” I learned that my friends and family were there for me because they wanted to be, not because they felt that they had to be. I learned that although I could never adequately reciprocate with those who helped me so much during this long journey, I can pay it forward by helping others.
After almost eight months, I am back home now, living on the second floor. It takes me longer to do things, because, until my balance returns, I need to have one hand on a cane. I still experience occasional episodes of brain fog from all of the cancer drugs. I tire easily and take frequent breaks. But this is all okay, because I am home, I am happy, I am cooking good, nutritious food from my garden, and I am reunited with my dog who was so well cared for and loved during my long time away. And, lest I forget, I have adjusted.
The coffee and garden crawls are still daily rituals, but because two hands on a warm mug and a flight of stairs do not play well together, I now bring the whole pot down to the garden so that the second round of caffeine can be without stairs or spillage. With help, I’ve strategically placed tables and resting spots throughout the garden for my mug should I need to pull a weed or pluck a tomato from the vine.
I have not planted as much this year because of the extra time involved to take care of everything; so, there will be no fresh corn to pick while the pot of water is boiling on the stove. Next year for sure. I have also taken out more than one tender transplanted seedling with my cane, so I need to be extra careful as I walk through the beds of young vegetables. This year, I will need help moving large pumpkins from the field to front door where they will be prominently and proudly displayed.
As for the cancer? Well, it is in remission—my last PET scan was negative—but what it has taught me will always be there. I have learned so much, and I know that I want to be there in the blink of an eye should this or some other horrible fate bestow itself upon those who were there for me throughout not only this journey, but for all of my sixty-nine years on this planet.
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Learn more about Jonathan and FED’s entire Summer 2024 global crew of musicians, artists, writers, growers, gleaners, cooks, and craftspeople, and be sure to check out Jonathan’s recipe for Poached Salmon with Dill Sauce or Rouille.
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