June 5th, 2009
I’m Ohio bred and born, but my character was forged in the West. There’s the difference.
For 37 years I’ve been a small farmer in search of a fine climate. The project I’m currently working on in your town started 37 years ago in Portland, Oregon, a city with a fine climate. Over the years, Northern California, Ireland, Spain and East Central Ohio all proved to have fine climates. The Ohio River valley has perhaps the finest climate of all, yet the political climate here gives me pause.
The City is currently trying to fine me for cultivating purslane on the tree lawn. I appreciate the absurdity, the Dada nature of the event, and sincerely hope we can use it to a better end. Yet this is but a small example of a greater malaise. The City has turned against the Citizenry to prevent them from going where the City professes to want them to go. Oh, dear.
Slims is changing. Again. Heeeeere’s Joanne.
…In the lemon
knives cut
a small cathedral,
the hidden apse
opened acid windows
to the light
and drops poured out
the topazes,
the altars
the cool architecture.
So when your hand
grasps the hemisphere
of the cut
lemon above your plate
you spill
a universe of gold,
a goblet yellow
with miracles,
one of the aromatic nipples
of the earth’s breast,
the ray of light that became fruit,
a planet’s miniscule fire.
-from Ode to the Lemon, 1954
As someone who finds it impossible to cook without lemons, I have a special fondness for this poem. The brightness of a lemon elevates so many different flavors. In my mind, the lemon is the soul-mate of extra virgin olive oil, and finds its true sophistication when preserved with simple kosher salt and perhaps a touch of honey. A lemon is not expensive, it is not coveted by foodies who are “in the know.” Nonetheless, it is a flavor that I cannot imagine cooking without. For this cook, it IS “the ray of light that became fruit.”
The above stanzas are borrowed from the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. If a lemon is the flavor I cannot cook without, then Mr. Neruda is most definitely the writer I cannot live without. Many are familiar with his famous love poems, especially the One Hundred Love Sonnets from 1960. Less familiar are the Elemental Odes from 1954, which include the above poem. Other odes include ones to wine, salt, an onion, a tomato and a chestnut. These odes are as romantic as his love sonnets, but directed towards everyday ingredients that offer common sustenance across class and culture.
When I think of the way we cook at Slims, I think of these poems, which I have loved for years. We start with beautiful raw ingredients, many of which we take out of the ground a few blocks away in our urban farm. As cooks, it is our job to treat them with respect. To me, this includes cleaning them and storing them properly, but also preparing them in such a way that their natural beauty always comes to the forefront.
Unlike other restaurants, one will notice a conspicuous absence of high priced ingredients such as truffles, foie gras, lobster and the like. What we do enjoy is curing our own charcuterie products, making pasta from scratch, brewing root beer, composing salads out of a variety of our heirloom lettuces, herbs and flowers, and pickling some of the different varieties of vegetables we just can’t use in time.
Slims is a restaurant that, like Mr. Neruda, would rather pay homage to the humble ingredients. He regarded “poetry not as an elite pursuit but as a statement of human solidarity addressed to ‘simple people.’” I feel much the same when it comes to cooking. Everyone should have access to food that is healthful and raised sustainably. At Slims, I am thrilled to spend my days working both in the garden and the kitchen with such products. And as much as I hope that our guests will enjoy the food, I also hope we might just inspire them to try their hand at a little growing too.
