Procrastination pie: A lesson in avoiding the really hard work

Little Bird. My most recently completed painting, from September 2014.

I got angry at my son yesterday.

He was supposed to be practicing piano, but he was crying and upset because the piece was difficult. This was not the first time he has experienced this level of frustration with working through something hard. We've tried to coach him through the difficulty, explaining that when something is hard, you just have to work harder. Hardness is not a reflection on intelligence or value; it simply means that something is difficult and requires more work.

I tried going that route first. I told him to take a deep breath and try to slowly work through the lines note by note. Calmly, persistently. He responded with more frustration and tears. I tried again. And then I'm ashamed to say I totally lost it. I yelled. I told him he needed to pull himself together and get over being so emotional about struggling. It went on from there. It wasn't pretty, and I didn't feel good about it afterward.

Thinking about the incident while doing dishes later, I recognized my hypocrisy. I had spent much of an unexpected snow day avoiding my own hard things. Instead of painting or writing or even working on a project for a client, I cooked and cleaned and ran 4 miles and folded laundry, frittering away precious time on easy things. Not easy in terms of the amount of work required, I was exhausted when the day was over, but easy in terms of emotional, mental, and creative effort. Like my son, I constantly struggle with and get anxious about doing certain kinds of work; the difference is that I am a lot better at hiding it from myself and others by doing prodigious amounts of other stuff.

I try to tell myself that being creative is not supposed to be that hard, that I shouldn't get frustrated, that I should take a breath and slowly and persistently push through the difficulty, and perhaps that I should even relax and enjoy it, but the truth is every time I start putting paint to canvas or trying to write a story is a moment of stress, anxiety, and fear. And even when it goes well (which is actually pretty frequent), the terror returns and remains because the next addition of color, the next creative choice could screw it all to hell. I tell myself I shouldn't care. It should be about the process, not the product, but at heart I don't believe that. I tell myself that if I really loved to paint as much as I think I do, it should be easy to get up and do it. But it's not. Just because you love something doesn't make it easy. So painting starts sit for months and sometimes years before I finish them because mustering the courage to push them through the next step is so hard and requires so much emotional energy. (For example, I started Little Bird, the painting at the beginning of this post, five or six years ago and only finally got around to finishing it last September.)

Starting this year, I plan to do better. (I also plan to be more understanding toward my boy.) I've figured out ways to trick myself into running even when it's cold or hot as hell, I'm sore and tired, and I really don't feel like it. Surely I can trick myself into painting and writing more?

In the meantime, while I was avoiding the hard work, I made this shepherd's pie, which turned out to be a huge hit. Inspired by my friend Jeff, who made a shepherd's pie using cauliflower mash instead of mashed potatoes a few weeks ago, I decided to try replacing some of the mashed potatoes with cauliflower. The cauliflower adds a nice, light sweetness to the mash, but is a bit more watery than potatoes are. I may try replacing the potatoes with cauliflower altogether sometime soon, but if/when I do, I will probably need at least two heads of cauliflower and less half and half. I also used a combination of ground beef and loose pork sausage, but you can use any combination you like. And even though I made this meal in part to avoid work, don't be fooled: It's a somewhat time- and labor-intensive recipe, so don't plan to make it on a weeknight. (Unless you have a snow day.)

Shepherd's pie, ingredients

• 1 large head cauliflower, broken into florets
• 6 medium yellow potatoes (use any potatoes you like; I just like yellows better)
• 1/4 cup half and half
• 1 Tbsp butter
• 2 Tbsp olive oil
• 1 lb ground beef
• 1 lb loose pork sausage
• 1 large onion, chopped
• 2-3 cloves garlic, crushed
• 1 14 oz. can of diced tomatoes, fire roasted is nice but not necessary
• 2 Tbsp tomato paste
• 2 cups water
• 1/4 cup ketchup
• 1 tsp Dijon mustard
• smoked paprika, salt, and pepper to taste
• bread crumbs (optional)

Instructions

1. Peel the potatoes and boil them in salted water until tender, about 30 minutes.
2. Steam the cauliflower until tender, about 15-20 minutes depending on your steamer (test the cauliflower with a fork).
3. Using a ricer (which will make your life easier, I promise), rice the cauliflower and the potatoes into a bowl. Add the half and half and butter and some salt and pepper and stir together until you have a nice even(ish) mash. Taste the mash to make sure you've added enough salt and pepper. Set the mashed potato-cauliflower mixture aside.
4. In a large saute pan, heat the olive oil. Toss in a sliver of onion to test the heat. When it sizzles, add the rest of the onion and cook it for about two minutes. Then add the sausage and the ground beef. 
5. Cook the meat and onions until the meat is no longer pink. If the meat has some brown bits, bonus! Drain most of the fat from the pan. 
6. Add the garlic to the pan and let it cook for about a minute (do NOT let it burn). 
7. Add the tomatoes, water, tomato paste, ketchup, mustard, and perhaps a teaspoon of salt and half a teaspoon of pepper and smoked paprika to the meat in the pan. Stir everything together. Over medium-high heat, let the mixture cook down to a loose mass (the pan should contain some liquid, but the mixture should not be watery). Taste the mixture and add salt and pepper until you like it.
8. Next, assemble the pie. Pour the meat mixture into a large, oven-safe baking dish (mine is about 13 in. by 9 in.). Shake the dish gently to make sure the meat is somewhat evenly distributed. Then place big spoonfuls of the potato-cauliflower mash over the meat mixture and using the back of a spoon spread it out somewhat evenly. (It's a "rustic" dish; it doesn't have to look perfect.) If you want, spread some bread crumbs or Panko over top of the mashed potatoes. (At this point, you can set aside the pie for a few days and bake it another day.)
9. Bake the pie for 50-55 minutes in a 450-degree (F) oven. Eat. Enjoy. Try to do the hard things.      

Salmon with leek-mustard sauce and pistachio topping

Surely it can't have escaped you by now that I love color. I go to an art supply store, and the tubes of paint and their glorious colors are as seductive as candy to a child. When I paint, I build up layer upon layer, trying to create a deep, jewel-like finish that gleams and contains mysteries, like the clear surface of a pond.

Food often seduces me with its color too. Take the Copper River sockeye salmon I got yesterday. The gleaming, translucent flesh with that beautiful pink-orange color. I wish I could paint it, or capture it in a tube. Barring that, I suppose I have to eat it. I was seduced into buying it, even though I had not originally planned to eat so much seafood this week.

 
That glorious pink-orange color pairs especially well with the pale green of leeks and pistachios. That's not why the flavors of this dish work so well (and boy do they), but it does make a pretty dish. As for flavor, how do I describe it? The mellow cream and sweet leeks temper the assertiveness of the mustard, which works especially well with the fattiness of the salmon. Then there's the crunch of the nuts to provide a little texture. It's just a glorious bite. Simply take my word for it and try it.

It's a simple dish, but attend carefully to the fish so that you don't overcook it. Watch the times.

Ingredients

• 2 8-oz fillets of Copper River sockeye salmon (you will probably get great results with any kind of salmon that's in season, but that's what was available to me)
• 2-3 Tbsps unsalted butter
• 3 leeks, cleaned,* sliced thinly
• 2 teaspoons whole-grain Dijon mustard (or more to taste)
• 1 to 1 1/2 cups heavy cream
• salt and ground white pepper
• a large handful of salted pistachios, chopped (if you have the time and inclination, toast them in a hot pan for a few minutes before chopping them)

Instructions

1. Basically any fast-cooking recipe requires that you prepare all your ingredients in advance, and this is definitely a fast-cooking recipe. (With slower foods, like soups and stews, you can keep cutting vegetables while the onions are softening or the meat is browning.) So, the first step is to prepare all your ingredients. Surprise! Bet you didn't see that coming. 
2. Liberally salt and pepper both sides of the salmon fillets. 
3. Melt butter in a pan (I used my beloved cast-iron skillet) over medium heat. Let it foam plenty and just start to brown. 
4. Place the salmon fillets in the pan, flesh side down (because they are going into a clean pan, they will look nicer that way). Let them cook without any fussing around for 3 minutes. 
5. Turn the fillets over and let them cook skin-side down for 2 minutes. Spoon some of the hot butter over the top of the fillets a few times.  
6. Remove the fillets from the pan, place them on a plate, and tent the plate with tinfoil to keep the fish warm. Set it aside for now. 
7. Add the leeks to the pan. Let them cook until they are soft, about 5-10 minutes. Do not let them burn. (Don't let anything burn, really.)
8. Add the heavy cream and the mustard to the pan. Combine the leeks, mustard, and cream. Let the cream thicken up a bit (this should only take a minute or two). Salt and pepper to taste. Taste the sauce. Add a little more mustard if you think the sauce lacks bite (but do it in small increments so you don't ruin it). Also, if you have any juices on the salmon plate, add those back into the sauce.
9. To serve, place a fillet on a plate, spoon the leek-mustard sauce over the salmon, and sprinkle the chopped pistachios over the top. Serve it with something simple like boiled potatoes or rice that you can use to absorb extra sauce.  

* Because of the way that leeks grow, they often have a lot of dirt and grit in them. To clean them properly, strip off the outer leaf or two of the leek and cut the bottom and the top off (leave about an inch of green). You will end up with a long, mostly whitish cylinder. Cut the cylinder down its entire length. Then rinse all the inside layers of the leek thoroughly under cold running water. Finally, slice the half cylinders into little half moons.

Participating in a creative exchange: The push of a SPARK

So this won't be the usual post about food, as you may have guessed from the image. This is my latest painting, which I have titled "In the Garden." I made it as part of my participation in a creativity exchange called SPARK. SPARK is a way for visual artists, writers, and musicians to inspire other artists and to get a creative spark in return. During each 10-day round, pairs of artists and writers exchange a piece of writing, music, or artwork and use it as creative inspiration to create something new. In other words, it's a creative kick in the butt--something I have sorely needed considering it's been a year since I painted anything new. And I really do love(/hate) to paint.

So when the call for more artists came from SPARK, I signed up. I'll admit, I was nervous: What if I didn't like the inspiration piece? What if I made something horrible? What if I couldn't finish? Eek, ack, gah! Then, the 10-day round of SPARK started. I received these song lyrics from my SPARK partner, Sharon Deegan, as my inspiration:

Are you ready to face the feast my soul companion?
Pull off the boots made for silent marching through the night?
Well you’ve been appeasing corpses, shunning angels,
And me, I’ve been turning the compost every couple of days and my garden grows
Over the bones, and my garden grows.


Do you think you can stop your digging, drop your shovel?
Wash the dirt from your calloused hands?
Life is a well from which we’re all drinking,
How shall we meet our thirst’s demands?


Well you’ve been
Invited to your own wedding,
Invited to your own birth.
Love lies waiting for You-
(spending all your time just trying to bury your true heart
In a plot of dark and lonely and cold unyielding earth )


Will you ever be ready to 
Face the feast  my soul companion?
Pull off the boots made for silent marching through the night.  

When I read it, I was relieved to enjoy the piece. I read the lyrics a few times, allowing specific words and images to hook into me, assuming an idea for a painting would emerge. And it did.

One of the most enjoyable things to do when reading a poem, or in this case lyrics, is to consider individual words. What thoughts do they engender? What alternative meanings do they have? What associations do they have? When you have gathered together this cornucopia of thoughts and ideas, the question becomes how do you put them all together again? How do you form meaning? That explains the process both of unpacking a poem and then of developing new ideas.

Here are some of the ideas and connections I got from Sharon's lyrics: The image of working in a garden and turning over compost reminded me of a poem about compost by Walt Whitman. Whitman's poem celebrates the transformative qualities of compost (and anyone who is a gardener will know what I am talking about), this seemingly miraculous ability of worms and heat and time to transform leftovers, scraps, trash into fresh, dark, beautiful soil that nourishes the garden. The ability of the earth to take death into itself and bring forth life. The ability of the earth to turn rot into the very definition of freshness.

Sharon's lyrics suggest a similar transformation, of burying bones (a tragedy? participation in war? the loss of a loved one?) and allowing the earth to transform them from pain and rot into a feast.

One of the things I wanted to do with my painting was to create layers, to suggest decaying leaves that something fresh and green could grow from, to mimic a process of accretion. Also to suggest the process of letting time and the earth transmute pain, grief, and death into green plants, fresh life, a garden, a feast. This idea of layers reminded me of a painter I heard of many years ago, Claudia Bernardi. She builds up rich saturated images of pure pigments, layer upon layer. Her painting process suggests the work she has done with the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Unit to exhume noncombatant civilians who were murdered during the civil wars in El Salvador and Guatemala. In this work, she patiently uncovered layers, using the painstaking tools of archaeology, to lay bare a history of grief and thereby to transmute the darkness into new life and hope.

So these were some of the ideas that went into the painting. I hope that I captured some of the thoughts and feelings that went into writing the lyrics. The process of making the painting itself featured a lot of stress and terror. From creating the underdrawing and then covering that over with paint. Every layer of paint represents another possibility of catastrophe: of making a mistake or a bad choice that you can't recover from. Making the painting was a good reminder: Being creative is an act of courage. Making something new, something for others to like or dislike or misinterpret, is extraordinarily hard to do. Will I do it again? Absolutely.