Rhizome

(With a recipe for turmeric sauce)

Bamboo rhizome

"In botany and dendrology, a rhizome (from Ancient Greek: rhízōma "mass of roots") is a modified subterranean stem of a plant that is usually found underground, often sending out roots and shoots from its nodes. Rhizomes are also called creeping rootstalks and rootstocks. Rhizomes develop from axillary buds and are diageotropic or grow perpendicular to the force of gravity. The rhizome also retains the ability to allow new shoots to grow upwards." --- From Wikipedia

I painted ginger.

I have always liked the word. The beginning reminds me of my sister's name, "Rhiannon." R with a silent H following just feels good on the tongue; sort of soft and velvety, but dry. Think about a root--- this part of any plant is crucial, yet usually goes unseen. I like to imagine the world of roots just below the surface, in the cool dark earth, inhabited by worms and bugs and other quiet crawling creatures. Roots in general are metaphorically powerful, and I use them often in my work. Rhizomes hold a particular fascination because, although they appear to be separate plants above ground, they come from one root underneath. Their structural connectedness has appealed to many, including a certain philosopher-duo whose ridiculously dense writings I attempted to choke down during grad school. Most of that came right back up again, unfortunately. But I think we can agree on this: rhizomes are neat. As I was researching them, I realized that many of these plants hold specific meanings or memories for me. A coincidence, yes, but one that brings a sense of satisfaction.

Turmeric sauce!

Ginger and turmeric, two edible rhizomes from the family zingiberaceae that originate in/near India, have long been my dear friends in the kitchen. I might even say they are my favorite spices, except saying that makes me think of all the other ones I couldn't live without. To me, the taste of ginger goes with everything. Both it and turmeric are extremely useful medicinally, being fabulous anti-inflammatories. Mom used to employ ginger poultices to ease the pain caused by her rheumatoid (another "RH"!) arthritis. I eat ginger in many guises: ginger tea, ginger kombucha, ginger pickles, raw ginger on salad, ginger nut sauce, ginger ice cream, ginger cocktails... I could go on. One of my favorite ways to use turmeric is in a very simple dipping sauce: mix three tablespoons turmeric powder with enough vinegar to make a gloppy consistency, and use it to dip raw or pickled vegetables (I love pickled beets with this). A little bitter, a lot sour, quite pungent, and oh so brightly colored! The list of health benefits attributed to these roots, especially turmeric, is extensive.

Did you know that rhubarb (RH!) is a rhizome? We always had it growing in front of the house back home in Wisconsin. It grew like a mutant, so fast and so tall that we could never use all of it. Rhiannon and I sometimes plucked the largest leaves to serve as umbrellas in the rain. It was that big! We enjoyed munching it plain, but occasionally Mom let us dip it in rice syrup for a special treat. Grandma always grew it, too, and made the best strawberry-rhubarb jam you ever tasted in your life.

Home... summertime. See the rhubarb growing in front?

Ferns and hops are rhizomes, too. If you look carefully, you can see the hops vines in the photo above; on the far right, climbing the poles. That also grew great guns. I don't know what it was in the soil--- things grew at home like they didn't anywhere else. If we had an upset stomach, Dad told us to drink hops tea. We didn't like it at the time! But it helps with nausea. I really wish I had some of those hops flowers now, because I want to try making hops kombucha. Ferns grew in the forest all over our 20-acre property. The fiddlehead variety were delicious to eat in early spring. I remember having them sauteed in goose fat. YUM.

From the "Flower Fairies" books.

Lilies of the valley and irises are rhizomatous. These flowers always make me think of Mom; she grew them in our front garden. Lilies of the valley were an especial favorite of hers. I remember Dad once bought her a bar of soap with this scent, and she saved it for a long time--- letting us sniff it, but not wash our hands with it. There was a beautiful drawing of flowers on the box. Do you know Cicely Mary Barker's Flower Fairy books? They were beloved in our house. I still can recall a few of those poems. Lily-of-the-Valley flower fairy was Mom, of course.

Two more I want to mention before I bring this to an end are "quack" grass and poplar trees. Quack grass is a true nuisance when you are trying to grow vegetables or tend a flower garden; it spreads like nobody's business! You weed one day, and the next--- there it is again. I think you might be able to observe its growth without the aid of time-lapse photography, it's that aggressive. When we used to help Mom weed the garden as kids, she taught us how to really get the quack grass out: you have to pull carefully so that the stiff ropey rhizomes don't just break off... you have to get down to the bottom of it and follow its trailing creepers all the way. Sometimes we were lazy weeders. "Did you make sure to pull the whole thing out?" Mom asked. "Yeah," we lied, knowing we'd just removed the visible portion. Poor Mom! But here's something wonderful about quack: rabbits love it. It was my job to feed the rabbits, and I liked to pick big juicy handfuls of quack for them during the summer. You have to be careful; that grass can cut like fresh paper if you handle it wrong. Imagine, this beautiful grass covered in rainbow dew... and hands after gathering it, cold and stained bright green.

Populus is a genus of tree that includes such species as aspen and poplar. Utah's Pando colony is a cluster of aspens all sharing one root structure and genetic makeup, thought to be some 80,000 years old. Myer has seen it; I would love to some day as well. Poplars hold a special place in my heart. I used to be friends with a particular one back home in Wisconsin, near our place on Spruce Road. I liked to go out all by myself, climb to the top of the tree, and wrap my arms around its trunk. Then I would put my ear tight against the smooth, white skin... and listen. The sound of the wind rushing through the leaves, as channeled from the trunk straight into my head, was one of my secret joys. I pictured falling water and imagined myself flying above the earth. I was always sad when it was time to leave. I wonder... when was the very last time I climbed that tree? I'm glad I didn't know it was the last.

A grove of white poplar trees.

Rosa Acicularis, Prickly Wild Rose

Down in the lower gardens on the strip, where the Milky Way shone bright at night, our wild roses grew. Mom brought them small from Grandma's garden up in Minnesota, but they were enthusiastic flowers and fast made our home their own. Yesterday I asked Mom if the roses were still there, and she said yes, it's hard to keep them at bay.... which I was glad to hear. Wild roses are my favorite flowers. Have you sniffed a wild rose? The scent is like a drug, it overtakes me. During this time of year, I often smell them before I see them; where are you, my delicious friend? There you are, and I make the apt-named beeline to stand and inhale, inhale until I almost faint of too much oxygen. Standing like that, I see the secret world beneath the spiny bushes and it reminds me of picking raspberries in the forest as a child. Did you know? Raspberries and roses are in the same family. I think I am part of that family, too.

From Snow White and Rose Red

Roses. Probably the most oft-referenced flower by artists and poets through many centuries, and used symbolically in countless myths/folktales/etc. When I was very small, my dad told me about the brilliance of Gertrude Stein: "Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose"... which I didn't understand, but pretended to, because Dad spoke to me like I was a smart girl who would know such things. There is a Grimm's fairy tale called Snow White and Rose Red that my sister Rhiannon and I loved. She said they were us--- she was Snow White and I was Rose Red. That suited me fine. Mom read us Romeo and Juliet out loud, explaining every line as she went. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet." Yes, yes I understood that! Because I had smelled roses, and there was no denying the transcendence of their scent. One of our best friends growing up was named Rose. Everyone else called her "Rosie"; we stubbornly stuck with "Rose." To me that meant the wholeness of the flowering plant in all its glory, whereas "rosie" sounded like an adjective, a skin tone. I still call her Rose, and I'm sure she will laugh reading this.

Last year in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, I stumbled across a treasure by the windows in the "Dutch room."

The Madonna and Child in a Rose Arbor, 16th c., Workshop of Martin Schongauer, German, 1450-1491, Oil on wood

Page of a 16th c. German hymnal

This painting is spell-binding to me. I think it feels like home. All the plants are hyper-real, which in my mind seems more real than "actual" real.... and I know what most of them are because I grew up in that garden. Roses have been used since Medieval times as a symbol for both Christ and Mary. In the 16th century German hymn "Es ist ein Ros entsprungen" ("Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming"), it symbolizes Christ's birth. Mom used to sing this hymn at Christmastime; it was always one of her favorites. I wasn't a fan back then because it was difficult for me to sing, and I didn't understand how a rose had to do with Christmas. Now I love it because it reminds me of Mom.

I eat roses. I drink roses. I put roses on my body.... Raspberries drizzled with rose water, rose-petal kombucha, Weleda wild rose body oil and Wyndmere rose oil in jojoba. I cannot get enough. Of course I am aware that roses are cliche as a favorite flower. However, I think resisting my love of these divine blossoms because so many have loved them before... would prove me rather silly. When I was a little girl, I chose brown as my favorite color for a long time, because I felt sorry for the brown Crayola marker. No one seemed to love it. These days, I just go right for the juiciest, sparkliest, tastiest, and most colorful. Sorry brown Crayola marker. After all, as they say, life is short. So I stop and smell the ... like, every five minutes.