plum, kabocha, and drinking tea

by sanae


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 The amount of happiness that you have depends on the amount of freedom you have in your heart.

—Thich Nhat Hanh

I would stare at Justin in class. There were three boys in our Writing Seminar (titled Ecstatic), one was an engineering senior who still needed the requirement to graduate, the other seemed a little lost as to what he was doing in this class, and then there was Justin, with his dark hair and very strong arms, who always asked questions about spirituality and Buddhism.  I had chosen Ecstatic because Nantina recommended the professor, an older man who moved slowly and spoke brilliantly. I was curious about Justin. I don’t remember what we said in our first conversation, though I remember it was awkward and happened right after class. Soon enough we were bonding over Flannery O’Conner, Rumi, and Conrad. I told him about my mother and how she took me to various spiritual retreats when I was young. Justin wanted to hear about Plum Village in the South of France. I told him about spending New Year’s Eve meditating at another retreat. We started exchanging essay drafts over email. His often began with Hey yo, and ended with Peace, Love, Happiness, Unity.

Although it was his first year of college (I was one of two sophomores in the class), I was surprised when Justin told me he lived in the Quad. I imagined him living anywhere but the dorms. I hadn’t spent much time in the Quad, mostly during my first week when we aimlessly wandered through campus looking for parties, before finding ourselves in the pristine Quad with its clean grass. I lived in Hill, an ugly, box-shaped building. The rooms got so hot in the summer we had to keep the doors open at night. Justin showed me his room and pointed at the corner where he meditated. He boiled water and made tea. We sat cross-legged on the floor with our tea and talked about Thich Nhat Hanh, relationships, going home over the winter, the recent loss of a friend, and how to become a millionaire through spiritual ways, without attachments, of course. He joked about his philosophical ranting. He knew I was skeptical when it came to meditation, yoga, and vegetarian cooking. A lifetime with my mother, I explained, makes you weary of brown rice and sitting zazen. But I loved listening to him speak, being in his presence, opening my mind to his ideas, seeing the world through his eyes, learning how fearless he was as he struggled to understand difficult concepts.

We often drank tea. One night we sat at the Green Line Café, the only place we knew that was still open at 10pm in West Philly. I had been crying earlier that night and my face was blotchy. Justin asked in his wise, calm voice, you’re sad, aren’t you? We didn’t talk about being sad, but we held our mugs of tea and he told me how excited he was to have met Collin and Emanuel, and that he might live with them.

I like to think of Justin, his face painted in colorful stripes, tapping his palms on a drum with Nantina, while Collin and Emanuel leap around their living room and Yelena twirls the scarves wrapped around her torso. We sit on the floor next to a low table. Emanuel has cooked rice baked in potato slices and a spicy curry that has us sweating into our food. We are drunk and we continue to eat quickly even if our mouths are on fire. The potatoes stick to the pot but we scrape the crispy burnt pieces and the dish resembles a fine tower of Pisa. We grill meat over a fire in the backyard. Our hair smells like smoke, we eat with our hands, and we dance some more.

We are not alone, Justin once wrote to me. We all live on the same Earth, breathe the same air, and eat the same food. Though yes our lenses are different, we still connect and touch other people’s lives such that both people feel a sort of spiritual communion on many levels. This would not be possible if we all lived in separate worlds.

It was impossible to not feel this way with Justin, to not feel connected, listened to, and cared for. Justin would sit on the edge of his chair in our class, his eyes focused intensely on Professor Stein as he asked his questions. Alexander Pope. Healing. Awakening. Our place on this earth. Our inter-connectedness.

Kabocha with sesame seeds: 

In celebration of simplicity, of cooking simple, wholesome food, here is a dish one might find at Plum Village.

You only need four ingredients: one kabocha squash, sesame seeds, sea salt, and coconut oil.

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Prepare with care and attention. Share with someone you love. A cup of tea is a welcome accompaniment.

Stir 1 tablespoon of sesame seeds with ½ teaspoon of salt and grind with a mortar and pestle. Set aside. Cut kabocha into quarters and peel with a sharp knife. Careful to not cut yourself! You can leave a few strips of skin, if you like. Slice into thin strips, like potato slices for a gratin. Heat enough coconut oil to thinly coat a pan. When the oil is hot, place kabocha on the pan and cook for a few minutes on each side until golden and crisp. Serve with a sprinkle of the salted sesame seeds.

If you would like to raise awareness for suicide prevention across the country, please consider sending donations to: https://gatewayprod4.frontrunnerpro.com/book-of-memories/1844463/Justin-Regis-Broglie/donation.php

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photos by Fernanda Dobal, Woodland, 2009