Field to Fork: That's How Fresh Our Words Must Taste

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A few weeks ago, in New Mexico, John and I visited Los Poblano's, a historic inn and organic farm in Albuquerque. Nestled in the heart of the Rio Grande Valley, with the Sandia Mountains in the background, we drove through a shaded alleyway of ancient cottonwoods surrounded by 25-acres of fragrant lavender fields. A red Farmall tractor greeted us on the way to the restaurant, reminding us that our dinner at Campo's would be a "field to fork" experience, as much about feeding the soul as filling the stomach.

Here is John, with the Sandias on the horizon behind him.


The farm has been distilling botanicals for a few decades, which I learned while browsing the featured cocktails on the menu. John indulged in a glass of Hervé Villemade Pinot Noir/Gamay, Cheverny, from the Loire Valley region of France, while I indulged in a Lavender Gin cocktail with Crème de Violette, lemon, sparkling wine and LP lavender syrup that claimed to capture the essence of the Rio Grande Valley. Who could not indulge in such an experience? 


Writers, too, seek to capture the essence of a place, the heart of an experience. But our only tools seem to be harsh black letters on sterile white pages. 

Yet readers rely on us to emulate real life, to let the experience of reading about eating a pickled beet salad with farm greens, Aries cheese, pistachios and slivered red onion (made even tarter by a sprinkling of Monticello Balsamico) to cause their mouths to salivate, their taste buds to tingle. 

Readers may want to imagine what it is like to savor a blackberry demiglace drizzled over a grass-finished beef loin, though even omnivores may not want to be reminded that the grilled loin once rested beneath a forgiving spine and above a tender flank. (And yet how much deeper the connection when we do remember). If we are to emulate life, our words should evoke meaning as well as sensory stimulation. 

Author Robert Olen Butler reminds us, in his book From Where You Dream: The Process of Writing Fiction, that artists are not intellectuals. "We are sensualists. The objects we create are sensual objects..." And yet stories are about change, just as fine meals are about transforming raw ingredients to culinary art. 


I imagine that the finest chefs find artistic inspiration in the sensual aspects of their ingredients as they prepare each dish - in the texture and aroma and flavor of peas freshly podded, in the essence of the earth in every mushroom, in the belief that the gentle grinding sound of a cow savoring fresh mown hay will find its way mysteriously into every fiber of every succulent bite. 

In London, Michelin-star chef Niklas Ekstedt uses the ancient Scandinavian technique of cooking without electricity or gas, but only with fuel foraged from the woods, as humans have done since time immemorial.


We might wonder if the essence of the cedar finds its way into our meal even as the skillet cast from iron provides the sizzle. This question is not an abstraction of the mind. Like the answer, it is about a tactile relationship with the earth. 

Butler teaches that art does not come from the mind; it comes from the place where we dream. And yet are not our dreams the stuff of the mind? Not according to Butler. All of our sensual experiences as human beings living in a sensate word, manifested as flesh and blood beings, reside in our bodies. Art, Butler writes, comes from our unconscious; from our white-hot center. 


In this photo, renowned clay artist Roxanne Swentzell is firing small clay sculptures in a coal fire at the river's edge during one of my river writing journeys for women. It is the white-hot center of the flames that provide the kiln-like heat. 

Tunneling our way into that white-hot center takes courage. And faith in the journey. And faith in the compassionate nature of whomever we decide to share our art, whether our art be a meal or a poem or a sculpture. Just as the artist must cleanse the palate before beginning, must put down the iPhone or Android, we must seek the sensual and recognize the beauty when we find it. We must literally regain our relationship with our senses. 


I'm grateful that John discovered this hidden oasis in the middle of a lavender field, and that we took the time to savor the evening, and each other. 


An advisor for the Rocky Mountain Land Library and member of the International League of Conservation Writers, Page Lambert has been writing about the western landscape and leading nature retreats in the West for twenty years. Founding member of Women Writing the West, member of Wyoming Writers and Colorado Authors’ League, Lambert’s writing can be found inside monumental sculptures at the Denver Art Museum, online at Huffington Post, and inside the pages of dozens of anthologies. Page designs and teaches graduate writing courses for the University of Denver’s University College. Recent published works include “Not for Sale” (Langscape Magazine and “The Rural West,” included in Fulcrum’s new book, The Light Shines from the West. Forthcoming are 3 poems in DoveTails: Writing for Peace. Page writes All Things Literary/All Things Natural from her mountain home west of Denver.

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