I went to our local Indian bazaar for fresh curry leaves and bought what I thought was spinach but when I looked at my receipt it said pulsaag, an Indian spinach alternative also known as basella, a climbing vine. I planned to just add the leaves to my korma at the end but when I researched it, I got spooked about it being bitter or slimy from the mucilage. So I steamed and pureed it, put the leaves in ice water to preserve the bright color, then swirled it into the korma when it was done cooking. No surprise, it turned the pleasant coconut and turmeric colored stew an unrelenting green and I wondered if I’d used too much or if it would dominate. But with the fresh cilantro and curry leaves it was a happy medley of micronutrients and bright flavors and perfect right before bed.

I’ve gotten to where I like eating supper in mid afternoon like the Germans do with just a light dinner at night. But the warm vegetarian korma with the vine spinach seemed a good way to feed my brain before slumber. Dream fuel. Going to bed around 8 I find I’m waking a couple hours later having dreamed already and thinking it’s much later than it is. Lots of good dreams make for a full night of rest.

You can cook the stems on the vine spinach too of course, but I didn’t know that and just stuffed the stems into the compost pale. I spent another day in the yard hand removing all the fallen leaves from the beds, some raking too. The raking and bending and lifting is hard on the back but it’s good to wake knowing you got a lot done.

I now go to the state park just on the weekends when it’s light and safer to be around the supposed cougar (they still have signs up saying recent cougar activity, first posted in August). I’m starting to doubt if there’s any actual cougar. With most of the leaves down you can now see clear across the forest so I guess you could see them coming, an image I don’t find reassuring. The forest has the look of winter with the sun low in the sky and the muted colors, a sparse feeling.

The Kerala-style korma recipe, from an Indian state in the south, called for cashew butter but I substituted with tahini, a sesame paste you stir into the sautéed tomatoes, spices and aromatics. (My wife went through the pantry this weekend and cleaned out all the crap so now we’ve found things we didn’t know we had, like tahini. There were also pandemic-era spices, meat rub blends and neglected vitamins meant for a different, imagined time that never came.)

I now understand why aging rockers and former addicts like Iggy Pop take to extreme healthy lifestyles in their sobriety, as if you can achieve that same state of bliss naturally or correct for all the damage you’ve done.

I wake every morning with the knowledge I dreamed, refreshed, but never remember the story lines. Maybe that’s the point of renewal, to forget.

Categories: Addiction, Creative Nonfiction, Diary

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir