Butter as My Canvas
Photo by Jenna Nord Photography
On my longest deployment I ached for creative expression. I wrote so much over those 11 months - to issue warning orders, outline of talking points for the Embassy to justify our work, and situational reports (SITREPS).
We sent SITREP after SITREP of dead ends and dry holes. A SITREP allows for succinct programatic round-up of the “goings on.”
No feelings and void of attachment, I wrote over 88 SITREPs on that deployment and not one carried the depth of the creativity and ingenuity we were executing in the Horn of Africa.
The people I met, the deals we made, the nails we placed into every beam to secure our safety and those around us…not a single thread was woven into the SITREP.
Lines of feelings were reserved for my journal.
I found solace in blank pages as every night I eagerly and vulnerably exposed my crumbling marriage, the darkness of leaving my 5-month old son, and how alone I truly felt in a space of constant contact.
I’d open my window to the equator air. I’d light a cigarette I’d lifted off of my Captain and press my forehead against the cold bars. I loved tracing the swirls to gather my thoughts and then as I flicked the final ashes off the the window seal, I’d pick up my pen and address my feelings.
Six months into my deployment that space was compromised. My bored roommate ventured into my journal and read through the lines I’d scribbled.
I abandoned my pages.
I did not write another handwritten word other than my signature on checks the remainder of the deployment.
I burned my journals and only today am I surrounded by people who understand the abyss that was conjured as I burned my written word.
I violated my core nature and that had consequences.
It might as well have been my flesh. In an alternate world beyond the eye, I think it was.
I lost parts of myself that day as I watched the flames rise and twist around the color of my pen.
Finding Butter
At the market the next day, I found fresh sour dough bread.
And the only solution for fresh sour dough is butter.
And the only solution for plain butter is herbs.
The market had it all.
I smirked as I decided to adorn the butter with smashed herbs. I saw myself mincing the parsley over and over - and then rinsing.
Rinsing over and over.
Straining the parsley until only the strongest color and flavor remained.
I saw pressed violets in a small pouch. The purple was violently deep and stark against the white centers like complicated faces. I related to those violets and bought them. It was unrequited love at first sight.
Violets don’t dabble in human complications.
I want to say my soul was saved from the abyss that was forming as I constructed a butter painting in my mind. That my return to the kitchen that day saved me, but it wasn’t that simple (still isn’t).
Looking back eleven years later, it was an important step.
I knew, even then, that I could put certain flavors together and make me feel a certain way.
I needed to violently press and smash the parsley - they could take it.
I wanted to be stimulated and seen - the violets provided the bitter flavor and pops of color that couldn’t go unnoticed.
I still love the canvas that softened butter willingly offers. It provides an opportunity for me to check in - consider my feelings, and my wants and needs.
It’s a canvas of promise.
That it will hold whatever is placed upon it and gently yield to what’s needed in the season.
My compound butter these days takes a softer pallet - dried chive blossoms and maybe some cardamom...but baby believe me, I still smash parsley with force.
