If half the time we think we're thinking, we're actually listening, this week, I listened to roses.

I like it when I’m cooking with the doors and windows open and I can’t tell if the smell is coming from inside or out, like today, making rose petal jam at the beach, the wild rose shrubs blooming right outside while their flowers simmered in my pot.

I like it when I’m eating something and I can’t tell if the taste is coming from inside or out, like today when I took a spoon of the jam on the porch and it flooded my mouth while the sun was warming the flowers on the bushes and I was over my head in rosiness.

I like to be over my head, fully immersed in that place where “half the time you think you’re thinking, you’re actually listening.” and this week, I was listening to roses.

Did you see them blooming? In the ditches, on the beaches, beside the falling barn?

I was at my family beach house this week and the smell of the beach roses was enough to drown out anything you might care to mute, with just a simple, long inhale through the nose.

My mom and I picked a bunch of the flowers to make things with, or just for the pleasure of picking, we weren’t sure. When picking petals, I have always picked the flowers that have been open awhile, already pollinated, their petals ready to fall, to ensure a good crop of hips in autumn, but today I noticed this:

These hips are already formed, and the flower buds have not even opened yet. Fruit before flower? Chicken, egg, egg, chicken? Flower >pollinator>fruit, orrrrrr… fruit>flower>pollinator? There are observations and questions like this every single day of listening to plants that throw a wrench into the things I think I have a grasp on and remind me to loosen my grip. Another example is how I’ve always kind of vaguely noticed, but only this year have definitively noticed, that the flowers of the beach rose shrubs often change color from year to year. Last year they were predominately pink and this year almost all were white. What does this mean? Why? How? I don’t know. I could probably reason my way into a botanical explanation. I could probably know right now with a quick internet search, but I’m gonna wait here a little while. Not knowing, and not trying to know is a place I’m trying to be more comfortable in, and I’m finding a lot of value here.

The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. The small truth has words which are clear; the great truth has great silence. —Rabindranath Tagore

Here’s a poem I wrote from here instead of searching.

Pale Faces

The beach roses are all white this year
Last year, every one, pink.
What’s that all about?

I hope they didn’t think our rowdy ballads on the night-porch were battle hymn‘s
to plunder their petals come morning.
Though we did, we did.

Maybe it’s come into fashion to mirror the moon?

Did someone tell them that they smell like the ghosts of summer
and they thought, 
why not dress the part?

Perhaps they went pale-faced at seeing 
that they’re rooted in the last strip of sacred ground
and it’s only made of sand. 

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“Asking beautiful questions, often, in very unbeautiful moments, is one of the great disciplines of human life.” — David Whyte

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The wild rose, and it’s juxtaposed form, it’s thorns always in the meat of my thumb, it’s pollen like silk on my skin, it’s fondness of shitty neighborhoods, it’s astounding symmetry, it’s willingness to bloom, it’s unabashed perfume, it’s eagerness to fall apart, and always, it’s insistence on staying - the rose, so different than me, has given me a lifetime of questions. Here is a poem I wrote while picking hips in October from this same shrub that I’m enjoying petals from, now. I’ll read it to you if you press play at the top of the page.

I’m Yours

I’ve picked rosehips from this same shrub since I could toddle and grab 
While I was picking today 
I remembered my younger self 
How badly I wanted to leave this place
How bored I was 
How I could not be happier to be here now. 

I don’t know when I stopped needing novelty and started craving instead the sweetness of doing small things over and over again
Chop wood - Carry water 
Shovel snow - Pick fruit 
Drive down instead of out.

There’s not much sexy about a one night stand anymore 
All I really want are your stories 
Where are you from
Tell me everything about the place 
I’m yours. 

I put a white petal from one of the last blooming roses in my mouth 
It laid down easy and covered my tongue 
I smelled every summer of my life 
And it swallowed me whole.

A man walked up from the water 
And handed me a Monarch butterfly 
Without a word 
From finger to finger 
Like we’d planned it 
Except we’d never met.

He said it was getting beat up by the surf 
So he lifted it out 
But then realized he didn’t know where to go with it and panicked until he saw me 
“You look like you’re from here, and might know what to do.” 
I liked that.

He asked if I was picking pomegranates 
In a southern accent 
I showed him how to eat a rose hip 
Which he’d never had before 
But swore they tasted so familiar.

He took a picture of my full basket and me - Monarch in hand
Like a family portrait 
I cried for a minute when he left us.

I went down to the water's edge 
To walk through a flock of tiny Sanderlings 
Here for the winter from the Arctic 
I set my basket down 
To try and film their little legs and the big waves. 

I looked down to see a surge snatching my basket 
Pulling it over and out.
I grabbed it in time to save most of the fruit
Spilling a few pounds 
Now pretty red bobbers in the foam.
 
I laughed 
The gulls laughed back.

I stood and wondered where these waves came from 
And where that monarch was going.

I turned to head home and saw, up the shore 
A family 
A boy squatting - a little girl squealing - a grandmother prodding 
A mass of red fruit 
That had just washed up in front of them
The father - hands on hips - confused 
Looked slowly, side to side 
and finally to the sky.

Night-beach with moon-faced roses, strawberry - moon, and a full-moon high tide. Not an answer in sight.

For complete rose immersion, beyond sticking my face in the flowers to suck in the smell, I ate them in as many ways as I could think of. I’m not done yet, but here’s what’s been great so far.

This Smashed Pickle Salad from NYT Cooking might be my new favorite summer side. I added boiled red potatoes and rose petals.

This Rose Petal Jam is definitely my new favorite summer sweet. It was incredibly easy to make, and preserved the flavor and aroma of the rose shockingly well. So far, I’ve spooned it over vanilla ice cream with pistachios and sea salt, but next I’m thinking some kind of grilling glaze for rabbit or pork.

Pickled Rose Petals on the left and right, and Rose Petal Syrup in the middle. I Haven’t tried the pickled petals yet, but I’m thinking they’ll be perfect to brighten up a pile of pulled pork on a bun. The syrup was lovely so far in a tequila + soda, sitting in the sand. I did pack more petals into the jars to fill all that float space.

Rose + Gin Spritz for a midsummer nights eve.

May your summer and kitchen be rich with roses and questions.