Sidemouth - My Beets Are So Based

I can’t help it, I am fully obsessed with Lil B. I think he is a genius. What does it mean when an unsigned indie rap legend is invited to give a sold-out lecture at NYU? And then proceeds to talk about being “pro-caring,” how we all need to respect one another’s differences, as well as our elders, because no one asked to be born. As he says: “Every single person a golden million dollar baby.” Friendship, forgiveness, passion, loyalty, empathy, and being a prophet of love? In fact, in his 80-minute-plus unscripted stream of consciousness monologue, love was the only real glue. That's kind of mind-blowing, and he really meant all of it. At one point he even states he would die for positivity.

The scope of his audience is huge, from awe-struck stumblers like myself to those who have no idea why I am even attempting to talk about this right now because it probably is pretty evident I don’t know shit. The language and imagery associated with much of the rap genre that once meant violence, aggression, getting money, etc. has been manipulated by B to sincerely mean peace, love, unity, respect, and understanding. He does not compare himself to other rappers, but instead introduces himself to the ocean and the trees. He still slips into some iffy tropes like bitches on dicks, pussy what what, but even in these more vulgar moments he comes across as pointing out the abstract silliness of these kinds of claims.

B is more about tapping, kind of magically so you can’t even tell, into the political side of things with a sort of random, spaced-out internet stoned feeling. He’s politicizing life attitudes: "What do I rap for? Everything / I want bling bling and world peace." His musical output is a relentless stream that might wash away all our sadness. I think rap music speaks the most truth to the contemporary state of things, popular culture, trends, what have you. B brings a positive, grounded message to this realm, and therefore touches all kinds of minds in this huge demographic that someone like myself, or some other artist, or motivational speaker, or whoever, could never touch…I could go on and on.

How does this have anything to do with food? Lil B’s philosophy of “being based”—basically meaning honesty and positivity while pursuing your dreams, being your own unique self at any given time, and to be super disciplined in this—mimics the kinds of attitudes happening with foodie people.

Artisanal production emphasizes exactly this: to live with love, to respect the ways of others, and celebrate differences. This particular food culture supports environmental politics, the rights of farmers and animals, and eating food that has soul. Farmers are not yet as prolific as Lil B, but with attitudes like his becoming more popular, things become more hopeful.

When I lived in Halifax every Saturday morning there was a farmers market held in the old Keith’s Brewery building on the water. Something about this farmers market feels original, like a grandfather, never corrupted. I would ritualistically ride down the hill to this maze of a place in summer on my bike, or trench through snow in the winter at nine, twelve, to meet with friends, drink coffee, eat meat sticks and croissants, to buy and barter for the supplies needed for the week with our small student monies. Not to mention all the friends that held part-time jobs here sweetening things with free coffee, ice cream, fish, and overflowing bags of whatever produce. I was 20 and awakening to all the sensual and social aspects of food (and everything, really) that now occupy most of my thoughts and time.

The meandering corridors and few windows of this building felt castle-like, made it disorienting and unique. When I first started going I was always lost in there, doubling back upstream like a salmon against a determined flow of people, making the mistake of stopping to chat with friends coming towards me in our opposing undulating drifts. You are supposed to just wave, and meet outside later.

Everyone was so precious here. My favorite lady who crushed her own incense out of sweet grass, cedar leaf, and Persian resins… that smell, I will never forget. I keep one pinch of it safe, and still to this day it is capable of putting me in the most lucid reverie. Sweet William the massive butcher, and his massive beautiful sons with their rosy cheeks and blistering noses, offering kielbasa samples and who always lit up when I ordered large quantities of their smoked bacon or specially cured hams. The sheep farmer couple who, in addition to producing their nice cheeses, once a year killed off the old members of the herd for meat and pelts. The hides were black and untreated, ratty and wild and unmanicured, piled high all around the two of them and lining the walls, the underskins showing their sun-cure and still smelling of barn and grass. Yelling, yellow-coveralled fisherman chucking bags of mussels from overflowing crustaceous mountains, and five-dollar lobster rolls. My future friends, who were’t my friends then, singing dark-twin harmonies in the halls, looking like gypsies. My head swims with these recollections now, still high on the romance.

My favorite vegetable stand belonged to a Dutch farmer; I don’t remember his name. Everything he had was the most vibrant, the most beautiful. His rosemary, particularly, I remember, was so sturdy and fragrant, I always bought several boughs from him and stuffed them down my shirt so that they scented me, poking out right under my nose. All his different radishes—black, watermelon, butter, all so spicy and juicy and firm--eaten later with a big knob of butter and fleur de sel; his lettuces in rigor mortis, dripping their beads of dew; the multitudes of carrots in purple, black, yellow, red—sweet gnarly fingers in all sizes.

One day at the Dutchman’s stall, I was looking through a barrel of dusty beets, their roots shooting out like tails, or tapering off to make oblong, uncanny sort of witch tits, as my friend Sojourner relates them. I brought each one to my nose and thought about the Tom Robbins novel Jitterbug Perfume, in which beets, their scent, is the secret ingredient to the most intoxicating perfume and eternal life, or something like that. Lost in this thought, I looked up and before me stood the Dutch farmer. He was tall and sturdy, gray-haired and moody. His face had been outdoors most of his life, he looked ancient and young at the same time, and he wore denim overalls, a buttoned-up gray shirt, and a handkerchief tied around his neck. His eyes were very crisp and blue and I must have looked surprised to see him. I looked away and said something about how nice beets smell. Without taking his eyes off of me he smiled and took one of the beets from my hand. He began to caress it, his hands thick and strong, and slowly said, “You know, once you boil them, you can just rub the skins right off.”

Sometimes for whatever reason, some combination of circumstances or images or words, whatever it might be, resonate in such a way for you that they open up a new part of your brain. They leave nice traces. I imagine a sort of sun-bleached, red velvet softness when I think, rub the skins, rub the skins.

A few nights later, I boiled them all up, a deep, earthy, sweet scent filled my apartment. When they were ready I drained them under cold water, and holding a large one like a heart between my palms, began to rub. With the first press, matte, dull skin gave way to a rich shiny red fresh flesh, almost looking like wet rocks or beach glass, my hands immediately staining pink. I did them all. The stains on my hands became bright fuschia and I had a nice bowl of ruby orbs, all wet and visceral.

Previously - Martin Picard Should Be Called Captain Picard