Each year when winter came, the old men entered
the woods to gather the moss that grew
on the north side of certain junipers.
It was slow work, taking many days, though these
were short days because the light was waning,
and when their packs were full, painfully
they made their way home, moss being heavy to carry.
The wives fermented these mosses, a time-consuming project
especially for people so old
they had been born in another century.
But they had patience, these elderly men and women,
such as you and I can hardly imagine,
and when the moss was cured, it was with wild mustards and sturdy herbs
packed between the halves of ciabattine, and weighted like pan bagnat,
after which the thing was done: an “invigorating winter sandwich”
it was called, but no one said
it was good to eat; it was what you ate
when there was nothing else, like matzoh in the desert, which
our parents called the bread of affliction— Some years
an old man would not return from the woods, and then his wife would need
a new life, as a nurse’s helper, or to supervise
the young people who did the heavy work, or to sell
the sandwiches in the open market as the snow fell, wrapped
in wax paper— The book contains
only recipes for winter, when life is hard. In spring,
anyone can make a fine meal.