Sardines in her purse?

and other secret tastes

I once met a woman who kept a tin of sardines in her purse. I noticed it when she stretched out on a lounge chair and the contents of her St. Laurent bucket bag slid onto the flagstones between us. A water bottle, a golden tube of lipstick, a bag of organic tobacco, rolling papers, an Iphone and, a beautifully illustrated tin of Portuguese sardines. “They’re my favourite snack,” she said, nonchalant beneath her sunglasses. I pictured her on a park bench in New York City, legs crossed, rolling back the top of the tin and dipping her manicured fingers into the oily fish.

I once knew a woman who kept a salt shaker in her purse. It was June of 1986. My friend Jennie was running in a track meet and her mother came to watch. She sat in the bleachers with a wicker basket at her side. Between races she pulled out fried chicken. After a few bites she wiped her fingers and lifted a glass salt shaker (sealed with a piece of tape) from her leather purse. She removed the tape and sprinkled salt over her piece of chicken, then carried on eating.

I know a man who keeps a tiny sea salt container in the pocket of his ski jacket. He pulls it out on the chair lift, along with two hard boiled eggs, for a mid-morning snack.

I know a woman who keeps Earl Grey tea bags in her purse. She asks for a cup of boiling water while travelling then lowers her own tea bag into the mug. Clipper is her brand of choice.

I’ve saved these scenes in my memory bank. Dreamy, sensual moments where people elevate the everyday with their own, secret tastes. These actions require being true to yourself. They require confidence. Thinking ahead. Prioritizing you. I want to be this person.

My most recent scene was gifted to me by my friend Brian last Friday afternoon. We were in my sister’s truck - just me, Lee, Brian and two and a half hours of open, sun lit road. We talked about the books we were reading and the news of the world. Brian told us about a new microbrewery in town, then he shared his favourite way to spend a day: bicycling all over the city with a book, reading a chapter at every stop: a café, a restaurant, a park bench, and finally a quiet bar before dinner. (This was not the gifted scene, but I see now it’s another to add to the memory bank: Brian keeps a paperback in his bag. Not all secret tastes are food.)

As we drove we passed lupins lining the side of the road and the vibrant green salt marshes of the Musquodoboit Valley. We passed the house covered in folk art,¹ descended into Port Dufferin and wrapped around Moser River. And then - coincidentally, delightfully - just as we approached the turn-off to Brian’s home in Ecum Secum, he told us about a friend who carries green cardamom pods in her purse. “Oh yes,” he said, “so she can crush the seeds into her tea when she’s out and about.”

Needless to say I am now crushing a dried cardamom pod in a mortar and pestle. The green shells break apart revealing little black seeds - the third most expensive spice after vanilla and saffron. They’ve come from India, or maybe Sri Lanka. The two have been trading the spice for a thousand years, but Greek and Roman writers have been mentioning the spice since the 4th century BC. At some point the seeds travelled to Scandinavia via Vikings or Moors, it’s debatable, but either way the warm, sweet scent folded its way into Swedish hearts -Sweden consumes 18 times more cardamom than the average country. They sift cardamom into cakes and cookies, stew it with fruit and of course, dance it through Swedish cinnamon buns. I enjoyed the latter most afternoons (then the leftovers with coffee the next day) when in Stockholm last month. It was a good reminder. I used to sprinkle cardamom into my blueberry smoothies and grind it into spiced lentil soup with star anise. But lately the green pods have been sitting in their glass jar in the cupboard, waiting.

I think about my purse and my own secret tastes. Inside my woven bag is an Iphone, sunglasses, a wallet and lip balm. Nothing magical like a container of sea salt or a pod of cardamom. But wait. Inside my purse today is a centaurea cyanus - a flower also known as a bachelor button or a cornflower- that looks like a thistle topped with fine, purple, edible spears. My friend clipped it for me this morning and I carried it home, protected inside my sunglass case. I am a scavenger of edible beauty, a collector of petals - from friends, the side of the road, the little patch beside the corner store, my friend’s backyard - and use them to decorate my food. I am not precious about it. Bachelor buttons have grown like weeds in corn fields and urban gardens in Britain and Ireland since the Iron Age. But over the past 50 years agricultural intensification and herbicides have threatened these little blossoms. We have to bring them back, one garden at a time.

Later I will dance the spears over yogurt, a salad,² or maybe, a pavlova.

1. Barry Colpitts’s House, East Ship Harbour, Nova Scotia

2. Aren’t they pretty?