Blueberry Chutney

An Octadrekagram

Technical note: This story is a Octadrekagram. It consists of eight paragraphs that hang off a central thread, much like the mythical eight-limbed Slavic monster the Octadrekavac, who was known for screaming. A lot of screaming. In Slavic countries, Octadrekagrams were recited in the town square to keep the Octadrekavacs at bay (or at the very least, to drown out their constant screaming).

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Sixteen years ago (in an era before the term “Friendsgiving” took off), I was invited to what was then called an Orphan’s Thanksgiving and wanted to make something special. I’m not a fan of cranberry sauce – whether it’s homemade or the store-bought kind that retains the shape of the rings from the can even after it’s placed on a serving dish. It was right after the election of Barack Obama and I was ready for something new. I hoped others would be, too. I browsed the sauce section of Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything and found basic chutney recipes. Outside, big banks were about to collapse and threatened to take the entire world economy with them, but I remembered blueberries are a superfood, so surely that could help. But, alas, there are no blueberry chutney recipes in Bittman.

In the Fall of 2024, I reconnected with a friend from college who was freshman-year roommates with my first serious girlfriend. We had lunch and hung out for hours, talking about the meandering paths our lives took after college. We laughed about stupid things we did when we were 19 and talked about people we knew long ago. She recently returned to school and became a therapist, which we both agreed was a field with limitless growth potential.

For the past sixteen years, I’d forget every year that I don’t have a specific recipe for blueberry chutney. Each year, I’d look up chutney recipes, worry I’m doing it all wrong, and Frankenstein together a hybrid recipe that somehow worked. Every year, I thought I should write down what I did, but I’d forget and leave my future self to cobble something together the next year. Every year it’s been okay, so maybe there’s no reason to do things differently. Still, 2024 feels different. So this year I wrote it down.

Back when I was producing and hosting a weekly storytelling show at a Los Angeles coffee shop, a group of well-dressed people with accents came in one night and sat at a large table. There was no one else around, so eventually I chatted with them. They’d come to the United States decades earlier from halfway around the world. They built businesses and raised families, but always dreamed of becoming American citizens. When I asked why, they seemed surprised. One told me that when he was a little boy growing up on the other side of the world, he had this image of America that never left him. He said he thought America was “the place where freedom lives.” I think of that phrase (and that family) often.

To begin, breathe deeply and calm yourself in the face of mounting threats to yourself and the people you love. When you have regained the illusion of tranquility upon which you’d built your life, dice one large white onion and two medium-sized red onions. Avoid cutting yourself because we live in the only industrialized nation without guaranteed national healthcare and the last thing you need is to be reminded that you’re at the mercy of greedy for-profit insurance companies intent on maximizing shareholder value by denying claims for the services they supposedly built their entire business around. Add a tablespoon of olive oil to a covered pot with a steam vent. Simmer the onions for 45 minutes, stirring frequently. If the onions start to burn, mix in a little water. Whatever you do, never stop stirring.

I felt lost after the election. I know a lot of us did. The world seemed headed in a good direction again. Sure, nothing was perfect, but at least we were moving forward. The badly-battered Rule of Law was still standing. And it looked like America might finally join most of the rest of the world in recognizing that women can lead great nations. But that feeling slipped away in the early morning hours following election night. When the networks called the election around 3:30 a.m. Wednesday, I heard celebratory gunshots in my normally calm, progressive neighborhood. Several streets over, someone wailed with grief. How had we all been hoodwinked? Was everything we’d been told completely wrong? I felt a simmering outrage that kept threatening to boil over.

Other chutney recipes claim that onions only need 15 minutes to cook. Contemplate whether the authors of those recipes are liars while you cook your onions for a full 45 minutes until they are translucent. Think about all the changes you’ve experienced in life for the past sixteen years and wonder how the institutions we were told would save us have failed so miserably. Stir in two tablespoons of garlic and two tablespoons of minced ginger. Think about people who’ve gotten away with literal and figurative murder and add more garlic and ginger to taste. Simmer for five minutes, then add one Fuji apple (peeled and chopped), one-half cup apple cider vinegar, one half-cup white wine vinegar, and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Simmer for another 15 minutes, inhaling the aroma as you stir frequently.

I frequently wonder if David Bowie was the secret glue that held the universe together. Was he some kind of weirdness sponge who absorbed destructive freakishness so our world could function normally? I’m not sure how else to explain all that’s happened since Bowie died in January 2016 and life got exponentially weirder. Some would argue that without Bowie, other celebrities who died that year (including Glenn Frey, Abe Vigoda, Prince, Harper Lee, Leonard Cohen, Elie Wiesel, and Carrie Fisher) could not absorb enough weirdness to preserve the world we once knew.

While thinking about alternate career paths and side hustles, de-stem and wash three cups of blueberries. Curse everyone who’s ever told you that generative AI is a good thing while you boil two cups of water. Dump the blueberries in. If a couple spill out on the floor, let the dog have them and allow yourself to feel guilty as you try to remember if blueberries are okay for dogs while you reconcile your dog’s weight with the small amount of weight blueberries have before remembering that blueberries are fine for dogs even though not all dogs like the taste. Compose a brief op-ed in your head about the complete lack of canine food science courses available when you were in college. Wonder why all chemistry courses in college are made for pre-med students. Think about whether blueberry electrons are blue and strawberry electrons are red. Contemplate the atomic properties of a blueberry-strawberry hybrid fruit. After your blueberries have boiled for three minutes and you recall that you don’t like strawberries that that much, dump the blueberries and liquid into the pan with the onions and apple. Congratulate yourself on how healthy this dish is that you are making and inhale deeply as you simmer for another five minutes.

I’ve had weird and vivid dreams since the election. Of see-through cars parked precariously that seem in danger of plunging from high-rise structures. Of childhood bullies I thought I’d forgotten. Of obvious lies no one dared question. And every time I’ve entered the supermarket, they’re playing a David Bowie song over the store’s sound system. Every single time.

While looking at the stove, remember that your mother was a great cook, but hated anything with too much spice or flavor. Redouble your commitment to not taking after her and vow to whatever gods you believe in to make this blueberry chutney savory as well as sweet. Take care of the sweetness with two or three tablespoons of ground cinnamon, but remember that measuring is for amateurs, so pour in what seems like the right amount. You want some heat in this too, so pour in paprika, cayenne pepper, black pepper, and chili powder. About a teaspoon each, but feel free to dial up those quantities because who knows if we’re even going to have Thanksgiving next year.

In November 2023, I was in the Eastfjords of Iceland on Thanksgiving, nearing the end of a month-long artist residency at the Fish Factory and worrying I hadn’t gotten enough done. I was finally in the groove I wished I’d been in weeks earlier. Our group of eight multi-disciplinary artists lived in two big houses. The people in my house were not as social as I’d wanted. I missed home and was thinking of the friends I usually spend Thanksgiving with and figured I just wouldn’t have Thanksgiving that year. I thought I’d spend the day and night in solitude, writing. But one of the artists in the other house invited me over for a sort-of-Thanksgiving meal. Turkeys are hard to find in Iceland, but they cooked a chicken. Someone made stuffing and there was a bean casserole and potatoes with cheese. I brought a dessert and a multimedia artist baked pie. We sat around eating, drinking wine, listening to music, and reading tarot cards until midnight. When I walked the hundred yards back to the house where I was staying, the Northern Lights came out. Thanksgiving 2023 wasn’t anything like what I expected, but was still perfect in its own weird way.

Recall (as if you’ve been able to forget this over the past six months) that life often contains bitterness. So add one-half cup lemon juice and mix thoroughly. As you simmer and stir for another 15-30 minutes, ponder the convenience modern life offers in the form of plastic containers of lemon juice with oddly perfect photos of lemons on their labels that somehow are sold in the produce department of your grocery store. Remove from heat and let sit for 20 minutes. Or longer, depending on whether time even has any meaning for you anymore.

Anthony Bourdain achieved fame as a chef, but was best known for traveling to interesting places and eating local food with friends. He brought a punk-rock attitude to the world of fine dining and later to the idea of food bringing together people from around the world. He reportedly loved Bowie’s music and like Bowie had a serious drug problem when he was younger. Bourdain reveled in collecting different ideas, experiences, and influences and forging something new from those inputs. While Bowie clung to life, managing to finish and release one final album days before he died, Bourdain chose to take his own life in solitude. This confused many who loved his travel shows, which emphasized how sharing food and conversation makes life better. I wanted to scream in frustration when he died even though I didn’t know him personally or have any insight into the demons that got the better of him. I know the world is a better place because he was here with us for a while. And I know it’s not as bright without him. Fucking demons.

After the chutney has cooled a bit but before the crippling, soul-crushing depression at the state of the world returns, chill the chutney overnight. This allows flavors to combine and deepen, bringing out nuances of each ingredient while fusing them together into something new. Avoid thinking this is a polite metaphor for anything because we are long past the time for polite metaphors. Recall that this is supposed to be a recipe and not a call for help and pull yourself together. In that spirit, serve your blueberry chutney at room temperature or reheat before serving. It’s up to you. I’m not going to tell you what to do. I’m not your mother.

My own mother came to America in the 1950s. When I was a kid (in the time of Nixon, Watergate, and Vietnam), patriotism just wasn’t cool. The government was not to be trusted and the idea of loyalty to a flag seemed silly. Over the past 20 years, I’ve traveled abroad a lot. I love many other countries, but these days I appreciate America more than when I was young. I don’t always love how America is, but I love most of the ideals a bunch of very young men fought for 250 years ago. We keep falling short of those ideals, but we keep going even when we hit roadblocks and are forced to backtrack.

Incidentally, my blueberry chutney recipe pairs well with turkey, chicken, or side dishes. And when fans of traditional chutneys or traditional Thanksgiving side dishes say it violates culinary rules from their childhoods, I look into the middle distance, breathe deeply, and count to ten (or whatever larger number it takes to let go of the urge to beat them senseless with a spatula). Then I have another helping of food and struggle to hang onto my hopes for a better future.

Public domain photos of blueberries and snow were taken by photographers Jeremy Ricketts and Clay Leconey (respectively). The Icelandic photo of the mountains and reflection in the water of the fjord was taken by me outside Stöðvarfjörður in East Iceland.