Monthly Archives: August 2024

A Slice of Genius: How I Accidentally Invented “The Perfect Edge”

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“The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of the human race than the discovery of a star.”

–Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin (1755–1826; a French lawyer and epicure, best known for his The Physiology of Taste [1825], which remains a classic in culinary literature.)

Imagine sinking your fork into layers of luscious key lime indulgence—each bite, a symphony of tartness and sweetness that dances on your palate. This is no ordinary pie; it’s a triple-decker tower of tartness and decadence that will linger in your dreams long after the last crumb has vanished. A cinnamon-infused graham cracker crust cradles a silky baked key lime custard, perfectly set and bursting with citrus. Next comes a chilled, creamy layer that melts in your mouth, topped with a cloud of key lime whipped cream that’s just the right amount of airy. With nearly two cups of key lime juice infused into every inch, this pie is the ultimate in citrus luxury. This dessert is pure food porn—so irresistible, it’s worth every sinful calorie.

I made this Triple Layer Key Lime Pie a week ago for my Linden Correspondent (LC) and her family, who are as special to me as I hoped this pie would be to them. Obviously, I was eager to know whether my recipe measured up to my hype and their expectations. It did, and in succinct news style, my LC messaged me her family’s comments:


● It’s a work of art!
● It’s very tart/limey, which I love!
● The texture is perfect!
● How did he get a perfect 90° angle on the crust?!
● What an experience!
● The crust is divine!

And we all say:

THANK YOU!!
🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗”

I was thrilled, of course, by their reactions and returned a bold “YOU’RE WELCOME” along with my own smiley faces.

To my surprise, my friend messaged me some extra zest later in the day:

“But seriously, how DID you get the perfect angles in the crust?”

I paused, perplexed. I nearly replied with a “Duh?” Surely, it would have been clear to her that I had used a springform pan. Right? Maybe not. So, I took a cautious, mittened approach:

“But for real, what do you mean by ‘perfect angles in the crust’?”

Her reply was as precise as the apparent angles of my crust:

“The inside angle on the bottom, where the side and the bottom meet. Whatever you used to press the corners was a perfectly cornered utensil. Ours never come out like that!”

I told her that I used my fingers, but the egg whites that I added to the graham cracker mixture probably helped more.

“Your fingers? No way! My sister and I don’t believe you.”

Truly, what I told her was the truth, as I recalled it, so I decided to move on with a passing remark about the rain that had passed me by.

Later in the day, while cooking dinner, I had a strange reminder as I used one of my handy-dandy silicone tools to scrape sauce from a kitchen pot. In a flash, I remembered how I had gotten those perfect angles. After pressing the crumbs into place with my fingers, I used the silicone handy-dandy to thin and sharpen the circumference where the sides met the bottom.

I took a selfie of me holding my silicone gadget and sent it to my Linden Correspondent:

“I’m cooking dinner and came across my silicone handy dandy.

“I now remember: after pushing the crust in place with my fingers, I used this around the edges!

“Do NOT share this hack with anyone outside of your family.

“I had totally forgotten. It really helps get the job done! It was a discovery of necessity!

“Oh. No. I feel a blog coming on!”

She wittily reminded me that if I blogged about the tool that gave me those perfect edges, my secret would be out.

And so, My Dear Readers, my secret is out! I don’t mind this reveal, however, because I love you and your crumbs, and I hope that you will remember my silicone hack the next time you make a graham cracker crust. Be aware, however, that by the time you’re reading this, I will have applied for a patent, so my hack will be Patent Pending. I can do that, right? I mean. Even though the silicone handy-dandy is patented, surely I can get a new patent since I’m using it in a new-fangled way, right? (Aside to any Patent Attorneys who might be reading: please PM me and let me know if I’m losing my batter.) Well, if I can’t, I’ll just create an appropriately shaped, hand-held silicone gadget expressly designed for getting the perfect edge. OMG. This is getting even sweeter. I will call my gadget THE PERFECT EDGE. Is that perfectly sweet or what?

And isn’t it amazing that necessity drove me to invent a perfect gadget that will find its way into every kitchen in the world, even kitchens without bakers who don’t need a hack to achieve the perfect edge that they’ll never seek to achieve.

This got me to thinking—how many of our favorite kitchen gadgets and techniques were born out of happy accidents or the sheer necessity of the moment?

I know a good number of things right off the top of my head.

Did you know that Melitta Bentz, a German housewife, invented the coffee filter in 1908 when she became frustrated by the bitter taste of coffee brewed with the traditional percolator, which often left grounds in the cup? She simply took a piece of blotting paper from her son’s school notebook to filter out the grounds. She punctured holes in the bottom of a brass pot and lined it with the paper, then poured the coffee through it. The result was a smooth, grounds-free cup of coffee. She applied for a patent and gave birth to Melitta coffee filters.

It’s funny to think that a simple frustration with coffee grounds led to the creation of something so essential to our morning routines. And even if you didn’t know about coffee filters, surely you know about Teflon. In 1938, Roy Plunkett, a chemist working for DuPont, was experimenting with refrigerants and discovered that one sample had polymerized into a white, waxy solid that was extremely slippery. This substance? Polytetrafluoroethylene (PTFE). We know it as Teflon. Although initially used in military applications, Teflon’s non-stick properties made it an ideal coating for cookware. The first 1950s Teflon-coated pan became a game-changer in every kitchen throughout the world except mine. I’m sticking with my All-Clad. I don’t want any of that PFTE stuff slip-sliding into my culinary delights. While Teflon revolutionized non-stick cooking, I’m more of a stainless-steel purist. There’s something about the weight and durability of All-Clad that speaks to my culinary soul.

And who doesn’t know about Percy Spencer’s 1945 accidental invention of the microwave? While testing a magnetron, a type of vacuum tube used to generate microwaves for radar systems, he noticed that a candy bar in his pocket had melted. So he tried popping some popcorn kernels near the magnetron. Yep. Pop. Puff. Burst. Next? An egg, which exploded in his colleague’s face. (Just as an aside. That is not the origin of the expression, “Egg on his face.”) Spencer and his team saw the potential to cook food quickly. They built the first microwave oven, standing over six feet tall and weighing nearly 750 pounds. “Radarange” was released commercially in 1947. Is that rad or what? Personally, I’m not a huge microwave fan, but I’m awfully glad they’re compact enough and affordable enough to be in any kitchen, including mine.

Let’s throw one more gadget into this mash. The potato peeler. Please tell me that you’re not using a knife to peel your spuds the way folks had to before Alfred Neweczerzal, a Swiss engineer, designed the potato peeler found in kitchens throughout the world. It’s simple. It’s lightweight. It’s effective. And it’s probably the cheapest gadget in my kitchen.

If you think gadgets invented by accident are fun, just wait until you hear about some of the delicious foods that came to be thanks to a stroke of serendipity—or perhaps sheer clumsiness. Let’s dive into the culinary cosmos where mishaps turn into mouthwatering miracles.

I’ll start with sourdough not only because you will remember by post, “Oh, No! Sourdough!” but also because I’m still foolin’ around with sourdough at least once a week, sometimes more. Did you know that sourdough is one of the oldest forms of leavened bread, and its origins can be traced back to ancient Egypt, around 4,000 BC? But here’s the savory backstory. A baker accidentally left out a mixture of flour and water, which naturally attracted wild yeast from the environment. The yeast fermented the dough, causing it to rise and develop a tangy flavor. Today, we call it sourdough fermentation, and it’s the foundation for one of the world’s most beloved breads. Just last week, I made two loaves of triple cheese sourdough: Cheddar, Gruyere, and Parmesan. My kitchen smelled like a bakery for days after I gave the loaves to friends.

And you might not think that bread and beer go hand in hand, but they have grains and grains of connection. The invention of beer is often attributed to a happy accident. The Sumerians around 5,000 BC likely discovered beer when wild yeast fermented stored grains or bread that had gotten wet. The resulting liquid had a pleasant taste and intoxicating effects, leading to the intentional brewing of beer and the unintentional drunkenness and debauchery that sometimes sip along. This process became a cornerstone of many cultures and is one of the earliest known examples of fermentation.

Enough of yeasties. Let’s move on to sweetsies, especially chocolate chip cookies. They came about not by accident but rather by necessity. In 1938, Ruth Wakefield, owner of the Toll House Inn in Massachusetts, was trying to make chocolate cookies. When she ran out of baker’s chocolate, she decided to use chopped-up bits of a Nestlé semi-sweet chocolate bar instead, expecting the chocolate to melt and blend into the dough. To her surprise, the chocolate pieces retained their shape, creating the first chocolate chip cookies. These cookies became so popular that Nestlé struck a deal with Wakefield, allowing them to print her recipe on their chocolate bar packaging, which eventually led to the creation of chocolate chips. Thank God for necessities.

This next culinary delight came about not by necessity, not by accident, but by frustration. Get ready to crunch. Way back in 1853, George Crum, a chef in Saratoga Springs, New York, got frustrated with a customer who repeatedly sent back his fried potatoes, complaining they were too thick and soggy. In an attempt to annoy the customer, Crum sliced the potatoes as thin as possible, fried them to a crisp, and added extra salt. To his surprise, the customer loved them, and thus, the potato chip was born. Without a doubt, the necessity here was to please a picky customer, but the humorous twist is that the invention was born out of frustration.

How about this next twist? What do you get if you put potato chips and chocolate chips together? Potato Chip Cookies! That’s no joke. I found the recipe on the Internet by accident, made the cookies one day out of necessity when I was having a sugar fit, and satisfied my frustration with a fascinating plate of crunchy, sweet, tongue-tip salty cookies and a glass of milk.

But I’m going to take that recipe and spin it like a top! You know what I’m going to do? Well, let me give you a hint. The star ingredients will be Potato Chips, Chocolate Chips, and … SOURDOUGH! Yep! You heard it first right here! Sourdough Potato Chip Cookies! Now, you might be wondering—how do these flavors work together? Here’s the secret: the tangy complexity of the sourdough adds a unique depth to the cookie, balancing out the sweetness of the chocolate chips and the saltiness of the potato chips. It’s a trifecta of flavor that hits all the right notes—crunchy, sweet, salty, and just a little bit sour. The sourdough brings an unexpected twist to the classic cookie, giving it a subtle chewiness and a hint of that signature tang that keeps you reaching for just one more. Once again, sourdough will rise to the occasion, taking me—and your taste buds—to a place we’ve never been before

There you have it, My Dear Readers! Mark your calendars! This is a double red-letter day. In the annals of culinary history, I’ll be memorialized not only for inventing Sourdough Potato Chip Cookies but also for inventing The Perfect Edge, both living proof that kitchens give birth to genius–chip by chip and slice by slice.

Roots and All

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“The deeper the roots, the stronger the tree.”

–Unknown

Down and dirty and pumped. Yep. That’s what I am. And I’ve had one helluva good time getting there. For the last week or so, I’ve been manhandling the garden that I moaned and groaned about in “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

Remember? I was working in my 70-foot garden, a serene haven that runs along the east side of my home. The garden starts with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into a Koi Pond and ends with a towering granite Pagoda. A flagstone walkway curves between these two focal points, with a bog garden on one side, originally full of Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Cardinal Flower and Pond Sedge, and a specimen garden on the other, showcasing Clumping Bamboo, Hinoki Cypress, Flowering Crabapple, and more.

It was everything I ever wanted in a small garden—until the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo began taking over. Then, it became something that I … never wanted.

At first, I thought cutting back the invasive plants would solve the problem, but they kept returning, seemingly stronger each time. The roots were thriving beneath the surface, undeterred by my efforts. Now, I faced a choice: keep battling the tops or dig up the deep, stubborn roots once and for all.

I made the right choice, the only one for me. I decided to do the hard work now and reclaim my garden.

I knew right away that I needed the big guys to get the job done. The first was my 40-inch, fiber-glass-handle trenching spade. It’s lightweight but has a penchant for heavy-duty roughness. With a backstep that provides increased leverage, it’s perfect for getting beneath the roots and lifting them out.

The second is a handheld, dual-headed, carbon steel big guy. It’s great to use when I’m sitting on the ground, really getting down and dirty, digging up roots that the spade didn’t lift out. One head is a pick that goes deep with every thrust; the other, a fork that yanks out mass roots with every pull.

I’ve been putting both big guys to good use for the last week or so, during which time I’ve learned a lot about roots.

First, roots grow in places that I didn’t even know existed. Imagine it, and I can find roots there. Second, roots can be long, really long. I’ve dug out some that were even 10 feet long. Most have been around 3 or 4 feet. Third, roots love to grow beneath flagstone pavers, beneath rocks, and even in and amongst roots of other plants, making the smell of Theodore Roethke’s “Root Cellar” a reality:

“Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!”

Fourth, roots grow in clay and rubble where nothing else would dare stake out a claim to life on less-than-meager fare.

Even though I’ve learned a lot, it’s been drudgery. By the end of a day’s work–a kind of outdoor dirt prayer–my hands feel arthritic from sustained gripping, and my blue jeans are knee- and butt-dirty from kneeling and sitting. But I do what I do not only to control the roots and but also to give me the fleeting assurance that they don’t control me.

I won’t tell you about other things that happened while digging up roots, like adding scalloped stone edging along the walkway or relocating a granite pagoda lantern to a slightly higher spot or popping in a new evergreen shrub or three here and there to brighten the fresh layer of pine bark mulch.

And if I’m not going to tell you about all of those enhancements, then I’m certainly not going to tell you about how open and expansive my specimen garden feels now, with all the Bamboo and Pond Sedge gone–tops above and roots below. I know. I know. It’s no bigger than it ever was, but it looks twice as big as ever.

But don’t worry. I’ve got some important observations that I’m about to share with you. They’re important to me, and, hopefully, they’ll resonate with you, too.

For starters, I’m delighted that I had the daring-do to tackle root removal of this magnitude. Even though I still have more work to do, I sprawl out on the ground from time to time, celebrating what I’m accomplishing, knowing that in gardening, as in life, superficial fixes won’t solve deep-rooted problems. Just like with my invasive plants, truly eliminating an issue requires getting to the root of it. Whether in health, relationships, career, or broader societal issues, confronting and removing the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives.

But get this. As I sprawl in celebration, I do so modestly. I claim no victory. I know that these roots run deep. I know that these roots run wherever they’re inclined to run. I know that remnants of these roots remain, and that probably by the end of this season, Bamboo and Pond Sedge will sprout up here and there all over again. I know that these roots have a tenacious hold.

Those gardening observations remind me that even though roots–literal and metaphorical–may need to be removed when they cause problems, most of the time, roots are essential anchors that ground us.

I’m thinking, for example, about my love of the outdoors. My connections to nature and the environment serve as a grounding force, offering me peace, perspective, and a sense of renewal. Those roots go back to my childhood and even further back to generations of farmers who make up my heritage. Even during periods of my life when I lived in cities, I always found ways to allow the natural world to dig deep into the fiber of my being.

Or here’s another example. My love of cooking. It runs in my family, including my father and my brothers. We felt as much at home over the kitchen stove as we did anywhere else. Let me add to that our love of ethnic foods. I can trace those roots back to my childhood and my cultural heritage in the coal camps of Southern West Virginia. Our little town was a melting pot of nationalities, and everyone shared recipes with one another. Greek Green Beans. Hungarian Chocolate Potato Cake. Caribbean Souse Meat. Polish Cabbage Rolls. Italian Gnocchi. Jewish Latkes. Those ethnic foods and many others continue to tease my palate and provide a sense of belonging.

Or what about the roots that anchor my simple philosophy of life? I believe in the inherent goodness of life, all life. I believe that life is purposeful. I believe in life’s thrust toward greatness. When I look into my metaphorical mirror, I always say, “Every day in every way, I grow a little better.” Those principles—learned in childhood—have always directed my actions and my choices, and they continue to help me navigate my life.

Even when it comes to my notion of community and social connections, my roots run deep. From childhood, I learned to value and embrace diversity, equity, and inclusion. It’s part of who I am. I like to think that I have always been sensitive to race, ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, religious beliefs, age, and other unique variations that make us human. Because of those roots, I like to think that regardless of where I might be in the world, I will always enjoy a sense of belonging, and I will always lend a helping hand to those around me.

Also, my work ethic has deep roots. I was born into a working family, and I grew up in a working community. Everyone worked, and, equally important, everyone enjoyed working. Working is what we did. I’ve shared before–and I’ll share it again–the little poem that I cut my teeth on:

“If a job is once begun,
Never leave until it’s done.
Be its labor, great or small,
Do it well or not at all.”

Later on in school, one of my history teachers reminded me and my classmates regularly of the Biblical proverb, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Her voice echoes still. Even today–after a 25-year federal career and a subsequent 23-year teaching career–I’m reinventing myself, working as much now as ever. Work continues to give me stability, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. I have every expectation that I will work forever and beyond.

My education and learning roots run deep, too. Even though I grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia, I had some of the best educators in the world, formally and informally. Because of them, I came to believe that an education allows anyone to do anything and to go anywhere. I came to believe that an education is the best investment ever, knowing that it will never depreciate and knowing that no one can ever take it away. I came to believe that learning is lifelong, requiring little more than an inquiring mind focusing on the 5 W’s of writing and journalism: Who, What, When, Where, and Why. What a powerful and empowering foundation for growth.

Personal resilience is a root for me as well, always anchoring me during challenging times. I believe in the power to adapt and grow in any circumstance. I practice what my mother taught me, “Bloom where you’re planted.” I’ve spent a lifetime doing just that. My childhood dream of becoming a college professor was deferred until I turned fifty. Nonetheless, I thrived during those intervening years and had a distinguished career at the Library of Congress. Those 25 years paved the way for me to become a college professor and helped make me the educator that I became.

Intertwined with it all, of course, are the roots of my faith and spirituality. Both have always played a role in my life. My mother was a fundamentalist minister and prayer warrior whose influence on my life is immeasurable. I have always felt that my life was governed by an Unseen Hand, even in times when I was unaware that I was being led. It gives me a sense of connection and grounding, in all times but especially in times of uncertainty. Don’t ask me to explain the Unseen Hand. I’m not sure that I could even begin to do so, other than to celebrate my belief that my God is a big God who loves all creation and who embraces all creation.

So, there you have it. Roots. They anchor us, shape us, and sometimes challenge us. Whether in the garden, where I wrestle with the stubborn roots of Pond Sedge and Bamboo, or in life, where I draw strength from the deep roots of my beliefs, family, and experiences, they are always there. They remind me that while we may need to dig deep to address life’s challenges, we also need to nurture the roots that sustain us.

Every day, as I work in the garden or reflect on the day’s events, I’m reminded that roots are both the foundation and the framework of our lives. They’re what give us stability when the winds of change blow, what nourish us in times of need, and what connect us to the larger world around us.

And as I continue to tend to my garden, both literal and metaphorical, I know that I’m not just removing what doesn’t belong—I’m also nurturing what does. In the end, it’s the roots that keep us grounded, it’s the roots that keep us growing, and it’s the roots that remind us of who we are and where we come from.

Every day, in every way, I grow a little better—roots and all.

The Albatross Effect: How Letting Go Set Me Free

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“Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness.”

— Thich Nhat Hanh (1926-2022; a Vietnamese Buddhist monk and peace activist known for his teachings on mindfulness and compassion.)

It all started a week or so ago. I remember with great clarity that it was on a Monday. I woke up feeling a weight around my neck, something I hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle but persistent, almost like wearing a heavy choker. At first, I tried to dismiss it, thinking it was just a minor inconvenience. But as the hours passed, the weight grew more noticeable. I felt uneasy, as if something was slightly off, casting a shadow over my thoughts.

The next day, the weight was unmistakable. It was heavier than I expected, plus it seemed to be tightening. Simple tasks became more cumbersome, and I became acutely aware of something that I could not escape. The burden started to affect my mood, causing frustration to build.

By the third day, the albatross felt like an anchor dragging me down. I was tired and irritable, and my patience was wearing thin. It seemed to point me toward a deeper problem or unresolved issue that I knew I shouldn’t ignore. Despair started to set in as I tried to identify the problem and figure out how to escape the torment.

Finally, on the fourth day, while relaxing on my deck in the early sunrise, the albatross looked at me, and in that fleeting glance, I saw the source of the nearly unbearable weight. Brace yourself. You might not believe what I’m about to reveal. Here goes. The weight was coming from the blog post that I was working on for the next Monday.

The realization stunned me. Actually, it mortified me. Here’s why. I knew exactly where I was going with the post, and I had drafted more than half of it. But get this. I didn’t like the opening paragraphs. I hadn’t liked them from the start, I kept telling myself day after day that those paragraphs would fall into place as I got closer to the post’s ending.

I was wrong. They didn’t fall into place, and I wasn’t willing to let that albatross hang around my neck any longer. I found myself saying out loud to myself as I sat there, sipping coffee:

“Give it up, Kendrick. Just give it up.”

I didn’t mean that I should delete the draft. I just meant that I should put it on the back burner until its time had come. As soon as I gave it up, the albatross that had become unbearable let go of me and flew away. I felt an immediate sense of lightness and relief. The burden that once felt insurmountable was gone, and I was overwhelmed by a wave of elation. I felt a profound sense of freedom. The contrast between the heaviness of the past few days and the newfound lightness made the relief even more exhilarating. I was finally free.

With the albatross gone, my mind was free to soar, and a brand-new idea for a post came to me immediately, filling me with renewed energy. As I continued sipping my coffee, I cobbled together a really rough draft of what I wanted the new post to become. All day long, I kept the post on my mental backburner. That night, in bed with my Smartphone in hand, I completed the post rather effortlessly and published it the following Monday: “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“

Letting go of the writer’s albatross that had been weighing me down for days allowed me to cue my own metaphorical vacay. Now, here I am sharing my specific challenge and my specific solution, hoping that it will speak to other writers out there. Sometimes, you simply have to let go of an idea that has possessed you if it becomes a deadly weight instead of wings that give flight. Letting go does not mean abandoning. It means putting the idea aside until it calls you back and begs you to give it the attention that you need to give it. The two of you–your idea and you as the writer–are the only ones who will know when the time is right.

For me, it took about two weeks. After “When the Heat Is On, Cue the Vacay!“, I moved on to “Listening to the Unsaid.” The next week, I returned to my albatross post, and I knew immediately what I needed to do with the first few paragraphs. Whitman and Emerson reached out to my spirit, and as soon as I gave them a home in my post, everything else fell into place for “Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life.”

In the end, letting go of the albatross allowed me to discover some new creative wings. By acknowledging the weight and releasing my grip, I freed myself to explore new ideas and approaches.

If you’re a writer, hold on to the truth that I have shared. Sometimes, the best way to make progress is to let go and cue your own vacay–embracing the freedom to create and enjoy the journey.

If you’re not a writer, reflect on this nugget of truth as well. It might help you, too. Just as a writer’s stubbornness can turn a blog post into an albatross, so too can our refusal to release emotional baggage turn relationships into anchors, holding us back from sailing into calmer waters. Or our insistence on controlling every detail turns projects into burdensome backpacks, weighing us down on the journey to success. And what about those stubborn habits we cling to, even when they no longer serve us? Don’t they become the equivalent of a ball and chain, hindering our progress toward a healthier, happier life? In each case, the albatross effect whispers a haunting question: What weight am I shouldering that’s keeping me from soaring? Sometimes, letting go of our personal albatrosses is the only way to find freedom.

Sometimes, we need to let go, not necessarily abandoning our responsibilities or aspirations, but releasing the grip of our ego, our fears, or our need for control. By doing so, we create space for new ideas, new experiences, and new growth to emerge. May we all find the courage to release our albatrosses and let them fly away so that we might discover the liberating power of letting go.

Digging Deeper: A Gardening Lesson Applied to Life

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“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”

–Albert Einstein (1879-1955; KNOWN FOR HIS MONUMENTAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO PHYSICS AND OUR UNDERSTANDING OF THE UNIVERSE WITH HIS THEORY OF RELATIVITY, E=MC².)

Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” a shocking celebration of sensuality and self, is one of my favorite literary works. I especially celebrate the spirit of the poem’s ending:

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”

I can relate. Under your boot-soles is exactly where you’ll find me after my time has come and my ashes are scattered.

Until then–hopefully far, far into the future–if you’re looking for me, you can find me outdoors, more likely than not weed whacking or working in one of my specimen garden beds.

Looking back, it seems to me that since early boyhood, I’ve been a wild child, outdoors communing with nature, usually in the garden, so much so that my family always knew where to find me. Even on the rare occasion when someone bruised my young, fragile feelings, I retreated quietly and without fail to the garden. My youngest sister’s high-pitched taunt still echoes in my ears as I recall stumbling over my lower lip while heading out the door:

“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms.”

At that tender age, I learned that being outdoors comforted and healed. It is one of my most important lessons, ever. Emerson expresses with eloquence the truth that dwelt within my young boy’s soul:

“In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, — he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me” (“Nature,” 1836).

Down through the years, I’ve learned many other life-lessons in the garden, and from time to time, I’ve shared those lessons with you here.

I’m thinking especially of posts like “From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Gardening Tradition” (celebrating the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world); “A War on Weeds: What the Heart of the Garden Said to the Gardener” (reminding us that the love of gardening never dies); and “The Joy of Weeding” (discovering what my late partner Allen experienced when he weeded).

Other posts about gardening can be found, too. If you unearth them, you will see that they all sprang up from the same celebratory soil. As we garden, we cultivate not just plants, but also the very qualities that enrich our lives: resilience, interconnectedness, patience, and mindfulness, reminding us to tend to our own growth and flourish in harmony with the world around us.

On the surface, it seems that I have nothing more to learn from gardening. However, as a lifelong learner, I know better. This spring, for example, I had a new epiphany while gardening. It wasn’t anything monumental upon which cults and sects are built. But it was significant enough that I want to share it with you.

I was working in an east-facing garden bed, running the full length of my home from the kitchen door, past the guest bedroom, the master bath, and the master bedroom.

The garden is 70 feet or so long and 30 feet or so wide. It begins with a small patio beside a waterfall cascading into the Koi Pond, and it ends with a towering granite Pagoda. Half-mooning its way between these two focal points is a flagstone walkway. On the narrow upper side is a bog garden, originally showcasing Pitcher Plants, Sundews, Bog Rosemary, Cardinal Flower, and Pond Sedge. On the wider side next to the house is a specimen garden with Clumping Bamboo across from the Koi Pond, a tall Hinoki Cypress, a Flowering Crabapple, a disappearing polished-stone fountain, an Alaskan Cypress, and a columnar White Pine.

It’s all that anyone would ever want a small garden to be.

But here’s the thing. When Allen and I put in the plants, we had no idea that the Pond Sedge, over time, would not only take over the bog garden but would also pop up in the specimen garden on the other side of the walkway. To make matters worse, we had no idea that the Clumping Bamboo would run wild all over the wide part of the garden.

It took many years before these two plants started popping up here, there, and everywhere. In fact, it wasn’t until this year that I had to own up to the harsh reality: the Pond Sedge and the Clumping Bamboo had invaded the garden so extensively that they threatened the well-being of the other specimen plants.

I bolted into action by mustering up my resolve to cut back all of the Pond Sedge and all of the Clumping Bamboo that had sprung up everywhere.

“There,“ I thought. “Not so bad after all.”

Wrong! It was worse than bad. Two weeks later, everything that I had cut back had popped up all over again, seemingly even stronger.

“Fine. I’ll cut it back again.”

In my mind, I thought that if I continually cut off the tops of the invasive plants, they would die because they would no longer have the source of their food supply.

Guess what? I was wrong once again. It’s now August, and I’m still cutting away the tops.

I’ve got options, of course, other than spectracides, which I loathe because of environmental impacts. I can put down barrier plastic, top it with mulch, and, eventually, the roots will die. Candidly, I don’t like that choice because I will be mindful that the roots are still there, lurking beneath the surface. That leaves me with one course of action: go ahead and do the back-breaking needful and dig up the roots now.

It’s sad, but it’s very true. I can cut back the tops over and over again, but the roots will still be there, not only spreading and intertwining but also running deeper and deeper.

As I tackled my gardening problem, I had a realization. To get rid of my invasive Clumping Bamboo and my invasive Pond Sedge, I have to get to the source of the problem. I have to find and remove the roots.

I chuckled–perhaps you will too–because I had not actually had a realization at all. I had simply had a gardening reminder of a concept that I learned decades ago.

You’re probably aware of it, too. But in case not, brace yourself. I’m not making this up. It’s a concept called Root Cause Analysis (RCA).

It’s not a new concept, either. Identifying underlying causes–root causes–dates back to ancient Greece, with philosophers like Aristotle who discussed the idea that fixing a problem requires identifying the fundamental causes.

Today, RCA is widely used across industries to find and resolve the underlying causes of problems, errors, and incidents, rather than just treating the symptoms. For instance, in healthcare, it’s used to analyze medical errors and improve patient safety by identifying systemic issues. In manufacturing, it helps pinpoint the causes of defects in production lines to enhance quality control. Similarly, in information technology, it’s employed to troubleshoot recurring system failures, ensuring long-term solutions rather than quick fixes.

If it works in industries, then it seems to me that it can have powerful applications in our personal lives as well. Actually, it seems to me that it can be applied to every area of life. It’s about digging deeper to uncover the true sources of our challenges rather than just addressing superficial symptoms. When we understand the root cause, we can make real, lasting changes.

Take health and well-being, for instance. When we feel run-down or stressed, it’s tempting to just blame it on a busy schedule. But what if there are deeper issues at play? Maybe it’s a lack of balance between work and rest, or perhaps unresolved emotional stress. By identifying the root causes of our health concerns, we can make more informed choices—whether that’s changing our lifestyle or seeking support—and improve our overall well-being.

Or what about our relationships with others? When tensions rise or communication breaks down, it’s often because we’re reacting to surface-level problems without understanding the deeper issues. Maybe there’s an unspoken fear or past hurt that’s influencing our actions. By addressing these underlying issues, we can build stronger, more authentic connections with those we care about.

We can even apply the concept to our professional lives to help understand why we’re not feeling fulfilled or why a project isn’t succeeding. Are we in the wrong role, or is there a lack of support in the workplace? Understanding the root causes of our career challenges allows us to take steps toward greater satisfaction and success.

On a broader scale, what about using the concept to tackle societal and environmental issues. Complex problems like poverty or climate change can’t be solved with quick fixes. They compel us to look at the underlying causes—like systemic inequality or unsustainable practices—and tackle them head-on. It’s only by understanding these root issues that we can create meaningful change.

Even in our spiritual lives, the concept can help us understand why we feel disconnected or adrift in our beliefs. Are there doubts or unresolved questions that need exploration? By examining the root of our spiritual struggles, we can embark on a journey toward deeper understanding and connection with our faith or spiritual practices.

These are just a few ways my gardening lesson of getting to the root of the problem can be a powerful tool for uncovering the truth behind life’s challenges. Whatever you are facing–and, at any given time, I’m confident that each of us is facing something that we want to fix or improve–I urge you to be determined enough and bold enough to go beyond the surface. But be forewarned. When we go beneath the surface into nooks and crannies where we’ve never gone, we find darkness darker than any we’ve ever experienced. But confronting the darkness in life is the only way that we can shine light on solutions that are not only effective but also lasting. Whether it’s our health, relationships, career, societal issues, or spirituality, dealing with the roots of our challenges allows us to live more intentional and fulfilling lives. Cheers to the hard work of digging deeper and making changes that truly matter in our lives.