Monday Night Supper Club

Living in the semi-sticks, next door neighbors can be a half mile away. In the ‘hood as I affectionately call it, a circle of friends has formed, we are all creatives, scientists, artists, writers. The friendships have been years in the making, these people near to me are also dear to me. Lewis is my very next door neighbor. I can see his house from mine, but it’s mostly obscured by junipers. He like me is a single guy. Unlike me he is a sculptor and a great cook. We have supper pretty much every Monday, alternating between his place and mine. The trade never seems quite equitable but I’m not going to complain.

Last week we had dinner at Lewis’. His significant other, Eileen is visiting from Toronto, and it’s an added pleasure to see her. She is another great cook. Since Eileen’s appearance in his life, Lewis has been developing his dessert repertoire. Clearly they are in love and dessert has become an event in and of itself. But let me not forget dinner. Of Eileen’s creation we had chicken roasted with slices of orange and a blend of aromatic spices, pan roasted potatoes and steamed broccoli. The dessert, yes, for the dessert Lewis made a dark chocolate pecan tart. I brought over some vanilla ice cream as an accompaniment. The tart was rich, not too sweet and me thinks there was a dash of rum in there. His preparation is very methodical and he knows the value of quality ingredients. It was heavenly.

There’s a lot more to our gatherings than the food. Lewis is originally from North Carolina, his manner genteel. Over the two plus years we’ve been having supper, both the breadth and depth of our friendship has grown. We share the trials and triumphs, and our interests in the world. And there is the continuity of it. This is a chance to check in every week on the progress of things. It is also an evening where one of us is cooking for or being cooked for, two of life’s great pleasures.

We’ve had a few arguments, but frankly I can’t remember what they were about. Probably politics or some other foolishness. One Monday night I brazenly made a fifty dollar bet with Lewis, again over foolishness, and promptly lost it. He was kind enough to pass on collecting. There have been many laughs. Here it’s important to note one of Lewis’ signature dishes: The Pomteeny. This is a concoction of pomegranate and lemon juices and vodka, gently shaken with ice. Served in a martini glass they’re pink delicacy belies their potency. Consumption has something to do with the laughs, and the arguments. But what the heck, we seem to enjoy them every week no matter what the outcome.

One hot summer Monday it was my turn to cook, Eileen was visiting and would be coming over too. It was her first such supper with the club. Lewis poured the Poms for he and me. Eileen doesn’t drink alcohol. Taking my first sip from the shallow glass I got a bit of it down the wrong pipe and convulsively snorted, splashing about two thirds of the contents all over the place. What a horrible waste! This was followed by great hilarity and pandemonium, Eileen taking it all in. Clearly she was wondering about what she was getting herself into. If I look close enough I could probably find a few remaining splatters here and there.

The Cinnamon Bun

Enjoying my cup of joe and blueberry muffin, I was making a few notes on topics to write about when this old guy slowly walked up to the table next to mine and prepared to sit down. He was a large man, about six three, big boned and a little stooped over. He carried very little extra weight and was probably in his eighties. His hair was snow white and he wore bright red suspenders in addition to a leather belt. Some things you need to be sure about.

Walking and setting his plate and coffee cup on the table were deliberate efforts. There may have been a time he was light on his feet but that time passed.

Whenever it was, a few years ago my then significant other and I shared a cinnamon bun at Counter Culture. It was delicious and we took at least half of it home. This is not because we were delicate eaters - quite the contrary – it is because these cinnamon buns are huge. One bun pretty much covers a dinner plate, and is about three inches tall. The experience had faded from my screen until yesterday, when there was the bun on the plate which the old man had set on the table.

He took his coffee mug over to the dispensers and came back with it, full and steaming. He quietly sat down. I thought, “This man knows how to live.” If we’re lucky enough, we get to a point where even though we know what we’re about to eat may not be the best thing for us we eat it anyway. What the heck. Life is short.

I never did see the man’s face, but I bet he wore an expression of being pretty well satisfied with things. He was still working on the bun when I got up to leave. He had eaten most of it.

Gordon Bunker

Project Hope

In the sixties and seventies, when this hospital ship made its ports of call around the world, there were a lot of people genuinely happy to see us coming. During most of my childhood I would see mentions of the SS HOPE in the media and think, “How cool is that? Its great to be an American!”

In service as the USS Consolation Navy hospital ship from 1945 to 1960, she was re-chartered as the SS HOPE under the auspices of President Eisenhower’s People to People Program. Through 1974 with the help of some 3,000 volunteer medical staff, she completed eleven voyages to Indonesia, South Vietnam, Peru, Ecuador, Guinea, Nicaragua, Colombia, Sri Lanka, Tunisia, Jamaica, and Brazil. Countless people were served. In 1975 the ship was de-commissioned and scrapped.

As important as the medical care given, she delivered good will in a way that stirred hearts… a hospital ship serving the neediest places in the world, compliments of the people of the United States of America. It just doesn’t get any better. Project Hope continues its mission, providing medical care and training around the world, but is now a land based operation. I would love to see a new SS HOPE.

And so is life a project of hope.

Gordon Bunker

Walking With Confidence

One of my favorite places to hang out in Santa Fe is Counter Culture. Jason Aufrichtig and crew have created a great vibe, and the blueberry muffins are the best this side of my sister’s. Considering she has the home field advantage, literally (a blueberry farm in the hills of New Hampshire), that’s saying something.

So I live and work out in the sticks and every once in a while I have to get out of here… get on the bike and go into town. Just go. This morning I ended up at Counter Culture. Sitting at my table, enjoying a cup of joe and yep, you guessed it, I couldn’t help but notice a woman walk by. She had poise. A lot of it. Wow. She was thin and probably in her sixties. She wore a cute sun hat and flowing, sheer summer dress in a muted floral print. In a word, she was stunning. The way she walked, her demeanor, her step, was a picture confidence. And if my guess is even close, she had cancer.

Whatever may be going on in this woman’s life, however well she is coping I do not know. But I do know to watch her walk across the room gave me inspiration. To watch her walk across the room made me happy. Merely her existence was a gift. I am so glad to have seen her, and hope I might do this for someone some day.

Gordon Bunker

Aircraft Fly

Seeing the contrail, a teardrop in the sky running towards me I pick up my binoculars and step outside. Excitement stirs deep within me watching the plane, now I can see details. It’s livery is Southwest, it is at cruising altitude and heading east. Likely it is moving in excess of 500 miles per hour at over 30,000 feet.

Tracking it I think of all those systems, in that plane, all the development of design, technologies and materials, all coming together, functioning together. Aerodynamics, fuel systems, hydraulics, turbines, electrical, navigation, on and on. Pulsing, pushing, pulling, and lifting. The result, this winged machine splits the sky and carries it’s crew and passengers across the country.

There is beauty in any great effort which appears effortless. Fruit growing on a tree, figure skaters arcing around a rink, this aircraft flying.

The view from the front window must be astounding. The pilot and co-pilot sit and monitor the plane’s functions. It all works so well, they probably spend much of their time trading stories, or maybe enjoying that view. I hope they take a moment now and then to marvel at what is happening around them, what they are doing.

The passengers may look out their windows and dream. They may be absorbed in their thoughts, they are in love, in sorrow. They are in life. And they are going somewhere. I hope they too take a moment to marvel at what is happening around them, what they are doing. Perhaps they have embarked this plane in Phoenix, and the next time, in only a few hours when they touch their feet to the earth it will be in Miami. Or, on another flight it could be New York and… Tokyo. Imagine. New York to Tokyo without touching the ground.

Gordon Bunker

P.S. As an aircraft’s wings move through the air a low pressure occurs above them. This low pressure pulls on the wing’s upper surface and is sufficient to lift the whole thing up. The Airbus A380 can weigh up to 650 tons at takeoff. Imagine, a shape simply moving through a medium able to lift that kind of weight. 

Personal Responsibility

Every time the word sustainable gets used, which these days is a lot, it’s in reference to the supply side of life. What about the demand?

According to Population Connection (a toned down moniker for what used to be Zero Population Growth), global population in 1968 was 3.5 billion. Today it is 6.9 billion and at current rates by 2050 it will be 11 billion. And there’s no reason to believe it will slow down, much less stop. The seating capacity of this little space ship we’re on is finite. No matter how efficient and eco-friendly our methods of resource extraction and the production of goods and services become, on this track the demand will overcome supply.

Rain equals rabbits. By the forces of nature species population flows and ebbs in response to availability of resources. It’s happening all the time with all species and it’s so natural a course of things most of it we hardly notice. Unlike the way rabbits come and go however, if (when) we humans all bump up against our planetary limits, things will likely become very, very ugly. There’s war and famine and disease worse than we’ve ever seen on that horizon. This is not doom and gloom; it is pragmatic.

There are at least a thousand great reasons to have children, including the continuation of the species. There is one even greater reason to have no or fewer children: the flourishing continuation of the species… and the rest of life. It is as simple and compelling as that. We have turned to political and spiritual “leaders” for solutions and not only have those attempts failed, the consequences for some have been awful. The solution to our social, economic and environmental problems lies in taking personal responsibility for the quality of life we create by producing offspring.

I welcome your comments.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: NASA

Frying Eggs

The eggs are frying in the pan and as I climb up on the chair to get a photo I think, “Ernest Hemingway did pretty well writing about big game hunting in Africa, and I’m going to write about frying eggs.” But, when I get right down to it, I would rather fry eggs than big game hunt and the best writing comes from what we know.

After breakfast I call Direct TV. I speak with McKenzie. From the tone and inflection in his voice, his ancestry goes directly back to Africa. He is located in El Segundo, California which is crammed up against LAX. When I ask him, “how are you this morning?” and he says “ok,” there is a little quiver in his voice. He’s hanging in there. It’s about 6:30 Pacific Time and he’s on the job. Living in LA on the salary a guy makes answering a phone has to be tough.

McKenzie sits in a cubicle all day, stares at a computer, has a headset with a little speaker stuffed in one ear and takes care of people’s satellite tv customer service needs. Customer service is demanding work. I know. I hope he has a picture of his family or his dog or something for some relief. I ask him to have Direct TV stop sending me junk mail and he takes care of it. McKenzie is a King of Kings. Most likely he comes from a people who spent their lives out in the open. Hunters and gatherers. They took what they needed. Life is never easy but I bet when someone asked his great, great, great grandfather how he was in the morning there was no quiver in his response. And then we bwanas came along and killed wholesale for the romance, the fun of it. For souvenirs of our achievement.

This is where the eggs come in. There was a time I got in the car every morning and drove into town and worked in an office. It was a hustle, it was customer service and it took everything I had. During that period I woke up a full two hours before I had to get out the door. This was my best time of the day and I took it. I have always loved fried eggs over medium, and for the longest time had them only on rare occasion when I went out for breakfast. They are tricky to cook and if you screw up, well, you end up with a mess and so I would skip right to scrambled. It was during that office work period however, I decided to learn to cook eggs over medium. After some trial and a lot of error, finally I got it. Hint: just use butter.

Now, every once in a while I’ll cook eggs over medium for myself. To sit down to those little beauties on the plate, with a fresh grind of pepper and some toast with (more) butter and strawberry jam… wow, what a wonderful start to the day. And it’s really not about the eggs. It’s about doing something simple and good and taking care.

Gordon Bunker

On Craftsmanship

Intently watching the old guy behind the meat case trim and shape and wrap the two steaks, I could see there was tremendous power in the way he worked. I remember not being able to take my eyes off his hands, and being very excited about the whole thing.

The year was about 1970 and Souther’s Market was one of a dying breed. It was a true neighborhood market in the neighborhood where I grew up. On this particular occasion it was just my mom and me having dinner and it was summer. She gave me some money and instructions to ask for two steaks, and off I went on my bicycle. Souther’s was a couple miles away. I don’t remember what cut she said to get, but it was to be a special treat. Probably sirloins.

Although at the time being a kid of twelve or thirteen I didn’t quite grasp it, what I witnessed was a craftsman at work. It was knowledge, skill, experience, and it was effort and care all coming together. It was new to me, and it was a pivotal experience.

Through high school I became interested in the arts and learned a lot about craftsmanship. I learned about inquisitiveness, focus and commitment. I learned about hard work and risk. All of it came naturally to me, and soon the most important aspect of pursuing a high level of craft was the tremendous satisfaction that, even in failure, came with the work. Not to mention the excitement knowing it would all happen again with the next project. It is endless… anticipation with enthusiasm.

So now, forty years later (writing those previous three words and feeling old is happening with too great a frequency), I realize how important craftsmanship and the satisfactions that come with it are. We go out into the world and work. The demands are great and the rewards are all too often small. Working to a high standard is rewarding in and of itself no matter what is at hand. Doing good work, fine work especially is good for the soul. There is joy in it.

Gordon Bunker