Mono's, Di's & Poly's?

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

“Eat a piece of fruit!” my mother would squawk from the other end of the house.

My mother was a smart woman. We all liked cookies and she would bake cookies. But they were for special treats and not to be consumed by the hands full by gangs of ravenous pre-pubescent boys like my friends and me. So, they were cleverly kept in a cookie jar with a lid which no matter how carefully removed would clink and clatter. My mother had the keenest sense of hearing of anyone I’ve known. Try as we might to sneak into the cookie jar, even if she was outside puttering in her garden, there was no getting away with it.

Well, actually there was. After much trial and error my dad and I figured out if the two of us worked on it together and very, very carefully we could remove the lid without making a sound. For extra fun, after we’d taken as many cookies as we wanted we’d deliberately replace the lid with a loud crash. “Eat a piece of fruit!” would fly from some unknown port of call. We’d stand there and grin wildly at each other, stifling our laughs with mouths full of tollhouse or oatmeal raisin cookies. The sweetness of victory!

So today as I consider an afternoon snack and reach for the cookies most times (but not all) my hand in mid air comes to an agonizing, shaking halt. I put it in reverse, close the cupboard and get an apple. Ok… I’ll have a boring old apple. But I’m also glad knowing it’s a healthier thing to eat.

Lately I’ve been thinking about food, cooking, nutrition and that I’d sacrifice a lot to eat well. In Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, nutrition comes right after breathing. What we stuff and pour down our gullets is that important.

On one end of the spectrum, to know just what it is we’re eating we need to raise it ourselves. On the other end is the freezer isle at Walmart. This is where what they claim is food is designed by chemists and engineers to enhance manufacturing processes, shelf life and curb appeal and hence fill it with things with six and seven syllables and lot’s of mono’s, di’s and poly’s. Sugar salt and fat constitute the natural ingredients, three substances which we are instinctually attracted to. We are told these products are “convenient.” But how convenient are gastro-intestinal disorders, high blood pressure, obesity, diabetes, cancer and high cholesterol? The last time I took a prescription medication was in 1982 and that was Tagamet to halt the collision course I was on with a stomach ulcer. And this was a time when I regularly ate “fast” and “convenient” foods.

Mother Nature has been working on us and the fruits and vegetables and grains and beasts we eat as part of an ecosystem for a long, long time. I don’t want to be a farmer, so I ante up at the mostly organic grocery store in town for fresh raw ingredients. Then I go home and roll up my sleeves and sharpen my knife and cook. Ok, it can be a chore and it takes time, but cooking it turns out is one of the finest things to do for yourself and the people you care about. Good food and the cooking and sharing of it is love.

Gordon Bunker

Thanksgiving

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

This Thanksgiving Day I have much to be thankful for.

For family and friends, the love we share, the times, the laughter, the great dinners and hikes, conversations, the sharing of ideas and hopes and dreams and fears; the tears, the being there through thick and thin.

For good health of body and mind, this vessel for the doing of life.

For clean air and water, seeing the mountains ninety miles away from my house, for sunshine; for the sound of wind rushing through the trees, the sound of rain sweeping across the desert, the sound of bird song.

For good food and a snug home, for the joy of cooking, for the joy of sharing, for the simple pleasure of eating an apple, the simple pleasures of life.

For experiences bringing life to a clear sharp point; hunkering down alone in snow and ice and wind on high alpine peaks, surfing a sea kayak on towering waves, riding a motorcycle across the country.

For hope; despite the trials it is always there.

For great literature, art and music, for the creative spirit in each of us.

For work I love and the opportunity to do it, to take a gift, my words, and touch people with them.

For my readers around the world, you are the spark to my flame.

Gordon Bunker

Our World

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

There was a time a lot of people believed the world was flat. Now a lot of people believe the world is round. Apparently we were wrong and now we’re right. Apparently.

Shadows dance on stone and grasses flutter in a breeze. Every once in a while I am utterly transfixed by these little visual excitements. They touch something deep inside of me. Usually it is a delightful moment or two, wondering about the nature of things. However, at times the potential of what I do not know, the mysteriousness of the world rattles me. It’s both an exciting and sobering experience.

We’ve been told over and over how things are, what wind is and how it works and what grass is… and rocks and shadow.

Allowing our selves to not know, to not be so sure about what’s going on can present an opportunity for new understanding to open up. By giving ourselves this freedom in our minds we may find the world is… Naw! It couldn’t be flat. But it might not be so much like we think it is.

Gordon Bunker

Special Thanks

To my new readers in Moscow, thank you. I am so very pleased to start reaching the people of Russia!

Gordon Bunker

Cake As Plumage

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The hiking group I’m part of recently had it’s 500^th gathering and to celebrate, it was a pot luck dinner. Avid hikers it turns out, are also avid eaters and partiers. Although as of late I haven’t done much hiking with the group I decided to go. It’s a wonderful bunch of people and you don’t turn 500 every day. That the list of attendees was looking like 2:1 women to men was a plus. I decided to bring a dessert.

After the horrible crash and burn of a very significant relationship a few years ago I have taken my licks and learned a few things – about the world and myself. They have been hard lessons. But I’ve come back to life and have been dating with mixed to poor results. The mate selection thing has always been a mystery, but I’ve been getting out there and asking women I find attractive for dates. A number have said yes, but all in all it hasn’t worked. So I’m now giving Darwin’s assertion, “male plumage, female choice,” a try. I’m putting what little is left of my feathers on display and if it’s like the movies a captivating woman will see me from across the room, make her intentions quite clear, we’ll fall in complete and everlasting love, live in a well lit upscale home with designer furniture have great jobs and drive Porsches. And the music will always be in the key of C with a perky upbeat beat.

Alas, life is not the movies, so I called my sister Vic. She might have some pointers, and I knew we’d have some laughs and that always helps. “I’m just a guy going to this event to enjoy myself. They’re enjoyable people. But it’s also 2:1…” I gave her the story.

“What are you going to wear?” She asked.

“Oh, jeans and my white button down shirt. I’ll vacuum the dust off my shoes.”

“Um… no. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Something soft… something with drape. Something that says, “touch me.””

“Ok, I can do soft,” I said, “but I can’t do drape.” So I decided to wear my best sweater. My wardrobe, to be frank, is dull. Anything beyond a plaid flannel shirt and I start feeling like Elton John. So the sweater is lamb’s wool and a classy piece of merchandise and I feel comfortable in it. Even though it’s grey it would have to do.

“What are you going to bring for the pot luck?”

“A dessert. I thought I’d bake a pie.”

Vic reminded me of the story about friends Sally and Jonathan in New Hampshire. It is a love story and it starts with chocolate. And now twenty years later it continues very nicely with chocolate. “C’mon,” she said, “we’re talkin’ plumage. It has to be chocolate and for a dinner dessert it really ought to be cake.” I knew she was right. “For added effect,” she offered, “you might rub some chocolate behind your ears.”

“Oh very funny, Vic. I’ll leave the pheromones to ol’ Dr. Cutler and the back pages of car magazines if you don’t mind.”

While I like to bake, pies are my forte. The last time I did anything with chocolate was to dip some strawberries in it, which came out well, and the last time I made a cake was a thousand years ago, a carrot cake, and it came out ok. But a chocolate cake? One with plumage factor? I’ve learned when I’m out of my league to realize it quickly and draw upon my resources. Vic and I had a few more yuks, I’d try to not trip over things and otherwise not screw up like Woody Allen and so on. Then I called Lewis.

If there’s anyone on the planet who knows how to bake a chocolate cake it’s my friend and neighbor Lewis, a.k.a. Uncle Lewi.

“Uncle Lewi?”

“Yes…” True to his North Carolina roots.

“Would you teach me how to bake a cake?” Knowing “cake” in the world of Lewis can be something very complex I quickly added, “simple would be good.”

“Sure, G.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and we arrived at making a chocolate cake with chocolate ganache butter cream frosting. I went over to his place to get a copy of the recipe. It was two pages long. But the ingredients – for the cake and frosting - had lots of all the right stuff… one pound baker’s chocolate, three sticks of butter, three cups of sugar, two cups of heavy cream, three eggs. And a few other minor ingredients. Like flour.

“Listen. You get the ingredients together and come over here Sunday morning and I’ll show you how to do it. It’s simple.” Said Lewis. Oh yeah, simple.

But this was a very generous offer on Lewis’ part and I took him up on it. His kitchen is better equipped than mine, and the tutelage of a master doesn’t come along every day. I suggested this might also be an opportunity, while things were cooling, etc. to help Lewis get his lovely MGB out of mothballs and fire it up. I have greater skills with things mechanical so it seemed an equitable trade.

With tote bag full of the aforementioned ingredients, and some wrenches and sockets thrown in for good measure I headed over to Uncle Lewi’s and we had at it. And it was a lot of fun. Lewis sat facing the kitchen from the dining room side of the bar. “I don’t think I’ve ever sat here before,” he said, which was probably accurate. The kitchen is usually Lewis’ domain. So he sat and gave directions and clearly enjoyed being the boss.

Step by step and piece by piece the cake came together. We did also monkey around with the B, but as those projects can go, we uncovered more problems than we solved and didn’t get it running. But we did cross a few off the list.

Driving to the pot luck, I had huge cake anxiety. It was nestled in a carrier in the back of the car, but every bump of the way – and there are more than enough on my mile of dirt road – I could picture the cake, the beautifully sculpted cylinder of chocolate butter cream becoming a jumbled heap. And then there were traffic lights that turned yellow and red and even though it’s a New Mexico tradition to push that limit as far as physically, never mind legally possible, for one of them I had to get on the brakes and could picture the whole thing sliding and crushing forward. It would have been smart to hire one of those outfits that transports donated spleens and things, but it was too late.

Nope, this is definitely not the movies. By the time I got there I wished I had brought my speed stick. Oh, wait a minute, I don’t have a speed stick. Note to self: get one for just these kinds of circumstances. I opened the hatch and found the cake was fine.

So in I went, cake in hand and had a lovely time. The food and the people and the conversation were great. We all pitched in and gave Dave, one of the hike leaders, and the leader of more than half of the previous 499 gatherings a card stuffed with cash for an outing to REI or wherever he liked. It was as sweet as it gets. And I did meet and talk with a number of interesting women.

But my plumage was sitting over there on the dessert counter… not even remotely attached to me. I hadn’t considered this flaw in my plan. But the cake was disappearing fast and I’m sure people were enjoying it so this was good.

The evening was coming to a close and the crowd thinned out. I went over to the dessert counter to gather up the cake tray and there was R., very pretty and bright and with a mischievous smile. I met R. at a gathering a long time ago, but this evening we hadn’t yet spoken.

“Did you bring that cake?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you make it?”

“Un-huh.” I smiled. “I like to bake.”

“From scratch?”

“Yes.”

She turned to her friend. “He made it from scratch!”

R. pointed out she made the cake beside mine, also chocolate also from scratch, which I sampled and found it had the most delightful hint of cinnamon. And the glaze was just right. We compared notes.

Almost conspiratorial, R. leaned toward me and put her hand on my arm. “What’s in your cake?”

I gave her the run down and we laughed and when I got to the cream she looked at me. “In the frosting.” I said.

“How much?”

I giggled. “Two cups.”

“There’s TWO cups of cream in the frosting!” She said to the woman who was helping herself to a slice.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Paul Carson, Ruffed Grouse Society

Crossings

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

It’s about 8:45 AM and I’m driving into town to do errands. The experiences we have, moment by moment, are formed by a seemingly endless web of little causes and effects building on one another, and… Near the intersection of Routes 14 and 599 I notice an old pickup truck going the other way, stacked with firewood and with the cable which usually holds the spare tire up under the frame dangling below. I think to myself they’re taking a chance carrying that load with no spare.

Further up the road a faded red Toyota Four Runner with mismatched tail lights catches my attention. The taillight on the driver’s side is a clear aftermarket type, the one on the passenger side is stock. My friend Mario had a Four Runner just like this one and put clear tail lights on it. Then he sold it. I wonder if this used to be his vehicle.

I’m having a coffee at Counter Culture and notice a woman, she is petite, attractive, and wears a green leotard top with a very low cut back.

I then go to the gas station and fill the tank, then to the grocery store. In the grocery store I notice a woman I saw at yoga class a few weeks ago. Then I see the woman in the leotard top. On my way out of town I see the red Four Runner with the mismatched tail lights and when I’m not far from home I see the old pickup with the dangling cable.

The thinkers at the Santa Fe Institute pay attention to complexity theories. When presented with stories ending, “and what are the chances of that happening???” one reply is: “You’re driving along some particular section of highway and see a particular car going the other way with a particular license plate… what are the chances of that happening?” The implication is the chance of anything happening is quite small and it’s only the significance we place upon certain occurrences which make some seem particularly so.

But four second crossings of paths? In one morning? Maybe it’s just a small town, but it leaves me wondering what’s going on.

Gordon Bunker

November

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The last time I went to the health clinic in Cerrillos the nurse practitioner quickly went through a health questionnaire…

“Weight gain or loss?”

“Nope.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Nope.”

“Depression?”

“Just the usual,” I said, and wondered “could this be the sequel to Super Size Me?” She nodded her head and grinned ever so slightly and kept right on going with the questions. What would have happened if I had said, “yes.”

It is the 7^th of November as I write this. It is a warm and sunny day here in New Mexico. The sky is an endless depth of blue. I turned all my clocks back this morning, and in so doing felt depressed more than “the usual.” The season of cold and dark is upon us. The weather forecast is for winds to shift from west to north and temperatures to plummet. Having been on the go most of last week I decided to spend the day at home. No internal combustion engines today. It took extra effort to get motivated but I knew what I wanted to do: wash the windows and remove the screens.

There are about a thousand things on my list before house cleaning and I’ve never met a vacuum cleaner I liked. But I do pretty well for a lone wolf. Anticipation of the results, both physical and psychological is enough for me to dive in and get the job done. So, after breakfast, a hot shower and getting dressed in work clothes I put together my window washing kit.

All the windows are casement style, so swing out like doors. By first opening them, washing both inside and out the water and ammonia drains off onto the ground. So I cranked them all out and had at it. This is a simple pleasures are the best kind of thing. I worked my way around the house: sponge on water and ammonia, squeegee off. Touch up with a towel. Next window. They were pretty dirty but this method of cleaning goes fast. I adjusted and snugged up weather stripping that had come loose in it’s tracks as I went along. Going back inside I closed the windows and latched them. The time has come to batten down the hatches. Then I removed the screens.

There’s nothing like clean windows to improve one’s outlook. I am reminded of friend Morgan’s comment, “It’s like getting a whole new car!” after replacing the badly pitted and cracked windshield in his Toyota with 500 thousand miles on it. Without the screens the house is noticeably brighter, a lot brighter. So blessed with tangible positive results, a sense of accomplishment and a brighter house… I feel better. So much so I dragged the vac from the store room and gave the place a good sucking out.

This afternoon I am treating myself to a bar of chocolate (maybe not all of it, we’ll see), and a pot of tea and writing. The sun has come around front and pours in the house.

Gordon Bunker

Old Betsy Didn't Make It

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

After loading all the trash in the back, Brooks started Old Betsy, drove about thirty feet and then she quit; blocking the driveway. Brooks and Karen and I have been friends for a long time. We go to the dump together. This is always a much anticipated occasion, not only in terms of getting rid of our crap, but also to go out for a spin in the old truck and catch up on what’s been happening. It’s a highlight of my month.

Brooks called to let me know the bad news. She was turning over fine, but otherwise, nope, nada, for get it. We discussed the possibilities and I decided to walk over. To make an engine run you need air, fuel and spark coming together in there at the same time. When it won’t run, it has to be one of those three. Simple, right? Old Betsy used to be my truck. I bought her new in 1989 and had all sorts of adventures with her in ten years of ownership. She’s a basic half ton two wheel drive Chevy, with a V6 and five speed manual transmission. Crank windows, no A/C, no cruise control, but she has a radio… with factory cassette player, uh-huh! Having done the service and repairs on her myself all those years ago, I’m familiar with her inner workings, and maybe I could help get her going.

First we took apart the air cleaner. While doubtful this was the cause of our trouble, removing it would give us a view of the fuel injectors. It was full of pack rat midden. OK, for all of you with endless compassion for all sentient beings reading this: I’m warning you what I’m about to say may cause you distress, but here it comes. I hate, yes, I hate rodents! OK? There it is. Hate is a big powerful and negative word, but it’s the plain truth of how I feel about rodents and pack rats in particular. The damage they’ve done under the hoods of my and other’s cars is awful! So I said a few terrible words and we cleared the mess out the air cleaner.

And then I asked, “Um Brooks, does Old Betsy have gas in her?”

“Well… the gauge says she does but half of them don’t work so…” he shrugged his shoulders. “I have a siphon in the Trooper.”

So we put the siphon together but couldn’t get the hose pushed far enough down the filler pipe of the Trooper and were getting nowhere. “There’s gas in my motorbike,” I suggested. “And you open the tank and it’s right there.” But Betsy was blocking the driveway. So we got a chain and towed her out of the way with the Trooper and proceeded to my place.

The Trooper, by the way is a totally cool 4WD geary jouncey rugged little goat of a vehicle. Pretty much every time I ride in it with Brooks I offer to buy it from him. But he’s not selling. Ever hopeful, maybe some day he’ll just want me to stop haranguing him and it will be mine. But on this occasion giving it a rest was the thing to do. We managed to get a gallon of gas out of the motorcycle and mostly into the gas can without poisoning ourselves or blowing anything up.

We put the gas in Old Betsy and turned the key. She cranked but didn’t start, didn’t even sputter. We let her crank over a little extra. Nothing. The fuel injectors in her throttle body were spraying fuel. So we turned our attention to ignition. The more we looked, the more pack rat damage we found. There were chewed wires all over the place, some only slightly damaged, some chewed clear through. Of these, most had nothing to do with ignition, but a few might and without a wiring diagram… We did some head scratching and poking around and got nowhere.

“Brooks, we got two problems.”

“What would those be?” Ever a scientist, Brooks rarely makes assumptions.

“Old Betsy has quit. That’s one. And she’s filled with trash. That’s two. How about we take the Trooper to the dump?”

“Oh you don’t know… it has it’s own pile of junk in it.” But as they say in the airplane business, we were running out of altitude, airspeed and ideas, all at once. We started unloading the Trooper.

I know people who have made fortunes in reverse logistics. Literally. The movement of things has a flow and a direction and we like to keep this all happening the way we want. To stop this flow is bad enough, but to then put it in reverse? Oh… we do not like reverse. Which may have to do with our eyes being on the front of our heads. Grumbling, we dragged all the crap out of Old Betsy and jammed it into the Trooper and then we went back to my place and got my trash and squeezed it in. Off we went to the dump, actually a transfer station, which is about three miles down the road.

As we neared the gate I said, “you know Brooks, I’ve completely lost track of time… I hope the dump isn’t closed.” The dump closes at noon for an hour.

“Oh… that wouldn’t be good.” Brooks drooped. The thought of going back? No. The thought of hanging out at the gate for an hour? Oh please, no.

The gate was open. “Yes!”

We dumped our dump. Bags and boxes and bottles and cans went flying in all directions.

“Well Señor,” I said, “it’s been a hell of a way to spend the day. But things are lookin’ up,”

There’s a certain lightness of being after going to the dump, not unlike the extra little spring a dog has in it’s step after doing #2. Thus satisfied we geared and jounced our way home.

Gordon Bunker