veni,vidi,vici

A couple of months ago L found out about the chocolate cake I made for the hiking group pot luck (see Cake As Plumage), which wooed her sister R into my arms. Since then she’s been after me to have a “throw down,” her favorite chocolate cake against mine. After hemming and hawing I picked up the gauntlet and last weekend at a family (hers not mine) cookout we took our paces.

The daytime temperatures in Santa Fe have been into the nineties – not exactly baking weather – so I got up Sunday morning at 5:30, made a pot of coffee and enjoyed the cool and quiet and baked a “Chocolaty Fudge Cake” from Marcel Desaulnier’s cookbook, I’m Dreaming Of A Chocolate Christmas; the cake of pot luck legend. As various concoctions got mixed and simmered and baked I thought of the movie Babette’s Feast, wherein the French and Catholic and très sexy housekeeper Babette prepares a feast for and thoroughly blows the socks off her Danish and Protestant and uptight employers and guests… some great scenes in there. Step by step my cake came together.

We took measures to keep the recipes and provenance of the cakes a secret from the panel of judges, all seventeen of us attending the cookout, minus L and me. The cakes sat on display and after dinner we sliced them and passed the plates. Umm’s, ooo’s, ahh’s and assorted kibitzing went around and everyone was polite, “… both cakes are delicious,” “…if either of these cakes were the only cake I was eating it would be the best I’ve ever had…”

And then we got down to business and took a vote. One cake was noticeably lighter in color than the other so L wrote “light / dark” on many little slips of paper. Which is your favorite? A few of the judges were non-committal and voted for both. Hmmm… could they simply not pick a favorite… or were they afraid of repercussions? No matter, when all votes were tallied alas, my cake didn’t quite vici. The dark one, L’s Chocolate Kahlúa Pound cake won. Congratulations L!

Competition improves the breed and I’m thinking about a few tweaks to my cake. The chocolate cake throw down was a lot of fun and I think a few of the judges are still ooo-ing and ahh-ing. This after all is what great chocolate cake is about.

Gordon Bunker

The Hospital

The hospital is a sprawling complex, multiple buildings each eight or so stories tall and much of it fairly new construction. Walking in the front door of the “Pavilion” I am taken aback by sweeping cathedral ceilings, crisp architectural details, high end lighting, and big expanses of glass. Not cheap, and, what does this have to do with healthcare?

A friend is having a kidney removed and I am here with his family to offer what support I can. The surgery waiting area is packed so we find some chairs and set up camp in the hallway. There is no shortage of activity, doctors and nurses in scrubs, technicians, administrative personnel, porters, and janitors go back and forth all exuding competency and a sense of purpose. Patients go by in johnnies, some grasping an IV stand on casters with a bag of some fluid dangling from the top, others are laid out on rolling hospital beds pushed by staff. Some look pretty close to death. A young pregnant woman offers a wan smile and shuffles by. She has shackles on her ankles and is escorted by guards. We wait.

Everyone here is accommodating, but no one speaks to you for more than a few minutes. The surgeon makes an appearance. Members of the family go to him right away. “How is he?” They ask with some urgency. The doctor is large and a little overweight with a shock of white hair and a ruddy face. He is coming up on sixty and is friendly and distracted. I can more easily picture him in Carhart’s and driving a John Deere than Ralph Lauren and driving a Porsche.

“He’s doing fine.” He says. He pauses. “Wait. Now which one was he?” He smiles and looks a little embarrassed as he fumbles with slips of paper. “I’ve done two kidneys this morning.” It is eleven AM and these are each four hour surgeries. “Oh, he was the second one. Yeah, he’s doing fine.” The doctor smiles and takes his leave. He probably has a few more to do before calling it a day. One hopes he typically gets the right work order with the right patient.

The delivery of medical care is an industry, which is an odd and often troublesome pairing of service and methodology. At this moment the hospital reminds me of a reasonably well run service department in a large high end car dealership.

It’s easy to be the critic and I keep this in mind. Always. If what you need is a kidney taken out, this method works efficiently. They whisk you in, do what they do behind closed doors and send you on your way. After extracting their fee, of course. Bingo bango bongo. But what about feeling unwell, and pain, and probably uncertain and fearful? Life and death and health and sickness are mysterious. Push this back as we may, it’s still mysterious. The health care industry, or at least this hospital seems not well equipped to help patients or loved ones on this level.

Nevertheless my friend was on his feet the next day, and although he continues to be fairly uncomfortable he’s on his way to recovery.

Gordon Bunker

The Wallow Fire

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

The dense cloud of smoke drifts closer, first, high among the clouds and then lower and lower. I go around the house and close the windows. The Sandias disappear from view, then the cloud wraps around the Ortiz, then Los Cerrillos, Petroglyph Hill and at the worst of it I can only just make out my neighbor’s house less than a mile away. The Wallow fire is over 200 miles (322 km) away in eastern Arizona. I have never seen anything like this. It touches something elemental in me, I am uneasy, and want to take flight.

It is an acrid cloud smelling of burning grass and oddly, the pungent sweetness of apple wood. Sunset nears and the sun is completely obscured by the cloud. A gentle wind blows from the west, the air is hot though it feels soft. The sky is warm chalky grey, taking on a sickly yellow orange pallor as darkness comes. With the night, a thick cloak falls over the land, it is utterly dark.

As of this writing the fire has consumed 720 square miles (1865 sq. km) and 502 structures, it has been burning since 29 May and is only 10 percent contained. The cause is known to be related to human activity, and an abandoned camp fire is suspected. Imagine if you knew you were the one to have caused something like this.

Gordon Bunker

Goos And Jellies

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

“Vic, what is all this for?” I asked, looking at the array of fancy bottles and jars lined up on the top of her bureau.

“A woman has to have her goos and jellies.” She said and giggled. Lotions, creams, conditioners, ointments, clarifiers and etc. & etc., all various preparations for the care of the epidermis - and the soul.

“Um, Vic,” I shook my head, lifting up my zip-lock bag with a tube of tooth paste, some dental floss, a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo in it. “This is my complete kit.” I said. I was on a road trip and visiting my sister and her family, but whether on the road or at home, the kit would be about the same. And my guess is, mine is representative of most guy’s kits.

“Women are different.” She said.

I couldn’t agree more, but nonetheless I was puzzled. What does a person do with all of this stuff? Could it be women more easily fall prey to clever marketing, or is there something to it?

Months later Vic was visiting me in New Mexico. We were hanging out, drinking way too much coffee and got talking about the windows at her house and how they were sticking. Vic was frustrated by not knowing what to do about it.

“Sounds like they just need some lubrication.” I said.

“Probably, but I have no idea what to use.” She replied.

“WD-40.” I said. “But not Silicone. Maybe bar soap.” Vic looked at me, not knowing what I was talking about, beyond the soap. “The first two are spray lubes.” I said. “Silicone however, you do not want to use anywhere you might later want to paint.”

A light bulb came on and I sprung from my chair and headed for the garage. I came back with spray cans of silicone, WD-40, lithium grease and a can of 3 in 1 oil. The basics. I lined them up on the table and launched in to a description of their relative properties and uses, then shut my mouth just before Vic’s eyes started to glaze over.

I cringe when I find a mechanism, whether a simple door hinge or the shift linkage on a motorcycle or whatever squeaking and groaning, calling out, begging for some lubrication. It pains me to operate anything in that state, metal on metal. Give me some oil! Anything! Some of the wrong oil is better than none of the right oil. I’ve given friends lube kits – cans of the most common household lubricants – as birthday presents simply because everything they had was so… dry. As Vic found out, I can get pretty excited about oil and grease. Amazing stuff; so many of the machines working for us day in and day out couldn’t do so without films of lubricants only thousandths of an inch thick… keeping metal from metal under extreme pressures and temperatures. Ok, I can feel myself getting worked up so I’ll stop.

Bringing the cans back to the shelf unit on top of the work bench I stopped and looked. Yes, those shelves are stuffed with… goos and jellies! There are 12 cans of spray lubricants, 5 bottles of oils, 5 of fuel additives, 4 types of grease, 7 adhesives, 10 polishes and waxes, 7 solvents (from distilled water to tetrachloroethylene), 11 cans of paint, and 14 various other oddities (from anti-seize paste (2 types, naturally) to leather conditioner). I hope my local EPA representative is not reading this.

And all of a sudden it made sense. Most everyone has some goos and jellies. It’s about our enthusiasm for taking care.

Gordon Bunker