A Day In The Life

I have been vacillating on whether or not to buy a KitchenAid stand mixer. After recent success with making focaccia, I want to get more into baking bread. Mid-stream into that adventure however, without any question, the limitations of my hand mixer became apparent. It turned into a wrestling match, and it’s hard to say who won. Given the little machine still works and the focaccia came out pretty well, I call it a tie.

But back and forth, and back and forth I go. It’s very infrequent I splurge on something like this, and this would be a splurge - a matter of want rather than need - and a pricey one. I grab a coin to flip. Heads I get the KitchenAid and the coin comes up heads. Humph. I need to think about it some more. After breakfast I decide to go for two out of three and flip the coin again. Heads, I get the mixer. And again it comes up heads. OK, OK. When fate speaks it’s best not to question.

The local Bed Bath and Beyond store doesn’t have my first pick in color. If I’m going to spend the dough, and if I’m going to live with this thing for the rest of my days, the color is worth waiting for. The manager I speak with offers to order one, and I accept, but we learn their network is down. The folks who work at this store are really putting in the effort and are very accommodating. The manager is frustrated, he wants to make the sale and I feel for the guy. I thank him, let him know that I’ll order a mixer online and will be sure to be back.

At Pep Boys I drop off a few quarts of used motor oil for recycling. A woman is leaving her car for service. She’s very friendly and talkative. Her dad, her old boyfriend said this and that about caring for her car and we joke about solutions to idiot lights when they come on; putting a piece of electrical tape over them has worked for me.

Maybe if the woman and I continue to talk we’d go out for a coffee while her car is getting fixed and maybe agree to get together again, and, and. This is a pleasant sequence of possibilities to consider, but as much as I’d like to have a gal in my life again, the last sucker-punch I was the bag for left too-deep an impression. I thank the guy at the counter and wish the woman good luck with her car and make my exit.

I get home and order the mixer. Now I’m jazzed and looking forward to it. Full steam ahead. Visions of great golden loaves and no regrets… slices of toasted homemade raisin bread with generous slatherings of butter…

After dinner, the inclination to stay put is strong. It’s a hard sell to get myself out for a walk. Nonetheless I put on my boots for a quick lap around the plaza. Once out the door and up the driveway I know this is the right thing to do. It’s a beautiful spring evening, cool, a kiss of a breeze flits about, late sunlight comes in low.

Near the capitol, among non-descript government office buildings stands a crab apple tree, resplendent in bloom, it is a mass of rich pink blossoms. A shaft of sunlight streams in-between the buildings onto the tree. The full crown glows in warm chiaroscuro. I stop and stand and look at it for quite a few moments. The tree stands quietly and asks for nothing, it flowers because this is simply part of what it must do. The laden branches sway ever so slightly in the breeze, light and shadow flicker. Partially opened buds resemble miniature roses. Where sunlight has found its way through the maze, brilliant spots of pink burst from the dark side of the tree. Like stars, such beauty.

On the way home I make a point to stop and admire the tree again. The light is becoming less but still it is well worth standing and looking at. Continuing, I encounter a gang of boys goofing around on skateboards. Hooting, jeering one another, they are bundles of froggy, gangly energy. It does my heart good to see not one of them entranced with a phone. Before crossing the street, which is torn up for utility work, they do not simply pick up their mounts. No, they each kick the tail of their board down causing the body of it to catapult up into the air which they then catch mid-flight. Boys. They school across the street. By the time they ripen into men, the world, their world, will be quite a different place.

Gordon Bunker

The Good Stuff

Owner of The (moved and improved) Good Stuff, Ken Kordich and I have been friends for years. Lately, Ken’s been putting a tremendous effort into the store’s new location, and now offers coffee. I thought I knew the guy pretty well, but a few days ago when I stopped to say hello, he pulled a rabbit out of his hat. Who would have guessed Ken knows his way around making a cappuccino? Like, really knows his way around making a cappuccino.

So we’re sitting at one of the tables right by a window, hanging out, catching up and listening to a jazz record. Ken has a fondness for and sells vinyl records, and we get talking about the relative merits of analog and digital recordings, a subject on which I’m basically clueless. Ok, maybe that’s overdoing it. I did have a record player, no, a turntable and a collection of LP’s, but after it sat in the attic for twenty years, I gave it all to my brother-in-law. So I’ll upgrade from clueless to a skosh out of touch.

Ken points out there’s a range of sounds you get listening to a recording on vinyl that’s missing in an mp3 file. I’ve heard this before and don’t doubt it, but what’s the big deal? I’m happy with just hitting the play button. Besides, LP’s scratch and warp, and there’s dust and… He goes on to describe the indistinct middle ground between sounds, and springs the word “finesse” on me. The word settles in my mind. Finesse. It’s a quality of doing things which does seem sorely lacking in our culture.

A stream of customers come and go. Ken asks me if I’d like a coffee. It’s so nice hanging out here, sure that’d be great. So he gets up, and seeing how the record we’ve been listening to is just about finished, he picks out another one and slides it out of the cover. Ken looks it over, sprays it with some cleaning fluid and carefully wipes it with a special towel. I watch him, a little wistful, remembering the same ritual from long ago. In short order we’re listening to country.

Turns out there are choices in the coffee department. I was thinking just a cup of joe, but Ken goes through the menu. Espresso, latte, Americano, cap… oh, stop right there. A cappuccino please. That’s what I’ll have. Done well, this is my favorite. Ken mentions his espresso beans are from Danesi Caffé, a relatively small roaster in Italy. I see. Clearly, he is not fooling around.

Ken fills the little thingy (technical term) with freshly ground coffee and tamps it down. He then puts the thingy in the espresso machine, places a cup under the spout and down comes the hot dark coffee. Ken shows me the delicate crema on top. (Where he learned all this, I wonder… but that’s another story.) It’s beautiful. In the mean time he steams a small pitcher of milk, and when it’s ready, holding back the foam, he pours just the right amount of milk into the cup. Then he scoops out the finishing touch, the foam on top. The crema finds its way up around the perimeter of the foam.

Writing this, I’m beginning to salivate.

The cup is white porcelain, it is oval in profile. Looking down on the matching saucer, it is also an oval. It is an elegant ensemble. And the aroma… mm… rich. And the taste… is sublime. Ken sits down across the table. I am in heaven. He’s looking pretty satisfied, as he well should.

A woman comes in with her son, who is about ten years old. The boy immediately zeros in on the portable record player on the countertop. The record turns, the tone arm gently rises and falls as it tracks the groove. And the voice of Willie Nelson croons from the box. He is fascinated, his mom smiles and says he’s never seen one before. Studying it all for some minutes, the wheels must be turning in his head. It’s great to see him so absorbed with it.

But in with the new, and out with the old, right? Well, not so fast there Bub. I’ve been reminded there’s value beyond mere romanticism in the rituals and details. The level of care and attention Ken pays to these details in the world of cappuccino and vinyl … it’s called finesse. He’s definitely on to something you just can’t get hitting the play button.

Gordon Bunker

The Good Stuff, Established 2009

401 West San Francisco St. (on the corner of Guadalupe)

Santa Fe, New Mexico 87501

www.thegoodstuffsantafe.com

505-795-1939

Café, baked goods, records, books, sunglasses & t-shirts. Lunch options in the future.

Grounded in Local Flavor

It gives me great satisfaction to be, as Local Flavor Magazine Editor Patty Karlovitz put it, a part of, "what we can accomplish when we are at our best." I hope you'll read "Grounded" in the April issue.

Either in print or the magazine is available online here.

Many thanks and best wishes,

Gordon

Arroyo Tenorio

Sunday evening after saying my thanks and goodbyes to family and friends I am alone, walking home, and mentally exhausted. The weekend has been spent visiting, and full to the brim with activities and conversation clever privileged people gravitate to, at least in my culture. Walking through the neighborhood, I contemplate the feeling I am missing it, but also that I do not know exactly what it is.

Arroyo Tenorio is a narrow little street in Santa Fe, one of the few that’s still dirt. The arroyo is no longer. People are settling in for the evening, a lovely peacefulness settles on the town. I walk around a bend, a low shaft of warm sunlight streams in the length of the street, and there it is.

Not a breath of air moves. A mass of ivy hangs over a heavily buttressed adobe wall, smooth dark green leaves with deeply scalloped edges reflect brilliant points of sunlight. The thicket of leaves is at once chaos and order. A little flag, the type used to mark underground utilities, stands still on its rusted steel wire pole. The flag itself glows brilliant royal blue in transmitted light. The shade of blue, in counterpoint to the earth colors of the wall and ivy, is shocking to my eyes. I stand still, utterly taken by the realness of what is before me - earth, sun, air, the life of ivy, the touch of man.

In the moment, it seems my reality shifts. Perhaps, for this doubting Thomas, what I see is a glimpse into the divine? Perhaps it is a glimpse into the truth of not knowing what reality is?

Bearing witness to this mystery, I am overwhelmed. I stand in the middle of the street for some time, feeling this. And then move on, quietly.

Gordon Bunker

Sugar Nymphs

When I mentioned the route I’d be riding on das motorrad and that it would include Peñasco, Sallie said, “Sugar Nymphs, if you haven’t been there, you must stop for lunch!”

And I wondered, “Sugar Nymphs what?... In Peñasco?... in my book, sweets have to be exceptional or not at all…”

A body in motion tends to stay in motion, and when I’m in, or on, a vehicle I fall into this tendency, or trap. Especially when I’m on the bike, the journey is about the riding. To a fault, I get my teeth on the bit and just ride, ride, ride, the cost often being I blast right on by little places well worth exploring.

Coming into Peñasco from Vadito, there it is, Sugar Nymphs Bistro, right next to the old theatre. The place looks cheery and there are cars in the parking lot - always a good sign. It’s lunchtime and I slow and peer at the place, survey the scene, and almost, almost, pull in. But the momentum beast had me in its grips. I keep rolling. And I think, “Gordon! For Pete’s sakes, turn around and go in!” Whenever Sallie recommends a place to eat or a book to read, it’s always spot on. So I grapple with the beast, triumph over it and turn around.

Sugar Nymphs Bistro is a gem, it is a rare gem. From the murals painted on the outside walls to the atmosphere of the cozy dining room, it’s clear this little eatery is an expression of what co-owners Kai Harper and Ki Holste love to do. And they back it up with sophisticated talents developed over years cheffing and restaurateuring in the Bay Area.

Being Sunday, the menu is for brunch. I already had eggs for breakfast so I read my way down the sheet past egg and pancake offerings, to find a grilled pork loin sandwich. This, with a salad instead of fries will fit the bill. I also order coffee. The waitress is prompt and courteous and friendly.

When the coffee arrives so does a scone. Hmm… I didn’t order one, but I’m not going to argue. Turns out the scone is complimentary at brunch. It’s homemade and so is the mixed berry compote in the accompanying little cup. Like the scone, the compote is warm. Not hot, but warm, just right to bring out the bouquet of the fruit. The scone is flaky and rich and with a dab of the compote and a sip of coffee, I am in heaven. At least I think I am, until my sandwich arrives. Then I know it.

The bun, naturally, is homemade. The crust is resplendent under a light egg glaze, and makes itself known without me feeling the need to see a Periodontist; the fine textured bread within has just enough substance to stand up to the fillings. And the slices of pork loin, which actually taste like pork and not some ubiquitous other white meat, melt in my mouth. How do they do this? This is in league with a perfectly grilled filet mignon. Earthy and mouthwatering. The sandwich features a swipe of spiced mayonnaise, a few baby greens and slices of tomato. Oh, the tomato. I’m talking just picked from your garden, tomato. Its sweet tang sings a beautiful harmony with the pork. The small mixed greens salad on the side provides my palate with a resting place from the sandwich.

When walking in, I made note of the carrot cake hovering on one end of the lunch counter. Beautifully done. The waitress sees I’ve finished the sandwich and asks if I’d like dessert. Well, I do love carrot cake but I am… just right. Not one thin wafer… and I decline.

Thank goodness for the times and places like Sugar Nymphs Bistro, where inspiration prevails. For these few moments dining, I have been elevated into a world of care and effort and love and fineness. Do I have to get on the motorcycle and go away? Might they adopt me? And feed me? Forever?

Go to Peñasco; it is not out of the way. The High Road to Taos winds into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, through little Northern New Mexico towns and beautiful landscape. It’s one of the great drives, or rides, in the country, and it happens to be the way to Sugar Nymphs Bistro.

Gordon Bunker

sugarnymphs.com

575-587-0311

I Ate A Conventional Crumb

This all started with a string of comments on Facebook where I couldn’t help be a smarty-pants, and with a few friends poke fun at some… behavior, observed recently at Whole Paycheck.

A customer threw a hissy fit after learning the toaster they were using to crisp up a slice of their organic bread had also been used for toasting non-organic, or conventional bread. The trouble was their organic toast stood a chance of being contaminated with a conventional crumb. Heavens NO! My source also reports observing another customer at the checkout, demanding the cashier enter the SKU of each item manually rather than scan them, the concern being the electromagnetic field of the scanner would taint the food.

Oh dear. Am I alone in thinking life is way, way, too easy for some people?

If you could see these individual’s entire experience, their behavior at any moment would make perfect sense. Maybe. Whether they were self-absorbed and feeling entitled, or neurotic, or full on wacko is hard to tell, but the behavior seems just a skosh far-fetched. Doing my best to empathize, yikes, if they get this bent out of shape over such minutia, what the rest of their lives must be like… I feel for them. It can’t be a happy place.

This leads me to think about the people I’ve known on the approximately opposite end of the spectrum who have lived with scarcity. I’m talking about hard scrabble go-without-a-lot-of-things-many-people-take-for-granted scarcity. These people are not concerned with slight inconsistencies in the ingredients of their toast. At all. Rather they are thankful to have something to eat, knowing well the value of food, the measure being hunger.

Friends who not long ago came to this country from Mexico, who know a thing or three about deprivation, invited me to a birthday party they were throwing for their two year old daughter. Of the fifty or more assembled guests, far as I could tell, the vast majority was from a background similar to that of the host and hostess. The buffet lunch went on and on, all homemade and a huge effort and expense relative to the means of my friends. No one appeared to quibble over the ingredients and no one, not even the kids was picky.

Everyone had plates full and faces beaming. Alegría de vivir filled the air, and we ate with gusto. We sang and danced, well, some of us danced. We were there to celebrate and our expressions and gestures filled any voids left by the lack of common words. It was a wonderful time and an honor to be included. I left with mi panza llena, mi corazón contento.

While I wouldn’t wish hardship on anyone, there seems to be a correlation between it and having a level-headed set of priorities; not to mention a propensity to enjoy life.

Gordon Bunker