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

The Motorcycle Officer

When I find myself entangled with people who don’t live up to the commitments they make, well, it’s about the most challenging set of circumstances I can think of. And I’m in the thick of it right now with the people I rent my place from. On the surface it’s all smiles and, “If there’s anything you need, let us know and we’ll take care of it.” In reality, I’ve been living with a mal-functioning furnace for almost a month and can look back on what only amounts to a waste of time and energy trying to get the thing fixed. Adding insult to injury, before the furnace went on the blink, I agreed to an increase in rent.

So this morning while I don’t like it at all, I write a new fatter check. And then I walk into town to drop the check off with the rental management people. A deal’s a deal. Some things, though bitter pills to swallow are worth more than a few bucks. Being able to sleep at night, for example; something I did enjoy before the furnace started behaving like the main boiler in the Bismarck.

From across the Paseo, walking toward the back side of the state capitol building, I spot two Motorcycle Police Officers in the circular driveway getting on their bikes. Being a motorcyclist, I am keenly aware of other riders when I see them, and Motorcycle Police stand out. One of the officers pulls onto Don Gaspar and at the light comes to a stop in the right-hand lane. By this time I’m mid-way crossing the Paseo.

The bike looks like a Honda ST, but with all the gear bolted onto it, in just a glance it’s hard to tell. It is no BMW R bike, that’s for sure. Whether this is a City of Santa Fe or New Mexico State Police Motorcycle Unit I can’t be certain, but everything about this officer and his bike is sharp. The bike is spotless (and I do mean spotless), shining, and in perfect tune. The officer’s uniform is impeccable and the way he handles the bike is a thing of beauty. Based on these observations, and without hesitation, I have a deep respect for him. What he presents by his attention to detail is a person who takes pride in living up to the commitments made to his job, his office and his community.

Police on duty are serious people. You never see an officer in uniform on a street corner yuk it up with a few buds, laughing his head off. At least I never have. Officers on duty, at their friendliest are very reserved, and this is ok. Their job is a serious one, sometimes in a moment’s notice gravely so. But this officer is a motorcyclist - with this form he has to be - and he is a guy, so my bet is, riding this bike is a lot more to him than a job. And I want to show my appreciation.

I have the walk sign, and he yields to my right of way. All in about five seconds, I look at him and smile, he looks at me with a serious face; still smiling I then give him a thumbs-up, and he smiles back. Ever. So. Slightly. And that’s huge. The connection does my heart more good than I can say.

Sincere thanks to the unknown Motorcycle Officer.

Gordon Bunker

ps. As I put the finishing touches on this essay, my phone rings and it’s the furnace repairman. He tells me one of his crew will be here tomorrow.

Summers In A Tent

Announcing Summers In A Tent, Gordon Bunker's third book is now available in paperback and Kindle formats on Amazon.com. In a clean prosaic style, these delightful and heartfelt tales recount the sweetness of his childhood adventures camping with his family on the shore of a pristine New Hampshire lake. Not to mention occasional junkets to Maine and Canada. This is living in the great out of doors for months at a stretch, heaven for a kid. Recollections of his family’s experiences together are at times laugh-out-loud funny, at others, poignant truths as only a child can see. Bunker shares stories of running barefoot through the woods, picking blueberries, catching fish, falling out of boats and coping with days of rain; and the awkward foibles of growing up. Through it all, his love of nature and love for his family develops, and important life lessons are learned.

Gingerbread Cake

At the grocery checkout I swipe my credit card in the reader, tap the “OK” button, and the pleasant fellow hands me my receipt and then stuffs a box of cookies in one of my bags.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A box of ginger snaps. They’re free!” he replies.

I wonder what’s the catch. My dad once told me, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” And he was right, so I doubt there could be any such thing as a free box of ginger snaps. I look at the fellow and raise an eyebrow.

“Yes, they’re free,” he says with a broad smile. “We just opened our 365^th store, and to celebrate we’re giving everyone who makes a purchase today a box of cookies.”

“Well, thanks very much,” I say, gathering up the bags. “Free cookies, how cool is that?” On the way to the car I wonder how many times could this opportunity be worked - you know, buy one mushroom at a time and get the free box of ginger snaps - before they call security. Tempting to find out, but no. I like these people, and want them to let me in the store the next time I need groceries.

Cookies around here are not a good idea. Once the box is open, things slip past the point of no return and I have great difficulty eating just a few. So when I get home I stuff the box on the shelf and largely forget about it. Until one day, oh look, there’s the box of ginger snaps, and it just so happens I’m making an afternoon cup of tea. I take the box from the shelf and open it up, and find for store-bought (or in this case store-give) they’re pretty good.

No surprise, they go fast. Later that afternoon I go for another cookie, and boo-hoo, they’re all gone. Just kidding! The box lasts a few days, but a point in time comes when there are no more. And sniff, it’s again time for tea and I’ve gotten rather used to a few (O.K., more than a few) cookies along with it. Bummer. Sipping the boring, lonely cup of tea, I get thinking about making ginger snaps. But past experience tells me as much as I love eating cookies, making them is a pain. Way too fussy, all those little balls of dough, and trays going in and out of the oven, and if you space out, that trayful is burned and so on.

Flash! A bolt of inspiration to make a gingerbread cake hits me. The last time I had gingerbread cake was at The Tea House, served warm, with fresh whipped cream on top… oh my. And making a cake is more my style.

I consult the source of all truth and find a recipe. It calls for a 9 x 9 pan and I actually have one. This must be a sign. Moving on to the ingredients, most already reside in the kitchen, except for ginger, molasses, and a fresh lemon, so they go on the list. And I decide to get another pound of butter. Winter’s coming on, so ‘tis the season for having some extra butterfat on hand, and in turn, on mid-section. On the way to the store I decide to use fresh ginger instead of powdered. Fresh is always better, right? So I buy a gnarly brown rhizome of ginger, aka the root.

I get home, it’s a grey afternoon. O.K., I’m all set. A gingerbread cake is in my immediate future. I lay out all the ingredients. But how much ginger root equals one teaspoon of powdered? Going back to the source of all truth, everyone says the same thing: do not substitute ginger root for powder, or visa versa. Apparently the flavors can be quite different. But I didn’t get any powdered ginger and I do not want to go back to the store for just one item. Ugh.

Ah, but there’s The Spice Lady. Her shop is within walking distance and getting out for a stroll would be good. It’s cold and raw outside, the air smells like snow. I bundle up and head out, take a new street and discover a whole little sub-neighborhood I never knew about.

The Spice Lady has powdered ginger and I buy a little packet of it. And we talk about making curries, something I’ve been procrastinating over for a long time. After expressing my enthusiasm on the subject to Vic, two, count ’em two years ago, she gave me a lovely mortar and pestle for grinding the whatevers to make curry, and well, it hasn’t seen any use. Yet. Anyway, the lady who is The Spice Lady has a few pointers to get me on my curry journey, like first I’ll need to come up with a recipe. So I put the packet of ginger powder in my pocket and go home. By the time I get back it’s more the time to cook dinner than gingerbread, so I put all the ingredients away.

The next day I pull them all out. Again. This is when I discover the plastic bagful of brown sugar is hard as a rock. Oh c’mon! There is however a trick of putting a slice of apple in the with sugar, seal it up and put it in the fridge. For a few days. I look in the fridge and find I do not have any apples. At this point, no way am I going to the grocery for an apple. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I moisten a piece of paper towel, stuff it in the bag, seal it and put it in the fridge. And put all the other ingredients away. Again.

I check daily on the sugar. Day one: hard as a rock. Day two: hard as a rock. Day three: slight signs of softening. I look at the lemon. It’s not as perky as it was three days ago. The time is now, I gotta make my move. I take the paper towel out of the sugar bag, dribble a bit of water directly on the sugar, seal it and put it in the sun on my work table. While I’m at the computer trying to figure out which word comes next, I mess with it. I poke at it, push it, twist it. In all, I worry it to death and with the help of old sol, by mid-afternoon I have a bag of soft brown sugar.

I get all the ingredients out and go to work. I am on a mission.

Standing there with the mixer going, the butter, eggs, sugar, and molasses splatter around in the bowl. We’re on our way. Hmm… I’m wearing a dress shirt. No apron. I don’t even own an apron. I think of my dad. He’d come home from work in his jacket and tie, pull in the garage and immediately start tinkering with something under the hood of the car. Having a propensity for old British and French iron, there was always something needing tinkering, and the tangle of odd bits and pieces called an engine was always a grimy, oily mess. This would drive my mother crazy. “You don’t do the laundry!” she would sputter. He’d look up and pretend to wipe his hands on his jacket, and grin. The apple falls close to the tree. A good blob of what’s flying around in the bowl landing on the front of my shirt will total it. But I do not stop and change shirts. No. Nothing will stop me now.

Glancing at the recipe, it says, “Preheat oven to 350 degrees.”

Haven’t done that yet. I hope the oven works.

Gordon Bunker