June 6, 2009
If heroes are examples of exceptional courage and fortitude as my pocket dictionary claims, why are they the people we strive to be? It seems that by putting astronauts, humanitarian orators, or famous sports figures on pedestals and trying to emulate their accomplishments, we are only setting ourselves up for failure.
I experienced this form of disappointment in the spring of 2009 as an intern at Assateague Island National Seashore in Virginia. I felt that fully experiencing the area by doing everything the island had to offer was an important part of my internship. I had developed an addiction to outdoor nonfiction not long before I moved to Virginia, and was spending many evenings reading climbing accounts by Krakauer and other accomplished outdoorsmen. Those, coupled with my lifelong love for fictional epic journeys like those written by Tolkien and Lewis, my malleable mind started to become warped. Under the influence of adventure literature, I started to plan a backcountry hike up the island. Twenty-six miles on sand started sounding somewhat reasonable. Nay, it actually stated sounding fun! My narrative-saturated brain conjured up romantic images of me, my pack and an isolated beach. Ah; the open road! My brain convinced me that I walked, I would discover the meaning of life and I experience nature in a spiritual way, reserved only for those who enter the wilderness alone.
Alas, it was not to be. The night before my hike, I irresponsibly stayed up late into the night playing Scattergories and drinking lemonade, which put a damper on my early morning start. After packing, repacking, a trip to Wal-Mart and then packing once more, I finally made it to the beach. While I was getting water for the walk and camp, two separate groups of people stopped to ask me about hiking and of course, to as me how much my pack weighed. Their wonder regarding the forty pounds on my back bolstered my spirits and I was feeling pretty good when I started out.
The hike was wonderful at first. I sang songs to myself, strode quickly and brightly and paused only to pick up particularly striking shells or write abstractly inspirational words in the damp sand. “Free,” the first word said. A couple miles later and the spirit moved me to pen “discover” into the side of a dune. However, thanks to my late start, before long the tide came in.
The encroaching water forced me higher on the beach to soft sand and my ill-informed motivation began to waver, and then wane in earnest. I discovered nature alright. I communed with her up to my ankles in sand that filled my shoes and blew into my face and many other chinks in my raincoat armor. I experienced what she had to offer and I hated her. Walking on sand is tough. Not Everest tough or fighting a dragon tough, but tough all the same. My next work written in the sand was “ugh.” A few miles later, and all I could muster was “?,” after which I napped, using my dropped pack as a windbreak.
When I finally dragged myself into camp, I felt lied to by myself. My heroes are not people I relate to. While they thrive on challenge and adventure, I do not. Headwinds and two gallons of water strapped onto my already too-heavy pack are enough to send me through four of the five stages of grief. (I never seem to reach acceptance.) Fun to me is not agony. I prefer a good laugh with friends, a stimulating read or a relaxing jaunt on a well-marked path with my camera and lunch.
I don’t seek freedom like the characters in my books. I was not the victim of a hard childhood or spend my formative years itching to be on the road. While I like the idea of living like my heroes, it’s just not meant to be. Looks like I’ll have to be content with reading about outdoor adventures, leave the real ones to the authors and change my heroes to someone whose accomplishments are within my sights. Does anyone know a champion decoupager or collector of small random things I can read about? I’ve got some jars all ready.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Scromletted Eggs and other Cooking Mishaps
(originally written May 11, 2009)
As is the case with most young people, after the thrill of graduation from a higher education-type institute of great knowledge and insight has fizzled out and time spent at home eating animal crackers out of Longaberger baskets has begun to seem less than fulfilling, I decided it was time to move out. Wondrous independence aside, being out in the real world has its lumps. Usually they are found in my under mixed pancake batter, but occasionally they will turn up in other, more worrying locations. Like mid-chew into a soy meatball or towards the end of a gallon jug of concentrated orange juice.
All evidence aside, I’m actually a decent cook. However, the menu options are pretty limited. I make amazing chicken marsala and have made self-appointed haters of all seafood practically grow gills over the garlic and herb pollock I pulled out of thin are one night. However, there are things I would like to cook because I enjoy eating them that just don’t work. Take, for instance, a cheddar cheese, mushroom, onion and green pepper omelet. Just writing those words in that order make me want to hustle down to the kitchen and start cooking up a storm. I firmly believe, while seated in my desk chair, that my omelet will be one of photographic quality. I will carry this belief down the stairs, into the kitchen and all through the preparatory motions.
Belief in my self, however, does not change the fact that while a well-designed spatula in the hands of almost anyone with three or more digits can assist in the creation of culinary delights, in my hands acts as a combination sword and weed whacker. Images of well-rounded omelets shaped like big smiles usually swim before my eyes as I stare down at my plate and dig into scrambled eggs with lots of extra stuff floating around in them. I shouldn’t be surprised by such occurrences, but I always am. Logic says that simply believing in my cooking ability just won’t cut it. And my track record shouts exuberantly that I’ve always been a bad cook, which means the situation is most likely not going to be changing any time soon.
However, when I was around nine or ten, I had a brush with culinary glory when the banana bread I entered in the Orange County fair won first prize and the chance to travel to Albany, where it would be judged against all the other breads cooked by industrious 4-Hers state-wide. Large state that it is, the stiff competition my banana bread would face was very much on my mind as I assembled what I was sure would be New York State’s greatest fruit-based loaf. I mashed, measured and mixed with great care, and so intent was I on winning that I not only set the timer on the microwave, but waited around the kitchen, just in case I missed the beeping.
About an hour later, my creation was baked to perfection. Armed with pot holders, I extracted my prize from the oven, carried it to the thoughtfully placed cooling rack and skillfully flipped the pan over. SPLAT! My bread, missing the rack almost entirely, hit the counter at nearly the speed of sound, and proceeded to rush along the flat surface, off the edge and onto the floor, where it collected in a sopping puddle. “Ah,” all of you who fancy yourselves culinary detectives are saying, “You didn’t turn the oven on, you ninny.” Of course I turned the oven on! Indeed, the first line of nearly every recipe ever starts with the words “preheat the oven to…” Nay, input of heat was not the issue. The lack of flour was, however, creating several problems, including bread-battered socks, coupled with the realization that we were out of paper towels.
My only saving grace was that the judge from Albany was not standing in my kitchen to witness the debacle. As witness to my character (not to mention the visions of blue-ribbon-hood still dancing in my head) I did not siphon any floor batter up and into a Ziploc either. I didn’t refrain from that because I felt it was wrong, but rather because doing so would absolutely guarantee the placing of a green “we have to because you’re sensitive children,” thanks-for-playing, honorable mention ribbon under my name.
To avoid such shame, I cleaned up the kitchen, changed my socks and set about making a new loaf. Undaunted by my very recent total failure, it did not take long for me to convince myself that I was elbow-deep in blue ribbon greatness. The banana bread I sent to the state fair was indeed a loaf of unusually beautiful qualities. Browned to perfection, the center wafted delicious aromas towards the mid-summer sunset as I labeled and wrapped my entry. A few weeks later, I received my prize in the mail. A note, with a green ribbon attached to it. “Recipe calls for vanilla,” the note read. “What happened?” If only she knew.
As is the case with most young people, after the thrill of graduation from a higher education-type institute of great knowledge and insight has fizzled out and time spent at home eating animal crackers out of Longaberger baskets has begun to seem less than fulfilling, I decided it was time to move out. Wondrous independence aside, being out in the real world has its lumps. Usually they are found in my under mixed pancake batter, but occasionally they will turn up in other, more worrying locations. Like mid-chew into a soy meatball or towards the end of a gallon jug of concentrated orange juice.
All evidence aside, I’m actually a decent cook. However, the menu options are pretty limited. I make amazing chicken marsala and have made self-appointed haters of all seafood practically grow gills over the garlic and herb pollock I pulled out of thin are one night. However, there are things I would like to cook because I enjoy eating them that just don’t work. Take, for instance, a cheddar cheese, mushroom, onion and green pepper omelet. Just writing those words in that order make me want to hustle down to the kitchen and start cooking up a storm. I firmly believe, while seated in my desk chair, that my omelet will be one of photographic quality. I will carry this belief down the stairs, into the kitchen and all through the preparatory motions.
Belief in my self, however, does not change the fact that while a well-designed spatula in the hands of almost anyone with three or more digits can assist in the creation of culinary delights, in my hands acts as a combination sword and weed whacker. Images of well-rounded omelets shaped like big smiles usually swim before my eyes as I stare down at my plate and dig into scrambled eggs with lots of extra stuff floating around in them. I shouldn’t be surprised by such occurrences, but I always am. Logic says that simply believing in my cooking ability just won’t cut it. And my track record shouts exuberantly that I’ve always been a bad cook, which means the situation is most likely not going to be changing any time soon.
However, when I was around nine or ten, I had a brush with culinary glory when the banana bread I entered in the Orange County fair won first prize and the chance to travel to Albany, where it would be judged against all the other breads cooked by industrious 4-Hers state-wide. Large state that it is, the stiff competition my banana bread would face was very much on my mind as I assembled what I was sure would be New York State’s greatest fruit-based loaf. I mashed, measured and mixed with great care, and so intent was I on winning that I not only set the timer on the microwave, but waited around the kitchen, just in case I missed the beeping.
About an hour later, my creation was baked to perfection. Armed with pot holders, I extracted my prize from the oven, carried it to the thoughtfully placed cooling rack and skillfully flipped the pan over. SPLAT! My bread, missing the rack almost entirely, hit the counter at nearly the speed of sound, and proceeded to rush along the flat surface, off the edge and onto the floor, where it collected in a sopping puddle. “Ah,” all of you who fancy yourselves culinary detectives are saying, “You didn’t turn the oven on, you ninny.” Of course I turned the oven on! Indeed, the first line of nearly every recipe ever starts with the words “preheat the oven to…” Nay, input of heat was not the issue. The lack of flour was, however, creating several problems, including bread-battered socks, coupled with the realization that we were out of paper towels.
My only saving grace was that the judge from Albany was not standing in my kitchen to witness the debacle. As witness to my character (not to mention the visions of blue-ribbon-hood still dancing in my head) I did not siphon any floor batter up and into a Ziploc either. I didn’t refrain from that because I felt it was wrong, but rather because doing so would absolutely guarantee the placing of a green “we have to because you’re sensitive children,” thanks-for-playing, honorable mention ribbon under my name.
To avoid such shame, I cleaned up the kitchen, changed my socks and set about making a new loaf. Undaunted by my very recent total failure, it did not take long for me to convince myself that I was elbow-deep in blue ribbon greatness. The banana bread I sent to the state fair was indeed a loaf of unusually beautiful qualities. Browned to perfection, the center wafted delicious aromas towards the mid-summer sunset as I labeled and wrapped my entry. A few weeks later, I received my prize in the mail. A note, with a green ribbon attached to it. “Recipe calls for vanilla,” the note read. “What happened?” If only she knew.
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