Igloo dance party

I wasn't involved in this, and I can take no credit whatsoever, but there are still a lot of great reasons to love this video by Uncage The Soul Productions.  They had posted some outside shots of their igloo (including a very nice long-exposure with stars burning overhead) to their Facebook wall, and their fans had clamored for an inside view.  Instead, they gave us video of their dance party.

Take the Plunge

As mentioned earlier, I planned to join the Polar Plunge as part of my Last Hurrah tour of central Oregon.  In the four years I've been here, I've swam in lots of really cold water, including Crater Lake (water and air were both around 50 degrees that day), the pool below Punchbowl Falls on Eagle Creek (where I realized that I could feel the difference between when I told my arm to move and when it actually responded), and Tamolitch Pool (on three different occasions; on the last two, I jumped from a 40 foot cliff to enter the water.  The last time was the coldest water I can remember swimming.  I'd estimate it was about forty degrees), so I figured a quick dip in the Deschutes wouldn't be a big deal, but I still felt a little nervous about it.  I give credit for that to everyone who reminded me how colossally stupid it was to seek out cold water and jump into it.

The thing is, I was right.  The Plunge was pretty simple, and even a little disappointing in its ease.  I would have happily spent more time swimming out there, but it was just a case of run in, trip and fall under water, get up, run out.  The worst part was standing in line in 28 degree weather with strong winds at our backs waiting to plunge.  Even afterward, soaking wet and looking for the friends who had my towel and dry clothes, I was more comfortable than I had been before, hopping in place to stay warm as a muscle in front of my right hip slowly tightened against the cold.

I was right for another reason, too: it's a great time, however brief it is.  I saw two Alices (of Wonderland fame), one accompanied by a Cheshire cat, Queen of Hearts, playing card person, Mad Hatter, White Rabbit, and what I assume was the Dormouse.  A family of large flowers included three generations of one family; two of those people were in their eighties.  Two women had decorated transparent umbrellas with glittering streamers, making them jellyfish (they won a costume award, and richly deserved it), and three others had transformed themselves into wine bottles (labeled Que Syrah Syrah, Chardonnay-Nay, and a third name which eludes me now, but is just as deserving of a real bottle as the others.  Seriously, winemakers: I appreciate a good sense of humor.  Just ask the nice folks at Maragas.).  Everyone waiting in line was cold, and we were all excited to be there.  I like how a community feeling can arise from such a small cluster of people who only gather for a very short amount of time.

A friend and coworker brought his son and father-in-law to watch the crazy people, and got several pictures.  Some of my favorites are below.

The Law Enforcement Team

Woody, Dora the Explorer, and one of the Alices.  I think this was the Fred Meyer Team.

Flower power!

My group was a bunch of individuals--no team affiliation, just a bunch of crazy people.

I love that when people hit the water, they laughed.  No screaming, no complaining--just lots of people having fun.  Even when we popped up out of the water, we were laughing.

The mouse on fire was one of the lifeguards.  Earlier, I saw one of them throwing rocks out of the plunge area so we wouldn't trip and smash our faces.  Thanks, guys!

Wet tech-shirt contest entrant.

The Cookies of Sadness

They followed him as a foul shadow, ripe with the stench of despair and almond extract.  For two days and two sleepless nights they had trailed after him, moaning wretchedly about his damned creations.

He knew he could not escape them, and fueled as they were with brown sugar and indignation, he would tire long before they would.  Confrontation seemed to be his only option, but he was certain that any sort of direct interaction would end badly for him.  Very badly.  Still, the longer he put it off, the worse his condition would be when it began.  If he were to have any chance at all, he would have to face them soon.

When he arrived in the village, his engine sputtering on fumes and the radiator taxed to failure, he coasted to a stop in the square, not bothering to prevent his front tire from jumping the curb.  Cautiously, on shaking legs, he clambered out the car window and onto the roof, canted slightly to the side from his haphazard parking.  He looked out at the crowd as it gathered in an impenetrable cloud about him, filling the square with unwashed humanity, crumbs littering their beards and shirt-fronts.

Slowly, wearily, he raised his arms and addressed them.  “People of Donnybrook,” he began, his voice scratchy from thirst, “for many years, I have been your devoted baker.”  His effort to remind them of a long, friendly community relationship was met only with baleful stares and the hungry flatulence of an old nearsighted man named Hector.  “I have made bread for your sandwiches, cakes for your celebrations, and I have worked through the nights to provide light, fluffy croissants for your breakfasts.”  He was careful not to pronounce the French pastry “cwoss-SAUN,” as he knew it would only alienate his working-class audience.  A few slightly green students shuffled away from Hector, allowing some room for airflow.

“Through the years, you have entertained my experiments, my efforts to bring you new and enticing flavors and textures, allowing me to create baked goods new to the world.  Some, like the bacon-pecan rolls of ‘98, were heartily received, and have become staples of my usual offerings.  Others, like the broccoli puffs of last October, we can all agree were mistakes.”  Hector farted again.  Several of the townspeople nodded assent, but probably not in reference to Hector.  A few of the local villagers had gathered at the edges of the square, curious, but not yet willing to intervene before they had thoroughly sussed out the situation.

He paused for a moment of reflection before continuing.  They were letting him speak his piece, and for that he was grateful.  “I think we can all agree that something went wrong with that last batch of cookies, and nobody regrets it more than I do.”  As if in response to this assertion, a rock the size of a soup can came in a low, fast arc, shattered his rear window, and thumped loudly against the upholstery in his car.  It was not meant for him, but it was a clear disagreement.  He shuffled uneasily on the tilted roof of his exhausted Volkswagen.  With grim determination, he pressed on, pleading for clemency.  “One batch of bad cookies is certainly no reason for violence.  We are friends and neighbors!  Surely, we can put this episode behind us and move on?”  Hector loudly blew his nose on the sleeve of his ancient overshirt, then removed the garment and lobbed it at the baker.  It fell short by several feet, but a helpful clerk tossed it through the ruined rear window of the baker’s car.

A single voice rang out from the crowd, clear and loud above the assorted murmurs that rose in response to the baker’s plea.  “Those cookies were foul, damned creations!  You ruined our lives!”

“Well, I don’t think I’d say ruined, that’s a bit harsh.”

The same voice rose again: “The field workers who found those cookies in their lunches could only weep after eating them!  Crops lie in waste in our fields!  Construction workers walked away from their job sites, and children spent half their school day sobbing!  Our most respected judge burnt his robes on the steps of the courthouse and walked off into the desert!  Police have abandoned their posts and the power plant lies in ruins!”

The baker looked guiltily at his feet.  Clearly, the impact was more widespread than he had realized.  Years of trust in his products had garnered strong sales, but this one batch of cookies had spread wide before the error had been recognized.  More of the local villagers ringed the square, and he realized that although he had accepted the shame of facing his own townspeople, he was greatly embarrassed by being put on display in front of these strangers.

A judgement rose from the crowd, funneled through the same voice.  “You have nurtured us for many years, baker, and we will remember that.  But we can not forget this transgression.  You are not welcome in our town again.”  The crowd moved in from all sides, and in his sudden anxiety, he barely avoided a complete release of his bladder.  Dozens of arms reached out from the mass of humanity, and he was lifted bodily from his lopsided perch.  Held above the crowd, he heard sounds of tools and scraping metal, and when he was placed gently upon the ground, he carefully opened his eyes to see legs retreating from him.  Through them, he spotted his car, now upside-down in the square, the tires disappeared and his trunk tools scattered in the street.  He had been exiled.

When they had completely cleared form the square, he looked to the villagers standing quietly on the sidewalks, witnesses to this spectacle of small-town justice, and wondered whether this town had need of a baker, but before he could rise to ask, they turned and walked back to their homes and stores, with nary a word to the lonely exile.


12-13-11




There’s an influence here of The Taco Trilogy, but only in the tone of the tale.  I really did make those cookies, and they were worse than the story might lead you to believe.

wish upon a flake

Eileen couldn't believe her eyes.  She rubbed at them, thinking the glare on the snow might have somehow deceived her, but the apparition remained.  She pointed her skis downslope and glided smoothly across, a rasping hiss in her wake.

"Is it you?"  she asked, tentative and somehow frightened, when she stopped in front of the woman.

She smiled back, stately and timeless.  "Hello, Eileen."

Her gloved hands went to her mouth and failed to stifle a quick, high sob.  "It's been so long!  Where did you go?  You never told me anything!  You just disappeared, and I was worried, and scared, and I didn't know if you were hurt, or if I'd done something wrong, or--"  A quiet smile from the other woman brought her frenzied stream of frets to a soft close.  When she spoke again, her voice was softer, a child hiding under the kitchen table.  "Magdalene... I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

"Here I am."  Warmth radiated from her smile.

"But where did you go?  You were the one who always played with me when everyone else left.  My only really constant companion... my fairy godmother.  And when you left..." Her voice broke.  "What did I do wrong?"

Magdalene leaned forward in her boots.  When she brought the handles of her poles together at her stomach, Eileen could easily imagine her in a sumptuous Victorian dress, her hands in a muff against the London chill.  "You didn't do anything wrong, Eileen."

"Then why did you leave??"  Tears formed behind her goggles, and she bumped the handle of one of her poles against the lens when she reflexively reached to brush them away.

"I had to, Eileen.  Eventually, everyone outgrows the need for their fairy godmother.  When we're not needed, we move on, and find someone else who needs us."

"But I still needed you!!  Everyone else left me!  You were all I had!  After Daddy went, and Janey left for college, it was only you and me!  When you left, I... I was so lonely."

"What about after that?  You grew up.  You made a life for yourself."

"You know about that?"  Eileen sniffled, her goggles now on her helmet and a tissue clenched in one cold-reddened, ungloved hand.

"Tell me anyway.  I want to hear your story as you tell it."

Eileen smiled.  Magdalene had always been so wise.  As much a grandmother as she was a friend.  Blotting at her nose with the tissue, she told the woman in the flowing white dress about the first boy she kissed, the first boy she loved, and the man she eventually married.  She told her about the the beautiful daughter they had together, who had just started college this year, leaving her feeling anxious and alone again, but not as lost as she had felt as a little girl.  She told her about the dark mass they had found in her husband's abdomen, and how they were waiting for the results of whether it was malignant, and she told her how scared she was of losing Jim.  When she finished talking, she was surprised to find that her eyes were dry.

Magdalene smiled back at her.  "That's wonderful, Eileen.  I'm so proud of you."  The other woman beamed with sudden quiet pride.  "Do you understand now why I left?"

This puzzled her.  "No... can you tell me?"

"Fairy godmothers are as real as you need us to be, Eileen.  You clung very tightly to me because you were afraid of being alone, but what you really needed was to learn how to handle people moving in and out of your life.  That boy you kissed was not the man you married, and your Alicia is going to college because you made her strong enough to be on her own, not because she's abandoning you.  If you were still dependent on me, you might not have learned how to cope with those small losses in your life.  Our time together was like training wheels for all your future relationships.  Coping with my absence taught you to cope with the absence of others.  And I can tell that you've done very well."

"Thank you, Magdalene.  I..."  she laughed.  "I guess I'm glad you left me.  Would you like to ski with me for a while?  Just a couple runs?"

Ending one: happy

"I'd like that, Eileen.  I've missed you, too."

Ending two: sad

"I'd like that, Eileen.  I've missed you, too."

Eileen looked at the older woman, marveling at her agelessness.  When she was a little girl, she had always thought of Magdalene as grandmotherly, or an older aunt willing to indulge a little girl with tea parties and story-telling and endless stacks of coloring books.  Now, thinking of the wrinkles around her own eyes and the growing stiffness in her fingers, she realized that they could be sisters.  She had caught up with her childhood friend.  Then she noticed that Magdalene was still staring intently at her.

"What is it?"

"My dear, there is still something else I can teach you."  Eileen was shocked to see the other woman's eyes glisten with new tears.  "There is another kind of letting go."

"I don't understand, Magdalene.  What do you mean?"

"Your Jim will be fine.  They'll have to operate, but he'll survive, and see your daughter graduate.  She's going to be a wonderful doctor."

"Why, that's great!  Why do you look so sad?"

"He will see all that, Eileen.  Just him."  She paused as sudden recognition bloomed in her charge's face.  "There's a blood vessel in your brain, Eileen.  There's no way anyone could know, but it's going to burst.  You won't feel anything.  You won't even feel the fall.  I'm sorry, love.  I just found out myself."

"How long do I have?"

Magdalene managed a shaky smile.  "We can get a few more runs."

A deep calmness flooded through Eileen.  She had been anxious about death in the past, but now she felt a great peace.  Nodding calmly, even reassuringly, she shifted her weight with the skill of an experienced skier and twisted smoothly downhill, with Magdalene right beside her.

Ending three: the most likely

"You don't need me anymore Eileen.  I just wanted to check in with you.  Have a wonderful life."  Without another word, Magdalene slid away and glided smoothly into the trees.  Moments later, after Eileen passed her hiding place, she slid back out just as smoothly, and another skier came down the run, skidding to a stop at her side.

"Who was that, Susan?  You guys were talking for a while."

"I have no earthly idea, darling, but she had a name tag.  Perhaps she works here.  I think that spot up there would be a good place for the wedding photos. There's nice light, but we'll have to hurry onto the lift to get back up in time to finish before it gets too dark."

When I saw the lady in the dress, I did ask if she was my fairy godmother--she said she was, so I asked for a puppy.  Then she admitted that she was getting married.  Her outfit made my day.  I wish I had gotten a better picture, but this one gave me a nice story.

cornucopia

Carefully, I plucked at the serrated edge of the foil, about midway down the length of a warm, slightly soft bundle somewhat larger--in diameter and length--than the can of soda which sat before me on the table.  Pulling at the tear I had made, I extended it around the circumference of my lunch until I had completed the circuit, and removed what could reasonably be called the lid of the parcel.  Inhaling deeply the rich, braided aromas of meat, beans, peppers, and salsa, I couldn’t help but grin in anticipation.  I swallowed the saliva already pooling in my mouth.


The first bite was at the double-folded corner, and as a consequence was comprised mostly of tortilla, with a touch of lime-cilantro rice landing on the tip of my tongue.  The second bite was, in equal measure, tortilla, rice, and sour cream.  The third bite removed the opposite double-folded corner, and again mainly featured tortilla, but this time included a morsel of slow-roasted carnitas.  I took my time savoring this bite--the first to introduce meaty filling is always a special experience.


On the fourth bite I opened wide and went deep, acquiring a panoply of carnitas, grilled onion, black bean, sour cream, and rice.  The fifth somehow missed the meat, but introduced the sauteed bell peppers and a splash of green salsa, with cheese and sour cream providing a pleasant balance.  Number six was back on the rice-filled side, with a generous dose of cheese and lettuce.  The cooler flavors mellowed my tongue after the salsa plunge.


The seventh, eight, and ninth bites were, in order: blueberry ice cream, turkey with sausage stuffing, and caramel corn.  The tenth was full of carnitas, with a touch of tomatillo and black beans.  I could not identify the flavor of the eleventh bite, but until I washed it down with a couple swigs of cola, everything I saw was in layered shades of purple.


The twelfth bite was perfection: carnitas, black beans, a touch of bell pepper, a foundation of cilantro-lime rice, and cheese, sour cream, and salsa filling in all the gaps.  I chewed slowly, savoring it, and carefully plucked three grains of fallen rice from the tray before tucking them daintily into my mouth to join their friends.  The next bite tasted heavily of gingerbread, with cardamon and heavy whipped cream.  I might have detected a bit of peppermint in the background.  I carefully removed more of the foil.  What was left was barely an end-cap, more a collector for drips of salsa and the juices from meat and beans than a real handle.  It kept my lunch from decorating my clothing; that was all I asked.


Fourteen was mainly salsa and rice.  Not bad, but not spectacular.  Fifteen was a vast improvement: peppers, carnitas, cheese, and the lettuce I had somehow previously missed.  Good balance of flavors and textures.  After swallowing, I let my tongue enjoy the taste a bit longer before another sip of carbonated beverage to clear my palate for more.


The sixteenth bite was transcendent.  Literally.  As soon as my lips closed around it, the restaurant disappeared.  Or perhaps I did.  Either way, I suddenly found myself in a very dark space.  A cool, constant breeze flowed damply from my left.  Scrabbling sounds began to surround me, and I think I heard something--several somethings--sniffing the air.  Hungrily.  Startled, I swung to look uselessly into the total dark over both shoulders, and felt my chair scrape backwards on a dirt floor.  Still holding my lunch in one hand, I groped forward with the other to find that the table was gone.  With the same hand, I reached across into my hip pocket and extracted my keys, which shared their ring with a tiny flashlight.  Pressing its sides, a dim glow appeared at the end of my arm, probing weakly into the cavern.  As I swung the light to my right, something scrambled back, eluding my sight and growling--yes, definitely growling--at my intrusion.  My arms crossed as the light finished its transit, and as my eyes followed it, I saw a quick glimpse of teeth and hair before their owner also leapt back from my view.  I yelped, dropped my tiny luminous bulb, and furiously spat out the bite, scraping at my tongue to get it all out before I realized that people were staring, and I was back at my table in a brightly lit dining area, world music flowing happily from speakers high above me.  I smiled gamely, crumpled my fingers around a napkin to dry them, and turned back to my lunch.


Number seventeen had no rice or beans at all.  As usual, the rice had tended towards one end, and the meat had collected at the other.  And, as usual, I had somehow managed to start at the rice end.  I always started at the rice end.  But that was fine--save the best for last!  A mouthful of carnitas and grilled peppers and onion, with a generous lump of cheese over in the corner.  Wonderful!  Eighteen was almost entirely carnitas, with some lettuce adding a bit of crunch.  My biggest reason for adding lettuce is the variety in texture it provides.  I like food that crunches.


The next two bites were lobster thermidor, with a fine gruyere and good, strong mustard, followed inexplicably by french fries with malt vinegar.  My twenty-first bite, very near the end of my lunch, included the double-fold of tortilla and a hint of sweet pickle.  Twenty-two released a healthy flow of bean and carnitas into my mouth, and a trickle down my chin.  I dabbed it away with the napkin still wadded into my left hand and licked delicately at the bean-stained rice dribbling out of the remaining tortilla after finally removing the last of the foil.  There was little choice here; so much filling remained in such a small amount of tortilla that I knew biting what I held would only cause the rest to squirt out of the folded flour wrap, and I would lose precious morsels to the table and floor.  Unacceptable.  Instead, I carefully crammed an over-large final bite into my maw and thoughtfully chewed the tortilla, sour cream, rice, and final sliver of bell pepper, carrying the slightest hint of bubble gum.


I was halfway across the parking lot when I realized I had no idea where my car keys were.

(2-2-12)

I have a friend who says that she loves the products of a particular burrito chain because “every bite tastes different.”