Every morning I arise, crawl around on the bed and make it, stand up and get my new underwear from the storage cabinet above the back window, put it on, open the shade on the back window, and restore the little video camera to its upright position—it tells the monitor on the dashboard how things look behind us. And then. Then, joining Margaret just hours later in her morning routine, I have my cup of fiber in hot water.
This warm morning drink changes texture rapidly: from throat itching dust to a soothing gelatinous liquid of substance. With a fresh bouquet. Since it replaces coffee for me now—I hear and smell two strong cups of it brewing each morning; I choose and grind it at the grocery store—I am savoring every subtle nuance that non-irradiated fiber and warm water can deliver.
That faithfulness to my diet is a good thing, as a ravenous rover in the land of french fries, hamburgers, good and bad white bread, hard and soft ice cream. And sourdough pancakes.
Heading home now, our first night out of Fairbanks brought us back to Tok. Having no loyalty to Bull Shooter's, we decided to stay at the Sourdough RV Park. Home of the sourdough pancake breakfast buffet and the sourdough pancake throwing contest every night. I see you all rolling your eyes now. But that's how we found ourselves at 6:30pm, sitting in a bank of green picnic tables under new a new roof, next to a glass-fronted wood stove, forced from our insular social pattern into communication with others. We were lucky enough to sit across from Enid and George, from Green Valley, Arizona. They brought their own cocktails, as did some others. Next to us, folks from Sault St. Marie. The tables behind us were full. The group with dome tents from Holland. People from Florida, Missouri. After lining up for a meal of camper stew or reindeer chili in a sourdough bowl with pie for dessert (fruits of the forest), our fellow gourmands became our competitors.
But first, Ken, the young owner, leapt on one of the benches and delivered a screaming comedy routine about pancakes and the Alaskan cold that was hilarious. We joined him in singing o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave and then heard the deep belch of a volley of sourdough pancakes being shot from a small cannon. They arced nicely between spruce and birch and fell gracefully to the forest floor. Soon enough, things got serious as we lined up to throw two pancakes each into the white five-gallon bucket. Winners were to have a group photo which would appear on the stage Wall of Fame. If no one was successful, all of us would bear together the humiliation of appearing on the Wall of Shame. On the far outhouse back wall. Those who were successful got a pancake token for a free breakfast buffet. Okay, yes. If you must know, we paid for our breakfasts.
I did give it a sporting try. It was near the end of the competition. There had been some winners: the young man from Holland started the trend to win. He was followed by women my age or older who were succesful. The lines were long; many a well-aimed pancake fell short of the target; rim shots didn't count, either. I was planning an overhand throw. Maybe even a two-handed overhand, like a basketball shot. I mean, this bucket was maybe 20 feet away, and on stage. My stomach was tight and my heart beating fast as I rose to stand in line behind a young couple with two boys. He let each boy stand by the bucket and drop one in. Dad and Mom lost. I moved into the official throwing position behind a picnic table. Thinking small might work best, I carefully chose two pancakes I'd had my eye on from the start. Of course Andre was ready with his camera. By gum, I wanted this, and I wanted it badly. I knew I had it in me. I thought of Jeanie, visualizing winning tennis games, and then winning.
I guess I just didn't visualize the pancake falling into the bucket. And in my defense, we had no practice. No warm-up. Just two chances, throwing cold. My overhand went to the stage, but wild. My next shot missed the stage. I didn't mention that each person throwing was a target for our cynical host to shine at comedic insult. After my valiant sporting try, he reached into his leather case of extras and gave me a third try. He'd given a few other lucky campers the same: a mosquito pancake, a boomerang pancake. Mine was an elephant. It slid through the sawdust and nudged the edge of the stage. My humiliation was complete and sweet. My moment to shine had passed. Still, as we retired to our home among the aspens, I felt lighter even in defeat. I had laughed and been among people from all over; I carried the short story of Enid with me. Her smiling, kind eyes.
This warm morning drink changes texture rapidly: from throat itching dust to a soothing gelatinous liquid of substance. With a fresh bouquet. Since it replaces coffee for me now—I hear and smell two strong cups of it brewing each morning; I choose and grind it at the grocery store—I am savoring every subtle nuance that non-irradiated fiber and warm water can deliver.
That faithfulness to my diet is a good thing, as a ravenous rover in the land of french fries, hamburgers, good and bad white bread, hard and soft ice cream. And sourdough pancakes.
Heading home now, our first night out of Fairbanks brought us back to Tok. Having no loyalty to Bull Shooter's, we decided to stay at the Sourdough RV Park. Home of the sourdough pancake breakfast buffet and the sourdough pancake throwing contest every night. I see you all rolling your eyes now. But that's how we found ourselves at 6:30pm, sitting in a bank of green picnic tables under new a new roof, next to a glass-fronted wood stove, forced from our insular social pattern into communication with others. We were lucky enough to sit across from Enid and George, from Green Valley, Arizona. They brought their own cocktails, as did some others. Next to us, folks from Sault St. Marie. The tables behind us were full. The group with dome tents from Holland. People from Florida, Missouri. After lining up for a meal of camper stew or reindeer chili in a sourdough bowl with pie for dessert (fruits of the forest), our fellow gourmands became our competitors.
But first, Ken, the young owner, leapt on one of the benches and delivered a screaming comedy routine about pancakes and the Alaskan cold that was hilarious. We joined him in singing o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave and then heard the deep belch of a volley of sourdough pancakes being shot from a small cannon. They arced nicely between spruce and birch and fell gracefully to the forest floor. Soon enough, things got serious as we lined up to throw two pancakes each into the white five-gallon bucket. Winners were to have a group photo which would appear on the stage Wall of Fame. If no one was successful, all of us would bear together the humiliation of appearing on the Wall of Shame. On the far outhouse back wall. Those who were successful got a pancake token for a free breakfast buffet. Okay, yes. If you must know, we paid for our breakfasts.
I did give it a sporting try. It was near the end of the competition. There had been some winners: the young man from Holland started the trend to win. He was followed by women my age or older who were succesful. The lines were long; many a well-aimed pancake fell short of the target; rim shots didn't count, either. I was planning an overhand throw. Maybe even a two-handed overhand, like a basketball shot. I mean, this bucket was maybe 20 feet away, and on stage. My stomach was tight and my heart beating fast as I rose to stand in line behind a young couple with two boys. He let each boy stand by the bucket and drop one in. Dad and Mom lost. I moved into the official throwing position behind a picnic table. Thinking small might work best, I carefully chose two pancakes I'd had my eye on from the start. Of course Andre was ready with his camera. By gum, I wanted this, and I wanted it badly. I knew I had it in me. I thought of Jeanie, visualizing winning tennis games, and then winning.
I guess I just didn't visualize the pancake falling into the bucket. And in my defense, we had no practice. No warm-up. Just two chances, throwing cold. My overhand went to the stage, but wild. My next shot missed the stage. I didn't mention that each person throwing was a target for our cynical host to shine at comedic insult. After my valiant sporting try, he reached into his leather case of extras and gave me a third try. He'd given a few other lucky campers the same: a mosquito pancake, a boomerang pancake. Mine was an elephant. It slid through the sawdust and nudged the edge of the stage. My humiliation was complete and sweet. My moment to shine had passed. Still, as we retired to our home among the aspens, I felt lighter even in defeat. I had laughed and been among people from all over; I carried the short story of Enid with me. Her smiling, kind eyes.
posted by Susan at 10:40 AM
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