Simple Food--Great Memories

Simple Food—Great Memories

While living out of a suitcase has definite drawbacks, one of the bonuses of visiting new places is trying local foods. Because my family both moved and traveled a great deal as I grew up, I learned early the joy of sampling regional delights every time I hit the road.

Around central Kansas, I love taste-testing bierocks, green bean dumpling soup, galuskies, and kolaches in different communities. If I’m lucky, a community feast also offers fried noodles as a side dish to accompany these delights.

In Rocky Mountain mining country, I look for eateries that dish up traditional pasties. This choice food of the men who work deep underground every day has a flaky crust that reminds me of pie. The filling of chopped roast beef, potatoes, turnips, and onions simmered in brown gravy is like visiting Grandma’s for lunch after church on Sunday.

These miner specialties worked as bierocks did in our region. On their way out the door to work in the morning, men tucked the warm meal in their pockets to keep fingers toasty. At lunch, the former hand warmers served as belly fillers, providing energy to finish a day’s hard labor.

In Texas and New Mexico, I venture from restaurant to restaurant searching for the perfect chile relleno. Nothing beats a hand-dipped and cheese stuffed poblano pepper fried in sizzling oil. The savory topping adds even more kick to a taste-bud exploding meal.

Every one of the regional specialties I’ve mentioned is memorable, but my all-time favorite is Indian fry bread. I love it hot from a grease bath and slathered with honey. At Twin Rocks Trading Post in Bluff, Utah, I ate it in the form of a sheepherder’s sandwich. The cook used two pieces of fry bread to create a roast beef, cheese, and onion hot sandwich. When I make it at home, we eat it smothered with hot chili and topped with cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes in a Navajo taco. I coat leftovers with cinnamon and sugar. It’s even delicious plain. I don’t think I’ve eaten freshly made fry bread I didn’t like.

A sad aside about this food favorite is that it came into existence when native tribes were forced to give up nomadic  lives to enroll at Indian Agencies to receive government subsidies. People who  hunted, gathered, and sometimes grew their own crops successfully for centuries had to depend on federally issued bacon and weevil y white flour to fill their stomachs. Using these unfamiliar ingredients, they learned bacon rendered fat, and flour and water created dough.

With a bit of ground wheat, leavening agent, salt, water or milk, and a pan of bubbling grease, cooks created a food that enabled them to nourish masses of people. This reminds me of Jesus feeding the multitudes. From another perspective, Native American author Sherman Alexie fondly remembers great fry bread cooks of his youth on the Spokane Reservation in his novels.

While each of my regional favorites has a unique flavor, they share a common factor. Bierocks, galuskies, green bean dumpling soup, kolaches, pasties, chile rellenos, and fry bread use easy-to-find ingredients, and they aren’t hard to make.

Hitting the road isn’t only about seeing new sights. It’s also about sampling new foods and picking up new recipes.  I never know when I’ll find a fresh favorite.

Thank You to Our Veterans

One of the bonuses about living where we do is that most area communities celebrate Veteran’s Day. City crews and volunteers rise early to hang Old Glory on one light pole after another down Main Streets in little towns. Often times, local residents add their own flags to the mass of fluttering red, white, and blue. 

In some towns, school kids construct floats to honor local heroes. Students and teachers spend an afternoon assembling patriotic displays to show their appreciation for the sacrifices these veterans made. Often times the people honored are relatives so youngsters have heard the stories behind the uniforms they see at this event.

In addition to parades and similar events, local newspapers and radio stations run tributes to heroes so anyone who cares can learn something about these patriots. For many, these annual special pages are reminders of friends and loved ones’ sacrifices. Readers can view an elderly neighbor or relative photographed in the bloom of uniformed youth.

These annual celebrations are one way that small towns across the plains link generations. It reminds me of joining green and red strips of paper together to make a Christmas garland. In the case of Veteran’s Day tributes, the glue happens to be the stories younger generations learn from older ones.

Over the years, my students have interviewed veterans and recorded remarkable accounts. After every one of these assignments, kids came to class surprised to learn that people in their community had witnessed history before it was in history books.

In my own family, one uncle survived the bombing of Pearl Harbor and continued fighting in the Pacific until the war was over. Another uncle protected supply ships in the Pacific. My dad joined the Marines and fought in Korea. A cousin did two tours of duty in Vietnam. A nephew served in Romania. Two second-cousins have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. 

Many area residents recite similar litanies. I’ve joined family, students, colleagues, and friends in the waiting and praying for loved ones to return safely from current war zones. These warriors’ stories are our towns’ stories as well. Veteran’s Day reminds us of this.

It’s good to know details so we realize that people we see as ordinary citizens are more than that. They are extraordinary. One area WW II vet serving on a ship in the Pacific witnessed the atom bomb exploding over Hiroshima. Another man, whom many would consider a small town Everyman, was one of the first Americans to enter newly liberated Dachau. Another visited Hitler’s final residence not long after his suicide. An area resident survived the war as a German POW. The kindest man I’ve ever met survived horrific conditions in the Pacific and returned determined to make other people’s lives better. His list of successes was long. A colleague’s father survived every major battle in the European theater and came home to raise a fine family.

Veteran’s Day celebrations remind us that unsung heroes walk amongst us. Some people we see simply as neighbors, fellow employees, and loved ones are people who lived Omar Bradley’s definition of bravery. He said, “Bravery is the capacity of perform properly even when scared half to death.”

Thank you to all who serve.

    

Where Did Raptors Perch Before There Were Power Poles?

For you and me, 150 years seems like a long time. However, from the beginning of our planet until now, that span is probably equivalent to less than a tick of a second hand on an old-fashioned wristwatch. While that century and a half is a tiny interval in the big picture of our world’s existence, it’s been busy in regard to change.

 In the nearly 5 billion seconds since permanent settlement vs. nomadic occupation began in earnest, plows have turned over a goodly portion of approximately 52 million Kansas acres. Railroads, Interstates, highways, and country roads crisscross our state. Cities and towns with their accompanying concrete and pavement exist where only grass grew 15 decades ago. Fence posts and wire mark off sections and quarters while scores of tall telephone and power poles guide eyes far into the shrinking distance like an artist’s perspective lines direct the eye in a sketch.

It’s hard to imagine a world without these improvements. It’s equally difficult to envision what birds of prey did before man provided handy watchtowers for these sharp-eyed stealth machines.

Every time I spy an owl or hawk hurtling toward a mouse running across the road, I’m startled. Where’d that come from, I wonder. A glance toward lofty shafts running parallel to the highway reminds me these creatures have front row seats for the dinner show occurring in front of my vehicle.

While driving at dusk a few nights ago, I spied three electric poles in a row topped by great horned owl silhouettes. An interior decorator couldn’t have selected better finials as accessories. At the same time, a submarine shape trailed by a long tail raced into the brightly lit pavement before my car. In less time than it takes lightning to flash and dissipate, one of those former black shapes transformed into a swift torpedo heading for that gray target spotlighted in my high beams.

A tap on the brake prevented me from hitting either mouse or raptor. Mulling this almost collision between machine and feathers, I realized this near miss explained the frequent broken owl and hawk carcasses I see littering Kansas byways.

What it didn’t explain was the next question that popped into my mind. In the ages before settlement and development, where did such creatures perch to scan the grasses for furry morsels? Was all their reconnoitering on the fly?

Did the same species of feathered predators live on the prairie as do today? Did they eat as well as they do now? How has modern life altered the existence of native inhabitants? I’ve been led to believe that human encroachment is bad, but in certain scenarios, do some animals and birds benefit from humankind’s additions to the landscape—such as power pole watch towers?

I’ll keep posing these questions until I get some fact-based answers. Instead of bats in my belfry, I have owls and hawks flitting about inside my head, telling me to learn more about changes settlement has wrought on our landscape. Someone surely has answers that will get these birds back where they belong—watching for their next entrée from atop a power pole.

Living Life between the White Lines

Some of us rise long before dawn breaks the horizon and hit narrow two lane highways in night’s deepest black. For these folks, life between the white lines balances boredom caused by limited visibility  with edge of the seat, adrenaline-rushing thrills.

Early each morning I turn east on Highway 9 and immediately shrink to a blip on the universe’s radar. If satellites actually watch cars passing down remote roads, I ‘d hardly be visible in my silver Toyota that blends in with a worn asphalt ribbon  connecting one shrinking farm town to another. I’d show up as two tiny eastward moving light rays.

To help me see better, I hit my high beams and begin a journey bordered by KDOT applied parallel stripes. Even on bright, my headlights don’t extend much outside those margins, so I take aim and stay within their confines.

It’s easy to succumb to the monotony of a daily journey over a known road, but on shoulderless highways like 9, it’s wise to keep to the path. Too many accidents begin with a veer over that asphalt lip, followed by a corrective jerk of the steering wheel that actually sends the car out of control. Not wanting to become a statistic, I let those edges work like the guide on a sewing machine to keep me on the straight and narrow. 

While the headlights focus mostly on the road between those strips and the calf scour yellow broken or continuous center lines, spilled light reveals tawny bluestem or waving brome outside those borders. My eyes continually scan that little Serengeti for bits of reflected green. This little tell may be my only warning before a car/deer collision.

I’ve been driving this route long enough to recognize distinctive headlights. A small car with only one headlight shining  like a bright-eyed Cyclops meets me every morning about ten miles out of town. Though I wouldn’t know the driver if I met him or her, I recognize that vehicle’s familiar wink when I see it coming over a hill.

Ditch grasses stand as silent witnesses to passersby and kamikaze creatures that fling themselves into grills and under wheels. One morning, four raccoons had met their end in a thirty-six mile stretch. Sometimes, all that remains is an unrecognizable speed bump.

It isn’t just hitting a critter that gets a driver’s adrenaline rushing. Those near misses raise heartbeats as well. It took a few controlled breaths to still my own pump after a coyote raced in front of me the other morning. Lucky for him, he lived to eat another rabbit. If I were faster, he’d have been carrion.

 

Lowering speeds to 55 or 60 isn’t always enough to avoid wildlife between those white lines. One morning I dodged a buck sprinting across the highway only to run into a herd of deer up the road. I saw them soon enough to slow, but not soon enough to halt. One less doe will produce a fawn next spring.

In a world confined by dark edges, life between the white lines is more than a little exciting. Despite the narrow boundaries, adventure and thrills await.