Two mornings ago, while Girl was at big-school and Niblet at little-school, Groomeo and I took an anniversarial, celabratory pole hike (basically, that means we were hiking but used ski poles, too; the arm workout gives the whole cardio aspect a boost. Personally, I enjoy it because I’m a much better skiier when there’s no snow involved). Being on the Superior Hiking Trail was, of course, lovely, but it got even funner once night-owl Jocelyn woke up enough to allow for an interchange of words.
The first grunts I managed telegraphed to Groom this random question: “So when you coached cross-country [running], and you guys would do ‘hill bounding’ in training, what exactly did that consist of?”
His subsequent demonstration–perkily leaping up a hillside to the sound of my muted applause–had the effect of re-injuring his groin muscle, a muscle that both he and I take very seriously. For the last few months, he’s been relying on yoga and biking in lieu of his usual daily running, just to give Groiny a break. But there, in the space of a hill bound, all his good takin’-it-easies were nullified.
As our hike got going, so did his groinal protestations. Being of Norwegian extraction, though, he did carry on for an hour and a half, stoically. It helped, too, that we had some conversatin’ to distract from the pain.
His opener was:
“So when we go over to Kids’ Godmamas’ house (our kids have the benefit of two godmothers, a lovely couple at whose commitment ceremony a few years ago we were privileged enough to speak a few words. I generally do that anyways, but it’s so nice to be invited to do what comes naturally) on Saturday night for their annual Friends’ Thanksgiving dinner, their request is that everyone’s food contribution be locally-grown, from not more than 50 miles away. With that in mind, and because neither of them hunts wild turkeys, we’ll all be having wild-rice-stuffed squash.”
Tripping over a rock but stopping the stumble with a well-placed pole, I mused on this. Of course, having a healty boho/crunchy strain in me, I could appreciate their choice. On the other hand, both Groom and I are a little tired of every concept, however noble, being packaged and marketed. Is it really different if it’s the books of Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver that nudge our choices, instead of Wal-Mart and Costco? Is it always necessary to distill every life choice onto a bumper sticker?
Okay, okay. I suppose it is–sometimes. Buried somewhere in that last paragraph, though, there is a point to be taken. I’m just not going to disrupt the good vibrations of any conscientiously-composting, homemade-pesto-making, light-treading human peace symbols who might be reading this by pressing it home. If you disagree, calm yourselves by soaking some beans, lighting some incense, locking in your dreads, and getting the tie-dye pots a bubbling. Just make sure your incense and RIT dyes were made within 50 miles of your home, O righteous leftist consumers of the world.
Suffice it to say, these friends of ours are good, deliberate, thoughtful women. Their Friends’ Thanksgiving will be delicious and fresh, the food not contaminated with chemicals or petroleum residue. I like all that. I do.
“Hey, wait,” I finally replied to Groom, “don’t you always make some bready thing? How are you going to do that under those constraints? It’s not like the rocky clay of Northern Minnesota is waving back and forth with wheat stalks.”
“Yea,” ma man affirmed. “It’s a bit of a sticky wicket. Luckily, after a delicate negotiation with Godmama One, she and I reached a compromise: if I promise to only purchase hemp shirts for the next three years and wipe solely with Seventh Generation toilet paper, we can use wheat from a couple states over. The rest of the ingredients, we’re going to have to scrabble together.”
The brainstorming began. Noodly with gratitude that we wouldn’t find ourselves spending the next two days pounding dried yarrow into a wheat-substitute, we easily decided that local eggs and butter would be no sweat. Speaking of sweat, we started immediately collecting ours on that hike, mopping it into a handkerchief which we later wrang out, ultimately dehydrating the liquid until a small pile of crystals remained. We have salt. Locally-grown and emitted.
But yeast. Where to get it? A-ha!
A quick trip to the drugstore after the hike solved that one. We loitered near the Vagisil, and when women approached, we called them out, convincing them to donate some personal samples. After a bit of intimate scraping, the bread can now rise.
Indeed, eating locally is really an issue of ingenuity. The hike hocked up a list of ingredients, along with an unanticipated joke, created as I struggled with too-long poles, one that we can use to amuse the crowd at the Friends’ Thanksgiving table:
How many hearty Finns does it take to collapse a telescoping hiking pole?
Answer: None. It takes a Norwegian with a groin injury!
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That’s the kind of material that kills up here in the Northwoods.
Okay, I’m off now to check the porch for our weekly delivery of butter and bottled milk from a nearby dairy. And even though we didn’t have a good year for basil, there’s pesto in the freezer that needs thawing before dinner. After that, I’ll carry out the compost–although if I see any bears out there, rooting through our old egg shells and carrot peelings, I fully intend to kill them and hoist them into the trunk of the car as an entree offering at the Friends’ Thanksgiving.
They are, after all, locally grown.
Unless, of course, we discover they were tranquilized this last summer in Yellowstone Park for getting too near tourists at Old Faithful and then transported a thousand miles away to Northern Minnesota where they’ve been ekeing out an existence in our compost bin. If that’s the case–frick!–the carcasses will just have to rot.
It’s a matter of principle.
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