First, a few notes on last weekend. On Saturday, I went hiking again at Castle Rock, and went farther than I usually do… which, unfortunately, means I had to hike farther on my way back. I found the back-packing camp that’s out there, and kept going further still.
Sunday, I took Silas up to the rocks for which Castle Rock park is named. Let me tell you (or don’t, I don’t care. I’m mostly doing this for my own sake anyway), if I thought hiking with a three year old was difficult, I had obviously never taken one rock climbing. He was a bit scared at first to go up on top of some of the smaller rocks (roughly the size of a VW Bug stacked on top of another), but gradually I got him up on top of rocks that were more than 35 feet tall. Granted, most of the time I would climb to somewhere stable, grab him, and stick him higher up, then climb ahead and repeat the process. It was difficult, and tiring, but totally worth it. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere but I don’t really care to root it out at the moment. You may do so if you choose.
This weekend:
As I stood atop a small tree stump, at the outset of my hike, I was reminded of the Lorax, as he climbed out of a hole in a freshly chopped trufula stump. I thought how adorable it would be to dress my kid up as the Lorax for Halloween some day. This, by the way, is just about the only kind of planning for the future I ever do. Then I thought, “What if the kid doesn’t want to dress as the Lorax? Eh, who cares what the kid wants? I’ll be the parent, they’ll dress as what I tell them to dress as because I’m in charge, gosh darn it!”.
I thought about environmentalists, and all manner of extremists, who force their children to do things the child doesn’t understand, or teach them what to think instead of how to use logic and reasoning. It is, I believe, a desire common to all people throughout history (if not every person) to impose their own will. We seek to subjugate, to form the world around us into a shape that fits our use for it. We try to force others to view things the way we do, to believe as we believe. I’m speaking of the human race in general… You may feel free to say to me, “I don’t seek to impose my will on anyone or anything.”, but it would obviously be your will that I believe it, and arguing your point would prove it invalid. We put roads where there once were prairies, train tunnels where mountains had been living for a thousand years before. This is not a condemnation, but a statement: Humans attempt to rule. And, in fact, why shouldn’t we? God gave us dominion over all the animals. He told us that it would be our duty to work the land. We are the middle-management of Earth. In creating us, He placed us at the top of the hierarchy of the material world. It is not only our duty, but our divine right to hold power over the world. (I know this because the lady of the lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite told me so)
But what does that mean, power? Power can mean a lot of things, and have a lot of implications, depending on who you ask. What I mean by power is not control, but the ability to cause action, to inflict a result… but I believe it comes with the responsibility to do so with wisdom and prudence. Somewhat like Peter Parker’s uncle Ben said, power and responsibility are directly relational. If a person is placed in a position of power, like the President of the United States, they have a much greater responsibility to the people than someone who is elected treasurer of the homecoming committee. But that power doesn’t mean domination. He’s called the leader of the free world, not the ruler. His job is not to tell people what to do, or make them do what he wants them to, but to influence people’s thinking, and act based on their demands.
And so it is with the relationship between every person and the world around them. We, as humans, have the power to impact the world greatly, but the responsibility to do what is right, and to do it in the right way. It seems we have always had this idea that there is an eternal struggle between man and nature. It’s one of the great themes of fiction. One small person battling against the elements, straining for victory over the wild. We aim to conquer the wilderness, and bring it under our control. We’ve done a decent job of it too in most places. Huge expanses of paved roads stretching from coast to coast protect us from the perils and inconveniences of trying to make our way on foot; we have structures built to keep the sun, wind, rain, animals, and dirt out, and insulate ourselves from even the mildest displeasure this big scary planet of ours might be waiting to unleash on us… but, as anyone who’s ever tried to take a decent picture of a small lizard will tell you (I know, there are thousands of such people. Small lizard photography is very popular), nature doesn’t do what you want it to… it merely lets you do what you want until it’s tired of you. We can build walls to keep the ocean back, but nature doesn’t pay attention to “keep out” signs. We put in sidewalks, but weeds break through. We put up manicured hedgerows and a squirrel plants an oak tree in the middle of them. We plant a lawn, and a mole builds a subway. Our control is only an illusion. The world is wild, and can’t be held back forever. To quote Dr. Ian Malcolm, “Life finds a way”.
This is God’s wild kingdom, we’re just looking after it.
This leads me to a question which, perhaps, one of you out there can answer for me. Who owns the state and national parks? Who says I’m not allowed to go off the trails, or stay there after sunset? Whose land is this? Because it seems to me that if these parks belong to “the government”, and this is a government of the people, by the people, and for the people… the people have a right to use their communal property whenever they want. Right? Honestly, correct me if I’m wrong. I’d like to hear your take on this. The people in power have the responsibility to make sure we (the people) use it responsibly, but it doesn’t seem they have the right to tell us when we can be there, or where we can go. They’re not the President’s parks, Congress’s parks, the government’s parks, or the ranger’s parks. They are the National and State parks, and belong to the people of the nation and the state, to use and care for.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve noticed a theme running through human history… real change is not usually accomplished by force. Sure, there are a great number of times when force in the form of violence has been and is necessary, and used to accomplish a goal of ridding the world of one villain or another, but nobody ever says, “well, you are obviously stronger than I am, I now understand that what I was doing was wrong.”, they say, “You beat me, I’ll do what you want me to do.”. My point is that we have the power to cause change… to impact the future of this world and this planet, but we need to be smart about how we use that power. We cannot force people to change. In my experience, the more you force something, the more likely it is to break. To cause change we cannot use might, but our minds.
Now, if you’re thinking that I’m going to go join the Sierra Club, I’m a little offended. If I was going to join a conservation society, it would not be the Sierra Club, but the NRA. I don’t exactly ascribe to the “Take only memories, leave only footprints” philosophy. I don’t think that every rock, stick, and plant is a leaveitright (as they called it at the science camp I went to in elementary school. “You find a stick, rock, or plant, leaveitright where you found it”). If you’re out in the wild and find a flower you want to press, or put in a vase, go ahead. More will still grow. Just don’t pick all of them because I want to see them too. But I think everyone could benefit from a little more nature in their lives.
Still, anyone can enjoy the beauty of God’s green earth on a screen in their living room, but that’s not good enough for me. For me… this is my living room. This is my church, my library, my theater. This is life, and it’s being stamped out by progress. I wish every person would take advantage of it and fill themselves with it’s beauty… as long as they don’t try to do it at the same time, and in the same place that I am. It amazes me how hard it is to hear the voice of the almighty God over the voices of those created in His image. (there’s another lesson there which I’ll let you find for yourself)
It strikes me that life as a flower would be much easier. Every little flower, as it opens up and turns it’s face toward the sun every day, is fulfilling it’s God-given calling. It is doing exactly what it’s Creator asks of it, and every remote little one of them would keep on doing so for all of its days even if no human eye ever noticed… Nature relentlessly serves and glorifies God just by being what it is, and we should consider ourselves blessed to be part of that worship service. But how much easier it is for flowers, to not have to wonder if they’re doing what they’re supposed to… to not ask God what His greater plan for them is… They simply exist, and that’s enough. But, I suppose there is some consolation in knowing that responsibility and reward are directly relational like power and responsibility are. The greater your responsibility, the greater your reward will be if you live up to what is required of you. While a butterfly fulfills it’s calling by drinking from any flower it chooses, it also doesn’t gain much by doing so.
Perhaps our calling as God’s children isn’t so different from that of flowers. Turn your face toward the light, and Glorify God every day of your life.
I wish everyone prayed in this chapel of mine.
This is me trying to impose my will.
Post Script: I’m sorry for this being so disjointed. These were the thoughts going through my head while I hiked. I had a brilliant essay written in my head, but when I got to the camp ground and sat down to write it, I found I had neglected to pack a note pad… by the time I got to my computer, I had forgotten how it went.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Walden Weekends: Busier Than Usual and My Philosophy of Hiking.
The first weekend was hard, not using the internet, not checking facebook… I found myself having to make conscious efforts to stay disconnected. I kept wanting to know what the people I know were up to, if anyone had commented on my status, or left a comment on my wall. But, in an effort to be present, I resisted. I decided that every time I thought about going online, I would instead pray for guidance, or for a job in San Diego, and that distracted me well enough until the desire passed for the time. That was last weekend. This is week two.
Yesterday I drove Benjamin and Jaason to the airport, drove to south San Jose in search of a free barbecue smoker I’d seen an ad for on Craigslist on Friday (without an exact address). I found the place, but no barbecue. “Someone else got that this morning. We’ve sold a bunch of stuff for really good prices… and then somebody stole our money box.” “Wow, I’m sorry about that. That really sucks.” I said, secretly cursing them for putting “12 to 3” on their ad when they obviously intended on opening things up much earlier. So I went home, sad about not having a smoker that I would not have any space for when I move anyway, and continued working on my pipe. The pipe has turned out well so far… though it’s a little rough. You can see some places where the chisel gouged into it, so I might go back over it with a sander and smooth it out. It should look really nice if the warmth from the bowl, and the oils from my hand, give the wood a slight red tint like I believe they will. It was a lengthy process though. If I were selling it, and only charging for it what my normal hourly wage would be, the pipe would cost roughly $130… but it was a Saturday, so I’d be charging time and a half.
Today was hiking up at Castle Rock, and helping Joseph and Laurel get a new couch (which I learned after I got home was located between here and Castle Rock).
There are a few things about hiking (and, I suppose, the wilderness in general) which I’m less than happy about… but there is one thing, especially problematic in spring and summer, which is enough of a problem that it causes me to question whether I want to go out anymore. More than the possibility of sunburn, insect bites, poison oak rashes, pain, injury, animal attack, and getting lost (which are, at best, irritating and inconvenient, and at worst… deadly, in the case of animal attacks. Though… death is really only a mild inconvenience for the person it comes to), people are the one thing that makes me consider not hiking. During spring and summer, there are entirely too many other people hiking. I imagine this will only be the case until I fall and hurt myself, and need help… then there will not be a person for a hundred miles of course.
My philosophy (if we’re using the word in the typical sense, where “philosophy” is not the art of thinking, or the method by which we come to a conclusion, but rather the conclusion which that thinking has lead us to) on hiking is two-fold. First: Show some respect. Second: Eyes and ears open, mouth shut. I wonder what it is that causes a person to go hiking when they have so little respect for nature that they just drop their garbage wherever they lost use for it. Why, if you don’t care about any of the beautiful things around you, would you deign to be there?
I wonder what causes a person with so little reverence for this great open cathedral that they would spoil it with their complaintive and selfish conversations to choose this out of all the peaceful places to disturb.
On the way, I passed a couple of young women who had stopped to take a picture. As it is my custom when hiking to not say hello unless someone else has said it (because I know that, for many people, hiking is meditative, and I don’t want to break someone else’s concentration), they said hello and I replied as I passed by. I increased my pace to make sure I had enough space to stop occasionally without being overtaken, because I want to be able to look around and observe the beauty before me without interruption. But it seemed that every time I stopped they were behind me, complaining about colleagues, or classes, or God knows what... in reality, they were a hundred feet or more behind me, but that’s the nature of open places and shrill voices. I came to a fork in the road. One way said “ridge trail” the other “to camp grounds”. Guessing that the ridge trail would offer more scenic views, I bet my pursuers would take that, and I opted for the camp trail. I chose poorly. After about twenty more minutes of trying in vain to get out of ear shot, I decided that it was close enough to the time I would need to turn back, and stopped and waited for them to pass. I was tempted to stop them as they went by, to ask if they had noticed the hawks soaring a couple hundred feet above the tree tops and a hundred feet below us, or if they’d seen what an amazing living patchwork quilt the world is in places like this where groves of madrone and oak and pine and redwood wrap around and through one another… but they were far too busy talking about coworkers and Stanford to be bothered, so I let them go by in peace.
In the fall and winter these trails are much like the thick grove in the Degoba swamp (I know you nerds know what I’m talking about). Luke asks, “What’s in there?”, and Yoda replies, “Only what you bring with you.”. But now that it’s warming up, it’s hard to find ten seconds where you can’t hear another person, or see a discarded bag of sunflower seeds. What is drawing these people out here instead of to a public park, or coffee shop, or any number of places with trash cans and conversational atmosphere provided? Why, when I try to escape from the aggravations of what is allegedly the civilized world does all the worst of it insist on following me? I’m considering making a patch to put on my backpack (and would have stickers made if putting them on trail signs wasn’t considered defacing public property) that say “Eyes and ears open. Mouth shut.”… also, I’ll be looking for less populous trails.Saturday, March 26, 2011
Walden Weekends: Preface
Not too long ago, I decided that I would try to go hiking about once a week - I know, the phrasing there indicated a very strong commitment - and get myself out of the more populated areas as much as I could. My impetus for this decision was purely physical, I thought. I considered that, in the more than probable (to my mind) event of some sort of zombie/robot/nuclear apocalypse, or massive natural disaster, I was not in the kind of shape I would need to be in to get away to relative safety and bring with me at least the minimum I would need for survival, let alone any amount of comfort. I have a tent and sleeping bag, a camp ax, some bottled water, and some air-tight packages of food (granola bars, raisins, I think there’s some beef jerky in there) as well as a sweat shirt and a change of jeans in my truck in case of emergency… but what if the nuclear explosion melts my tires, or the robots steal my gas… or the zombies get confused and start eating my beef jerky? What will I do then?
So I got a back pack and some other supplies, and started hiking every weekend that I could. Physical training. I had, of course, no idea that this would affect me mentally or spiritually. It turns out that going off into the forest, alone, gives you a beautiful opportunity to think about things, to listen to God whispering to you, and to free yourself from the constant stream of input that you get from the world around you. Solitude is simplicity, simplicity is clarity. Not that I’m out there becoming a sage or anything… my ventures have yet to give me the wisdom of C.S. Lewis or Theodore Roosevelt, who also knew the benefits of subtracting themselves from the world, and came to understand it better thereby… If nothing else, I am being constantly reminded of the power nature has over human beings, and the power human beings have over nature, and the responsibility we have to treat those powers with respect. I wish that the wild was more accessible to more people, and that more of the people who access it could be trusted not to destroy it.
It was with this desire to go outside the world that I decided to institute Walden Weekends for myself, starting next weekend. The idea is something of an experiment. I don’t really have any goal for this, no specific desired outcome, just to take myself away from the internet and video games, and generally being lazy and useless (for two days a week anyway… I plan to continue being lazy and useless Monday through Friday) and see what happens. It’s not a complete abandonment of society, but a distillation of sorts. Similar, in a way, to when I was in the Joshua Wilderness Institute at Hume Lake. We were outside of our normal lives, and separate from the rest of the world, but they required that we read newspapers and magazines to ensure that we stayed connected. It wasn’t a community of hermits after all… though, honestly, of all the things they required us to do, that may have been the one that was most difficult for me. So maybe it will be the same with this. Maybe the difficulty won’t be in keeping myself from wanting to go online (The Chive doesn’t really post much on weekends anyway), but in keeping myself from running off into the forest and staying there. I suppose that only time will tell.
So, starting next weekend, I will not be accessible via facebook, email, or words with friends, and will instead be spending that time hiking, reading, writing, (not doing ‘rithmetic) or working on other various projects. I plan to carve a pipe out of madrone, make a couple of left-handed knife sheaths, and work on some barbecue/smoking recipes I’ve been thinking of (provided the weather clears up), and perhaps blogging about my adventures, when I think they're entertaining enough, during the following week. If you have suggestions of books I should read, or projects I could do, please feel free to send them my way.
Thank you for spending the time to read all of this.
Sincerely,
Jacøb
So I got a back pack and some other supplies, and started hiking every weekend that I could. Physical training. I had, of course, no idea that this would affect me mentally or spiritually. It turns out that going off into the forest, alone, gives you a beautiful opportunity to think about things, to listen to God whispering to you, and to free yourself from the constant stream of input that you get from the world around you. Solitude is simplicity, simplicity is clarity. Not that I’m out there becoming a sage or anything… my ventures have yet to give me the wisdom of C.S. Lewis or Theodore Roosevelt, who also knew the benefits of subtracting themselves from the world, and came to understand it better thereby… If nothing else, I am being constantly reminded of the power nature has over human beings, and the power human beings have over nature, and the responsibility we have to treat those powers with respect. I wish that the wild was more accessible to more people, and that more of the people who access it could be trusted not to destroy it.
It was with this desire to go outside the world that I decided to institute Walden Weekends for myself, starting next weekend. The idea is something of an experiment. I don’t really have any goal for this, no specific desired outcome, just to take myself away from the internet and video games, and generally being lazy and useless (for two days a week anyway… I plan to continue being lazy and useless Monday through Friday) and see what happens. It’s not a complete abandonment of society, but a distillation of sorts. Similar, in a way, to when I was in the Joshua Wilderness Institute at Hume Lake. We were outside of our normal lives, and separate from the rest of the world, but they required that we read newspapers and magazines to ensure that we stayed connected. It wasn’t a community of hermits after all… though, honestly, of all the things they required us to do, that may have been the one that was most difficult for me. So maybe it will be the same with this. Maybe the difficulty won’t be in keeping myself from wanting to go online (The Chive doesn’t really post much on weekends anyway), but in keeping myself from running off into the forest and staying there. I suppose that only time will tell.
So, starting next weekend, I will not be accessible via facebook, email, or words with friends, and will instead be spending that time hiking, reading, writing, (not doing ‘rithmetic) or working on other various projects. I plan to carve a pipe out of madrone, make a couple of left-handed knife sheaths, and work on some barbecue/smoking recipes I’ve been thinking of (provided the weather clears up), and perhaps blogging about my adventures, when I think they're entertaining enough, during the following week. If you have suggestions of books I should read, or projects I could do, please feel free to send them my way.
Thank you for spending the time to read all of this.
Sincerely,
Jacøb
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Yule Blog
During this time of peace on earth, goodwill t'ward men, love, charity, and togetherness, I think it's important that we look back and remember the foundation of this most joyous holiday... where our traditions come from, what they really mean... why we celebrate the way we do.
I figure I'll start out with everyone's favorite Christmas song, the 12 Days of Christmas. I'm sure, like myself, many of you have often wondered what the hell this song was about, why anyone would give all of these things to anyone, and why, after being given the gift of three french hens, anyone would continue calling the giver "my true love". You have also probably wondered why we only celebrate one day of Christmas, when there are allegedly 11 more floating around.
The twelve days of Christmas, as it turns out, start on Christmas day, and end on January 5th. This is, according to tradition, when the three wise-men showed up and gave their gifts to Jesus... though you Bible scholars and historians all probably already know that there may or may not have been only three wise-men, and that they probably showed up considerably later than 12 days after Jesus was born. The song itself was written in England some time between the late 1500's and the early 1800's, during a time when it was illegal to be Catholic. So, if you find this song as irritating as I do, thank King Henry. Because Catholics (much like Jews in Germany, or early Christians in Rome) were scared of being punished should they be found, in this case by being hanged, drawn, and quartered (you've seen the end of Braveheart, right? Well they left off the worst part, where they tie your hands and feet to horses and have them run in different directions, while you're still alive, tearing you limb from limb) they had to come up with a way for children to remember the tenets of their faith without being able to write it down. So, the song was born, with each gift representing an important element. The "true love" would of course be God, and the "me" would be all of us.
The rest:
1 Partridge in a pear tree: Jesus. A mother partridge will feign injury to protect her young.
2 Turtledoves: The Old and New Testaments
3 French hens: The virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity
4 Calling birds: The four Gospels, and/or the four evangelists
5 GOLDEN RIIIIIIINGS!: The Pentateuch (the first five books of the Bible).
6 Geese a-laying: The six days of creation (and on the seventh day He rested)
7 Swans a-swimming: The seven gifts of the Holy Spirit (wisdom, understanding, counsel, courage, knowledge, reverence, fear of the Lord) or the Seven Sacraments, which are rites in which God is uniquely active, or "visible signs of the invisible at work" (Baptism, Eucharist, Reconciliation, Confirmation, Marriage, Holy Orders, Anointing of the sick)
8 Maids a-milking: The 8 beatitudes (you know, that whole "blessed are the meak, for they will inherit the earth..." bit)
9 Ladies dancing: the 9 visible attributes of the Christian life which comprise the Fruit of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control)
10 Lords a-leaping: The ten commandments (which I won't recount because I'm sure everyone here has them memorized).
11 Pipers piping: The eleven faithful apostles (screw you, Judas, you don't get to be in our song).
12 Drummers drumming: the twelves points of the apostle's creed (look it up. I'm lazy and this is already going to be a long post).
You got all that? Good, because you will be tested on this.... eventually.
Now, with that out of the way, let's move on to lighter fare.
For most people, what is the one symbol of Christmas that most fully embodies the warmth, joy, peace, and love this season is supposed to be full of? More than Santa Claus (who I'm not even going to go into because I'm sure you all know the story already) or the common yet inaccurate picture of Christ in the manger in a barn, with Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, friendly beasts, and angels all around. It's something that often shows up on the outskirts of that manger scene... even though, to my knowledge, it isn't even native to the area. If you haven't guessed it yet, I'm talking about the Christmas tree. That evergreen unchanging whose relatives nearest to Bethlehem would probably be the cedars of Lebanon, which don't look anything like the trees we cut down and cover with trinkets and gaudy lights every year. It might surprise you... though, if you know anything at all about human history, it really shouldn't... to know that this Christian tradition was stolen from the pagans.
When Christian missionaries got up the courage to march into the frozen wilderness in what we now call northwestern Europe and tell the French and Germans that everything they believed and did was wrong, they may or may not have been surprised to find them somewhere on the screw-you side of the receptiveness scale... so these missionaries decided that the best way to get the pagans to change sides was to convince them that we're just like them, only better.
Being up that far North in the winter is probably scary for anyone, especially if you come from a particularly superstitious people... so when your corner of the earth starts moving away from the sun, and the days become increasingly short, and the nights increasingly dark, you won't be too surprised if someone in the crowd says, "the sun is tired of us, and is probably not coming back... so we need to do something about that, or freeze to death.". So, believing that all life on earth depended on their ability to coax the sun back into the area, they would head out around the winter solstice to find the biggest, strongest sign of life in the area... which just happened to be an evergreen tree. They would build fires, and cover the trees and their houses with all sorts of reflective objects and lights as if to say, "hey Sun, come back, there's still light here! See? This is a fun place for light and warmth to hang out!"
So, the early Christians were like, "hey look, we do that too. You can come be one of us and keep your quaint little traditions!", kind of like they did with the adoption of December 25th as Jesus' official birthday when they made it to Rome and found a bunch of people celebrating the god Mithra on that day... so they showed the northern pagans they had a winter solstice holiday with lights and trees. However, being from the Mediterranean area, they were somewhat more inclined to bring the fire and the trees inside than to march out into a frozen forest.
While out on their travels in the frozen north, the missionaries also came across a friendly little group of people known as Vikings... who they also needed to steal a tradition from if they wanted to make any headway. While it may seem like telling Vikings to stop everything they do and come be nice Christians would be the quickest path to Heaven, the missionaries actually had some fortune with the Norse. You see, this was a group of people who set up shop far away from anywhere that any normal person would choose to live, but they would regularly travel the world to.... gather supplies. As a result, their mytholgy tends to have a lot of influence from other cultures. They would go out and hear stories from all over the world and think, "that kind of sounds like something this god of ours would do" and would tell everyone they knew about this story. Somewhere along the way, it's likely that they heard stories of this Jesus fellow, and decided he sounded a bit like their god Baldur. Baldur was the son of their great god Odin, who sits on his throne in Valhalla and watches the dealings of men, sometimes inserting himself into their lives and directing their fates (sound familiar?). Baldur was the most beloved of all of the gods in Asgard, so it brought no shortage of sorrow when the prediction was told that Baldur would be killed. His mother, when given this news, went all around the world, making every person, animal, vegetable, mineral... everything in existence promise that it would never do any harm to her beloved son. Everything, that is, except Mistletoe, which she decided was too fragile to do him any harm anyway (ironic, considering that mistletoe berries are actually quite poisonous). So she came back to Asgard content that no harm could come to her son, and told him that he was safe. He figured he would test her theory, and all the other gods gathered around and started throwing crap at him to see if it would hurt. Rocks, branches, tables, children... everything just bounced right off of him without a mark. Loki, god of messing everything up for everybody (but usually setting it right again... usually) crept over to Baldur's blind cousin and was like, "why aren't you throwing stuff at Baldur with everybody else?" to which Baldur's blind cousin replied, "um... I'm blind.". So Loki makes an arrow out of mistletoe and puts it in the blind guys hand, and guides his throw to pierce Baldur's heart and kill him. Baldur's mother offered a kiss beneath the mistletoe to anyone who would go to the Hel and bring Baldur back. No one could... but Baldur will return after the great battle at the end of the world, to rule the knew world which will be reborn from the ashes. So, when you kiss someone under the mistletoe, think about death, betrayal, and the end of the world this Christmas...
It was, however, actually the Celts who are most responsible for mistletoe becoming a Christmas decoration. They believed that the plant had magical powers, and hung it up in their houses during the Yule festival to protect the home, and cause beautiful dreams during the shadowy dream time of winter, when the dark force of Mean Geimhridh held the light of the sun back. This creepy festival eventually got absorbed into Christmas, giving us still another terrifying "why is that a Christmas tradition" tradition which has, perhaps fortunately, generally been forgone in recent years.
The Yule log. This is where the most "wtf?"d line in perhaps any Christmas song comes from. "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmas's long long ago." Who sits around at Christmas telling ghost stories that don't involve Ebenezer Scrooge, and why would they do such a thing? Well, Who: The Irish. Why: They're Irish... it's what they do. Since I'm pretty sure you don't have a Yule log and probably never have, except perhaps as a decoration, I'll fill you in on what exactly the tradition is. You go out into your yard, or perhaps your neighbors yard while they're off Christmas shopping, and find the most beautiful, symmetrical log you can. You absolutely never buy a Yule log at a store because that will just piss off all the sprites and spirits which are apparently just everywhere in Ireland. You place the log in the hearth, where it is lit using a scrap from the previous years Yule log which has been carefully preserved under the bed of the master of the house to keep the house safe from fire and lightning. The lighting of the Yule log must be achieved in the first attempt or else misfortune will befall your family. There is a lot of stress that comes with being the head of the household in Ireland. The task must never be performed with dirty hands because it is a sign of disrespect... and, again, pissed of sprites and spirits. The embers of the Yule log must be kept lit for twelve hours and cannot be tended while eating Christmas eve dinner. After the feast, the family sits around the fire telling ghost stories while watching their shadows on the wall. If any person's shadow is seen to not have a head, it is a sign that this person will be dead within a year. While this could be fun, I suppose, the Irish Christmas tradition that I choose to include in my family celebration is drinking, because I try not to do anything to inadvertently upset mythological or ethereal beings.
Yule logs, Mistletoe, and evergreen trees aren't the only pagan plant life to have been taken by Christians to be part of the celebration of the birth of our Lord. Holly, among many groups throughout history, has been seen as a good omen, and represented immortality due to its ability to look good in every season. It was considered sacred by the ancient Romans, and was used as a gift during the festival of Saturnalia, which lasted from December 17th to the 23rd. Holly was thought to be a favorite home to elves and faeries, who must have had very tough skin, or just not minded being stabbed by sharp leaves. Romans would bring holly inside during the winter to protect these poor little creatures from the cold.
During the early years of Christianity in Rome, many Christians continued to deck their halls with boughs of holly for fear of being turned into torches in Caesar's palace, or just made fun of for not believing in the pantheon that the Roman's stole from the Greeks. Holly became a Christian symbol when Christianity became the dominant religion in the area, perhaps as an other way of wooing more converts. Eventually it was pretended that holly was a Christian tradition without pagan roots by applying Christian symbolism to the plant. The leaf has sharp pointy edges which represent Jesus' crown of thorns, and red berries which represent the blood He shed on the cross. It is also evergreen, which is taken to represent the eternal life He bestows on all who believe in Him.
It really was convenient that the pagans had so many holidays all around the same time, because it made it much easier to decide when to have Christmas. They had Juvenalia, a feast honoring the children of Rome. There was the celebration of Mithra, the god of the unconquerable sun, on December 25th... he was an infant god, and was born of a rock by the way... which was, for some Romans, the most sacred day of the year. They had the Winter solstice. And there was Saturnalia which celebrated Saturn who was (among other things) the Roman god of agriculture. Beginning in the week leading up to Winter solstice and lasting for an entire month, Saturnalia was like Oktoberfest, Mardi Gras, and the Festival of Fools all mixed into one. Food and drink were plentiful, and the normal Roman social order was turned upside down. For one month, slaves would become masters. Peasants were in command of the city. Businesses and schools were even closed so that everyone could join in the revelry. Honestly, who wouldn't want to steal all these holidays and mix them into one? It's a wonder that it took until the fourth century for the Church to decide to institute Christmas as an official holiday.
Up til then, Easter was the big deal. The delay, most likely, was due to the fact that the Bible doesn't really mention what time of year Jesus was born... a fact those Grinchy Puritans used in denying the legitimacy of the holiday, bringing frowns to children all over the world. Though there has been evidence cited by some people who may or may not know what they're talking about to indicate that Jesus was born in the Spring time, Pope Julius I (of Orange Julius fame) chose December 25th, probably to absorb these other holidays. Christmas, originally called The Feast of the Nativity, spread to Egypt by 423 a.d. and to England by the end of the sixth century. By the end of the eighth century, it had made its way to Scandinavia. Today, in Greek and Russian orthodox churches, Christmas is celebrated on January 6th, or "Epiphany"/"Three Kings day" (which is convenient for Santa because it means he doesn't have to fly around the whole world in one night) which is, for some reason, the day after the 12 Days of Christmas would end.
Having Christmas at the same time as all of these pagan festivals made Christmas more likely to be embraced by other people, but left the Church largely unable to dictate how it would be celebrated. Soon enough, Christianity had done away with Pagan religion, but the absorption of their festivals left the fun parts of paganism intact. On Christmas, believers attended boring church services in the morning, and probably spent the whole time dreaming about all the partying they would do afterward. When they left church, they would go home and celebrated Christmas like Mardi Gras and St. Patrick's day met on Spring Break and had a baby at Carnivale. Each year, a beggar or a student would be crowned "lord of misrule" and people would line up eagerly to play the part of his subjects. Poor people would go a-wassailing (drinking and singing) to the houses of rich people and demand their best food and drink... which I'm guessing usually involved figgy pudding. If the home owners failed to provide, their visitors terrorize them with mischief... kind of like a drunken musical trick-or-treat, which actually sounds like fun to me. Christmas, this way, became a time of year when the upper classes could repay their real or imagined debt to society by entertaining the less fortunate citizens. As for how Christmas went from being about drunkenly helping the drunken less fortunate to wearing bad sweaters and spending too much money, I haven't really done any research on the subject.
I figure I'll start out with everyone's favorite Christmas song, the 12 Days of Christmas. I'm sure, like myself, many of you have often wondered what the hell this song was about, why anyone would give all of these things to anyone, and why, after being given the gift of three french hens, anyone would continue calling the giver "my true love". You have also probably wondered why we only celebrate one day of Christmas, when there are allegedly 11 more floating around.
The twelve days of Christmas, as it turns out, start on Christmas day, and end on January 5th. This is, according to tradition, when the three wise-men showed up and gave their gifts to Jesus... though you Bible scholars and historians all probably already know that there may or may not have been only three wise-men, and that they probably showed up considerably later than 12 days after Jesus was born. The song itself was written in England some time between the late 1500's and the early 1800's, during a time when it was illegal to be Catholic. So, if you find this song as irritating as I do, thank King Henry. Because Catholics (much like Jews in Germany, or early Christians in Rome) were scared of being punished should they be found, in this case by being hanged, drawn, and quartered (you've seen the end of Braveheart, right? Well they left off the worst part, where they tie your hands and feet to horses and have them run in different directions, while you're still alive, tearing you limb from limb) they had to come up with a way for children to remember the tenets of their faith without being able to write it down. So, the song was born, with each gift representing an important element. The "true love" would of course be God, and the "me" would be all of us.
The rest:
1 Partridge in a pear tree: Jesus. A mother partridge will feign injury to protect her young.
2 Turtledoves: The Old and New Testaments
3 French hens: The virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity
4 Calling birds: The four Gospels, and/or the four evangelists
5 GOLDEN RIIIIIIINGS!: The Pentateuch (the first five books of the Bible).
6 Geese a-laying: The six days of creation (and on the seventh day He rested)
7 Swans a-swimming: The seven gifts of the Holy Spirit (wisdom, understanding, counsel, courage, knowledge, reverence, fear of the Lord) or the Seven Sacraments, which are rites in which God is uniquely active, or "visible signs of the invisible at work" (Baptism, Eucharist, Reconciliation, Confirmation, Marriage, Holy Orders, Anointing of the sick)
8 Maids a-milking: The 8 beatitudes (you know, that whole "blessed are the meak, for they will inherit the earth..." bit)
9 Ladies dancing: the 9 visible attributes of the Christian life which comprise the Fruit of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control)
10 Lords a-leaping: The ten commandments (which I won't recount because I'm sure everyone here has them memorized).
11 Pipers piping: The eleven faithful apostles (screw you, Judas, you don't get to be in our song).
12 Drummers drumming: the twelves points of the apostle's creed (look it up. I'm lazy and this is already going to be a long post).
You got all that? Good, because you will be tested on this.... eventually.
Now, with that out of the way, let's move on to lighter fare.
For most people, what is the one symbol of Christmas that most fully embodies the warmth, joy, peace, and love this season is supposed to be full of? More than Santa Claus (who I'm not even going to go into because I'm sure you all know the story already) or the common yet inaccurate picture of Christ in the manger in a barn, with Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, friendly beasts, and angels all around. It's something that often shows up on the outskirts of that manger scene... even though, to my knowledge, it isn't even native to the area. If you haven't guessed it yet, I'm talking about the Christmas tree. That evergreen unchanging whose relatives nearest to Bethlehem would probably be the cedars of Lebanon, which don't look anything like the trees we cut down and cover with trinkets and gaudy lights every year. It might surprise you... though, if you know anything at all about human history, it really shouldn't... to know that this Christian tradition was stolen from the pagans.
When Christian missionaries got up the courage to march into the frozen wilderness in what we now call northwestern Europe and tell the French and Germans that everything they believed and did was wrong, they may or may not have been surprised to find them somewhere on the screw-you side of the receptiveness scale... so these missionaries decided that the best way to get the pagans to change sides was to convince them that we're just like them, only better.
Being up that far North in the winter is probably scary for anyone, especially if you come from a particularly superstitious people... so when your corner of the earth starts moving away from the sun, and the days become increasingly short, and the nights increasingly dark, you won't be too surprised if someone in the crowd says, "the sun is tired of us, and is probably not coming back... so we need to do something about that, or freeze to death.". So, believing that all life on earth depended on their ability to coax the sun back into the area, they would head out around the winter solstice to find the biggest, strongest sign of life in the area... which just happened to be an evergreen tree. They would build fires, and cover the trees and their houses with all sorts of reflective objects and lights as if to say, "hey Sun, come back, there's still light here! See? This is a fun place for light and warmth to hang out!"
So, the early Christians were like, "hey look, we do that too. You can come be one of us and keep your quaint little traditions!", kind of like they did with the adoption of December 25th as Jesus' official birthday when they made it to Rome and found a bunch of people celebrating the god Mithra on that day... so they showed the northern pagans they had a winter solstice holiday with lights and trees. However, being from the Mediterranean area, they were somewhat more inclined to bring the fire and the trees inside than to march out into a frozen forest.
While out on their travels in the frozen north, the missionaries also came across a friendly little group of people known as Vikings... who they also needed to steal a tradition from if they wanted to make any headway. While it may seem like telling Vikings to stop everything they do and come be nice Christians would be the quickest path to Heaven, the missionaries actually had some fortune with the Norse. You see, this was a group of people who set up shop far away from anywhere that any normal person would choose to live, but they would regularly travel the world to.... gather supplies. As a result, their mytholgy tends to have a lot of influence from other cultures. They would go out and hear stories from all over the world and think, "that kind of sounds like something this god of ours would do" and would tell everyone they knew about this story. Somewhere along the way, it's likely that they heard stories of this Jesus fellow, and decided he sounded a bit like their god Baldur. Baldur was the son of their great god Odin, who sits on his throne in Valhalla and watches the dealings of men, sometimes inserting himself into their lives and directing their fates (sound familiar?). Baldur was the most beloved of all of the gods in Asgard, so it brought no shortage of sorrow when the prediction was told that Baldur would be killed. His mother, when given this news, went all around the world, making every person, animal, vegetable, mineral... everything in existence promise that it would never do any harm to her beloved son. Everything, that is, except Mistletoe, which she decided was too fragile to do him any harm anyway (ironic, considering that mistletoe berries are actually quite poisonous). So she came back to Asgard content that no harm could come to her son, and told him that he was safe. He figured he would test her theory, and all the other gods gathered around and started throwing crap at him to see if it would hurt. Rocks, branches, tables, children... everything just bounced right off of him without a mark. Loki, god of messing everything up for everybody (but usually setting it right again... usually) crept over to Baldur's blind cousin and was like, "why aren't you throwing stuff at Baldur with everybody else?" to which Baldur's blind cousin replied, "um... I'm blind.". So Loki makes an arrow out of mistletoe and puts it in the blind guys hand, and guides his throw to pierce Baldur's heart and kill him. Baldur's mother offered a kiss beneath the mistletoe to anyone who would go to the Hel and bring Baldur back. No one could... but Baldur will return after the great battle at the end of the world, to rule the knew world which will be reborn from the ashes. So, when you kiss someone under the mistletoe, think about death, betrayal, and the end of the world this Christmas...
It was, however, actually the Celts who are most responsible for mistletoe becoming a Christmas decoration. They believed that the plant had magical powers, and hung it up in their houses during the Yule festival to protect the home, and cause beautiful dreams during the shadowy dream time of winter, when the dark force of Mean Geimhridh held the light of the sun back. This creepy festival eventually got absorbed into Christmas, giving us still another terrifying "why is that a Christmas tradition" tradition which has, perhaps fortunately, generally been forgone in recent years.
The Yule log. This is where the most "wtf?"d line in perhaps any Christmas song comes from. "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmas's long long ago." Who sits around at Christmas telling ghost stories that don't involve Ebenezer Scrooge, and why would they do such a thing? Well, Who: The Irish. Why: They're Irish... it's what they do. Since I'm pretty sure you don't have a Yule log and probably never have, except perhaps as a decoration, I'll fill you in on what exactly the tradition is. You go out into your yard, or perhaps your neighbors yard while they're off Christmas shopping, and find the most beautiful, symmetrical log you can. You absolutely never buy a Yule log at a store because that will just piss off all the sprites and spirits which are apparently just everywhere in Ireland. You place the log in the hearth, where it is lit using a scrap from the previous years Yule log which has been carefully preserved under the bed of the master of the house to keep the house safe from fire and lightning. The lighting of the Yule log must be achieved in the first attempt or else misfortune will befall your family. There is a lot of stress that comes with being the head of the household in Ireland. The task must never be performed with dirty hands because it is a sign of disrespect... and, again, pissed of sprites and spirits. The embers of the Yule log must be kept lit for twelve hours and cannot be tended while eating Christmas eve dinner. After the feast, the family sits around the fire telling ghost stories while watching their shadows on the wall. If any person's shadow is seen to not have a head, it is a sign that this person will be dead within a year. While this could be fun, I suppose, the Irish Christmas tradition that I choose to include in my family celebration is drinking, because I try not to do anything to inadvertently upset mythological or ethereal beings.
Yule logs, Mistletoe, and evergreen trees aren't the only pagan plant life to have been taken by Christians to be part of the celebration of the birth of our Lord. Holly, among many groups throughout history, has been seen as a good omen, and represented immortality due to its ability to look good in every season. It was considered sacred by the ancient Romans, and was used as a gift during the festival of Saturnalia, which lasted from December 17th to the 23rd. Holly was thought to be a favorite home to elves and faeries, who must have had very tough skin, or just not minded being stabbed by sharp leaves. Romans would bring holly inside during the winter to protect these poor little creatures from the cold.
During the early years of Christianity in Rome, many Christians continued to deck their halls with boughs of holly for fear of being turned into torches in Caesar's palace, or just made fun of for not believing in the pantheon that the Roman's stole from the Greeks. Holly became a Christian symbol when Christianity became the dominant religion in the area, perhaps as an other way of wooing more converts. Eventually it was pretended that holly was a Christian tradition without pagan roots by applying Christian symbolism to the plant. The leaf has sharp pointy edges which represent Jesus' crown of thorns, and red berries which represent the blood He shed on the cross. It is also evergreen, which is taken to represent the eternal life He bestows on all who believe in Him.
It really was convenient that the pagans had so many holidays all around the same time, because it made it much easier to decide when to have Christmas. They had Juvenalia, a feast honoring the children of Rome. There was the celebration of Mithra, the god of the unconquerable sun, on December 25th... he was an infant god, and was born of a rock by the way... which was, for some Romans, the most sacred day of the year. They had the Winter solstice. And there was Saturnalia which celebrated Saturn who was (among other things) the Roman god of agriculture. Beginning in the week leading up to Winter solstice and lasting for an entire month, Saturnalia was like Oktoberfest, Mardi Gras, and the Festival of Fools all mixed into one. Food and drink were plentiful, and the normal Roman social order was turned upside down. For one month, slaves would become masters. Peasants were in command of the city. Businesses and schools were even closed so that everyone could join in the revelry. Honestly, who wouldn't want to steal all these holidays and mix them into one? It's a wonder that it took until the fourth century for the Church to decide to institute Christmas as an official holiday.
Up til then, Easter was the big deal. The delay, most likely, was due to the fact that the Bible doesn't really mention what time of year Jesus was born... a fact those Grinchy Puritans used in denying the legitimacy of the holiday, bringing frowns to children all over the world. Though there has been evidence cited by some people who may or may not know what they're talking about to indicate that Jesus was born in the Spring time, Pope Julius I (of Orange Julius fame) chose December 25th, probably to absorb these other holidays. Christmas, originally called The Feast of the Nativity, spread to Egypt by 423 a.d. and to England by the end of the sixth century. By the end of the eighth century, it had made its way to Scandinavia. Today, in Greek and Russian orthodox churches, Christmas is celebrated on January 6th, or "Epiphany"/"Three Kings day" (which is convenient for Santa because it means he doesn't have to fly around the whole world in one night) which is, for some reason, the day after the 12 Days of Christmas would end.
Having Christmas at the same time as all of these pagan festivals made Christmas more likely to be embraced by other people, but left the Church largely unable to dictate how it would be celebrated. Soon enough, Christianity had done away with Pagan religion, but the absorption of their festivals left the fun parts of paganism intact. On Christmas, believers attended boring church services in the morning, and probably spent the whole time dreaming about all the partying they would do afterward. When they left church, they would go home and celebrated Christmas like Mardi Gras and St. Patrick's day met on Spring Break and had a baby at Carnivale. Each year, a beggar or a student would be crowned "lord of misrule" and people would line up eagerly to play the part of his subjects. Poor people would go a-wassailing (drinking and singing) to the houses of rich people and demand their best food and drink... which I'm guessing usually involved figgy pudding. If the home owners failed to provide, their visitors terrorize them with mischief... kind of like a drunken musical trick-or-treat, which actually sounds like fun to me. Christmas, this way, became a time of year when the upper classes could repay their real or imagined debt to society by entertaining the less fortunate citizens. As for how Christmas went from being about drunkenly helping the drunken less fortunate to wearing bad sweaters and spending too much money, I haven't really done any research on the subject.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Adventures in smoking.
Ok, now before all of my fans in Santa Cruz and Arcada get too excited, I'm talking about smoking meat on the barbecue. Ok, now get excited.
As you may or may not know, my uncle Pat brought some apple wood with him on our hunting trip, and I took one of the unused chunks home with me. I then chopped it up into small pieces and soaked those pieces in Stone Brewing Company's Sublimely Self-Righteous ale, which you should try. It's delicious. Then I went to Safeway to figure out what kind of meat I wanted to smoke with it. It was between beef and pork, and what it really came down to was which one I could buy more of for less money. Yay economy! I found a 4.5 lb pork roast for about $10, and my decision was basically made for me. What's more, it was organic pork... so that's cool too.
After getting the pork home, I marinated it in a little bit of Hornsby's apple cider for around 4 hours, and then poured the cider in with the applewood chips that were still soaking in the Self-Righteous ale. That was a little over a week ago.
During the following week, I mentioned this experiment to a few people. One such person is the man whose man-cave we've been building so that he can barbecue any day of the year, regardless of the weather... with his built in gas grill, his detached webber grill, or his big green egg-shaped smoker. This man loves meat so much that he is not willing to settle for store bought bacon. He said, on Monday, "I'm sorry, I'm having a little trouble focusing right now. My bacon is arriving on Friday." I'm sorry... did you say your bacon is... arriving? "Oh, yeah. I have my bacon flown in from Wisconsin."
When I went back on Thursday and saw him, I said, "You must be excited, what with your bacon coming in tomorrow." and his face lit up. "Actually... it got in today!" So I asked him what exactly was so special about this Wisconsin bacon. Almost instantly, he was back in the garage, opening the refrigerator door and asking "Do you like your bacon with or without pepper?" Without. I'm facing away from him, applying stain to his front gate, and he is explaining to me that this is the only bacon that Rogue Brewery uses on their bacon cheeseburgers, which I have to try. As he comes up behind me, extolling the virtues of this applewood smoked wonder, I turn to tell him that I intend to go to Rogue some day, and am greeted by a packet of bacon in my face and the instruction, "I demand a full report on this." So, Victor, here is my report:
I decided to do a side-by-side comparison with Dailey's bacon, which is what I typically get from Safeway, and have thoroughly enjoyed. I put three strips of Dailey's in one frying pan, and put three strip's of Nueske's in another, and set both on level three heat, which is just below medium, so they don't cook too quickly and crinkle up or get too crispy. Nueske's fills the kitchen with the smell of smoke as soon as I open the package. It sizzles more, and is much darker than Dailey's. Somehow, even though it was thicker than Dailey's, Nueske's even finished cooking a full five minutes sooner. I put them on separate plates. I tried Dailey's first, to remind myself what my typical bacon tastes like before moving on to the real test. To really help you understand (though maybe this will still not be speaking your language... maybe you don't love the same things I love), I'll take another short rabbit trail here. One of my favorite beers is Newcastle brown ale. It's nothing fancy. It's no craft beer. It's reliable. You don't over-think Newcastle, but it's not tinted water, like Budweiser, or Corona, or any of the other mass produced beers you can find it sitting next to in grocery stores. One day, while I was totally not sitting alone in my room drinking beer and watching Spider-man cartoons, if that's what you were thinking, I made the mistake of having Stone Brewery's Ruination (which turned out to be aptly named), and following it with a bottle of Newcastle. By the end of the bottle of Ruination, my taste-buds were accustomed to that level of flavor... and when I moved on to the the Newcastle, it tasted like someone had switched it with Corona... and mixed that Corona with more water. Essentially, this is what happened with this bacon. Dailey's bacon is still delicious. Just like Newcastle, I haven't abandoned it... but this new bacon is just so much more.... bacony. I can understand how the company can have been around since 1933 without changing its methods or recipes. It's still family owned and operated, for the fourth generation in a row. It was like, in the Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle, when the Pevensies all arrive in Aslan's country and notice that it is just like Narnia, only... like they're finally seeing the real Narnia that the one they knew was only a shadow of. This... this is real bacon, and all the bacon I've had up to this point was only a shadow.
I even had my mom try a piece of each, without telling her which was which. She voted in favor of Nueske's. Then, tonight, while I was smoking the pork roast, I put three pieces of Dailey's on the grill to see if I could smoke them and get the same result as frying. I could not. After an hour of smoking them at 200 degree's, they were as crispy as should be desired (though I know there are weirdo's out there who prefer burnt bacon), with none of the usual shrinkage you see in the frying pan, and considerably darker than usual. I blotted the grease off of them, and took a bite. After an hour of smoking, Dailey's tasted almost as good as Nueske's, but was thinner, and somehow still felt greasy. Now more than ever, I want to make my own bacon.
The pork had been smoking, at a pretty steady 175-200 degrees since 12:30, over plain applewood chunks, Sublimely Self-Righteous applewood chunks, and a small tin into which I had poured the excess Self-Righteous and Apple Cider mixture, and at almost 6 o' clock, the center temperature had finally reached 160 degrees. The Brown sugar/cinnamon rub (with a few dashes of salt) had long since crystallized on the exterior, making a sticky crunchy bark. The baked beans, scalloped potatoes, artichokes, apple sauce, salad, and sweet potatoes were just being set on the table. This mountain of meat was so beautiful I wish I had planned theme music for it to enter to. After letting it relax for a bit (just enough time to hurry through my salad and clear some room on my plate), I cut into this experiment in mixed flavors. The smoke ring was a full 1/4 inch into the meat. I gave a slice to my dad, to Jaason, to my mom and Silas, and finally one for me. I didn't even want to drink my beer (which was Sublimely Self-Righteous ale) for fear it would hide some of the flavor of the meat. I believe I best expressed how it all turned out at dinner, when I said, "Sometimes.... I'm a really big fan of myself.".
You could taste the pork, you could taste the applewood smoke, you could taste the ale, you could taste the apple cider, you could taste the brown sugar, and the cinnamon, and none of these flavors overwhelmed the others, each one working in perfect harmony with all the rest, and complimenting each other. It had everything covered. Sweetness, Saltiness, Savoriness, and Spiciness. It was flavorful in a way that you couldn't really over-look, but wasn't demanding. It made you take your time to really enjoy it, instead of just taking it at face value like can sometimes happen when things get smothered in barbecue sauce. This, without sounding too much like I'm praising my own genius (I am) was an intricate marvel of pork perfection. I might need to try more theoretical smoking. Up next, maybe cherry smoked chicken with a rosemary and balsamic vinegar rub, or pecan wood smoked lamb marinated in rosemary garlic lavender mint and lemon thyme olive oil. Thoughts?
As you may or may not know, my uncle Pat brought some apple wood with him on our hunting trip, and I took one of the unused chunks home with me. I then chopped it up into small pieces and soaked those pieces in Stone Brewing Company's Sublimely Self-Righteous ale, which you should try. It's delicious. Then I went to Safeway to figure out what kind of meat I wanted to smoke with it. It was between beef and pork, and what it really came down to was which one I could buy more of for less money. Yay economy! I found a 4.5 lb pork roast for about $10, and my decision was basically made for me. What's more, it was organic pork... so that's cool too.
After getting the pork home, I marinated it in a little bit of Hornsby's apple cider for around 4 hours, and then poured the cider in with the applewood chips that were still soaking in the Self-Righteous ale. That was a little over a week ago.
During the following week, I mentioned this experiment to a few people. One such person is the man whose man-cave we've been building so that he can barbecue any day of the year, regardless of the weather... with his built in gas grill, his detached webber grill, or his big green egg-shaped smoker. This man loves meat so much that he is not willing to settle for store bought bacon. He said, on Monday, "I'm sorry, I'm having a little trouble focusing right now. My bacon is arriving on Friday." I'm sorry... did you say your bacon is... arriving? "Oh, yeah. I have my bacon flown in from Wisconsin."
When I went back on Thursday and saw him, I said, "You must be excited, what with your bacon coming in tomorrow." and his face lit up. "Actually... it got in today!" So I asked him what exactly was so special about this Wisconsin bacon. Almost instantly, he was back in the garage, opening the refrigerator door and asking "Do you like your bacon with or without pepper?" Without. I'm facing away from him, applying stain to his front gate, and he is explaining to me that this is the only bacon that Rogue Brewery uses on their bacon cheeseburgers, which I have to try. As he comes up behind me, extolling the virtues of this applewood smoked wonder, I turn to tell him that I intend to go to Rogue some day, and am greeted by a packet of bacon in my face and the instruction, "I demand a full report on this." So, Victor, here is my report:
I decided to do a side-by-side comparison with Dailey's bacon, which is what I typically get from Safeway, and have thoroughly enjoyed. I put three strips of Dailey's in one frying pan, and put three strip's of Nueske's in another, and set both on level three heat, which is just below medium, so they don't cook too quickly and crinkle up or get too crispy. Nueske's fills the kitchen with the smell of smoke as soon as I open the package. It sizzles more, and is much darker than Dailey's. Somehow, even though it was thicker than Dailey's, Nueske's even finished cooking a full five minutes sooner. I put them on separate plates. I tried Dailey's first, to remind myself what my typical bacon tastes like before moving on to the real test. To really help you understand (though maybe this will still not be speaking your language... maybe you don't love the same things I love), I'll take another short rabbit trail here. One of my favorite beers is Newcastle brown ale. It's nothing fancy. It's no craft beer. It's reliable. You don't over-think Newcastle, but it's not tinted water, like Budweiser, or Corona, or any of the other mass produced beers you can find it sitting next to in grocery stores. One day, while I was totally not sitting alone in my room drinking beer and watching Spider-man cartoons, if that's what you were thinking, I made the mistake of having Stone Brewery's Ruination (which turned out to be aptly named), and following it with a bottle of Newcastle. By the end of the bottle of Ruination, my taste-buds were accustomed to that level of flavor... and when I moved on to the the Newcastle, it tasted like someone had switched it with Corona... and mixed that Corona with more water. Essentially, this is what happened with this bacon. Dailey's bacon is still delicious. Just like Newcastle, I haven't abandoned it... but this new bacon is just so much more.... bacony. I can understand how the company can have been around since 1933 without changing its methods or recipes. It's still family owned and operated, for the fourth generation in a row. It was like, in the Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle, when the Pevensies all arrive in Aslan's country and notice that it is just like Narnia, only... like they're finally seeing the real Narnia that the one they knew was only a shadow of. This... this is real bacon, and all the bacon I've had up to this point was only a shadow.
I even had my mom try a piece of each, without telling her which was which. She voted in favor of Nueske's. Then, tonight, while I was smoking the pork roast, I put three pieces of Dailey's on the grill to see if I could smoke them and get the same result as frying. I could not. After an hour of smoking them at 200 degree's, they were as crispy as should be desired (though I know there are weirdo's out there who prefer burnt bacon), with none of the usual shrinkage you see in the frying pan, and considerably darker than usual. I blotted the grease off of them, and took a bite. After an hour of smoking, Dailey's tasted almost as good as Nueske's, but was thinner, and somehow still felt greasy. Now more than ever, I want to make my own bacon.
The pork had been smoking, at a pretty steady 175-200 degrees since 12:30, over plain applewood chunks, Sublimely Self-Righteous applewood chunks, and a small tin into which I had poured the excess Self-Righteous and Apple Cider mixture, and at almost 6 o' clock, the center temperature had finally reached 160 degrees. The Brown sugar/cinnamon rub (with a few dashes of salt) had long since crystallized on the exterior, making a sticky crunchy bark. The baked beans, scalloped potatoes, artichokes, apple sauce, salad, and sweet potatoes were just being set on the table. This mountain of meat was so beautiful I wish I had planned theme music for it to enter to. After letting it relax for a bit (just enough time to hurry through my salad and clear some room on my plate), I cut into this experiment in mixed flavors. The smoke ring was a full 1/4 inch into the meat. I gave a slice to my dad, to Jaason, to my mom and Silas, and finally one for me. I didn't even want to drink my beer (which was Sublimely Self-Righteous ale) for fear it would hide some of the flavor of the meat. I believe I best expressed how it all turned out at dinner, when I said, "Sometimes.... I'm a really big fan of myself.".
You could taste the pork, you could taste the applewood smoke, you could taste the ale, you could taste the apple cider, you could taste the brown sugar, and the cinnamon, and none of these flavors overwhelmed the others, each one working in perfect harmony with all the rest, and complimenting each other. It had everything covered. Sweetness, Saltiness, Savoriness, and Spiciness. It was flavorful in a way that you couldn't really over-look, but wasn't demanding. It made you take your time to really enjoy it, instead of just taking it at face value like can sometimes happen when things get smothered in barbecue sauce. This, without sounding too much like I'm praising my own genius (I am) was an intricate marvel of pork perfection. I might need to try more theoretical smoking. Up next, maybe cherry smoked chicken with a rosemary and balsamic vinegar rub, or pecan wood smoked lamb marinated in rosemary garlic lavender mint and lemon thyme olive oil. Thoughts?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Spooktacular Halloween Special
Alternate title: "Without a paddle"
Day 9, Oct. 31st
Happy Halloween. When I asked what everybody else was going to dress as, they said "a hunter", so I think I'll go as a mountain man just to be different.
Today is the last day of the hunt. The plan is as follows: Mark and I will walk Hinton Creek bed with the pistol, and hope not to get eaten by a cougar. Papa and Pat will walk opposite hillsides next to the creek, and shoot any elk that we scare out of hiding. It's basically the same plan as before, only in a different location, probably with more water, more danger, and more walking for Papa and Pat. Grandpa will be posted up on a mountain top at first, and then drive down to the road where it meets the creek, and take us back up to camp one at a time. Maybe Mark will carry the cougar spear I made.
Now, down into the belly of the beast.
Down here in the thick damp creek bed, it's often difficult to gauge your progress... you feel like you're moving quickly and taking forever at the same time. We've determined that it will be best if we occasionally hit a stick against a tree to give the others some frame of reference for where we are, so nobody gets too far ahead of the others. Last night's rain has clung tenaciously to the leaves and branches of every tree and bush down here, but seems to tire of its grasp just as soon as we pass by.
Mark and I were fortunate, about ten minutes in (though, again, it's hard to tell when you can't really see the sun, don't have a clock, and have been moving quickly and going nowhere), to catch a rare glimpse of a wild Uncle Pat in its natural habitat. Judging by the size of it's mustache, it must be around 55 or 60 years old, and has most likely sired about 4 bulls by this time in it's life.
All of this tromping through thick wet brush has left our pants soaked through, which has left our long johns soaked through, which has left our socks soaked through, which has filled our waterproof boots full of water. We had been told, "there are places where you'll have to climb down waterfalls". We came to the top of one such waterfall, Mark on one side of the creek, I on the other, and I decided (wisely, I believe) that climbing down the rock face in such a wet condition would be an absolutely retarded idea. Mark, apparently, decided the same thing, and we both made for alternate routes. It was only about 20 feet high, but it was only about 20 feet that I didn't want to fall. I quickly found a sizable tree that had fallen into the ravine, which still had branches on it and wasn't too rotten. It was at just such and angle that I was able to put my feet on the remaining branches and climb down them like a ladder, while holding onto the more sturdy of the underbrush with my hand so that if the branches broke away under my feet, I would at least be holding onto something that would keep me from dying or having to go to the hospital. The farther along the creek bed we go, the more I think today would have been a good day to bring a machete.
We came to a sort of clearing and stood for a bit, expecting that we were just a little ahead of Pat and Papa so we could rest momentarily. We were flanked by wooded hillsides, and the thick dark creek bed was right behind us. We stood as the lone golden spot within sight. Above us, the clear blue cloud dappled sky. Ahead of us, a mountainous granite cliff, jutting into the sky and dominating the landscape. At the top of this monstrous cliff.... a tiny flash of blaze orange which we both knew to be Grandpa and his hat. He flashed his signal mirror at us and we decided to keep pressing on. No sign of Papa, Pat, or any animals (except one grouse).
We kept moving, switching back and forth over the creek as paths became too dense on either side. After roughly a year and a half of walking the creek bed, soaked through ten times, and assuming ourselves to be making much too fantastic of time to not be out ahead of the others by at least a mile, we climbed out of the creek, and up onto an open hillside. The funny thing about waterproof boots is that they don't let water in, and they also don't let water out. The funny thing about wearing boots that are full of water is that the water sort of stays warm until you stop and stand around for a minute or so. Then it's time to dump out your boots, wring out your socks, and pull down your pants so that the sun can dry out your long johns, whenever it's gracious enough to come out from behind the clouds.
After a while (which was not long or warm enough for anything but my beard to fully dry out), we figure we must have misjudged either our timing, or their locations, and they are likely some distance ahead of us by now. Since it was sort of a "walk this way, and we'll see you when we see you" kind of hunt, and we don't have a walky-talky, we decide the safest, smartest, and driest course of action is to head back to camp, try to find batteries for Mark's walky-talky, and try to let them know not to wait for us. Mark, being in better shape than I am, was kind enough to stop and wait for me every time he got about 1,000 feet ahead of me, until I could catch my breath. I am convinced that distance up hill is longer than distance down hill. We saw more deer on the trek back. The only difference between these deer and ones that we'd seen previously was that I wished I could shoot the deer we saw before, and these ones I merely wanted to ride back to camp.
Dead tired, still soaking wet, and wondering if we'd be able to make contact with the rest of the group and let them know not to wait for us at the bottom, we made our way back to camp to find Papa and Uncle Pat already there with a fire going. Pat, it turns out, had been in front of us, and Papa was on top of the adjacent mountain trying to swim through a bog or something. In the time we spent waiting for them and trying to dry out, they had hiked all the way down to the road, and got a ride back up to camp. Grandpa, for some reason, had given his walky-talky to Pat, who already had one, and was still sitting out in the wilderness somewhere. Don't worry, we didn't just leave him there. Mark went out to pick him up. I think he just drove up and down every road until he caught a glimpse of that bright orange hat.
We've decoded to break camp a day early (and who could blame us?), head out, and spend a night in a hotel. No elk, but all alive and in one piece. I get to call Erika tonight.
I think the French said it best when they said, in Latin, "Venari, ludere, lavari, bibere; Hoc est vivere!" - "To hunt, to play, to wash, to drink; This is to live!"
Day 9, Oct. 31st
Happy Halloween. When I asked what everybody else was going to dress as, they said "a hunter", so I think I'll go as a mountain man just to be different.
Today is the last day of the hunt. The plan is as follows: Mark and I will walk Hinton Creek bed with the pistol, and hope not to get eaten by a cougar. Papa and Pat will walk opposite hillsides next to the creek, and shoot any elk that we scare out of hiding. It's basically the same plan as before, only in a different location, probably with more water, more danger, and more walking for Papa and Pat. Grandpa will be posted up on a mountain top at first, and then drive down to the road where it meets the creek, and take us back up to camp one at a time. Maybe Mark will carry the cougar spear I made.
Now, down into the belly of the beast.
Down here in the thick damp creek bed, it's often difficult to gauge your progress... you feel like you're moving quickly and taking forever at the same time. We've determined that it will be best if we occasionally hit a stick against a tree to give the others some frame of reference for where we are, so nobody gets too far ahead of the others. Last night's rain has clung tenaciously to the leaves and branches of every tree and bush down here, but seems to tire of its grasp just as soon as we pass by.
Mark and I were fortunate, about ten minutes in (though, again, it's hard to tell when you can't really see the sun, don't have a clock, and have been moving quickly and going nowhere), to catch a rare glimpse of a wild Uncle Pat in its natural habitat. Judging by the size of it's mustache, it must be around 55 or 60 years old, and has most likely sired about 4 bulls by this time in it's life.
All of this tromping through thick wet brush has left our pants soaked through, which has left our long johns soaked through, which has left our socks soaked through, which has filled our waterproof boots full of water. We had been told, "there are places where you'll have to climb down waterfalls". We came to the top of one such waterfall, Mark on one side of the creek, I on the other, and I decided (wisely, I believe) that climbing down the rock face in such a wet condition would be an absolutely retarded idea. Mark, apparently, decided the same thing, and we both made for alternate routes. It was only about 20 feet high, but it was only about 20 feet that I didn't want to fall. I quickly found a sizable tree that had fallen into the ravine, which still had branches on it and wasn't too rotten. It was at just such and angle that I was able to put my feet on the remaining branches and climb down them like a ladder, while holding onto the more sturdy of the underbrush with my hand so that if the branches broke away under my feet, I would at least be holding onto something that would keep me from dying or having to go to the hospital. The farther along the creek bed we go, the more I think today would have been a good day to bring a machete.
We came to a sort of clearing and stood for a bit, expecting that we were just a little ahead of Pat and Papa so we could rest momentarily. We were flanked by wooded hillsides, and the thick dark creek bed was right behind us. We stood as the lone golden spot within sight. Above us, the clear blue cloud dappled sky. Ahead of us, a mountainous granite cliff, jutting into the sky and dominating the landscape. At the top of this monstrous cliff.... a tiny flash of blaze orange which we both knew to be Grandpa and his hat. He flashed his signal mirror at us and we decided to keep pressing on. No sign of Papa, Pat, or any animals (except one grouse).
We kept moving, switching back and forth over the creek as paths became too dense on either side. After roughly a year and a half of walking the creek bed, soaked through ten times, and assuming ourselves to be making much too fantastic of time to not be out ahead of the others by at least a mile, we climbed out of the creek, and up onto an open hillside. The funny thing about waterproof boots is that they don't let water in, and they also don't let water out. The funny thing about wearing boots that are full of water is that the water sort of stays warm until you stop and stand around for a minute or so. Then it's time to dump out your boots, wring out your socks, and pull down your pants so that the sun can dry out your long johns, whenever it's gracious enough to come out from behind the clouds.
After a while (which was not long or warm enough for anything but my beard to fully dry out), we figure we must have misjudged either our timing, or their locations, and they are likely some distance ahead of us by now. Since it was sort of a "walk this way, and we'll see you when we see you" kind of hunt, and we don't have a walky-talky, we decide the safest, smartest, and driest course of action is to head back to camp, try to find batteries for Mark's walky-talky, and try to let them know not to wait for us. Mark, being in better shape than I am, was kind enough to stop and wait for me every time he got about 1,000 feet ahead of me, until I could catch my breath. I am convinced that distance up hill is longer than distance down hill. We saw more deer on the trek back. The only difference between these deer and ones that we'd seen previously was that I wished I could shoot the deer we saw before, and these ones I merely wanted to ride back to camp.
Dead tired, still soaking wet, and wondering if we'd be able to make contact with the rest of the group and let them know not to wait for us at the bottom, we made our way back to camp to find Papa and Uncle Pat already there with a fire going. Pat, it turns out, had been in front of us, and Papa was on top of the adjacent mountain trying to swim through a bog or something. In the time we spent waiting for them and trying to dry out, they had hiked all the way down to the road, and got a ride back up to camp. Grandpa, for some reason, had given his walky-talky to Pat, who already had one, and was still sitting out in the wilderness somewhere. Don't worry, we didn't just leave him there. Mark went out to pick him up. I think he just drove up and down every road until he caught a glimpse of that bright orange hat.
We've decoded to break camp a day early (and who could blame us?), head out, and spend a night in a hotel. No elk, but all alive and in one piece. I get to call Erika tonight.
I think the French said it best when they said, in Latin, "Venari, ludere, lavari, bibere; Hoc est vivere!" - "To hunt, to play, to wash, to drink; This is to live!"
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Souvenir
Day 8. Saturday, Oct. 30th.
I burned my thumb on the edge of the stove this morning. Fortunately, I'm a manly man, and I didn't even wince until I was sure no one was looking.
Uncle Pat and my dad went up to the elk convention center this morning, hoping to find them all sleeping... or at least just standing around with their fingers up their noses. Grandpa took off with his gun and a chair, and will be sitting somewhere up the road. After we get more firewood cut (provided we can get Gabe's saw started) Mark and I will see if we can scare something up toward Pat and Papa. He refuses to carry the pistol, even though I'm sure he'd be a better shot if we got attacked by a cougar. Maybe, if we see one, I'll get the pistol out of the holster, and it will accidentally slip and land in his hand.
With the men-folk gone, Mark and I spent the morning cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood to let it dry, and kept the home fires burning. Mark did the cutting, and brought the wood to me, and I split and stacked it. The only trouble with stacking the wood around the fire is that the wood at the bottom tends to dry out fastest, and is difficult to get to when it needs to be added to the fire. Sometimes it actually catches fire before we can get to it. We got so busy with firewood that the rest of the group came back to camp before we were ready to head up and meet them.
In the afternoon, I walked up with Papa to where they'd been in the morning. We followed game trails up behind camp, and over a few hills until the wet ground flattened out and we were in what seemed like the heart of the forest. It was still somewhat cold and dark in there, but you'd catch glimpses of sunlight as it splashed on the ground, and the whole canopy seemed to be glowing green like the sludge that the Ninja Turtles rolled around in. We spread out a bit and took opposite sides of a fallen tree, and I found a small trail heading in the direction we wanted to go, so I followed it. I'm glad I did, because doing so meant I came away with a souvenir. Laying on the ground just off the side of the path, shining in a patch of sunlight as though God in Heaven was displaying it to me, signifying by divine providence that I would be King of the forest if I pulled it out of its resting place... was a mule deer antler. It wasn't quite as beautiful as I'd hoped to find. A year or two of weathering has left small cracks, and turned parts of it green... and it's nowhere near as attractive as a white-tail antler... but it's decent size, has four prongs, and hasn't been chewed to hell by wild rodents. So I'm keeping it, and happy to be doing so. Maybe I'll turn it into a hat rack that I won't be allowed to display in the house when I'm married. That's fine. It'll go better with the theme in my man cave.
After sitting at the top of a draw, looking down a drainage (these are technical terms which I have learned to use properly, I think), and across a meadow, and not seeing any elk for roughly 3/4 of eternity, we decided to head back to camp. We made another trip up to the only place where there's ever a hint of cell service, and I was fortunate enough to actually get enough service to make a call... in the rain... on speaker phone, with my phone up over my head so I could get a signal. It was good to be able to talk to Erika for a little bit, but service cut out before I was able to tell her how much I love her and miss her. Stupid rain clouds getting in the way. Oh well, I'm sure she'll be reading this.
I burned my thumb on the edge of the stove this morning. Fortunately, I'm a manly man, and I didn't even wince until I was sure no one was looking.
Uncle Pat and my dad went up to the elk convention center this morning, hoping to find them all sleeping... or at least just standing around with their fingers up their noses. Grandpa took off with his gun and a chair, and will be sitting somewhere up the road. After we get more firewood cut (provided we can get Gabe's saw started) Mark and I will see if we can scare something up toward Pat and Papa. He refuses to carry the pistol, even though I'm sure he'd be a better shot if we got attacked by a cougar. Maybe, if we see one, I'll get the pistol out of the holster, and it will accidentally slip and land in his hand.
With the men-folk gone, Mark and I spent the morning cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood to let it dry, and kept the home fires burning. Mark did the cutting, and brought the wood to me, and I split and stacked it. The only trouble with stacking the wood around the fire is that the wood at the bottom tends to dry out fastest, and is difficult to get to when it needs to be added to the fire. Sometimes it actually catches fire before we can get to it. We got so busy with firewood that the rest of the group came back to camp before we were ready to head up and meet them.
In the afternoon, I walked up with Papa to where they'd been in the morning. We followed game trails up behind camp, and over a few hills until the wet ground flattened out and we were in what seemed like the heart of the forest. It was still somewhat cold and dark in there, but you'd catch glimpses of sunlight as it splashed on the ground, and the whole canopy seemed to be glowing green like the sludge that the Ninja Turtles rolled around in. We spread out a bit and took opposite sides of a fallen tree, and I found a small trail heading in the direction we wanted to go, so I followed it. I'm glad I did, because doing so meant I came away with a souvenir. Laying on the ground just off the side of the path, shining in a patch of sunlight as though God in Heaven was displaying it to me, signifying by divine providence that I would be King of the forest if I pulled it out of its resting place... was a mule deer antler. It wasn't quite as beautiful as I'd hoped to find. A year or two of weathering has left small cracks, and turned parts of it green... and it's nowhere near as attractive as a white-tail antler... but it's decent size, has four prongs, and hasn't been chewed to hell by wild rodents. So I'm keeping it, and happy to be doing so. Maybe I'll turn it into a hat rack that I won't be allowed to display in the house when I'm married. That's fine. It'll go better with the theme in my man cave.
After sitting at the top of a draw, looking down a drainage (these are technical terms which I have learned to use properly, I think), and across a meadow, and not seeing any elk for roughly 3/4 of eternity, we decided to head back to camp. We made another trip up to the only place where there's ever a hint of cell service, and I was fortunate enough to actually get enough service to make a call... in the rain... on speaker phone, with my phone up over my head so I could get a signal. It was good to be able to talk to Erika for a little bit, but service cut out before I was able to tell her how much I love her and miss her. Stupid rain clouds getting in the way. Oh well, I'm sure she'll be reading this.
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