Desolation

Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac is one of those books that I pick up time and again, and each time, there is a new kernel of truth in it for me to enjoy. I have worn my copy completely out, and it no longer has a front or back cover. This week I picked up this book while I was preparing to leave my New Mexico mountain for the Midwest. I am taking the two littlest kids with me, and I will be flying out and visiting family and friends from Chicago to Appalachia.  When I picked up my sad little naked book, the first thing I saw were the closing paragraphs. And once again, this little book made me realize something that I’d been ignoring in my frenzied and anxious preparations.

"I don't know when we'll meet again or what'll happen in the future, but Desolation, Desolation, I owe so much to Desolation, thank you forever for guiding me to the place where I learned all. Now comes the sadness of coming back to cities and I've grown two months older and there's all that humanity of bars and burlesque shows and gritty love, all upsidedown in the void God bless them, but Japhy you and me forever we know, O ever youthful, O ever weeping." Down on the lake rosy reflections of celestial vapor appeared and I said, "God, I love you" and looked up to the sky and really meant it. "I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other."

To the children and the innocent it's all the same.” – Jack Kerouac (Dharma Bums)

I am leaving my mountaintop. Albeit for just over two weeks, but I’m leaving my chickens and my dogs, The Hubby and Mr. Drama, the sunshine, the firewood, the clothesline, the deck, the stars, the moon, and the howling coyotes. 

The last time I did this, I felt like a fish out of water. I had planned a trip to Chicago, and I flew out of Albuquerque, into O’Hare, took the train out of O’Hare, and an hour later, I was standing on Michigan Avenue. Men with briefcases and women with stiletto heels were darting around me as I meandered meekly down the street, soaking in the humidity like a dry sponge. I looked into the windows of Fur Dealers and Jewelry Stores looming several stories above the street in glittering buildings, and my head swirled.

I found my way to my hotel room, hopped in the shower, and then spent the next hour digging the high desert sand out of my toenails and applying a lovely coat of polish. In retrospect, I think I was trying to give myself a bit of camouflage.  I was convincing the world (and myself), “See, I’m not a sun-drenched, earth-baked, mountain mama. I am metropolitan.” And I have the toenails to back that claim up.

At the same time, there was a heaviness and a sadness, as I looked out my hotel window at the lake front apartments with tiny balconies from which to view the water.  It was almost surreal as I realized that everyone can’t have a wild world to explore everyday. They can’t walk out their front door and find themselves surrounded on every side by raw unbridled nature. Even in the cornfields and lawns of the suburban Midwest, everything you see has been touched and sculpted by man. Men have even decided which spaces to designate “Green” and have planted trees to signify such.

Here, I can walk out my backdoor and pick up a big hunk of petrified wood, a geode, obsidian from ancient lava flows, or a dinosaur fossil, none of which have probably been touched by another set of human hands. The only signs of humanity are the numerous arrowheads and pottery pieces left by ancient native people.

Most people would look around my home, discover that there isn’t a franchised business for 20 miles, the only signs of life are cacti and rattlesnakes, I don’t have a maintained road or trash collection, and call this desolation. And I owe so much to that desolation. I owe that feeling of freedom, of quiet, and of connection with nature. I don’t think I could quantify what I have learned any more than Kerouac did sixty years ago, but I can express my gratitude as I head back into civilization with my hands tucked in my pockets to hide the dirt under my fingernails.

It’s been a crazy day, so what’s for dinner, mama?

Today was particularly eventful in our household. We’ve been having poultry predicaments for a few days. This resulted in us moving our meat birds (set for slaughter soon) up to the front of our house, directly outside my bedroom window, and eventually to a friend’s coop.  The reason we moved them was because our egg layers are showing signs of illness, and we’ve decided to treat the whole egg-laying flock with antibiotics for a couple of weeks. We didn’t want to give the meat birds antibiotics so close to slaughter, especially since they are new to the flock and show no signs of illness.  We had to buy eggs today **gasp** because we can’t eat our hens’ eggs for around three weeks.

So, we’ve been dealing with sick chickens, and one of our dogs has been faking an injury for several days because I hurt her feelings (that might be another blog post in itself). Overall, though, we felt like we had things under control.

This morning started out rather uneventfully. My second-grader, Mr. Drama, left to ride to school with the neighbors. I hung a load of laundry on the line and drove Cowboy to preschool. Then, as Sergeant Princess and I head back in the door, we are followed by Opal, the hound dog pictured in the last post.  I turned around, and there she stood, staring blankly off into the distance covered in dirt and blood. She reminded me of the baby rabbit we found injured on the road a couple months ago, which we tried in vain to save.  I looked her over, and it was clear that a wild animal had attacked her, and she needed veterinary care. While she wasn’t critically wounded, I worried about all the infectious microbes she may have been gifted along with those bites. The morning was a frenzy of logistics in trying to get an immobile and wounded 6-inch tall, 55-pound dog into a minivan and to the vet’s office. Roxie valiantly refused to leave her companion’s side, which is very sweet, when you are not trying to figure out how to get a 6-inch tall, 55-pound dog into a minivan without furthering injury and while wrangling an oblivious toddler. The added complication of repeatedly removing a spry and agitated shepherd from the van was a bit more than my patience could bear at that moment.

Luckily, Opal was not severely injured. The doc looked her over and determined that she had been bitten by coyotes, first in her (ahem) lady parts and then by another coyote in her side as she fell over. The most care the vet gave her today was irrigating her lower eyelid which had been packed full of soil during the scuffle. He believes that her extremely loud bellow was the key to her survival. He actually thinks that terrible hound sound sent the coyotes running like a couple of thieves bolting at the sound of a car alarm. She is just stunned, and the vet aided her emotional shock with a healthy dose of narcotic pain relievers and a dash of antibiotics and said, “See you in the morning.” The afternoon was spent checking on all the sick and wounded animals and working through the list of things I had intended to complete during the morning hours.  Before I knew it, Mr. Drama was home from school, and I hadn’t really thought of dinner.

I seriously contemplated the box of packaged beans and rice hidden away in the cupboard, but I thought I could do better in less time. (It would take 25 minutes to cook up anyway).

Here’s the spaghetti dish I came up with instead:

Diced garlic, onions, mushrooms, and zucchini, sautéed with olive oil, rosemary, thyme and wilted basil.

Wilted basil sounds like some fancy culinary thing, but the truth is, I had great intentions to start my own herb garden, and purchased a basil plant, which I have wholeheartedly neglected. It is dying a slow sad death, and wilted basil is what it has left to offer me.

After I sautéed the veggies until nice and soft, I added a can of organic stewed tomatoes with Italian seasonings. After learning about why commercial tomatoes taste so bad, we purchased a boatload of canned organic tomato products from Costco to use when farmer’s market tomatoes are not an option.

I added a bit more rosemary and thyme and allowed it all to simmer for about 15 minutes, while I cooked the pasta.

Though we really like to start from scratch with most things, we haven’t purchased a pasta maker (YET). So, we settle for Organic Spelt pasta. This stuff is great, and the ingredients?—Organic spelt flour and water. Yep. ZERO sodium, and 9 grams of protein per serving.

I tossed the cooked pasta with the veggie mixture, added a bit of parmesan cheese, and voila: another additive free, nutritious vegetarian meal that enticed my children to eat three bowls each. Total cost was probably about $6 for the family, and prep time was less than 30 minutes.