On a visit to my hometown, I perched myself in a Tim Horton's seat as I watched for people I might know. My hometown was, with an emphasis on 'was', filled to the brim with characters.
A few remained.
High priests of voodoo economics had rendered the town redundant. Like so many gutted towns, many had left. The town's character had changed. The old piss and vinegar spirit had been replaced with mind deadening opiates and tranquilizers. Those that stayed behind retreated into a haze of drugs, fat, sugar, and television.
As I sat, pretending to read and half pretending to drink coffee, a loud energetic bustle of strangers laughed their way through the entrance. They stood out, garish-like; like politicians. I recognized one of them from the news. It was Preston Manning, leader of the fledgling Reform Party. They were campaigning and drumming up support for their new brand of 'conservatism'.
A silhouette grabbed my attention and dragged it out of the coffee shop. It moved briskly with singular intent. It moved like a rooster along the side of the building as a group of chattering young women made way. The figure was wearing a long trench-coat and a wide brimmed hat. In no time it made its way to the bright entrance. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the Gypsy.
The Gypsy; still alive and in full living colour, his Gallic face weathered and alive. I hadn't seen him in well over a decade.
The politicians caught my attention when they came in but the Gypsy brought me into a heightened state of awareness.
"Sam", he said as he entered. He walked straight to me. Without even sitting down or asking about my life or where I was living, he recruited me to a chore that would place me squarely between a rock and a hard place.
He was working on a project.
He wrote his phone number on a scrap of paper, place it in my hand and said, "call me tomorrow". Then he said, "I'm going to weed the garden". He turned abruptly, walked over to the now seated political party, and reached into his pocket. The politician smiled and put his hand out to shake the Gypsy's hand. The Gypsy pulled out a bullet, placed in the politicians hand and said "think about it".
He was gone back into the night as quickly as he came in.
The impact of what had just occurred hit me. The Spirit ambushed the abstract, flesh ambushed plastic, and the Gypsy ambushed the Reform Party.
The Gypsy was a nocturnal creature. For him, the divide between night people and day people was vast and any notion of bridging it was not only unfathomable, it wasn't desirable. He paid lip service to them but only in daylight. On his turf they played by his rules. They were clearly on the Gypsy's turf.
It wasn't the presentation of the bullet that saw them on the next flight. There was something in the eyes of the Gypsy that suggested they were in alien and unforgiving territory and that they were not welcome.
As they silently got up, put on their coats and left, I wondered why they thought they could plant southern seeds in a northern climate.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Not Enough Salt
"This sauce is fantastic", Harry said.
We continued to eat in silence and again he mentioned the sauce. "You need to give me the recipe".
"You'll need to contact the company", I said and got up, opened the garbage lid and pulled out the bottle the sauce came in. "President's Choice", I read.
"You got this from a jar?"
"I did".
Harry then explained to me that he started to perfect his spaghetti sauce many years ago; 'twenty' he guessed. He said that at first he would only buy a jar from the store and add a few spices that he liked. He then graduated to buying canned tomato sauce and various ingredients he would get from reading various recipes. Eventually, he started to buy tomatoes, specially ground meat, fresh vegetables, and the spices he would need to perfect it. He said that he used maybe a dozen different spices and herbs. Some would be more or less prominent depending on the company he was serving. He would eliminate some and add others. Eventually, the original spices were lost in favour of new ones. Meat and vegetable ingredients went through enormous transformations.
"This is my sole source of snobbery", he explained and said that this was his pride. This was the thing in life he aimed to perfect. This was his art. He talked about it frequently and served his dish replete with home baked garlic bread, fine wine, candle light, and home-made pasta. He said the process had taken years of experimenting and reading and all along, it was evolving to something better than it was before.
Harry stopped talking and appeared to be reflective as I continued to eat. Harold wasn't eating. He got up and retrieved the empty jar and scanned the fine print showing the ingredients. He sat down and spoke about the impact of what he was in the process of realizing. "Forget the embarrassment", he said. "That's the least of it. I have spent all these years perfecting the sauce and I got so caught up in it, I completely lost my way".
"I had no idea spaghetti sauce meant so much to you".
"This isn't about the sauce", he said. "It's about my own delusion". Harry seemed a bit perplexed. I wasn't getting the significant of what he was telling me. "This is about my own delusion", he repeated.
He then started to re-frame his fable. He said that what he started out with was probably better than store bought spaghetti sauce. He said he spent years perfecting it, getting various spice combinations 'just right' in combination with different kinds of meat and vegetables. He said that it is just now that he understands that he went into a world of his own. He said that he now needs to recollect the hints and advise that have been granted over the years about the sauce. He said "the only one that was honest was Fritz". He told a story where Fritz made a visit several years ago and said, "This tastes like shit" and refused to eat any more. He laughed and said that Fritz was a "bit of a screwball" and didn't take him seriously.
Harry then said that this is a revelation more important than his sauce. "Can't you see I was rendered totally ignorant by my own ego. I couldn't accept any other recipes. I couldn't be told or advised. Suggestions were made early on but people stopped saying anything. My identification with the sauce boxed me into a world of my own. By the time I was done it wasn't even spaghetti sauce. I was putting things in that sauce I now understand should not have gone in. Compared to my own, this President's Choice sauce seems a work of culinary art".
After a moment's silence he said, "this is way beyond the sauce. This is the most important revelation I've ever had. I was caught inside a drama I created all by myself. Noone else cared and that confused me. Now I know they shouldn't have cared; they couldn't have. It was just sauce."
"You're making a fool of yourself", I said. "Just stay quiet."
"What?"
"Your fable is your new spaghetti sauce."
We continued to eat in silence and again he mentioned the sauce. "You need to give me the recipe".
"You'll need to contact the company", I said and got up, opened the garbage lid and pulled out the bottle the sauce came in. "President's Choice", I read.
"You got this from a jar?"
"I did".
Harry then explained to me that he started to perfect his spaghetti sauce many years ago; 'twenty' he guessed. He said that at first he would only buy a jar from the store and add a few spices that he liked. He then graduated to buying canned tomato sauce and various ingredients he would get from reading various recipes. Eventually, he started to buy tomatoes, specially ground meat, fresh vegetables, and the spices he would need to perfect it. He said that he used maybe a dozen different spices and herbs. Some would be more or less prominent depending on the company he was serving. He would eliminate some and add others. Eventually, the original spices were lost in favour of new ones. Meat and vegetable ingredients went through enormous transformations.
"This is my sole source of snobbery", he explained and said that this was his pride. This was the thing in life he aimed to perfect. This was his art. He talked about it frequently and served his dish replete with home baked garlic bread, fine wine, candle light, and home-made pasta. He said the process had taken years of experimenting and reading and all along, it was evolving to something better than it was before.
Harry stopped talking and appeared to be reflective as I continued to eat. Harold wasn't eating. He got up and retrieved the empty jar and scanned the fine print showing the ingredients. He sat down and spoke about the impact of what he was in the process of realizing. "Forget the embarrassment", he said. "That's the least of it. I have spent all these years perfecting the sauce and I got so caught up in it, I completely lost my way".
"I had no idea spaghetti sauce meant so much to you".
"This isn't about the sauce", he said. "It's about my own delusion". Harry seemed a bit perplexed. I wasn't getting the significant of what he was telling me. "This is about my own delusion", he repeated.
He then started to re-frame his fable. He said that what he started out with was probably better than store bought spaghetti sauce. He said he spent years perfecting it, getting various spice combinations 'just right' in combination with different kinds of meat and vegetables. He said that it is just now that he understands that he went into a world of his own. He said that he now needs to recollect the hints and advise that have been granted over the years about the sauce. He said "the only one that was honest was Fritz". He told a story where Fritz made a visit several years ago and said, "This tastes like shit" and refused to eat any more. He laughed and said that Fritz was a "bit of a screwball" and didn't take him seriously.
Harry then said that this is a revelation more important than his sauce. "Can't you see I was rendered totally ignorant by my own ego. I couldn't accept any other recipes. I couldn't be told or advised. Suggestions were made early on but people stopped saying anything. My identification with the sauce boxed me into a world of my own. By the time I was done it wasn't even spaghetti sauce. I was putting things in that sauce I now understand should not have gone in. Compared to my own, this President's Choice sauce seems a work of culinary art".
After a moment's silence he said, "this is way beyond the sauce. This is the most important revelation I've ever had. I was caught inside a drama I created all by myself. Noone else cared and that confused me. Now I know they shouldn't have cared; they couldn't have. It was just sauce."
"You're making a fool of yourself", I said. "Just stay quiet."
"What?"
"Your fable is your new spaghetti sauce."
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