Valentino Goes to a Funeral

We lost my Uncle while I was somewhere over Brazil.

The husband of my father's oldest sibling and a man I always knew as a farmer.  When I was a child, he was one of the circle of men that would get a seat at the dining room table on Sundays.  (Due to the number of people in attendance, the odds were roughing 1 in 12 that one could have a chair.)  These men would drink coffee and talk, and a few might smoke a cigarette.

It was this man, along with his son and another two Uncles who would form the dialog of the first poem I would ever publish.  I was between thirteen and fifteen and a teacher saw something of value in a few lines about cattle.  I had liked poetry before that day but seeing the words in print left me hooked.

Today I sat with my Aunt.  We held hands and did not stand.

I thought of the poetry in a wife's grief.  It definitely would not rhyme.

"Dust to dust" as the burial words go.

As I was walking back to the car, a friend commented that I was wearing the wrong shoes for a funeral.  A square heel, they were the better option for standing in wet grass.  As I was cleaning them later that day, I was sure that I still sank a little. After all, I had held another Uncle's arm as we stood by, watching roses in the wind, thinking of him and of our own mortality.

Happy Trails

When I'm leaving home, one of the things on my mind is (to no one's surprise who really knows me) what food am I most likely not to have and will miss over the next n weeks.*  Normally, it's pizza with garlic but this time a cheeseburger was weighing heavily on my palate.   Was the cheeseburger worth a three terminal change and a 15 gate walk?   This was this question I pondered as I was sitting in the international terminal last month.

In four months, I had yet to have a cheeseburger in Buenos Aires so I made the trek.  It was 6 pm and high traffic for commuting and dinner yet I managed to take the last table at Grindhouse.  I had just placed my backpack in the chair and was standing when a man asked me if the table was taken.  I said that it was but I wouldn't mind to share.

I ate in silence while reading the news.  He was talking on the phone checking availability on size 15 hiking shoes.  When he finished the call, he thanked me again for the seat and he started a conversation about favorite burger recipes.  This headed to the traditional "where are you headed" and "what do you do" conversation zones and with this year, I have a pretty un-average response.  As it turns out, so did he.

The young man sitting opposite from me had plans to quit his job and had secured a pass to through-hike the PCT.  According to the stat sheet, the Atlanta airport services on average 275,000 passengers per day.  I had to know this figure in order to calculate the odds that two persons with engineering backgrounds would come to decisions to have burgers at equivalent times on February 20th and who also shared the goal to effectively put their career on hold...to walk...a lot.

In 2016, 5657 permits were issued to hike the PCT with visitors from 41 countries.  Like the 277,854 pilgrims on the Camino last year, only a smaller percentage walk the distance over 500 miles.  (It was  12.11% for the Camino using St. Jean as the starting point and 12.25% for the PCT if we use the self-reported finisher numbers.)

So there we were.   It was one of the most enjoyable dinners of my life.  We talked strategies and shoes and life and books and blisters and people who are our cheerleaders.  Immediately I felt a kindredness that's quite impossible to capture with these few words.

So wish my new friend luck in the next month as he finishes preparations for his journey and best wishes, sir, that I will see your name on the 2,600 mile list.

*where n = value between 3 and 12 in 2016

Strawberry Fills Forever

One of the things I have really missed is an oven that has a temperature scale.  At current, the dial on the front goes from "0" to "10" like the speedometer of a 1967 Chevy Nova (though I think technically if we are using this analogy, the Nova would go to "12").  Until this trip (my fourth), I didn't know I could adjust the oven's flame.

And so it was on the 25th of February that I boldly set out to make a birthday cake.  

The assets:

• According to Google, I should aim for between a 2 - 3 to get the correct conversion to Celsius for the oven
• A "receta" in Spanish (thus ensuring I could have on hand all the ingredients)
• Eggs so fresh I washed them myself
• A plastic cup that has measurements for everything from "harina" to "arroz" to "Taza" (but somehow missing the reading water)
• A brand new baking pan in Size 38 (which I thought was about the size of an 8x11)

The challenges:

• The oven
• A "receta" in Spanish
• The metric system
• A hand mixer with a whisk attachment that had attachment issues
• A baking pan which turned out to be more like 8x15
• Three hours before the party

After whipping a fair bit of butter and sugar onto any surface within a one-meter radius, I did feel I had achieved a consistency that matched batter at home.  The remaining ingredients were partially beaten/thrown with the final touches whipped in with a wooden spoon.  The cake was rather plain* so I decided to add strawberry pieces to give it some pop.

This turned out to be a good thing because in no way did the batter actually fill the pan so what I would be later left with as it emerged from the oven (as described to a friend) was a measles-speckled Nebraska cake.  

Many blessings to the brave Argentineans that hesitantly took a bite after the traditional singing.  Many thanks to the host for ensuring that glasses were always filled with an additional nod to the birthday boy that didn't seem to mind that the candle in the center was a votive.  

On occasion, valor is rewarded and by a small Southern miracle, the cake made by the older, pale unmarried gringa was light and tasty.  

*I can usually tell how a cake will turn out by sampling the batter.  Plain is probably boasting.  Side note however, I survived raw eggs in yet another country.