Life's Moveable Feasts

During an TV episode of Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations: Vancouver", Anthony dines with his chef chums and asks them what they would eat for their last meal on earth.

"Fugu," one man said, "...because I'm already dying anyway!"

Fugu

To appreciate the humor of this statement is to know that fugu is the japanese word for pufferfish, a fish that--if prepared incorrectly--is lethal.  Around the table everyone laughed, their faces flushed red from too many raised glass toasts.

Later, I concluded that, certainly, there is no better way to die than around a lively dinner table with friends.  My most cherished memories have been embedded in meals rich in conversations that make my eyes sparkle.  Last weekend's dinner party was no exception: I lifted my pink plastic flute of champagne to toast my oldest friend, Ashley, on her recent engagement.  "Your love is an inspiration to all of us," I started.  Distinct memories rushed forward of the first time I met Ashley and her twin, Jenny, in kindergarten.  It seemed surreal to think that we were the same people standing here as when we viewed the world from only a couple of feet above ground.  20 years ago felt both gargantuan and miniscule.  As if those years passed by like a meandering stream but we realized our life was a single drop in an ocean.

I'd like to make my drop count by building a life of moveable feasts.  Ernest Hemingway receives credit for the poetic phrasing of moveable feasts.  And it's no surprise that Paris, a city culture of institutionalized three-hour meals, inspired this graceful truism.

Paris by night

Speaking of moveable feasts, one of the recent trends in the foodie scene is pop-up dining, which created a buzz last summer and began in...Paris. (Are you surprised?)  The New York Times documented the action and other cities wanted to prove that they were also gastronomically sophisticated.  In response, the Atlanta Underground Market organized Feast Noir, a flash mob feast in which over a 1,000 Atlantans dined al fresco on exclusively homemade food at tables of eight.

The rules were fairly straightforward:

• Wear black
• All food must be homemade
• No plastic plates, cultury, or cups
• BYOTAC (Bring Your Own Table And Chairs)

The location was undisclosed until the morning of the feast.  Preparing dishes for a meal with strangers at an unknown location provided a new challenge to my host of dinner party skills.  The actual event was a delight, as I expected dining with fellow gourmets to be.  A sommelier told tall tales of the wine business and another couple described their organic farm produce they sell at local farmer's markets.  We shared a meal together but more importantly, we built a community.  As night fell, we packed up our things and left, trusting our feast to memory's safekeeping.  Hoping for another moveable feast.  

Feast Noir 2011
Photo Courtesy of Jessica Wolff

What Happens When It Rains?

When I tell people that my red Yamaha scooter is my main (and only) method of transport around the city they ask any number of questions.  Precipitation is sometimes a question they pose.

"What happens when it rains?" Their faces begin to twist in concern.

"Well..." I pause as I search for the missing correct answer that will appease their worried expressions. "...I get wet."

Staying dry while riding is something I appreciate and I do take caution to protect myself from the elements (i.e. acid rain).  I own a raincoat.  But there are times when even waterproof polyester won't cut it.  Thursday of last week was one of those times.

Just as I turned onto the busiest street in Atlanta on my way home from work, it concurrently erupted from above and in front of me.  Sheets of rain soaked me almost immediately and wind blasts threatened my balance.  In order to avoid any accident I was forced to pull over.  I stopped under an overhang and parked my bike in front of a dry cleaner's shop.  The Chinese restaurant next store called out to me, a reprieve from overburdened clouds.  Inside, I sat and ate my hot and sour soup despite the puddle of water collecting below my seat and the fact that the small enclave was a take-out only joint.

One of my spoonfuls was soon interrupted by the entrance of an exuberant man, who I soon learned owned the dry cleaner's next door and was born and raised in Jamaica.  He chatted with the waitress and took a perch near the counter as I imagined he regularly did.  I listened to his stories of motorcycling in Jamaica: the races; the hospitalized injuries; the trips along the open road.  My ear was sympathetic, knowing the pains and pleasures of traveling by bike.

The bell rang as he exited the building and I peered outside to assess the weather.  The rain was still falling but not with the ferocity it once was.  I tried to clean up the wet mess I had made to brave once again the gray and puddles and damp that lay ahead.

I made it home, ran a hot bath, and absorbed the warmth like a cold-blooded reptile.  I had gotten wet and somehow it had made all the difference.

The hot and sour soup and friendly conversation with the Jamaican owner of a dry cleaner's shop were pleasant deterrences from a normal routine and reaffirmations of why I love driving on two wheels.  Not only am I more connected to the people in my community; I hear the nuanced noises of the seasonal winds; I feel the cracked asphalt beneath me.

Sometimes it's ok to get wet.

Expedition Give

It's raining today in Atlanta.  I welcome this precipitation as release from the pattern of heat and sun and have fittingly passed gray skies with two cups of earl gray tea with milk.  Thanks to the calm weather and my participation in Expedition Give, I have been sincerely reflecting on values, community, charity, and empowerment.

When my work colleague approached me about teaming up to participate in Expedition Give, I enthusiastically accepted the invitation.  Expedition Give is an easy sell--an all day scavenger hunt around Atlanta with a community service twist.  Participants collect points for performing community service projects and collecting items to donate to various local non-profit organizations.

The scavenger hunt is days away but all teams have the opportunity to arrive at the starting line with points by successfully completing a list of five tasks.

So far I have...

bought 4 cans of soup.
bought one box of macaroni and cheese
bought one blue winter hat.
wrote one letter.

The letter I wrote was in response to the following:

Fisher House does an amazing job taking care of the families of soldiers who get injured or sick. Hand write 2 letters to the FAMILIES of these soldiers thanking THEM for the sacrifice THEY make and offering words of encouragement. The letters need to be unsealed and generic (can be given to any family) so that Fisher House can pass them along to military families here in Georgia. 

Thankfully, Wislawa Symborska found her way into my thoughts and served as my eloquent muse, yet again.

"To your family, our country's unsung heroes,

Thank you for your contribution to the security and sustained success of our country.  You have offered your most precious gift, your family member, to serve the USA and for that I am truly grateful.  I would like to share with you a poem from one of my favorite poets, Wislawa Szymborska.  Many of Wislawa's poems showcase the aftermath of war and genocide on her beloved Poland's collective consciousness.

I hope you find beauty and comfort in this poem and know that our country supports you in cleaning the emotional wreckage from the relentless ravishes of war.

In Solidarity,

Emily A Baughman

"The End and the Beginning"

By: Wislawa Szymborska
Translated from the Polish by: Joanna Trzeciak

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we'll need bridges
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.

The Light that Never Turned Green

It wouldn't have been the first time.  

The first--I suppose, could have been classified as a mistake.  That is, if you classify a mistake as your mother's death grip on the minivan hand clutch and her high pitch scream of the Lord's name in vain.  

But mistakes unfortunately carry the burden of a bad reputation.  In fact, I was going too fast to safely come to a complete stop and the Lord's name was not indeed called in vain as we--me, my mother, and two sisters were returning from the 12 o'clock mass.  

Regardless, the first time was hazy even to my memory.  

Red lights are tricky that way.

Thankfully, I was able to discover at a young age that, in some parts of the world, red lights are simply a suggestion.  

While living in Vietnam, I broke traffic laws that did not even exist.  At the same time that red lights stopped portraying the gruff facade of a lawful mandate and adopted the gentle gaze of a prompt that is open to interpretation, I learned how to partake in the one-man circus that is riding a motorcycle.  

Now, as I am licensed to cruise around on two wheels in Atlanta, Georgia, the pleasures of the open road abound--but not without dangers.  

Criminals are lurking especially for unsuspecting scooters and their riders.  

If you're wondering...

then, yes.  I was a victim.  

At Briafcliff and The By Way, 11:30 p.m.  It was a Tuesday.

I am not ashamed to admit:

I was held hostage by a red light.

How, you may ask, does a girl outwit the ferocities of the Atlanta traffic system?

To be honest, I couldn’t say exactly.  But it did take raw courage, no doubt about that.   Moral conviction.  Unwavering moral conviction.  

Truly, I feel lucky to say,

I ran a red light.

Like I said, it wouldn't have been the first time.