The Cursed Cook

I was once asked to remove a curse from a frying pan. The pan belonged to a chuck wagon cook named “Salty.” "Salty" was renowned for his beans and bacon, and also his bad temper. Though Bleb and I were a little short on rations when we met "Salty" on the trail, he made no effort to share from his well-stocked supplies. Not long after we met he ran into a spate of bad luck.

“You remember that old Indian who was poking around the wagon the other night,” he said, “and how I swung my pan at him?"

"Yes," I said.

"Ever since, nothing cooks right in that pan. Food either burns or undercooks or tastes like something the steers left behind. I’d get me a new pan but I don’t get paid until the end of the drive. Know anything that will help?”

“It sounds like you angered a desert spirit,” I said. “The Indians expect hospitality and you broke their law, which still applies out here. Getting a new pan won’t help.”

“What should I do?” said "Salty."

“I’d offer a meal to the spirits through an animal representative,” I said.

“What kind of animal?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “mules are known to descend from a desert breed, and are more kindly disposed to humans than coyotes. I’d start there.”

“I ain't gonna spoil my team,” he protested. “It might give them ideas. You reckon yours will do?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “I’ve seen Bleb deal with wild spirits before.”

The cook pulled out several Dutch ovens and set to work. Inside an hour he’d prepared a pot full of grits, a dozen biscuits with sorghum syrup, half a pail of beans and salt pork and six helpings of fried apple pie. Bleb ate it all.

“That ought to do it,” I said.  "Though you might want to test it on a human.”

“You!” he shouted at me. “Try these eggs and bacon and cornbread and fried potatoes!”

I obliged, and after a couple plates I pronounced them edible.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, though I was pretty sure earlier,” I said. “My mule normally won’t touch grits. It binds him up.”

Bleb and I continued eastward while the cattle drive moved west. I heard later that the cook got a job with Delmonico’s in New York City, so I guess the curse was truly broken –  plus there was no more manure tea in his frying pan.

Copyright © 2013 Laurie J. Anderson. All rights reserved.

The Cicada Problem

Cicadas have emerged from their underground caverns and are noisily announcing their presence in all quarters. I was approached by one nervous lady who had become exasperated by their ceaseless droning.

“It is like living among a convention of fiddlers who know only one note, yet must rehearse that note constantly, backwards and forwards!” she complained, wringing her hands. “What can you suggest?”

I told her of a farmer I knew who rounded up all the cicadas he could find – and he could find them easily due to their noise-making – and sold them to a baker in New York City.

“A baker!” she exclaimed. “Whatever for?!”

“I am not sure,” I replied. “I heard of a ‘bug biscuit’ concocted there as a cheap food for dogs. Perhaps you can locate that baker and profit from your problem.”

“I know some young boys who might be willing to assist me,” she said thoughtfully. “ - if I offer a bounty for each bug. I am sure to recoup my investment.”

She hurried off. I heard no more from her, but I wish her well. I did not tell her that the dogs who were offered such biscuits refused to eat them, and the baker was left with a surplus of insect-enriched flour.

In some countries cicadas are eaten to no ill effect, but whenever I visit that metropolis, I choose my restaurants carefully.

Copyright © 2013 Laurie J. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Town vs. Country: A Time Perspective

Have you ever noticed how things move much faster in cities than in the country? That is because the close aggregation of people in cities speeds up time. The greater the distance between people, the longer it takes to do anything. This is why Sundays in New York City only take 3 hours, but a Sunday in Toccoa, Georgia takes all day and half of Monday.

I was reminded of this after a recent trip from Atlanta to Toccoa. I left by wagon early on a Sunday morning and was out of town and headed northeast in less than an hour. As soon as we passed the Atlanta city limits, though, our pace slowed considerably. For every mile that my mule Bleb carried the wagon forward, half a day would pass. We eventually reached our destination, but it took six months. By that time a rail line had been laid in. This angered the client I was travelling to see; he refused to pay travel expenses since I was obviously following the longest route, and it upset Bleb no end when he found out he could have taken the sleeping car.

From now on, on such trips I will blindfold Bleb. It may be that he can maintain a good pace as long as he thinks people are nearby. I will also tell him that the shortest distance between two points is usually the one for which you get paid.


Copyright © 2012 Laurie J. Anderson. All rights reserved.

"Mail Car" Max

Since I am well-travelled, I am often asked about the best routes to take. Sometimes I can oblige the individual with a knowledgeable response, and sometimes I tell him about "Mail Car" Max.

"Mail Car" Max was a medium-sized mutt of indeterminate ancestry who made his home at the railroad station in Yonkers, New York. Every morning he would hop on the 6:40 a.m. mail and freight train going due south to Fort Washington. There he would get off and relieve himself, then reboard and continue on to Brooklyn. In Brooklyn he would disembark once more and visit a local tavern, where he was given a bowl of beer and a sausage biscuit. After that he would take a nap. He always woke up in time to board the 2:10 pm westbound train, and returned travelling north by way of Hoboken to Fort Lee, where he completed a circle by taking a ferry back to the city.

Max was well known to all the porters, who documented his travels. When he wasn't sitting on a mail sack he often rode with the conductor, looking out through the foremost window.

Why didn't Max simply hop back on the northbound train to Yonkers for his return trip, in order to get home quickly? Why on earth did he go through New Jersey? Perhaps he preferred the view when crossing the Hudson River from the west to the east. Perhaps he felt he should comfort the porters who had to work in the Garden State. I do not know. The "best" route is sometimes a matter of personal taste, and there's no accounting for that.

copyright ©2011 Laurie J. Anderson, all rights reserved.