Monsoon Diary Page 16
On my way back home, I took sailing lessons, which were surprisingly cheap in river-rich Boston. I would rig up a boat, take it out to the center of the Charles River, and enjoy the wind, the water, the hazy skyline, and the sun dipping slowly behind the Hancock Building. It was all so peaceful, an atmosphere that may have inspired my idea for a picnic.
MY PLAN WAS simple. I would collect my roommates, go sailing, and have a picnic breakfast on the Charles. The serenity of the whole experience would rub off on them. We would see one another in a new light and stop our endless spats.
My reason for choosing breakfast was simple. I didn’t trust the others to come up with a decent lunch or dinner. Breakfast was the only meal that I could fully command.
So we set off one Saturday, carrying bagels, assorted pastries, sandwiches, croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice, and fragrant coffee in a flask. I wasn’t entirely sure if we were allowed to take food into the boat, so we snuck in our loaded backpack as unobtrusively as possible.
We got off to a rocky start. Michael insisted that he knew how to sail, since he had gone sailing with his father as a young boy. When I launched into an explanation about how difficult the knots were and how complicated rigging and furling were, Michael simply said, “Exactly” with infuriating complacency, as if he had meant to say the same thing.
Increasingly frustrated by his smugness, I finally clenched my teeth, got the boat off into the water, and herded them in with instructions to step gently. I was beginning to regret the whole thing. The only thing I looked forward to was breakfast. I had shopped at my favorite bakery, overriding the others’ suggestion that we simply buy bread at the local Star Market. I had ended up paying for everything from my personal account, but at least we would have flaky croissants, warm pastries, and crusty bagels while skimming the Charles.
The boat wobbled dangerously as we set off. I wasn’t used to sailing with four people, and it took me a while to distribute the weight evenly and get adjusted to the sails. The morning was cool, so the sun felt good on our back. The sails finally caught some wind, and the boat gained speed. I cautioned my group not to make any sudden movements that would shift the weight in the boat, and put the heavy backpack in the center.
We sat across from one another, smiling as a gentle breeze ruffled our hair. We didn’t know what to say, but at least we weren’t yelling or being sarcastic. I found myself pointing out the sights like a tour guide, mostly to fill the silence. After a moment I shut up and opened the flask. The coffee smelled heavenly. I reached out for the picnic backpack.
“Here, let me do that,” said Michael, jumping up.
“No, don’t move!” I cried, but it was too late.
The next thing I knew, the boat had turned turtle and we were all in the cold depths of the Charles River. When I surfaced, I saw my precious pastries floating a few feet away. Within moments, a large speed-boat appeared and ran circles around us, accentuating our ignominy. There were two white-uniformed men inside. An announcement boomed over the loudspeaker. “This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Swim Away from the Boat. Do you hear me? Swim Away from the Boat.”
TO MAKE MATTERS WORSE, I got fired. Hal, my boss at Inkadinkado, took me into his office one morning and told me that he had to “let me go,” because I wasn’t cutting rubber as fast as the Vietnamese ladies. And they were twice my age, he underscored.
I was in a panic. I needed work to pay my rent. I called everyone I knew, begging for a job, any job. In a few days Charlotte Clark, a friend from Mount Holyoke, called back. “Are you willing to go to New Mexico?” she asked.
I BECAME ONE of eight camp counselors at the Sangre de Cristo Youth Ranch (SCYR) in the pine-forested mountains north of Taos, New Mexico. Barbara and Bud Wilson, the owners, had grown up in the Northeast. Bud was a surgeon who had bought up hundreds of acres on the mountains and designed a summer camp for kids. Barbara had gone to Mount Holyoke, which was how I got the job. For a month we managed twenty ten-year-old boys and girls. We were each paid a thousand dollars, which seemed like a princely sum, given that I had no expenses. The children paid nothing for their time at camp.
New Mexico enchanted me. Its red earth, purple sky, craggy mountains, and desert cacti all struck a primitive chord. As paid staff members, we arrived a week before the kids. There was Nat, a musician with orange hair and an accordion; Andy, the organizer, who drew endless flowcharts full of activities; Olivia, with her batik skirt, tie-dyed peasant blouse, and nose ring. And then there was Ted, dashing Ted, who broke my heart without even realizing it existed.
Every girl in the camp had a crush on Ted. Ted, however, wanted to save the world and had no time for plebeian indulgences like girlfriends. With his notebook full of lists and his cowboy hat, his wiry stride and wide shoulders, Ted always had a project. He wanted to start a literacy school for inner-city kids; he wanted to bring abused boys to the camp and have them work with Norwegian Fjord horses that Bud and Barbara owned.
“Horses are healing,” said Ted.
I gazed into his green eyes and nodded fervently.
Ted had long, silky brown hair that he wore in a ponytail. “I never use shampoo for my hair,” he said. “Or soap or laundry detergent. The phosphates pollute our rivers.”
“Neither do I,” I lied, making up my mind never to take a bath with phosphate-loaded cleaners again. I would stock up on deodorant. Did deodorants contain phosphates? I wondered.
THE ONLY PERMANENT STRUCTURE at the camp was the kitchen. Everything else was makeshift. We built tents, stocked the storeroom across the field with food and provisions, cleaned cobwebs from the outhouses, and installed containers of sawdust and recycled toilet paper. The campers arrived. Car after car bumped over the dusty dirt road and deposited kids. After dinner the parents departed.
Our first campfire. Ted gave a speech. “Welcome, campers. Make sure that you have your flashlights at night, since we don’t have electricity or running water. Also, make sure that you put sawdust into the pit after you use the outhouse so that it doesn’t stink for the next person. If you hear howling at night, don’t worry. We have coyotes in the neighborhood, and they like to sing to the moon. They’ve never ventured into camp, but zip up your tents at night. Welcome, again.”
A stream ran through the property, and we had to carry buckets of water from here for baths behind the trees. The campers themselves found an ingenious solution to this constraint: they didn’t bathe. Halfway through the summer, we held a marathon kid-bathing session and scrubbed off fifteen days’ worth of dust and dirt from their slithery bodies.
I loved being in the mountains. The whinnying horses, the soft alfalfa grass, the rustling pines, the apricot, peach, and pear trees on the property that sagged with an abundance of fruit all imbued me with a deep sense of contentment.
Sometimes we took the kids to Taos Pueblo to watch Indian men with magnificent feathered headdresses, jingling anklets, and blue beads jump rhythmically up and down to the thump of the drums. Occasionally, after the kids were asleep, we counselors piled into Bud’s Land Rover and stole away to Taos Square. We would sit in a café sipping margaritas and watch street performers and musicians. Nat would play his accordion, Andy, Olivia, and I would jump up and twirl around, and Ted would smile. On clear nights we took our sleeping bags to the alfalfa fields and slept under the stars. Each of us got breaks by rotation in the afternoon. Andy and I would hike through the property, pick perfectly ripe sun-kissed peaches right off the tree, and bite greedily into the soft flesh. At night we would go up the hill to the peaceful Lama Foundation, hang out with its serene inhabitants, and talk about Ram Dass, Zen Buddhism, and other spiritual matters.
OUR DAY BEGAN early. At dawn I went across the alfalfa field to bring buckets of water and provisions for the kitchen. As I walked back, an orange sun rose from the distant Rio Grande, chasing fluffy clouds off the horizon and bringing welcome warmth into my cold body. The horses whinnied appreciatively when I threw them carrots on my way back.
As one of the counselors coaxed the old-fashioned woodstove into cooking our breakfast, the rest of us stood around with mugs of cocoa and had our daily staff meeting. We talked about homesickness amongst the campers and what to do when kids ganged up on one another. We talked about Ian, a nine-year-old, who burped continuously on purpose during lunch just to get a laugh and burped some more when we reprimanded him. We talked about Lauren, who carried perfume and makeup up the mountain during treks and then complained about her heavy backpack. We made up camp policies about swearing. We all agreed that we would “strongly discourage” the campers from pairing off into couples. We spent forty-five minutes debating whether to wake up the kids at six or six-fifteen.
There were four work crews, and we took turns leading them. Some days I took the horse crew to clean out the barn and feed the horses. Other days I drove the battered old pickup truck laden with stones and gravel to smoothe the dirt roads. The fence crew taught me how to wield the posthole digger. The camp-care crew cleaned up after breakfast. By noon everyone was ravenous.
Sarah, our cook, was a virtuoso. As part of her interviewing process she made us a sumptuous lunch: chilled gazpacho; fluffy couscous flavored with capers, red peppers, and pine nuts; a crunchy bean-sprout salad drizzled with olive oil and sea salt; and for dessert plump, ripe berries with clover honey. We hired her on the spot.
It was only after the kids arrived that we discovered Sarah’s secret quirk, and by then it was too late. Sarah hated cooking, or rather, she hated heating food. “It destroys all the beneficial food enzymes,” she said.
She was willing—nay, eager—to prepare food for us as long as she didn’t have to operate the stove. “Most chefs are limited by the stove,” she said. “Not me. I disdain heat; I spit at fire. They are the number-one cause of all health problems.”
Noticing our stunned, slightly skeptical faces, she gave us a list of cooking ingredients she would need: nori and kombu seaweed, tofu, sprouts, fresh vegetables of all sorts except root vegetables like potato, fresh fruits, and grains that cooked without heating, like couscous. “There is an Indian grain called poha,” said Sarah, looking at me for validation. “You just soak it in water, add some raisins, cashews, and chopped vegetables for a wonderful one-dish dinner.”
I nodded.
Bud’s head swiveled toward me. “Is poha like macaroni?” he asked hopefully.
I was elected liaison between Sarah and the rest of the group.
“You’re the only one who understands her language,” said Barbara.
“Get her to cook some chicken or even some pasta,” said Bud. “This is a summer camp, not a commune. Kids won’t eat kombu.”
“Ooh, what I wouldn’t give for some steaks,” sang Andy. “Some steaks and beer on a hot summer’s day.”
Even Ted, the collector of juvenile delinquents and eccentrics, was at a loss. “There’s got to be some food Sarah can cook that these kids will eat,” he said.
“Bread,” replied Sarah, when I gingerly broached the subject with her. The only thing she would eat from the enzyme-killed, chemical-laden, iron-fortified, hormone-supplemented, fatty, unhealthy, cooked mush that they call cuisine was bread, said Sarah. Apparently, even though bread was baked in an oven, it didn’t kill as many enzymes as, say, sautéeing, or stir-frying, or—horrors—frying.
Bread, I thought. Why not? At least it was something the kids would eat.
Sarah baked bread all summer long. We woke up to the scent of zucchini bread for breakfast. We brought along zesty lemon bread packed with walnuts and raisins when we took the kids swimming in the pond on hot afternoons. When Chief Lightfoot from the Taos Pueblo came to visit, Sarah even broke her no-cooking rule and fried up some wonderful Zuni bread that she dusted with confectioner’s sugar and served with honey.
“She’s on to something,” said Bud. “Taste.”
At night, when we sat telling stories over the campfire, Sarah gave us warm cheese bread. As cold darkness settled over the mountains, we hugged one another and shared slices of crumbly bread oozing with ripe yellow cheese. In the distance a coyote wailed mournfully at the moon. The campers sang “Kumbaya.” Flashlights danced across the pine trees as the children stumbled to their tents.
“Tomorrow we will make pine bread,” said Sarah.
In exchange, I taught Sarah to make poha—the right way, not the uncooked way.
POHA
Gujarat in October. It is the Nav Ratri (nine nights) festival, when entire cities come alive at night with music and dancing. I am in beautiful Baroda, the cultural capital of Gujarat, where I spend my days primping for the night. Come sunset and I set off, dressed like a peacock, to dance all night. We go around in giant circles, clapping hands, bending and swaying, turning our faces to the giant moon low in the sky. In the morning I come home and eat a bowl of piping hot poha.
Poha is famous in Gujarat, where it is eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and as a snack. In Tamil it is called aval and is used to make sweet and savory dishes. My family likes to eat this dish for dinner, since it is light on the stomach and needs few accompaniments.
SERVES 4
1 cup beaten rice (poha) (available in Indian grocery stores)
1 1/2 tablespoons oil
1/2 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon cumin
3 to 5 green chiles, slit in half lengthwise
3 1/4-inch slices of ginger, minced
1 stalk curry leaves, chopped, about 10
1 large onion, chopped
1 small potato, peeled and cubed
1/4 cup roasted, unsalted peanuts, broken into small pieces
1/4 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon lime juice
1/4 cup grated or dessicated coconut
1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro
Wash the poha, then drain. Sprinkle a handful of clear water (about 1/2 cup) over it and put aside. After 15 minutes, loosen the poha gently and break any lumps with your fingers. It should be soft and fluffy.
In a heavy saucepan, heat the oil, add the mustard seeds, and cook until they sputter. Add the cumin, chiles, ginger, and curry leaves. Stir for 1 minute. Then add the onion and potato. Stir until the onion is translucent and the potato is tender. Remove from the heat.
Add the poha, peanuts, sugar, salt, and lime juice. Mix well. Fold in the coconut and cilantro. Serve hot with freshly brewed coffee.
FOURTEEN
Love’s Labor Lost
I HAD ALWAYS COOKED to gain something: permission to go to America, a chance to stay an extra year, for money. In Memphis I cooked for what I had lost. It happened this way.
After a summer at camp, I moved to Memphis to attend graduate school. I lived off campus, in a building unofficially called Curry Hall because of the large numbers of Indian students rooming there. I spent most days and nights in the sculpture studio.
Memphis was very different from Mount Holyoke. For one thing, I had a lot more Indian friends in Memphis, and they threw great parties. We would gather in someone’s house on a Friday night, indulge in a potluck dinner, and dance until the wee hours.
SOUTHERNERS FASCINATED ME. Quick of laugh and sly of wit, their conversation masked more than it revealed. They were pleasant and easygoing but had a certain reserve that I couldn’t penetrate, which only piqued my curiosity about them. In the Northeast I got invited to dozens of homes. In the South I could barely manage two. When I did visit homes, I found gracious men and women with a droll sense of humor and a talent for flirtatious repartee. They were great storytellers and held me enthralled for hours with tales of eccentric relatives and the Civil War. Unlike New Englanders, they openly acknowledged their regional identity. When I asked, for instance, “What kind of artist are you?” a common response was “A Southern artist.” I was curious about what comprised a Southerner. Was it genealogy or personality?
There were many layers to the South, holding mysterious secrets, rambling generations,
and recipes from Aunt Mamie. It was like a quicksand that sucked me into its sultry charms and dulcet air. In some ways, it reminded me of Madras.
I had interesting professors. Greely Myatt, new to the job, was my sculpture teacher. He sat with me as I teetered on a stepladder or stooped over an anvil, chatting about his work and mine. We had an easy rapport, or so I thought. He was passionate about art and spent long hours rearranging the studio and discussing students’ projects.
As part of my scholarship, I worked at the graduate coordinator’s office. There I encountered other professors—painters, art historians, ceramists, and printmakers. Memphis State didn’t have Mount Holyoke’s resources or its spirit of largesse, but after a couple of years I felt like I had carved out a little niche for myself within the art department.
How, then, to account for the fact that at the end of my master’s program—after thinking that I knew my professors and had their full support—I felt completely betrayed by them? To be fair, they probably felt the same way about me and were just as bitter as I was when it happened.
IT WAS THE DAY of my final exam. I had to defend my thesis exhibition before the graduate committee as part of the requirements for a master’s in fine arts. We gathered at 9:00 A.M. in the art museum, six professors and I, to review the sculptures I had created during the course of a semester. It was an elaborate installation made from hundreds of thin circles that I had fashioned from steel. First I had cut steel circles, then I sanded them so that they sparkled and welded them into elaborate designs that vaguely resembled David Smith’s sculptures. But my pieces were more figurative than his. There were wheelchairs, steel pipes, roller coaster–like designs, and circles suspended in space.