Then and today.
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Back at the Border Bar
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The other day I was at the Harlem city hall for a swimming pool committee meeting. I don’t know how I got on the pool committee. I don’t know how to swim. I have tried numerous times to learn. The city has a great team of lifeguards this year and they promised me that they can teach me to swim. I wouldn’t put money on it. But this is not about swimming.
Before I left the office, I ran into a friend from Malta . “Have you been out to pick asparagus this year?” he asked. “Well, no,” I admitted. “If you’re going to get some, you’d better get out there,” he countered. I thought about that while I walked home.
Back at my house, I asked my guests, David and Vidya, long time friends from Port Townsend, Washington , if they would like to go to Dodson to pick wild asparagus. Within minutes we were on our way. We quickly picked a nice mess. But this is not about asparagus either.
On the way home the sky presented spectacular roiling clouds. “Let’s go to the Border Bar for a burger,” I suggested. We pulled into Harlem and headed north to Turner, entranced by the sky show all the way.
Kimber, owner of the Border Bar, took our order for burgers with heaps of grilled onions. “We are holding The Cruise on the18th,” she told us. “Are you coming up?” She and her husband Jay and a few other good people from the north-country put on an annual car show, with new, vintage, and muscle cars, one of the highlights of the summer.
“We were here last year,” David told Kimber. “It’s a shame we’ll have to miss this one. I loved the burn-outs and people lining up to smash that old car with sledge hammers. We left before the street dance. Next time we will stay longer.”
“Cars, food, fun and music; that’s what it’s about,” Kimber said as she headed to the grill to sizzle our burgers.
“I went to a street dance in Turner once,” I said. “It was the summer before my senior year in high school, a different era, the early sixties. My Dad let me have the car and that was a rare thing.
“Six of us girls went together. We were all ‘good’ girls. Nobody had to tell us right from wrong. We knew. Today we probably would be called ‘nerds’. None of us were what you’d call ‘hot stuff’.
“In the old days when Turner threw a street dance, it was a hum-dinger. People came from all around the country. With the music, the dancing, the noise, and the free-flowing libations, nobody remained strangers for long. None of us girls were accustomed to drinking, but we each had at least one beer. We were having a great time but I had to have the car back by the witching hour, so we left around eleven. On the drive home, one of the girls in the back seat suddenly felt sick. The other girls cranked down the window, scooted her over, and made her stick her head out. She vomited all over the side of my Dad’s car.
“I dropped the girls off at their homes and rolled into my drive moments before midnight. I knew I had to clean the car before Dad came out for chores. So I set my alarm for four-thirty, sneaked down stairs, filled a bucket with hot soapy water and scrubbed the car. When he came out at five o’clock I was rinsing it down. ‘What are you doing,’ he asked. Why do parents ask the obvious when they are standing right there watching. ‘Washing the car,’ I answered.
“My Dad stood in silence for about three centuries. He looked from me to the car and back to me. He shook his head, turned and walked to the barn. I never went to another street dance.”
We ate our burgers, each of us contemplating misspent days of our youth. It’s a new day. I think I’ll give the Turner street dance another try.
Sondra Ashton
Looking out my back door
June 9, 2011
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Showing posts with label asparagus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label asparagus. Show all posts
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Friday, July 2, 2010
Stalking the Wild
Stalking the Wild
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Ah, the thrill of the chase. The anticipation of pursuit. Stalking the quarry, sneaking through the brush, the grasses, the thistles, the wild rose, warily parting the fronds and peering with expectation. My delight at spotting my prey.
Something of the pioneer courses through my blood when I venture forth to bring home the bacon, so to speak. It is hard to describe my satisfaction upon my return with larder for the pantry. I feel like a mighty hunter who evaded the wooly mammoth, outwitted the saber-toothed tiger and brought home the wild asparagus.
A couple weeks ago, while sipping a cup of coffee at the bakery in Chinook, I eavesdropped on men at the next table. They were telling tales of gathering asparagus along the river. I had had every intention of going for asparagus this year, but each day that I was available to go, the weather conspired to defeat me. It was getting late in the season. I was glad to hear that there might be some left.
When I was a child, I discovered a small stand of asparagus that grew on the bank of the Milk River near our house. I sat in the sand and ate the tender spears. Not one stalk made it to the kitchen. I was hooked.
Fresh out of high school and newly married, I moved to Dodson. Mary Tribby took me under wing. She lived in a small cottage across the road from the creek. To me, she was a wise woman, a crone of inestimable knowledge. She initiated me into the esoteric rites of asparagus stalking. She taught me how to see the above-ground clues to the close-to-the-ground bounty. While the dew still sparkled on the grass, Mary and I gathered a basket full of spears, blanched them, and bagged them for my freezer.
So I told my guests from out of state, “Today is the last possible day we might pick wild asparagus. I know a special place. Would you like to go on a hunt? But there is no guarantee we’ll find fresh game.” Within minutes we were on the road to Dodson. We parked along a side street. I led my guests to the wide banks of Dodson Creek.
“Here’s what we look for,” I said. I showed them the dried fronds from last years crop, parted the grasses beneath the old stalks, and noted where others before us had snapped off fresh spears. One dark green stalk, about two feet high, stood guard. It was much too woody to eat. It would scatter good seed for the future. I continued to rake through the grasses with my fingers and uncovered one lovely stalk, about five inches above ground, barely visible above the duff, light green in color with tight, scale-like leaves.
Once we had snapped off the first three asparagus, we ate them. My friends had never tasted fresh asparagus in the field. That was all the motivation these greenhorns needed. We separated and each of us combed a different section of creek bank. I know many fresh stalks were munched and never made it into the bag. Yet our end-of-the-season hunt yielded two huge messes of this lily-like vegetable. We left, satisfied with our haul. As a bonus, I took home two wool socks studded with cockleburs.
Back at the house we enjoyed a simple meal of steamed asparagus, lightly buttered with salt and pepper. My friends began planning next year’s hunt while I plucked cockleburs from my socks. They intend to return for opening day and bring appropriate field gear.
We who live in north central Montana have missed a vital commercial opportunity. Think about it. Annually outlanders come to hike our trails, shoot our elk, photograph our wolves, and toss dry flies at trout. So why not institute a designated “season” to stalk the wild asparagus. I can see it now. An entire new industry is born. The state issues licenses. Guides take the innocent hunters to the second best sites (saving favored stream banks for family). Towns vie to be named “Wild Asparagus Capital of the World”. Tournaments. Trophies. Hunting gear. Clothing. Caps. Tools. Art. Kitsch. Souvenirs. Toys. Recipe books. Maps. Brochures. Museums. Parades. Celebrations. Roadside stands. The possibilities are endless.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 24, 2010
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Ah, the thrill of the chase. The anticipation of pursuit. Stalking the quarry, sneaking through the brush, the grasses, the thistles, the wild rose, warily parting the fronds and peering with expectation. My delight at spotting my prey.
Something of the pioneer courses through my blood when I venture forth to bring home the bacon, so to speak. It is hard to describe my satisfaction upon my return with larder for the pantry. I feel like a mighty hunter who evaded the wooly mammoth, outwitted the saber-toothed tiger and brought home the wild asparagus.
A couple weeks ago, while sipping a cup of coffee at the bakery in Chinook, I eavesdropped on men at the next table. They were telling tales of gathering asparagus along the river. I had had every intention of going for asparagus this year, but each day that I was available to go, the weather conspired to defeat me. It was getting late in the season. I was glad to hear that there might be some left.
When I was a child, I discovered a small stand of asparagus that grew on the bank of the Milk River near our house. I sat in the sand and ate the tender spears. Not one stalk made it to the kitchen. I was hooked.
Fresh out of high school and newly married, I moved to Dodson. Mary Tribby took me under wing. She lived in a small cottage across the road from the creek. To me, she was a wise woman, a crone of inestimable knowledge. She initiated me into the esoteric rites of asparagus stalking. She taught me how to see the above-ground clues to the close-to-the-ground bounty. While the dew still sparkled on the grass, Mary and I gathered a basket full of spears, blanched them, and bagged them for my freezer.
So I told my guests from out of state, “Today is the last possible day we might pick wild asparagus. I know a special place. Would you like to go on a hunt? But there is no guarantee we’ll find fresh game.” Within minutes we were on the road to Dodson. We parked along a side street. I led my guests to the wide banks of Dodson Creek.
“Here’s what we look for,” I said. I showed them the dried fronds from last years crop, parted the grasses beneath the old stalks, and noted where others before us had snapped off fresh spears. One dark green stalk, about two feet high, stood guard. It was much too woody to eat. It would scatter good seed for the future. I continued to rake through the grasses with my fingers and uncovered one lovely stalk, about five inches above ground, barely visible above the duff, light green in color with tight, scale-like leaves.
Once we had snapped off the first three asparagus, we ate them. My friends had never tasted fresh asparagus in the field. That was all the motivation these greenhorns needed. We separated and each of us combed a different section of creek bank. I know many fresh stalks were munched and never made it into the bag. Yet our end-of-the-season hunt yielded two huge messes of this lily-like vegetable. We left, satisfied with our haul. As a bonus, I took home two wool socks studded with cockleburs.
Back at the house we enjoyed a simple meal of steamed asparagus, lightly buttered with salt and pepper. My friends began planning next year’s hunt while I plucked cockleburs from my socks. They intend to return for opening day and bring appropriate field gear.
We who live in north central Montana have missed a vital commercial opportunity. Think about it. Annually outlanders come to hike our trails, shoot our elk, photograph our wolves, and toss dry flies at trout. So why not institute a designated “season” to stalk the wild asparagus. I can see it now. An entire new industry is born. The state issues licenses. Guides take the innocent hunters to the second best sites (saving favored stream banks for family). Towns vie to be named “Wild Asparagus Capital of the World”. Tournaments. Trophies. Hunting gear. Clothing. Caps. Tools. Art. Kitsch. Souvenirs. Toys. Recipe books. Maps. Brochures. Museums. Parades. Celebrations. Roadside stands. The possibilities are endless.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
June 24, 2010
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