Baga's Glug
(Grandma Dueber's recipe)
Here w e are again at the w inter
solstice. I.ike clivers on a spnngDoard, we
pause briefly, collecting ourselves before
swan diving into the last five years of this
century. We gather with family and
friends in celebration of the days to come
and reflect on those past. 1 conjure
w inter images of things small and helpless
struggling against the chill buffets of hail
and snow. The solstice is a harsh time.
Sparrows scratch the drifts of snow for
meager seed. A poor man scavenges
w inter fuel as King Wenceslas watches
with his page. Tim Cratchit, a crippled
and impoverished child, dreams of a
joyful Christmas for his kin. A homeless
couple, the wife pregnant, finds sanctuary
in a manger. Somehow life continues
against hard odds. In the struggle, the
dull becomes burnished and shines
lustrous and bright.
My father, older brother, and I are
University of Oregon alumni. Our
combined attendance there spanned some
60-odd years. This New Year's Day the
"Fighting Ducks" of Oregon will face Penn
State in the Rose Bowl. The Ducks find
themselves preparing for this annual
event rated as 18-point underdogs. My
father would have accepted, no, revelled
in, the fa c t His Ducks always fumbled
and sloshed their way through
undistinguished seasons of football and
basketball. They w ere perennial
stragglers. Occasionally, b u t infrequently,
glimpses of greatness occurred. Our
spirits soared. I can see my father now
in my memory's eye, gray head hunched
over an old wooden Emerson radio, hand
cupped to his ear, desperately trying to
extrapolate play by play from static,
grimacing or cheering as the fortunes of
his lowly Ducks rose or, more often, fell.
My parents imbued us with respect and
admiration for the little guy, the helpless
things, the underdog As a child I was
often disappointed. Our teams rarely
won. But sometimes they did.
As the years pass, I thank my parents
for showing me the value of the small
voice, the minority opinion, the unsung
the dark horse. I ran each step with
Abebe Bikila barefoot through the streets
of Rome to an Olympic marathon victory.
My tears at the finish choked my chest.
My heart walks w ith Desmond Tutu and
his people. I carry with me the history of
Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce in their
straggle.
I would counsel you on the verge of
this New Year, this changing of the old
for the new, to heed the small voices,
acknowledge the sometimes less
fashionable, and regard the underdogs.
You may not often wm. Your political
candidate will probably return quickly to
private life. Your team might not beat
Penn State in the Rose Bowl. But your
life will certainly be interesting.
The Professor closes with two recipes
for solstice/New Year's cheer, one from
Old England and one from Grandma
Dueber, once of Cannon Beach.
2 jth s Bourbon
1 5th Brandy
1 pint Rum
12 egg yolks
3 lbs sugar
2 qts Half and Half
1 qt Cream
Beat egg yolks and add sugar until
thoroughly blended. Stir continuously
while adding milk, cream, and liquors.
Refrigerate in glass jars. Shake well
every day for ten days. Keep
refrigerated. Improves dramatically with
agp. Sip each day to test quality.
Because we recently immigrated to
Cannon Beach from Portland, our editor,
thefvery nearly reverend Billy, asked us,
in that endearingly imperious way he has,
to jot down a few impressions of our
impressions. City boy meets Nature, that
sort of drivel. Because Reverend Billy
pays us (this month, a few cheap trinkets
and half a swatch of bright colored
ribbon) we'll humor him.
When we announced our move to
friends in Portland, the question asked
most often was, "What are you, nuts?"
After two weeks, the jury is still o u t In
all fairness, it's been out for some time.
We left the city for the best of reasons;
because we could. We left it before, as a
young man, for an island off the coast of
Spain. This was our expatriate w riter
phase. Ten years later, we left it again
for a cabin in the coast range where, for
four years, we grazed on bem es, howled
at coyotes, and watched over a waterfall.
This was our Whole Earth phase. Fifteen
winters have passed, the last ten spent
writing a column for a large Portland
weekly. Finger on the pulse, ear to the
Rolodex sort of thing And now w e're
here, a t land's end, an old dog circling
three times before he lies down.
Friends still warn of withdrawals. The
giddy whirl of lattes, free whiskey, and
complimentary standup buffets will, they
assure, bring us back. All things are
possible. But some, like striking a match
on a cake of soap, are less probable than
Others.
At the moment, it's hard to imagine a
reversing of our tracks. W e've seen our
fair share of cities and, while Portland is
right there with the best of them, urban
life will always boil down to learning to
meditate m a drum factory. Too many
people, too little time. The city will do
fine without us and we'll do fine w ithout
i t Like old lovers, w e've agreed to
disagree, and to do it from separate
bedrooms.
And so, Cannon Beach. A common law
marriage of Aspen by the Sea and the
Oakland of Kerouac. We've taken rooms
in a house at the end of Jefferson Street
where our desk looks out at the sea. Our
days are spent as they were in the city,
smoking cigarettes and making bright
colored marks on the computer screen.
The seagulls laugh.
Just before sunset, we trudge up the
beach to Biirs Tavern where Nurse
Vivian and Nurse Andrea feed us coffee
in our special IV bottle as we eavesdrop
on news of the day. The names are
different, the stories much the same.
We're content to not yet be part of them,
a stranger in a familiar land.
There is no real end to this piece,
situated as it is at the beginning. There is
no end to anything really, not when you
get down to i t Least of all that journey
we all take just with ourselves. Taking
our leave or arriving, the only question
worth asking is this: are we running from
something or to it? Here and now, a click
or two past midlife, perched between the
forest and the sea on the upper left edge
of America, we still have only the vaguest
notion of w hat w e’re looking for. And the
quiet suspicion it might be here, hiding
behind the wind and the lunatic laughter
of the gulls.
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