Road Trip Continued

You switch drivers often so everyone gets a chance to look at the views, new places to see. The landscape, the road signs, what folks in this part of the country keep in their yards, the animals, baby lambs, colts, big bulls, the plethora of drive through coffee shacks, all these things draw the attention of the group. You start collecting the names of the coffee shacks “Latte Da”, “Get Wired”, “Pony Expresso”. You are amused by the “Jesus” sign which is hanging just below the “Special Sale: Discounts” sign, imagining that this would be a good day to convert if you could get Jesus at such a bargain price. You are torn between how many times you can allow the car to stop for pictures, the landscape, seascape, rushing rivers, towering mountains call for further inspections, vs. the travel time being slowed considerably and that schedule to keep to, friends or relatives awaiting your arrival.

I tried to alternate the exercise schedule each day, but realize too much variation will just lead to sore muscles without any gain. I start off motivated, reaching my daily goal of thirty minutes every morning. When I look at my list of other things which need to happen this summer - weeds to pulls, house to be painted, chicken pen to be cleaned, carpets to be shampooed, months worth of bookkeeping to catch up on, new business to start exploring, I am too tired each day. So the next day I decide to do some of my work first, and exercise later. The work exhausts me and I skip the bike, the kayak, the treadmill, even the stretching, justifying to myself if the work made me this tired, it is exercise too.

The car starts to seem small. Bags and boxes not as organized, someone doesn’t put the food back into the ice chest carefully, cheese puffed up like a bloated seal, floating in the melted ice on the bottom of the cooler, sharp knife missing now, how do we cut the tomatoes for the picnic lunch? Talk turns from tales of trips gone by and memories of adventures to personal and political issues. Voices change from smooth, slow low notes, to high pitched accusations and disagreements. When you are tired, no one volunteers to drive, the rest stop bathrooms for a full day are terrible pit toilets, no water available for washing your hands.

I worked my way through the healthy food list alphabetically. The first three recipes are tasty, artichokes in lemon butter, stir fry broccoli, beets with tarragon. My family is so happy that I am cooking for them, there are no left overs. I take my time at the farmer’s market, browsing every stall, listening to conversations about freshness, taste, compatibility. I use the internet generously, looking for foods which incorporate the various things I have bought - arugula and asparagus, beets and bok choy, cabbage and carrots, I decide that mind over matter is important in my approach to cooking - I have never liked to cook, I have a terrible sense of how tastes should compliment each other. If I stick religiously to the recipe that someone else has created, the food should taste good.

Finally there is a small break in the trip, you are going to stay with this great aunt for a few days, take a break from the miles that roll past each day, sleep in a bed for more than one night. After an evening of talking, a morning telling tales while sipping endless cups of coffee, your leg starts to jiggle, you pace a little, the trip is calling, and you all pile in the car anyway, to sight see the small town, go to lunch, top off the gas tank in preparation for the next departure. You cannot escape the road.

I spend a few hours finding the recipe, shopping for the right ingredients, chopping, sauteing, mixing. Placing the bowls on the table, serving the plates, taking the anticipatory bite (somehow I can never bring myself to taste the food when I am cooking, a strange personality trait), and (drum roll)...the food is NASTY. The bok choy sits in my mouth with a strange flavor which makes it hard for me to even chew and swallow. Turning to the cabbage salad, the crunch is nice, but the flavors do not appeal, and seem to clash with the unusual bok choy. Poking a fork around for a piece of the diced chicken, even this has absorbed something very unappealing. When I tell the family “This is nasty”, they shrug and say “Tastes all right to me”, finishing the piles on their plates. I clean up the many pots and pans, bowls and plates, then pour myself a bowl of cereal, topped with berries. At least I am staying true to the alphabet.