Donkey Cuisine in Italy

They eat donkeys in Italy. While we were in Mantua we were told it was a local specialty in the restaurant where my husband ordered kangaroo for lunch. Donkey stew was there on the menu with the kangaroo steak and I confess, I had never seen either on any menu, not even in New Zealand where it is geographically closer to kangaroos than Italy.

A shiver of revulsion ran up my spine as I ordered the beef with seasonal mushrooms and prepared myself for the medium rare kangaroo to appear beside me on a plate in front of my husband.

As we dug into the breadbasket I had a donkey flashback and fondly remembered the family burro we adopted the summer we packed into the High Sierra. The pack station at Kings Canyon National Park in California outfitted us with a donkey to carry our gear because we needed help with the food and camping equipment for two small children and two otherwise sane adults. My daughter Alexandra was nine and she fell deeply in love with the nameless beast of burden that trotted along the trail with us at the end of a frayed lead. He was the topic of endless fascination for her as we inched our way into the wilderness toward Jenny Lake. Her five-year old brother didn’t share her enthusiasm and was more interested in the Gatorade and the M&M’s in the trail mix, as I recall.

By the time we reached our destination Alexandra had named our companion “Pepper” and had so thoroughly fondled his tail and the fuzzy inside of his ears that she had the pungent smell of donkey on her that more than filled the tent when we zipped in for the night.

The wine arrived at the table and we started on our insalata mista after carefully dressing it with the olive oil and vinegar. My donkey reverie continued as I recalled what a tough night we had that first night on Jenny Lake. We were no wranglers and because our daughter loved Pepper so much we decided to keep him close to the tent and treat him like an extra large dog. He noisily stomped and snorted outside the tent all night and we discovered in the morning that he had been busy making a mess. When we pulled the tent flap back we discovered what looked like a stable before us with flies and donkey droppings everywhere.  Horrified, we moved the tent and tethered Pepper about a hundred yards away.

When the kangaroo was served I was surprised it looked and smelled like a delicious entrée.  My husband gave me a bite and I grudgingly acknowledged how hungry Australian Bushmen could grow a taste for fuzzy hopping marsupials. It was tender with a full rich taste not unlike beef.

Donkey StewChewing my succulent beef in mushroom sauce I once again considered donkey stew and had another flashback to the ending of the Sierra adventure with “Pepper.” While he was good at looking furry and dumb it took us until the third day while on the journey out of the wilderness to realize he was a donkey genius. Pepper was a prodigy in the area of torturing inexperienced city slickers who presume to rent pack animals. And I mean torture.

At the beginning of our trip when the wrangler easily secured the primitive looking wooden cross piece, called crutches, with ropes under the belly, over the haunches and around the wooden harness it looked easy to replicate. I’m sure my husband thought, “Any cud chewing 49er could do that. It looks easier than tying sailing knots!” We felt confident about getting Pepper, our gear and our children back to civilization in time for dinner and a much needed bath. I remember for first half mile of the hike we were light hearted until it started…the harness slipped and all the gear landed on the ground with a messy thud. Pepper just stood there looking stupid and innocent with the tangle of ropes cascading off his smelly back. We said, “Oh dear,” the first time and repeated the lengthy process of getting Pepper prepared for the trek, giving him a hard punch in the belly to make sure we got the air out of him so it didn’t happen again.

But it did happen again and again and again all day until I cried with frustration and started to worry about darkness. In desperation we agreed the children and I had to go ahead to the pack station so they could send a wrangler to rescue my belagered husband who was thoroughly Pepper’s victim by this time despite the most aggressive kicks in the gut. Pepper was impossible and we were traumatized. I didn’t think of it at the time but if I had known about Italian donkey cuisine I would have renamed Pepper “Stew.”

Hmmm, yes I remember now. That night when I finally got the children to bed I would have happily eaten a bowl of Pepper stew.

Our meal was over and we were finishing the bottle of the local Lambrusco wine that was perfect with lunch. It is low in alcohol and frizzante (sparkling) and went well with the beef and the kangaroo. As I reflected on another fabulous meal in Italy I decided before leaving the Lombardy region I would sample the delights of donkey cuisine in Italy after all. YES, please pass the pepper.

Copyright © 2013 Gayle Madison

Forever Yours on My Birthday

Phil was an amazing man who was dying from a very slow and demanding cancer that he had been dealing with for many years. Both pragmatic and deeply spiritual he knew his life was soon to end and he didn’t want to miss his own funeral. He had attended the end of life celebrations for many people and realized they were always wonderful, affirming events simply too good for the deceased to miss. So with the help of his family he threw his memorial party just two weeks before he died and he let himself receive great love.

My Joyous Heart by Gayle MadisonOver two hundred of us came to the potluck meal and stood in a long line waiting to talk to Phil in groups of two or three. He sat on a sagging couch at the front of the hall and his bright attention and interest in every person shone out of his ravaged body. He was almost Essential Phil at that point with his Soul brimming over and masking the ways the cancer had finally eaten through his skin and taken away his sturdy masculine strength, leaving him a shadow of his former self.

An open mic was set up so people could share memories and make public declarations of love and appreciation for Phil. And then it was his turn to sing his song to us, which he dedicated to his beautiful and beloved wife Ruth Ann. Holding his guitar he played and sang from his chair and simultaneously from somewhere far away, “What Have I done to Deserve Your Love?”

The expressions of love and gratitude that day were so pure that the energetic field of the room vibrated with Truth. There seemed to be more light in the room than simple daylight and electric light bulbs could create. The catered tubs of pasta, the potluck offerings and soft drinks tasted especially delicious. Everyone knew we were there to say goodbye to Phil yet there was no sadness present, only gratitude. It was an extraordinary experience.

When my heart brims full with gratitude it starts to overflow with an aching that feels like the head waters of prayer. It is the moment when words no longer contain the fullness of my experience and I tumble head over heels into the arms of Divine Reality. I know in those moments that feelings aren’t “my feelings” but that I’m plugged into a fire hose of intelligent Love and Gratitude that knows itself in my love and gratitude while it is much bigger than me.

Phil’s opacity allowed the great love expressed by two hundred people that day to move through him and into the receptive container around him. It filled the room and all of us felt nourished. He didn’t need to hold on to the love, rather, he allowed it to flow through him and bless the Universe. We all received the love that was being mirrored for Phil while he received a reflection of the love he had always been and will continue to be, his death changes nothing. We saw how we are all part of the same love which was the vibrating Truth.

Phil is on my mind today because he inspired me to have a 65^th birthday and retirement party recently to let myself be loved. Fifty people came to celebrate with me. As I watched my friends on our terrace talking, laughing, eating and having a good time I pondered the question Phil sang about, “What have I done to deserve your love?”  Gratitude brimmed over the container of my heart and I heard the answer like an antiphonal chant, “Nothing, there is nothing you have to do to deserve this love. It belongs to you and to everyone so just enjoy! It is forever yours.”

Copyright © 2013 Gayle Madison

French Wine with Cookies Improves Bicycling and the Appetite

Who ever heard of drinking fine French wine while eating cookies? I hadn’t until we found ourselves in Sancerre, France and were introduced to Croquets de Sancerre, a twice baked almond cookie that is best described as a French biscotti. These small deliciously crunchy confections are not too sweet and not too savory. They fit perfectly in a dainty tri-digit grasp and are meant to dip in a glass of Pouilly-Fume, the region’s famous dry white wine.

My husband and I were finding our way to Sancerre on bicycles and we stopped to ask an elderly French woman which way to go. With a twinkle in her eye she pointed straight up to the sky and laughed before she indicated the correct route. By the time we arrived sweaty and breathless in the village square, up 312 meters (1,023ft.) from the Loire Valley, we understood her levity.  Up on its own rocky little mountain it was one of France’s best naturally fortified castle villages during the Middle Ages.

The central square included a few cafes, two nice restaurants, many fine bulk French wine purveyors and two bakeries that featured Croquets de Sancerre. I wanted to buy the one-kilo bag for 32 Euro (about $US43) but I controlled myself and bought the 300-gram bag for just 10 Euro ($US$13.37). I fully intended to eat them all myself because they were far too fragile to carry all the way home.

At dinner my husband was horrified by the thought of mucking up his beautiful glass of French wine by dipping a biscuit in it. Never mind, I dunked and slurped them as an appetizer because I have always believed that cookies improve on every meal. That night proved I was right again. After eating 300grams of Croquets de Sancerre, sharing a bottle of Pouilly-Fume and enjoying a three-course dinner, I still had room for the cheese course before we careened back down the mountain on our bicycles. You see, fine French wine with cookies improves the appetite and bicycling fortitude.

Copyright © 2013 Gayle Madison

A New Look at Why We Sing Hymns

Enthusiastic and friendly yodelers from the next table gave us a demonstration during lunch in Bern, Switzerland as we sat in a café enjoying the cobblestone streets and 15th-century terraced buildings. They were two happy couples on their way to Interlaken to enjoy the 28^th annual Swiss Yodeling Festival in June.

We had ordered an Alpine specialty called kaseschnitte, bread sprinkled with white wine, covered with ham, smothered with cheese and baked in the oven. Yum. We never expected a serenade too while we were sipping our beer.

Yodeling was originally a form of communication between Alpine residents who communicated with their neighboring villages by using their voices in an extended note, dropping from a falsetto voice to a chest register and then going back to the falsetto. I’d love to know the content of those pre-modern communications. Did they yodel, “Hey come on over for some kaseschnitte” or “Run to the high country the Huns are coming.” Village to village communication with the unaided human voice sounded impossible until on our hikes I realized that they had serious help from echoes. In addition to the echoes the villages are not very far apart. We visited one village on a cliff only 1,500 feet above the neighboring burg accessible by a funicular that ran almost straight up on a serious steel cable.

The high-low vocalizing of yodeling was a melodious and joyful sound that evolved into music as well as communication! Yodeling songs combine singing in two part harmony and yodeling. The songs tend to start with a squeeze box accordion musical accompaniment and begin with singing that is punctuated with a chorus of yodeling, naturally in German. Although stereotypic it sounds to my ear ever so much like, “old a lady, old a lady whoo, do dit doo de doo de dah.”  They can’t help themselves, they just keep doing it. Yodeling sounds odd to my ear and even so, it makes me want to put my hiking boots on and sing along. You can hear a classical example of what I’m talking about on youtube!

Creatures of the earth are created to communicate and to sing and I learned more about that on my recent trip to Costa Rica. I was amazed to hear that white-faced monkey sing a hymn of praise at sunrise. It is a clicking, chirping chorus in which every member of the troop seems to participate with their own sounds, rhythmic, harmonic and very pleasing. It reminds me of a morning hymn sing, "Morning has broken like the first morning; blackbird has spoken like the first bird. Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning! Praise for them springing fresh from the word." (Eleanor Farjeon, 1931)

Howler MonkeyAnother chorus from the jungle came from the howler monkeys whose song is sung at sunrise and sunset. Theirs is a primeval sound somewhere between a lion's roar and a dog's bark but more eerie than anything I've ever heard. Clearly, the community's vocalizing together is a central part of being in a monkey troop and it is certainly done in ritual fashion. The can't help themselves, they just do it because that's what howler monkeys do! From my jungle hotel room I found myself weeping in bed at 5:30 a.m. as I listened to these sacred sounds. "Ah ha," I thought, "We humans who have climbed out of the jungle not that long ago have probably been calling to each other and singing and chanting together for more millions of years."

From my travels in the world I have learned many things. One of the most precious is gaining an understanding about why it is so satisfying to sing together in church. When we are in community with each other we must communicate, or call to each other, and vocalize together. It is one of the most fundamental parts of being a primate and we do it every Sunday because it is fun and it is traditional. Wow, I have no idea how traditional!

Copyright © 2013 Gayle Madison

Windy Dutch Beer

On a warm, cloudy day in May my husband and I were exploring in an absolutely out of the way, non-touristy Dutch village in Friesland in the north of the Netherlands. Our trajectory from the canal where we left our boat was clearly towards the slowly arcing arms of a large windmill in the distance. Walking along on brick paths and cobblestone streets we passed bakeries and cafes with window boxes filled with wild masses of geraniums and sweet William. We had no idea we were about to learn a fascinating lesson about the origins of Dutch beer.

The windmill creaked as the large blades swung around near a small door that had a handwritten sign propped against the doorjamb, “Come up,” was all it said in English.

The MillerI grabbed the handrails of what was more like a ladder than a staircase and climbed up three stories until I came upon the miller and his assistant smiling broadly and covered in flour. The miller was happy to have visitors and educated us about his 30-year contract with the municipally owned mill where he made his livelihood grinding wheat, barley and hops for local breweries and bakeries. This is an arrangement Dutch millers have been having with local municipalities for about four hundred years. Wow, Dutch beer has actually been starting its life in a windmill for a long time.

Hundreds of years ago the Dutch used the more than 10,000 windmills that covered the landscape for everything from grinding grains to removing salt water from the polders or low lying lands they were reclaiming from the North Sea. Today there are some 1200 of them still in operation. The technology for windmills probably came  to the Netherlands from the Middle East brought home by the Crusaders in the 13^th Century. While that can’t be proven it is clear that the Dutch fully developed the use of the windmill and built their economy and their lives with the help of the wind which made them a major world power in the 17^th and 18^th centuries. Believe me, their lives still benefit from the wind because when we left the mill we went to a flowerbox café for some delicious local brew - and we could taste the wind in our beer.

Copyright © 2013 Gayle Madison