Thursday, February 7, 2019
Friday, January 1, 2016
Tales of a Seaside Inn - Eight
I returned home from time spent mostly at sea with tales to tell and some strange need to tell them. Whatever poor powers I might possess were unknown except for those within the forgiving fireglow of friends and family. Many of whom, Hector and Justine among them, told fascinating stories with finesse and flair, unfolding them in unexpected ways that held me, and indeed even a room of unfamiliar guests, rapt as a child. I doubt anyone else will ever emulate this.
When they grew up, where they grew up, telling tales was still important and made up much of the entertainment they knew. Captain Henry, Hector's father, told stories from a life on the seas and tales that his own father had told. Hector in turn retold them, knowing them perfectly having heard them so many times, mastering their nuances and mutations then adding a few flourishes and enlargements (I guess we'll call it) of his own.
Justine's mother spun stories of the prairie, which was still very much wild when she was growing up, along side legends of Pawnee heroes, warriors, gods and spirits. Some of these were thousands of years old, but when Justine passed them on to us it sounded as if they happened to and around her when she was a girl. And maybe they did. We saw with our own eyes that our parents were people strange and interesting things happened to.
Perhaps theirs is the last generation this will be true of. Their children were born into the television age which pretty much seized people's imaginative lives and then the Web stole the imagination of their kids. Now we face flat screens rather than flickering fires to consume manufactured tales that come from places where 'there is no there there', with only the slimmest relation to reality and sanity, often pointless and mean-spirited violent fantasies. Then we wonder, "why do kids today run around shooting up their schools?" The only wonder is that they don't do it more often under this continual onslaught of virtual child abuse.
Clotel's cabin became my writing retreat, at a sufficient remove from the demands of my new life on land as an innkeeper. Here I spin and apprentice in the ancient art of weaving.
I renovated the cabin just as Hector restored his rescued sailboats, to much the way it must have been when built, adding nothing modern. For heat there is the fieldstone fireplace, for light oil lamps, which would then have burned whale oil back in her days, with a sweet scent and soft glow rather than the sharp smell and harsh light cast by kerosene.
There's a shallow well close by and an outhouse at some remove. No phone, Wifi, radio, TV or in fact anything electrical except a lightning rod on the roof.
It's amazing how comfortable and peaceful a place without electricity is, the atmosphere is totally different from a space that's electrified. Why that should be or if it's merely my imagination I don't know. I've never seen any science on the subject. But it is, or so it seems to me. As if it's slipped lost through the interstices of temporality, been bypassed by the tyranny of time.
If Clotel somehow suddenly stepped out of the past she'd recognize everything in sight - except, I forgot to mention I do use a laptop, an essential electrical anachronism, my nod to modernity which it would be senseless to do without. And sometimes I feel she might, maybe even does visit. The sense of the past is so strong here and she springs to mind so often, the founding mother of our dark family, the height of whose growing children remains inscribed on the front door casing.
I never leave it here. It seems she only returns when I'm not present and peace has returned for an interval when there are no more words to be said, in stillness and silence. She drops hints, leaves traces. Things will be subtly rearranged on my worktable, the ashes from yesterday's fire stirred in a swirling pattern, curtains closed that I left parted, the door ajar, a hawks feather athwart the worn threshold that carries the impression of her passing. I don't believe in ghosts exactly, but then again I don't not ... very inexactly.
Also I suspect that somehow in her confusion or curiosity she might create mischief. Perhaps alter these tales to create a truer version of herself or perhaps a fictional self, a falser one. She might write herself out of history altogether. Such being the ways of ghosts.
The living have no monopoly on history, the dead change it all the time. Embellish and enlarge or shrink and diminish at their whim, depending on which end of the telescope they're using at any one time.
The cabin, a one room saltbox cottage really, sits at the top of a hill overlooking the Sound, Plum Island and ocean out to the horizon, the apple orchard behind and on both sides. The Inn is downhill and out of sight, beyond a hayfield and below a stand of chestnuts. Clotel would have seen this very view, as a sketch of the property in back of one of Purslane''s account books confirms.
The wind over the fields and through the trees blows as it ever did carrying the sound of surf on the barrier island and the sea scents of fog and salt. Applewood burning on the hearth still smells like the most subtle and satisfying of incenses, one of those infinitely intelligent smells like cow barns with haylofts or artists' oil paints on linen canvas. The sense of scent is the most direct route into the past, bypassing all rational barriers, all lost time.
When we bake an apple pie, sweat, turn earth, set a fire, muck out cow stalls, sniff fresh flowers, fuck, or are lost in a fog at low tide, no matter where and when, we smell the same scents our ancestors did and are carried into their past.
Now I don't pretend to be able to penetrate the perversity of the Puritan soul. Or few modern ones for that matter, some of whom this past scene might stimulate rather than sicken. So I won't speculate.
But such was the brutal start of their long shadowy affair, this portrait in black and white shot through with scarlet stains limned on bed linen. It was a most unusual marriage, or if we deny dignifying it as so, rape or carnal coupling, surviving for some years. But the power dynamic quickly changed soon after the wedding, or merely bedding, night.
Clotel was willful, wild and by no means broken, but with her young years and lack of sexual experience she didn't know how to manipulate her situation, to master her master if you will.
Soon after her rape, as the gray days of November settled in for a stay, Purslane sent the girl to Newburyport to purchase supplies for the kitchen pantry. Saltmarsh Farm produced most of the provender for the Inn, as it was able to in season, but inevitably there were imported staples and out of season items to be bought from merchants. Her long list included: nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, Demera sugar, tea of several sorts, coffees, chocolate, cocoa, herbs and medicinal elixirs.
Her favorite purveyor was Madame Molineaux who had a small shop tucked snugly away between Frothingham's Salt and Smoke Cod, ripe with preserved fish smells and Cribb's Chandlery, redolent of tar, hemp and canvas. It stood just off Market Square at the head of Central Wharf marked by a swinging carved sign lettered 'Herbes' bordered by sprigs of parsley, lavender,dill, valerian and thyme.
The sleigh bells hanging in a belt on the back of the door rang as she entered and Madame appeared from her tiny retiring room behind the counter at the back of the shop.
"My dear, so good to see you." And indeed she was as the inn was among her best custom. "And looking so ...," her voice faltered and faded. Lines of deep sorrow and distress had replaced the usual merry and carefree visage of the girl. "Dear me, there's a tale to be told here, and the telling won't be long. The sorrow of all slaves, I suppose."
Mme Molineaux had been a slave herself. Slaves in the Caribbean were fed by the incredible bounty of fish found in the upwelling nutrient-rich North Atlantic. Salted and smoked cod and other firm-fleshed white fish in effect sustained the whole slave system. Frothingham's was a chief exporter and enabler. Also, their lowest quality products fed slaves on the Middle Passage and the premium grades were sold in markets around the Mediterranean to the most finicky Catholic fish lovers.
After curing the cod were stiff as boards and stacked compact as cordwood in a ship's hold. The return cargoes consisted of molasses, sugar, tropical hardwoods, spices and salt - to cure more fish - and perhaps a slave or two.
Captain Frothingham spotted Molly, as her sellers called her, in a slave market on Hispaniola and purchased her as a family servant for forty Spanish dollars, the solid silver which formed the favored currency of both of the Caribbean and American colonies for years.
Madame was more than a mere slave, she became an essential and cherished member of the flourishing Frothinghams. She enjoyed her employment and even began to amass a modest nest egg out of her meager wages, most necessities of life being provided for by the family, while her other wants and wishes were few. But she was never for a minute deceived, she was still a slave, and might always be so.
Some years into her tenure, Captain Frothingham returned from a voyage to Jamaica prostrate with an acute ague, symptomatic of various pernicious tropical maladies, perhaps malaria or maybe even witchcraft. He soon descended into a fevered catatonic state.
Every doctor in town examined him, prescribing toxic tinctures, bleeding and other arcane treatments. Ministers were summoned and performed exorcisms to drive out demons. All of these, unsurprisingly, to no effect. He was sinking fast and in his hallucinations he saw the angel of death smiling in one corner of the room and Satan standing in wait in the opposite.
After all doctors and divines had thrown up their hands in despair, Madame gained the temerity to approach the death bed and whisper in his ear.
"Captain, such sickness as afflicts thee, the handiwork of malefic spirits, did'st I oft espy on Hispaniola. My father, a powerful sevite of Vodun on the island, tutored me in a sovereign remedy to administer and solemn ritual to perform for driving out this deadly ailment. Allow me to compound this cure and enact these rites in thy name." The captain, lingering in his last delirium, nodded agreement.
Mme Molineaux foraged the woods and fields ranging town for the requisite herbs, fungi, roots and fruits, then purchased some small vials of potent extracts secreted by Amazonian adders and sub-tropical tree toads plus a sticky lump of opium from an apothecary.
She carefully decocted and compounded these to form a ripely aromatic paste, then dissolved it in overproof rum. This will dissolve and disinfect anything put in its path, often including the drinker.
Summoning his last strength, the captain quaffed this reeking elixir. But a slight grin flickered across his face, "Ah, rum. Now that's the stuff to ease a man into his grave," he responded, his cheeks reddening. So maybe there was yet hope.
The next morning she dosed him again at dawn. "Rum, I feel rum," was all he said. Then she repeated the treatment at midday and dusk. He slept like a downy baby with the sweetest of dreams, as you might well imagine.
Before cock crow, he leapt from his former death bed demanding, "Damn your eyes madame, where be my victuals. I have'st hunger would'st fain devour raw slabs of salt cod." Well, he was back in the land of the living, cured, bigger than life and profane as always.
His appetite satisfied, he proceeded to praise Madame to the skies, as he would for the rest of his life, and in gratitude granted her freedom from enslavement plus consideration of any reasonable boon that she might request.
Dwelling on this offer while drifting in and out of sleep that night, vague phantoms formed into a possible dream.
"Captain," she approached him the next morning, "I wish a small shop in which to sell sundry culinary and medicinal herbs, teas, and compounded elixirs such as I cured thee with."
Frothingham happened to have an unused store on the wharf, shoehorned between his warehouse and the chandlery. It was a reasonable request, his Christian beneficence would cost him nothing and in time might return rent. So, in short order Madame acquired her shop.
"Clotel, please rest on the settee and allow me to make us a soothing cup of chamomille. Then we might'st chat ere fulfilling business."
A comforting fire burned on the compact hearth, frugally stoked with scavenged driftwood and scraps gleaned from the shipyards along the Merrimack. Firelight glinted off the glass jars and bottles of herbs, spices, roots and liquids lining the shop walls. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters their fragrances mingling with the scent of wood smoke and the sea surging below the wharf.
"There my dear, do drink. My best, a Russian variety, with a touch of comfrey, lemon and honey." They sat in silence for awhile sipping and staring into the flames as the shades of afternoon fell. Clouds were gathering, tears began trickling down Clotel's cheeks and soon a storm of sobs broke out. Madame let the squall run its course, then said, "My child, tell me all that hath transpired since I last saw thee."
"The brute, the lecher," she hissed below her breath.
"Do you wish to end this insect's life? For I can'st compound an undetectable deadly potion to drag him down to hell faster than swatting a dung fly."
"Madame, as a Christian I cannot wish such for any of God's creatures. Moreover, suspicion would fast fall upon my person and my own death sentence swiftly ensue."
"Then flee, fly!"
"I would'st be hunted down by his hounds in a trice and flogged to death. Such hath he made abundantly clear."
Madame rose, locked the shop door, drew the curtains, refreshed their cups, stirred the fire, then settled in for a long siege.
"My dear, since you can'st master the situation, you must master the monster. Always remember, women rule the world. It was ever thus and always shall be. Women make men, not men women, they exist entirely at our sufferance. Eve herself, Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Mary, mother of our savior, Lady Macbeth, Good Queen Bess. Women rule and so shall you, becoming the queen you already are if you but knew."
Their talk concluded as dusk descended and the fire ebbed. "Clotel, I'm going'st to compound a potion for you. Poisonous? No, but powerful, 'twill render him as putty in your palms, susceptible to your newly founded powers."
Madame stepped behind the counter, lit the lamp, pulverized various dried herbs, roots and mushrooms in a marble mortar and sifted them into a bottle of over-proof rum where they dissolved without a trace. They then proceeded to fulfill Purslane's list of wants after which Clotel caught the day's last stage down the coast with many tearful expressions of gratitude.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Tales of a Seaside Inn - Absinthe Maketh the Heart
Miss Polly Patience was Captain Leander Morris's persistent passion, of that there was little doubt. While away at sea the tough old seadog tenderly pined for his wife, in his own inward way that admitted of no outer signs, sighs or confidences to any shipmates. This was just another of life's storms to survive. Men kept such sentiments to themselves and sailed on alone, each one's sails filled with their own secret sorrows, driving them on to the one destination where all voyages end and partings are final upon arrival.
From the start of their tempestuous courtship both knew that such separations would be inevitable and prolonged, just be a matter of time, subject to its endless ebbs and flows such as the ocean suffered. In those days husbands and wives were often apart for many months at a time, a year or more was not uncommon. With seamen, moreover, the time ashore, times together, were brief and fleeting, often measured in weeks, sometimes mere days, before the beloved shipped out again on the sirenic bosom of the ocean.
Polly coped differently, given her open and outgoing nature which was always quick to call a spade a dirty old shovel. She confided her loss and loneliness to her close friends, of which she had several, unlike the Captain who was in command of his crew and could afford to keep none. He was always in control, of his emotions above all, impersonally friendly and affable to all, but never close, confiding or revealing any weakness. Lives depended upon this, with great power came great responsibility.
"Sally," she shared with her next door neighbor who had dropped in for a tot of port in front of the fire after hours, "I sorely miss the Captain abed of an eve, o'er-mastering me, driving his stiff jolly boat into my moist lagoon. How he will roger me deep in the night, down to my most delicate depths. Lifting me upon the crest of waves to break in froths of creaming spume and spindrift."
Sally shared the sentiment, her Dick shipped to the Grand Banks, the bountiful North Atlantic fishing grounds. His long tricks were only over when the Wanderer's holds were bursting with salted cod stacked stiff as boards, the premium quality to satisfy the discerning Italic nose for baccala, the pricey cargo delivered to Venice and from thence a return cargo of precious spices from the Middle and Far East off-loaded in London to some tidy profit.
"And I simply miss him snuggling next to me in the night, wrapped in his arms, chatting in the dark, later both of us deep in dreams. Our confidences and confessions, you know? Sharing our closest thoughts. Then before I awakest, mayhap he slips his stiff sword again inside my still-sleeping sheath and ravishes me afresh in one of those dreams without wakening."
"Reading the Bible aloud to each other facing the fading kitchen fire alone together after all guests are abed. Supping of a meal cooked by my hand especially for us. Hearing the wild tales that he tells to all and sundry around the blazing hearth of the taproom. So strange they might even be true. The sacred and solemn feeling that o'ertakes us seated side by side in church. Such are what I pine for."
"So too do I yearn'st the briny semen from my salt seaman to flood my secluded cove. His skilled horny hands ken my many, complicated ropes controlling the sails of heaven, stroking sure and gentle 'pon my wanton tiller, filling my solitary soul. And yea, those other things of finer grain and nobler quality ye speaketh of as well, so I do suppose."
With that, the fire fading and a touch tipsy, for one tot had turned into two, then three, carrying candles they mounted the steep back stairs of the inn to the family quarters above pursued by the bounding brindle bitches. They disrobed in the faint flickering light, admiring each other's feminine forms, as women will always do, donned thick linsey-woolsey nightgowns and snuggled down together under eiderdown comforters in the sacred marriage bed.
It was blowing seven bells off the North Sea over The Wash on this cold winter night, the gusts keening under the eaves and prising for entry like errant thieves. The two friends spooned together for warmth in the drafty unheated chamber. The mastiffs were deployed, Pinta to port, Nina starboard and Santa Maria to stern athwart their feet. It was a three dog night.
Various sleepy confidences, cuddles, fondling and kisses ensued between the friends on the edge of dreams. Presently they were caressing each other's clits with their fingertips, then deeply penetrating and exploring each other's cunts with newly hot hands. The chill night and loneliness were forgotten memories. They were marooned on a desert island, the only people left alive in the universe.
And it was now a steamy tropical island at that under those covers. They came up for air and sniffed their fingers, tasted the slightly fishy low tide smell with their lips, kissed, turned turtle, head to toe, then sucked each other's pussies with unsuspected but unfeigned passion. They came together like waves crashing onto a windswept beach. It wasn't the same as with their own captains, "mais zut alors, une grande jouissance ma petite amie, pas mal, pas mal de toute."
The Captain, for his part, stayed solitary at sea, confiding and sleeping only with his stern and judgmental God. Not for him was the company of cabin boys, although this was a common enough custom at sea. His first mate always chose the youngest and comeliest of the wharf rats to fill this important (supine or kneeling) position, tousled blond lads with rosy cheeks, firm shapely butts and amply endowed, 'fully rigged' he put it, as he always confirmed first hand before signing the sailing papers. Their attractions, however, left the Captain cold, although he personally had nothing against discrete buggery among his men. A little sodomy after the small daily ration of rum went a long way toward relieving tension and boredom in the crew.
Leander spoke with his Lord in a quite natural and familiar way, as if to a best friend, as if with his wife. Such was always a central Puritan value, to cultivate an up close and personal relationship with the Creator, unmediated by outside influences. The promptings and sea changes of one's conscience were the voice of God speaking, requiring careful listening, close attention and humble consideration.
But He was an intimidating bestie at best. Sometimes almost a wild beast, snarling as he did during storms when none would not be sore afraid of His mad wrath which might know no reasonable bounds when fully unleashed.
In times of deep trouble, say during equinoctial gales raging in the Roaring Fourties, deep questions arose demanding deep answers. As they might of anyone close to one's being who seems to turn traitor on us and fly in our face. Questions such as Job in his plights and trials or Jonah in the stinking bowels of the whale posed, "Why God?"
Good question that. "Why?" "Why God?" Moreover, more to the point personally, "Why me?"
"Why?" being the simplest but most difficult, often unanswerable question. "When, where, who and what can usually be parsed quickly. But why is seldom so simple.
Always keep an eye out on the simple things. They can't be trusted to be at all what they seem on the surface. Never let them out of your sight, lest they come back to bite you. Maybe 'tis a gift to be simple, but it's often a case of Greeks bearing gifts, and we know how that turned out. All simplicity is strictly on the surface, masking true motives and swirling chaos below.
God's answer on the subject is usually silence. Why? Maybe he doesn't know the answer himself. If he's so omniscient, omnipotent and all-seeing, as the Hindus chant, well why not?. "Why not?," that's a valid question too, maybe even more so. "Why not, God?" Maybe He's oe'r mastered by the Prince of Darkness, whose deceiving wiles strive to keep all souls in the dark. Or who knows (not God evidently), maybe stuff just happens in the scheme of things. The captain, although no skeptic, tended to favor this theory. There are more things in heaven than known to the mind of God.
I guess you could call this process prayer, but it seems to me it was a lot more in the way of busy parallel in-and-out-bound shipping lanes, a constant back and forth dialogue rather than a mere one way street of constant petition and confession. Indeed God was his-copilot, speaking freely, frankly and frequently. This might have been the bumpersticker slapped on the stern of his ship, but this was, by and large, a mercifully ad-innocent, bumper-free age. Not only that, but wherever he was, high seas or far land, he could talk to Polly through God and she spoke back and forth to him through Him as well, both being spiritual believers, communicating Christians with a connection outside common space and time.
Then there were the long letters he penned home to Polly from his captain's cabin high sternmost aboard the goodly galleon 'Virgin Queen', asea, quayside or swinging at anchor in some far harbor.
Many were the sheets of foolscap, goose quills and sticks of India ink expended in scratching out his heartfelt missives. The swinging whale oil lamp cast fantastic shadows over the chamber's paneled chestnut walls, the pages at hand on the chart table and his vivid, always susceptible imagination. Liberal tots of rum from the ship's stores also lent wings to his words.
Sometimes he wrote while ashore, sipping solitarily in deserted seaside tavernas. But in such boites he was usually to be found roistering with the local lasses, charming the panties off them with his gentlemanly attentions and tales of wild exploits upon the heaving bosom of the seven seas. Then berthed in a dark corner booth, he caressed heaving maidenly bosoms under unbuttoned blouses and explored the spicy sea-scented latitudes below the equator, while soft hands tightly grasped then with increasing fury stroked his stiff main spar until the desired, also sea-scented, effusion erupted.
My Patient Polly,
We came unto the Caribbees [Lesser Antilles] driven by Trades seasonably blowing briskly off Afric's dry deserts wafting golden sands 'loft 'cross the Atlantic to dust our decks. Scents of fragrant tropical flowers and spices swirled 'cross the waters ere we spied the steep jungle-caparisoned mounts of La Grenade [Grenada] rising slowly from the sea.
Gladly we made land after weeks at sea, berthing the Carenage girding the sheltered harbor of St. George's 'compassed 'midst an ancient drowned volcanic caldera of copious dimensions and depth. I ventured into the capital town, wrought-ironed, pastel-painted in colorful Creole manner, much as New Orleans.
Ashore, I fetched L'Auberge Sirene seaside o'er Le Carenage, near charming as our Saltmarsh Inn. Grenade being French, I supped 'pon steaming trenchers of bouillabaisse. The Caribbee version, while delicious, is different from that in Marseille. Chatting the chef, as is my wont, I discovered the difference lieth in the peculiar local fruits de mer et legumes: grouper, red snapper, tile fish, conch, sea urchin, bamboo clams, mussels, prawns, scallops (said mixture determined by God's daily bounty from la mer), chayote, Scotch bonnet pepper, chayotte, cilantro, callaloo, coconut milk and rum.
Lingering, drinking in the failing light, I fell to converse my neighbor, parsing with struggle his thick island patois, 'though I speak Francais passing fair. He treated me a round of a liquer new to my lips, absinthe. Quick the anise potion eased my longing for you, but a few rounds later inflamed it to a greater degree, falling me into a brown study. Mon amie, divining the cause of my despond said "On dit,' l'absinthe rend le coeur plus affectueux'." And indeed, 'absinthe maketh the heart grow fonder'.
We are come unto this isle, varying our purpose since parting, to obtain a copious cargo of nutmeg. While lading at London, I did'st learn that noix de muscade is newly known, par quelques médecins, sovereign 'gainst the plaque, the frighful peste noire which still doth scourge England and all lands east unto the Pacific. Once knowledge of its physic be broadcast, the price of this spice will skyrocket. We purpose to secure the sole supply of nuts on this isle and thereby corner the English market to our great increase.
Stories of my friend Sinbad come to mind. He, after great tribulations and arduous adventures, did return to Basra, his ship laden with nutmeg, muskrose he called it, and other spices of the Moluccas which did secure him his first personal fortune in the 'Venice of the East'. Perhaps you will recall my telling of his voyages.
So, for the nonce, farewell.
"Remember! How could'st one forget? Gathered 'round hearth of a rainy, fog-girt March eve, peat burning bright driving off damp chill. Sally, her daughters, our sons, Edward Evans, the night watch, Dooley, our fishmonger, Parson Peters, Mr. Stout, several other of the inn's guests I recall not and the three bitches warming our toes of course. All rapt in wonder, hanging on every word, as Leander recounted fantastic stories of Sinbad the Sailor, whilst I did'st concoct Flaming Bishops and Rum Toddies, yea with generous lashings of grated nutmeg."
When just above a lad and still wet behind the ears, I shipped afore the mast aboard the ship 'Sea Witch' out of Plymouth. Hard was I used and little to my advantage. We arrived to trade in the beautiful seaport of Basra after a long, storm-plagued passage 'round Cape of Good Hope, for so the southern-most peninsula of Africa is cynically called. Confined aloft on watch I was by Captain Skeeg for many consecutive tricks, soaked and frozen, worked and weary to the bone, near dead than alive.
I wandered said city searching the cheapest boite to fling away my last piasters in drowning my many sorrows. Rambling by a substantial manor in the most tasteful Moorish style, I fell to converse with guards at its gate. From inside the merry sounds of festivities, aromas of fine Arab cookery and music of ouds, tambors and nightingales wafted out on the cooling evening air.
"Who, may I ask, owns this most impressive mansion," I inquired of them?
"Sinbad the Sailor," one replied, famed throughout the city and in many far-flung foreign ports.
Being a newcomer to the parts, the name meant nothing to me. But, still sore with my shipboard sufferings, I loudly despaired, "Sailor ye say! What damned piracies did'st this rascal commit to afford such a filigr'd pile of alabaster and ebony, not to mention the means to carouse so lavishly? And I, an honest, storm-battered seaman, eking out a 'poverished existence, barely binding body and soul together.
Unbeknownst, my craven carpings did'st drift through an open window where Sinbad's keen ears listeth my lament. Anon a servant appeared from the house and saith, "Sailor, for so you seem by such salty usages, Sinbad craves your company at his feast."
He led me inside, by a side door, that he might garb me in an elegant caftan to cover my worn, salt and tar stained rags. At a signal we entered unto a great hall with walls of hammered gold and ivory under a a dome studded with jewels sparkling like stars.
All my senses were assailed at once by rich sights, sounds and smells. Houris and concubines disported themselves in sensual garb, dancers with bared bellies and finger cymbals gyrated to sounds of an orchestra as said nightingales chorused, while the scents of delicious dishes, wines and sweet perfumes seduced my nostrils.
We trod intricately figured Oriental carpets to the head of a long teak feasting table. There reigned a man of fearsome and forceful mien whom I would soon know as our most genial host. He inquired my name, bade me sit beside him and served me himself of delicious dishes - mezza, marinated and grilled kebabs, ortolans (small songbirds spitted, roasted and eaten bones and all), pilafs, dolmas, falafels, couscouses, passion fruit and pistachio sherbets, baklava - with potent arak and fine wines. The best viands ever to cross these hungry lips.
"Now Leander, I listeth through yon window while thou did'st impugn of me piracy and sundry rascalities to lead a life of indolent leisure. What say you?"
I hung my head in shame. "'Tis true, sir, I can'st deny 'twas I. The extremis of my sore and dire circumstances asea hanging heavily about my frail person forced me to speak so rashly and rudely in ignorance. I crave thy pardon."
"Before granting such, please acquaint of me these trials and travels."
These I then related and after some thought Sinbad said, "Indeed, you have suffered - somewhat. I extend my pardon at the offense of thy overwrought speaking. The substance of thy calumny itself, however, I can'st let pass unopposed, not countering thy woeful ignorance."
"Your sufferings are as nothing compared to the travails, trials and troubles I did'st encounter in my world-girding travels . Permit me to relate to you and our company the tales of my seven voyages. You will see I came by my riches honestly and at great sacrifice to my person, such as would make the richest prince alive blanch and return his riches to have avoided such calamities and cruelties."
"With greatest pleasure, I'm all ears," I readily replied.
At this point, the appetites of our guests 'round the inn's hearth piqued to a pitch hearing of this fabulous Mesopotamian feast, I offered a restorative repast ere we set sail 'board Sinbad's ship.
Two sorts of baked pasties, lamb and shrimp, baked potatoes with soured cream, roasted chestnuts and fried codfish cakes. These with pickles of cucumber, pepper and watermelon, plus sharp nose-tickling English mustard [think Colman's nowadays] rounded out our far more modest East Anglian fare. "Hold the ortolans for me," Dooley requested, but then he considered all fowl to be foul and seldom supped but of the leftover fishes he peddled from his pushcart 'round King's Lynn.
I then replenished mugs to fortify all for the voyage we were 'bout to embark upon'st in Leander's telling, which he then resumed, giving new wings to Sinbad's words. Although I've heard'st this tale more than twice told, I've still never heard it told twice, if you espy my drift. Not to cast aspersion on the captain's elaborations, extensions and evolving explanations as I'll gently put it.
"Sinbad started thusly," Leander began.
My father, a wealthy merchant of repute, did'st bequeath me a substantial estate which I wasted on wine, women and song. Carousing and feasting in uproars with fellows thought friends, houris maybe loved and whores simply lusted after. In time, the money dwindled down to several thousand sequins. Facing bankruptcy, foreclosure and destitution, I resolved to walk in my late father's upright footsteps and rebuild said squandered fortune with these last funds, using his ship the 'Will of Merciful Allah', which he had left me.
To that end, I traveled to Baghdad to secure stuffs of value which to trade 'round the Indian Ocean, exchanging such profits for nutmeg of the Moluccas, much in demand in the Middle East and shipment on to Venice, whence it was dispersed o'er Europe.
Having secured a suitable consignment of sundry goods, we were returning by camel train back to Basra when brigands, forty thieves I believe, beset and o'erwhelmed us near Najah, stealing all down to our undergarments. Allah knows they might have done that as well but for a naked appeal to the Almighty, where'pon they sniffed said, then mercifully flung them back to us with much holding of noses and rude flipping of middle fingers.
I walked alone on foot back to Basra, again taxed my much depleted funds, and with fresh caftan walked back to Baghdad, securing a similar cargo. This time, however, we took the precaution of arming ourselves to the teeth with divers deadly weaponry and beat back these selfsame brigands several times, dispatching some to the lowest levels of the underworld reserved for their evil ilk.
Returned safely to Basra, I searched for crew and captain. Crew I secured on promise of payment at the end of the voyage, but no even half-way competent captain would accept such terms. Not that I blamed them in the least.
Facing even greater ruin as a result, I decided to undertake these responsibilities myself. I had done some sailing, mainly in my father's elegant felucca accompanied by courtesans and sports on balmy days drifting idly 'round Basra harbor to tryst and carouse on secluded offshore isles. Other than that where, shameful to admit, I fancied I cut a dashing nautical figure decked in yachting whites, I was completely inexperienced.
But now, near desperation, we laded such cargo as I'd been able to afford and set sail. My plan was to trade at Indian Ocean ports, increasing our capital at every stop, as I had learned from my father, then exchange all for a shipload of nutmeg to bring back to Basra and so secure my fortune. If, and this was a big if, if everything went perfectly according to plan and supposing I proved a capable captain and navigator.
We flew along on fair winds under sunny skies until, 'midst the Indian Ocean, a terrible typhoon o'ertook us without warning. Though I doubt not an experienced skipper might have predicted such to timely avoid its punishments.
In the teeth of this fierce gale 'The Will' slogged alee under bare poles, all sail unbent, cast hither and thither on cresting waves 'til it seemed the ship might poop or broach at any instant. We drifted I knew not how far or to what point of the compass off course until all dead reck'ning was useless and I had'st not the slightest idea where we might be.
Driven and pounded hard on a reef the rudder sundered off our stern in splinters and tiller flew out my hands afore we blew over, scraping all barnacles off the hull into the bargain, if not some measure of planking. Now helpless to steer, we fetched up upon an isle and beached on soft coral sands.
The storm having finally blown its fury, our carpenter set to work replacing the lost rudder with such woods as we shipped aboard for repairs. Meanwhile I went ashore to explore the island for fresh water and food.
Wandering inland I followed a wadi tracing a vacant valley, deeming the isle deserted.
Suddenly I was cast into deep shadow, the sky went dark and dreadful shrieks rent the silence. Directly overhead a massive Roc, a primordial bird I thought but mythical, flapped its wide wings, the size of sails on the largest seagoing vessels.
Circling, eyeing me the while, it presently evacuated from its posterior the most massive pooper ever known of man, so big that it fell slowly and I so gained precious seconds to flee for my life. Otherwise, I'd not be here and now telling this tale. None the less, I was sorely soaked and splattered with the effusion of its explosion upon landing.
"Gracious ladies," Sinbad interjected, "I grieve having to acquaint you with such sordid details as you sup, but to omit said would be to fudge the facts (erm, so to speak)."
Scraping off such defecants as I might, I stared at the stinking pile confronting me. Rocs dine on hippopotamus and elephant with toxic adders for appetizers, denude treetops for salads and down killer beehives for desserts. Such sustaining fare was all too evident in these leavings.
But then I noticed this reeking mound was sparkling in spots. Within this odoriferous bird compost were studded large diamonds. Evidently the Rocs required these rocks as roughage to digest foods in their crops (as all avians do) and from time to time a few were ejected.
Wrapping my turban tight around my nose to efface the terrible stench, I ventured in and plucked several substantial diamonds out of the stinking pile of poop. These I washed at a small watering hole, put in a pouch inside my caftan and headed back to our beached ship. Here I was greeted with held noses as to my personal hygiene - and sailors are seldom particular of such things.
Our rudder and tiller rebuilt, we kedged off the hot pink sands and pulled through a narrow channel in the barrier reef by no small dint of sweat. When free in the offing we hoisted sail once more and shaped an easterly compass course. Shooting the sun every noon throughout our island exile, I felt certain as to our latitude, but after reworking and second guessing our dead reckoning still had only a hunch as to longitude. But that didn't really matter, running the parallel we were 'pon east we must needs reach Southeast Asia then simply had to pilot southerly down the coast to gain the Timor Sea.
A week on, a pirate corsair appeared from behind an island hanging on the horizon, approached swiftly and assaulted our ship. After a fiercely fought fight they overwhelmed us with sheer numbers, if not skill. Hamid, our cook, armed only with an ox spit to do battle, lost his life and soon the rest of my crew were in headlocks with sharp sabers shaving their throats in a most menacing manner.
"Captain, your crew is at my mercy. A fine quality, but none I'm 'specially famed for," the biggest bully of the buccaneers snarled. "Bloody massacre is more in our line of business and, to put not too fine a point on it, my personal pleasure. Now you can make this easy or take it hard. We're taking all your cargo, of course, but there's more booty secreted somewhere aboard. I can smell it."
"Now you start talking or we start slitting. Throats. One by one. 'Til your decks run as red as those sails." He gestured aloft. "Or that setting sun." Pointing to the flaming sun sinking into the sea.
"You've made your point quite keenly," I replied. At this I handed over our diamonds, all except for the one exceptional diamond I'd cleaned, buffed and bonded to a gold chain secreted 'sous ma chemise'.
They poured out the pouch on a hatch cover. A rush of amazement then naked covetousness struck them dumb. At that, all thoughts of our grosser cargo were banished. "Damn," thought I, "these pirates are pretty particular as to their pelf." But the sight of this fortune sated their blood lust, my men were spared a crew cut and their captain departed with a handshake and most heartfelt, "Pleasure doing business with ye. May we meet again, Allah willing. Bon Voyage!"
Making landfall in Siam, we began trading the goods disdained of by the pirates as being beneath their nouveau riche dignity, although what shred of dignity piracy possesses I fathom not.
Continuing our commerce down the Malay Peninsula, to our great increase, we then bore north on the Trades through the Straits of Timor for the Bandas, Spice Islands of the Moluccas.
From afar they appeared to arise like apparitions from the sea, hover shimmering on the horizon, then soaring, surmount the division 'tween earth and heaven and, plucked from the sea, become of the sky, mantled with thick green jungle verdure. Such a sight 'specilly strikes those from desert countries, as the spotting atop a camel, those 'ships of the desert', of an oasis in a wilderness of sand, which is similarly barren and wave-shaped as the rolling sea.
A fragrant breeze mingled of flowers and nutmeg, wafted off the island o'er the waters as the ship beat windward toward our destination. We had survived and arrived, all praise the 'Will of Merciful Allah'.
We secured sure holding ground in the sheltered harbor. This is always preferable to lying alongside a wharf, which invites infestation by unwelcome intruders - thieves, lice, trollops and rats of both two and four feet.
I rowed ashore with those of our crew on leave and proceeded to inspect the Hongs of nutmeg wholesalers lining the harbor. The smell of the spice, mingled with the heavy, some say heavenly, fumes of hashish wafting from adjacent hongs, hung in the air, overwhelming and intoxicating.
I noted all the merchandises on offer but bought of none on the spot, such being my way of doing business, learned of my trade-savvy father. "Every deal improves with delay," he would say. "For every one transaction you loose by ignoring the imperious knock of opportunity, seven others will be won to your far greater advantage by waiting and exhibiting an air of indifference all the while as to the outcome. Keep a cool head, stiff prick hid in your pants - and always play the waiting game."
Allowing several days to pass, I again cruised the waterfront and revisited the 'Hong Orang Kaya' ['Fat Cat's Trading House', roughly], whose fragrant wares at fair prices had previous caught my eye and nose. For such of our entire cargo as described, subject to approval, they would'st lade our capacious hull to its fullest capacity. We sealed the deal with a handshake, hug, kiss and hookah of potent hashish, as is the commercial custom of these parts.
After inspection and approval of our cargo by the Dongshi, the hong's head, he spoke. "The copious quantity of crop you require is beyond our modest means at the moment. A month or so ago we suffered a grievous typhoon which did'st untimely strip the nascent nuts from many trees. Indeed, mayhap thou encountered said storm in your sailings. We must await a fresh supply from the men of the mountains. Please to be patient."
"Pas de probleme, je pense, la patience est une vertu. Mais je vais besoin d'une pause dans le prix." And the price did go down somewhat. It takes two to play the waiting game.
As promised, several days later a fresh consignment arrived from the deep interior of the island. It was borne on the backs of the strangest men ever espied. None were more than three cubits tall and some closer to two [3-4 feet]. None the less, they expressed savage visages with many scarifications, tattoos and piercings, all weathered most swarthy with many missing limbs and appendages sported as proud badges of their wicked warlike natures. And armed to the teeth. Speaking of which, their teeth were filed to the finest points until they appeared as carnivorous cadavers when grimacing. And all were obviously hugely high on hashish, perhaps with an admixture of nutmeg, of which they reeked, mingled with the worst body odor in the known world and possibly several other unknown ones as well.
The pig-me's offloaded our cargo and set to lading the nutmeg. Their work almost done, however, I began to smell a rat. A cargo of nutmeg has an overwhelming smell, but this didn't. Not like my father's ships, not like the hongs I'd visited. Then I noticed our diminutive porters were shouldering the bags as if they were filled with fleece. The stoutest longshoreman will bend under a load of nutmeg on his back.
I ordered a bag dropped on the aft hatch cover and slit the burlap down its belly from stem to stern with my dirk. There, buried in the middle, half the load consisted of 'nutmegs' cleverly carved from aloes wood and stained with the juice of tico berries to counterfeit the genuine nut. The imagination and perfidy of human nature is indeed endless!
I commanded the master of the hong aboard and confronted him with the evidence, slitting bag after bag open to the same result. "I demand the lawful right of complete return and total recompense for this heinous fraud.
"Leave. Fly! Depart posthaste," he demanded. "Stand not on the order of your going but go at once. My men thirst for blood and the merest summons is all that stands between your redest massacre and the merciful safety of the deep blue sea. You have until sundown, not many hours hence, to cast off and set sail." With that he and his henchman stevedores withdrew into the hong.
I summoned my courage, fresh born of hot and holy indignation to convene a council of war with the crew in my aft cabin below.
"Men," Sinbad began in a low tone not overly brimming with optimism, "none of us know not what stakes we face, nor the odds stacked against us. Our fate and a fortune hang in the balance. Death dogs us at every direction. We must turn the tide! It's down to do or die. What shall be done to not untimely perish? What hand shall we play to live?"
"Here's my plan, desperate though it be. The pirates did most grievously disarm us. We must need'st fashion fresh weapons out of such poor and most un-warlike stuffs as we possesseth aboard."
"Butcher knives," my first mate cleaved the air after an ominous silence from the crew, "ground and honed to gleaming edges." "Rigging knives," another cut in. "Fish gaffs." "Caulking hammers and irons." The weapons flew fast now. Slingshots armed with nutmegs, the real ones, hard as beach stones." "Axes and saws," our carpenter fell into the spirit." "Scourges of fishhooks," another offered.
The crew fell to work with a will and soon had fashioned a cache of fearsome, if unconventional, armaments and ammunition. For my part, I passed around bottles of arak and, as they were drained, scribed their bases with the diamond hanging 'round my neck which, when tapped, released the bottoms to form sharp, jagged teeth, much like those of our pig-me's.
At dusk, well primed in every sense, we attacked the hong. The pig men swarmed out and warfare waged on the wharf. The weapons of these little ankle biters were drawn at the height of our balls, ours level with their eyeballs. Balls, either theirs or ours, would soon fly. I beseeched Allah's blessing on my jewels, that dangling 'round my neck and those tender ones tucked 'tween my legs.
Our initial foray felled several of their fellows with fatal flesh wounds. This routed them back inside the hong to talk tactics and toke of more hashish, as wafting fumes from their hubble-bubble pipes soon signaled the spies in our noses.
Staggering forth for a second sally they wildly swung their crude clubs and cutlasses only to be cut down by our crack slingshots blinding them with their own nutmegs. Others of us then fell upon and carved them up with the kitchen implements of our improvised arsenal.
Another retreat ensued and the fog of war again fumed forth from inside the hong. So far we had suffered but two casualties to their two dozen. I directed my men to a pile of teak logs on the wharf awaiting lading, chose the stoutest and we charged the substantial doors of the hong rending it into splinters under repeated blows. The pig-me's meanwhile effected an escape out the back door and hied for the hills.
We returned to the ship and cast the entire cargo into the harbor. The ersatz nutmeg, dyed with tico berry juice and mingled with our enemies flowing blood, stained the waters alizarin in red setting sun. We reclaimed our cargo, reladed it and set sail, flying to the north on the fairest of following winds.
I later learned that the incident became famed in island lore as 'The Bandan Nut Toddy'. Indeed, God is a humorist, as well as casting long shadows into the future.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Welcome to Tales of a Seaside Inn
Stephen Bastide. July 4, 2014 @ 42°43′00″N, 70°52′45″W.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Saltmarsh Inn Menus - November 2014
November 1 ... Cornbread tamale pie. Chopped salad. Mint-chocolate ice cream.
Cornbread tamale pie ... Courtesy: Bon Appetit, September 2014.
November 2 ... Pork chops au poivre. Minted apple sauce. Saffron mashed potatoes. Salade verte. Pear clafouti.
November 3 ... Veal picatta. Wild mushroom risotto. Tuscan kale soup. Various homemade Venetian ices.
November 4 ... Monkfish and clam bourride with aioli and tapenade. Green salad. Fresh fruit with figs.
November 5 ... Grilled kosher hot dogs in toasted anadama rolls. Mac 'n three cheeses: extra-sharp cheddar, Compte and Parmesan. Stewed hearty garden greens. Broiled mushrooms stuffed with tuna tapenade. Mixed berry beignets. Apple cider, fresh or hard.
November 6 ... Chicken livers sauteed with Madeira. Garlic mashed potatoes. Chopped artichoke, asparagus and avocado salad with Creole vinaigrette.
November 7 ... Grilled bacon-wrapped halibut in corn husks. Creamed spinach. Carrots in butter with maple syrup, green grapes and champagne. Avancia 'Cuvee de O' Godello 2012, Valdeorras, Spain.
November 8 ... Apple charcoal grilled pork chops. Saffron mashed potatoes. Shrimp Cobb salad. Apple clafouti. Rose.
November 9 ... Rock Cornish hens. Dirty rice pilaf. Late season fried green tomatoes with basil mayonnaise atop field greens. Burgundy poached pears.
November 10 ... Fish chowder with fresh cod and finan haddie (smoked haddock). Broccoli raab braised in white wine with chorizo. Boston pumpkin brown bread. Toll house cookies with mint ice cream.
November 11 ... Broiled skate wing steaks. Oven baked fries with wild mushroom sauce. Wheat berry Waldorf salad. Curried corn and cheddar chowder.
November 12 ... Fresh pasta with EVO, toasted pine nuts and a selection of grated aged hard cheeses. Crab and crimini bisque. Shaved carrot and coriander salad.
November 13 ... Bison stew (grass fed and humanely raised at Saltmarsh Farm). Thomas Jefferson salad. Fall fruit tarts. Mulled wine.
November 14... Shrimp scampi. Chopped green salad with white miso vinaigrette. Cranberry fool with mint-vanilla ice cream.
November 15 ... Grilled lamb chops. English mint sauce. Roasted tomato and saffron risotto. Green peas and snap beans with pecorino and toasted pine nuts. Pineapple upside down cake.
November 16 ... Broiled haddock with potatoes and vegetables in charmoula sauce. Corn dodgers. Apricot-lemon squares.
November 17 ... Pasta puttanesca with grated Parmesan. Leafy green salad. Vegetable consomme. Shrimp-stuffed mushrooms. Meyer lemon pie.
November 18 ... Venison, oyster and veal pie. Sliced heirloom tomato salad (grown in Saltmarsh Farm's year-around solar greenhouses). Carrot cake.
November 19 ... Grilled soy and sake marinated flank steaks. Chive and cherry bell pepper creamy mashed potatoes. Brussel sprouts braised with chestnuts. Shrimp ceviche cocktail. Craisin Congo bars.
November 20 ... Apple stuffed loin of pork. Baked acorn squash. Creamed collards. Fall fruit salad with Dalmatian fig preserves.
November 21 ... Shellfish chowder: clams, shrimp, mussels, lobster and scallops, in a stock made from their shells. Leaf lettuce salad. Cornbread sticks. Apple tarts.
November 22 ... Pot-au-feu. Pumpkin cake with maple cream cheese frosting. Shannon Ridge 'Wrangler Red', California 2012.
November 23 ... Linguine with clams. Salade verde. Maple creme caramel. Vigilance Chardonnay, California 2013.
November 24 ... Moorish paella. Endive salad with roquefort and bacon. Horchata granita. 2011 Bodegas Torremoron Ribera del Duero Tinto.
November 25 ... Braciole. Lemon pasta. Watercress and sorrel salad. Sangiovese.
November 26 ... Bermuda fish chowder. New Orleans muffuletta salad. Puerto Rican pineapple rum cake.
... Courtesy: Bon Appetit, April 2007. Rating: 4/4.
... Courtesy: Gourmet, January 2002. Rating: 3/4.
Monkfish and clam bourride" ... Courtesy: Gourmet, September 2002, Jody Adams. Rating: 4/4.
Anadama rolls ... Anadama bread is made with a mix of cornmeal, flour and a little light molasses. Delicious. Courtesy: Bon Appetit, November 2000. Rating: 3.5.
Creole vinaigrette ... Courtesy: Shania Channel.
Carrots ... Peel and cut the carrots on the diagonal into 1/4" ovals. Steam or boil until just tender, drain. Melt butter in a saucepan, swirl in Grade B maple syrup (has more flavor) and champagne. Add carrots and green seedless table grapes sliced in half along their lengths. Cover pan and braise for 5 minutes or so until carrots are tender. Sprinkle with chopped parsley. Serve warm.
Saffron mashed potatoes ... Courtesy: Wall Street Journal, October 3, 2014, by Charlotte Druckman.
Fried green tomatoes ... Courtesy: Epicorious, April 2009, by Patrick and Gina Neely from Neely's Bar-B-Que in Memphis. Rating: 4/4.
Brown bread ... Courtesy: Boston Globe, November 4, 2014.
Waldorf salad ... Substitute craisins for raisins, or omit either. Courtesy: Gourmet, October 1995. Rating: 4/4.
Crab and crimini bisque ... Courtesy: Bon Appetit, January 2000. Rating: 3.5/4.
Salad ... “Monticello salads probably included a mixed bouquet of greens, including spinach and endive for winter use, orach, corn salad or mache, pepper grass, French sorrel, cress, and sprouts.” Jefferson’s cousin Mary Randolph describes a salad dressing of oil, tarragon vinegar, hard-boiled egg yolks, mustard, sugar and salt. Jefferson, who was obsessed with salad oil, grew sesame for that purpose." Courtesy: Peter Hatch, director of the Monticello gardens and grounds.
Scampi ... Simple and and simply delicious. Courtesy: Gourmet, April 2006. Rating: 4/4.
Risotto ... Courtesy: Wall Street Journal, October 4, 2014, by Charlotte Druckman.
Baked haddock ... Charmoula is a Moroccan fish marinade made with tomatoes, lemon, paprika, garlic, cumin, and cilantro. Courtesy: Gourmet, April 2001. Rating: 4/4.
Pasta puttanesca ... Surprisingly, this classic dish named for the world's oldest profession seems to be a recent invention. The list of ingredients feel as if they must have been fated to fall together since the beginning of time, but the earliest recorded reference to it is only from 1961. Or so Wikipedia says. Courtesy: Gourmet, June 2008. Rating: 4/4.
Tomato salad ... Slice a variety of ripe heirloom tomatoes thinly, dust with salt and freshly-ground pepper. Finely chop parsley and fresh basil together, add pressed garlic. Sprinkle with extra-virgin olive oil and red wine vinegar, cover with the herbs. Allow flavors to meld before serving.
Brussel sprouts and chestnuts ... Courtesy: Gourmet, November 2005. Rating: 4/4.
Creamed collard greens ... Courtesy: Bon Appetit, November 2011. Rating: 3.5/4.
Shellfish chowder ... This recipe is close to the way we make it, as noted above. Courtesy: Gourmet, November 2002. Rating: 4/4.
Pot-au-feu ... Courtesy: Bon Appetit, October 2011. Rating: 4/4.
Linguine with clams ... Courtesy: Epicurious, November 2008, by Mario Batali. Rating: 4/4.
Moorish paella recipe.
Braciole ... Pronounced: bra'zhul/ from the Sicilian. Courtesy: Giada De Laurentis, Food Network.
Taproom Thoughts - November 2014
Noam Chomsky (activist, American, 1928-now) ... Everybody's worried about stopping terrorism. Well, there's a really easy way: stop participating in it.
Dalai Lama (religious leader, Tibetan, 1935-now) ... My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.
Charles Lamb (writer, English, 1775-1834) ... I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.
Sophocles (playwright, Greek, 496-406 BC ) ... To him who is in fear everything rustles.
John Barrymore (actor, American, 1882-1942) ... A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.
Matthew Henry (clergyman, English, 1662-1714) ... It is not talking but walking that will bring us to heaven.
Anonymous (everyman, worldwide, eternally) ... Nought's strange as folk.
Heraclitus (Philosopher, Greek, 544-483 BC) ... Bigotry is the sacred disease.
Washington Irving (writer, American, 1783-1859) ... The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal - every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open - this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
Bo Bennett (businessman, American, 1972-now) ... Be friendly to everyone. Those who deserve it the least need it the most.
John Ruskin (writer, English, 1819-1900) ... The purest and most thoughtful minds are those which love colour the most.
Simone de Beauvoir (writer, French, 1908-1986) ... To catch a husband is an art; to hold him is a job.
Thomas Jefferson (President and statesman, America's first foodie, 1743-1826) ... No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden.
George Burns (comedian, American, 1896-1996) ... Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.
Walter Scott (novelist, Scottish, 1771-1832) ... He is the best sailor who can steer within fewest points of the wind, and exact a motive power out of the greatest obstacles.
Charles Kuralt (journalist, American, 1934-1997) ... I believe that writing is derivative. I think good writing comes from good reading.
Mark Twain (author, American, 1835-1910) ... If it's your job to eat a frog, it's best to do it first thing in the morning. And If it's your job to eat two frogs, it's best to eat the biggest one first.
Henri Nouwen (clergyman, Dutch, 1932-1996) ... Friendship has always belonged to the core of my spiritual journey.
Thomas Aquinas (theologian, Italian, 1225-1274) ... Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine.
Mae West (actress, American,1893-1980) ... Keep a diary, and some day it will keep you.
Charles Dickens (novelist, English, 1812-1870) ... A day wasted on others is not wasted on one's self.
Samuel Goldwyn (movie producer, American, 1882-1974) ... Include me out.
Lou Holtz (coach, American, 1937-now) ... If you burn your neighbors house down, it doesn't make your house look any better.
Cicero (statesman, Roman, 106-43 BC) ... If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.
John Steinbeck (author, American, 1902-1968) ... If you're in trouble, or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones.
John Dewey (philosopher, American, 1859-1952) ... No man's credit is as good as his money.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Tales of a Seaside Inn - Seven
"Folks," Herb said with a flair developed from doing cooking demos at Williams-Sonoma in trendy Chelsea for non-cooking foodies, "we're going old old-school tonight but still turn out the fastest, tastiest dish. When you've got good stuff like this - step back, keep it simple, let it shine."
"Leave the shells with heads and tails on. Devein if a little shit and grit bothers you, with the point of a paring knife raked up the bottom side to flick out the gut."
With a platter of plenty to fill the spider he said, "brush with olive oil, both sides."
"Extra virgin for you, right?" Heath smiled slyly, simply to piss off his number one uncle.
"Does the Pope poop in the woods? Are bears Catholic?"
Now Heath's not the brightest bulb on anyone's Christmas tree, as noted, and had to wrestle with this rebus, his cheeks, buffeted by laughter, turning a deep shade of shrimp.
"Well yes, I guess. No! Bears poop in our woods, piles like elephants passed. The Pope's Catholic - virgin, extra oily virgin. Sorry, nothing but virgins for you Herb."
"Straight on hot spider. Shells keep from burning. Sprinkle sea salt. Grind pepper. Two minutes. Flip. S&P again. Two halves lemons on top for last minute. Done? Tips almost kiss tails. Done and done. Squeeze lemons and scarf."
By the time those were done a heavenly aroma hung in the air and round two was ready. "And repeat?" the Clam asked hopefully. "Sin can wait while shrimp are in on the tide. Hell, heaven can wait too."
"Simple sure, but they're also simply shrimp," Patience pointed out. "Back in the day, old-school as you say, all of the family's meals, and at the inn our guests' too, were prepared on the hearth by the women of the household fighting the heat and smoke."
"Cooking was an inescapable daily, all day chore, sunup to sundown in every season, carried out while at the same time caring for the kids, cleaning house, doing laundry and growing the kitchen garden. The fire might burn down to embers slumbering under a blanket of ash, but it never went out. It was the heart of the house that never stopped beating."
"Simple sure, but also simply shrimp," Patience pointed out. "Back in the day, old-school, all the family's meals, and at the inn our guests' too, were prepared on the hearth by the women of the house fighting heat and smoke."
"Cooking was an inescapable daily, all day chore, sunup to sundown in every season, carried out while cleaning house, doing laundry, caring for the kids and kitchen garden. The fire might burn down to embers beneath ashes but never went out, the heart of the house couldn't stop beating."
"How did women stand such a hard life? How did anyone? The men, the kids?" Shirley wondered. "They had nothing we totally take for granted nowadays - and couldn't live without for long. Stoves, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, electricity, running water, refrigerators, central heating, air conditioners, toilets."
"No packaged, canned or frozen foods, super markets, convenience stores or restaurants outside the keeping rooms of inns like ours. Everything from scratch, all made by hand at home." Herb added.
"No pizza?" Heath marveled.
"None, thank god," Herb replied, "it took the Mafia and the Pizza Connection to shove that down American's throats." He's one of the two people alive who hate pizza and the other disappeared into the witness protection program.
"Lots of clams, though," Sam assured him. "But never fried. Steamers, pies, chowders. Like that. At home stuff. No clam shacks. No fryolaters." Wow, that was disturbing intelligence. He never would have begun to make a living back then. Fried clams were his bread and butter, not to mention beer and gas money.
"They were tough old birds, those Puritans, the first Yankees," Fred agreed. "Luckily they were convinced God was on their side, lightening their loads, lifting their burdens." .
"God yes, but no TV's, radios, telephones, computers or i-Anythings," Patience said. "No muscle cars - or baseball either, Heath."
"In fact, no cars, trucks, engines, outboards and motors of any kind - or professional sports," Fred added.
"No bikinis," Sam dropped the bomb.
"No bikinis!" Wow, the weather was worsening. "No bikinis, pizza, Red Sox. GTO's, Xboxes, Tater Tots. No Warcraft, Halo, Simpsons?" Why did Americans stand for it? Was that why we fought the Revolution? You know when Lincoln crossed the Pontiac and copped all the cool stuff the under the redcoats' Christmas trees."
Clearly a key battle in American history and none of us had never heard of it! But why correct such a fertilely active imagination, fired by the lack of bikinis (although he rather liked it when bikinis came off), practically our national birthright? Save correction for the corrupt, let the innocents go.
"There were no real doctors, hospitals, understanding of disease or effective medicines. When you got really sick, beyond the curative powers of the housewife with her herbs, a well-meaning physician, perhaps also your pastor, might bleed you with his rusty lancet or leeches, dose you with toxic tinctures of mercury or prescribe a prophylactic diet of skunk cabbage. Some souls actually survived these supposed cures. If not, such was the mysterious will of Wonder-Working Providence. George Washington, for one, didn't - his doctor bled him to death."
Shirley, our mild but no-nonsense librarian and curator of the tiny town museum, is something of an expert on historical morbidity and mortality. Rowley offers a fertile field for this study. Fishing, farming, building, forestry and hunting have been the backbone of our economy since the beginning. All still the most dangerous of ways of wresting a living from mother earth. She knows the deadly, sometimes odd and outre, details and death agonies of most of our citizens who didn't die peacefully in their beds with smiles on their faces. Of which, sad to say, there are few.
Her tales, running the gamut from disasters at sea to witch burnings, have captivated both many bored, blase high school students, brought up on the endless slaughter served up by modern media, and our inn's visitors touring the museum's dimly lit catacomb. She really has a touch for making history come alive.
"What they had was a dangerous life of unremitting toil in a rather narrow, stern and unforgiving society," she summarized.
"Which feared and worshiped God, kept law and order, worked hard, stayed sober and demanded good manners," Fred countered, putting in a good word for the Puritans.
Humans are remarkably resilient and adaptable. Plus not missing all these mod-cons, many of which are cons much more than mod, they thought they were on the cutting edge of modernity and modern innovation. Which they were. For their time. So they made do. Just as we think we are and do, while future generations wait in the wings to laugh their asses off at our presumption and primitiveness, as their heirs will them in turn.
"Miracles?" Leander echoed. "It be miracles ye desire? As in ancient days when mighty Moses did part the blood Red Sea to set his people free to wander in the wilderness. Or our lord, a boat carpenter and a sailor himself, walked upon the waters and thence multiplied the fishes therefrom."
"Lads, we liveth in our own days of miracles. They be all around ye. I know of nothing but miracles."
"Consider our galleons lads. There's miracles for ye. Real enough to touch though. Swift enough to whisk ye around the world in a trice with her white clouds of sails. Exquisitely complex machines, carefully crafted, sprung from the mind of men, inspired of God. So strong and finely balanced, tuned to harness all the forces of nature to our will. So fit to rule the waves. In tune with the will of God."
"Girdling the entire globe as, my ofttimes captain, Drake did in three brief years, returning laden with the plundered ill-gotten gold of the Popish Spaniard, blessed be the miracle of our finely wrought armaments, encircling the earth in the service of our noble Elizabeth. Wonders of shipbuilding and seamanship. Ships and men with hearts of oak."
"Now we do commune with the Celestial Empire by celestial navigation, charts and compass. Impress the Slave Coast of Africa into our services. Trade for tea with the East Indies. Settle a New World across the Atlantic, perhaps one day to found a 'new' England in the land of fierce savages and storms."
"Lads, we still live in times of miracles!"
See, sometimes it all depends on one's perspective in time.
"But I wonder," Fred said "Are we really any better off today? The world's still a dangerous place. And it seems to get more dangerous every day. It's just that our risks and dangers are different from theirs. Bigger and scarier. Global - we get all the bad news at the speed of light now and deadly diseases spread at as fast as jets travel. The criminals get cleverer and more compassionless. The crazies are crazier and there's lots more of them. Our wars are more deadly than theirs ever were. Few fear God any more, and rather than beware fire, it seems the whole human race loves to play with it nowadays." Fred said."
"And those who play with fire will get burned," Shirley finished his melancholy musings. "I know something about playing with fire first hand."
Now I don't know if I mentioned it, but Shirley's family. Karen's 'almost family', but Shirley actually is family. And black, which I'm sure I didn't say, and the Morrises are white. Which I also didn't mention but you've probably gathered - being English, Puritans, sea captains and all, it sort of goes without saying. Obviously a tale waits in the wings, a dark stain in the family history.
Before the Revolution, slavery was legally and openly practiced worldwide including in the 'city on a hill' and our fair 'Commonwealth', populated by the 'salt of the earth' who saw themselves as the 'light of the world', especially chosen of God to set a shining example to the sinners and backsliders of all nations.
Not a lot, mind you. For the most part the ungodly machinery of black enslavement was kept well offshore, far away from the godly white beacon burning brightly in Boston with its 'purer air than elsewhere' as the divines flattered their congregations.
The stony New England soil and short growing season were unsuitable for large scale commercial agriculture such as practiced in the slave systems of the South and Caribbean. But the nouveau riche in booming Boston, Salem and North Shore towns often had 'their niggers', or among 'the quality', 'their Africans' to do 'their bidding', mainly their dirty work and drudgery.
So how did many of these 'riche' come by their 'riches'? In the Atlantic slave trade, or as the quality referred to it the 'African trade' when the fantastically lucrative dirty business unfortunately had to be referred to at all.
They were proud to be privateers, smugglers and blockade runners. These were patriotic professions and the basis of many other fortunes, but slaving was, well, slightly shameful at best and perhaps even smelled of sin at worst. In any case the whole business stank and was kept downwind well away from Boston which provided the capital, ships and crews to promote the trade. Out of sight and out of mind was their motto except for ciphers showing swelling balances in their counting house ledger books.
They were proud to be privateers, smugglers and blockade runners. These were patriotic professions and the basis of many other fortunes, but slaving was, well, slightly shameful at best and perhaps even smelled of sin at worst. In any case the whole business stank and was kept downwind well away from Boston which provided the capital, ships and crews to promote the trade. Out of sight and out of mind was their motto except for ciphers showing swelling balances in their counting house ledger books.
The Puritan faith, however, demanded constant self-scrutiny as to the state of one's soul, an unending ethical inventory of one's conscience. Therefore, as you might imagine, the subject of slavery was a constant source of moral conflict. These examinations and reflections were often recorded in journals, especially by the sea captains who accomplished the slaving voyages, seamen accustomed to keeping scrupulous logbooks. These other logs were their wrestlings with, their accountings to God; celestial navigation on deep spiritual seas.
Captain Hebron himself wondered. "Certain the Bible be peopled with slaves, but 'tis slavery truly sanctioned by Scripture, approved by almighty God? The Greeks and Romans we so admire of and would'st emulate, if not in points religious, did'st not their noble empires hold and traffic in slaves?"
"These fresh-wrought ideas on the march of 'natural laws' - all men created equal - which mayhap lead us to sever the 'slavery' to our Mother, seem they not to suggest enslavement wrong? But our best leaders in the colonies, are not many of their fortunes built on the backs of blacks? Their wealth not hewn out of howling wilderness by men of Africa? Would'st those worthies be such hypocrites? Doth they not doubt in the in-most meditations and dead reckonings in the sailing of their immortal souls? All in all, 'tis a most vexing quandary."
"For the Africans, they be men 'twouldst seem to me. But be they human? Black as night, black as sin, the cloak and cover the devil himself prefers. Not Christian, ignorant of our Lord, worshiping heathen idols and natural spirits. Possessed of no written language. Naked of garment. Most promiscuous as to sacred relations. By the balance, wouldst seem hardly human. Savages, as the Indians we did'st encounter when claiming these shores and must still needs struggle against, they proving vengeful and most unfit for profitable servitude upon our shores."
So he reconciled himself to his god and conscience, which were one and the same, conscience being the voice of God in the Puritan view, deciding that, "In the balance, I be boon and benefactor to these droves of Adam's degenerate seed. Forsooth, doing of good whilst doing well. Most satisfactorily well indeed."
Now, before you sneer - are not your own self-delusions and justifications built on the same shifting sands? Are we not all headed downhill on the same slippery slope of denial? Tell me then, who ain't a slave?
The profits to be made in the slave trade were simply too staggering to be ignored. Hebron's ship the 'Free Spirit' was in constant transit across the Atlantic to Africa and back to the Americas. He summarized the first voyage in his ledgers as follows.
"Boston to Africa: 8,220 gallons rum, 200 ingots African iron [used as native currency], divers trade sundries.
Gold Coast to Barbados: 55 slaves, 40 ounces gold dust, 900 pounds black pepper.
West Indies to Boston: 55 hogshead molasses, 5 hogsheads & 27 barrels sugar, 412.55 pounds sterling bills of exchange on Liverpool.
Deduct expenses incurred and one-sixth loss of live cargo on Middle Passage. 'Spirit' didst, with God's divers blessings, yield twenty-fold increase on capital of our brave company."
A 2,000 percent annual ('triangular' voyages such as this took about a year) return on investment? That would turn anyone's head. Even the riskiest and most lucrative current drug trade can't come close to matching such results, which were achieved with fairly low risk. Nothing ever has, and no doubt never will again, match the fantastic profits which the slavers based out of Boston easily enjoyed.
Africans, however, were never brought to Boston in large numbers. At most, enslaved and free, blacks made up less than 3% of its citizens. The centers of the slave system were far to the south where slaves made up 33% of the population. Boston's ships were simply the South's pimps, procurers and suppliers of helpless black flesh ripe for raping.
The few blacks shipped to the city were destined to slave as domestic servants, laborers or workers in small manufacturies. Sometimes they were chosen to customer specifications at the 'castles', or slave trading prison stations ringing the West African coast, but most desirably from populations who had undergone rigorous 'seasoning', or breaking in of body and spirit, in the West Indies where slaves made up to 90% of the populations.Africans, however, were never brought to Boston in large numbers. At most, enslaved and free, blacks made up less than 3% of its citizens. The centers of the slave system were far to the south where slaves made up 33% of the population. Boston's ships were simply the South's pimps, procurers and suppliers of helpless black flesh ripe for raping.
To wit, Hebron's wife Purslane, after many dark nights of the soul and prayerful consideration sought the discreet counsel of midwife Hepzibah, demanding and receiving tokens of deepest confidence, which this noble soul, who in her time had birthed most members of this town, never betrayed.
"Dame Hepzibah, if impaled longer on Hebron's perpetually stiff bowsprit, always ready to burst the brig of his britches, forsooth shall I perish. Have I not painfully birthed by the effusion his hot seed more than a dozen babes? Six still-borne, five called to the Lord in infancy, three dead before one score years. My remaining, Portia, a sweet child, put with Christian charity, but daft as the day be long."
"I can'st stand no more. Clear I am no brooding mare and, although dutiful wife, his hot lust, dead cert after a long celibate voyage, is blight on my life which soon'st must snuff my brief candle. Our marriage bed fills me now with nought but fear and disgust."
"Sister," Hebzibah began hesitantly, "I ken your deep dilemma and dire circumstance, of which I have oft suspect. Situations as yours be not unique, 'tho I can'st quote cases, my lips sealed by sacred vows of silence such as thee requesteth of me. But know ye be not alone, nor without keen sympathy of the Almighty."
"In desperate situations as this have I counseled husbands absolved of fidelity to the hot marriage bed that they might find cooling relief in arms of divers loose women more fit to such battlefronts. Harlots, strumpets, tramps and their ilk."
"Although, fully frank my dear, does not he trade in Blackamoors? Mighst not a tropically-fired piece of ebony Eve's flesh sate his mad appetites? Suitably situated in the shadows, of course. The shades of a bustling inn as maid tending to divers guests, or busy farm as a milkmaid to kine. Out of sight, out of mind, to put most plainly."
That afternoon Purslane penned a letter to Hebron, busy in Boston preparing 'Free Spirit' for a fresh venture to the Dark Continent, and dispatched it with the next rider transiting the Post Road outside the inn.
"My soul's earthly Captain,
Would'st thou, while on the wild shores of Afric, kindly acquire a comely and compliant lass, competent to service our guests' every needs? This mayhap would relieve my onerous responsibilities and lighten considerable burdens. Perhaps of nubile age so she may grow up knowing no other life but faithful service to us and prove amenable to Christian catechism.
Purslane Morris, your devoted wife."
Hebron read easily between her lines. Lines he'd been thinking along himself. He was weary of congress, rarely permitted, with a wife of bony pelvis who lay prone, unresponsive and dry as a sack of old potatoes beneath the practiced thrusts of a man in his prime still running with the unsated sap of youth.
"My dear," he replied, "I shall endeavor to fulfill the request in your letter to our mutual satisfaction." Which he did to the letter and their quite separate satisfactions.
Today we call this a win-win situation, but inevitably when two win, at least one other has to lose - and that one had better be strong enough for two. Talk about the triangle trade!
Clotel, or Chloe as she came to be called, was only twelve when she caught Hebron's discerning eye for flesh at a factory, or slave trading station, on the Guinea Coast. He was immediately captivated by her budding comeliness. "Mighst be ripe for plucking aft a year or two to mature."
Their early matings were marred by violence that Hebron, as Christian, found disturbing but needless necessary. Slavery simply was that way, its foundation built on shifting sands of violence supporting the manifold rotten structure.
No men or women in their minds, nor animals even, would surrender a brief earthly stay but their bodies be beaten into submission and spirits crushed. Violence alone made souls into slaves, conditioned by fears of god and master deeply impressed into their psyches. Willful fillies must be broken by repeated lashings of the crop and cock.
When she was fourteen Hebron began insinuating his infatuation and intent toward the child, which she resisted politely at first as absurd then quite positively as abhorrent. He saw she would need special persuasions, more correction than he could bring to bear with his solitary staff.
In the South it was said of blacks. "You can get close but not too high". Blacks might live close to their masters but they'd better know and keep their places.
In the North the motto went. "You can get high but not too close". Blacks might move up, even to freedom, but they'd better know and keep their distance.
Toward this end, and moreover to disguise his dark purpose, he built a small clapboard cabin in the apple orchard on the hill overlooking the ocean, looking back toward Africa, between the inn and farm. Abundant tree prunings fueled the fieldstone fireplace for heating and cooking. Later, when the dark family was freed and fled, it was used as a smokehouse until other forms of preservation became preferred. Preserved forever however seems to be the redolent scent of applewood smoke, still lingering in the air despite stripping the interior back to its bones.