Thunder Road

On Not Knowing Russian, Part 2

2009-02-24T09:09:00.002-08:00

Walking on the third floor of the JFSB last week I passed a professor's office which appeared to have this name on the plaque:

Russia v. Slovenia

I thought that was a fitting match-up although I think Russia would certainly win. Was this a political statement being made? a statement of patriotism?

Actually, upon closer look I realized that the office belonged to one Raissa V. Solovieva.

On Not Knowing Russian

2009-02-18T20:07:00.001-08:00

While ambling to my Physical Science class today (so cool) I stepped into the Clyde Building and walked passed a hurried young man talking on his cell:

"Yeah I've got shlovnik and salzkov. Yeah"

Because I was stomach-eating-itself hungry at the time I imagined that this gentleman had not one but two different varieties of Russian sausage which he was taking to an undisclosed location that he would soon disclose to me via text message.

But then I realized that there's the unfortunate chance that he was telling his mother that he has developed two painful and odious skin afflictions, contracted during his studies of Russian housepets.

Or perhaps the words should be capitalized and italicized to become his favorite two albums from the year's premier Ukranian emo group (whatever that might be).

At any rate, I'm glad I don't know Russian. It would simply ruin the fun of going to BYU, of walking to Physical Science class, of a day otherwise spent in a bit of a haze. Imagine if I actually knew for certain that this young man was explaining to a friend that he has "classified information"(shlovnik) and "wherewithal"(salzkov). Then what would I do?

The Call

2009-02-04T19:11:00.000-08:00

I have found my calling in life:

http://completeall.com/Art-and-Design/Watermelon-Carving.html

In other news: One of my recent goals has been to learn how to cook good food on a shoestring budget. Let me tell you, it's not that easy. There's kind of a spectrum things run on: either the food is expensive and tasty, or inexpensive and not tasty. That being said, there have been a few good developments:

One was our recent dumpling party. I didn't get any pictures unfortunately, but can tell you that we all had a pretty good time. I think the total budget was about 10 dollars which went towards making probably 60-70 dumplings. It was enough to feed eight people pretty well. Here's the recipe:

The Shopping List

Note: Items bought in large quantities, l have been pro-rated for cost. Ingredients a cook can reasonably be expected to have on hand are considered "Pantry Items" and are not factored into recipe cost. I want to suggest shopping for these things at Chao's in Provo in part because Mr. and Mrs. Chao are my heroes, and things will be much cheaper than large chain stores.

Pork and Cabbage Dumplings
1 package "Shanghai-style" dumpling wrappers - $2.25
1/2 pound ground pork - $1.24
Small head Napa cabbage - $1.70
4 scallions - $0.75
Bunch cilantro - $0.75
Small knob ginger - $0.15

Procedure

1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil over high heat. Blanch cabbage until just wilted, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat and rinse in cold water. Drain, squeeze out excess water, and transfer to a large mixing bowl.

2. Add all remaining ingredients to bowl containing cabbage. Knead by hand until thoroughly combined.

Dumpling wrappers can be purchased at Asian grocery stores or in the freezer section of many supermarkets. I like the thicker, "Shanghai-style" wrappers, which are less fragile to work with and far more filling.

First, prepare a small bowl of cold water. Pile two teaspoons of filling in the center of the dumpling wrapper. Using your fingertip, moisten the outer edge of the wrapper with water. Fold wrapper in half, forming a half-moon, and pleat the edges, pressing firmly to seal. Repeat with remaining dumplings.

To Cook

Working in batches, carefully lower dumplings into a medium pot of boiling water and boil for 3 to 5 minutes. They are done when the skins are translucent and the dumplings have been boiling for at least 3 minutes.

Another good success in terms of cooking has been my latest venture into macaroni and cheese. It's kind of comfort food for me and gets high marks, especially since this is not the Kraft junk that I've wasted so much time eating. Here's a recipe for real (and real good) mac 'n cheese:

Ingredients

6 slices good-quality white bread, crusts removed, torn into 1/4- to 1/2-inch pieces
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, plus more for dish
5 1/2 cups milk
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
4 1/2 cups (about 18 ounces) grated sharp white cheddar
2 cups (about 8 ounces) grated Gruyere or 1 1/4 cups (about 5 ounces) grated pecorino Romano
1 pound elbow macaroni

Method

1. Heat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a 3-quart casserole dish; set aside. Place bread pieces in a medium bowl. In a small saucepan over medium heat, melt 2 tablespoons butter. Pour butter into the bowl with bread, and toss. Set the breadcrumbs aside. In a medium saucepan set over medium heat, heat milk. Melt remaining 6 tablespoons butter in a high-sided skillet over medium heat. When butter bubbles, add flour. Cook, stirring, 1 minute.
2. Slowly pour hot milk into flour-butter mixture while whisking. Continue cooking, whisking constantly, until the mixture bubbles and becomes thick.
3. Remove the pan from the heat. Stir in salt, nutmeg, black pepper, cayenne pepper, 3 cups cheddar, and 1 1/2 cups Gruyere or 1 cup pecorino Romano. Set cheese sauce aside.
4. Fill a large saucepan with water. Bring to a boil. Add macaroni; cook 2 to 3 fewer minutes than manufacturer's directions, until outside of pasta is cooked and inside is underdone. (Different brands of macaroni cook at different rates; be sure to read the instructions.) Transfer the macaroni to a colander, rinse under cold running water, and drain well. Stir macaroni into the reserved cheese sauce.
5. Pour the mixture into the prepared casserole dish. Sprinkle remaining 1 1/2 cups cheddar and 1/2 cup Gruyere or 1/4 cup pecorino Romano; scatter breadcrumbs over the top. Bake until browned on top, about 30 minutes. Transfer dish to a wire rack to cool for 5 minutes; serve.

I eliminated the Gruyere in part because it cost like ten bucks (!) and the stuff still turned out great. White cheddar is a little bit pricey (I think I paid 4.99 for 8 oz) but well worth the cost. I cut the recipe in half and had at least four lunches out of the stuff. By the way, the recipe is from Martha Stewart, who if you don't know is out of jail and back...with a vengeance.

What a First Letterbox Looks Like

2008-07-19T14:18:00.000-07:00

Today Catharine and I reached a new level in our relationship. Letterboxing! Seriously, this is a great activity--one which I originally doubted and am now converted to. It's fun, easy, and for the most part air-conditioned, which on a day as hot as today was (high 90s) has to count for something. I want to give a big shout-out to Skoticus and Tom Hansen for inspiring the day's activities thanks to their positive reviews of letterboxing. For those of you not familiar, here's the shakedown on what you do.

Step 1: Find a letterbox in your area so as to save gasoline. There was one right in Wrightstown! Connor helps. Here's the dialogue of the process:

Step 2: Solve the clue to what you're looking for. Here's what we were given:

Eight Sided School House

[14][17][22][12]//[28][16][13]//[13][17][15][16][28]//

[27][17][12][13][12]//[27][11][16][23][23][20]//

[16][23][29][27][13]//[17][22]//

[31][26][17][15][16][28][27][23][31][22]//[24][9].//

[14][26][23][21]//[28][16][13]//[12][23][23][26]//

[14][17][22][12]//[28][16][13]//

[10][26][17][12][15][13].//

[28][16][13]//[10][23][32]//[17][27]//

[9][11][26][23][27][27]//[28][16][13]//

[10][26][17][12][15][13]//[29][22][12][13][26]//

[28][16][13]//[26][17][15][16][28]//[27][17][12][13].

Not getting it? Here's the solution we came up with after some clever deduction:

Find the eight

sided school

house in

Wrightstown PA.

From the door

find the

bridge.

The box is

across the

bridge under

the right side.

We really wanted it to be a poem with rhyme and meter (a limmerick perhaps?) but we settled for vague directions!

Step 3: Make your stamp. Being resourceful, Cat and I decided to carve ours out of a rubber eraser. Catharine designing, me approving:

We decided on a C and A design, using ASL.

Catharine applies ink for the stamp's maiden voyage:

Even without the photographic proof, I can tell you it was a successful print.

Step 4: Find your letterbox. On the way over to the eight-sided schoolhouse (which, by the way, was pretty cool) I began to get very nervous that the box would not be where the internet told us it would. I doubted--visions of maurading deer stealing boxes, hobos making off with rubber stamps to sell on the rubber stamp blackmarket floated through my mind. Catharine did her best to assuage me.

Oh letterboxing! You came through in the clutch! The box was just where it was supposed to be.

Inside we found the tiny log of stamps as well as their own rubber stamp for our book.

Step 5: Use your homeade stamp to leave a record in the log of your visit. Be sure to write your names.

Step 6: Use the box's stamp in your book. This is getting kind of hard to describe--not doing the greatest job here--but let's just say they had a cool stamp that looked like an eight-sided schoolhouse, I inked it up, and stamped it on some paper we brought with us.

Three cheers for letterboxing! Seriously, if you haven't tried this it's a good one. It would make for a great family home evening activity, date, Eagle Scout project, Master's thesis, weekend getaway. Go to it.

What a Game Night Looks Like

2008-07-19T13:29:00.000-07:00

Friday night=good times. The Lee family invited a bunch of people over for some games, some food, some convivial association. We're young, right? We get to do these types of things. Here's what went down:

The family Hansen emerges prepared to wage the good fight!

And by "fight" I mean eat "mexican-inspired" food at Taco Bell. Here, Tom looks on as Rachel's head explodes from trying his drink. The accidental touch of root beer made it taste like bubblegum.

Meanwhile, at the Lees, Rob was preparing for some serious Cranium action. The teams: Sofa vs. non-sofa. In other words: Catharine, myself, Rachel in the couch corner versus the tag-team combo of Brother and Sister Lee, Rob and Tom.

Some sort of Japanese dexterity test which prepares the mind to spell backwards and draw with your eyes closed.

In the end, the non-couch team would win. But that's really not the important part, is it? The important part is that Tom Hansen learned how to do a low five:

Actually, other exciting things happened including another game of Cranium. Sadly, my camera had run out of gas. Speaking of gas:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=24ktdkw8z5s

What I look like Monday-Wednesday 9:00 to 3:00

2008-07-19T13:24:00.000-07:00

What a Trip Down the Shore Looks Like

2008-07-13T05:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes people like to get all covered in sand and salt. When this urge arises, a trip "down the shore" is usually in short-order. Today was one of those days. As a result, a few good friends and myself made the trip across the Garden State to what I would consider a quaint little village on the sea. In fact, it's called Avon-by-the-Sea, New Jersey. Here's what we did when we got there:

Alex gave the universal sign for "I love UV rays!"

Catharine and Rob looked both natural yet wind-swept down along the water line. What do you think they're contemplating?

Take 1.

That's better.

At one point in the day a mad game of "Keep the Volleyball in the Air" broke out. Basically, it was a quest to keep the ball in the air 30 bumps. We did it! Action shots are kind of my new thing, so I'm pretty proud of these.

Either pre or post ball visitation.

I'm going to call this the shot of the day. What is she looking at?
These guys are my paddle ball heroes. They hit that little ball back and forth to each other 199 times while their children counted. Seriously, they were so amazing.

Rob Lee came! Rob would later win the award for "He who has gotten the most sun". Congrats, Rob.

Catharine and Camille did the best job of soaking up the rays though. Camille even did some sand angels.

Then this happened.

Alex invited everyone to cover him with wet sand, citing some king of theraputic result. We were more than happy to oblige. However, I do not look very happy do I?

These are a few of the activities people like to do when they are down the Shore. I tried taking pictures (action shots) of people diving through the rough surf, but didn't have much luck. They just looked like little dots diving through the surf. The waves were pretty rough thanks to tropical storm Bertha and there was a pretty good undertow. All in all, a seriously great day. Good thing there's a shore to go to round these parts.

The Welding

2008-05-30T16:04:00.000-07:00

Here are the pictures from my recent trip to California to celebrate matrimony. I will try to explain them through the medium of captions. Here goes:

Arriving at the temple a few minutes late, we quickly stashed our cell phones and other valuables in the trunk of the car so as to protect them from marauding temple thieves.

The Oakland temple is pretty amazingly beautiful. I had forgotten how impressive palm trees are. Also, the temple had a neat carving of the last supper on one wall.

As we wait for the new couple to emerge from the temple, Christine gets a kick out of something while Rachel Gilman and Rachel Hamilton look on in amusement.

The bridesmaids. I was not invited to wear a blue dress.

I was however invited to look a bit goofy in front of the amazing view the temple has.

Dan took the opportunity to think about his upcoming marriage.

Finally Kimber and Julian show up in all their beauty. They really did look very good for the whole day. I especially am fond of Julian's waistcoat and tails. Also the matching flower is well done.

I like this picture.

And Julian likes closing his eyes in pictures.

Kimber with her mother and father. I like the hat.

This is at the wedding luncheon. I am already beginning to look a bit weary, and the food hasn't even been served!

Speaking of food, this is the spread at the reception, later that night. There was also a table entirely devoted to candy which people could take home in small Chinese-food-style carry out boxes.

Kimber and Julian get some last minute dance tips. I think he was telling them that if everything fails, "just write your name in cursive with your bum."

This is blurry, but it gives you an idea of the cake. It looked very nice, but I'm not sure we actually ate this one seeing as it looked pretty intact at the end of the night. They had chocolate and carrot sheetcakes they sliced up and I helped serve. I think people thought that I was the hired staff because of the bow-tie. It happens.

On our day off after the wedding we biked around Palo Alto. This was a little community garden we stopped by that was very lovely.

This is a totally awesome/creepy statue at the Stanford Art Museum. I can't remember the artist, but the piece is entitled "Slab Man". I was looking at another painting and thought it was just a repairman resting when I finally looked over and saw that he wasn't moving. It's amazingly lifelike and a bit disturbing to get up really close to. In the explanation on the wall the artist said that they were looking to explore the human body and the taboos surrounding staring.

Finally, the parrots. They are perched in this tree if you look real close. Click and enlarge to see a better version. You can even see one flying from the tree on the right to the center one.

To Owl Town

2008-05-22T11:15:00.000-07:00

The following is a book-length poem I found in my attic today. I wrote and illustrated it in fourth grade, though I only remember the illustrating part. Whether I wrote it or not, I am now taking credit for it.

To Owl Town

I walked to the old oak tree
where the wise old owl lives.

I asked him:

Where does the black night go?

He said:

To where the trees point
at the end of the forest
to the end of it all
to Owl Town.

I looked straight in his big bright eyes.
He told me:

Fly there.
Soar over the tall trees
Find the moon past the smell of the flowers.
You'll find those big bright eyes.

So I went.

They watched me and I asked:

How long have you been here?
And what do you eat in Owl Town?

The old gray owl spoke.
He said:

Here before the moon
we drink the morning dew,
eat skunk stew,
and save gophers for dessert.

They told me:

Stay.

I flew with them
sat with them
ate food with them
and sang songs with them.

At dusk
I grew wings
I soared over the moon
I flew over the tall trees
I flew to the rushing waters

I ruffled my feathers
I heard the upcoming storm
I saw the darkening clouds
and smelled rain in the air

I stretched out my wings
and caught the wind with them

The wind carried me far
to the east

They taught me owl songs
evening watch-the-moon songs
hunting mice songs
that only owls sing
and only owls hear

With my big bright eyes
I found delicious mice
saw stars fly by
Watched a quick fish swim
when I passed by

I was cold in the night breezes
I was comfortable in the high tree
and the little ones leaned on me
as they slept

One snuggled close and asked:

Where does the black night go?

I said:

at the end of the forest
to where the trees point
to houses filled with the people
I love

I said:

I miss them
I want to fly back through the night
to the tops of the cliffs

Towards the smell of good food
where I'll find
those curious human eyes

And I flew
through the forest
to where the trees point
past the smell of the pine
back to good food
and my family

To grow legs again
to grow arms again
to see the old wise owl
in his tree again
who holds memories
of Owl Town.

Relief

2008-05-05T19:34:00.000-07:00

Have you ever found a spot of something on your wrist and without thinking licked it off only to be relieved that it was in fact melted chocolate and not something else--something horribly, horribly unlike chocolate?

Sometimes it's very nice to have moments of relief--when you find yourself content with all the things around you. I've been really overwhelmed--to the point of not quite knowing how to handle it all--by all the things I'm blessed with in my life. It's very easy to feel grumpy, to feel lethargic, to feel standoffish. It's perhaps even easier to go outside and sit on a bench and realize how silly you are for feeling sorry for yourself.

Also, I planted 3000 scallions this week.

Remember This?

2008-04-30T06:23:00.001-07:00

Happy Couples

2008-04-28T18:49:00.001-07:00

(It's a snail. In the house?!)

The Adventure of H Mart

2008-04-28T16:39:00.000-07:00

Today Dad and I went on an adventure to the local H Mart. There are good people there and lots and lots of cool foods.

Also, there is lunch. Due to a miscommunication involving lunch special orders instead of the traditional delicious marinated pork feast, Dad and I received two bowls of what I am calling "scary soup", tentacles and all. Here's Dad ordering:

And here he is with our lunch (look in the lower left corner of my bowl for some octapus tentacle-action):

Poem

2008-04-20T07:57:00.000-07:00

I think that I shall never see
something as lovely as a rutabaga

Recommendations

2008-04-20T07:06:00.000-07:00

There are a few things that I want to recommend this morning:

1. Hair. There are so many options! For instance, arriving at my final to find Dr. Johnson completely buzzed makes me want to do the same. Summer haircuts are possibly the best. And yet, this morning I got up and in my post-shower puttering decided today was a great day for a part in the hair. I slicked myself up and guess what: looks sweet. Hair, I love thee.

2. Inscape. It's technically not up yet, but if you go to inscape.byu.edu you'll see a beautifully done website--minimalist and crisp. Also, you will find some excellent writing from the likes of Jon Ogden, who always wears very nice shoes.

3. Planning your summer reading now. Because I go to BYU I know that summer actually begins the third week of April, not sometime in June when everyone thinks. There are a few advantages to this longer summer, one of which is more reading time. Right now this is what I'm going to try to get through this summer:

-Unaccustomed Earth, the new collection from Jhumpa Lahiri
-Maps and Legends, essays by Michael Chabon
-Out Stealing Horses, Per Petterson
-believe it or not I want to get into some sci-fi like Phillip K. Dick or Ursula LeGuin
-Brothers Karamazov
-Kierkegaard

Hopefully this list will get smaller, then larger, then smaller--in that order. Have you got your summer planned out?

Finally, you should read this.

On Rice and Beans

2008-04-18T21:29:00.000-07:00

I spent a good chunk of my day at work, which means starring at a computer screen. This is not a good thing. At some point in the day I decided that I was craving Mexican food, and so resolved myself to go on a Mexican adventure. The motivation for such a quest may come from the knowledge that in a week I will be in a part of the country where Mexican food is almost entirely non-existent.

More than anything though, I wanted something authentic. Or so I thought. It turns out that I only know where the fake Mexican-chain retail-type places are in Provo--places that either have the word "Cafe" in their name or the word "Fresh" somewhere in the title. No. I wanted the opposite of fresh. I wanted meat on a tortilla and beans on the side.

And yet, I am not ready for this. I found a groceria just south of my house that seemed promising. I was only one of two white people in the store, which was surprisingly busy. They had a lunch counter with a menu board tacked to the back wall. It was just right, except there were only two ladies working and neither of them seemed to be working very quickly. I pollo-ed out. I couldn't bring myself to go through the embarrassment of ordering in English in a completely Spanish-oriented store.

Maybe I'm not ready to pay the price necessary for real Mexican food.

When Angels Will Not Tread

2008-04-17T20:38:00.000-07:00

A massive yellow duck claps his wings, skipping through a meadow of smiling flowers. He wears a cloth diaper, blue bonnet and a wide smile. He sings, “I’m a goin’ to granny’s house! I’m a goin’ to granny’s house!”

A brick-red fox sits fast asleep against an apple tree. A duck feather floats above his wheezing nose and sputtering mouth. As the skipping draws nearer the ground begins to tremble violently, though the fox remains deep in his trance. Without warning, the sleeping fox is pounded from above by a shower of falling apples, one after another knocks him on the head in a glissando of xylophone notes until he is completely hidden from view. An angry head bursts from the enormous pile of fruit, and shakes off the tiny Isaac Newtons that dance around him dizzyingly.

Livid, the fox spies his rouser. He blinks three or four times and his hard, black pupils are transformed into roast ducks, complete with tiny paper caps for the legs. A long tongue glides across his trembling lips.

The fox steps momentarily behind his tree, emerging in overalls and carrying a pile of wooden planks. In a flurry of activity, the fox saws this and that, bangs here and there, until panting, he finally reveals a crudely constructed, structurally unsound shack with “Ye Olde Granny’s House” painted across its face. He snickers and shakes his head, marveling at his creation.

Hiding behind a nearby tree the fox watches as the duck skips towards the waiting trap. The duck is surprised to see his family homestead so unexpectedly close. “Time sure does fly when you’re having fun!” he shrugs. “Granny! I’m here!”

The duck has been inside the house for only a sliver of a second when the fox, now dressed in a chef’s hat and apron, screams onto the scene, tearing down the home to reveal a standard, fully-functioning oven. The duck’s diaper can barely be seen sticking out of the open door before the fox slams it shut. The fox leans against the oven, consulting a book entitled “Fowl for Foxes”. The page reads: “To cook duck, roast for two hours turning once, draining liquid occasionally to ensure crispiness. Best served with fresh plum sauce.”

Time passes. The fox’s stomach begins to rumble, his belly quavering. A bell rings somewhere and he runs to the oven rubbing together protective mitts. Opening the door, the fox removes a tray on which, garnished by carrots, potatoes, and even cut up apples, sits not a moist yet crispy duck, but rather a sleeping, drooling one. The fox is furious. He sets the duck on the stovetop before jumping up and down on his hat several times. He yanks open the oven and shoves his head within in an attempt to discover some sort of malfunction. Without any word of warning, a yellow-feathered arm descends from above, slamming the door in one swipe, trapping the fox.

As the duck skips off, a blackened, grimacing face presses its nose up against the unyielding window of an oven, around which a circle tightens until only black remains.

The television which this drama plays out upon is bolted to a panel of dark finished particle board. The board sits in a cabinet and thanks to a special mount swivels two or three inches either way. This is to allow for comfortable viewing two to three inches away from exactly in front of the television. The room is painted a color somewhere between orange and pink. The room contains among other things: a chair with turquoise cushion tied to its seat, a blue ice bucket and two glasses, one still wrapped in its cellophane, two towels—one hung on the doorknob, the other folded neatly by the sink, three small bars of lavender scented soap, four hangers, a small iron, two pads of paper, one pen, a queen size bed with only the right side turned down or showing evidence of sleep, a framed watercolor of a girl flying a kite on the beach, a round side table without drawers, a lamp which matches the walls screwed down to the tabletop. Seated on the edge of the bed, Hat Markam was also in the room.

Turning off the television, Hat looks at himself in the blank screen. He is wearing a light grey hooded sweatshirt—the full-zip variety—and black fleece pants. The sweatshirt is new and still has enough elasticity that it clings to his belly, which, though it has never been mistaken for a bowl full of jelly, does have a rather distinct curvature. While warm and fuzzy, the fleece of his pants becomes easily static-charged and as a result picks up dust and various other forms of airborne matter. This at first bothered Hat to no end, but he has since resigned himself to the ubiquitous existence of lint.

There are some things which Hat refuses to allow get to him. For instance, though his hair has grayed he does not use one of the coloring products advertised on television during the nightly news. Instead, he does his best to keep his hair neatly trimmed, especially around the ears where it tends to go curly if left unattended. Even now, looking at himself in the reflection of a hotel television, he runs his hand over the top of his head and uses his thumb to curve the front off his brow sufficiently.

In matters of health, Hat is somewhat less cautious. He has spent time in and out of hospitals over the course of his life, though no one stay has exceeded a week. Many such visits have been spent in taking care of a lingering kidney stone problem. Hat’s bowels in general have been a lifelong war zone, now scarred and riddled with great craters. A portion of the duodenum area of his small intestine is missing, the victim of a blockage that would not remove itself. This has left Hat with a list of foods he is not supposed to eat: various forms of nuts, raw vegetables, corn, broad or soybeans, raw seafood such as oysters. He drinks three-and-a-half liters of water a day.

Last night in the hotel cantina while Hat looked at the menu, he knew that the chile pepper icon printed next to number forty-six was a sign of doctorly disapproval, but he decided that vacation (like many other things) warranted a level of disregard for such concerns. After all, he was supposed to be celebrating.

“What’ll you have?”

“Well, barring any insistence from you,” Hat notices that the waitress’s name is Missy, “I’m going to try this number forty-six though I’d like black beans instead of refried if that’s possible.”

When the food arrives, Missy smiles and asks what brings him to Fort Lauderdale. Spring training? She tears off his check and leans her forearms against the counter.

No, Hat explains, he is not in Florida for baseball. He tells her the story of the night last November when, returning from the grocery he drove his Toyota pickup over a slight crest into a fog-filled depression. There he saw a smaller car, foreign-made, sitting against the guard-rail with its brake lights on. Pulling off the road, Hat shone his high-beams through the car’s back windshield. He saw no heads.

Hat scrambled over to the car. There, laying in front of the vehicle was a fully grown mule deer, its neck bent and broken. Caught in the light from a streetlamp the head was encircled with this terrible black halo of blood. Looking away, Hat yanked open the driver’s door. A young man, who he would later learn was a sophomore at the community college, leaned against the center console. Hat shook him and got no response. The man was not wearing his seatbelt and had obviously hit his head against the windshield at a very painful speed. There was plenty of blood. Hat grabbed the man by the neck but felt no pulse in the jugular. Not knowing what else to do, Hat put his hands on the man’s head, one on the forehead, the other down around by the base of the skull.

Hat shook this poor man’s head. He shook it hard, not like you shake a piggy bank or a present on Christmas, more like shaking the last seeds out of a pumpkin. He shook it again and for some reason thought of those toys for children where the shaking erases the image you etch in the sand. He had the notion—he didn’t know what could have inspired it—but that if he shook hard enough, the blood would go back into this man’s head, the bones would fuse back together, whatever pain he was feeling would go away. For whatever reason, he just couldn’t think of anything else. So Hat shook and shook. It doesn’t make any sense, and Hat always gets a funny look on his face when he gets to this part of the story but at the point when he didn’t think his arms could take any more shaking, when he began to wonder if he was doing more harm than good, when he didn’t know what was going to happen but kept slamming this man’s head back and forth in his arms, the kid woke up. Long story short: He got well—it took awhile because he had broken a few ribs—but it actually happened.

Missy raises her eyebrows, exhales, and pushes herself off the counter. “Pretty amazing story.” Hat nods once and takes a bite of rice. In between chews he explains that the local Rotary club surprised him by putting together some money to send Hat down here for a week—they called it a “good works bursary”. There was an article in the paper and a few people even got together to send him off. So here he is.

Sitting in his hotel room after a day on the beach, Hat thinks that he likes Florida, though he wonders about some of the people. Everyone seems altogether predictable: too much the age they ought to be, too much the bronze color expected, too much in line with the stereotypes maintained by comedians and AARP brochures.

The weather really is something else though. Tonight is the third night in a row he sleeps with the window open, the mix of indoor and outdoor temperatures providing exactly the preferable equilibrium for sleep. A beige moth enters the room and circles Hat’s body as he lies in bed. Hat watches from below as the moth traces a shaky figure against the pink ceiling, like a spirit descending peacefully upon him. The moth lands on his arm and Hat can feel the fuzzy tickle of its feet. It looks like a tiny paper triangle resting on his arm. The moth steps up and down, turning its little body so the head faces Hat’s. Then, another moth lands quietly on his shoulder. A third settles first on his left leg, then a fourth and fifth on his right. Hat feels wings ruffle through his hair. Three more triangles appear on his chest, hopping up and down, their wings tapping against the sheets. Soon Hat has lost count of the insects in the room, there must be over a hundred. A car drives past his window, momentarily illuminating a cloud of wings suspended above his body. The swarm looks first like a boat with sails whipping in the air, then a man with a dog’s head carrying a staff, an apple, a blinking eye, a book with turning pages, and finally taking the shape of the face of a weeping woman. Hat lies transfixed in bed, wondering if what he is seeing is real or a dream he didn’t realize he was having. If it is real: why? Hat wonders what, if anything, he could have done to provoke something like this. He also wonders if he shouldn’t feel more afraid than he does right now, perhaps less in awe and more surprised. As the moths fly out the window they came in from, like a string of hairy twine, lying there in his hotel room Hat sees in his mind this great mass of moths floating up into the Florida midnight, dispersing themselves among the stars. He can see them draining the milky light of the heavens until the sky is entirely black but the moths have become like a hundred new twitching stars, in new formations with new stories to be told about them.

The next morning Hat wakes up uncharacteristically late but feels refreshed, he hums while shaving. He turns on the television while dressing and watches a few moments of the local news. He watches a story about a new city ordinance concerning garbage pickup, a story on local men back from Iraq, a health feature, and the weather. Today is to be warm and sunny with a chance of showers at night.

After breakfast Hat takes a newspaper out by the pool. A mother sits on the edge of the pool watching her two children swim. Two small birds fly past, landing on a second story balcony. Hat wonders if they aren’t some kind of tropical love birds chasing after each other, or if they’re just normal birds doing what birds always do.

The older of the two children, a boy who looks to be around eleven or twelve ducks momentarily under the water only to emerge and spit a stream of water at his sister. She screams something in Spanish and splashes him, slapping both arms against the surface of the pool. Hat adjusts his towel on the back of the yellow chair, refolds his paper. He catches the eye of the mother who smiles. He nods. The children notice their mother looking at the man in the brown bathing suit and grey hooded sweatshirt. The girl says something to her brother and they both fall backwards into the water laughing. Hat smiles and goes back to his paper, reading an article about beach erosion. He moves on to an article about hazing in area high schools, what disciplinary measures are being accepted. Hat feels someone watching him and looks up to see the mother standing by his chair.

She smiles. “Hello.”

“How are you?”

The mother apologizes and explains that she needs to go inside to use the restroom. Would he watch her children for a few minutes?

Hat answers that of course he would, and jokes that nature always calls at the worst times.

She smiles and says something in Spanish to the children. As she walks away, Hat notices the dotted trail of water she leaves on the sun whitened concrete.

He lays his paper on the ground and slides it under his chair. The boy lifts himself out of the pool, turning his back to his sister bouncing up and down in the shallow end. He does not look at Hat as he walks to the edge of the patio where there is a patch of scruffy grass. He says something to his sister, adjusts his bathing suit and begins to run. When he reaches the edge of the pool this skinny boy with long black hair leaps forward and out into the air, his arms stretched in front of him like a human knife. His sister turns away from the splash he makes, brushing her hair out of her face. From his chair Hat cannot see the boy underwater, but imagines him gliding along the bottom of the pool, sneaking up to surprise and tickle his sister. A breeze blows through the courtyard and a palm front scrapes along the pool deck. The little girl begins to scream and point at the bottom of the pool.

Hat is standing and leaping into the pool, sweatshirt and all. As he hits the water Hat Markam thinks that this is life: doing what seems completely natural though it entirely surprises you. When life pushes up against you in a way you don’t like, stay natural, let your faculties take over. Hat thinks that he is learning to step outside himself for a moment.

As he rights himself in the water Hat first sees the little girl’s legs kicking furiously and then the boy lying on his back like a table upturned. His eyes are closed and he looks strangely peaceful. Hat is surprised at how much light there is in the pool, it seems to be diffused and floating all around the boy, across his face, behind his arms and legs. The boy is so beautiful lying there on a bed of concrete, black leaves, bits of other debris that Hat considers for just a split second actually leaving him there, just let him be still for a bit. Hat thinks the boy is using this time to be peaceful, to be quiet. Frowning, he grabs under the boy’s left arm and right leg. Expecting a twelve-year-old to be quite a burden, Hat lifts hard and is surprised by how light he actually is, like the boy is filled not with muscle and bone but with air. Pushing off the bottom, Hat lifts the child out of the water, practically throwing him onto the side of the pool. Hat stands half submerged in the water and looks to see the mother screaming, running from the hotel trailed by several employees in white shirts. Hat thinks this looks like chaos, and again for a moment wishes they would let the boy rest in peace for a moment. He does not look sick or deflated, but rather full to the brim with color. The mother falls on her knees by the boy’s side and puts her hands on his cheeks. She turns him one way and then the other. Hat still crouches in the pool while the employees turn the boy on his side and thump him on the back, one holding his head the other pounding three, four, five times. Hat thinks they are hurting him, his back is not that strong, that he is still a child. They should let him recover on his own, they should bide their time and be patient with this young man’s body. Hat opens his mouth to say something, to tell them to give the boy space when he rolls over on his stomach and coughs up water and vomit. The mother pushes the hotel employees aside and takes her son in her arms, cradling the boy as if he were only a baby. She cries and wraps the boy in a towel so he looks even more like a child just out of the bath. She holds him and whispers something, she rests her chin on his head and looks at Hat. She does not say anything.