When a starry-eyed foodie says, “I love your pierogi’s! How do you make them? Can you teach me?” The Polish grandmothers and aunts always answer this
question the same way: “It’s a lot of
work.” And they are correct.
Not everyone is meant to soar with the eagles when it comes to preparing
Ethnic food. But I have come to believe
that when the circumstances permit, and your zeal runs high, it may be your
turn to attempt the thing others run from:
Hard work for the sake of excellence.
I used to think I might have the “food gene” and be the
Chosen One to cook special dishes that people rave about. But frankly, in a household of one, it is
tiring to go through all the hoo-hah of making a complicated meal. For now, I have given-up. I eat regularly with the three families I
know the best: The King’s, The McDonald’s
and the Dunkins. I don’t complicate my
life by going to work out at a gym; that would send my body conflicting
messages. I work hard at my country life
and put in 40+ hours a week in my Real Job, and pray that I live the struggle
just long enough to hit the lottery.
A few dreams floated through my head over the years and
finally dissipated, mostly due to the need for cash flow to start up. I thought perhaps I could marry into money
and everything would just flow from there.
As it turned out, I never even dated
into money, so marrying into the money just wasn’t in the cards. One dream isn’t dead yet: to start a small alpaca farm.
I studied my brains out to learn more about this sweet
animal. But now I can’t think of how I
would ever garner enough energy to care for one more enterprise by myself. I am content to visit them at farms and
reminisce about all I had learned of them in my exploratory phase. For a while, the alpacas were being shipped
into the country from various points in South America, which is where they are
an indigenous species. Then, when we got
some really good farms established with quality stock, we closed our borders
(yeah, imagine) and said to the American farmers: “Go for it.
It’s your turn to develop the bloodlines of excellence.”
The smaller farms found they couldn’t make it by just
raising the alpacas to look at. It was
imperative to multi-task. So they spun the
alpaca wool, and sold it to consumers.
They began selling products like socks and scarves and mittens and
sweaters at exhibition shows and at their home farm’s stores. They branched out and sold crochet hooks,
knitting needles, looms, and hobby products.
They intrigued new customers by explaining that alpaca wool is better than sheep’s wool in so many
ways: less oily, cleaner, softer, and
initially worth its weight in silver. If
they could educate the potential consumer, they could then create the
market. The law of demand would kick in
and the supply would be right there waiting for it. That was the market 25 years ago. Small farms popped up everywhere, and they were
delightful.
The alpacas were brought to competitive shows and petting
zoos and the like. They could pull a
small cart in a parade and thrill small children by their seeming smiling
faces. And, no, they don’t spit. It is llamas that spit. Alpacas hum.
And it is a happy sort of sound when they do. Like I said, they seem to be smiling. I spoke with one Vermont farmer once and
asked him “Why alpacas?” He
answered: “I was looking to get into
developing my farm and went to visit a friend who was raising alpacas. My child slipped under the railing and walked
into the center of the herd. The alpacas
just graciously stepped aside and made room for the child. Cows would have stepped on her. I was sold.”
And he began his journey. Twenty
years later, his farm has developed into a lovely wedding venue and farm-stay
as well.
My own dream that came true birthed from something deep
inside my soul. If you were to find my 9th
grade science notebook you would discover that I obsessively drew two things in
the margins. One was a small cartoon
character I called “Squashbill.” The
other was a dog. And every time I tried
to draw the dog with a tail, somehow it looked off-balance. So the tail-less dog reigned supreme in the
notebook.
Ten years later, having just graduated from University, I
wandered the halls of the Maricopa County Animal Shelter looking for a
dog. I picked one dog out, a red cocker
spaniel, but had to wait until she was actually “up for adoption” the following
Saturday. When I arrived at “the pound”
I found that two other people were there for the very same dog, and
consequently the pound staff did a lottery system. The dog went home with this immense man driving
a junky pick-up truck, needing some Elmer’s glue for his back side where the
shirt didn’t hang low enough to cover the pants that didn’t come up high
enough, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I was duly horrified at the cruelty of the
little dog’s fate.
Utterly crestfallen, I walked toward my car when the woman,
the other competitor for this dog, stopped me.
She said, “Hey, take another walk through ….” I really just wanted to go
home and cry as a sore loser and be mad at her for being another participant in
the nasty, obviously-flawed lottery system.
I ended up walking through the dog-jail again and finding my perfect
match: a white cocker spaniel with red
markings … no tail included. The woman
disappeared. I have come to surmise she
was an angel sent to get me in line with my destiny when I almost walked away
from it.
That first dog, Serena, lived with me for over 17
years. She taught me just about everything
I needed to know about how to live with a dog and take care of them. I believe she took good care of me too. That dog was part of my life like a best
friend would be: we went camping, to
sing-a-longs, to parks, and teen retreats together. She was loved by a million-and-one people
besides me. She was instrumental in my
understanding of how a good dog can make your life so much better. And I came to the idea that I would like to
get another dog whom I could breed puppies that would bring joy to people.
To be continued….
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