It is really chilly for about the first time this Winter and I found myself out in the cold without gloves and a cap for a bit too long. In theory I shouldn't mind much - after all, I did grow up in Montana and remember taking walks in -40° weather and fierce blizzards.
About a year ago I was fortunate enough to have made contact again with Jeri - a fellow classmate from Great Falls High. In an email exchange a poem came up. It turned out both of us had memorized it in different junior high schools and both of us have taken delight in reciting it over the years. The poet was a Scottsman who spent most of his life in Canada, becoming famous for poems associated with the Yukon and the gold rush.
A bit earlier I met Reggie Watts at a TEDx talk. Both of us had "performed" and somehow found ourselves chatting afterwards.1 In my talk I mentioned that I was from Montana and he told me he grew up there too. Another minute of talking revealed we had lived within 500 feet of each other and went to the same high school albeit separated by a couple of decades.
It turned out Reggie knew the same poem and it was the introduction to the word moil for both of us.
The world seemed very small as we talked that night.
By now you're probably curious ... I'm afraid I couldn't get all of it from memory and had to cheat a bit. I guess I'm out of practice. My guess is Reggie and Jeri wouldn't have any difficulty.
Turn the lights down, light some candles and crack a window to the cold.Read it outloud armed with a cup of peppermint hot chocolate (recipe follows).
The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
__________
1 TEDx Gotham. I'm afraid my talk wasn't great and was very much in the shadow of Regge's amazing performance. Mine was followed by a wonderful talk architect Craig Dykers and then the electric Juliette Powell. As a speaker it probably makes sense to stay away from events with such serious talent.
__________
Recipe Corner
Somehow a nice warm soup seems appropriate. This one makes good use of carrots - use a rich vegetable broth, water just won't work. As always all amounts are approximate
Carrot Soup
Ingredients
° 2 tablespoons butter
° 1 large yellow onion chopped
° 450 g carrots, peeled and diced to about 1/2 inch
° 600g vegetable stock stock
° 1-1/2 tsp cumin seeds
° 1 tbl honey
° 1 tbl lemon juice
° 1/8 tsp allspice
° Salt and pepper
° sour cream or plain yogurt for garnish
Technique
° Melt butter in a large sauce pan over medium-high heat. Add onion and saute for 2 minutes.
° Stir in carrots and broth and bring to boil. Now cover and cut the heat to a simmer until carrots are tender. (20 - 25 minutes)
° In a small skillet stir and toast the cumin seeds over medium-high heat until you can smell them (about 5 minutes?) Now grind them in a spice mill.
° Puree the soup with a stick blender until smooth.
° Whisk in the honey, lemon juice and allspice and season with salt and pepper.
° Pour the soup into bowls and sprinkle with toasted cumin. Add a bit of sour cream or yogurt and serve.
_____
Peppermint Hot Chocolate
Ingredients
° one cup heavy cream chilled in the 'fridge (half is for topping and is optional)
° 2 tbl + 1 tsp white cane sugar
° 2 cups whole milk
° 120g 60% chocolate chopped into chunks
° a small pinch of salt
° 1/4 tsp peppermint extract
° chocolate (85% is good) for shaving to use as garnish if you like
Technique
° Whip half of the cream and the tsp of sugar into whipped cream and put back in the 'fridge
° Whisk the other half cup of cream, the sugar and milk in a pan over medium high heat and bring to nearly a boil
° Remove from heat, whisk in the chocolate, salt and peppermint until it is smooth
° Pour into mugs, add a dollop of whipped cream and shave some chocolate onto the cream
staying warm and celebration a common tradition
It is really chilly for about the first time this Winter and I found myself out in the cold without gloves and a cap for a bit too long. In theory I shouldn't mind much - after all, I did grow up in Montana and remember taking walks in -40° weather and fierce blizzards.
About a year ago I was fortunate enough to have made contact again with Jeri - a fellow classmate from Great Falls High. In an email exchange a poem came up. It turned out both of us had memorized it in different junior high schools and both of us have taken delight in reciting it over the years. The poet was a Scottsman who spent most of his life in Canada, becoming famous for poems associated with the Yukon and the gold rush.
A bit earlier I met Reggie Watts at a TEDx talk. Both of us had "performed" and somehow found ourselves chatting afterwards.1 In my talk I mentioned that I was from Montana and he told me he grew up there too. Another minute of talking revealed we had lived within 500 feet of each other and went to the same high school albeit separated by a couple of decades.
It turned out Reggie knew the same poem and it was the introduction to the word moil for both of us.
The world seemed very small as we talked that night.
By now you're probably curious ... I'm afraid I couldn't get all of it from memory and had to cheat a bit. I guess I'm out of practice. My guess is Reggie and Jeri wouldn't have any difficulty.
Turn the lights down, light some candles and crack a window to the cold.Read it outloud armed with a cup of peppermint hot chocolate (recipe follows).
The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
__________
1 TEDx Gotham. I'm afraid my talk wasn't great and was very much in the shadow of Regge's amazing performance. Mine was followed by a wonderful talk architect Craig Dykers and then the electric Juliette Powell. As a speaker it probably makes sense to stay away from events with such serious talent.
__________
Recipe Corner
Somehow a nice warm soup seems appropriate. This one makes good use of carrots - use a rich vegetable broth, water just won't work. As always all amounts are approximate
Carrot Soup
Ingredients
Technique
_____
Technique
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