“Sometimes I sit and think.  Sometimes I just sit.” — Poster at Phil’s place on Wellington

Long, long ago, before I started school, my mom decided we would bake cookies.  I’m guessing I was 4 years old.  My mother was uncharacteristically bossy about the whole process.  She picked out what kind of cookies we would bake.  Peanut butter.  She decided everything we were to put in the mixing bowl.  Each thing to go in, she got to pick!

It seemed a little unfair to me, so when she left the kitchen for a moment, I sprinkled in a little something, just so that I felt I was a part of the project.  We mixed the dough, we made little balls of it, and put them on the cookie sheet, squished them down with a fork to make the distinctive markings of the classic peanut butter cookie, and put them into the oven.  Mom did, of course, because the oven was hot.

When she took them out they were hot, of course, and had to cool off a bit before we could sample them.  After a few of what seemed to be some very long minutes, I got to have one while it was still warm.  It was sweet, so that was good.  It had some peanut butter flavor, so that too was good.  But something didn’t seem quite right. 

My mom figured it out right away.  “I think you put something in the dough.  Do you know what it was?  Usually garlic powder doesn’t go in peanut butter cookies.  Do you like it?” My response might have been my first lie.  I said yes, I liked the cookie.  She told me about recipes, and learning to read when I got older and went to school.  If I really did like the cookies, I could have another, she said.  I choked down a second one.  I imagine she and my dad had some laughs about it later, and I actually still like peanut butter cookies.  But I prefer the no-garlic kind.  

Fast forward to Camp Pendleton, 1966.  Following Boot Camp, advanced infantry training was done at the huge base between San Diego and Los Angeles.  Our platoon was divided between guys form the Midwest, and guys from the Southwest.  Those guys from Texas and Oklahoma and Arizona knew stuff we didn’t know, like how dangerous was a scorpion on a parade deck in the middle of the day (not very; as some of us wondered if we should break formation and flee, one Texan casually walked over to it and reduced it to paste with the heel of his combat boot). 

Much of the time we were out in wild foothills of the area, conducting mock warfare maneuvers.  It reminded me of playing war as a kid, only with real equipment.  Except for the blank rounds for the M-14s.  One late afternoon, near chow time, one of the Southwest contingent invited me to join him for some fresh rattlesnake.  He happened upon one, killed it with a thrown rock.  He used his bayonet to gut it, segment it, and he roasted it like hot dogs with green sticks over heat tabs.  Yup, a lot like chicken.  I’ll say this about it: it was fresher than the C-Rats, some of which were older than I was. 

After completion, most of us went right to Vietnam, but a few of us, including my buddy Lewie and me.  We got orders to Hawai’i.  That was fine with us.  As things happened, Vietnam would come later, but we tried our best to make the most of our time in Hawai’i. 

One of our first liberty passes found us in a little local storefront diner.  We both ordered poi, (rhymes with “boy”) knowing it to be traditionally Hawai’ian, and not much else about it.  We were each served a small bowl of tasteless pureed taro root.  Poi varies in consistency, and has a light brown color.  It is generally served with something else, like fruit or grilled chicken, which it is dipped into it.  It wasn’t good, I thought, and it wasn’t bad.  It really didn’t strike me as much of anything.  Other Polynesian cultures have their own takes on poi, often sweetening it. 

Years later, returning to Hawai’i as a civilian, with Mrs. B, I dared to eat moco loco, popular among native Hawai’ians.  Served in a large bowl, it contains white rice, a hamburger patty, a fried egg, and brown gravy.  It often has some Portuguese sausage, and maybe some fish.  Perhaps some poi.

The great sumo grand master, Akebono, formerly Chad Rowen, of Oahu, was an unusually large man (6’9”, fighting weight listed at 505#) was said to have enjoyed loco moco when he returned to visit his homeland.  Eating one order of this Hawai’ian delicacy, for me, was like the food equivalent of completing a marathon. 

My sister once gave me some whale.  I’m not sure how or why she obtained it.  It was back in the ’60s.  It was in a can, the size associated with tuna.  But didn’t look like fish.  In Melville’s day – the copyright of Moby Dick is 1851 – there was still some confusion about whether a whale is a fish or not.  One need not explore too deeply into the Bible’s Book of Jonah to know there was confusion on that issue among those scribes.

My canned whale meat did seem to suggest a certain fishiness though, perhaps due to diet.  Perhaps I should have mixed it with some Miracle Whip and pickle relish, and had a whale salad sandwich.  Eating whale might be considered bad form now.  I’ve seen signs in Pacific Beach, Washington, that read, “Save the Whales.  Eat the Japanese.” 

In Turks & Caicos, traveling with our friends John and Donna, John and I were offered the chance to consume the crystalline style of the conch.  We were at water’s edge of a small time operation that farms the big mollusks.  They keep them in a fenced in area, and pull some out from time to time to sell to restaurants.  They were butchering some of the large snails at the moment we happened by.

The guys offered us the much sought after special cut.  They told us the crystalline style is the male reproductive organ of the conch, and assured that it is “very good for mens.”  Then they communicated the suggestion that it enhanced virility.  It was only on offer to the John and me.  It was long, thin, clear more than than white, and flexible like a rice noodle.  There was not much taste to it, but a hint of saltiness.  As to the supposed aphrodisiac benefits, I’ll leave that to the imagination.  Which, I suppose, is the whole point.  Subsequently, I’ve learned that the crystalline style is not a sexual organ at all, but is part of the digestive system.  But what fun is that? 

Travels are great chances to try different cuisines, and learn about unfamiliar approaches to dining.  In Spain, we found the onion rings on mixed grill weren’t vegetable at all, but calamari. We found we liked them before we knew we were eating octopus or squid.

In St. Ignace, at a pleasant little restaurant next to fish processing plant, I found I could order a whole dinner of whitefish livers. Mrs. B passed on that one, but I must say I enjoyed my meal.  How many whitefish livers in a full dinner order?  Quite a few, as it turned out. 

We’ve been to Bonaire many times.  The snorkeling is outstanding.  We were once having dinner with several people, al fresco, at out friends’ Kenny and Margaret’s place.  They live on the island.  Another guest, a resident and local fisherman named Ludi, had supplied a variety of excellent fish, and suggested we try it all, including the barracuda.

I cited Guide to Corals and Fishes, by Idaz and Jerry Greenberg, Seahawk Press, 1977, and summarized the the following entry: “Great barracuda sphyraena barracuda:  though guilty of same attacks on humans . . . the great barracuda poses a more serious threat to man when eaten than from attack.  It has probably caused more fish poisoning than any other fish.  These fierce predators may grow to more than six feet, but more usually don’t exceed four feet.”

Ludi reported that he’d caught the barracuda that very morning, and that it was perfectly fine to eat – and delicious.  A good way to check, he said, was to throw a tiny bit of fish on the deck, and observe.  Little ants will come to check it out.  If they eat it, it’s good.  If they don’t, you should leave it alone.  The tiniest shred of barracuda hit the deck.  Ants came, and immediately started eating the little morsel.  I followed suit, having been assured by Ludi – and by the ants – that it was safe.

And it was, as advertised, delicious.  Ludi opined that where the water was “more stagnant”, like some parts of Florida, the barracudas was not likely to be good, but that where the ocean waters are in constant movement, they’re probably fine.  In future years, I started seeing barracuda on the menus in restaurants in Bonaire.  I always ordered it. And never had a problem.