We woke up in the national forest outside of Los Alamos on
our way to Santa Fe. It’s a
strange place, Los Alamos, where everything from radiation travel to planetary
formations are researched at the National Lab. I had no interest in the goings on there. I was excited about today for two
reasons. First, I get to pick up my parents this evening, who flew in from St.
Louis to join our adventures for a week.
Second, Santa Fe has a Trader Joe’s with unlocked dumpsters. Yes, diving is a highlight. The forest has no junk food, and all
the long days of hiking and working for my food makes me want to pull a cookie
out of the trash with ease, unwrap it from it’s plastic coffin, and give it a
new, albeit temporary, home where the mushrooms and nettle I find are laid to
rest… in my belly.
We had a bit of time to kill before heading to the airport
in Albuquerque, so we walked to the farmers market at the Railyard in hopes of
swapping some chanterelles for some fresh eggs. The chicken farmer had no idea what chanterelles were, and
wasn’t at all interested in trading for mushrooms. I told him about our trip, how we’re trying to forage or
trade for all of our food, and he handed me a dozen of his eggs. I wondered whether he thought we were
bums. We are a little dirty after
all, and I was in desperate need of a shower before hugging my dad. I hate to use the “I’m a professor on a
research trip” too often, but it has come in handy. People warm up to professors, we’re trustworthy, scientists,
educators. We have “real” jobs
(despite the fact that I often say I get paid for what I used get in trouble
for—talking in class), as opposed to ???
Anyway, it works, but using it makes me feel a little guilty and
sad. Rather than pulling all strings,
we tried pushing the mushrooms a bit harder. I told him all the fancy chefs love them and pay a fortune
for them. Wrong answer. This farmer wasn’t fancy. Andre told him they were really good
for you, and many of them have medicinal properties. He bought it, and asked how he should cook them.
That started a chain of fortunate trades—fingerling
potatoes, onions, Serrano peppers, raspberries (gifted like the eggs by a
shopper, Lucy, who overheard us talking to one of the farmers). With too much produce in the bus
already, and an impending dive, we left the market, thrilled with our success.
Freshly showered, we greeted my folks with excitement. They were now part of the forage
voyage, although my dad insists on staying in hotels, comforts for a 6’4” man
who pretends to be old when it works in his favor. Hmm… will I shift from “the professor” to “the old lady” one
day? Anyway, a celebratory dinner
out and several celebratory margaritas stopped us from diving the night of
their arrival, but not the next day.
Bec, my stepmother, a woman who’s been in my life since just after the
childhood amnesiac stage of my life, is intensely curious, and has been waiting
to dive with me since she and dad’s visit to LA, where we watched Dive and ate
dumpster food all week. We took
what we needed – some whole wheat tortillas, several pounds of organic sweet
potatoes, coconut milk, organic eggs (we didn’t really need these but why not,
they were organic), and those cookies I was dreaming out – a 6 pack of chocolate
macaroons that sandwiched a creamy fudge filling. There was plenty we left behind, including bags of organic
salad, breads, other sweets, and heaps of other “trash” we didn’t even bother
to look through. Bitter sweet for
me given the economic division we witnessed between many of the native
Americans living in Santa Fe and the tourists who fill the streets of
downtown. My parents were
happy. Dad enjoyed serving as the
look-out. Bec enjoyed grocery
shopping with us. We all enjoyed
the cookies. There’s still one
left and I know where it is.
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