Have you ever experienced a recurring dream?

I have one, that comes to me during ragweed season.

I find myself walking and walking in the country.

Trees and plants, woods and fields, hills and dales.

There are people with me, walking and talking, talking and talking, talking of stalking, pointing and gesticulating.

In the dream, I don’t know the time, but I know it’s very early.  Too early for all this gesticulating – I can’t even say that word, at this early hour.  Hand-waving, then, and sounds like they’re speaking in Latin.  Are we monks??  I don’t understand any of it.

Then I hear a voice say clearly “…The F Stop…” and I look around for a bus.  But there isn’t any, so we keep walking.  I don’t know what time it is, but I know somehow, that it’s early, and we’re rambling in the grayness of Pre-Noon – that horrible, fuzzy zone that exists before lunchtime.

Without looking, I can tell my socks don’t match.  One feels like it’s wool, knee-high, and itchy.  I don’t own any socks like that.

It’s at that point, the slow dawning horror comes over me, as I become aware, that I’m not dreaming.

I’m actually awake, out and about at this ungodly hour, hiking apparently, and have fallen among  some roving cult of naturalists, botanists, forest-bathers, and photographers.  Why does this keep happening.  Apparently sometime last night, once again, I agreed to an Early Morning Nature Walk.  Don’t remember.  Don’t remember if anyone thought to give me breakfast first, or brunch, like decent, civilized people.  Don’t remember signing on to wander around in the shrubbery and thickets of binomial nomenclature.

But that explains the people in my dream, talking in Latin.  And the “F Stops” – the photographer has us straying through sodden “Depths of Field” or suchlike, and my socks are soggy.

Ragweed Season.  I don’t sleep well, and I don’t do awake so well, either.  I’m stumbling along, coked to the gills on antihistamines, Echinacea, Sudafed, Mucinex.  Just let the mosquitoes drink as much of my blood as they want.  They try to fly off, but then the Benadryl hits, and they drop from the sky like stones.

Walking at breakfast time.  Dogwoods, but no doughnuts, fritillaries, but no frittatas.  Someone offers me a handful of Dragon’s Tongues.  They’re surprisingly tiny and green.  It seems like the dream-state is resuming.  But “dragon’s tongues” turns out to be a mixture of grape vine tendrils and the leaves of a flowering mustard plant, they call “wild arugula.”  Not bad!  The grape tendrils are delicious, kind of lemony.  Someone pulls out a thermos and gives me some coffee.

I open my eyes, and it’s a pretty nice day!   Nature’s not so bad, really, as long as the plant life includes coffee beans and tea leaves.

 

x

 

 

Pollen thy name is Legion

 

breakfast, Finger Lakes, FLX, hiking, Nature, NY, Uncategorized, Upstate New York

It’s always a cakewalk in ragweed time.

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ancient grains, breakfast, eggs, food, humor, It's a teff life

True Grit vs Ancient Grains

Grain

The Dread Mask of Quinoa. “Scourge of the Incas & Bane of Lake TiticacaQuinoa, if you look into it, isn’t even a cereal – – it’s just a pseudo-cereal, and has been linked by scientists to the “Ancient Curse of Pitseed Goosefoot.” (Pitseed Goosefoot is a real thing, believe it or not.) (And extremely uncomfortable for ancient people wearing sandals.)

Some people in my household believe we need to eat “ancient grains” for breakfast, instead of starting your day like a civilized human being, with coffee, home fries, eggs, toast, and bacon.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, as a semi-pro historian, as I sit chewing.  And chewing.

And chewing.

Did you ever think, that the people who came up with these ancient grains, pretty much all ended up as mummies?

And their civilizations are in ruins.

Why?  Because they couldn’t hear their enemies coming, over all the crunching.

I mean, the Babylonians, Tlaxcaltecas, Chaldeans, Assyrians, etc. are all gone, daddy, gone.

There’s no coming back from a bad breakfast.

Bulgur attack. (Bulgar? Is that spelt right?)

They lost their birthright for a mess of pottage.

Does that even sound like a good idea?  I mean, I don’t even know what exactly that is, but who wants something called “a mess of pottage” first thing in the morning?

They could no longer communicate, too busy chewing, their molars worn down, and couldn’t shout warnings like Nebuchadnezzar, Ashur-etil-ilani, Cyaxerxes, take heed and  beware!  Vigorous tribesmen who’ve had a proper breakfast are storming the gates, whilst our dispirited guards still sit at table, chewing! ” 

Just try yelling that out, with a mouth full of pottage.

All they could do is mumble, and try to find the darned belt for their bathrobes, while they were overrun by tribes with chariots and bacon.

Nomadic tribesmen swept in from the steppes, because their horses were attracted by all the cereal, and their riders were highly caffeinated and restless.

And the bacon-eating nomads were immune to many of the era’s plagues, because mosquitoes and rats were repelled by their greasy appearance and nitrate-laden blood.

This is just a hypothesis, really.   The Tower of Babel?  Same deal.       C. B. C.  Cereal-Based Chaos.  And just overwhelmed by choices:  whole-grain, steel-cut, stone-ground, rolled, millet?

 

According to the caption in the art museum, this stylish farmer is sowing Millet, a type of birdseed apparently.

 

I’m going to keep working on this, tentatively entitled “Guns, Wheat Germs, and Steel” or alternatively, “Gums, Germs, and Steel-Cut Oats” something like that.

But first, I’m going back to bed, until it’s lunchtime.

 

Eat your cereal, Mikey.

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