Pride and Prejudice
The Thoughts and Words of Brian Pride

Soup To Nuts by Brian Pride
Copyright 2001 - Pride

        In one of my few journeys across the wilds and wastes of America I came across a camp just outside a rain forest in Washington. Not too far from Walla Walla mind you, should that tidbit for any reason mean anything to you. America's North West is one of those wondrous regions of vastly divers terrain neatly arranged in a copiously small package of land space. Mountains, rainforest, desert, plains, watershed, riverways.
        I had been hiking for some time and decided the camp looked friendly enough of a place to stop for a rest. After sitting for a spell and enjoying some nasty black coffee which tasted like a refreshing desert wine at a fine French restaurant in comparison to the trail dust I had been swallowing all day, I noticed a large black kettle sitting in a bed of black coals. Suddenly realizing how hungry I was I asked what was brewing. The other travelers along the road of life said it had been a tasty black been soup dolled up and doled out by a toothless tanned hide road warrior by the name of Bones.
        Bones, sitting across from me under the makeshift shelter of timber and tarp rolling a cigarette without spilling a shred of tobacco winked at me and suggested I help myself if there were anything left. Of which he was doubtful. He added that the fire had gone out some time ago and that after the last rain they hadn't quite found the energy to get it going again. I went over to have a look inside the large kettle, marveled that some poor traveler had had the gumption and wherewithal to carry this heavy piece of cast iron all the way up some treacherous terrain to this patch of no where. Inside the pot was the remnants of Bone's black bean soup. A blue black pool of water with swirls of gray and purple. I notice the curled up end of a ladle just edging up out of the black pool in the pot. I turned the soup around and lifted a bit and let it fall slowly back from the ladles spoon examining the consistency and color to see just how hungry I might actually be. It looked fine to me for what was left except for the lack of any substance such as beans which had all been scooped up and consumed. At least I assessed it would make a fine stock, being as it had been freshly made up not too long ago.
        I turned my attention to the pit of black ash under the pot and holding my hand just above it felt a slight warmth rising from deep within albeit a bit of a damp heat. Noting Mr. Bone's respect of tobacco I reached into my bag and pulled out my pouch of Drum and scattered just a small portion over the expired fire pit. Then tossed the pouch to my hosts should anyone want a smoke. Leaving them to their idle afternoon chatter I started to slowly blow into the pile of charred timbers careful not to stir up too much ash. Having been careful enough not to dig into the pit or disturb its natural resting order I managed to get enough air into the system to spark a glowing interest.
        A quick survey of the scene when I arrived told me there was plenty of fresh water from a nearby stream and a cleverly constructed rain run off catch worked into the tarp which had caught the rains of the earlier morning. A pile of various dried goods left by visitors to the camp who learned well enough after coming up over the steep muddy trails that they had carried these heavy sacks far enough would provide enough substance for whatever I might need to add to whatever I might be brewing up here.
        Before too long I had managed to gather enough twigs and dried grass to get a flame out of the glowing embers. Splitting wood to get to the drier core I managed a fire in no time. Not sure what I had started I was at least entertained by having something to do on a lazy afternoon while my clothes, bed roll, and the contents of my back pack and road gear were spread out in the sun to dry. I had somehow completely forgotten about being caught on the trail in a downpour. I was enjoying the task at hand minding the cooking kettle every now and then adding handfuls of beans or rice  with pinches and sprinkles of fresh or dried herbs I found neatly labeled in zip lock baggies. When the pot looked as if it was doing fine on its own and the fire maintained its temperament I would join my road companions with a song or two on a borrowed guitar. Not sure that they cared much for my singing as they often would fall off into a lazy slumber or mid day dream while I sang the guitar got passed around, along with the tobacco and thick black coffee.
        Before too long evening rolled around. By then the camp had filled with trail hikers who had survived the morning's storms. Attracted by the fire and the good sense or need to dry off most had decided to stop in at the camp. While the sun was strong most of the travelers had been off in a nearby meadow playing soccer or gathered round traveling minstrels keen enough to keep their instruments dry. Singing and dancing filled the day. Marveled myself that these people would find the energy for all this activity after exerting themselves so much just to get up or down the trail. Still it was nice to be surrounded by music and levity after the long shrouded silence and solitude of my travels.
        As would be the case many travelers brought with them a hardy appetite and as soon as I offered that the soup was ready enough to consume they started helping them selves. I had enjoyed cooking it enough but I certainly wasn't about to be a waiter at this table. Just kept an eye on things to be sure they were clean about it with the occasional suggestion of where to get water and how not to spoil the stream. Then politely enough, or not as might be my way, further suggesting that if they enjoyed the soup enough they might offer to help gather up some wood for the fire. Before too long I seemed to somehow have gathered up a team of assistance who took over minding the soup while I prepared myself for the night setting in. Not sure if I would stay or head on I realized I might be getting tired enough to spend the night. As it didn't seem that anyone here might slit my throat for my fancy gold pocket watch, (found a couple of years before on a Boston side walk in the financial district).
        I went to gather my things and was shocked to discover them missing. Perhaps I had been wrong about this crowd after all. Looking around somewhat startled, frustrated and at a loss, (literally - on the road all you have is what you carry on your back). And here I was in the middle of no where standing naked (as I had been most the day). Though the idea of a naked man preparing a meal might be disturbing and as uncomfortable as I might have been with the prospect. I had at least taken advantage during the showers to get out a bar of soap and lather up and rinse off in heavy rains. As it were, we all were in nature and a lot of us, not just myself , chose to go natural in natures wilds.
        Still standing there stunned, one of my soup assistants came up to me to ask something. Noticing the startled look on my face while I stood in the spot where my possessions had been laid out to dry. He asked what was wrong and I explained my problem to him. He then ran off without a word, coming back to me right away followed by the people from the nearby meadow. Each of them carrying something of mine which they placed at my feet with a slight if not sheepish smile. I didn't ask any questions as they didn't provide any excuses or explanation until one lad approached carrying my walking stick. This perplexed me most of all and I just had to ask. After all the walking stick was one that I had fashioned from the base end of a pool cue with a rubber stopper at the foot and shower head as a handle. The shower head was fixed to a loose swivel ball joint which while walking allowed the stick to swing with my natural rhythm and not need any motion of my wrist or arm. The rubber stopper provided a cushioning shock absorber on rough or hard terranes. Though a neat little invention I still saw it as being made up of junk and not worth stealing.
        So I asked the fellow why on Earth he would ever think to take such a thing. Even so along the road we have a code of ethics to uphold. One should never take another's walking stick. Though most are indeed fashioned of found wood and discarded branches, each in its own way is fashioned to the hiker and their basic means of support along the ways. He shyly explained that during the storm several of the hikers had fallen along the trail. One had broken his ankle another dislocated a shoulder. The walking stick was to help the one with the broken ankle make it to the camp. As it was both straight and sturdy it would make a nice splint. Then a bit of cloth I carried for various uses was needed to fashion a sling for the arm of the person with the dislocated shoulder. But when the person with the dislocated shoulder was touched by my cloth his injury healed even though earlier attempts to pull it back in place had failed. When the one with the broken ankle touched my stick he was able to walk again. His pain and swelling gone with no sign of injury, (though some witnesses claim he had a compound fracture where the break had torn the flesh). I didn't know who to believe. It all sounded like nonsense to me. Still, even so, word had gone out. And here while I thought these people were off sunning themselves in the field they were indeed carrying on in wild ceremony with these magic items they had found near the field. Not knowing or caring to ask that they belonged to anyone at the camp. They had been overcome by their mystical powers to heal. They sang and danced throughout that day holding my belongings over their heads and healing each other of their various problems and woes. One of dysentery, another of the flu, even poison oak, spider bites and a potentially poisonous snake bite. I didn't care much for all the stories of those who had back injuries from auto accidents or birth defects, cataracts, and the whole list of human ills. I was just glad to see that all my things were brought back to me and surprised that little if anything was missing in the end. At least if nothing else I would have clothes to wear in the morning when I woke up.
        I ended up staying at the camp for about four days and kept with the small group who had been at the camp when I arrived. We had somehow bonded and I had developed a mistrust for all the others who kept gathering around over the days. Supposedly word had got down the trail of this magic black kettle of beans that provided never ending nourishment. Not saying how many thousands had gathered by then or how it seemed that no matter how many were fed I never had to add anything more to the pot as long as my skilled attendants kept watch on the fire and made sure enough to add just the right amount of water to make up for the escaping vapor and steam. Oddly enough everyone respected my cooking and no one dared add anything or do anything to it without my blessing, so to speak. Even so there were always a few complaints if not recipes offered - needs salt, what no meat - that sort of thing.
        Eventually a bottle of scotch, and a few bottles of wine were offered to our group at the core of the camp under the tarp. We enjoyed the levity and had a good time. Didn't even seem to mind the one trail dog who came stumbling up with his own bottle of moonshine. He had been smoking a little more than tobacco and didn't even offer my friends any as I'm sure they would have appreciated as much. The trail dog was quite stoned and caught up by the munchies brushed past the kitchen attendants and scooped up the ladle and sampled the soup. Before anyone knew it he called over his companions and they started tossing in their own spices and one even opened a can of beef. Certain that this should satisfy those who complained of the flavor and lack of meat I wasn't too surprised to see those few return to fill their various tastes.
        Waking a bit hung over as to be expected from the mix of scotch and wine though well worth the fun and the laughter. I looked around and noticed the fire was out and the pot had emptied. With enough dry wood now Bones was able to start a fire and brew some fresh black coffee. Our tobacco all but gone our small group of friends gathered together and decided it was time to move on. Having formed a bond we decided on a plan of action to lead us on into another chapter in life.