Then he looked at me and said, “Son, would you like to try it?” It was an emotional moment. My parents were so excited, almost like Lawrence Welk himself was in their home and their son was being blessed by the master. Before I knew it, I was holding this 250-pound black shiny monster and sitting on a chair. He placed my shaking fingers on the shiny buttons and keys and said, “Just hold the keys down and squeeze. I held those keys so tight and some others as well and squeezed that thing with all my 12-year-old might. The horrific sound it made must have resembled a cat in a blender. Don’t ask how I know that sound.

The salesman looked at my parents in astonishment and exclaimed, almost shouting, “Your son has the talent!!” My parents were so proud. I later realized that may have been the first time. I was told when my dad first looked at me when I was born he said to my mother, “he looks like a plucked chicken.” That may be why my mother never told anyone about my birth, not ever her favorite sister. That sister called my mom to talk one day and heard this ten-month-old baby crying and said, “What’s that baby sound?” My mom said to her, “Oh, that is little Eddie.” And that was my official birth announcement. But now with that accordion strapped to my body like a straight jacket, they were proud of little Eddie. That was the day of my first musical talent evaluation. I did have one more music evaluation years later when my wife and I with our five children went to Canada to a Bible school. New students need to be evaluated for their musical potential since the choir is a mandatory course in the program. I was told to sing what the teacher told me. Apparently, that cat survived that blender and was trying again. I explained to the teacher that I could not play the radio. He sadly told me that in 20 years of being on staff at the Bible institute he had only exempted one person from the choir and now I was number 2. I am not making this up. It also turned out that this teacher played the accordion.

The day my parents bought that accordion and signed me up for music lessons was the day I began to understand what Dante wrote in “The Inferno,” He passed through the gate of Hell, which bore an inscription “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” From there it was just anguished screams, sort of like that cat in the blender. My friends were all playing neighborhood football and I was strapped to a beast in the seventh level of hell.

To this day I don’t listen to salesmen. So, I did learn something important. I do like accordion jokes and I relate to them. Here are three favorites.

A group of accordion players chartered a 747 from LA to go to an Octoberfest celebration in Germany. Unfortunately, the plane was Hijacked and forced to land in New York. The hijacker demanded 10 million dollars for the plane and gave a terrifying warning to the FBI negotiators. He warned that for every half hour his demands were not met, he would release an accordion player.

One of my favorite Far Side comics has two frames. The upper frame shows a line of people entering Heaven. Saint Peter handing out Harps and the frame below shows a line of people entering Hell and Satan handing out accordions.

A man was talking to his friend and mentioned he was trying to sell his old accordion but nobody wanted it. His friend suggested he just throw it away. Even better, his friend said,”There was an old abandoned car down the street that would be towed away. Just toss it in the back seat, no one will know or care.” So they did that. The next morning the man felt guilty about doing that and decided to retrieve his old accordion, but when he got to the car, there were five more accordions in the back seat.

My journey to the dark side came to an end after two years when I did my first recital. I played She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain, and they stopped me after the first verse. My parents realized their big mistake and I never went back for more lessons. I went out to play neighborhood football with my friends and I broke my wrist. But even that was a great day. And I didn’t own a cat. Life was looking up.

The post Travels With My Accordion appeared first on Traveling Archive.

My friend and I really love hot food. It was 1987 and we were on assignment in Southern India with a group called The Bible League. We had visited remote villages in the interior and had returned to Andhra Pradesh and needed a rest. This particular region of India has the reputation of having the spiciest and most deadly cuisine on the continent. Dog and I (yes, his nickname is “Dog”) were looking forward to a good meal. We needed a break from the village food, especially the rancid Ghee we ate sitting on dirt floors with cats crawling on our food. By the way, Ghee, when it is fresh, is clarified butter but Indian Ghee that has aged in the heat for years sitting open on a shelf has the flavor and texture of dog vomit so we were ready for a change of diet. It was good to get back into a city.

Dog said he wanted to eat some of the famous hot goat meat of Andhra Pradesh. I told him I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But, he asked our guide where the hottest food in the region was to be found and we were led to this dilapidated, hole-in-the-wall eatery. As we were walking in one of the customers was being dragged out either drunk or unconscious with what looked like severe facial burns. It was really disgusting. His friends were all laughing. I reminded Dog that I REALLY didn’t think this was a good idea at all.

When we sat down Dog made it quick and simple. He ordered the hottest thing on the menu. Our guide was impressed. I was scared. I was sweating before we even started to eat. There was something acidic in the air. As a former firefighter, I remember thinking as we walked in that there must have been a fire next door in a battery acid plant. My eyes were burning just sitting there and it was getting hard to breathe. The waiter smiled as he carried out the food and gave a high five to our guide. Half the restaurant stopped eating and watched us since we were Americanos and no hotter food existed.  Dog said, “Wow, let’s do it.”  Oh, what the heck. How bad can it be?  We dove in.

I want to try to describe the experience without scaring off potential travelers. But first, something needs some explanation.  There is a pepper grown in India which is called Bhut Jolokia. In 1987 it was the hottest known pepper in the world.  We call that pepper the Ghost Pepper in America.  OK, back to our story.  He ordered the hottest Ghost pepper, goat meat dish that they made.  If you ever travel with a man named “Dog” don’t let him order lunch!

We began.  By the time the first bite of the hot goat meat reached my stomach, I felt like I had just gargled Drano.  You could actually feel the skin peeling off the throat and falling in sheets into the stomach.  My bowels started cramping just for practice knowing they would be called on big time shortly. It soon developed into a rebellion of the entire body.  I kept eating. Macho Ed was not going to wimp out. It wasn’t long before salty sweat stains covered my shirt and pants.

Let me introduce a very important word at this time – Limca. Limca is an Italian soft drink similar to a lemon-lime soda.  Since they don’t often have refrigeration in the interior of India the bottles are kept covered in cow dung to keep them cooler. I gulped down the entire bottle in one breath. Chunks of dried cow dung flaked off onto my sweaty shirt. I restrained myself from drinking another Limca and decided to try some of the rice to calm my gurgling stomach. I like rice. This wasn’t rice. This was chunky style paint remover. There were pock marks on the ceramic plate. I went back to the goat meat. But before I started again I ordered another Limca.

I looked over at Dog and he was looking pale and his smile was gone. “You OK, Dog?” He looked kind of scared and then in a quick, manly recovery said, “Sure no problem.” But his voice broke and he sort of squeaked the words out.

I took another bite of the goat stew. At the table next to us a man had fallen to the ground unconscious and his friends were pouring beer all over him. I made a mental note. I don’t drink alcohol but somehow, I could see this happening to me. I kept eating…

I think it was the next bite that melted my lips off. If you have eaten extremely hot food you learn it is wise to observe how the locals do it. They never let the food touch their lips. Anyway, it didn’t matter now, I had no lips. My biggest concern began to be brain damage. I finished my next Limca without taking a breath. Our guide said he had never seen a Limca consumed that quickly. It was also the first time he had seen someone shake the carbonated beverage and hold his thumb over the bottle while spraying it all over his face. I was able to buy an ice cube and just wiped it over and over on my throbbing, missing lips while moaning. The pain and insanity increased for the rest of the meal.

It was then I noticed that Dog was not looking very good. He was bent over in pain with a horrible gas attack. His intestinal track resembled Mount St. Helens and when it erupted three minutes later he literally cleared the table.  Two people eating nearby moved to another table.

Then my intestines started to send an equally urgent message. I excused myself to pay a visit to the local comfort room. As I stumbled past the table where the two had moved I grabbed an unfinished Limca from their table and poured it on top of my head. I barely had time to reach the bathroom and sit down when steaming lava erupted from the heart of the earth. We are talking about a Richter 10 caustic explosion. I needed another Limca to wash off but I had none. I wanted to sit on an ice cream cone. My eyesight was almost gone. I barely recognized Dog when I went out. He was leaning over the table waiting for something else bad to happen. His chin looked like he had been drooling paint remover. I think his mouth was totally paralyzed. The entire front of his shirt and pants looked like he had fallen into a restaurant grease trap. He asked where the Limca was and I just told him I was going outside to die in the alley. He said, “OK.” Both our brains were now gone. We had no lips, brains, bowels, or shirts left. We looked like we had been beaten senseless by a herd of rabid monkeys and dumped into a pig trough.

I went to see Dog the next morning in his hotel room. He was half conscious sitting on the floor in the fetal position. I noticed three empty cases of Limca scattered around the room. We both had trouble talking. We ate yogurt the rest of the week. Our lips did grow back and our bowels returned to normal pre-volcanic activity. I have never been normal since. I twitch a lot when I talk. Sometimes I just slobber when I think about it.

Recipe: Hot Goat Meat of Andhra Pradesh, India

Ingredients

To marinate:

• 1½ pounds Goat, cleaned, washed & cut to 1 inch size pieces
• 1½ teaspoons of Red Chili Powder
• ½ teaspoon Turmeric Powder
• 1 teaspoon Lemon Juice (or 2 tablespoons thick yogurt)
• 1 teaspoon Salt

To grind:

• 1½ inch Ginger, peeled & cut into small pieces
• 8 to 10 Garlic Pods, peeled
• 2 cm Cinnamon Stick
• 6 Cloves
• 2 teaspoons Poppy Seeds
• 1 to 2 tablespoons desiccated Coconut
• ¼ cup Hot Water for grinding

To season:

• 2 tablespoons Vegetable Oil
• 2 Star anise
• 2 Kapok Buds (Marathi moggu)
• 2 cm Cinnamon Stick
• 4 Cloves
• 2 Cardamoms
• 2 Bay Leaves

Other Ingredients:

• 1 large Onion, finely chopped
• 3 to 4 Ghost Chili Peppers (Bhut Jolokia), finely chopped (wear plastic gloves)
• A sprig of Curry Leaves
• 1 to 2 teaspoons of Red Chili Powder
• ¼ teaspoon Turmeric Powder
• Required salt
• ½ cup finely chopped Coriander, divided

Directions

1. Marinate Goat with red chili powder, turmeric, a teaspoon of lemon juice and salt for about a minimum of 30 minutes. Longer the better.
2. Grind ginger, garlic, cinnamon, cloves, poppy seeds and desiccated coconut in a blender to a fine paste, without adding water.
3. Then add slightly hot water, soak for a minute and grind to a fine paste. Soaking in hot water aids easy grinding of the poppy seeds.
4. Heat oil in a pressure cooker over medium heat. Once oil is hot, season with dry spices.
5. To this add chopped onions, Ghost Chili Peppers and sauté.
6. Add curry leaves and stir for a minute. Be generous in using curry leaves!!
7. Once onions become translucent, add in the marinated goat.
8. Sauté for 3 to 4 minutes..
9. Add remaining red chili powder and turmeric powder.
10. Now add required water till the goat immerses. You can adjust the consistency of the gravy to suit your requirement. Adjust salt and add in some fresh coriander.
11. Close the lid of the pressure cooker and cook over medium high heat for 5 to 7 whistles, then simmer and cook for 5 minutes till the goat is fully cooked, soft and tender.
12. Open the lid of the pressure cooker once the pressure subsides.
13. Transfer to a serving bowl and garnish with finely chopped coriander

The Hot Goat Meat of Andhra Pradesh, India Recipe is done and ready to be served with rice.

The post Hot Goat Meat of Andhra Pradesh, India appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Our grown children all lived in America and we lived in the Philippines. If you have read any of our stories on Traveling Boy, you will know we are Christian missionaries.  We lived in the Philippines for 20 years and raised our children there. Our role was to give them roots and then to give them wings which is the hard part, but all survived and thrived. We usually only returned to the USA once every two years and that was for only two months, usually July and August.  That means our Christmas was always in Asia and when the children were older we only saw them every two years.

The year was 2001 and we were due for our US trip in July. Once again we would not be with our family at Christmas.  We were still ready for the break and were hopeful we could see the children who were scattered around the country.

My wife and I were very active and quite healthy. I was surprised that I began having trouble catching my breath after minor exertion. Each week it was getting worse.  A close friend, a medical doctor, and I were having lunch after a morning church service one Sunday when he noticed I looked very anemic. The next day after running a few blood tests he was quite concerned as he told me I had a serious problem with my blood and needed to go back to the USA immediately and meet with a hematologist (blood doctor).  I told him I had a lot to do and maybe . . .  He stopped me, “Read my lips, you need to be on the plane in the next two days!” He got my attention and I flew to Seattle two days later and our mission agency set up all the medical appointments and by the end of the day that I arrived, I had been given three bags of blood and had a bone marrow biopsy. 

Two days later I went in to get the results. I need to stop the story now to change the mood of the story.  I have no plan to talk about morbid details and sadness and all that.  I love funny stories and find joy in most situations. I have been afflicted with that disposition since becoming a Christian. So, I want to tell you about a seven-month journey of joy in the cancer center of the University of Washington in Seattle. By the way, my doctor friend in the Philippines also has a sense of humor.  When I asked what my blood test indicated he casually said, “might be cancer, might be nothing.” I told him I may want a second opinion and he said, “OK, you are ugly too!”

The diagnosis

When I showed up for my appointment for the results of my bone marrow biopsy two days after arriving in Seattle I was led into what I will call the “bad news” room.  Three of our agency’s directors were with me.  Virginia, the main oncologist, informed me I had serious acute leukemia and had two months to live but with aggressive treatments that might be extended and in rare cases cured.  I am always telling funny stories and puns so I could not pass that one up.  I said to her, “You said I have “a cute” leukemia. Is that better or worse than an ugly one? She stared at me not knowing what to think.  She then, in a very serious manner, explained that denial is a common response to bad news.  I told her she had not given me any bad news.  She reminded me she had told me I was going to die.  I said that is not what I heard.  I explained that as a Christian missionary I traveled all over the world training pastors and when a long trip is over it is so nice to go home.  Then I told her a promise Jesus made to all who follow Him. He said He was going away to prepare a place for us and would take us there one day.” Then I told Virginia, “What I heard you tell me a few minutes ago was that I will be going home for the first time. You haven’t given me any bad news.” For the next seven months, we developed a nice friendship.

The decision

My wife was able to return from the Philippines a few days after my tests were completed. I told her we were going to have a fun hospital room. If I was going to die, it was going to be a great exit.  For us, living is a wonderful adventure, can you imagine what dying will be like, God saved it for last! So we immediately went to IKEA to find something, which we did and took it with us when we checked in for the first of what would become five major chemo treatments, each lasting three weeks.  I have described chemotherapy as three weeks of poisoning to the threshold of death and then followed by one week of eating Mexican food.  Then back again to the poison control center and repeat four times.

Above is the framed photo we got at IKEA.  We hung it outside our room in the hospital and had a contest. Whoever came up with the best captions would get a prize.  Word went around and hospital staff came from all over the hospital to fill out the entry forms.  How fun is that?  We all laughed a lot and met many who got to know us and visit.  I was lying in bed with green poison flowing into my veins and tubes hooked up all over and laughing and telling funny stories. Mark Twain once described the greatest days in a man’s life as the day he was born and the day he found out why.  I knew why and there was no fear of death and life was and still is a joy and peace, like Christmas year-round.

I picked that photo because it was begging for great captions, but it also represents cancer which is seen by many as a train wreck. For us, it was a fun event on what may be the dreariest floor in the hospital.  We had three winners and gave out gifts to each.

We had many other creative things we did over the months. Our room was covered in Bible verses, things people brought or made, and fun balloons. It was a party for someone who was going home for the first time.

The funny stories

I have been collecting true funny stories from my trips for years now and one day I will do a book called LAUGHING INTO THE WIND. But let me share a few things that happened while in the hospital. It would take too long to tell them all.

The Neanderthal doctor and his psychiatrist assistant

If you are not familiar with how chemo is administered, they put a special port in your upper chest to put in and take out fluids and blood. Chemo is very strong and would destroy veins and every puncture is a chance for infection when your immune system crashes to zero as part of the treatment.  Once in a while, a port gets infected which is very dangerous and must be replaced.  That is what happened to me and as I was laying on the operating table I started talking to the assistant and soon found out he hoped to leave his nursing job and become a psychiatrist. I asked him if he liked funny stories because he seemed very serious, almost somber.  He said he never likes jokes.  I said I bet I can make you laugh and he said, almost sadly, “I doubt it.” I told him about a guy who went to a psychiatrist and when asked what the problem was he said, “I think I am a dog.”  “How long have you had this problem?” asked the doctor. He said, “Since I was a puppy.” He started to smile but tried not to, and then he laughed out loud and said, “That was funny.” Then the Neanderthal doctor arrived.  That is what I called him. He came in quickly and had to remove the infected port, clean everything up and sew in a new one. I think he was shooting for the Guinness record for this one.  The stitches were quickly cut and then the yanking started but it was stuck in my chest.  He put his knee on my chest to pull the old one out.  He must have seen my eyes the size of saucer plates and said, “They stick sometimes.” Once the port came out and he made sure no ribs were attached he asked if I minded music.  “No, whatever calms you down is fine with me.” So he turned on a boom box and began loudly playing “I need somebody to love” by Jefferson Airplane and almost raced back to me and said, “You ready for your new port?  I said I wasn’t sure because the doctor doing it just about ripped my chest in half tearing out the old port and now he needs a song about finding somebody to love. And his psychiatrist keeps mumbling the word “puppy.”

The Atheist and the 800 number

They do a lot of “procedures.” They usually happen in a room where you find insecure psychiatrists and Neanderthal doctors.  After one of those procedures, I was rolled back on the hospital bed to my room and there was a new nurse this time.  It was fairly common since this was a teaching hospital on the grounds of the University of Washington. When I entered the room the nurse was fiddling around and not saying anything.  I guessed she was bothered by the Bible verses and happy stuff on the walls.  I waited a few minutes wondering If she was going to say anything, but nothing.  I said, “I am guessing you know I am a Christian.” She snapped back at me, “I am an Atheist.”  I took a moment to give her an answer. “As an Atheist, it is a good thing you live in Seattle.”  She quickly said, “Why is that?”  “Because there is a special toll-free 800 number in Seattle just for Atheists.  It is called the Atheists Prayer Line.  You call that number and nobody answers.” She smiled and after that she became friendly.

Gummy organs and a prize T-shirt

I have one sister.  I think when I was born my parents saw me and said they thought they could do better and so my sister was born and then they realized it was best if they stopped.  Joking aside, my sister is amazing and funny. She worked for many years as an administrator for several doctors and when she came to visit she knew just what to bring. You have probably heard of Gummy Bears. She brought Gummy Organs. We put them in a bowl and doctors would come in just to get liver or kidney to munch on.  She and her daughter came dressed as birds, feathers and all. It is a great story and I have written it for Traveling Boy in the past and you can read it.  It is a fascinating story that started with a smashed bird.

Another thing my sister did was make me a special t-shirt to wear, one of a kind.  It became such a hit on the floor that numerous doctors wanted it when we checked out.  We had a drawing for it and gave it away.  Unless you are a doctor you would not understand it.  The shirt said, “Leukemia is a real blast!”  The background known by all oncologists is that the renegade cancer cells that run amok in the bone marrow are called “blast cells.”  The chemo is used to poison the blast cells which overrun the bone marrow replacing stem cells which become useful blood cells. The blast cells do nothing but take up valuable space and prevent healthy cells from growing and you die.   For me, the double-meaning shirt was fun to wear around the hospital.  Leukemia is about blast cells and I was having a blast wearing it.

The mohawk and tough biker picture

When our middle daughter, Rachel, arrived to visit she had a plan. She knew my hair was about to fall out from the chemo so she wanted to do some fun hairstyles on me.  We eventually ended up with a Mohawk and then later the billiard-ball, shaved-head style and put earrings on me and had me make an angry face we called the tough biker cut.

The doctor and the clocks

There are many more stories, but let me close this article with one.  I called them the thundering herd. As many as 15 made up the pack.  At a teaching hospital, there are a lot of students, interns, and physicians on the floor each day. Every day they thundered into my room and usually just to ask a few questions and look at charts.  So, I began telling a different joke or funny story each day, It was always a light moment for the herd.  One day they came in and I told my story and they laughed and said, “no change” referring to my tests. I asked why they kept coming since every day there are no changes.  They said they liked the jokes.

But then one day there was a new doctor in the pack that took the lead. They usually changed each month. This new one was in charge but had not been in the herd before.  He was middle eastern man named “Dr. M.” This particular doctor had no obvious sense of humor, he was all business.  After I would tell a good joke and everyone loved it, he would just say, “Thank you Mr. Landry” with an unsmiling face and they would all leave.  That became a pattern so he became my project and after several unsuccessful attempts to just get him to smile I set up a good one.  When the herd came in the next day I was sitting on my bed looking depressed (not easy for me to do) and when Dr. M asked if I was OK, I told him I had a disturbing dream but did not want to talk about it.  He came next to me and urged me to please tell him the dream and I hesitated again and then finally said I would tell the dream. The whole group closed in.

(For privacy reasons all names in this story have been changed to initials)

I dreamed I died and I went to Heaven and I met St. Peter at the gate and before he invited me in he said he wanted to show me something.  He took me into a massive hall and on the walls were clocks of all sizes, billions of them and all going at different speeds. I asked what the clocks were for and he told me that is how they keep accounts of everyone’s sins on earth.  He asked if I would like to see anyone’s clocks in particular and I said, “Could I see Dr. A’s clock?”  (Dr. A was a resident who was in the room standing next to Dr. M. She was my first resident in charge and now she was with the herd.  Dr. A, I might add, led a life very different from our lifestyle.  I got along fine with her even though we saw issues differently.  I played some fun pranks on her and she was a good sport; we got along great). So, I told St. Peter I wanted to see Dr. A’s clock.  It was spinning quite fast. When I said that the group laughed and started needling her in fun.  Then I said I would like to see Dr. T’s clock and his was spinning faster than A’s.  (Dr. T was standing next to Dr. A. He was older, very conservative, super polite, and quiet. He was my second resident in charge of the group.) They really poked him and laughed, all in good fun.  Then St. Peter asked if there were any more.  I said, there was another doctor, but I am trying to remember his name. Oh, yes I remember and I gave St. Peter his name, Dr. M.  He said, “Oh, that is a very special clock.  I have it on my desk and I am using it for a fan.”

That one got him.  He broke up as did the herd. They all laughed down the hall.  I even heard them further down the hall say, “A fan!” and they laughed again.

That night when the halls were quiet Dr. M came into my room and sat down.  He told me his father was missing in Pakistan (it was during the Gulf War) and he was leaving the hospital in two days to go try to locate him.  We talked for an hour and he wanted me to pray for his journey. It was a very private conversation and I ended up giving him some things that would be helpful to him on the trip.  I never saw him again after he left the hospital. I was so glad I told that last story because it brought him into my room that night. Humor over the years has opened the hearts and minds of many when I talk to them.  Joy is also contagious. This is a picture of Dr. M the day before he left for Pakistan. I would love to see him again, he was a gentle soul.

This was my most unexpected Christmas… a joyous occasion (despite the health issues) because one of the benefits of cancer is it brought our family to come celebrate Christmas together… in a cancer ward in a Washington State hospital.

Merry Christmas from the Landrys and Traveling Boy!

The post A Most Unexpected Christmas appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Once I started coloring outside the lines I just never seemed to want to go back to the mundane and everyday. I was born in California so that might be part of the problem. Rightfully called the Granola State, it is a land of fruits, nuts and flakes. I will leave it at that.

But, you ask, why write a book just because you are a bit weird coming from the west coast and just because your life is filled with incredible swash buckling, heart pounding adventurous exploits and spiced with humor. Of course that is all true but that is not why I am writing a book. The real reason is that my wife wants me to write it. I reminded her that I am the captain of this ship but she reminded me that she is the Admiral.

Janet and I have been married 50 years, have been Christian missionaries for 35 of them and have literally travelled all over the world working in various cultures. We go places that tourists never see and that is probably why our experiences are not exactly normal, sometimes downright incredible. After all these years it is time to put all those adventures in a book for our children and grandchildren. It will be called Laughing Into The Wind. We find humor in just about everything, even two terminal diseases we have been through and survived. You will get some of our stories in this Blog.

There is more to say but I hate long introductions and anyway, that is what this blog is for so let’s get started. Let me try to at least tell you what this collection of stories is about and I will do it in one sentence. Wait a minute. If I could do that I would just print business cards.  You are going to have to read it for yourself.

PS: The top photo was taken at Jerash, Jordan. As missionaries we like to blend into the local culture. I bet you couldn’t tell I wasn’t Jordanian. Now, come join us and buckle up . . .

– Ed and Janet Landry

My friend and I really love hot food. It was 1987 and we were on assignment in Southern India with a group called The Bible League. We had visited remote villages in the interior and had returned to Andhra Pradesh and needed a rest. This particular region of India has the reputation of having the spiciest and most deadly cuisine on the continent. Dog and I (yes, his nickname is “Dog”) were looking forward to a good meal. We needed a break from the village food, especially the rancid Ghee we ate sitting on dirt floors with cats crawling on our food. By the way, Ghee, when it is fresh, is clarified butter but Indian Ghee that has aged in the heat for years sitting open on a shelf has the flavor and texture of dog vomit so we were ready for a change of diet. It was good to get back into a city.

Dog said he wanted to eat some of the famous hot goat meat of Andre Pradesh. I told him I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But, he asked our guide where the hottest food in the region was to be found and we were led to this dilapidated, hole-in-the-wall eatery. As we were walking in one of the customers was being dragged out either drunk or unconscious with what looked like severe facial burns. It was really disgusting. His friends were all laughing. I reminded Dog that I REALLY didn’t think this was a good idea at all.

When we sat down Dog made it quick and simple. He ordered the hottest thing on the menu. Our guide was impressed. I was scared. I was sweating before we even started to eat. There was something acidic in the air. As a former firefighter, I remember thinking as we walked in that there must have been a fire next door in a battery acid plant. My eyes were burning just sitting there and it was getting hard to breathe. The waiter smiled as he carried out the food and gave a high five to our guide. Half the restaurant stopped eating and watched us since we were Americanos and no hotter food existed.  Dog said, “Wow, let’s do it.”  Oh, what the heck. How bad can it be?  We dove in.

I want to try to describe the experience without scaring off potential missionaries or travelers. But first, something needs some explanation.  There is a pepper grown in India which is called Bhut Jolokia. In 1987 it was the hottest known pepper in the world.  We call that pepper the Ghost Pepper in America.  OK, back to our story.  He ordered the hottest Ghost pepper, goat meat dish that they made.  If you ever travel with a man named “Dog” don’t let him order lunch!

We began.  By the time the first bite of the hot goat meat reached my stomach, I felt like I had just gargled Drano.  You could actually feel the skin peeling off the throat and falling in sheets into the stomach.  My bowels started cramping just for practice knowing they would be called on big time shortly. It soon developed into a rebellion of the entire body.  I kept eating. Macho Ed was not going to wimp out. It wasn’t long before salty sweat stains covered my shirt and pants.

Let me introduce a very important word at this time – Limca. Limca is an Italian soft drink similar to a lemon-lime soda.  Since they don’t often have refrigeration in the interior of India the bottles are kept covered in cow dung to keep them cooler. I gulped down the entire bottle in one breath. Chunks of dried cow dung flaked off onto my sweaty shirt. I restrained myself from drinking another Limca and decided to try some of the rice to calm my gurgling stomach. I like rice. This wasn’t rice. This was chunky style paint remover. There were pock marks on the ceramic plate. I went back to the goat meat. But before I started again I ordered another Limca.

I looked over at Dog and he was looking pale and his smile was gone. “You OK, Dog?” He looked kind of scared and then in a quick, manly recovery said, “Sure no problem.” But his voice broke and he sort of squeaked the words out.

I took another bite of the goat stew. At the table next to us a man had fallen to the ground unconscious and his friends were pouring beer all over him. I made a mental note. I don’t drink alcohol but somehow, I could see this happening to me. I kept eating…

I think it was the next bite that melted my lips off. If you have eaten extremely hot food you learn it is wise to observe how the locals do it. They never let the food touch their lips. Anyway, it didn’t matter now, I had no lips. My biggest concern began to be brain damage. I finished my next Limca without taking a breath. Our guide said he had never seen a Limca consumed that quickly. It was also the first time he had seen someone shake the carbonated beverage and hold his thumb over the bottle while spraying it all over his face. I was able to buy an ice cube and just wiped it over and over on my throbbing, missing lips while moaning. The pain and insanity increased for the rest of the meal.

It was then I noticed that Dog was not looking very good. He was bent over in pain with a horrible gas attack. His intestinal track resembled Mount St. Helens and when it erupted three minutes later he literally cleared the table.  Two people eating nearby moved to another table.

Then my intestines started to send an equally urgent message. I excused myself to pay a visit to the local comfort room. As I stumbled past the table where the two had moved I grabbed an unfinished Limca from their table and poured it on top of my head. I barely had time to reach the bathroom and sit down when steaming lava erupted from the heart of the earth. We are talking about a Richter 10 caustic explosion. I needed another Limca to wash off but I had none. I wanted to sit on an ice cream cone. My eyesight was almost gone. I barely recognized Dog when I went out. He was leaning over the table waiting for something else bad to happen. His chin looked like he had been drooling paint remover. I think his mouth was totally paralyzed. The entire front of his shirt and pants looked like he had fallen into a restaurant grease trap. He asked where the Limca was and I just told him I was going outside to die in the alley. He said, “OK.” Both our brains were now gone. We had no lips, brains, bowels, or shirts left. We looked like we had been beaten senseless by a herd of rabid monkeys and dumped into a pig trough.

I went to see Dog the next morning in his hotel room. He was half conscious sitting on the floor in the fetal position. I noticed three empty cases of Limca scattered around the room. We both had trouble talking. We ate yogurt the rest of the week. Our lips did grow back and our bowels returned to normal pre-volcanic activity. I have never been normal since. I twitch a lot when I talk. Sometimes I just slobber when I think about it.

It turned out that India was just the beginning of memorable goat stories I was meant to experience.

The post We Ate the Hottest Food on the Earth! Ode to Andhra Pradesh appeared first on Traveling Archive.

(First of Four Articles)

Some stories seem too bizarre to believe but this did happen to me. It was 1999. We were working as missionaries in the Philippines. Before I begin, I need to give you some basic background information.

We developed a livelihood program which helped impoverished churches support their pastors in extremely depressed communities. One of the products we trained the people to make was handmade paper from banana plant fibers.  Over the years the program became quite large and we had some beautiful products and the program achieved its goals.

To process these tough abaca fibers (a type of banana plant) into pulp, it requires several operations and one of them is cooking. We began small and cooked them over a wood fire in a small pot for three days. As the project began to grow, we needed a larger pot and that eventually led to a point where we needed to get serious about cooking large amounts of fibers. The best solution was a steam system and that meant a boiler.

A boiler. I knew nothing about boilers except that they are big, hot, expensive and they are found in Canada where they have 11 months of snow and one month of bad sledding.  But this California boy was “boiler-challenged.”  Where would one find a boiler in the Philippines? This is not exactly a country where central heat is a priority. We only had two seasons there, hot-humid and hot-wet.  A boiler right?!? Good luck finding that one! Did you ever have one of those things in your life that you felt silly asking God about? I was sure he was going to laugh.  So, I prayed, “Uh, God, this is Ed in the Philippines again. I know I am always asking for dumb stuff but I think I may have outdone myself this time. We need a boiler.”  Then I ducked.

This story gets crazy.  The associate missionary who was working with us at the time attended a small barrio church near us.  A Filipino banker was pastoring that church.  I have no idea how the subject came up but our associate mentioned to the pastor/banker that we were looking for a boiler.  I imagine he just said something like, “Brother Vern, I noticed that you need Bibles and windows in the building and your new Sunday school rooms are taking shape.  By the way, do you know where I can find a boiler?”  OK, I don’t know how the subject came up but it seems that the least likely person in the world to ask about a boiler is a pastor in a depressed area.  So, what did Vern say?  Are you ready for this?  He calmly looked at my associate and remarked, “I have a boiler and I could give it to you.”  I told you this story is going to get bizarre.

It gets better. It turns out that pastor Vern was not just a banker and a pastor, but he was also an entrepreneur. About ten years earlier he was approached by a Korean businessman who had a plan for an exciting new product that was going to sweep Korea and he needed a Filipino business partner to run the production side. It was much cheaper to set up a factory in the Philippines. The product was “liquid goat.”  No, that is not a typo.  Liquid goat!  The Korean wanted to use high-pressure steam to vaporize goats and turn them into this cool carbonated soft drink.  I still have trouble visualizing not just the process but the product. Can you imagine having some friends over on a hot summer afternoon for a barbeque and yanking some cool ones out of the ref, “Who wants a goat?”   Visualizing was not coming easy for me on this one but cultures are different.

From what I was able to understand the liquid goat industry didn’t exactly take off.  I could say, “Duh” at this point but that would not be kind so let me just say, “That is really too baaaaaaaad.”  Here is what happened. The two partners in goat proceeded to build a large building and then the Korean partner imported a huge stainless steel steam system with a boiler, large steam vessels, spinners and the other usual goat-vaporizing components.  It arrived from South Korea and they installed it and began the operation.

They bought a herd of goats and tossed them in into the big shiny stainless tanks and turned up the heat.  I know what you want to ask but don’t.  All I know is that the goats went into the tanks.  After the cooking, spinning, removing goat slop and filtering they then carbonated the stuff.  (Makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?)  Then the anticipated moment arrived.  They completed the first liquid goat soft drink.  Yep, they wiped the Manila sweat off their faces, sat down, looked at each other with hearts racing in anticipation, and then had the ultimate satisfaction of being the first to pop the lid and down the goat.  Then they just stared at each other.  And they stared. Was it satisfaction and the joy of accomplishment?  No, it was the realization that liquid goat was not very good.  Actually, it was horrible.  OK, now I can say it.  Duuuuuh!  Vern asked his new partner if he had ever had liquid goat before and the partner said, “No, it just seemed like it would work!”  They stared some more.

Since we can’t begin to imagine what goes through a person’s mind when they have their first frosty goat and when you experience the death of a vision in such a burst of blunt realization and heartburn, we will just the leave the rest of the story to your imagination and get on to the final part.

The Korean went home the next day. Let me say that one more time. The Korean boarded a plane in the morning, went home, and was never heard from again.  He vanished, disappeared, no phone calls, nada.  Vern, from what I can tell, was sad and happy at the same time. He was sad the business failed and he was happy the business failed.  I guess he didn’t want to be known as the man who cooked and carbonated goats.  So, he locked up the giant, glistening goat-liquefying facility, and got on with his life.

Ten years passed, and then one day he put his property up for sale. He found a buyer but they did not want the goat factory. (I can’t imagine why.)  I would have said, “Nice property Vern, but what really sold me was that great goat liquefaction factory.  Wow, how can I pass that up?”  But that is just me, the buyer wanted it gone.  What could Vern do with all that equipment?  Should he run an ad that said, “For sale, liquid goat factory?” It had been ten years since he had heard from his partner and now the place is sold and he has to move everything out in a few weeks.  So, at that very moment, with no idea how to find a way to get rid of all that equipment, this American missionary says to him, “Do you know where we can get a boiler?”

Two days later we toured the deserted food factory and saw not just a large boiler but large stainless cooking vessels and piping and motors and pumps and spinners and and and  and . . . We just stood there amazed with our mouths open and with perspiration dripping from our faces.  I am sure glad he didn’t offer us a goat.  The bottom line is that Vern visited our paper-making facility and loved the ministry.  He then donated the entire steam system to us.  And then, just as quickly as Vern had come into our lives, he died in a car accident two weeks later. I can’t help but smile when I think of the hug God gave Vern for his last generous act before he died. God has a way of rewarding his kids and I am so glad for Vern’s sake that he laid up treasure for himself in heaven and he didn’t delay in doing it.

Once again, my imagination takes me to a conversation, this time between Vern and God.  “Vern, well done. You have been a good and faithful servant. But I have one question for you.  What were you thinking?  — Liquid Goat?”

Almost overnight we had this incredible steam system and absolutely no idea how to install it or operate it. So, I prayed, “Hi God, it’s Ed again from the Philippines. Remember a few weeks ago when I asked for a boiler and then I ducked?  Well, as you know, we now have a complete steam system worth a gazillion dollars at our facility and I just wanted to thank you.  But if I can add a small addendum to the request we could sure use someone to help us set it up and show us how to use it.”   I ducked again.

Before we went to the mission field I did what many thought was a foolish thing.  I quit my secure job with the San Diego Fire Department and packed up my wife and five children and headed off to a Bible school in Canada.  While there for three years I studied the Bible and waited on God for directions. I also worked as a summer staff to help feed my family and in doing so I got to know many of the behind-the-scenes workers who kept the Bible school running. One of those people I met was a steam engineer who ran their two-story boiler that kept our classrooms warm when the temps dropped to 40 below zero.  Yes, 40 below.  That was fun.  Art was one of several steam engineers who worked there.  Now move ahead 20 years. I am standing in Manila looking at the large steam system we had just acquired and praying for help on what to do next.  Art came back to mind after all those years and I sent off an e-mail to the school and had no idea if he would remember one of the thousands of students and we had only briefly met. I had no idea if he still worked there.  I got an e-mail back from Art.  “Yes” and “yes” were the answers.

After a few more e-mails Art decided to use his vacation to come over and help us.  His church even helped with expenses and so Art, who had never left Canada, came to the Philippines.  It was his first out-of-country experience and what a treat it was to have him join us. He set up safety equipment, rebuilt parts and modified others, tested it all and hooked it up and then he trained us.  And he only mentioned the odd odor it had a few times. When Art left we had a fully functioning steam system and we were not afraid to use it. It worked flawlessly over the years and helped us cook tons of banana fibers and has helped keep impoverished churches alive.

One day in glory, I envision Vern, Art and myself sitting down together in heaven and having a nice cold goat together and laughing. I think we will all agree that the entire experience was unforgoatable!

PS: since that time, many years later, I came across an actual product of South Korea called Black Goat Tonic.  From what I have read the tonic is derived from a four-month-old goat that is boiled for 22 hours. The liquid is then filtered to remove the fats and sold in small bottles.

If you think drinking a carbonated liquid goat is weird, stay tuned.  The next three articles deal with food, but not just any food.  These will be the strangest, oddest and most fascinating things people eat around the world.

Dedication: I would like to dedicate this article to a special lady, Lucinda Tamayo, the wife of Vern.  When he died suddenly in 1999, she continued working with the poor in her church and today she is part of the leadership team of a vibrant Filipino church, the church Vern started.

The post The Frosty Goat: Strange Things People Eat appeared first on Traveling Archive.

I imagine most of our lives are a series of awakenings.  One of my big ones came during my later college days.  By the time I entered my senior year at San Diego State I was a decent athlete and grades in school came easily. Actually, too easily. I spent much of my time at the beach when real students studied. My years in college were fun and I squeaked by doing almost no homework. But I did have a good tan, remember I am from California. When it comes to trendsetters we may be the undisputed world champions. We have the honor of being the home of the Christian Surfer Association. Yes, the only group in the world that addresses God as the Great Gnarly Dude. So, go light on me.

One problem with not applying myself was that even in the classes I liked I didn’t learn much since I was goofing off most of the time. My major was Industrial Arts. That is the educational term. It was really “shop class.”  Woodworking became my specialty.  I still remember my big assignment in Wood 101.  We could make any project we wanted with one square foot of lumber. I decided to make a cutting board, one-foot square, and one inch thick.  How is that for imagination?  But it gets better.  The undertaking stretched into nine weeks. As I hinted at I was not really strong in applying myself to anything except surfing.

My only creative moment was to get special permission to add an additional type of wood. The finished cutting board was laminated with alternating stripes of walnut and maple and had four tiny wooden feet on the bottom and two large clunky metal handles on the top. It looked like a zebra that had gone through a trash compactor. You are probably convinced at this time that I was into drugs. No, I just didn’t know what I was doing. But I did like woodwork.

If anyone with a sense of design had seen that monstrosity I made I might have been burned at a stake in public. Today I don’t know what finally happened to that awful thing. I gave it to my mother and I never saw it again after that. I think she made sure it was well buried in the trash can so the garbage truck would take it. Yes, the mother who still had my mosaic duck from ninth grade art class reached her tolerance level and my college masterpiece was no more. I am telling this story to give the background for what happened a few years later that changed my life and my self-confidence.

One of my neighborhood buddies got a job at a small custom furniture shop when I was in my last part of college. I can’t really tell you if I was a junior or senior because I just meandered through school, like life, and I never knew what I was. One day I took my last class and I was done. Now, back to my friend who got that job.  I was jealous and begged him to ask if I could work at that same shop. I have no idea what kind of story he told the boss but he hired me. I was a total dweeb (California word meaning “mindless LOOSER”). I hadn’t learned much in college except what the tide and surf tables meant and my woodworking major had left me mostly uneducated. But as I said, I liked woodworking. Surprisingly, the idea of working in a woodworking shop interested me and I actually started applying myself. I only hoped I would get a few skills before they discovered what they had hired and take me out behind the building and shoot me (sometimes known as acute lead poisoning). I tried my best and started to improve. They gave me simple jobs at first, which was very fortunate. Lee, the owner, was a very encouraging and tolerant person. He saw hope in the dweeb. His trust in me made me want to try harder. He was an exceptional man, but this particular story is really about a guy named Doug.

Turning Point

Doug was different from the crowd I ran with. He didn’t have a tan so I was suspicious from the start. He was focused and always seemed to know what he was doing and what he would be doing next. My life was like driftwood. Doug’s life was driven by vision and artistic balance. I envied him. Doug was a graduate from the same college I attended but he had paid attention. He was a few years older and many years more mature. He was one of the first Christians I ever met and he was a master craftsman. He was a man going somewhere and I hadn’t even looked at the map.

Well, one day towards the close of a work day he asked if I wanted to join him after we shut down. He was going to stay for an extra hour to make a gift for his wife. I hadn’t been married very long at that point and he was thoughtful enough to include me in his project. He told me I could make one for my wife.  I asked him what he was going to make in one hour. He said, “A cutting board.”  I think I stopped breathing. I stared blankly. It was as Yogi Berra said, “Déjà vu all over again.”  “Did you say one hour, Doug?”  “Are they going to have handles on the top, feet on the bottom and look like a squashed zebra?” Could a cutting board be made in less than nine weeks?  So, I agreed mostly out of curiosity. Anyway, if my wife didn’t like it, she could give it to my mom. She needed a new lid for her trash can.

That evening between five and six PM my life changed. Doug had designed (a formerly unknown word to me) a simple Danish modern, teardrop-shape cutting board made from teak with a rosewood strip in it and a small rawhide hanging strap on the end.  It was elegant and beautiful. And the food wouldn’t get wrapped around the handles. We made two in one hour. The shop had a special glue and a radio-wave drier which helped the job be completed in a short time. When the boards were finished we oiled them with vegetable oil and took them home to our wives.

I imagine Doug calmly and confidently handed his to his wife without much of a thought. But I had a different experience. I trembled as I drove home and began to feel something strange happening. It was something I had never felt before. It was my brain waking up. It was my life waking up. I didn’t even care if the surf was up.

Have you ever had a secret you carried that made you want to burst? That described me that night. When I walked into the house with a plain plastic bag holding the little masterpiece I must have been beet red and my eyes were bulging out of their sockets. My wife noticed my unusual blowfish countenance and said: “What’s up.” I said, “Oh, nothing much.”  What’s in the bag?” “Oh, it’s just a little something I made at the shop tonight for you.”  “Really, let me see it.”  “Ohhh, OK, here.” Silence. Lots of silence. Birth is a stunning moment.

I made that cutting board in one hour. It was beautiful. I did it.  What did my wife say?  I can’t remember because I was staring at what I had done and was even more amazed than she was.  She probably said something like, “You incredible hunk of a man, this is your lucky night.” But all I could see was what I was able to do in such a short time.  It was a metamorphosis, dweeb to achiever.  A mentor had dragged my sorry carcass into the light and I was never the same after that. Doug, you have no idea what that cutting board did to me that night.

Today I look back at an incredible journey. I became a building contractor, firefighter, cabinetmaker, Bible teacher, and author.  I have traveled to all continents except Antarctica teaching pastors and Christian workers around the world.  When we worked with impoverished churches we designed a church-based enterprise program to help them become self-supporting when formerly they had no hope of surviving. My wife and I developed a papermaking project from banana rope fragments and today we have designed and completed an amazing pulp mill we built from donated steam boiler equipment and discarded diesel engines from old buses. Churches were supported by the beautiful handmade paper products and herbal handmade soap that we marketed all over the USA. There were also community development and medical programs for the most impoverished.  Yep, this old dweeb got his life together and I can trace my current personality and skills to that cutting board and that night of awakening. I was a goof-off surfer and woodworker wannabe.  Today I have numerous skills and have directed several Christian agencies. My wife and I have raised five children that surprisingly have similar traits. Of course, my wife would add, “One hunk of a man” so I have to put that on the list at her insistence.

What happened to me? Doug showed me what I could be. Thanks, Doug.  Doug was a mentor. Mentors change people.  We all need mentors. We need to be mentors. My adventurous life journey is what it is today because of mentors. Mentors introduced me to my Savior. They made me an upper and not a downer. They made a can-do person. They helped me discover my spiritual gift of vision and to develop it. They showed me the joy of creativity, which helped me find solutions in the hard times. Other mentors modeled a life that was victorious in suffering. They were pathfinders. Others helped me lay a strong foundation that would stand against the onslaught of a terminal disease. My awakening happened when a guy took me aside one night for one hour and showed me I was worth something.

I have tried to imagine where I would be today if I had not spent that one hour in the cabinet shop that night with Doug. I would probably be trying to pay for cancer treatments by marketing cutting boards with handles on the top.

One post script is necessary.  A month ago a local church contacted me and asked if I could help them with a program that helps at-risk kids.  It is called Children Are People.  They had heard I had a cabinet shop and they wanted to have me help them do small project with wood. I asked how much time would I have for the lesson.  They apologized that I only had ONE HOUR.  I told them I just might have the perfect project we could do in that hour.

The post Life Lesson 3: Handles on Top of a Cutting Board? appeared first on Traveling Archive.

We all have times in our lives that we would describe as extraordinary moments.  A day begins as normal and then suddenly something changes it. Today, I can barely tell this story without tears welling up in my eyes. It is interesting that before I trusted Christ as Savior over 48 years ago, I never cried.  My heart was a chunk of rock. My poor young wife had married a stoic and had been learning that I was detached from emotion. I still remember the night I surrendered to the Lord.  The floodgates opened for the first time in my life. God had put a heart of flesh into Old Granite.  I still have a softened heart today.  I don’t mean I break down and weep when I read the price of soup in a supermarket isle, but I am more sensitive now to human suffering and to things of extraordinary beauty.

One of the most difficult things we face as overseas missionaries is that we miss family events that most people take for granted. When our children returned home for higher education they were pretty much on their own. We gave them roots but the day came when we had to give them wings. But it isn’t easy when they are  7,000 miles away. This event happened when phone calls very costly and mail could take a month.  And as incredible as our children are they still sometimes forget how to communicate when they leave home. Too many distractions I guess.

Our second eldest, Dan, began his journey back home by being accepted at UCLA.  Dan was a great athlete and had been accepted to join the world-famous UCLA volleyball team. It was historically the top team in the country. Although no scholarships were available when he applied he was still invited based on a video we had taken of him his senior year at his high school, Faith Academy, in the Philippines.  Because the volleyball season was not during our two-month furlough schedule we never were able to see a volleyball game he played in during his four years at UCLA. We got an occasional video of a TV broadcast and saw some photos in a monthly magazine but that was it. It was excruciating for us.  I asked God to let us see a game one day but that prayer seemed like it would never be answered. Then the end of Dan’s collegiate volleyball career was at hand.  The team had gone four years without a national championship, the longest in its history.  But we could tell by what we read that UCLA was having a great year. Our son had set a kill record for the school which is no small achievement for a school like that.  The national championships were to be held at home court, Pauley Pavilion.  This was to be their year.  And as usual, our 2-month short furlough was timed just wrong. We had three children still in the Philippines and had to stay in the local school system calendar. We could not afford to go to the USA and then fly back and then one month later fly back again for furlough. It was out of the question.  It hurt so much.

During those years I did a lot of training for the Bible League and I traveled a lot.  I received a message from them that they wanted me to go to Khuzestan to train some pastors and then on to Mexico to help with issues that had come up in their Latin American program. They also wanted me to meet with a person in Tijuana.  Tijuana!  That was the border town next to our home city, San Diego. The trip to San Diego would be two days before the NCAA preliminaries and then NCAA finals would be the following week!  I asked if I could stay the extra week in the San Diego area and attend the National Volleyball finals. They didn’t care since the ticket price was the same and I could even stay at our home since a renter had just moved out and it was empty.  It was perfect. Well, almost.  My wife, Janet, could not go but at least Dad could see his son play for the first time in four years. God had answered my prayer, at least half of it.

UCLA slaughtered everyone at the prelims. They were amazing. My heart was in my stomach all night and the next night. Dan was a great player, even better than what I envisioned.  I read the articles in Volleyball Monthly (we subscribed to it just to get news of him).   But even better, he was a great person.  He never did get a scholarship. He earned his spot all the way while some of the scholarship players would sit on the bench. He spent his years at UCLA getting up at 3 AM and driving a bread truck to pay the bills. TV announcers who heard about it gave him his nickname which stuck with him for those years, “the Muffin Man.”   During his senior year, he rented space under a piano in someone’s living room. That is where he slept part of that year. It kept costs down.  Maybe spending time on the mission field helped him adapt. When he graduated from UCLA with degrees in history and international economics he had paid his own way through, had no school debts, owned two cars, had money in the bank and was one of the top volleyball players in the country.

Back to our story. I got to be there the night UCLA qualified for the NCAA finals which were one week away. I just had to make one of those expensive phone calls to Janet in Manila and share the event. We cried together on the phone. She was so happy. I was too but sad at the same time that she had to miss this great event.

The week moved slowly and the big weekend arrived. The day of the finals was on a Friday.  I had to make an early morning visit again to that missionary in Tijuana where I stayed until about noon.  When I drove back across the border in Mexico I knew I had to rush. I still had to return to our San Diego area home and pack up my stuff since I would be flying out of Los Angeles International airport a few days later, the day after the finals.  So, I headed home to pack my bags, and then get on the road in my rented car to drive the three hours to UCLA, eat dinner, and get to the first semi-finals. I pulled up at my house and looked at my watch as I jogged to the front door and ran inside.  But something was different.

Janet was standing there.  I stood there stunned. I broke down in tears. It was one of our longest hugs on record.  For three hours as we drove to UCLA, she told me the story. After my phone call the week before, she went to our mission’s annual conference. She told the group how much she missed being with me and Dan in this great moment of his life.  One of the missionaries, Dan’s former coach, Tine Hardeman, said to her, “Why don’t you just sell something and go. There are some things in life you just don’t want to miss.”  It was a light that needed to go on. In the next day, she managed to sell all our living room furniture. Our sofa set was really nice. We had saved our money for years to have it custom made of rattan. That sold quickly. She booked a flight and was standing in our home when I got there. She had arrived one hour before I walked in the door and had no idea where I was or how she would get to UCLA and then I walked in.

I had seen Dan the week before but she still hadn’t seen him for two years. We had so much to talk about for three hours. I told him that there was a good reason he was a two-time All American and had set a record at UCLA.  I knew the next two days would be really special for her. That alone made my weekend one of the most memorable in my life.  We got to UCLA and I took her to her favorite Chinese fast food chain which was on campus and bought her a meal she loves. She couldn’t eat one bite. She was so nervous to see Dan. We left and I tossed the plate of food in the trash can. We had a son to meet.  I had called ahead to tell him Mom was here so he wouldn’t be too emotionally shocked.

What a night.! UCLA annihilated their opponent. Dan introduced us around to players, coaches, sports announcers.  Dan was a champion. Dan was a hero. Dan was our son. I had no buttons left on my shirt.  We love our kids all the time. They don’t have to excel to earn our love. But I must admit that a night like that is unbelievably special. We were to eventually go to two Olympics and watch this kid compete with the world’s best. But as amazing as those Olympic events were I still go back to the NCAA finals as the most meaningful.  There was so much drama, sacrifice and emotion involved.

The next night the finals took place. Our humble little missionary kid son had over 40 kills and spent most of the night in the air. His 42-inch vertical jump was quite intimidating to his opponents. It was a night of glory. UCLA won it in straight sets, their first NCAA championship in four years. Dan was the standout player. We were the standout parents.  At least that is how we felt.  When it was over we mingled around the floor talking to people and Dan introduced us to a writer with Sports Illustrated who interviewed us.  An article appeared next month in that magazine reporting on the championship and focusing on Dan and it told this amazing story of Dan’s crazy Mom who sold her living room furniture to see her son play volleyball on the night of his life. I know it was the night of our life.

On the flight back to the Philippines I still had tears in my eyes. My wife asked if I was alright. I said, “I’m fine. I am just trying to figure out where we will sit in our house for the next year!”

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John wore clothing made of camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist,
and he ate locusts and wild honey. (Mark 1:6)

California is sometimes called the Granola State, the land of fruits, nuts, and flakes. I am from California, native-born. I guess I could just stop this chapter right now and you would understand why strange things gravitate to me.

I was diagnosed with Acute Leukemia in 2001 and given two months to live (It is 2018 now so I must have done better than expected).  Shortly after I formally announced that I was dying my mailbox was flooded. Well-meaning friends and strangers started sending letters to me with all kinds of sincere advice about what I should eat and do to cure my cancer.  If you ever get sick, like big time, let me give you a piece of counsel. Leave the country, get off Facebook, change your email, sell your dog so you can’t be tracked down. You will be inundated with promised cures that range from interesting to downright off-the-wall looney bin. One definition of a fanatic is a person that you can’t change his mind and he won’t change the subject.  Welcome to the world of health foods, alternative medicine, and strange things crawling out from under the rocks.

Numerous phone calls, e-mails, and letters passionately presented conflicting advice. It drove me into my own personal investigation of the mysterious world of alternative medicine and health foods. It is a world where you don’t just stop and smell the flowers; you eat them. These promised cures are a trip to the Twilight Zone of medicine. But like I said, I’m from California. I took the plunge.

If you are one of the millions who follow some form of alternative medicine or love health foods I want you to know that this is not making fun of you or being disrespectful of your sincere beliefs. If eating rock slime does it for you then keep on slurping.  I just want to point out that the number of promised cures are almost endless and can be very confusing to novices like myself. Frankly, it was overwhelming to enter this complicated world which offered everything from derivatives from rainforest insects to exotic grass extracts. After reading my other stories you may have noticed that I do find humor in things. So just read and enjoy and realize that no personal offense is intended. If you do find yourself getting a bit miffed, the old blood pressure raising and an urge to send off a quick email may I recommend some alternative medicine.  Just lie down on an herbal tea pillow in a Feng Shui environment with lotus leaves on your forehead and go to the happy place in your mind. There, don’t you feel better now?  So, if the temptation comes to grab your AK-47 and blow away this missionary just repeat the mantra “Happy place, peace, happy place, peace.” I hope we get through this story.

You have no doubt heard the familiar phrase of the desperate, “Any port in a storm!”  My blood was a mess after Chemotherapy.  My immune system experienced a complete factory shutdown.  There is not much to lose when you have two months to live.  Many of us reason that there must be a natural cure for disease rather than have poisons pumped through our veins. It just seems logical. So, I started listening to the voices. So many voices.

Promises, Promises, Promises

It soon entered the land of Mondo Bizarro. Here is just a sampling of the things that cure cancer that were promised to me.  One e-mail pleaded with me to grow and harvest a certain type of Oriental mushroom which grows best under a kitchen sink. This one sounded good because I liked mushrooms. But what would our plumber think?

A very large supplement company soon sent out what must have been a general alert to their entire sales force to contact me. I can’t count the number of folks who told me their natural supplements cure AIDS and every other known disease. Then there was this wonder oil, a deep-sea shark liver extract guaranteed to do the job. It made me wonder why the secret of health was in a shark that lives in deep ocean bunkers where most of the world has no access to the critters?  What about the people of Mongolia, Sudan, Tibet, and many others that have never seen a shark? Was I the only one asking this question?  I was starting to get a lot of red lights.

One fellow was sure his vegetable juice extract could cure anything and he said he was only sharing it with me because he knew we were in a Christian ministry and had very little funds. His concern was to help save my life and it would only take a small amount of the heavenly elixir. He assured me that his motive was simply my health and had nothing to do with the multilevel marketing plan that came with the product.  I told him how grateful I was that he would be helping the ministry by donating that small amount to save my life. He never called again. One lady called who had read my e-mails that were forwarded by a friend. She told me that I had made a big mistake going with the medical profession. If we had only used a particular type of Middle Eastern grass extract I would be fully recovered from Leukemia but now I had ruined my chances by allowing doctors to mess my body up.  I was very weak and thanked her for her loving concern.

It seemed like the doors of the asylum had flung open and the inmates were finding my hospital room. So, I did some research. I did have access to the web and when I could I examined everything from Aardvark kidney powder to Zebra hoof oil. I read tons of claims and read testimonial after testimonial from all over the world. I read and I read. I remember hearing about a man who read about the dangers of obesity so much that he finally gave up reading. Well, I almost gave up reading.

I am amazed anyone is still sick or even dies any more. Do you realize we have access to supplements and pills and programs that will cure AIDS, Alzheimer’s, cancers, heart disease, strokes and bad breath in our dogs?  All we have to do is attack bee colonies and eat their pollen and our hair will not fall out. We can strip fish of their cartilage and never have osteoporosis. Grazing on Egyptian barley grass will stop high blood pressure and there are enough herbal teas in China to heal our memories and qualify each of us for the Mensa Society.   Of course, our faces will break out and look like a purple waffle but at least cancer will be gone.

One supplement I found actually contained coral mixed with manganese, selenium, boron, and vanadium.  We might as well raise the Titanic and then eat it. You sure wouldn’t want to go through an airport metal detector after taking one of those pills. There are algae advertised all over that is claimed to reverse the polarity of your body. Wow. I didn’t know my battery was in backward.  And on and on it goes, everything from coffee enemas to magnet therapy to crystals and pyramids.  Everyone offers a secret cure, a miracle method.

Bark, Bark, Bark

One Herbologist states that research has found that the bark collected from the Columbian Pau D’arco tree inhibits the growth of a strain of parasite that causes malaria in rodents.  He is very serious. He recommends ingestion of the root. I believe him and if I ever suspect the rats in my house have malaria you can bet I will buy a truckload.

My wife and I were in South Korea once and wandered through the huge and fascinating natural food section in the basement of the famous Lotte Hotel.  I found myself staring at bins and bins of bark and dirt for sale. Incredible claims of healing were posted over each bin. I was blown away at the prices of the magic compost. Some tree barks cost hundreds of dollars per ounce. A very distinguished Korean man standing near me must have noticed my YOU-HAVE–TO-BE-KIDDING look and asked if I knew about the healing qualities of one of the bins. I said, “Uh, no.”  Without even a pause he reached into a bin and stuffed some bark in my mouth and told me to chew it. I chewed. I looked around to see if anyone was looking. This was expensive stuff. It tasted like moldy tree bark. It was a moldy tree bark. If I ran that business it would come in Vanilla and Raspberry.  The man then smiled and walked out the door leaving me with a mouthful of expensive potting soil. He didn’t work there. Talk about feeling stupid. I walked outside to a trash can. Blah, Blah, Ptooo.  Yuck. I could taste that junk all night long. Pla, Pla Pla.  Even the next morning my teeth were black. Blaaayaagh (which is Korean for Braaaahagaaa). In my country, you go to Nurseryland to buy pots and seedlings not to treat malaria in your rats and eat lunch.

Since we lived in the Philippines for many years there is a well-known Filipino delicacy that also has specific claims.  It is called a balut and is affectionately known as Filipino Viagra.  This food claims to help with male potency problems.  It is a fertile duck egg that is just ready to hatch when it is boiled.  They mostly come from one region of the country just outside Manila called Pateros. The still hot eggs are then sold by vendors on bicycles who travel through subdivisions and housing centers calling out “Baluuuuut,   Baaaaaluut!”   These familiar sounds are normally heard around 8 PM each night.   So, you are wondering if we have eaten balut.  Yes, but it was primarily so we could say “yes” when we were constantly asked if we eat balut.  As Americans, it made us more Filipino.  But we didn’t eat too many.  We already had five children and we didn’t want to take any chances.

Alternative Medicines. It’s a Jungle Out There.

Leukemia treatment for me was a very traditional clinical approach. Doctors put tubes in my chest and poured gallons of herbicide into my veins like a plumber floods pipes with Drano. Then they watched me die and come back and die and come back and die and come back. Exciting isn’t it? Well, it was for them. But that is how it works. For seven months it was the same pattern.  Three weeks of controlled poisoning followed by a very brief week of getting out of the hospital and eating tacos. That is the chemotherapy way.  I did recover in the end I wonder if it was the tacos all along that cured me.

So, after seven months of living in the poison control center, as I called it, I was given a clean bill of health and discharged. By then, I had decided on a specific natural foods path that I wanted to try and I was ready to get started.  But first I had to eat some fish tacos.  There, now I was ready to start.

The next story will tell of that adventure.  Agent Orange is coming.

The post The Confusing World of Health Foods appeared first on Traveling Archive.

I had put my favorite song on the record player. (They really had those things when I was a kid). The song was “The Baby Elephant Walk.” Pecky did a dance when he heard the music. My mother and father and I were laughing and watching the bird dance on the floor.

Then came that rumbling sound from the kitchen. It grew and grew, and we all turned to see my younger sister rushing into the room. She was excited about something she wanted to show us and didn’t notice Pecky.

Poor Pecky. One moment in the height of exhilaration he was making us happy, and the next we were scraping him off the floor with a pancake flipper. If you look in the dictionary under the word “squash” you will find a picture of my bird.

Today I am 71 and I still remind the bird killer of what she did. We still send crazy cards and funny gifts about that bird. There were the slippers one year with feathers sewn on the bottom and sticking out all over. I really can’t tell about all the creative Pecky drawings and e-mail attachments that have given us a good laugh over the years. We sure got a lot of mileage over a dead bird. Just think! If it had been a cat, it might have filled this whole book.

So why am I telling the story? As a reminder of the things that actually keep families apart. People spend their lives not forgiving their parents and sisters and brothers over some dumb thing done years ago. What a waste! I have a great sister. She is a riot. Wouldn’t it have been tragic if I didn’t know that because we weren’t talking?

Unforgiveness can be a life spoiler. I have seen this one played out too many times in people’s lives. Call it the Pecky Principle. People are important, the rest is squashed birds! Maybe there is a squashed bird in your past. Maybe it is time to invoke the Pecky Principle.

One such tragedy is well documented in history, an infamous feud between two families.  This one did not begin over a bird but over a pig. What started as a family loyalty issue during the Civil War grew into a major dispute and finally escalated into the most famous domestic feud in US history.

What should have been a simple disagreement over “little Porky” boiled over for one hundred years and cost a dozen lives in outright gun battles. The pig problem grew into land and timber disputes and deep-seated hatred which spanned generation after generation. And then one day, after a century of blowing each other’s brains out, the Hatfields and the McCoys put down their shotguns and signed a peace treaty putting an end to the madness.

Today the two families live in peace. 60 descendants decided that they did not want to be remembered the way their ancestors were and signed the reconciliation document which read in part:

“We ask by God’s grace and love that we be forever remembered as those that bound together the hearts of two families to form a family of freedom in America.” Today in Kentucky and West Virginia June 14^th is officially Hatfield and McCoy Reconciliation Day.  I met one of the actual McCoys who was part of that peace treaty and heard the story first hand. Absolutely amazing.

In the end, it was just a pig. For my sister and me, it was just a bird.

When I had leukemia in 2001 and my chemo began and hair started to fall out, my sympathetic, bird-squashing sister drove from Portland to Seattle to “feel my pain.” When she walked into the hospital and entered my room, she must have drawn a fair bit of attention because she and her daughter, my niece, were dressed in bird feathers with bird masks.

My sister works in a large medical facility and is aware of the treatments and what they do to the treatmentee  (Is that a word?). She knew it would be a matter of only a few days before I entered the realm of the bald, the world where people don’t waste all their hormones growing hair. So how did she express her sympathy? She talked me into cutting my hair off rather than waiting for it to fall off in blotches. I think she enjoyed telling me that.

Before she left, Sis gave me a supply of gummy organs to hand out to the doctors. I kid you not, gummy organs! Little green, yummy kidneys and parts I couldn’t recognize. They were definitely a hit on that floor of the hospital. You should have seen those doctors munching on livers and eyeballs and bragging about what body part they were enjoying. When my sister and niece left, I could hear them laughing all the way down the hall. Two molting gooney birds meandering through the ward dropping their feathers.

My daughter, Rachel, came for a visit later that day.  She and my wife sadistically enjoyed giving me the haircut my sister recommended. I still don’t know why they first cut my hair in a Mohawk fashion and then put on earrings and took pictures. But it may explain why I had so many the visitors all that afternoon including a local outlaw biker gang who brought me handmade sympathy cards?  I have always suspected the whole thing was my sister’s idea. I really wonder if my hair would have really fallen out.

So how is the bird thing doing these days? Well, I have been busy trying to grow a 500-pound parakeet. Why? None of your business.

____________________

“Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you,”
Matthew 6:12-14 (NIV)

PS: Here is my sister and I today

The post The Bird that Sounded Flat appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Since this web site focuses on travel and food I try to deal with topics that include both.  “La cucaracha” is found just about everywhere and there are people who actually like to eat them.  But I am getting ahead of myself. Wait, are you actually singing that song?  Did you know the Spanish folk song, “La Cucaracha,” is about a cockroach unable to walk because he has lost one of his six legs?

Let me tell you what this chapter is not about.  It is not about all the strange things people eat.  There are so many they can’t possibly be listed.  It is also not about the grossest things people eat.  Some things eaten around the world are really not worth mentioning and can be very disgusting, even depraved, so I won’t be mentioning them even though I have seen some of them.

Some people have eaten unusual items to win a wager like the man who ate his automobile by grinding it up and putting it in his mash potatoes.  Isn’t there an easier way to make money than proving you can eat your car?  And the list is actually long for that type of culinary challenge.  One man ate a coffin, another a Cessna airplane, one consumed thousands of light bulbs and one person ate his bedroom (yes, even the doorknobs and blinds, drywall and carpet).  Next time he tells his mom he is hungry she will listen.

But this is the first of several stories about odd and often funny moments in our personal travels that have to do with food.  No doubt many of you have stories to tell since you are travelers and food in one culture is not always what is thought of as food in another.

The Merriam Webster dictionary defines food in a lengthy and technical fashion including words like “carbohydrate, and fat used in the body of an organism to sustain growth, repair, and vital processes.” I won’t bore you with the rest.  But in my 70 plus years of life and travel I have come to a simpler definition.  Food = anything.  At this time I cannot think of much that man has not eaten on this planet. If possible, someone would even try to eat that.

When I grew up it never entered my mind that one day TV programs would exist that were built around people eating tarantulas, rats, scorpions and hissing cockroaches.  Things are definitely less shocking today. I was thinking about what is the most important thing to carry with you when traveling in the impoverished regions of the world.  The answer is a sense of humor.  I was once laying on a wooden board on the ground tying to fall asleep in a remote region of the Philippines with insects crawling on me.  So, what was funny about that?   My friend was sleeping in a wheelbarrow.  Now, that I think about it, I may have been jealous.

There are 4,000 species of cockroaches in the world. They are one of the few things that survived the Hiroshima atomic bomb.  Here are some random, interesting facts about this uninvited house guest:

A cockroach can live for a week without its head.  So, if you manage to accomplish that be sure to pull one of its legs off as well.  At least it will only run in circles. It can even survive being submerged under water for half an hour. Roaches can run up to three miles in an hour, even a one-day old baby the size of a dust speck.  They are born on the run and spend their lives that way. The American cockroach has shown a marked attraction to alcoholic beverages, especially beer. This is sounding more like that uncle all the time. The world’s largest roach (which lives in South America) is six inches long with a one-foot wingspan. I don’t know about you but the most troubling word in that description is the word, “wingspan.”  Yes, some cockroaches fly and can fly about the length of a tennis court.

They make a loud whirring noise just before they land on your neck. From personal experience I can describe that sound in more detail if you like.  They can also live without food for a month but only a week without water so you usually find them around wet areas. Prisoners in WW2 ate them to get some protein. While living in Asia, we kept all food items in the refrigerator, nothing on our shelves, or roaches would get into them.

The World Health Organization (WHO) adds some additional encouraging news. They report that cockroaches are carriers of salmonella, typhoid, dysentery, cholera and many more diseases and that they will eat book bindings, glossy paper, shoe linings, hair, and even the nails of sleeping babies and sick people. Having said that it would be hard to imagine anyone eating them wouldn’t it?

We had a cat in the Philippines that used to eat cockroaches where we lived. So, for all you cat haters, they do have a purpose.  But there was one drawback.  In the middle of the night when I was in the deepest sleep I would be awakened by this gentle purring sound in my face and the smell of horrible cockroach breath.  I guess our cat was so happy eating the disease-ridden varmints all day that she just wanted to share her joy with us.  I have never smelled a cockroach in America, but in Asia we had that strong, unmistakable odor in our cabinets, rooms and just about everywhere.  And on our cat.

A friend of mine, was drinking milk in a restaurant one day and said he thought the milk was staring to turn, but he finished it anyway and at the bottom of the glass was a giant cockroach. When he told me what had happened, I forgot to ask if the roach was still alive.

There is a woman in China that has 100,000 cockroaches in her home and she breeds them and calls them her children.  The one thing I can’t figure out with that story is how does she keep the number to only 100,000?

Asian cockroaches are much larger than the ones you see in America.  We used to have a cockroach of the week contest for our five children to at least make a fun time of sharing our space with the critters.  One night one of our young children woke up crying and said a cockroach bit her.  We had not been in the country very long and we told her not to worry because they don’t bite.  The next morning, she had a large red swollen area on her leg with a white spot in the middle.  We asked a missionary friend if cockroaches bite and she said, “Oh, yes, and they make a swollen lump with a white spot in the middle.”  We quickly apologized to our children and it was mosquito nets all around after that.  I bet you didn’t know they bite, or fly.

When the kids got older we stopped using the nets, just too much trouble.  Cockroaches would get in our hair at night and many times one would crawl across my face and startle me awake at night.  After several years we learned to just pick them out of our hair at night, crunch them in our hands and toss them on the floor and go back to sleep.  As missionaries we worked with the poor and we lived near the poorer clusters of the people, so we had to deal with these dirty little buggers. But when we saw what cockroaches fed on and how they lived the one thing we never considered was eating them. I mean how would you prepare them? Would you boil them and make soup stock?  I bet that would smell just delightful.

“A research team based at the Institute for Stem Cell Biology and Regenerative Medicine in India believes that the “milk” from the Pacific beetle cockroach – the protein-rich crystals that the insects lactate to feed their young – could make for the next great superfood. Now, maybe you’ll think twice before squashing that pesky cockroach in your apartment.” (CBS News)

No, let’s be clear, I will not think twice before squashing the pests and the only way I will milk one is with the bottom of my shoe. That brings me to the story I want to tell.  You needed some background information to appreciate it.

One day, a friend who had just returned from Cambodia brought me something as a gift. It was a menu from a restaurant where he had eaten.  On the menu, one of the main entrees, was “flying cockroaches.”  So, this restaurant must have gotten bored with their contest of the week and starting eating them and it became so requested it earned a place on the menu.

A week later after getting that menu my wife and visited our youngest daughter who had used her school break to work at a Vietnamese refugee camp.  The camp was about 4 hours north of the city of Manila where we lived. It housed about 18,000 Amerasians. These were the “leftovers” from the Vietnam war.  American servicemen had fathered children and returned to the USA after their assignments leaving children with no fathers but more importantly, no country.  They became a rejected people in Vietnam, viewed as a mixed-breed.  Remember, we lost that war and left the country.  As one writer has written “Many ‘children of the dust’ fathered by Americans were abandoned, taunted, abused, and left unschooled after the last of the U.S. military departed after the fall of Saigon.”  The presence in the Philippines of several large American military bases also produced and abandoned over 50,000 Amerasian children when the bases pulled out.

A US government congressional act would later allow 23,000 Amerasians and 65,000 family members to settle in the U.S.

It was an Amerasian resettlement camp where our youngest high school daughter worked that summer. So, what does that have to do with cockroaches?  I’m coming to that. We arrived at the camp for our allowed visit.  They were careful not to make the Amerasians a tourist site or photo op.  It was a difficult place to visit.   While there, we met the people our daughter stayed with and the people she worked with.  One of those was a Vietnamese cook who prepared food for an American family that helped direct the camp operations.

At one point I was alone with the Vietnamese cook and my curiosity had gotten the better of me and I just had to ask. The memories of that menu with flying cockroaches was still fresh in my mind. I told him about the menu and I asked if he liked to eat cockroaches.  He did and so I asked how he liked to prepare them.   He described carefully slicing them up and frying them in brown sugar.  I then asked if he liked them any other way.  He revealed he like to eat them alive and when I asked him to expand that answer he described in detail how he picked off the wings and then tossed them in his mouth like you and I would eat peanuts.  He seemed disappointed the American family didn’t share the same interest in what he liked to eat.

I had one more question for him.  “Is there anything the American family eats that when you watch them eat it, it almost makes you sick to your stomach.  At that point he looked around to make sure no one was watching and said in a quieter voice,  “Yes, there is one thing.  You know those potatoes that they mash up?”  All I could say at that point was,  “Yes, I know the exact thing you are talking about.” He eats live cockroaches and mashed potatoes makes him want to puke!  The guy reminded me of Olle.  He was a missionary from the Faroe Islands who, like us was working in the Philippines.  We were at his house one day when he kindly offered us some of his personal stock of whale blubber.  The Faroes are somewhere near Iceland and they mostly eat stuff that comes from the sea. I could have said fish but whale blubber is not fish, it is stuff, and ugly looking stuff at that.  Olle actually brought that stuff in his check ins when he traveled back and forth to the Philippines. I don’t know why Customs didn’t shoot him when they inspected his bags.  When we refused to eat his private whale blubber stock he tried to entice us by saying it was three years old, really seasoned.  That explained the thick green ick growing on the yuck.  I finally said, “Olle, how do you eat that stuff?”  He said, “Well, you eat peanut butter!”  I guess he saw the strange look on our faces so he continued,  “And you know what it looks like?”  I think Olle would have gotten along well with the Vietnamese cook as long as they didn’t mix peanut butter in with mashed potatoes.

I am reminded of one college frat person trying to be “macho” who ate a cockroach on a dare and then shortly afterwards his thoughts began to torment him and he quickly grabbed a plastic trash can in his room and emptied the contents of his stomach into it.  He said afterwards, “I didn’t think I had lost it too bad, then as I looked in the can I noticed that one of my socks was at the bottom!”

I did say I would give you 101 things you can do with cockroaches so here they are:

1. Eat them.
2. Milk them.
3. Squash them.

Repeat number three 98 more times

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