Heading topside

Koa the Mule

Buzzy saddling up Koa at Ali'i Muleskinners of Moloka'i

Saddling up

Most vacations aren’t usually ripe with metaphors for living. Typically they offer a peaceful respite from the grinding mundane, which is followed then by a pang of longing when the vacation is done. Beyond that, there are hundreds of digital images to mostly ignore, a few mild stories to share, and that’s about it.

What fortune, then, when 3 days away re-aligns your mind (regardless of what it’s doing to your spine).

Your own 2 feet or the seat of your ass

Mule train to Kalaupapa - from 1600'

There are only a few ways to get in and out of Kalaupapa: hiking. boat. plane. mule. Kalaupapa is the former leper colony on the Hawai’ian island of Moloka’i. Created in 1865 as a dumping ground for Hawai’ians infected with Hanson’s disease – or suspected of being infected – the settlement was later moved from the eastern side of the peninsula (known as Kalawao) to the western side, known as Kalaupapa.
The view “topside”

In Kalaupapa, a Belgian priest named Father Damian and an entire community of helpers took care of residents of the colony, bringing humanity to a geographically isolated group of people who were forbidden to venture away from their peninsula. Kalaupapa is surrounded by 1700 foot cliffs on one side and by strong ocean currents on the other sides. Everything above Kalaupapa is known as “topside.” Before treatment for leprosy became available in the mid-20th Century, being sent to Kalaupapa was a life sentence: once there you could never leave.

The view to Topside from the Kalaupapa peninsula

kalaupapa cottage and cemetery

A lifetime in Kalaupapa: the resident of this home buried his family in the yard

The allure of “there”

Imagine living in a place like Kalaupapa – an outcast – and never having the opportunity to go topside. For those of us who live topside, imagine seeing something ahead of you – a goal, a career path, a longing – and always yearning for it from a distance, never taking the steps to achieve it. It’s disturbing that those of us with opportunity often fail to take advantage of it, as though it were more enjoyable to stay mired in the notions of “then”, “when” and “there”. We deceive ourselves that the 1600 foot cliffs we have in front of us are simply a few steps through time, not an arduous journey, and somehow the path will fall under our feet instead of us striking out on the path. Worse, what we fail to remember is that our version of “there” – our dream or ambition – is accessible. Unlike topside to the former patients of Kalaupapa, our topside is not a forbidden destination.

There (Kalawao Valley)

Jumpstarting the present

An irresistible, if trite, caption for the airplane: “Get on board.” There’s been a subtle but meaningful shift ever since Kalaupapa: “there” has become “here”, “then” and “when” are “now”. Like the slow, sturdy mule heading up the path from isolation to topside, success is achieved in steady steps. But it’s time to kick things into a higher gear: this mule needs some wings.

mokulele airlines

hurry up; the plane between Honolulu and Moloka

An ad hoc letter to Santa

Dear Santa –

Please bring me the following for Christmas.

(Note: We don’t have chimneys on the Big Island – at least not in these jungly parts – so feel free to leave everything on the lanai or distribute it as you see fit.)
I would like:

  • an anteater to get rid of the sugar ants that are EVERYWHERE

The sea entry plume – Kilauea

– a bottle of gin and some rocks wrapped in ti leaves. We still need to make an offering to Pele, the volcano goddess. You know what, never mind the ti and rocks; we have plenty here in the yard. Pick up the gin, though, if you don’t mind. We’ve already driven to town countless times this week, and if I have to go back one more time I’m going to scream.
  • a book of manners for the wild pigs who tromp through the yard at 2 in the morning digging up the grass, shrieking and snorting like a herd of errant werewolves just beneath the bedroom window

Spear chuckers

– some good news. Things have gotten a little better of late. A little – and to tell the truth I’ve been so consumed by work and simply making do that I haven’t been paying that much attention. But for Christmas this year can we please have a few less outright idiots and psychopaths and a balancing dose of positivism and good neighborliness instead
  • (can you get the nasdaq to hit 5000 and keep rising slowly until it’s time to start taking mandatory withdrawals from my IRA, at which point I’ll convert everything into bonds, I promise?)

Wheazley the Gecko, before the tragic accident

– a new foot to replace the one that got mangled when I pulled Wheazley the gecko off the glue trap that was intended for a mouse that chewed its way in through the window screen. (Speaking of which, while you’re at Home Depot picking up some power tools for Arvin and me – our neighbor Nicki has a power screw gun that rocks, btw – grab a screen patch kit so we can repair the hole where the little furry s.o.b. chewed himself an exit route.) Poor Wheazley..
  • Oh, and by the way: a literary agent. Hello..? This year. On Christmas. At my door. No more lame excuses. But by all means don’t leave it sitting on the lanai. Invite it in and fix it a drink.

And last but certainly not least, I would like…

– a good stretch of sunny days to darken my pale skin and fill up the solar batteries

– a large token of thanks to the amazing people I am privileged to call my family and friends. Please give them all whatever they want for Christmas

PS. One last thing. Can you do my Christmas cards for me? Seriously. I’ve been busy.

Thanks old man.
-j

Carniverous delights

Every year my mother makes a rib eye roast for Christmas. And every year the cow slogs its way across the kitchen to the dinner table along with the rest of us, except instead of taking a chair it flops itself down on a serving plate in the middle of the table.

In thick ruby red and bloody slices.

Fear of frying

I like my meat cooked, not crawling across my plate. But that doesn’t justify turning a lovely boneless leg of New Zealand lamb into mutton, which was the culinary trick I pulled on friends who came over for dinner Saturday night.

I’m much more adept at frying food: a quick sear on thinly cut pork chops; a sizzling sautee of flank stank; chicken browned then finished in the oven. Lamb, I know only how to broil – and truly I only know how to cook chops. So to roast a leg of lamb..? For guests..? That was a gamble.

Blame it on the oven

The instructions were clear and simple: cover and roast at 500 degrees for 20 minutes, then lower the heat to 350 and cook for 45 minutes or until the internal temperature is 135 degrees.

Well.

After 1:10 in the oven – a piece of crap that probably was le haut back in 1986 – the meat was a corresponding 110 degrees.

Blame it on the wine

Wine is also a luxuriant way to ease into a Saturday night with friends. It is also, I’ve learned throughout life, is a handy excuse. For years we’ve used it at family holidays as an excuse for everything from fatigue, marked sarcasm, high boredom to outright hostility.

There was none of that at our Saturday gathering, though. Instead there was news from Hawai’i, news from Italy, wine from Spain, Argentina and Italy…and one reticent leg of lamb.

Reveling in Regaleali

Dawn and Marco brought this Sicilian treasure, a sun-soaked white with rustic undertones and a flowing white dress of a finish. A blend of three Sicilian vines, it comes from a significant » wine estate on Sicily. When that bottle emptied (rather too quickly) we followed up with a Nessa Albariño to accompany the big meaty green Castelvetrano olives, kalamatas, feta and sliced ciabatta that nourished the get-reacquainted hour.

A blend of the Sicilian vines Inzolia, Cataratto and Grecanic from Regaleali-Tasca estate, Sicily

REGALEALI – a blend of the Sicilian vines Inzolia, Cataratto and Grecanic from Regaleali-Tasca estate, Sicily

Far, far west of Jumilla

What does one serve with a leg of lamb that sits so long on the cutting board, covered, that it transforms its age during first course?

Mourvedre, monastrell, mataro…The best come from Jumilla, Spain, but this old vines Contra Costa mourvedre was superb. Tamer and a tad more luscious than its dustier, lustier Spanish counterpart, the Californian paired exquisitely with the tender meat, overcooked though the little lamb may have been.