The dog’s owner caught up to the boys and thanked them profusely. “Son, you coulda’ been drowned out there. I’m in your gratitude. As a token of my appreciation, I’d like to offer you a whole dollar.”
Gopher interrupted and suggested his friend would be more impressed with a coin or a colorful bottle. “Reginald here, don’t much like anything that ain’t bright or colorful.”
“Well, then; a coin it is. The grateful man dug deep into his front pocket and withdrew a shiny new two-bit piece. Reginald gleefully handed over the dog and took the coin.
“Pardon me son, but what are you intendin’ on doin’ with that there catfish?”
Gopher spoke up for his mute friend. “We was thinking about taking it over to the Friedman place in the morning—got business there, you know.”
“Fair enough. Good that it won’t go to waste. But if you would allow, I’d like to take a photograph of Old Gunnar before he gets gutted.”
With his little dog cradled in his arms and two soaking wet travelers tagging along behind, the man escorted them to his store. Inside it was bright and warm and there were several gentlemen gathered around the big potbelly stove.
“Say, fellas, you ain’t gonna believe what came to town just now. Remember Old Gunnar; that big catfish up in Miller’s Pond? Well here he is, in all his glory.” The man motioned Reginald to step into the light and show the other men what he had caught with his two bare hands.
“And, this brave lad saved my little Pooksie. How about that? Jerked ‘em both right out of that flash flood—seen it all with my own eyes, I did.”
The men were duly impressed. Most had tried to land that monster fish on several occasions but Old Gunnar had outwitted them all; that is until someone dimwitted came along and outsmarted him.
Reginald held the big fish aloft while the storekeeper set his flash and snapped a picture of the two of them. “This’ll go above my mantle, soon’s I get the plate developed. Gotta have proof in cases like this.
“Now let’s go in the back where I can run some water into my washtub and get that fish cleaned and cut up. Then we’ll pack ‘im in ice for your trip south in the morning. I’m sure the Friedmans will be glad to have the pleasure of dining on Old Gunnar.”
THE FIRST KISS
Gopher struggled with the team all the way back to the Friedman place. What was hardpan soil the day before was now thick, slippery, sticky mud. The horses’ hooves were like heavy balls, covered in red mud. The wagon wheels were completely covered in the stuff. But they made their way to the homestead without getting stuck once. A blind man could have followed the deep ruts they carved into the Earth from their passing.
As Gopher pulled the wagon around to the front of the lean-to he could see the rains had damaged the spirits of the Friedman family but not their shelter. The mud and sod-covered hut had survived intact but everything outside was soaked.
Mister Friedman had made the trip—just barely. His horse had bolted at a nearby lightning strike and had thrown him. But he said he kept the reins and soon calmed the animal down. “I had to walk the rest of the way. That damned nag wouldn’t let me back in the saddle.”
When Gopher presented Missus Friedman with the fresh catfish, she wept openly.
“How’d you come to get that much fish?” Friedman asked.
Gopher recounted the entire story of how his friend, Reginald was able to subdue the fish and rescue the puppy, right in the middle of a flash flood.
Grenda started a fire. It was destined to be a very small fire due to the limited amount of dry fuel available. Not until the sun returned and dried out the land would anyone be enjoying a bonfire.
But the twigs and sticks tucked away near the back of the lean-to were sufficient to heat a large, cast iron pan. With a little lard and some salt and pepper, everyone in the Friedman compound at a hearty lunch of fried catfish.
With full bellies, Gopher and Reginald set about preparing the two wagons for the return to Santa Fe. The sun began to dissipate the clouds and the land began to dry a bit and return to its usual warm condition.
While Gopher was removing excess mud from the Olson freight wagon, Grenda came up to say thank you for the food. “It was awfully nice of you to think of us. It would have been just as easy to share the fish with those men at the store.
And then, Grenda did the strangest thing. She leaned forward, grabbed Gopher around the neck and pulled him down to her height. Then she planted an honest-to-goodness kiss on his lips.
All the way back to Santa Fe, Gopher wore a happy grin. So did his addlepated friend, for no matter how slow-witted Reginald might be, he knew Gopher had just been handed a wonderful gift.
Of course, several hours later, Gopher remembered he had promised Reginald some of the castoff bottles scattered around the Friedman place. Apparently Reginald had also forgotten. But Gopher now had a legitimate reason to return, should the opportunity arise.
NOSE TO THE GRINDSTONE
Gopher resumed his normal daily routines. Early each morning he reported to the restaurant for lessons in basic cooking techniques. In the afternoons he worked for Hans Olson doing odd jobs around the mill. In between he attended school.
The long hot summer was followed by an unusually cold and bitter winter. In some parts of the southwest, blizzards raged across the barren lands. Wherever people lived there were immense hardships, as their precious livestock sometimes perished by the thousands.
Gopher Piddington did what most boys had to do in those days: either work or go to school. Gopher did both. When the spring finally arrived, he was eager to return to Chimayo to see how the Friedman family had made out over the harsh winter. But his duties in Santa Fe took precedence and his dream of seeing Grenda again was simply not in the cards. He once asked Mister Olson if the Friedmans had placed any more orders. He was reminded that, if there was a delivery and if he needed a boy to deliver goods, then he would let him know.
Gopher was tired of being a boy. He yearned to be a man, where he could be the master of his own fate and go where and when he pleased. But he was wise enough to know that he was still learning the ways of life. If he gleaned anything from the events of last summer and the death of an innocent little girl, he came away from all of that with an appreciation for life itself and how quickly it can be snatched away.
What the future held for him was unknown but he was developing a plan in his head. The first thing he knew he must do is save as much money as he possibly could to make his dream of becoming a railroad man a reality. After seeing how grateful the Friedman family was with the gift of fresh fish, he understood the value of mastering the basics of food preparation.
Armed with what he considered a mature set of goals, Gopher settled down and began to re-arrange the priorities in his life. He knew he was but eleven years old but he had already grown to just under six feet tall. In his boots the top of his head was marked at six feet. At times, when he was around his old friends, he felt much taller. At other times he was too easily coerced into repeating many of the childish things that got him into trouble.
With his goals set firmly in his mind, he settled down and managed to do quite well with his studies, even graduating to another level of McGuffey’s Readers beyond where most of the kids his age were now studying. But there were times when he daydreamed about a certain attractive young woman living on a piece of land near Chimayo. He wondered if she was also doing well in school and he yearned to go visit her again.
The job at the mill soon took more and more of his time. Old man Olson recognized his young employee as someone willing to work hard for a good day’s pay and assigned the boy with more responsibilities.
As for the restaurant, Gopher continued to clean and do food prepping when asked. But he surprised even himself with his newfound love of why foods tasted the way they do when prepared by someone with skill and experience.
One day, Able came to his son and inquired as to his comfort in the kitchen. “Are you ready to t
ake on a menu item all by yourself?”
Gopher assured his father that he was.
“Fine. Then your assignment is to create a broth-based soup for tonight’s dinner. We will be serving roast lamb with braised turnips and wilted greens. Do you think you can make a soup to go with that offering as a first course?”
Gopher assured his father that he could.
Once Guadalupe finished her early morning chores and shucked bushels of fresh corn, she left for the day. Gopher had the entire kitchen to himself, at least until his father came in to begin the evening preparations.
Gopher tried hard to recall some of his earlier lessons in soup production. He remembered his father telling him that soups are always two things: on the one hand they are very easy; on the other hand they can be very hard. What exactly that meant, Gopher had yet to learn.
He searched the kitchen looking for ingredients he could incorporate. His father had mentioned soups were a wonderful way of utilizing leftovers. In the icebox he found a half-dozen cooked chicken breasts, left over from the previous night’s dinner special.
“Now,” He announced to himself with pride, “I’m on to something.” But what else should go into a soup with a few chunks of chicken in it? He searched high and low for clues as to what might go well with the few pieces of chicken he already had at his disposal.
In a tub near where Guadalupe had been shucking corn he discovered great heaping mounds of unwanted yellow corn silk. He knew the morning cook saved the larger husks for wrapping her delicious tamales but he couldn’t recall her using the silk strands for anything. So he decided to create Corn Silk Soup.
Into the boiling water he dropped all the cut-up chicken pieces and cooked them until heated through. The broth was a bit weak, so he added salt and pepper and a few dried red chili seeds. When he had the broth tasting pretty good, he chopped up all the corn silk and dropped the pale yellow mass into the simmering pot.
He was proud of his creation. It had good color. What else could he do and what could possibly go wrong?
With the soup set to simmer all day on the wood stove, Gopher, the aspiring chef, decided to report to the mill and pick up a little side work and maybe pocket a few more coins to deposit into his special bedside bank.
His prized piece of Anasazi pottery was beginning to fill with coins and paper money. At the rate he was saving, he could think seriously about going to Colorado in a year or two—probably right after he finished what served as the eighth grade—the milestone goal of most school kids.
When Gopher cleaned up and went back to the restaurant to check on his soup, he found his father waiting for him. He did not appear to be pleased, but Gopher knew there were pressures on him every day about that time, so why worry?
Able simply asked his son to join him in taste-testing his soup. “Now tell me, what have you called this creation?”
Gopher stood tall and said, “It’s called Corn Silk Soup.”
“Ah, an interesting use of unwanted produce. But let’s give it a taste and see what it has become.”
The two dipped ladles into the steaming soup and withdrew a measure each. They both blew across it to cool it slightly. “Burning one’s tongue does nothing for one’s ability to taste.”
Gopher spat it out. “Ugh, that’s awful.”
Able agreed. “Now, what do you think can be done to this to make it edible and a welcome addition to my menu?”
“I think it would be best for everyone if I dumped it out.”
“Agreed. See to it. When you return, you and I will put together a first-class broth-based soup you can be proud of.”
Gopher returned with the pot empty and rinsed clean.
“First things first,” his father advised. “The water must taste good before anything substantial is added. Your idea of a corn-flavored soup is a good one. And the addition of a few chicken pieces adds legitimacy to the dish. But you would be better served to use chicken bones and skin for your base flavor. The feet will provide the rich yellow hue you achieved with the corn silk without the bitter flavor. You can add the critical and necessary chicken pieces later. Let me show you what I mean.”
Able retrieved a number of assorted chicken bones and parts left over from the butchering process. “See, there are plenty of bones here. Each of them contains marrow deep inside. It is that marrow that will provide you with a good base. The fat in the skin will also add flavor, but be careful how much you put in or you will find yourself skimming the fat off all day long.”
He showed his son how to bring the bones and the skin pieces to a rolling boil. “Now see the foam that forms around the edges? Scoop all that off when you can. It adds nothing to the final dish and can cloud your soup.”
An hour later, Gopher helped strain off the broth and discard the bleached bones, feet and rubbery skin.
The pot of liquid looked ever so much more appetizing than when it was filled with chicken parts.
“Now is the time for the first seasoning. Remember, the broth must taste good before adding anything else.”
The two tasted the steaming liquid.
“Tell me, son. What do you think is needed?”
Gopher thought it needed salt and pepper and could do with a few red pepper flakes.
“Wise choice. Go ahead but be careful not to use a heavy hand. It is always easier to put flavor in but may prove impossible to get it out.”
The final edition was a wonderfully flavored chicken soup. It was light and refreshing yet filling. It was so well received that nothing remained for the staff.
Gopher now understood the value of knowing how to work in a kitchen and desired to know more about the basics. Able wanted his son full time to teach him like his own grandfather had done. But Gopher was content to dabble in the culinary arts, not be married to them. His mind was still on that lovely Fairlie engine running the rails up and down the mountains in Colorado.
Throughout the next two years, Gopher learned much about the food business and the proper techniques needed to extract the most flavor and eye appeal from almost any ingredient.
He learned that cutting vegetables to the same size not only made the cooking process more predictable; it elevated the dining experience.
Then there was the process of Maillard browning; the browning of meats in a bit of oil to extract the most flavor from the caramelization of the meats. And, the boy learned how best to cook different cuts of meat from different animals. If the meat came from the muscles used to move, it should be cooked with liquid. If the meat was not used for motivation, those cuts could be cooked over dry heat, as they were inherently more tender simply because they did less work.
“My boy, you have much more to learn about being a competent cook, but you have mastered the basics. With that knowledge you should be able to butcher and prepare any man’s kill and do it well.
THE FINAL DECISION
The year was now 1890 and Gopher Piddington was thirteen years old. He had reached the height of six feet and had filled out with enough muscle and learned enough with his fists to defend himself against any man.
His schooling was, as far as he was concerned, finished. He satisfied the requirements of learning at the eighth grade level and felt he was ready to take on the world.
The troublesome, wayward ways of his youth were behind him and he carried himself with confidence.
Able no longer insisted his son learn the restaurant business. He had grown weary of trying to convince the boy of the value of mastering the art of cooking.
Old man Olson had gotten even older and operated the lumber mill only during the week and then only when he had a cash-on-the-barrelhead order, so there wasn’t much for Gopher to do.
Gopher felt he had outgrown Santa Fe and began making plans to leave for Colorado as soon as he could gather everything together. He knew he would have to travel light and he knew his cash reserves would be the target of thieves all along the way.
His habit of talking low and slow seeme
d to suit him; a habit he had picked up from being around the slow-thinking Reginald.
Able thought his son had finally begun to mature and was no longer considered a beanpole suckling. One evening Able asked him what his plans were now that he had succeeded in finishing school. “You know, we have the money to send you to a very fine university.”
Gopher politely declined the offer.
“What then are you going to do with your life? You could take over Olson’s mill and stay around here. But since you want nothing to do with going into business of any kind I suppose that option is also out of the question.”
“Father, what I really want to do is become a railroad man—that’s what I want.”
“That’s just plain silly. That’s a childhood dream, inspired by a silly metal toy train.
“What about a trip to San Francisco to visit your other grandparents? Wouldn’t you like that? It would be on a train all the way.”
“It’s not that kind of train. I want to go where men are men and the rails are still being laid through rough and rugged country—that’s what I want.”
“But you simply aren’t old enough to go out on your own. You just turned thirteen a few months ago.”
“Father, how old were you when you decided to hop an old sailing ship and come to America?”
“Older than thirteen, I can tell you that.”
“But when did your dream to come here begin?”
“Ah, I see your point. I believe I was twelve when I first started reading those exciting Schilling Shockers. But I was much older when I left—at least ten years your age. You are simply too young.”
“But I can do it. Don’t you believe me?”
“Son, you’ve got the basics of cooking and you can hold your own in a fight but you haven’t got enough training in either discipline to insure your survival. It’s too great a risk and I advise you wait until you are at least fifteen or sixteen.”
“What if I go anyway?”
The Adventures of Gopher Piddington Page 8