A moose, a mammoth, and one mama's attempt to explain it all

Photo by Nalin Bhutt

My boys and I have a usual nightly ritual. Book 1, Book 2, sometimes Book 3 depending on the time; then lights out; every once in a while I'm asked to tell a story that goes something like this: Fireman Sam meets up with Neil Armstrong and they fight fires on the moon, with Moxie, the paramedic at their side (and if Nooa has anything to say about it, a princess inevitably shows up to steal the show); ending with "mama, please sing 'the boys' song" (I'll sing it for you some day); and then hopefully sleep. Although usually sleep is preceded by two very distinct sleep preparations: Ettu usually mutters something rather out of left field (tonight it was "I don't want to ride on the ferries this summer") and then immediately falls asleep; Nooa, however, takes a bit longer, sitting, standing, asking for water for no less than three times; tonight he did two downward dog stances before collapsing on the bed. The fact that they sleep together in a double bed is often a major exercise in personal space negotiation.

I can't tell you how many times we've been told to just leave the room and let them fall asleep on their own, that we've created a bad habit of dependency, etcetera, etcetera. But I'm forever fascinated (and yes, okay, sometimes irritated) with watching this nightly ceremony. The best part of it all is that bedtime is actually something they seem to look forward to. Something they are ready for. But perhaps most importantly, we've realized that the nightly act of reading to them is just too valuable to give up. Lately, the library books on the bed stand have included selections about woolly mammoths. We even drove to St. Louis last weekend to see a wonderful exhibit (originally curated at The Field Museum, ironically) on mammoths and mastodons at the Missouri History Museum. And on that trip we listened to the same story over and over again: Dr. Seuss' Thidwick, the Big-Hearted Moose, from an audiobook of classic Dr. Seuss stories. You may or may not remember this one about the kind moose who lets so many critters camp out in his antlers until he practically starves to death, as his "guests" will not allow him to move across the lake to the mossier spots during the winter, and he is too much of a host to ask them to scram. Finally, the hunters come, and things change quickly and decisively. Thidwick remembers that it is antler-shedding season, so he is able to rid himself of this heavy load and escape to greener pastures. His guests then are not so lucky as they stay behind on their new home at the mercy of the hunters. I've always loved Dr. Seuss for the playful, engaging, and elaborate language. But recently, I've become ever so aware of the not-so-subtle messages in the text itself. And now, thanks to mammoths and moose hunts, among other things, even in the seemingly harmless pages of a Dr. Seuss book, I am confronted with a child's endless curiosity about the harsher realities of indifference (the "guests" attitude to the kind-hearted moose), starvation, hunting, killing, and extinction, just to name a few. And so the education begins.

Photo by Nalin Bhutt

Although I would like to protect my sons from some of the not-so-pleasant aspects of life, I find myself torn a bit between the arguably easier sugar-coating of these ideas and how to more accurately depict our role in the cycle of life and death. Because of Ettu's recent fascination with animal hunting in the time of the mammoths, he was drawn to the figure of a stone-age hunter at the museum. The figure was carrying a spear and a mammoth tusk, and Ettu just had to have it. So we got it, with a tad bit of reluctance, trying to explain the necessities of these hunters and trying to find that balance between the hunt for survival and the hunt that may or may not have caused this massive creatures to find their ultimate end as a species. When we visited the lovely Left Bank Books in downtown St. Louis the next day, we found a beautifully illustrated book entitled Kali's Song, about a boy who is learning to hunt during the time of mammoths. We just breezed through it before buying, and only upon reading it in the car did we realize that the book skipped over the realities of hunting altogether, favoring the story of a boy who used his arrow to play music that charmed the animals and made everyone believe he was a shaman because of his unique abilities to bring peace, guide the people, and cure the sick. Now don't get me wrong, I love, love, love this story. But I was left with the nagging feeling that the authors left out the fact that others were certainly still having to hunt and kill, so that the tribe could survive — not only for food, but for shelter and more — but I guess that's not so important to this story. Because we are not vegetarians, it is essential for us all to understand how the food we eat comes to our table. And I am amazed at a young child's complex comprehension of some of these things. I guess the time for learning is when curiosity meets us wherever we are.

And so the circle continues, and tonight I may be asked to read about the bison and buffaloes that we learned about at our recent visit to The Field Museum. How did they suddenly and brutally disappear after existing for so many years among the Native Americans, who hunted them for survival. Another sad story. Another small step into the larger context of history and what comes after. But for now, couldn't we just go back to Goodnight Moon now? Please?

What a trip

Mia, Sophie the giraffe, and a plate of pasta in New York, Summer 2010.
Photo by Nalin Bhutt.

"We all just do what we want to do to make life worthwhile." This line was spoken — in translation — by one of the "cast" members (I believe it was the 91-year-old head priest of a Buddhist temple if I remember correctly) in the glorious documentary Eatrip. After our own culinary delight of Nalin's homemade cassoulet and a glass of Granache, we sat down to watch this little Japanese film about the relationship between humanity and food. I've rarely seen something that so richly encapsulates what I believe to be an ideal in life. As another in the film says, "Eating means knowing your ingredients." But more than that, it is forever a communal undertaking. Whether we grow, raise, or kill our own food or rely on others to do it for us, we are bound together in a process of dependency on people and nature. And even if we do it all ourselves on a plot of land in the country with a river nearby as our main water source, the true satisfaction is in how we share our bounty and privilege with those we love.

This film is food porn in the highest degree (that is, if you are committed to a more natural or organic way of gathering and preparing food). Interwoven with the interviews of actors, singers, homemakers, fish wholesalers, priests, etc., is the captivating preparation of a single meal, from the selection of the healthy and active chicken in the beginning. The editing and cinematography are sublime, and I couldn't help but feel that I must move to Japan straight away. One segment features an older woman in a shop near the fish market (it was her father, she says, who began of the process of shaving dried bonito flakes), speaking about the "old" or traditional ways of cooking and relating to food. She wishes the younger generation would relish the things of the past rather than relying on fast food. After all, she says, "even simple foods can be delicious." Even if you don't cook, she goes on, use a good stock and make a simple broth, miso, etc. Nothing is better than soup. With that same reverence of the past, another comments that "we used to be discerning — that was admirable."

The most articulate voice in the film is a housewife with two young children living in Okinawa, Naoko Morioka, who has cultivated a life of natural farming and motherhood that inspires (and that is an understatement). She grows her own food, brings her own water from an nearby river (no tap water in this home), processes her own rice and grain with a bevy of baskets and cloths, and does so with one child on her back and another running about alongside her. Without even the slightest hesitation, she remarks about her life, "doesn't it make you feel rich?" And as her daughter and her friends sit down at their chabu-dai with the expanse of food within reach, you can't help but whisper to yourself, "yes."

The crux of the film is that the partaking of this ritual, called eating, something we do day after day after day, is essentially about mutual respect. It is about awareness. It is about conversation. And that is why the way we relate to food is such a symbol of so much more in our lives. We may not be able to get everything just right, but we can certainly enjoy the trip.