On Getting Lost

I learned from my mother the art of getting lost gracefully. She would position my sister in the front seat of our wonderful, teetering A Model Ford and head out for anywhere because my sister had what is known as a sense of direction.

I was allowed to loll across the back seat, humming at the sky or to send my piercing stare into the houses, front yards, parked cars, alert and interpreting the human drama as it was revealed according to the predilections of the day.

Once I saw a man with no feet planting flowers. He was making his way down a hill with a tray of seedlings. He seemed so nonchalant as he burned himself permanently into my memory.

I caught glimpses of people arriving and being greeted with the first outpouring of hugs, so joyous and uninhibited. I would join them, a member of the family for a fleeting moment as we tore down the road.

Cats, sitting like flatties in the tall grasses, pretending they were elsewhere, casual, odorless, waiting prettily to bloody their claws on the unwitting field mouse.

People wrapped in plastic, muttering. A man with desperately stained tie standing in a doorway; jovial young men selling flowers on the corners, their hair madness.

When I started to drive myself, I was required to consider the streets as a route, as opposed to an enthralling live mural streaming by, turning to plain empty ribbon behind me.

Now, along with mastery of the machine, I had to adjust my focus and watch, suddenly, where it was I was going.

Part of my personal growth, which has involved the realization of subtleties, led me to the awareness of a qualitative distinction between being actually lost and not knowing exactly where you are in relation, of course, to where you need to be.

I attribute this insight to many outings with my mother, who loves car trips, and also to a dear friend with whom I spent many hours discovering the back streets of San Diego.

"We are not lost," she would say crisply, "We just don't know where we are."

This freed me, naturally, to evaporate as navigator and return with a free conscience to my little soap operettas on the sidelines.

We were not usually expected on time; often we were greeted with hooting and laughter, even, on the occasion of her wedding, when we arrived finally, glistening and giggly, a full two hours late.

Being lost is a wholly different state of mind. It is like being on a different mental plane.

It entails a measurable heightening of the blood pressure; small motor functions become jerky and non functional. The ability to comprehend simple commands such as "I think you should have turned left back there," become impossible. Such tiny suggestions, in fact, can trigger a descent into really foul and improper language.

Maps blur and switch around on these people. Bees find their way into their cars, dogs bite their tires, and to make matters worse, all the loco-bozo drivers in the country gravitate toward the highway in front, behind, all around them to perform their annoying road tricks.

People reduced to this state become very grouchy. Very testy. Surly, even.

Their incisors lengthen and the rims of their eyes redden with menace and frustration. They should not be trusted with any real soul searching questions until the motor stops and until they have in their hand an iced drink and some protein.

Their time is being wasted, after all, and in the conspiracy which has formed up around them, all gas stations with their treasury of information and life-saving fluids close down, go out of business, or sit, in perverse fashion, on the left side of the road teeming with traffic.

These people must be diagnosed as lost. They are floundering and full of negative energy. They snap at their most faithful allies and see blackness; the road has become a maze, a thicket with the long, looping tracks of the wild goose wending through it.

When my spouse and I lived far out in the country, where the roads were uncivilized and the directions entailed landmarks such as, "the big tree with the owl's nest in it", we were expecting a visitor one dark night and he never showed up.

He was lost. He did make it, many hours late, as far as our neighbors' house with little incident, but, feeling unsure and cranky, he parked outside their house and began to bellow for attention. He could not have known they were deaf, but he could tell there must be people at home who were not waking up to answer him.

Highly indignant, he proceeded to insult them and, being full of late night coffee and little in the way of judgment, he had a nasty altercation with their electric fence before he got into his car again and found us on his own just down the road.

When he arrived, he was still mentally lost, very much in pain, still flailing and heavy with sweat, totally disquieted by the thought that his progenitive capabilities had been, literally, fried at our neighbors' doorstep.

He stayed with us, by the way, many months and did no work.

Now I have children. Pragmatists for the most part. And, since they all have full schedules, they know that it behooves them to learn their own way around so as to guide mother dear.

I don't find myself actually getting lost, anyway.

Putting together an optimum recipe is like finding a new place. Sometimes following a circuitous path, digressing, enjoying the quirks and impulses of the experiment we finally get to a place we like and where we want to stay.

Try this formula for Rye Bread. It makes a good large batch of tender, sweetish loaves that toast and travel and partner up with any cheese and pickle combinations you may wish to offer.

In a large measuring cup or bowl combine and allow to stand in a warm spot for 10-15 minutes:

2 C. warm water

2 T. bulk bakers yeast

Sprinkle the yeast onto the surface of the water and stir it in.You can then and a little dash of sugar to feed the yeast if you want to. Put this container into a bowl of warm water and cover it to ensure the yeast gets an optimum environment at any room temperature.

While this is developing, warm to tepid:

1 1/2 C. buttermilk

1/2 C. mild molasses

Then add:

1/2 C. cool coffee

1/2 C. oil

When the yeast mixture is ready, put all the liquid ingredients together and add:

4 C. rye flour

1 T. salt

Mix vigorously for five minutes. Cover with a plate or damp towel and allow to stand until foamy and doubled in volume. Keep an eye on it; yeast is ambitious.

Gradually now, add:

2 T. caraway seeds

4 C. rye flour

3 C. whole wheat flour

1 medium onion, chopped (optional)

Mix in thoroughly, adding white flour until the dough is not sticky. Knead, on a floured board, until the dough is elastic and smooth and no longer comes apart.

You can form loaves at this point, but if you have time, allow it to rise again in the bowl. This makes the finished product lighter.

In either case, make loaves in the usual manner, or roll the dough out again--thickly--and cut long baguette style loaves, using a large, wedged shaped knife.

Place on oiled baking sheets or french bread pans which have been dusted with corn meal.

Brush the loaves with a beaten egg and and slash the top with a sharp knife. Allow to nearly double.

Bake for 25-40 minutes in a thoroughly preheated oven: 350-375 degrees. Tap the crust and listen for a hollow sound and a nice dry feel under your fingers.

Surprise somebody now; you have plenty. And take them with you on trips; they are rich in iron and can be trained to find North.