The Duck & Herring Co.

Pocket Field Guide

RecipesThe Recipes contents...

To Do

Treat yourself to an at-home spa day: soak and pumice your feet, do a face mask, wash your hair in beer or honey, submit to ear candling, take a long bath, get a buddy or sweetheart to give you a massage and return the favor. Relax with an herbal iced tea.

ErrataErrata Madness!

Welcome to Errata Madness, the contest where you can win a prize just by pointing out errors in the work of The Duck & Herring Co. Here's how it works:

This season's Errata Madness episode focuses on the recently published Pocket Field Guide for Warm Weather 2008. There are a number of errors - typos, etc. - in this issue. What can you do? Well, aside from reading more closely before you go to print? We'll tell you what you can do: Leave the errors in and let readers find them! Errata Madness!

Here's the contest: Though you almost certainly will find more errors - including the grammatical - in the Warm Weather PFG, we want you to send us, specifically and in order, the simple errors you find on pages 29, 81, 83, and 85. The first person to do that wins their choice of a The Duck & Herring Co. t-shirt OR a four-issue subscription to our Pocket Field Guides ... in which there certainly will be more chances to play Errata Madness!

Send your responses to editors@duckandherring.com. The contest starts now - ready set go!"

Pocket Field Guide for Warm Weather 2008

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Warm Weather To-Dos

Some Interesting Search Phrases That Recently Referred
Web Users to The Duck & Herring Co. Web Site

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Highlights in the Night Sky

The Whim of the Client

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
A Backyard Clambake on Your Grill

Knowing Dawes

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Bears Will Eat Your Food

This Is Not Tibet

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
How to Properly (and Improperly) Put Out a Campfire

Bond Flies Down

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Fresh Black Bean Salsa Served With Best-Ever Summer Margaritas

My Latest Zyngiân Adventure

Beach Bag Necessities for People Cheaper Than My Dad

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Lemon Aid and an Heirloom Tomato Sandwich

Dicotyledon

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Meyer Lemon Sorbet

Wet, Pink

Pocket Field Guide for Cold Weather 2007-2008

Cold Weather To-Dos

Krazy Kammie's Guide to Running Outside,
All Winter Long

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Something to Do with a Pinecone and Peanut Butter

Alpha Mail

Little Miss USA

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Big Jim’s Oyster Stew

Embedded

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
A Frostbite Warning

The Monk Weed—A Seasonal Prediction

In Control

How to Be Alone

The Duck & Herring Co.’s
Butternut Squash Lasagna

Maybe, Baby

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
How to Dress in Layers

Winning at Texas Hold ‘Em

White Sand

Party at the Kays’

Pocket Field Guide for Warm Weather 2007

Warm Weather To-Dos

La Paz Habanero Key Lime Cheesecake Guaranteed Ways to Get Friends and Family to Notice Your New Disco-Era Mustache

The Miraculous Powers of Missy McKinnick

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Important Advice on Holding Your Breath Under Water

How to Hold Your Breath:
A Swim Teacher's Guide

Unnatural History

The Perseids

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Highlights in the Night Sky

Trivia

Man and Wife

The Duck & Herring Co.'s
World Famous Dry Rub Barbecue

Trapeze

Donner Summit

The Dancing Bear's Goodbye

Pocket Field Guide for Cold Weather 2006-2007 Cold Weather To-Dos The Yeti Listener

Modern Bird Adaptations

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Krazy Kammie's Steel Cut Oatmeal

Baby, See This World Will Break Your Heart

Grid Logic

Request Denied

The Plucky Wooing of Emily

How Do You Look At Women From Afar?

Smokin'

Aside From the Usual Ones, Signs That You Might Be an Alcoholic

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Killer Cupcakes

Clearing Out

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
How to Build a Snow Cave

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
White Hot Chocolate

Final Remarks

Pocket Field Guide for Summer 2006

Dear Reader

Suggested To-Dos

Ben Franklin's Notes, Before the Discovery of Electricity

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Albino Gazpacho

Love at the Wawa

Hippie Brevis

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Dog Day Coffee Ice Cream Afternoon

A Hard-To-Believe, Certainly Exaggerated, Physically Impossible, Yet Wholly True and Spectacular Fish Tale Involving Friends

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Highlights in the Summer Night Sky Left in Right Field The Magical Summer That Changed My Life Forever

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
A Summer Drink Idea

Tubby Hubby

Why I Am a Bigot

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Highlights in the Summer Garden

Gum Spring

Notes on Contributors

Sing Us a Song!

Pocket Field Guide for Spring 2006

Dear Reader

Suggested To-Dos

Mark, From My History Class

Personal Ad Haiku

The Duck & Herring Co.’s
Most Angelic Deviled Eggs

368 Million Hands

Corner Store

Celebrity Sightings: I Am Not Pierce Brosnan

The Duck & Herring Co.’s
Foolproof April Fool’s Day Pranks

Gringos at Tojcunanchen

Language Lesson

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents
Highlights in Spring’s Night Sky

Riches

Slave to Love

The Duck & Herring Co.’s
Recommended Party Cocktail: The Cinderella Slipper

Going, Going, Gone

A Life Worth Living

Notes on Contributors

The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
A Backyard Clambake on Your Grill Serves 4 Note: Along with your grill and a stove, you will need one pot, four aluminum deep-dish pie pans and aluminum foil. You don’t have to go to the coast of Maine to enjoy the simple pleasures of an outdoor clambake. On a sunny Saturday, head to your local market for the right ingredients, get your backyard grill ready, wrap a paper tablecloth over your outdoor picnic table�and follow this recipe. Ingredients: 4 cups clam juice 1 cup water 4 cloves garlic 1 cup diced green onions 2 cups canned high quality, peeled crushed tomatoes 1 tsp. saffron
2 ears shucked corn 8 red skin potatoes 16 mussels 16 little neck clams 4 large shrimp 4 scallops 1 Tbs. butter On your stove, pour in four cups of clam juice into the pot. Add the water, garlic, diced green onions, peeled and crushed tomatoes, and the teaspoon of saffron. Bring to a boil. Remove from heat. Shuck and cut two ears of corn into eight pieces. Wash and quarter the eight red skin potatoes. In the pie pans, divide the ingredients evenly: Two pieces of corn, eight quarters of red potatoes, four mussels, four little neck clams, one large shrimp and one scallop in each pan. Pour an even amount of clam mixture into each pan, and place one tablespoon of butter into each and cover with aluminum foil. Place the pans on the grill, which should be heated to 350 degrees. Close the lid and bake for about 15 to 20 minutes. (During this time, perhaps you should sit with friends at the picnic table and sip on a Best-Even Summer Margarita.) When finished grilling, carefully remove the foil from the top of each pie pan. Put the pans on a plate and serve with French bread. Dessert suggestion: Meyer Lemon Sorbet.
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The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Fresh Black Bean and Corn Salsa Served With
Best-Ever Summer Margaritas From the Kitchen of Emily Giffin The porch. The afternoon. The summer. And the friends are over. This calls for an appetizer and drinks. Something simple that will enhance the mood. A fresh snack with a hint of spice. A strong drink with a quenching kick. Here’s to summertime and conversation with friends. Fresh Black Bean and Corn Salsa 2 cans seasoned black beans (drained) 3 ears fresh corn (lightly steamed and removed from the cob) 2 orange bell peppers (chopped) 2 tomatoes (chopped) 1 red onion (chopped) Juice of 2 limes 1 bunch of cilantro (leaves only, chopped) 1⁄2 tsp garlic powder 1 tbsp olive oil Salt and fresh ground pepper to taste Mix all prepared ingredients together in a large bowl. Refrigerate at least 1 hour. Serve with golden corn chips. Best-Ever Summer Margaritas 2 parts Herradura Silver Tequila 1 part Cointreau triple-sec liqueur 1 part freshly squeezed limejuice Pour into shaker of ice and shake vigorously. Serve in large tumbler glasses.
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The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Lemon Aid, and an Heirloom Tomato Sandwich Vene Franco Lemon Aid Find a crazy-large plastic tumbler. Take two or three lemons, quarter them, and squeeze their juice directly into your bucket-sized glass. Plop in the just-squeezed lemon quarters. Add lots of ice. Pour in chilled lemon-flavored sparkling water until it reaches the top. Add a sprig of fresh mint (optional). Place the cool glass against your cheek to cool off. Smell the lemon essence before you take that long, first drink (careful not to swallow any seeds). Replenish tumbler with new lemon, ice, and water throughout the day. In late afternoon, add a generous splash of bourbon. Heirloom Tomato Sandwich Get up before 8 a.m. Put on some flimsy shorts and flip-flops, wear a wide-brimmed hat, and find a woven tote bag or one of those giant Mexican shopping bags with handles. Go to your farmer’s market and load up on heirloom tomatoes. Reach for the deep red ones first, then the orange, yellow, and green ones with yellow stripes. Pick up some San Francisco-style sourdough (white bread, round loaf, pre-sliced) on your way home. Back in your kitchen, toast the sourdough slices until they’re golden and just crisp. Spread both bread slices with lots of mayonnaise and a little Dijon mustard. Slice up your colorful tomatoes and place them on the bread. Add salt and freshly ground pepper. Slap your sandwich together, stand over the sink, and bite into the crackling sourdough and tangy tomatoes. Don’t think about the mess running down your chin. Make another sandwich.
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The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Meyer Lemon Sorbet Some of you may not yet be familiar with the Meyer Lemon, a hybrid sprouted by Frank Meyer in 1908. While this sorbet can be made with regular, run-of-the-mill lemons, it is well worth your while to try and find the smaller, darker, sweeter version. Note that it is possible to mix the types of lemon you use (and maybe even substitute a lime or two) if you are interested in experimenting with sweet/tartness. 1 1/4 cups water 1 cup sugar (3-4 more Tbsp. if you are using regular lemons) 1 heaping Tbsp. lemon zest (from whichever lemons you are using) 1 1/2 cups lemon juice (about 12 Meyer lemons, or 5-6 large regular lemons) In a small heavy saucepan, bring the water and sugar to a boil over medium-high heat. Stir occasionally, cooking until the sugar is dissolved and the syrup becomes clear. Add the lemon zest and remove the syrup from the heat, allowing the mixture to steep for about 20 minutes. When cool, cover and refrigerate the syrup until chilled—at least 2-3 hours, and up to 24 hours. When you are ready to freeze the sorbet, stir in the lemon juice and pour into your ice cream maker, freezing according to the manufacturer’s instructions. When the sorbet looks like an incredibly thick slushie (20-40 minutes, depending on your ice cream maker), put the sorbet in an airtight, freezer-safe container and store in the freezer until it is firm—this can be as little as three hours or as long as three days, depending on how soon you want to enjoy it.
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Knowing Dawes Michael Stutz In the blazing August of that summer he upgraded the modem software that he ran. For years, Raymond had been using a program that he’d typed in himself, programmed in BASIC; it had few options. He would occasionally “customize” it by changing the text and background colors that were coded in, and this pleased him immensely: he saw long-distance government bulletin boards in blood-red text cascading down upon a snow-white screen; he read chatty boards spewing out in chartreuse letters on a rich and royal blue; he watched his favorite board, the Clifton Citadel, become redrawn upon a fog-gray slate in neat, new lines of school-y goldenrod; and he tranquilly scrolled through long discussions on many boards as their words were shown in hues of cornflower, sweet violet or dark liquid black, all on caulk-white screens that seemed as bright and distant as the noon-time sky. But he could not upload or download files, not with the new protocols that were in use. That was when a man on one of the local boards said that he’d be more than happy to give Raymond a copy of G-Term, a new program that would run on his PCjr; all he had to do was come over with a disk. The man was insistent—G-Term had all the latest protocols. “It’s got so many other nice features,” he had written in a private message to Raymond, rattling them all off. He lived not far from Roman Valley, just out in Alva, and seemed to know a great deal about software for the IBM PC. “The name stands for Generic-Term, it’s freeware, and it’ll run just fine on your Junior.” George was friendly and helpful—to Raymond, he just seemed to be a giving, middle-aged man with the time to assist others. So they arranged an afternoon for Raymond to come by; his mother drove him there. She parked in the driveway and waited in the car while he went to the door with a disk in his hand. George stood tall in the doorway behind the glass of the storm door, his curly fallow hair creeping up to the very edges of his eyeglasses—it was full and puffy like a wig. He greeted Raymond and brought him in with a quiet wave of the arm, not seeming to notice or acknowledge the car that was idling on his driveway. Raymond followed George down shiny steps where the air seemed to come lifted out from old sealed boxes, a basement computer room that had all kinds of equipment cleanly stacked upon a wood-grain table against the wall, an IBM PC in the center of it. George sat before the table in a vinyl plush chair on heavy caster wheels, and stretching out his arm he took Raymond’s disk with a bent hand and then slid it into the open mouth of one of his many PC drives. With long manly hands he typed the commands that began to put a copy of G-Term on the disk while Raymond stood behind and waited, arms down to his side. George concentrated on the disk operation, as Raymond stood quietly beneath the shimmer of the fluorescent lights and thought, “So this is what adult life will be like: volunteering and helping people out, bringing them into your home to copy disks like this.” As Raymond stood there thinking, George kept peering into his monitor, craning his neck forward and closing his eyes in sharp squints, seemingly more interested in the glyphs he saw upon that screen than in Raymond, a live human presence standing in his house, not quite five feet away from him, on the first time they had ever met; Raymond crossed his hands together and remained quiet as he watched. “This is the latest version,” George finally assured him, breaking the long minute of silence. His eyes were still locked forward on the screen. This fact of the version seemed to be very important to George; he reaffirmed it several times. “Now how about Dawes?” he suddenly asked, in a new, more urgent tone of voice, swiveling around part way in his chair to finally look at Raymond head on. Behind the wide eyeglasses was the man’s serious, expectant face. “What are you doing with Dawes?” Raymond didn’t know how to answer—he didn’t know Dawes, and wasn’t doing anything with him. He thought of the local boards that George was on and tried to run through all the connections. Dawes? Who was Dawes? The very name made Raymond feel uncomfortable. But then it came again, for a third time, as George began to speak—as he questioned Raymond now, it seemed like an accusation; and that name, a sound that lifted up above the rest, spread itself out and lingered: “Dawes.” Raymond tried to defend himself and in doing so he began to say the name, when suddenly it hit him and he knew: George was talking about DOS, the disk operating software that powered the computer. Raymond had always pronounced the letters of the acronym, saying “Dee-Oh-Ess”—they all did. They didn’t know—they were children, and they had no guide. But George was speaking with the voice of adult authority, and Raymond knew that it was right, and this knowledge was indelible: Raymond had been wrong, for years he had been wrong; the name was “Dawes.” He didn’t want it, he wanted to go back to the way things were before—but it still was Dawes. The fruit came bitter. George turned back to the screen, bent forward to unlatch the disk from his drive, and swiveling around he handed it to Raymond in its sleeve. “So do you have Dawes three-point-oh yet?” “No. I’m still running two-point-ten.” “Oh!”—his sharp jolt showed how unimpressed he was with that outmoded way of being. “Well, you should really consider an upgrade. Dawes three-point-oh has a lot of new features you’d like. It’ll really make things easy for you. You probably don’t have time now—it takes more than one disk—but sometime if you want a copy, let me know.” “Okay, I will,” Raymond said politely as he turned toward the stairwell. George swiveled back to his screen, and in a slightly louder voice he told Raymond again that he should come back sometime and that he’d make the copy. He was friendly and giving, Raymond thought as he climbed up the bright laminated steps, but there was something weird and vaguely infantile about all this basement obsessing over disks and versions. It was summer outside. Michael Stutz is the author of The Linux Cookbook, and his writing has appeared in McSweeney’s, Wired, Rolling Stone, and other magazines and books. His work on historic preservation was featured in The Atlantic Monthly and on the front page of The New York Times. He’s recently completed a novel about growing up in the Net Age.
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The Duck & Herring Co. Presents How to Properly
(and Improperly) Put Out a Campfire Not long ago, a representative of The Duck & Herring Co. went hiking with a pal and their three children. Almost immediately, they happened upon an empty campfire site, and—as the children pointed out, with complete awe and overwhelming concern in their voices—the wood on the campfire was still smoking. Someone had failed to put it out properly. So, as this was a drought-stricken area, it fell on the D&H representative and his pal, along with the children, to smother the smoldering area. They poured water from their water bottles on it. They kicked dirt on it. They made the smoke stop rising from the wood. Then they went on their hike. However, upon their return, not only was the wood again smoking, but—as the children pointed out, with complete awe and overwhelming concern in their voices—the wood was on fire again. Yes, the campfire had re-blazed. The remaining water from the water bottles was poured on the fire. More dirt was kicked on it. Then the D&H representative did something very stupid. On the outer edges of the fire, he noticed a circle of old, harmless ash. It was several feet from the actual campfire; it had probably been there for years. Ash, he reasoned, would smother the fire. So, while the children and his pal curiously looked on, he bent down, dug his hands into the ash to grab a handful and— It was not old ash. It was new ash that was merely covering still-hot coals. Fingers contain all sorts of nerve endings. A terrible pain caused instinct to take over, an instinct that told the D&H rep to scream and get as far away from the cause of the terrible pain, as quickly as possible. “Far away,” in this case, was synonymous with “up in the air.” So, while screaming, he jumped as high as he could, and each time he landed he jumped high again. It was then that he realized some of the hot ash had stuck to his fingertips. While screaming and leaping high and away, he began to smack his hands against his pants, an effort that was designed to remove the hot ash, but also served to complete the image of Man Imitating Large Squawking Bird. The children and the pal, to their credit, found great humor in this. They might have helped the D&H rep, but it was just too funny to watch, and so they laughed so hard they could barely breathe. It is a funny sensation, the D&H rep later confided while nursing his blistered fingers, to experience such sharp pain while people are laughing at you. To which the children responded, “You should have seen your hair! You were jumping and it was flopping up and down!” before dissolving into more laughter. The point is that this never would have happened if the starters of this campfire had put it out properly. People, put out your campfires properly, especially if you live in an area that is affected by a drought. If you don’t, you might start a forest fire that rages for days; or, you might very well injure a not-so-smart but well-meaning passerby. Here’s the proper way to completely douse your campfire:

Use large amounts of water, sand or dirt. Water is best. Use water. A bucketful. Then another one. If you don’t have access to water, maybe you shouldn’t be lighting a campfire?
Pour the water over all burning embers and areas around them. Douse it real good. Smoke and steam will rise up. Pour more water on it until the smoke and steam stop rising up from the site. Smother it. Kill it.
Use a stick or shovel to stir the embers and ash. You’ll probably find places that are still hot and ready to ignite. Pour water on those. Stir more.
Wait. While packing up your belongings, keep an eye on the campfire site. See some smoke starting to rise up? Kill it with more water before is starts blazing again.
Before leaving, pour more water on the campfire site, just to be sure.

And remember, only you can prevent forest fires…or keep some stupid guy from burning his fingers.
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My Latest Zyngiân Adventure Mike Sacks Some days ago, while rummaging through the bathroom closet for a handful of cotton balls (don’t ask), I happened upon yet another portal into the alternate reality I’ve been visiting off and on since I was a twenty-something. After filling a plastic bag with an assortment of gifts, and after leaving behind a note for Katie (“Off to the alternate reality. See you at dinner—pizza?”) I closed my eyes and walked into the ring of fire that awaited me. When I opened my eyes next, I was in the land of Zyngiâ. The leader of this mystical universe, Oslay the Lion Emperor, stood before me on hind legs (somewhat shakily, I might add) wearing cut-off jean shorts, a mesh tank-top, and a baseball cap that read: It’s Good to be the King! I had found this outfit a few years back in Atlantic City, but I now very much regretted my impulsive purchase. “It is so nice to see you once again!” declared Oslay, shaking my hand with a large, sweaty paw. I could smell his breath—a heady mixture of Lay’s Sour Cream Potato Chips and Hot & Spicy Cheez-Its, a particular favorite of his—and I quickly stepped back and leaned down, pretending to tie my shoes. All an excuse, really, to hold my breath until the moment passed. “I brought your favorite soda,” I eventually replied, now breathing through my mouth. I handed him a luke-warm six-pack of 32-ounce Mello Yello. “Enjoy.” “You are too kind,” he responded, patting his ample stomach with an exaggerated motion. He was attempting to be humorous—or perhaps just making light of the fact that he was incredibly obese—but the gesture failed miserably. Falling then to all fours, Oslay’s belly splashed to the ground, causing dirt and twigs to fly in all directions. Impishly, he muttered: “Whoops.” And then, louder: “Let us take a walk, old friend!” Oslay and I had fought together in the Kurmëan Wars of 2450 – 2457. Many fantastical adventures later—through seasons and epochs that passed before our eyes as if in a vision—we returned in triumph to the capital city of Luprau, riding side-by-side on the Krimyeõn horses that wended heroically through the crush of a thousand cheering Zyngiâns. And it was there, in that glorious city by the banks of the Tabrà River, that Oslay and I launched the import/export business we eventually came to call EARTHLY DELIGHTS. “Business is good?” I asked, motioning for Oslay to take a seat on a wooden bench next to the multiple rows of Port-O-Potties and Dunk-’Em Booths I recently had shipped over for the upcoming Zyngiân Annual Food & Bluegrass Festival. “No complaints,” replied Oslay, flicking a potato-chip crumb from out of his crotch. “We’re doing very well, thank the Lord Kipllery!” “And your leadership?” I asked. “How’s that going?” “Great,” he replied, yawning. “Everyone seems content.” “And Leexerua,” I asked, making more small talk. “She’s doing well?” An aside: I once had a two-month relationship with a beautiful half-lizard/half-goat princess by the name of Leexerua. We would make love on the banks of the Tabrå River and stare off into the distance, imagining how wonderful it would be to hike over the gorgeous, snow-topped Hezen mountains. We had made many plans and shared many laughs, but for whatever reason, perhaps due to the fact that she was half-lizard and half-goat, the relationship fell apart. She now worked as our temp. “Leexerua’s been busy with the restaurant project,” said Oslay, referring to the Outback restaurant we were building at the base of the Hezen mountains. “So, you didn’t call me down for any specific reason?” I asked, in a manner that was more snappish than I had originally intended. Oslay, not picking up on my irritability, asked: “Do you remember when you first arrived to our lands, the first and only human from your world to do so? And how there was so much to learn from both of our standpoints? You with our language, customs and habits? Us with your cuisine?” “I remember that first time very well,” I responded. “Since then, I’ve brought back many Zyngiân traditions, although I can’t think of any at the moment. Actually, now I can: some slang for sex.” Oslay took a long swig of Mello Yello—and then promptly fell asleep, snoring, head on his stomach, his four legs splayed to the purple clouds in the pink Zyngiân sky. Jesus to hell, I thought. This is my business partner? A few hours later, exhausted and back in my world, I was asked by Katie what the emergency had been about in Zyngiâ; I had no good answer. What was I supposed to tell her? That Oslay was fat and lethargic, and that he relied on me to do the bulk of the heavy lifting, while he “ruled” his kingdom from the splendor of his four bedroom, two-and-a-half bath condo? And that, after all was said and done, I had no choice but to keep Oslay on as a partner, because he was the best possible conduit between my world and his? And further—and perhaps worst of all—I would have to return to this mystical-universe shit hole in a week, and perhaps every week, to watch over the business? I didn’t say any of this; I didn’t need to. Perhaps it’s my own fault for being the first (and, for some strange reason, the only) earth-bound human to discover Zyngiâ. Perhaps I should never have made that leap through the ring of fire in the Zyngiân Year of 2449. There’s a somewhat new Zyngiân saying (in fact, I may have coined it myself) that goes something like this: “Nobody ever said that doing business in Zyngiâ was easy.” If I didn’t know this when I started EARTHLY DELIGHTS, I do now. Brother, do I ever. Mike Sacks has written for Vanity Fair, Esquire, GQ, The New Yorker, Radar, Salon, Time, McSweeney’s, Believer, MAD, and other publications. He works on the editorial staff of Vanity Fair, and his work can be found at mikesacks.com.
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The Duck & Herring Co.’s
Butternut Squash Lasagna Cook’s Note: The no-boil lasagna noodles can be substituted with fresh spinach lasagna sheets, or any other fresh lasagna noodle of your choice. For those with carbophobia, you can also purchase 2 big heads of fresh cauliflower and slice it thinly, layering the slices as you would noodles. The liquid in the lasagna tenderizes the vegetable nicely, and gives the finished product a mild crunch. Ingredients 2 tablespoons olive oil 2 medium cloves garlic, peeled & minced 1 (1 1/2 to 2-pound) butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into 1-inch cubes Salt and freshly ground black pepper 1/2 cup water 3 amaretti cookies, crumbled 1/4 cup butter 1/4 cup all-purpose flour 3 cups whole milk (room temperature) Healthy pinch of nutmeg Healthier pinch of sage 3/4 cup (lightly packed) fresh basil leaves 12 no-boil lasagna noodles 2 1/2 cups (or more, if you like a really cheesy lasagna) shredded mozzarella cheese 1/3 cup grated Parmesan Heat the oil in a heavy large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, sautéing until soft. Add squash and toss to coat. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Pour the water into the skillet and then cover and simmer over medium heat until the squash is tender, stirring occasionally, about 20 minutes. Cool slightly and then transfer the squash to a food processor. Add the amaretti cookies and blend until smooth. Season the squash puree, to taste, with more salt and pepper. (Note: this puree can be made ahead of time and refrigerated until you are ready to use.) Position the rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 375 degrees F. Melt the butter in a heavy medium-size saucepan over medium heat. Gradually add the flour, whisking constantly as you sprinkle it in to avoid lumps. Slowly, in a small, steady stream, whisk in the milk. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, whisking constantly but not vigorously. Reduce the heat to medium and simmer until the sauce thickens slightly, whisking often, about 5 minutes. Whisk in the nutmeg and sage. Cool slightly. Transfer half of the sauce to a blender*. Add the basil and blend until smooth. Return the basil sauce to the remaining sauce in the pan and stir to blend. Season the sauce with salt and pepper, to taste. Lightly coat a 13 x 9 x 2-inch glass baking dish with olive oil, including the sides. Spread 3/4 cup of the sauce over the prepared baking dish. Arrange 3 lasagna noodles on the bottom of the pan. Spread 1/3 of the squash puree over the noodles. Sprinkle with 1/2 cup (or more) of mozzarella cheese. Drizzle 1/2 cup of sauce over the cheese. Repeat layering 3 more times. Sprinkle the remaining mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses over the top. Tightly cover the baking dish with foil and bake the lasagna for 40 minutes. Continue baking uncovered until the sauce bubbles and the top is golden, 15 minutes longer. Let the lasagna stand for 15 minutes before serving. *When blending hot liquids, remember to remove liquid from the heat and allow to cool for at least 5 minutes. Transfer liquid to a blender or food processor and fill it no more than halfway. If using a blender, release one corner of the lid. This prevents the vacuum effect that creates heat explosions. Place a towel over the top of the machine, pulse a few times then process on high speed until smooth.
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The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
Big Jim’s Oyster Stew Serves 4 One of the editors of this publication was taught the proper way to eat raw oysters by his father, “Jim,” in a Louisiana bar. Father and son slurped the oysters straight off the half-shell, tipping them back like shots, letting the cool and thick treats slip down their happy throats. No lemon juice, no crackers, no extra sauce to kill the taste. What’s the point of killing the taste of sweet, juicy oysters? There are, however, other ways to enjoy oysters. And in the fall and winter—prime oyster time, as every month has an “r” in it—you can impress friends, and warm their cockles, with a batch of Big Jim’s Oyster Stew. A simple recipe, there are two keys to its success. First, be sure the half and half-based mixture has an identifiable salt flavor. Second, be sure to follow directions and poach the oysters separately, combining the ingredients later. Ingredients 2 pints half and half 1 tsp. white pepper 1 tsp. salt Paprika 20 small oysters 1 cup oyster liquor 1 bunch green onions, chopped, white parts separated from green 2 Tbsp. butter In a two-quart saucepan, heat oyster liquor, half and half, white pepper and salt until very hot. Separately, in a skillet, add butter and sauté white onion parts until soft. Add oysters and poach until their edges begin to curl. Spoon oysters and butter mixture into oven-warmed bowls. Ladle half and half-based mixture over this. Garnish with chopped green onion tops and a dash or two of paprika. Serve.
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The Duck & Herring Co. Presents:
A Frostbite Warning PLEASE NOTE: The Duck & Herring Co. is not a medical organization, nor are any of its members trained in the medical professions. At least one of us got our Boy Scout First Aid Merit Badge and we’ve taken a few Red Cross classes (which you should do), but that doesn’t qualify us to give medical advice. HOWEVER: At least one of us has had frostbite. Twice, actually, but he’ll only talk about the first time, the second time having affected a particularly sensitive area of his body through a series of bad decisions one day when he went cross-country skiing on a warming but windy day in Minnesota. JUST CHECKING, IN CASE YOU’RE FROM WARMER CLIMES: Do you understand the difference between cross-country skiing and downhill skiing? I mean, it’s probably obvious when you look at the names of both in the same sentence. But sometimes, if you just read “cross-country skiing” by itself, you might confuse it
with the downhill kind, if you’re not from a place where people ski. TIP #1 TO AVOID FROSTBITE: When outside in the cold, keep active. Exercise keeps your core body temperature higher and helps blood circulate that warmth to your extremities. Frostbite occurs when your core body temperature begins to drop. Your body constricts blood vessels on the surface of your body, particularly at the extremities, to conserve heat for your vital organs. This is your body’s attempt to avoid hypothermia, which is a more immediate danger to your life than frostbite. WOULDN’T CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING COUNT AS “KEEPING ACTIVE”?: Yes. Keeping active isn’t enough though. You also have to dress appropriately. (See “The Duck & Herring Co. Presents: How to Dress In Layers.”) On both occasions when our victim had frostbite, he was keeping active but not dressed appropriately. THE FIRST TIME: He was engaged in a snowball fight in the woods with a bunch of friends, at that time near the withering end of winter when the sun is out and the snow is slowly melting, the forest sounding like a lazy rain shower from all the melt dripping off the branches. The air was somewhat warm. The snow was not. Snow is never warm. Warm snow is called “water.” But it felt like the beginning of spring, so he had shed his warm winter coat for a light maroon jacket meant to look like a “Members Only” jacket, though it wasn’t made by the “Members Only” people and the little chest tag that was supposed to have “Members Only” printed on it had something else printed there instead. And he wasn’t wearing gloves or mittens. This makes for good snowball making, the heat of the hands helping melt the snow a little and compress it better into a substantial projectile. But in exchange for those solid snowballs, the snow extracted the heat from his hands. First his hands tingled, then they hurt a little, and then they hurt less. White patches appeared on his hand. Later, those patches turned gray. (Twenty years later, he can still feel the cold first in those patches, where his circulation has never fully recovered.) Sometimes frostbite causes blisters, but he didn’t get blisters. Eventually he wised up and headed home for some emergency frostbite care. It hurt a lot when the skin started to warm again, but nowhere near as much as it hurt when his skin started to warm up after the second time he had frostbite. EMERGENCY FROSTBITE CARE: This is something you should get from a doctor right away. We’re not doctors. We’ve heard that, if you can’t get to a doctor, you should warm the frostbitten area gradually and only if you’ll be able to keep it warm. Warming only to let it refreeze does more harm than good. Warm the skin with warm (not hot) water or warm cloths or clothing draped loosely over the affected area. We’ve heard that you shouldn’t rub the skin, because there are ice crystals in there and rubbing the area is like stirring around tiny shards of glass into your skin. You should also drink warm fluids. And watch for signs of hypothermia and shock, which are beyond the scope of this article. Really, the Red Cross offers some great classes in this stuff. SO THE SECOND TIME: He was wearing gloves. He’s really not comfortable discussing the second time. It causes him physical pain even to think about the second time. YOU DON’T MEAN: Yes, that’s what he means. BUT HOW: Go to www.redcross.org to find first aid classes in your area.
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How to Be Alone Jess Miller First you should leave your apartment. Leave your apartment wearing sunglasses. Walk to the nearest 7-11 and get the two-for-one hot dog deal. Give the cashier exact change, because you know exactly how much it is going to cost. Then you should dress your hot dogs with relish only and take them outside cradled in napkins. Sit on the curb in front of the store and eat them. Eat them very slowly, alternating bites. Take a bite out of one of your dogs and then take a bite out of the other one. While you’re eating, think about how relish is both delicious and disgusting at the same time. After finishing your hot dogs, you should be thirsty because you forgot to get a drink. Go back inside and get either an orange juice or a Mr. Pibb, it’s your call. Get a straw for your drink, but don’t get one of those Slurpee straws, because they are for scooping up Slurpee and don’t work well for normal drinks. Get a newspaper before you pay, even though you never read the newspaper. On your way out of the store you should probably hold the door open for the sir that is on his way in. Walk back to your apartment, feeling different and walking different since you have that newspaper tucked under your armpit. Walk like one of those guys who reads the newspaper every day. You are so important right now. Give a quick nod at everyone you pass, but definitely don’t show your teeth to them. Take a drink of your orange juice out of that straw that is not a Slurpee straw, even though the Slurpee straws come in a better variety of colors. Start to wonder for a moment why straws have those red stripes on them. It’d be easier for the factory to make them all white or even any solid, like purple. In the lobby of your apartment, open your mailslot. You won’t have any mail but your neighbor will. Open his mailslot, he never locks his. Look through his mail to see what he got, read the postcard he got from his brother backpacking in New Zealand and then page through his L.L. Bean catalog, because the kind of person who reads the newspaper would also order something from L.L. Bean. Think about how you were always jealous of your classmates in middle school who had L.L. Bean backpacks with their initials embroidered on them. Put his mail back in his box, and go upstairs to your apartment. Sit down on your faux-leather love seat next to your dog. Think about how you’re glad you got the faux leather, because if your dog was sitting on your real leather love seat, it might smell the pheromones of the wild animal it used to be and start attacking it. You think that animals can probably sense that sort of thing. Read your newspaper even though you’ve always thought newspapers were boring and for people who are nosy. Decide that you’d like to be one of those people who reads the newspaper, but not one of the nosy ones, one of the kind who does the crossword puzzle every morning. Think about how you once heard that doing crossword puzzles can make you smarter. Try to do the puzzle, and only fill in three answers before you give up. Take a few more sips of your orange juice, finishing the carton. You made the wrong decision with getting the juice. You think it is refreshing and delicious, but a newspaper reader is not someone who would get an orange juice out of the carton and drink it with a straw. You should’ve gotten something like coffee, black coffee, or that water with the vitamins already mixed in. Try to read the entire paper, but lose attention almost immediately, and then decide to just look at the weather page. Check the weather for every city where you know someone, and think about that person in their climate. Think about your sister in a 45 degree foggy morning. Think about that girl you talked to once on the Internet in an 88 degree Miami evening, wearing those clothes that girls in Miami wear. Think about your cat at your parent’s house in Maryland where it is going to rain. Remember the way she makes the whole house smell like wet cat and how the hair around her ears gets all crimped when it’s wet. Next read through the classifieds in case anyone needs you or in case anyone is giving away free kitchen appliances. Read through the band members wanted ads and the exercise equipment for sale. Read through the lost pets section and think about if you saw any dogs walking down the street looking lost, while you were walking to and from 7-11. Read through the “I saw you” section. Read through each of the ads to check and see if any of these people are referring to you. You think you often have moments with people, but aren’t very good at telling if they are mutual or if you just made them up. One of the entries could almost describe you. Get very excited about that. But then the last line should say something about this person having really cute sexy little glasses, and you don’t wear glasses other than your sunglasses and you don’t think anyone would suppose they are cute or sexy or even little. Your sunglasses aren’t very little. Next, make dinner. Make dinner even though you’re not hungry since you just ate all of those hot dogs with all of that relish and drank all of that drink. Make enough for eight people. Make some soup to eat before you eat the dinner, because a newspaper reader also seems like a soup eater. Or soup drinker. Think about how there should be a word between eating and drinking for things like soup and cream of wheat and pudding and other things you don’t really chew. Hope that the word isn’t something like dreating because you think word combinations are annoying. Think about brunch and spork and skort. Call your sister who lives in New England. Ask her if she wants to join you for dinner. She can bring her boyfriend, you made enough. She should respond with, “You live in Oklahoma City.” You should then respond to that with asking her if she knows any of the answers to your crossword puzzle. After dinner, return to your newspaper. Browse through the “I saw you” section again, and this time you should call the person who was talking about the cute sexy glasses. Don’t start dialing the number and then hang up mid-dial, like they do in the movies all the time. Dial the numbers slowly. Think about if that number seems like it’d be an easy one to remember, in case you will be dialing it a lot in the future. When the person picks up, don’t ask if you were maybe the person with the glasses, if in fact they were referring to sunglasses. Just ask how they know. Ask how they know that there was a moment, and how they know that the moment was probably mutual and that they didn’t just make it up. Ask them how long the moment lasted, and if it still would’ve been a moment if it didn’t last as long. Ask if they think there is a time requirement to have a moment with someone. Ask if they have moments often, with many different people, or if this is rare occurrence, and that is why they bought this ad in the classifieds. Ask.
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White Sand Benjamin Black Mr. R. A. Kapaka climbed to the tops of coconut trees to make his living. He worked at a beach resort on Viti Levu. It was his job to climb the trees and take the coconuts before they were ripe; if he had left them alone they might fall down and hit some guest on the head. Then there would be a lawsuit. Around the resort, Mr. R. A. Kapaka was known as Johnny. He was always dapper, polite, and aloof. His white loincloth was always arranged with decorum in mind. The other maintenance workers said that he spent too much time at the tops of trees: now he thought he was special. Johnny cut the green coconuts with an apologetic chunk of his machete and deposited them in a sack at his waist. He was very popular with the guests. They liked to watch him shimmy gracefully up the trunk, feet squeezing the gray bark, until he was just a dark shape against the sky, nestled under the burst of palm fronds. The women found him oddly attractive. When he was on the ground, although Johnny was unfailingly pleasant with the guests, he found ways to ignore them. But once he was at the crown of a palm tree, it was nice to look at their pale faces, upturned as if they were waiting for rain. From his perch he could see inland to the dark steaming mountains, and 30 kilometers out to sea. Often he would pause in the midst of cutting away the hard nuts in order to look around. He liked to watch the people playing in the water, or by the pool. The children shrieked, and by the time it reached his ears, the sound was rarefied and soft. One day he was hanging in the shade under the fronds of a particularly tall tree—perhaps 30 meters high. His sack was heavy and full at his waist, and he was gazing at the green-blue ocean before he had to descend. It was afternoon; the sun was behind him. The shadows were long, and many people were taking advantage of the cooler temperatures to go bathing. From his angle Johnny could see down into the water: the dark spots of coral, the shadows cast by rays as they hovered across the white sand floor of the bay. One swimmer had gone out further than all the others. She was wearing a red bathing suit, very bright against the blue water, and doing the backstroke. Her hands and feet raised up tiny explosions of white foam as she paddled. He saw the long dark shadow detach itself from a mass of coral and slide across the sandy bottom. The shadow seemed to hesitate for a moment a few lengths from the swimmer, before it turned to follow her. Perhaps it had been attracted by the bright color of the bathing suit. Perhaps she had a small cut on her foot. It was true that the coral in the bay was very sharp. The two figures paced each other companionably for a while, the dark shadow creeping closer. At last the shadow darted forward. The swimmer’s forward motion was arrested; in that place the surface of the water ruptured into a small fountain of shining water. Johnny shimmied quickly down the tree. For once he did not pay attention to decorum. He ran barefoot down the hot paths to the beach hut where they gave out towels and snorkels. The bag of coconuts smacked wretchedly against his legs, so he dropped it on the grass. The guests watched him as he ran past. They were already carrying the swimmer in from the water when he got there. The lifeguards must have gone to fetch her in the skiff. She was on the orange immobilization board. He saw that she was younger than he had guessed, in her early twenties perhaps. Her body was strapped to the board but she kept lifting her head up and looking around. She was saying something. He moved closer so that he could hear, pushing past two sunburned men in nylon swimming trunks. “Did anyone see how big it was?” she asked. “Did anyone see it?” They had wrapped a towel around her leg as a temporary bandage. The cotton was stained red. It matched the color of her bathing suit. Johnny wanted to answer her question. But he had only seen a shadow.
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Habanero Key Lime Cheesecake Alvin McNeely When the cook saw the recipe for a “Lime and Habanero Cheesecake,” his first thought was that key limes would work better than regular limes. The second thought was that three packages of cream cheese would never do: five would be needed. The third observation was that if Habanero chilies were being used, why not use a lot of them? Excess rules the expectation for any dessert item, right? Instead of two chilies, why not use six? The first attempt worked in a limited capacity. There was a lot of the key lime fruit up front, along with the fruitiness of the Habaneros. Then, literally at the back of the throat, the capsacins performed their chemical magic and produced the unworldly burn for which Habaneros are noted. However, nothing tied the front with the back. A good friend and trusted taster suggested the use of “some sort of sweet sauce” to gum up the middle of the mouth. A key lime curd was produced. This second effort also included vanilla extract, and, Voila! The Habanero Key Lime Cheesecake as it is made today. Habanero Key Lime Cheesecake Yields about 16 servings, depending on heat tolerance. Preparation time is 24 hours, 30 minutes. Cooking time is about 1 hour. Crust: 1-1/2 cups wheat-meal biscuits (or about 26 graham cracker squares) ground to crumbs Pinch salt 1/3 cup melted butter Filling: 6 habanero peppers, roasted, skinned, seeded, and de-veined 2 Tbsp. sugar, plus 1 cup 40 oz. cream cheese (five 8-ounce packages) Pinch of salt 4 eggs 1 Tbsp. of double vanilla extract 2 Tbsp. heavy cream 30 key limes, juiced, and 5 zested 1 key lime sliced thinly, for garnish 1 whole habanero, for garnish Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Position top rack in the center of the oven. Place a baking pan on the rack below this. Boil water. Make crust: Mix the crumbs and salt together in a small bowl, then add butter and stir to mix. Set aside 1/4-cup for topping. Press the rest into the bottom and sides of a 9-inch spring form pan. Pound the habaneros in a mortar with a tablespoon of sugar for each chili until a coarse paste results. Cream the cream cheese, and then add remaining sugar and salt. Beat in the eggs one at a time until incorporated. Add the cream and blend. Beat the zest and key lime juice into this mixture. Throw in the dash of vanilla. Add the habanero paste last and beat until well mixed. Pour into the crust, and then gently tap the pan to level the filling. Sprinkle the reserved crumbs on top. Pour boiling water into the pan on the oven’s lower rack. Place the cheesecake on the rack above it. Bake for approximately one hour or until the cheesecake pulls away from the edge of the pan. Remove from the oven and allow to set for 20 minutes. Wrap and keep in the refrigerator overnight, or if rushed, place in the freezer for 2 to 3 hours. When ready to serve, pour key lime curd over the top of the cake. Garnish, if desired, with slices of key lime, key lime zest strips, and/or place a whole habanero in the center. Key Lime Curd (makes about 3 cups): 10 oz. of sugar 7 large eggs The juice of 10 key limes 5 ounces of butter, diced The grated zest of 10 key limes Whisk together the sugar, eggs, and key lime juice and zest in a double boiler over boiling water until the mixture is thick and has a temperature of 165 degrees Fahrenheit. DO NOT BOIL. Add the butter a few pieces at a time. When they are all incorporated, the curd is done. This may be poured immediately over the cheesecake, or else may sit and cool for up to an hour before serving, depending on temperature preference. (The chef also cans the curd for future usage.) Feel the burn and know life. Alvin McNelly builds the great American roadway everyday. As a contractor, local politician, festival planner, and cook, he can provoke you, and connect you, in an assortment of ways. He believes that sarcasm is an effective motivational tool if used appropriately and sparingly. He views food as a sacrament of life that should be enjoyed. He agrees with the late Alan King: Eating is like sex; enjoy it with a friend. He lives in Decatur, Georgia, with his friend, Katie, their children, and one ferocious, sheep-chasing hound.
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La Paz Nicholas Ripatrazone

Jude watched Arturo run 440s. Arturo strode long, the afternoon sun shining on his back. Jude popped his lips together to mimic the pat and crunch of Arturo's spikes into the rubber track. Jude imagined that if God could stretch that track out, make the oval straight, then Arturo could run forever.

The first time Jude saw Arturo he was dressed in a cream suit and held a handkerchief for sweat. He moved his shined shoes along the cracks of the concrete patio. He spoke to Jude's parents, Manolo and Concha. Concha sat in a lawn chair and drank water with lime. She wore wide sunglasses but still shielded her face with her hand. Manolo's pocketed hands hiked his khaki pants from his sandled feet while he spoke. Jude watched from the kitchen with Fate magazine on his lap, opened to pictures. He copied the illustrated metallic spheres and cones into his sketch pad. During that summer everything Jude saw in the sky was an objeto volante no identificado: a flying saucer. He pointed to streetlights, planes, silver-tipped clouds, even the beige moon. Concha started seeing them too, not knowing whether she was appeasing her son or if his wild fancy appeared so appealing to her that she made them real. Often she yelled for Jude to come outside and look. She would be dressed in her nightgown, pointing at the stars.

Manolo said he'd met Arturo on the 7:06 train. He said Arturo had come from Italy just after the war. Arturo had lived in Maiori, south of Sorrento, in a small cottage stuck in the side of a mountain peppered with lemon gardens. The plants only ceased for one winding road that spanned to the beach below. "He ran that road barefoot," Manolo said. "The road cut into his skin, toughening it up." He dragged his hand along the wood table top. He smiled and said Arturo always woke early at 5:30 to wash the bathrooms and basement of the cottage. After he ate warm bread topped with crushed lemon rinds he would run down to the beach. He climbed along the red rocks that boarded the sand, dropped his clothes, and swam in the ocean. "The salt made him strong," Manolo claimed. Jude stuffed chopped potatoes into his mouth. "How?" "It's like a baptism," Concha said, forking some potatoes from her plate to Jude's. Manolo leaned back in his chair, Merlot swishing in his glass like an evening wave. "Arturo would lie on the rocks until he dried. When he ran up the mountain again, the lemons' glow from the moon looked like a thousand connected lights." Manolo moved his arm in an arc and closed his hand at the end, grasping the air.

"The track is for speed," Arturo said, pumping his arms. He led Jude around the yard: Arturo lived on the top floor of an old couple's house. The couple stood over their tomato garden, their backs curved, a cigar in the man's mouth, one more in his shirt-pocket. "My father said you run long. For miles," Jude said. "When I run for distance, I go to La Paz. Have your parents ever taken you there?" "No. There is nothing there, they say. No people." "That's true. It's been deserted for a long time I hear. When I run for distance, for endurance, I want to go where I can be alone." Arturo pointed to red grapes that hung from an arbor at the edge of the yard. "Those are the old man's grapes." He moved his long arm across the span of the vine. "They say you cannot grow as good grapes in Arizona as they do in California. But we live in a valley here. The man stores his barrels in the basement, next to my limoncello bottles. Has your father let you taste some?" "He says it's too thick for my stomach." Arturo laughed. "He won't mind if you help me make some, I don't think." He led Jude inside and into the basement. Fogged bottles of limoncello rowed in the corner. Arturo flipped over a carton and grabbed six lemons. He skinned the yellow rind off each with a knife. "Only the yellow, no white. The white is pith. That will make it bitter." He brushed the shards into a jar. Then he poured enough Vodka to raise the lemon shards halfway up the bottle. Arturo handed a long wooden spoon to Jude and told him to mix. "I put this in the sun for ten days, and then strain it with a cheese cloth into another bottle. I heat water and sugar until it becomes syrup, and pour that in also. Another ten days of sun after that, and you will have your limoncello." They walked back outside to see Concha squeezing a tomato in her hand while she spoke to the woman. Concha handed a bag of tomatoes to Jude. "We made the lemon drink. He said I can try some when it's done. Please don't tell papi," Jude asked. "I won't," Concha said, taking Jude's hand. Concha and Arturo stared at each other, as if they could not understand each other's faces, could not see what was there. They said goodbye to Arturo, and walked home, the whole way Jude rubbing the soft fruit against his cheeks.

Arturo helped Manolo build his porch that summer. They worked for an entire weekend, stopping only to eat or when Jude brought out a tray that Concha had prepared: glasses of water with lemons and sugar, and cantaloupe wedges. The men sat on the grass and drank, the high blades scratching their exposed calves, pants rolled back from the heat. Jude brought wet towels for their necks. Arturo asked for another one, more soaked, and he tied it around a bicep. Back to work. The water dripped along Arturo's forearms as he slammed a pickaxe into the rooted ground at the base of the house. Manolo kneeled in the grass and shimmied a metal ruler along wood, flicking down his wrist with each pencil mark of measurement. After laying the planks along the lawn he told Arturo he had miscalculated, that he needed more wood for the railing. He walked off to the front of the house, the tape measure dangling from his hand.

Jude had wanted to help the men work but Manolo warned he would step in the wrong place or roll his fingers along a saw. So Jude sat on the patio and sketched what he and Concha had seen the previous nights and what they wanted to see; gray, sloped, cratered moons, pored like a sponge, and the blue-black sky, hued yellow from the streetlights. The lights warmed Concha's cheeks, her skin like creamed butter. Jude's fingers moved to the rhythm of Arturo's mix of the concrete, the shovel scratching against the wheelbarrow, sifting and shifting the cement and water like cereal in milk. Jude watched how the dust sprinkled up with each pour of water, how each speck pushed up and away, leading his eyes to Concha. The bedroom window was open and her eyes fixed outside. She stared at Arturo and Jude swore he saw her eyes move, shake a bit, the way they did when she tried to see the lights in the sky.

Late that night Concha shook Jude until he woke. She pulled him outside. Her bare feet patted louder against the driveway and road than Jude's slippers. She brought him into the middle of the road and pointed upward. This was the last weekend of June, 1949, during the Beta Taurids shower, so blue and white sparks popcorned against the sky. Concha traced their paths with her fingers, holding onto Jude's wrist tight. Jude thought back to the afternoon, before the deck was finished and they all ate dinner outside, when Manolo took the truck back to the lumberyard. Concha told Jude to stay in his room. He sat on the bed and counted the days on his calendar until his limoncello would be finished. "Do you trust your eyes, Jude? Do you trust what you see?" "Sometimes. But it's hard to see at night." "I don't think so. It's when I can see best." Out there under the lights Jude felt so cold. Wind snuck along his ankles and under his pajamas. He wondered where Arturo was, whether he was in his basement shaving lemon rinds or on one of his endurance runs in La Paz, his feet dodging rocks and holes, moving careful along the cracked road before breaking free once his feet reached the highway, or whether he rested like Manolo, sleeping, waiting for morning to finally arrive.

Short fiction by Nicholas Ripatrazone has appeared in The Angler and is forthcoming in Thieves Jargon and The Long Meanwhile, a fiction anthology published by Hourglass Books. His poetry has appeared in elimae and is forthcoming in Boston Literary Magazine and Right Hand Pointing.
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Guaranteed Ways to Get Friends and Family to Notice Your New Disco-Era Mustache Offered by The Duck & Herring Co.

At the annual family dinner, when everyone is prattling on about how the year has flown by, take a spoonful of gravy and surreptitiously splash it over your new mustache. Someone will probably tell you that you have something on your mustache. Thank them, and as you are wiping away the gravy tell them it took you six weeks to grow the mustache, but now it just keeps getting in the way.

Take your friends to the doughnut shop. Start talking to the cashier in a high-pitched, nervous voice with a Jersey accent. Ask her what kind of donuts are fresh. Develop a twitch or a facial tic. Interrupt the cashier to say that if Jimmy calls for Lt. Stevie Maroni, you’re not there. When your friends ask what the hell’s wrong with you, tell them you don’t need this shit. Go to the bathroom, rub some powdered sugar from a donut on your mustache, and come back in a great mood, like you just snorted some coke. Sit at the booth and wait for your friends to notice. When one of them asks, “What’s the deal with you, dude?” take a deep breath and let the cat out of the bag: Tell them that lately you’ve been overcome with the need to act like a corrupt cop. Say it must be the new disco-era mustache. Did they notice? It took you six weeks to grow the thing.

Start wearing satin shirts with open collars that show off your chest and new gold-medallion necklace. Go out to dinner with your girlfriend. Boldly flirt with the waitress. When your girlfriend complains, tell her that she could stand to lose a few pounds. Tell her you might start seeing other chicks because you can’t be tied down to fat pigs. When she leaves in tears, shout after her that she should not come back. Then add, “You’re just jealous of my new mustache! Stupid bitch.” Wink at the girl sitting at the nearby table with her faggy boyfriend.

If the first “family dinner” trick doesn’t work, try this: Ask everyone to come into the living room because you have something you want to show them. Turn on the TV and put in the videotape. When the homemade porn you’re starring in begins with you, The Mailman, nailing the buxom, blonde Housewife, let it play until just before the money shot, the moment when the camera focuses on your grimacing face. Freeze-frame it! Ask your family if they notice anything different—;like, maybe your new disco-era mustache?

Pick up your friends for a night on the town in a vintage silver-and-black 1978 Camaro. When they climb in the car and ask you why in the world you bought a 1978 Camaro, tell them you needed something to go with your new mustache. Look in the rearview mirror as you say this. Ask them if they noticed. Tell them it took you six weeks to grow the thing. Turn up the 8-track of Lynyrd Skynyrd; hit the gas and peel out.

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Warm Weather To-Do’s Presented by The Duck & Herring Co.

Wait until the hottest part of the hottest (and, preferably, most humid) day in the middle of the summer. Then—and only then—mow your lawn, back to front, side to side. While still crusted with dust and grass bits, climb onto your porch (front or back makes no difference) and crack open an icy-cold IBC root beer.
Buy some Toriani flavored syrup of any kind. (Hazelnut is especailly good.) In a tall glass with plenty of ice, mix about 3/4" of syrup with a glassful of San Pellegrino sparkling water. Come up with a name for your drink. Make these often.
Keep your windows open all the time, as long as you can stand it. Turn off the A/C (if you have it) and have some really late-night sweaty sex. Put a cool glass of water next to the bed and stop from time to time to share sips and then go at it again.
Have a picnic with some friends at an outdoor concert, fireworks, or laser light show: the cheesier the better.
Put screens in your windows if you don’t have them already and get a cross-breeze going. Place a box fan in one window to draw air out. Take all the sheets off your bed and sleep on the bare mattress. In the early morning, let yourself be drawn out the window, through the fan, with the air. Don’t look back down at your house as you rise. Concentrate on the singing of the birds and the cooler air at your new, higher altitude. When you condense and drift back down to the ground, turn off the fan and listen to how quiet everything suddenly seems in the wake of the all-night white noise.
Experiment with alternatives to bug spray.
Rent a rickety old beach house on a haunted island in South Carolina or Georgia with another family or bunch of people from church. Make all the boys stay in the hot, cramped attic of the house. If you’re a boy, give in to the temptation to look down through the cracks in the floorboards at the girls changing clothes, the parents sleeping, the faded bedspreads and sandy carpets forming comfortable patterns from room to room. When the older boys try to freak you out with ghost stories, let yourself be freaked out. When you actually see a ghost in the dunes while pulling burrs from your heel, stand as still as possible on one foot with the other foot in hands, the burrs sticking into your fingertips, and let the cold rush of shit to your heart pound until the tears fall from your eyes and the ghost disappears. Return to the house with your bloody foot and don’t tell anyone your secret.
Memorize the names of every teacher of your favorite person.
Fill a kiddie pool with lemonade. In this case, it’s OK to use the powdered mix, but you should slice up a dozen lemons or so for presentation. Otherwise, people might think you’re lounging in pee.
Before a yummy carb-snack like doughnuts or cookies, pour milk into glasses and put them in the freezer for 10 or 15 minutes. Mmm. Frosty cold milk.
Pick a raunchy club and go there with a group of friends late one Saturday night. Dance, even if you don’t like to dance. Don’t stop dancing until your shirt is soaked through. Then, hug someone. When you leave the club, feel the air, which seems much cooler now.
Making iced tea is great, but it can be dangerous if you’re using a glass pitcher. To avoid breaking an ice-filled glass container with hot tea (which can be quite a nasty mess), place a long metal object, like a big spoon or ladle, in the iced receptacle before pouring the hot tea. And get crazy with your tea choices; fancy teas like Earl Grey or Pearl Jasmine are delicious when iced.
Should you wear underwear today? We think not.
Go to the woods and camp. Get bored. Get really bored. Break through the boredom. Think that you have attained some kind of enlightenment. Drive home. Forget it all.
Go to QT and buy $10 in candy and a big gulp. Roll down the windows, turn off the A/C and ramble around town.
Turn on 96 Rock. Wait for ZZ Top. Enjoy!
Whenever it is 100 degrees, do the previous two at the same time.
Come to the realization that it is neither the heat nor the humidity, but the mosquitoes.

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The Duck & Herring Co Presents
Killer Cupcakes Hollis Gillespie First and foremost, you have to buy the Pillsbury Devil’s Food Cake mix on sale at Kroger for 88 cents, because the whole point of the Killer Cupcakes is to make the most amount of cupcakes for the least amount of money. Especially if you just lost your airline job, like me, and you are pretty close, savings-wise, to sleeping in an abandoned truck with nothing to keep you warm but a discarded pair of piss-stained homeless man’s pants. Don’t get fancy. Get the mix. In fact, stock up on the stuff. Dried cake batter might make a good coating on those really cold nights. The frosting -- now, that you have to make from actual ingredients. You’d be surprised at how versed I am in this, seeing as how my own mother liked to serve ready-made cakes that, I swear, came out of a can. There were times, though, when she was unemployed as well, during which she’d bake the cupcakes in an oven and everything and make the frosting from a box, mixed with 40 or so drops of cancer-inducing food coloring. That was the best we could hope for, and it was pretty good, but I have since improved on the traditional frosting-cupcake construction. Yes, after hours upon hours upon hours of (formerly profitably employed) surmising, I finally figured that the biggest bummer about cupcakes is that you can’t put them in your purse, because then you’d have to lick the frosting off your wallet. The frosting, I tell you, is a problem, so I decided to create a cupcake that you can put in your purse, leave there overnight and eat the next day without stuff sticking to it. Believe me, that is a seriously important factor. So as a blueprint, I used those old Hostess cupcakes they sold at the liquor store where my mother sent me to pick up her Salem menthols until the place got bought by a child molester. After that, it was nicknamed “Horny Pete’s”and none of us could go there anymore. The brilliance behind those cupcakes was that the frosting was all nice and tucked away on the inside while the outside was coated with a top layer of stick-free fudge. Genius. Those things could roll across a shag carpet and still come up frosting-intact and virtually fuzz-free. So my girl and I began experimenting with that idea. Oh, I forgot to mention that it helps to have a 5-year-old with a constant cupcake need, not just for herself but her classmates and teachers and others who might judge you as a mother if you came to a bake sale with nothing but a basket of old mustard packets collected from a decade of Chinese delivery. Anyway, here are the basic ingredients for the cream filling of Mae’s Killer Cupcakes: powdered sugar, vegetable shortening, vanilla and milk. I never measure this stuff, I just get a bowl and it has to be, like, a huge bowl, because powdered sugar coats your kitchen like anthrax if you touch it with a mixer and the bowl isn’t big enough and I put probably 4 cups of powdered sugar in there, maybe 1 cup of vegetable shortening, a capful of vanilla and a couple of splashes of milk. (You can get shortening on sale at Kroger, too. It comes in an industrial tub the size of a cement mixer. Perfect.) You beat all that up with an electric mixer. If it’s not creamy enough, add more milk. If it’s not stiff enough, add more shortening. If it’s not sweet enough, add more sugar. I don’t have any rules, just guidelines. Sometimes you end up with three times the amount you need, but that’s OK because a fridge full of extra cream filling is fine for those nights you’re wallowing in worry on account of how you lost your airline job and all — but what do I know? If it were up to me, I’d have simply let the planes continue to be clean and the on-board meals continue to be decent, and the people working there to continue to be able to afford to raise their families on their income rather than crap all over that just to cut ticket prices. I know that Mr. Linoleum-Floor-Salesman can now afford another trip to Ft. Lauderdale to fuck that cashier at the QT down the street from the convention center, and that’s a good thing. But if everyone’s jobs are flushed, then no one will be able to afford his flooring, either, and pretty soon he’ll be out of a job as well. My friend Keiger always tells me that things are only worth what people will pay for them, like he says if I make the Killer Cupcakes bigger, he can charge a buck each for them at his restaurant. But I don’t agree. The fudge topping, by the way, is just melted semi-sweet chocolate chips (get the Kroger brand; it’s cheaper). One teaspoon plopped on top of each to plug up the hole where you plooged in the cream filling with the tip of a pastry bag, and once that cools, there you have it: the quintessential Killer Cupcake. Hollis Gillespie, a Writer’s Digest “Breakout Author of the Year,” is an award-winning, syndicated humor columnist and NPR commentator. Her two books are titled Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch: Tales from a Bad Neighborhood (ReganBooks, 2003) and Confessions of a Recovering Slut and Other Love Stories (ReganBooks, 2005). Gillespie lives in Atlanta, GA, with two cats, an incontinent pit bull and her incredibly well-adjusted five-year-old daughter. (www.hollisgillespie.com)
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Final Remarks Jack Pendarvis Thank you for the magnificent spread. The coffee was superlative. The tea was delicious. The water was cool. The punch was luxurious. The sandwiches were delightful. The stew was rich. The soup was memorable. The broth was invigorating. The chicken was wonderful. The beef was excellent. The pork was scrumptious. The goat was aromatic. The mutton was transcendent. The elk was tangy. The moose was tender. The duck was juicy. The ostrich was flavorful. The swan was terrific. The owl was stunning. The snake was unbelievable. The monkey brains were glorious. The tapioca was pleasing. Many of you are here to get to know me better. I am not the flashiest candidate. I am not the most eloquent candidate. I am not the most attractive candidate. I am not the most experienced candidate. I am not the smartest candidate. I am not the candidate with the most teeth. I am not the candidate with the best skin. I am not the candidate with both kidneys. I am not a generous sex partner. I don’t know the proper way to work a handsaw or light a barbecue grill. I don’t know what to say when someone dies. Doctors tell me I am rotting from the inside out. I’m no good with children. I make people nervous. I am timid. I am vain. But I will work for the iceman delivering the ice. I will work for the milkman delivering the milk. I will work for the playwright writing his plays. I will work for the baseball player playing with his baseballs. I will work for the housepainter painting the house. I will work for the housekeeper keeping the house. I will work for the bookkeeper keeping the books. I will work for the beekeeper keeping the bees. I will work for the shepherd herding the sheep. I will work for the horseman manning the horse. I will work for the dogcatcher catching the dogs. I will work for the fisher fishing for fish. I will work for the firefighter fighting the fire. There is no limit to the work I will do. I love this country. I love the mountains. I love the rills. I love the factories. I love the choirs. I love the community watch programs. I love the self-help groups. I love the suicide hotlines. I love the chat rooms. I love the escort services. I love the rivers. I love the rivulets. I love the streams. I love the trickles. I love the raindrops. I love the microbes. I love the quarks. We stand at a crossroads. The choice is clear. As for me, I believe in the future. I believe in the flag. I believe in the children. I believe in lemon drops. I believe in licorice whips. I believe in rainbows. I believe in ponies. I believe in dreams. Jack Pendarvis is author of two books of short stories, The Mysterious Secret of the Valuable Treasure and the forthcoming Your Body Is Changing.
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Cold Weather To-Do&srquo;s Presented by The Duck & Herring Co.

Daydream about what lies beneath the clothing of the person next to you at the cafe — the smoothness of the skin, the color, the smell. Assuming, of course, that you like the way this person next to you looks and think you might enjoy what lies beneath their clothing.
Spend an evening writing up postcards and sending them to friends you haven't heard from in a while.
Cold night. Full moon. No one around. Howl as loud as you can. Listen. Howl again.
On a cold, cold day, take your dog out for a walk. After the walk, take a nap with your dog. If you don&sapos;t have a dog, borrow someone&sapos;s.
See a music show in a small theater.
Catch a snowflake on your tongue.
Invite a friend of your favorite sex over to watch several movies one evening. Make popcorn and hot chocolate. Share a comforter on the couch. Maybe you&sapos;ll get lucky?
Use the term “wicked good” to describe something in front of friends. Also, use “wicked” as a qualifier. “That's wicked bad.” Or, “That&sapos;s wicked crazy.”
Kiss someone at midnight on New Year&sapos;s Eve. Make it a good kiss.
Have a day of drinking coffees from around the world.
For the person who has everything: Give them the gift of their own font — create the uppercase and lowercase of every letter (you have something better to do?), and write it out in alphabet form. Name it after the person. Present it to them. If they don&sapos;t like it, use it as your own personal font.
On the worst weather day, rent a bunch of snow-disaster-themed movies and watch them back to back to back.
Buy some new Carhartt Duck Coveralls in Carhartt Brown. Wear them out in public. $158.00. Carhartt.com.
Clean out the medicine cabinet and the cabinet under the bathroom sink.
Grow a beard. If you are a man.
Keep a dream journal until Spring.
Fight the loneliness!

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The Yeti Listener Chuck Rosenthal [Editor’s Note: This is a work of magic journalism from Chuck Rosenthal’s book in progress: American Maya: A Cowboy in the Himalayas. Roscoe is Chuck Rosenthal. Diosa is Gail Wronsky. All other characters appear under their real names.]

The first thing you notice when you cross the Gangetic plains from Varanasi to Kolkata is what’s not there: electricity, machines, running water. People awaken and walk to the Ganges rivulets that crisscross the sandbars in the middle of endless green rice fields. They wash, then bring water back to their shacks in pots, sometimes on poles balanced over their shoulders. They have two-wheeled carts pulled by water buffalo; you see cows, dogs, chickens. In your train you’re packed eight to a compartment, eight shelves stacked over each other where you lie sleepless, one tiny fan pushing the hot air nowhere. This is India, the rising super-power of Asia. It has to be less than 500 miles from Varanasi to Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim in the Indian Himalayas, but it took Roscoe thirty-six sleepless hours to get there. In Kolkata’s Howrah train station, you can’t move without touching four or five people at a time, most of them living, but anybody on a stretcher is likely dead. You’ll sit in a line of two million constantly honking yellow cabs to cross the Howrah Bridge (15 million people cross it every day) and get to the airport, on the way passing through herds of water buffalo and cows, flocks of sheep, packs of dogs, men carrying refrigerators on their backs; streets so thick with life you’re breathing flesh not air. It’s only an hour flight to Bagdogra, the airport outside Siliguri in north West Bengal, but it takes another two hours to drive through Siliguri, its streets as packed with bovines and humanity as Kolkata. It’s then you notice that the road hasn’t been paved since the British left in 1947. Just wait till you hit the mountains. On Roscoe’s trip it began to rain and they got stuck in a miles-long line of busses and jeeps on a cliff about 1,000 feet above the Tista River. He walked with Dorje, the jeep caravan chief, for a mile until they reached where the road collapsed. “Let’s get out of here quick,” said Dorje and they walked back and turned the jeeps around, slowly, back and forth between the mountain and the cliff, then headed back to Siliguri. The road collapsed again as they left, trapping a mile of vehicles on the cliff for over a day. A bus fell into the river, killing 65 people. On the other side of Siliguri they passed through a game preserve. “Elephants here,” Dorje said. “And tigers.” Then twelve hours, the back way, to Gangtok. Your sense of space changes in the Himalayas because you’re always hanging on some cliff above thousands of feet of emptiness. Sometimes the road reduces to a crumbling path beneath a waterfall, the edge of the cliff inches away, the drop immeasurable. And it’s not rocks and snow, but jungle, mountain upon mountain of jungle: ferns, banana trees, bamboo, teak, mimosa; higher up, redwood for as far as you can see. Villages of shacks hang on the cliffs with no sign of power or water. People walk in the road and sit on the roadside, and so do the monkeys, langoors, the biggest about two feet tall. People, monkeys, people, monkeys. The people want to sell you stuff. The monkeys want to take your stuff. People smile and wave. Monkeys will rip your head off if you look at them the wrong way. In breaks you see the rivers down below, the Rangit pouring over boulders, the Tista broad and green; sometimes the road descends to the river bank, a town spreads out, people bathe and wash their clothes, trucks gather gravel. But in twelve more hours you’re there, Gangtok, a city hanging on hills, 6,000 feet up. In another five or six hours you could be somewhere else. This is how you get to yeti territory, unless the Discovery Channel flies you in by helicopter with your camera crew. There are no airports up here. By the way, you can go to a mountaintop and watch the sunrise on the high Himalayas. Even at 8,000 feet you have to stare into the sky, above the clouds, where they rise gigantic and white another 20,000 feet above you. Anyway, the yetis aren’t up there. It’s too cold. They’re down here in the infinite rain forests.

The first night in Gangtok, around two a.m. (because even though they hadn’t slept for two days, it was only 1:30 in the afternoon in L.A.), Roscoe and his lover, Diosa, sat in the little parlor outside their bedroom slamming Smirnoff vodka, unfortunately the best booze in town. “Sleep?” said Diosa. “Sleep?” “Drink?” said Roscoe. “Sleep?” “Drink?” This might have gone on for some time, but they got interrupted by an odd sound. It wasn’t a scream or a howl. It didn’t sound like any bird Roscoe’d ever heard. It was some combination of a long E and a long U. It lasted for five or six seconds, then another came. Roscoe went out on the balcony outside the room and stared into the dark-jungled mountains across the valley. The sound came again. He waited. Then again. It went back and forth like that. Diosa joined him. “I never heard anything like that before,” said Roscoe. “Harmonic resonance,” she said. “They knew you were coming.” “They,” said Roscoe. “Yeti,” said Diosa. Roscoe went into the room and dragged out his digital recorder, C3PO, but C3PO didn’t want to wake up and record anything. “Wake up, C3PO!” said Roscoe. “Turn her on.” “I turned him on. He won’t wake up.” The calling stopped. “You little fucker,” Roscoe said to C3PO. Diosa took C3PO from Roscoe. “Her battery’s dead,” she said. “He doesn’t care about anything,” said Roscoe. “We’ll hear them again,” said Diosa. But they didn’t. Not in Pemayangtze in west Sikkim, not at Ravang-la, not in Namchi or Jorethang in the south, not in North Sikkim nor on the border of Tibet, at Tsomo Lake and Nathu-la, not in the hills outside Katmandu, Nepal nor in the mountains outside Darjeeling. Roscoe saw corpses burned and cars fall of cliffs. He saw water buffalo and ten thousand monkeys. He saw more Tibetan Buddhist monasteries than you could shake a stick at. “Maybe in Bhutan,” Diosa said. That’s where Michael Palin found the yeti hair for National Geographic, the one that they couldn’t match the DNA to anything. “The only thing we’re going to see in Bhutan is drunks and monks, just like here,” Roscoe said. Diosa believed in the yeti, but Roscoe who was sent here to find one or record one or something, did not. Everybody else in north India did. But they also believed there were more Gods than people, even the atheist Buddhists believed that, and that yogis could make themselves invisible, fly and walk on water, that there were tigers in their tiger preserves, even though nobody’d seen one in four years. The local zoo, that you had to climb two miles of switchbacks 1,000 feet to reach, had a sign in front of the exhibit section that said:

No littering.

No spitting.

No urinating.

No defecating.

No alcoholic beverages.

No shouting or radios.

Do not remove any plant life.

Don’t worry if you don’t see any animals.

People spit, littered, shit and pissed all over the place, drank booze and played loud music. And the zoo didn’t have any animals. “They’re just invisible today,” said Roscoe. “I’m going to have some invisible days when I get back to the States.” “But you still believe in animals,” said Diosa. “They’re in the street, not the zoo,” said Roscoe. Diosa pointed into the mountains, into the miles and miles of jungle. “Anything could hide in there,” said Diosa. “Anything could be invisible in there,” said Roscoe. Diosa pointed out that Peter Matthiessen had come here in the ‘70s and spent three months looking for a snow leopard and never saw one. If a cat could do it, think about an animal as smart as a chimp. “We found the chimps. They were in Africa,” said Roscoe. “Now they’re in zoos. The monkeys come to the roadside and live in temples.” “You believe machines have consciousness, but you don’t believe you heard yeti.” “Keep C3PO out of this,” said Roscoe. “He doesn’t have invisible days.” That’s kind of how it went until they got to Kalimpong. They stayed at a little place called Holumba Haven that had a koi pond and bird cages with parakeets and a talking mynah bird, rabbits and guinea pigs, giant ferns and banana trees and redwoods, greenhouses full of orchids, dogs and cats and chickens and ducks and geese and rabbits and guinea hens running all around. Like everywhere else in north India, they had no coffee and the booze sucked. That night they sat around a campfire drinking Dansberg Blue beer and Bagpiper whiskey with the owner and three nasty French, two men and a woman, and one of the men said, “You Americans, you know nothing of France.” “You got some decent wine,” said Roscoe. “And French chicks love me.” The woman, the wife of one of them, looked at him. French women loved that kind of arrogance, particularly from somebody in a cowboy hat, and Roscoe was wearing his legendary straw cowboy hat, bedecked with wild feathers. Anyway, the French left and Roscoe asked Dolta, the owner, a forty-year-old dapper guy in a sweat suit, “What do you know about yetis?” “I know somebody who shot one,” he said.

So that’s how Roscoe ended up in the jungle with a machete. The good news: It was almost December and not leech season. The leeches are gigantic and drop out of the trees and suck your blood. They headed down toward the river. “Sometimes there’s kind of a path here,” Dolta said. But the path was having an invisible day. After an hour or so they came to a small clearing in a bamboo grove where there was a hut made out of oil tins. It had a frame of bamboo. The walls were made by cutting open five-liter soybean oil cans and flattening them out and nailing them to the bamboo. The roof was a sheet of corrugated tin. Dolta called and a little guy came out. He looked Asian; in fact he was Lepcha, one of the native tribes, and stood about four-foot-ten, maybe sixty years old or older. He didn’t speak English – he spoke Lepcha – but Dolta translated. His name was Pema. This wasn’t where he lived; it was just his “place.” He came here to hunt, though hunting was illegal and so were guns. He showed Roscoe his gun, a homemade thing, hollowed out bamboo with a hollow metal rod stuffed into it; it had a flash pan and hammer, like a flintlock, and a big trigger. It took a long time to load. He could get one shot off at pretty close range. Mostly he hunted boar. But he’d been down by the river where the boar came to drink and instead saw a creature that stood upright knee deep in the river. So he shot it. “He saw a creature so he shot it,” said Roscoe. “You killed it?” said Dolta. Pema nodded his head sideways. Indians don’t say yes or no. They either say nothing or nod their head sideways, which means, “I’m not going to disagree.” If you’re asking somebody “Does this train go to Mumbai?” you could be in real trouble. Pema told Dolta that the animal was dark and hairy and bigger than him. But they were very near an army base here, the 17th Mountain Division, and some soldiers, who must have heard the gunshot, quickly showed up. Pema hid. The soldiers took the creature away. Pema went to town, got drunk, and let some people know he’d shot a yeti. Two days later, the army told the newspaper that a Sikh soldier had been shot in the woods. Well, the 17th Mountain Division had a lot of Sikhs in it; Roscoe’d seen them on the Chinese-Indian border at Nathu-la. Sikhs didn’t cut their hair or beards and tended to be dark, hairy men. They were often tall and wore turbans. If the army’s showers were as bad as everybody else’s in India, Roscoe could understand why a soldier might bathe in the river. Yetis weren’t big, white abominable snowmen anymore, but were supposed to be short with brown fur or hair, kind of like Australopithecus. “Did he have a turban?” asked Roscoe. Pema didn’t say anything. “Did you see any clothes?” Nothing. “A yeti,” said Roscoe. Pema nodded his head sideways. “A Sikh?” Roscoe asked. Pema didn’t believe in Sikhs. Back in Gangtok, Roscoe and Diosa had to get ready to leave for Bhutan. A week there and they’d be done with the Himalayas. Then it would be Delhi for a week, then a week in Bangkok to recuperate from four months of Himalayan quasi-deprivation; among the things you can’t get up here is a hot bath or shower, heat in your room, coffee, bourbon, wine, cheese, meat besides chicken, electricity half the day. Other than that, it’s great. Sikkim had been an independent constitutional