Ol' Mac by Robert McArthur https://padlet.com/MacScorpio/13bt6vvlrhoia842 Just won't quit en-us 2020-09-13 22:19:37 UTC 2024-06-04 21:04:55 UTC hello@padlet.com https://padlet-uploads.storage.googleapis.com/682807669/9ffbd3d3c1a8d576d9510c0ff26002e4/block_C_cat.jpg Origin #1 - Pup in Bottom MacScorpio https://padlet.com/MacScorpio/13bt6vvlrhoia842/wish/746324255 My first memory of having an interest in cooking was over 30 years ago when I was a hungry young man pulling wrenches in Northern Canada. I had flown into a logging area to join up with the Moose Lake Loggers as their mechanic for a month. It was bitterly cold and the first order of business was to set up a large tent, complete with forced air heat, around the Clark Log Skidder I would be working on the following day. -50 degrees is cold enough to solidify oil, so the machine needed to be warmed up in order to get the solid liquid out. That evening the dinner bell did clang, and everyone came running. I followed the plaid wearing crowd to surround a steaming 150-gallon cauldron hanging over an open fire. I watched intently as tenure was exercised in the chow line pecking order. Being near the end of the line I could see little through the wide shoulders crowded together, and the smell of dinner was nothing familiar. I was finally able to see into the black pot where my gaze was met by discolored foam and occasionally the glimmer of dark fluid. An old Indian, in desperate need of a dentist, was guarding the cauldron with crossed arms and narrow eyes. I had seen many of the loggers ahead of me bring their own bowl and knife, of which I had neither. I was searching visually for something I could use when Chief, as he was known, shuffled in my direction with an old aluminum hubcap. He thrust the artifact into my side and said, “Pup in bottom”. My mind raced trying to recall the animals whose offspring are called pups. I remembered there are seals, sharks, rats, mice, foxes, and any member of the canine family. Frantically I was trying to think of anything else more appetizing when I felt the 36” ladle slap into my hand. I looked up to stare into the eyes of a wrinkled sawyer, who looked tougher than the back wall of a shooting gallery. He just winked and said, “The Chief means that if you want any meat, you will have to dig for it”. I reached down into the mysterious liquid and could feel solid chunks elusively moving ahead of my efforts. I finally was able to excavate something solid and hoist it up into my vessel. To this day I am not sure what animals gave their all for our dinner, but the meal was profoundly tasty. Chief had an assortment of herbs and other ground-up seasonings I could not identify, but all were made available to each of his guests along with fresh campfire biscuits. 

The next morning, I saw the old Chief slipping out into the bush through the back of the camp. I asked one of the loggers, “So, where is our chef headed”? Ol' Jimbo smiled and responded, “His trap-line, but he will be back in time to make supper”. It was in that moment I knew even a Scotch-Irish immigrant such as myself had a shot at cooking something tasty, knowing that the Chief could do it with nothing more than what he found on the ground. I did get to know the old Indian, whose given name was Wilbur, and I still have his hubcap. I used to speculate what kind of north bush entree he would come up with next?

]]> 2020-09-15 01:44:39 UTC https://padlet.com/MacScorpio/13bt6vvlrhoia842/wish/746324255 Academic Summary Final MacScorpio https://padlet.com/MacScorpio/13bt6vvlrhoia842/wish/782419942 https://screencast-o-matic.com/watch/cYQt2ZdBkK]]> 2020-09-27 14:40:16 UTC https://padlet.com/MacScorpio/13bt6vvlrhoia842/wish/782419942