Cranberries and Horse Urine
Marshmallows in orange soda. It was a brilliant innovation. The marshmallows always sat there, bored I’m sure, waiting for someone to make hot chocolate, which rarely happened. I usually ate a few while filling up on grape juice or some other beverage, but I never had found a real use for them until the day I stuck them in my cup of orange soda. Brilliant!
I sat down and took a sip! Great scott! It tastes just like that classic soda flavor, oranges and cream! I am a genius!
“Ewww. What is that?”
Like any genius excited about a new discovery, nothing went well for me that day. First, my new drink was rejected before the recipe was even offered. Before I could even announce that something wonderful had been discovered, it was rejected by the philistines surrounding me. Ai! The pain of rejection!
I don’t know why it is, but very few people ever really seem willing to try something out of the ordinary. Two common and recognized as delicious items are combined and does the world beat a path to my door? No. They vomit in my flower garden. I don’t understand it.
I have pioneered a number of culinary leaps in my day, but one and all, they have been rejected. Cranberry pumpkin pie. Cranberry tuna casserole. Cranberry chicken soup. Cranberry meatloaf. (My innovations are often cranberry-based.) I’m not sure why they are rejected, but that they are, I know.
I have the same problem with my dress. Little by little, Lynsey is trying to standardize (ie, sanitize1) my wardrobe into the bounds of what she calls “good common sense” and my youngest sister refers to as “not quite as ugly as usual for him.” My wardrobe so far, however, has refused containment.2 Of course, there are the fluorescent red and electric blue polyester pants I found in the Closet, but those are reserved for special occasions. However, the ire these wild things raise is only marginally more than my teal jeans and blaze orange silk shirt which are not only beautiful individually, but, like cranberries and tuna, also go strikingly well together. And don’t you believe it when someone tries to tell you otherwise. They are wrong.
It is now time for me to establish myself as a credible narrator. If I proceed any further without establishing this, you may never believe me, for I recognize that sight unseen, perhaps you cannot see my teal jeans and blaze orange silk shirt going well together. But I assure you they do. I would not wear them together if they did not and the following anecdote, I hope, will firmly establish this fact in your minds.
I put on my plaid pajama pants from the Closet and the Hawai’ian shirt my not youngest sister had given me for Christmas, donned my hat, and hit the town. I went to the tourist information center in order to learn the Icarian Museum’s hours, but unfortunately, they were closed. At that very moment, the Nauvoo firehouse was letting the town in to look around and, rumor had it, there were even doughnuts. But I didn’t go. And you want to know why? Because I felt silly. I didn’t go because I knew my clothes looked ridiculous—like I was some kind if psychotic tourist! Now, call me a slave to fashion, but I just couldn’t help it. I would never go visit a fire station in a poorly conceived outfit! Heavens, no!
The absolute sharpest set of threads I ever wore while in Nauvoo was what I checked out from the NRI storerooms. A linen, pioneer-style shirt with the baggy sleeves and half-collar and a vest that matched my teal jeans with startling precision. I looked great!
Pioneer fashion wasn’t bad at all. But the shirt I checked out was white, and according to one missionary, pioneers bleached using horse urine. I have since looked for information on this bleaching technique, but have not found success. In fact, in every book I have referenced, urine is spoken of not as a bleach but as a mordant, which is quite the opposite—mordants provide colorfastness. And so I am led to doubt what I was told. However, there can be no doubt that urine does have its uses in the home manufactory of beautiful fabrics. (How is it that I am back to urine?) And had I been a hobbyist, I am quite sure the Elders who kept NRI’s horses would have been happy to let me have some horse urine. After all, I had earned it.
One of our first run-ins with missionaries as JSA students was being taken about on horse-driven sleighs. The sleigh I rode was driven by an old Idaho rancher, Elder Rhead. During our ride, Elder Rhead gave us all little plastic potato pins that read “IDAHO” in gold letters, thus winning our friendship and helping the Idaho Potato Union all at the same time.
Elder Rhead and Student Jay hit it off immediately, both being horse people. Me, I am not horse people, my agricultural heritage notwithstanding. I just can’t help it. It may stem back to my early Idaho days. One of my favorite memories is Grandpa taking us all around as we fed the cattle. One cold day one cold year (this is Idaho, remember), I decided to beat everyone else back inside, and as the sleigh clopped through the barnyard, I jumped off and landed flat in the steaming manure. I was coated in the stuff. I hurried inside, arms stiff and away from my side, and Mom and Grandma cleaned me up as best they could.
They thought it was funny.
Of course, on the other hand, when I’m out in the country and the smells of horses and cattle assault me, they bring with them pleasant memories. So maybe I don’t have a reason for not being horse people. But I’m not.
Where was I?
So Elder Rhead and Jay had a lot to talk about. One thing led to another, and next we knew, we had been invited to help floor the new horse barn. And believe or not, I was really glad to do it. (Maybe the whole problem is that I resent not being raised a farmly, working man, and so I transfer my upsetment onto horses.) We showed up dark and early, and started laying railroad ties as a grainy, cold snow blew about.
So you see, they owed me and I’m sure they would have readily agreed to let me have all the horse urine I wanted.
To wrap up and to get us back to food, where we started, the barn flooring afternoon I took an unanticipated nap and woke eight minutes after dinner ended. When I stumbled into to cafeteria only to discover the food had already been put away, I cried out in agony, in much too loud a voice. Had I been anymore awake I likely would have been embarrassed.
Brother Davis was very kind however, and rushed out what he had only just taken in. Mondu. Wontons, I think they are generally called here in America. I was reduced to eating mondu so often on my mission that I still can’t touch the stuff. It’s that crazy combination of meat and pastry. It’s a yucky combination. But you know? Maybe if we just added some cranberries . . . .
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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.