The Unabaker Speaks

For years, the Chef resisted all of McDoo's entreaties and cajoling. The pleading and rationalizing, the gentler persuasions, as well, the occasional conversation ending throwaway commentary about hard headedness, willfulness, and "stubbornosity" (a classic McDooism). All efforts of his longtime friend waved away with only bare considerations given. But, McDoo, stranger he was not to the old Chef's grumpy self assurance, persisted. Eventually, even boulders crumble, he reasoned. "Dammit Baker! What a pity? What luminous dumbness? What selfishness? How grossly inconsiderate, this hardness of heart! Damn your stoic intransigence! A pall upon kindness and duty! What about History, Philosophy, Art? What of Science, Aesthetics? How does Gastronomy carry on? Your place in the pantheon? What point be our petty lives if we cannot be remembered? If we cannot relinquish what we've learned?" McDoo's been known on occasions to put on grand airs; a flair for th...

A rustic cliffside cottage overlooks a quiet cove. It's hot, but a tempering monsoon wind abides, giving a final push to waves that lash the tattered seawall below. It's a charming old place, wrapped in exotic flora, salt air, and sun, but in a state of slow decay. Vibrant despite being rarely groomed, terraced hillside gardens descend to a rocky strand below. The breeze carries scents of Leelawadee, wet rocks, and the sweet pungency of overripe fruit. Solitary amidst the gardens, a Moringa tree. Gnarled limbs twist, rise, and dive, its branches laden with long bean like pods. Some have fattened and turned brown; others have burst. Large seeds litter the embankment below, making a feast for the birds and black squirrels. Tiny green leaves turn yellow without regard for season, and fall continuously. They drift into his workshop below. The Moringa is home for a russet chested Coucal. Its distinctive whooping wakes him. On the lee side of the old fort, as he calls it, there...