Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
— Ezra Pound, “Ancient Music”
Iconoclast, toady to tyrants, madman or fool or both — Ezra Pound isn’t everyone’s favorite poet. He certainly isn’t mine. But today, as a freshening breeze in a cloudless sky gives notice that summer’s lease is short, and about to expire, I can’t get Pound’s mischievous little jingle out of my mind.
“How the wind doth ramm!” All too soon, October storms will turn tiny northern ponds on edge and drive massive green rollers across the big lakes, gladdening the hearts of wetsuited windsurfers and terrifying canoeists in equal measure. Folks whose fun is fueled by gasoline can ignore the wind, at least until it’s blowing half a gale. Not so the legions of no-octane explorers. Canoeists and kayakers, cyclists and sailors — for all of us, the wind is a constant presence, an implacable, elemental force. Sometimes welcomed as a friend, often cursed as an enemy, but always inescapably there. We travel at the wind’s pleasure, and we ignore it at our peril… Read more…
Marmite? It’s not exactly a household name, is it? At least it isn’t on this side of the Pond. And what is it, exactly? Well, some Britons think it’s a cultural icon on a par with Tower Bridge, Nelson’s Column, and — a nod to New Britain — the Swiss Re Building (aka The Gherkin). But it’s really just a sandwich spread. OK. Maybe not just a sandwich spread. For legions of true believers, Marmite is the sandwich spread, a savory confection with an unforgettable flavor that puts other spreads in the shade. Of course, not everyone is a true believer, a fact freely acknowledged by the maker, in what may be the world’s least likely advertising slogan: “Marmite. Love It or Hate It.” In any case, Marmite certainly has a loyal following, as well as a host of imitators — the sincerest form of corporate flattery. So I figured I’d give it try, with an eye to adding it to my backcountry pantry if it turned out that I belonged to the “Love It” crowd.
As it happens, my interest in Marmite goes back quite a ways. One of the teachers in my old high school used to spread it on bread for his lunch. This wasn’t necessarily a recommendation, since the teacher in question was a bit of an oddball. In a town where everybody knew everybody else’s parents (not to mention grandparents and great‑grandparents), no one knew where he came from — except that it wasn’t from “around here.” That was bad enough, to be sure, but it was really just the start. He also rode a bike to work, and his trousers were hemmed several inches above his ankles. Worst of all, he bought wine (French wine!) by the case. And there were reliable reports that he’d been seen attending classical concerts. The final blow? He sent his two children off to private schools. But damning as this dossier was, it didn’t entirely put me off. I was something of a nonconformist myself — not too many girls my age were climbing rock cuts in their spare time — and I figured that anyone who cared so little for others’ opinions might be worth closer study. Unfortunately, though, I was never assigned to any of the Marmite maverick’s classes, so I didn’t get a chance to ask him about the brown goo he put on his sandwiches.
Quite a lot of water has passed under a good many bridges since my school‑days, of course, but every now and again I’ve been reminded of my early Marmite infatuation. The stuff doesn’t warrant much shelf space in stateside HyperMarts, but I occasionally run across it when I’m looking for something else. It’s not a big seller. The jars I find are usually caked with dust, and the price stickers suggest one reason for this: ounce for ounce, Marmite is almost as costly as steak. Still, when I spotted a jar on a shelf in the local HyperMart recently, the temptation proved too great to resist. The time had come for taking the plunge… Read more…
