Manna from Heaven, in Paradise

At first glance, the teal-colored wooden storefronts with white trim look like any small strip mall in America. There’s a national chain hardware store advertising dollar days, a bank branch, and a toy store.

There’s a bright yellow sign for Subway sandwich and, a couple doors down, the instantly recognizable red and white emblem of KFC. The first thing that tells you this isn’t mainstream America is the sign in KFC’s window: NEW! May’s Teriyaki Chicken, famous bowls.”

Wedged in between Subway and KFC are Mixed Plate (ono [good]) local food), and Weiwei BBQ, with roast duck and ginger chicken and house crispy fried noodles posters in their front window.
Down the walk and right at the corner, past the chain pizza joint, is the Foodland grocery store, with the ubiquitous Starbucks sign.




But, on the outside wall is another sign, giving notice that Maui ono plate lunches are available every Saturday. Well, of course. You’re on the Hawai’ian island of Maui.

Walk through the glass doors into the air conditioned store, and the first display obviously is aimed at tourists. Bright, colorful Hawai’ian aloha shirts and dresses mix right in with the counter full of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts (for last minute gifts to take home), and large displays of suntan lotion (for immediate and frequent use).

On another shelf are colorful beach towels, and plastic beach toys for the kids.




As my time here is coming to an end, I bypassed all the tourist stuff and headed for the grocery aisles, in search of a pen and notebook because, having once again forgotten to carry those necessary items with me at all times, my muse was using a battering ram inside my head to get my attention, and I dared not ignore her. So, up and down the aisles I went, finding this and that and all things Hawai’ian. Especially Spam.

In Hawai’i, Spam is not relegated to a dusty bottom shelf, but is displayed on a convenient end cap in all its many varieties. Ever since Hormel Meat introduced the salty canned pork product in World War II, Hawai’i has led the nation in per capita consumption, followed by (surprise) Alaska. Scrambled eggs, fried slices of Spam and two scoops of rice is a favored breakfast. Or the Spam variety of Loco Moco, rice and Spam covered with gravy and topped with an over easy egg. For Hawai’ians, it’s a meal. For most others, it’s breakfast, lunch and dinner in one bowl.

As I walked through the store, I found some things familiar, and some not so familiar. There were several varieties of poki, or raw fish.




Sushi, of course.


Some boxed lunches a bit out of the mainstream, featuring sukiyaki beef and a kind of fried fish, both with rice.

Then, I hit the jackpot: Cookwee’s cookies and on sale, too. Baked right here on Maui, just down the hill in Kahului, they are every bit as good as Dare’s cookies from Canada, and maybe even better, which gives me the perfect excuse for a taste comparison.

Then, while I’m sitting here at Bruce and Betsey’s dining table, writing about luscious Cookwee’s cookies (I bought the macadamia nut and shortbread varieties,) Betsey places something beside my laptop.


OMG,
what could this be
in that cute little
avocado-shaped dish?

Ah, butter of the gods. Guacamole and Tostitos crispy rounds.

Actually, I knew darn well what it was, because these are sitting on her kitchen counter.




Want some perspective?

Larger than a softball, these things hang from trees in their yard, these luscious, buttery, so-good-for you avocados.

And as long as I’m on the subject of ono food, here are a couple photos of an apple pie baked in a cast iron skillet in a wood-burning stove in the crater of Haleakala.

Seriously, does it get any better than this? Okay, maybe the kahlua pig, baked in an imu with ti and banana leaves, is a close runner-up. Mixed with steamed cabbage this dish about did me in. Only strong willpower kept me from exploding. And, would you believe, it was served the same night as the apple pie.

Add to the guacamole and Tostitos some fresh reindeer Polish sausage from Indian Valley Meats in Alaska.....ah-h-h-h-h-h....

Ah, Paradise, it’s Paradise enow—to massacre Omar Khayyam, but then he was content to lie under a tree with a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and a book of verse. Oh, wait a minute, didn't he have a "thou" there too?

Advanced Interior Decorating, Part Three, Madame Pele, Guest Lecturer

(Note: I saved the best for last. Click on the photos to enlarge them to full screen. Then enjoy. There is another new post that follows this one--one I made late yesterday.)

This time during the break, the students go out of the building to talk. They crowd around Keone and ask what had happened in there.

“She was getting angry,” Keone says.

“Yeah, duh, we could tell that,” says another young man. “But why? I mean, were we doing something wrong?”

“No, no, at least, I don’t think so,” says Keone. “See, according to legend, Pele had an older sister named Na-maka-o-Kaha’i of the Sea, and there was some hanky-panky between Pele and the sister’s husband, and Pele had to flee. Every time Pele made a crater with her digging stick to hold fire, the sister deluged it with water.

“Pele had to keep on the run until finally she found Mauna Kea, the tallest mountain in the islands. She was safe there, because her sister’s seawater couldn’t reach that high.”

“Interesting, Keone, but what’s with her getting so ticked at the photos?”

“Did you notice all the vegetation? That takes water, and I guess water reminds Pele of being pursued by her vengeful sister. At least that’s my theory. And another thing. See, actually Haleakala isn’t really a crater, but a basin created by eruptions and erosion. Maybe all that green vegetation reminds Pele of the role water and erosion had in creating what we now call a crater.”

“Remember the picture of the big tree that looks like a pine tree? It’s a type of Hawai’ian pine, but not indigenous to the crater so the Park Service would rather it not be there. But, it’s been there for so long it sort of has grandfather rights. If something happens to it, though, it’s pau.”

“Pau?”

“Finished. Gone. They won’t try to rescue it,” says Keone. “And while we’re talking about this, let me warn you to never, ever take a piece of lava from the Islands. You will be cursed with more bad luck than you ever thought possible if you do.”

“More bad luck than hearing your nonsense?” asks Charles Smythe. Keone turns towards Smythe, the shock apparent on his face. Before he can speak, a young woman sticks her head out the door and says, “C’mon you guys, they’re waiting for us.” The students hurry back into the lecture hall.

This time Pele strides across the floor to the lectern like a strong, young woman, and Keone shrinks farther down into his chair as the next scene flashes onto the screen.

"this is what you call my Paint Pot," says Pele.

"Silversword in bloom, " says Pele in a strong voice. "This grows only in my crater."

"This is my silversword forest."

(Bruce, Danielle, Andy, and Betsey rounding Pele's Paint Pot.)

Part way through the presentation, the professor quietly tiptoes to the wall thermostat, checks it, and attemps to move the lever down. It won't move, and each time he raises it up a bit and attempts to push it down again, it sticks in the higher position. Then he shakes his head and returns to his seat, removing his suit coat and loosening his tie. The smell of sulfur intensifies and some of the female students cover their noses and mouths. All the students fan themselves with whatever they have available. Most have perspiration running down their faces, and tears form in eyes sensitive to the intense sulfur smell.

The old woman at the lectern seems to burst with energy as the photos come and change. Her smile grows larger, though there is no humor in it, and eventually it seems to turn into a sneer.

As the last photograph fades from the screen, most of the students applaude the incredibly beautiful scenes. All except Charles Smythe, the lad who had sneered at Keone’s legends.
“Madame Pele? Madame Pele, if I may. Just one remark, please?” says Smythe.

The old woman looks directly at Smythe.

“Yes, well,” says Smythe. “Last semester I went to Kona on the Big Island during holiday break. While I was there I took a piece of shiny black lava from the summit of Kilauea. I have it in my room at the frat house. Now I hear it’s bad luck. Could you comment on that?” Smythe’s sneer rivals that of Pele’s by the time he finishes.

Keone puts his head in his hands and closes his eyes. All the students look with disbelief at Smythe, embarrassed at his audaciousness, so only Smythe sees what happens next.

In a flash, much like a mega-powerful flash bulb, the old woman disappears and is replaced by an exceedingly beautiful young Hawai’ian woman with long, silky black tresses. Smythe briefly considers asking her for a date, until he looks into her eyes and sees a fire so hot and ferocious he is powerless to move.

And only Smythe hears her speak. “You will not live to regret your impudence, young man.”



The next day the campus is abuzz with the news of Smythe’s death. He had returned to the frat house intending to package the chunk of lava and mail it to a postmaster in Hawai’i, say his frat brothers, but as soon as he picked up the lava, he collapsed to the floor. Campus security and EMTswere called, but Smythe did not respond to resuscitation attempts. He was pronounced dead shortly after, the piece of lava still in his hand.

An autopsy is inconclusive and the cause of death is listed as “heart failure,” in lieu of a more precise cause. The only oddity, according to the medical examiner’s report, is a remark about severe burns on one of the victim’s hands.

(NOTE: Obviously, I have taken great liberties with the legendary goddess Pele insofar as actions and words I have ascribed to her. My intent was only to provide some dialogue to prevent a series of photographs from feeling like a travelogue. And besides, it was my muse’s idea; I was only the typist. Pele appearing to humans in the form of an old woman and disappearing from the rear seat of automobiles, as well as appearing to only one person in a crowded room, however, is documented in modern Hawai’an anecdotes. I hope I have not offended her, or any Hawaiians. I live in an avalanche area that is subject to fierce earthquakes. I certainly do not need to add volcanoes to the mix. s/Gullible)

Enjoy It While it Lasts, Mr. Big Cojones

I'm not going to apologize for this rant. When you've read it, you'll understand why.

Somewhere out there, and I'm very embarrassed to admit that "somewhere" is Alaska, struts a dude with big cojones. I'm referring to him in the masculine gender because I cannot, cannot admit that a woman could have done this.

"Hey, dude," says Big Cojones, "I done shot a swan wit' my bow 'n' arrow. One arrow, dude. Shot that big ol' white bird wit' one arrow."

He did so. In my neighborhood, in my lake. Twice in past few days it's been on the front page of the Anchorage Daily News (go to www.adn.com for pictures and full story). Yesterday, Tuesday, the bird was captured at Tern Lake and the arrow removed from its breast and wing. While it could feed, it could not fly with its wing pinned to its breast by the blunt-tipped target arrow. These swans come to Tern Lake to feed and rest for their migration into and out of Alaska.

Here's hoping the perpetrator of this despicable assault has a mouth as big as his cojones, because we're looking for you, dude. A steady stream of vehicles pulls into the Tern Lake wayside, hoping for a glance of the injured swan, and sending good wishes its way. There's a reward out for information. A thousand bucks, dude. Just a little fragment of info leading to your identification is all that's needed.

In a case like this, though, it almost seems ugly for someone to accept a reward, so let's hope that reward is donated to the Bird Treatment and Learning Center, which has assisted many birds through illness and injury and returned them to the wild.

In the meantime, strut and brag all you want, Big Cojones. Someday, when the court pronounces its judgment upon you, and the scorn of Alaskans everywhere is heaped upon you, I think those big cojones of yours will shrink to the size of your brain--something in the BB range, I'm sure.

I checked on the swans this afternoon. The injured bird (I'm guessing here, but reasonably sure I'm correct) was resting in the grasses on one of the landy islands in the lake--as far away from people as it could get. Its mate was feeding nearby. Occasionally I saw the injured bird raise its head.





I think that's the injured swan on the left, resting and recuperating in the grass. Its mate is at the far right. A couple minutes before the mate had been at the other swan's side.

Now do you understand why I won't apologize for this rant?

Advanced Interior Decorating, Part Two, Madame Pele, Guest Lecturer

In the atrium outside the lecture hall, several students crowd around the one who had spoken, and urge him for more.

“I saw her walking along the Saddle road on the Big Island one night, her and a little white dog. I stopped to see if she wanted a ride, and they got in the back seat of my Honda. It was really foggy so I was paying attention to the road. After a while, I looked in my rear view and there was nothing there! I was so scared, I almost ran off the road. And now she's here. This is weird, man.”

“You mean she jumped out while you were driving?” asks a red-haired girl.

“No, she didn’t jump out. She disappeared.”

“Keone, that’s pretty far-fetched. How could an old woman just disappear?”

“Hawai’an legends are full of stories about Pele appearing in different forms to humans. Sometimes she appears to only one person in a crowded room and…..”

Just then their professor motions the students back into the lecture hall.

“Let’s not keep our guest waiting,” he says.

Once again, the elderly Hawai’ian woman nods and the screen fills with images of Haleakala.

Madame Pele speaks not one word during this part of her presentation. There is a faint smell of sulfur in the room, which grows stronger as the photos flash across the screen.

“She’s getting mad,” whispers Keone to no one. “I think it’s all the vegetation that’s making her angry.” The student next to him loosens his tie and unbuttons his top shirt button. Looking around the room, Keone sees several students removing sweaters or pushing up long sleeves.

Once again the crone smiles at Keone, but the smile does not extend to her eyes. Keone thinks he sees a flash of orange fire in her brown eyes before she glances down and walks slowly away from the lectern.

“Oh, man,” he moans. “Just in time.”

Advanced Interior Decorating, Part One, Madame Pele, Guest Lecturer

(Gullible's Note: I'm home from Maui, safe and as sound as could be expected. I held off posting the first of three chapters of this next story until I was off the island, in order to distance myself from the wrath of Madame Pele, the Hawai'ian goddess of fire who lives in a volcano.

On the flight home, I read Rick Carroll's "Madame Pele, True Encounters with Hawai'i's Fire Goddess." As it is my custom to respect the religious/historical/legendary beliefs of others--whether I, myself, believe them or not--I now find myself reluctant to post the following chapter.

It is not my intent to disrespect Madame Pele or the Hawai'an peoples, by including a fictionalized dialogue to go with the numerous photos to follow. It was done only to avoid these three chapters from seeming to be a travelogue, to add some written interest. My hesitation to post comes from some strange things that already are occurring at this blog. I am completely and totally unable to make any changes to this or any other story already posted. Additionally, the text italicizes or bold-faces itself, without regard to what I want. Perhaps Madame Pele's powers reach father than I think.)



Greetings, Students,

Please be seated and get comfortable. I have a very special surprise for you. Today’s lecture will not be a lecture at all. Rather, we are honored by the presence of Master Decorator Madame Pele (PAY-lee), who will present a photographic exhibit of one of her most famous works, the Haleakala volcano on the island of Maui.

I will make this introduction brief in order to move right to Madame Pele’s presentation. There is much biographical information online, so I will say only that Pele is a demi-god who immigrated by canoe to Hawai’i, where she thrust her digging stick into the ground, thereby creating volcanoes, and the subsequent volcanic activity created the islands of our 50th state.

She currently resides on the Big Island in the Kilauea (KILL-aw-AYE-ah) caldera. She has, in the past 25 years or so, added more than 70 acres of new land to that island by means of her lava flows. I urge you students to listen to Pele with great respect, as she is a master decorator. And, please, do not be intimidated by her wild hair and fiery eyes, for those are but a measure of her talent.

Please pay attention. Madame Pele suffers from a chronically inflamed throat. Thus, she will take no questions after her presentation. Similarly, she will provide little in the way of narration.
However, I will be giving a quiz after her completion. Also, there will be an intermission or two to allow you to absorb what you are about to see.

And now, it is with great pleasure that I present the incredible Master Decorator, Madame Pele.

(An old woman, dressed all in white and stooped with age, enters the lecture hall from the alcove at the left. With her is a small dog. Slowly, painfully, she makes her way to the lectern. Then she nods to the projectionist and the large screen to her side lights up with a photograph of black lava. Gasps are heard from around the lecture hall, but are silenced quickly by a glance from Madame Pele. An indecipherable smile passes briefly on her lips.)


"My raw material," she says in a raspy, breathy voice. It is almost painful to listen to the tortured voice. It is as if her vocal cords refuse to move, her larynx too damaged to form the sounds.

"I left this hole intentionally. I do wish your kind would stop losing their hats to it, however," she says.

"This is where I mix my colors, my palette. Your kind call this my 'Paint Pot.' " The students slide imperceptably down in their seats. While there was no hint in her voice, the students feel the demi-god is making a statement about the whims of mere humans.

"Black sand, for smoothing and soft contour."

"Rocks for harsh contour and dimension."

Just before the break, a gasp is heard from a dark-skinned young man in the eighth row. "I know her!," he whispers. "Now I recognize her!"

The old crone looks up at the student. An indecipherable smile is on her lips as she walks away from the lectern for the intermission break.

INTERMISSION

(to be continued)