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Andrew Stowe - Watson Project 2006-2007
PREFACE: This journal entry is a short story and it has nothing to do with Morocco. I've been working on it since I was in Newfoundland and now I recently finished it. Enjoy
The Tale of the Meat Jar, or How I came to Hate Fog and Love Spinach
"Boy, don't forget your meat jar". Aside from the single perfunctory 'guhbye' that he grunted at me as I climbed into the car to leave Musgrave Harbor, these were the last words that Beaton Abbott said to me. Beaton, a sixty-two year old retired cod fisherman who sold his license back to the government when the moratorium went into effect over ten years ago, has no teeth. At the time of his helpful reminder and my imminent departure, his dentures were lying were he had placed them when he had prepared his afternoon meal, namely on the crumb-covered kitchen counter in the direct company of the margarine tub, the bread knife, and the tea pot. Even with his artificial teeth firmly in place, Beaton's typical Newfoundland accent and rapid way of speaking (also typical of a Newfoundlander) make comprehension of even his short direct statements a challenge at best.
I paused halfway down the steps to the front yard, my brain whirring into high gear as it processed his seemingly simple command. I stared dumbly at him for a moment, a look he must have seen on my face countless times during my week-long stay, and then, with realization suddenly dawning, nodded in appreciation and turned back into the house. Sure enough, there it was, hunching stoutly on the wooden table at one end of the kitchen. My meat jar. A tall glass container that had once innocently held bake-apple preserve, this jar had been converted into what appeared to be a prop from a laboratory in a low-grade horror film. Floating in an unidentified murky liquid that may have been related to vinegar were a host of fleshy chunks of all shapes, sizes, and degrees of stringiness.
When Beaton's wife, Beulah, who in her late fifties still worked in the fish packing plant an hours drive from Musgrave Harbor, had handed me the meat jar earlier that day, she had briefly explained its contents. She had overheard me say that I had never tasted snowshoe rabbit and had thus intended to cook for me the last of the hare that they had hunted during the previous winter. Too busy, however, for serious cooking endeavors, she had placed select pieces of of the rabbit (and of some pork she also found in the bowels of the freezer) in a jar with the mystery preservative. Beulah had presented the meat jar to me as a parting gift with an air of pride and solemnity, as if she honored me through some ancient ritual. Despite the fact that I am not vegetarian, and even have something of an iron gut, I had still felt my stomach slowly turn when I gazed at the meat jar in her outstretched hand and imagined barbarically devouring its contents. I had set the meat jar on the table while I packed my belongings and at Beaton's command now found myself face-to-face again with my culinary fate and the thought of fishing about in the jar for little bits of bunny.
Scooping up the jar with a feeling of reckless bravery, I returned to the front yard to find Beaton standing where I had left him, leaning on the handle of a hoe and staring out to the vast ocean whose fish it was recently realized were not limitless in number. This bitter wisdom, however, had come too late for many of Newfoundland's fishermen and left them feeling only betrayed - by the government, the industrial trawlers, and by their wet briny mistress herself. The meat jar was heavy in my hand. Beulah had said that its contents could withstand the spoiling effects of the July heat without the aid of refrigeration, so I placed it gingerly in the trunk, braced it with my large pack, covered it with my jacket, and prayed it wouldn't spill. I thanked Beaton again for his family's hospitality, received a nod and a grunt in return, and, waving, climbed into the car and drove out of Musgrave Harbor under the warm mid-morning sun, avoiding the larger pot holes in the road and thinking about the meat jar.
By the time we arrived at the parking lot of the Cape St Mary's visitor center - we being the rental car named Moby Dick, the meat jar, and myself - the fog was thicker than pea soup, and a barely perceptible shift in the tone of its grey hues was the only indication that the sun was setting. Home to a large, splendid gannet colony on the jutting stone pinnacle known as Bird Rock, Cape Saint Mary in Newfoundland's southwest Avalon region is legendary among naturalists, photographers, and bird-watchers alike. Pulling off of the dirt farm track on to a flat asphalt area of unknown proportions, I stopped the car in what I imagined was a parking space and Moby Dick, so named because this pearly-white, gas-guzzling, four-wheeled beast devoured most of my money and became the bane of my existence, slowly ticked and purred its way to silence, yellow eyes glowing menacingly in the haze. The meat jar lurked in the trunk beneath my coat. I nibbled tiredly on a cracker and pondered with mixed awe, respect and hatred the capacity of fog to be so thick as to provide new perspective on the miraculous gift of human sight.
From various accounts I had previously come across, I suspected that visiting Bird Rock was going to be the most incredible aspect of my journey through Newfoundland. Still, I had only planned on spending an afternoon in the area before making my way slowly back along the coast of the Canadian province to the city of St John's, where Moby d*** had to be returned in 3 days time. My late arrival to the cape aside, the presence of the fog was still a completely unanticipated and severely problematic factor. I couldn't leave without paying homage to Bird Rock, and I certainly had no power to clear the fog, despite my repeated attempts to burn it off with my eyes alone.
By the time I decided with some chagrin to sleep in the car in the parking lot that night and explore Bird Rock the following morning, the fog had achieved an even darker level of grey, and a strong wind had begun to lash the side of the car with a mix of rain and salty sea spray. Moby d*** stirred slightly. The meat jar said nothing. A deep rumble suddenly resounded through Moby Dick's cavernous interior and for a moment I thought the car would hop and lurch its way to the cliff's edge before plunging into the ocean, taking on a form beneath the waves more appropriate for the name I'd given it, and trapping me inside like Jonah.
Looking down, I realized the growling was in fact coming from my own interior, a stark reminder that the day of driving had involved no real meals, but only an apple here, and a few crackers with cheese there. I had driven by several restaurants before turning off of the main road, but they looked as if they might be more welcoming to retired, gray-haired, vacationing, camper-van-driving couples than student researchers. My stomach rumbled again, its orations growing more forceful and demanding. The meat jar, persistently crouching in the back of my mind, began to beckon. I hesitated for a moment, gathering strength and preparing my mind for the worst, before opening the door and stepping out of the car.
Moving quickly in an effort to stay dry, I dashed around to Moby Dick's tail end, lifted the trunk, drew the coat aside, and grasped the meat jar. Its slight gurgle as I carried it back around to the driver's seat seemed to be a chuckle, a chortle at my prudish resistance to apparent barbarism. Placing the meat jar on the dash board and postponing my inevitable fate, I gathered my bread, cheese, apples, and peanut butter to my side. Then, taking hold of the meat jar firmly in my left hand, I gripped its lid with my right, drew a deep breath, narrowed my eyes defiantly, and twisted. But the lid wouldn't budge. The meat jar remained unfazed. Gritting my teeth, I set the meat jar between my knees and turned with all my strength. The meat jar still resisted. Facing possible defeat, I placed it on the ground and after several moments of half twisting and half prying with a knife, the guardian of the meat jar's contents gave in at last, popping off with an audible sigh.
I gazed down from directly overhead at the glistening pieces of meat suspended at the preservative's surface. Reaching down with a faltering, outstretched finger, I poked one of the chunks. It remained intact and only conveyed a minor feeling of sliminess. I picked up a plastic fork and, with a momentous feeling of crossing beyond final frontiers, a feeling that space explorers and deep sea divers must know well, I plunged the fork into the meat jar and impaled a medium sized morsel. I lifted it, pink, stringy, and dripping, from the jar, and with eyes tightly closed, popped it into my mouth. As I slowly chewed, my taste buds, prepared to encounter a rotten pungency at the least, suddenly found themselves greeted by incredible tenderness and subtle yet evocative and enchanting flavor. The meat jar's contents weren't simply passable, they were delicious.
Placing several more pieces into my mouth, I mentally sent my regards to Beulah, thanking her profusely and apologizing for all my misgivings. Three days, a whole mess of fog, and 1 meat jar later, I arrived in St John's, slightly wild eyed after two nights of sleeping in a car, and with a craving for something fresh and green, but in no worse a state of mind than when I left Musgrave Harbor. After returning Moby d*** and checking into my lodging in the city, I stood in the hostel kitchen and once again looked down into the open meat jar from directly overhead, empty now save a few strands of flesh stuck to the glass sides and an inch of cloudy polluted liquid at the bottom. I washed the jar, set it on the rack to dry, and, walking away from the sink, wondered how many other lucky souls had had the chance to travel through Newfoundland with such a rare delicacy in their keeping, with a real meat jar of their own. I suspected I was the only one.
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