This bumper sticker caught my eye as I was walking the dog to work:
"Dessert is the Highest Form of Patriotism." - Thomas Jefferson
On closer inspection, I learned, I had mis-read the first word*. But while the illusion lasted, life seemed so much sweeter!
"If only!" I told the dog as we started across the Brooklyn Bridge. Half a mile on, the glory of Manhattan beckoned us through the arches of Hart Craine's "Cathedral".
"If only dessert were the highest form of patriotism! How sweet of a land that would be!"
By now, I was waxing semi-rhapsodic (the Brooklyn Bridge has that effect on me.)
"Imagine a country whose town hall debates ended in political scoops of Rocky Road and Cherry Garcia! A nation where "We the People" could be "Wheee!!! The People!" -- until the sugar-crash kicked in. (At which point we'd take a national nap.)"
The dog liked the nap part of my speech. In fact, she took one as soon as we reached the office.
But I couldn't rest.
If dessert was the highest form of patriotism, I wondered, what kind of dessert should a true patriot make?
I was mulling the possibilities of banana splits and pound cake, when my friend D., the rock violinist invited me to take a few days off and go to Boston. D's manager mixes sound for the Pops and he'd scored backstage passes.
Hours later, D. her husband and I were zooming up I-95 in D.'s rock star tour van. We got to the Common and there, when I least expected it, I "atria" being infused into my personal definition of patriotism.
Here are a few snapshots:
- The Boston Children's Choir harmonizing and smiling, through the pouring rain.
- A color guard of sailors cheering the kids. (The sailors are soooo close in age to the school-kids, it's beyond absurd. I want to grab their feet and stop them from sailing on.
- An "All-American" moment involving a song by a Russian composer celebrating Napoleon's failed invasion.
That would have been enough to make my whole vacation. But the next day, D., her husband and I went for a nature walk.
Part of the walk is through a tiny wood, and part of it runs along a harbor. As we walked along the path toward the Official End of the Walk, D. and her husband saw The Perfect Beach.
Half a mile away, across a sun-drenched stretch of uphill sand, is our Official Destination, a sweeping promontory overlooking the sea.
D. and her hubby wisely opt for the beach.
Being a Capricorn (who disdains astro-assumptions like, Capricorns, by nature, will stubbornly struggle up a rock), I stubbornly struggle up the rock.
When I literally reach the end of the road, I find myself alone at the edge of a country (or at least a little part of one). The cloudless blue sky stretches before me, building-free. Little kids on little sailboats tack on the water below me. Waves wave.
There is a simple rock bench to sit on here, at the Point of America. It is A Perfect Bench, engraved with the name of a woman who died in 1973, who endowed this sacred natural spot for meditation, and conservation.
What in the world could ever get me to move from this perfect, patriotic scene? I think, as I settle onto the bench and close my eyes in complete contentment.
Thiirrrrr! The sky replies. Thiiirrrrr! Flap-flap-flap.
The patch of blue sky over my head is now hosting a black military helicopter.
Being an optimist (as well as an astrologically challenged Capricorn), I try to make the best of things. If it wasn't for that thiiirrr! I remind myself, you could have sat on that bench, all ga-ga blissy forever. And who can afford to be Zenned-out like that in stressful times like these?
Which brings me back to dessert.
Vacation is over now. I'm back at my desk. The news news-es in. Politicians carp and run like salmon.
It's occurred to me that I didn't eat dessert while I was on vacation. I've started to wonder if humans' biological need for sweets decreases when life itself is sweet.
In dark times, therefore (as Jefferson never said), eating dessert is the best thing one can do -- along with taking a stand for what's true and good and right when you can.
I'd like to believe there will soon be a time when the American body politic no longer needs a Just Dessert.
But til then, I welcome any and all recipes.
(*The sticker read, "Dissent is the Highest Form of Patriotism." Which Jefferson never said, I've read. Which is another kettle of fish. Which leads me back to dessert.)