The Virtue of Savoring

'Is is very shameless to be so certain and so expensive?', she smiled at him inquiringly.
'It's a virtue, and anyway it's only a good plain wholesome meal.'  He turned to the maitre d'hotel. 'And bring plenty of toast'.
'The trouble always is,' he explained to Vesper, 'not how to get enough caviar, but how to get enough toast with it.'....
'That is not a well-known brand,' Bond explained to his companion, 'but it is probably the finest champagne in the world.'  He grinned suddenly at the touch of pretension in his remark.
'You must forgive me,' he said.  'I take a ridiculous pleasure in what I eat and drink.  It comes partly from being a bachelor, but mostly from a habit of taking a lot of trouble over details.  It's very pernickety and old-maidish really, but when I'm working I generally have to eat my meals alone and it makes them more interesting when one takes trouble.'
Vesper smiled at him.
'I like it,' she said.  'I like doing everything fully, getting the most out of everything one does.  I think that's the way to live.'    (Casino Royale, Ian Fleming)

Some time ago, I was listening to the sports radio talk show Mike & Mike, and they got into one of those inane, nothing-really-to-do-with-sports side topics for which they are renowned... the topic was, essentially:  "Does cheesecake taste the same when you take it home from the restaurant, or does it taste better there at the table."    Mike Greenburg was taking the position that the cheesecake tastes better at the restaurant, and Golic was saying he was nuts.. that, as long as it wasn't too long before you ate the cheesecake, there was no difference in the taste just because you were eating it from the takeout container over your kitchen sink.

It was fun to listen to them discuss this, and of course, the scope of it ranged all over, including the virtue of eating fast food at the eatery versus in the car; indeed, they did an admirable job of covering all that is truly important in the culinary lives of busy American families.  I was amused by this fun repartee by two of my favorite radio personalities.

And yet, later that day, I had the occasion to be dining alone at Pei Wei, one of my favorite restaurants, and, it being a temperate evening, I chose to dine at one of the outside tables.  This particular restaurant is in a suburban commercial setting, so the vista is not necessarily one of natural beauty, but it still provided a nice environment in the settling twilight, and ample opportunities for people watching to intersperse with reading from my book as I dined.

I was midway through my steak teriyaki bowl when I was struck by how particularly good it tasted to me that evening... and I recalled the radio show bit from earlier in the day.  Setting my book aside for the moment, I continued eating and concentrated on all my senses, and I became convinced that I was registering a singularly keen enjoyment of the food not just because of the food itself, but because of the entire experience I had afforded myself on a fine Texas evening.

In other words, the setting did matter.  A lot.

As I thought about this phenomenon more, I recalled the passage quoted above from Casino Royale, and the deep pleasure that Bond takes in ordering a fine meal and savoring it.  In his case, I think one could definitely argue that the presence of an exquisitely beautiful woman across the table from you makes a meal infinitely more enjoyable.  (I can attest to this after having had my Valentine's date with Allison Sunday night!)

Food is very sensual, in the truest sense of the word.  It can truly engage us in all five of our senses, and when we partake of it in such a way that we allow them to fully engage, I think it does change the amount of pleasure we get from what we eat.   That night at Pei Wei, I was eating the very same dish I always order there.. and the logical part of my mind knew that it was pretty much the same concoction that it always was;  but there was just something, almost indefinable, about the way it tasted that evening.

And I knew what that was. The delightful environment in which I was dining, with all its sensory input, was enhancing my sensory enjoyment of my meal.  Greenburg was right-- it made a difference where and how the food was being eaten... it made it taste better.

Will I be able to dine like James Bond for all my meals?  No, neither in expense nor time;  the demands of our lives dictate that sometimes that Chick-fil-a sandwich has to be eaten in the car on the way to the next item in the family calendar.   But, that day I resolved to enjoy my meals as much as possible.

There is a virtue in savoring a good meal.  Find a beautiful woman to share it with (or whatever applies to thee), take the meal outside if possible, and even bring a good book if that's your thing... and take your time, allowing this fine world to enhance the taste of your repast.

Savor it.

My Grandpa's Shop

(Note:  I recently attended the funeral of an uncle, the last surviving member of my mother's immediate family.  He was laid to rest in the same West Texas cemetery as my grandparents.   About a week or so later, I happened to be reading through one of my older journals and came across the following piece, written in November of 2001.  I have chosen not to edit nor revise it, even though it sorely needs it-- but at the time, the words flowed from my pen to the page of my notebook in a rush, and I have decided to recapture that here.   It is very long, and I don't expect many of my 4-5 readers to even read it, but after the death of the last member of this part of my family, I found it cathartic to type it in here and post it.)

This weekend, I have had occasion to go into my grandfather's shop for the first time in several years.   My grandfather's shop is in a two-car garage that has never housed a motor vehicle in my living memory.  It does have a carport out front, a carport that I spent some autumns on top of, sweeping off the ripened pecans that had fallen from the majestic tree that spread its limbs over the carport and my Grandpa's shop.

With a certain amount of misgiving, I inserted the key into the lock and turned the handle.  The door slides up easily, despite the age of the building, sliding up on runners that my Grandpa undoubtedly oiled over the years.  Walking inside, I am taken aback by the emptiness, the devastating space inside.

A few years ago, after the last of several mishaps caused by the fey mixture of old age & power tools, my grandfather auctioned off all his tools.  It was a necessary move, one that would prolong my Grandpa's physical life, but was also the beginning of the deterioration of his ethos, his raison d'etre.

You see, my Grandpa was a carpenter.  He was other things as well:  Christian, husband, father, cotton farmer, and owner of the only coin-operated laundry in the small West Texas town they called home.  But first and foremost, he was a carpenter.  His greatest love was working with wood, creating lovely objects both large and small.  So ingrained was his love of wood that he would return from vacations with exotic woods he had acquired from all over the country.  He would be like a young boy, full of anticipation on Christmas morning, already envisioning what he might make from this piece of wood.

Grandpa is a man who likes to serve the Lord by helping others, and he found ways to use carpentry to do this as well, such as making wooden cross necklaces for the acolytes at his church.  After their retirement, Grandpa and Grandma traveled around the country, doing mission work for the church.  Grandpa took his tools and went from project to project, restoring and repairing churches, any place where the church had need of his skills.

But during his travels, the shop was still there, populated with the crucial needs of a fine woodworking craftsman.  I had a tumultuous relationship with this shop.  I loved going out there with Grandpa, and he taught me things, things no one had ever taught me before.  As a visiting grandson, however, I was often conscripted into cleaning up the shop.  Woodworking generates a lot of sawdust, and Grandpa had not invested in a sawdust collection system for his shop.  Unless you call a floor, a broom, a shop vac and a grandson a system.  It was a matter of certainty, regular as clockwork-- shortly after my arrival from out of town, I would be enjoined to clean up the shop.

I didn't always like it at the time, but upon later reflection as an adult, it was a fair trade.  Grandpa taught me the value of a job well done, and the joy of making something with my own hands.  I learned how to fun it was to touch a gouge tool to a piece of wood turning on the lathe, watching the wood shavings fly as you shaped that piece of wood.  There is something magical about having a tool in your hands that, properly applied, can make wood seem as soft as butter.

He taught me to tie knots, and build beautiful chessboards, and how to be safe in the shop.  He lectured me often on how to properly use tools and especially power tools, so I could do so with a lesser risk of injury.

And then one day, Grandpa forgot his own lessons.  While using a table saw, he did not use a "push stick", and his hand became caught in the blade.  Except by the grace of God, he would have died.  He and Grandma live in a small town far from a trauma center.  It is a long helicopter ride to the nearest hospital that can deal with such a devastating injury.  He lost several fingers on that hand, and the recovery took a long time.  He truly was lucky to be alive.

After that incident, Grandpa would try to work in the shop, but the loss of functionality in the hand led to more minor accidents, as well as a diminished craftsmanship.  The artistry of wood was still in his mind and soul, but his hands could no longer make his visions into reality.

His family worried about him.  We knew another major accident could be the death of him, and many of us, myself included, wondered whether he should be in the shop at all.  But deep in my heart, I knew that woodworking was my Grandpa's essential fire, and I feared the day that fire might be extinguished.

Grandpa eventually made the decision himself.  He arranged for one of his sons to auction off all of his tools, and my Grandpa ceased to be a carpenter.

I tried to purchase some of the tools, but they went for much more than I could afford to pay at the time.  In some ways, it is sad to see the implements that helped define a man's life sold to the highest bidder.  Such things are sometimes better served and respected by giving them away.  But this is a real world and full of real needs, real relationships, and real emotions, good and bad, and sometimes the most noble way is not at all the most practical way.

And so the auctioneer calls, the bidders bid, and when it is all over, they back up the pickups into the carport and they take my Grandpa's tools.

And now I stand here today, in the doorway of this shop, and the emptiness is almost frightening.  The table saw, the planer/joiner, the lathe, the bandsaw-- they are all gone.  There is no trace that they ever existed, save for my exacting memory of precisely where they stood.  I pause in contemplation, overcome with grief and pity for my Grandpa.  If this shop can bring forth such vibrant emotions in me, how deep they must drive into him, the master who ran this shop.  I was but his apprentice, and the emptiness of this shop fills me with great sadness.  I cannot truly empathize with the pain of a master carpenter whose shop and tools are gone, never to return.

I hurry to finish my errand, to close this door and return to the house.  But as I do so, I understood both life and my Grandpa a little better.

I understood why he is more withdrawn.  A life's love has been taken from him by the ravages of old age, and the thing that for him defined him as a man, he can no longer do.

I also understand that this is what life is.  We cannot escape the flow of the river, and while it may wind in unexpected ways, we cannot reverse the current that always pushes us closer to the day we meet our Lord.

All we can do is to ensure that we left the river a better place than we found it.  That we beautify it with our works, our words, and our relationships with our fellow travelers.

And as I close the door on the shop, shutting out that hateful emptiness, I know that my Grandpa has done that.  He is nearing the end of the river, but the man that he is, the master who used this shop, used his skills and his love to make the world a better place.

I think of all the children from his church who have a wooden cross of their own, beautifully crafted.  The churches and camps around the country that were renovated by his hand, and are still being used to serve and worship the Lord.  The beautiful pieces that I own and cherish.

The true gift he leaves me, though, are the lessons he taught me, many of them learned right here in this shop.  Like any two people, we have occasionally had our differences.  But I would count it as all joy if my grandsons someday would feel about me as I feel about my Grandpa, and those feelings were often fired and tempered, shaped and moulded, finished and refined, in my Grandpa's shop.