Whittoons

(Excerpt from Myanmar aka Burma page…)

An earthquake hit the area of Bagan once again in August 2016 just before my wife Michele and I were to take a cruise up the Ayeyarwady River from Yangon to Mandalay.  Not only that, but massive flooding had just swept through the river delta dislocating thousands of farmers and inundating hundreds of villages.  Reservations were made and it was our intent to make the most of it.  We were going to see the dawn come up across the river at least and hoped that on the road to Mandalay we might gain some insight into the transformation being undertaken by the country under the direction of Aung San Suu Kyi.

This would be my first cruise.  I had been to sea on a freighter in the South Pacific so this was not to be my first time onboard a ship. But the idea of cruises had always given me pause.  Well actually, I hated the idea.  Aren’t most cruise passengers old and grey?  Isn’t being waited on, provided for and shuffled around tourist sites for the geriatric crowd. By buying into this tour, wasn’t I giving up on a level of excitement and risk that made my past World Traveling so invigorating and enlightening.  Taking chances and traveling with mindful spontaneity offered so many opportunities to fall into new and unusual circumstances.   [And these were my concerns prior to COVID-19!]

But tour brochures were flooding our mailbox and I finally turned a page and found the trip to Myanmar that could still ignite a passion and have a touch of romantic allure.  Only three years ago my wife and I had traveled overland through SE Asia for six weeks on our own…thanks to extraordinary planning and booking by Michele.  And in June we had traveled for almost three weeks across Cuba, again by Michele designing our own tour.  So by booking the cruise we were not accepting new limitations on our imagination, we were just taking precautions when health could be a concern and going to an “exotic” location where regular travel is still a challenge.  We had watched Bourdain taking the train from Yangon to Mandalay and it looked excruciating.  I had taken that route in 1973 and it certainly had deteriorated.   We could search for epicurean delights without dislocating our spine.

Excerpt from my Cuba: the Loveliest Land page on Whittoons.world-

Walking down a dark hallway, we turned a corner into an apartment where three men sat on a couch. Flight response was getting stronger since fight was out of the question.  Now was the time to plan exit strategies – Rapido!  In the back room, Gold Chain guy demonstrates the quality of the fine Cohibo cigars, rolling one cigar he pulls from the box showing no leaves falling out.  Then he blows into the end of the cigar proving god knows what – maybe the tightness of the roll.  The special deal is 250 CUCs for 24 cigars. I pose a look as if mulling over the generous offer all the while planning my escape in as cool a manner as possible.  I shake his hand and thank him profusely but confess I do not carry that sort of cash. (Actually, I was walking around with $300 in my money belt and my sweat was soaking the fabric.)

Once upon a time I was a Night Baker at the McKinley Park Hotel. Though the hours were odd – I sat down for ”dinner” when all the other staff were eating breakfast, I had the hotel kitchen all to myself through the long twilight hours of the Alaska summer nights. My job each evening was to make hundreds of biscuits for visitors catching the early morning bus to view Mt McKinley, and make quite a few tiny bread loaves for dinner guests.

I had been promoted to this position from dish washer when I let it slip that I had made bread in the past…but never on this massive scale. My previous job in the area had been pounding spikes as a gandydancer with an Alaska Railroad extra gang, so I did not mind the change. Less hazardous for sure.

I gave myself the title of Faker Baker since most of the time making bread entailed pulling frozen dough out of the freezer, cutting the tootsie roll like shapes and throwing each tiny loaf in bread pans and then into the sweat box. There they rose and I then baked the morsels for all the tourists in the dining room. Given our remote location, sometimes orders were delayed and I had to make the bread from scratch. I’d toss thirty pounds of flour, some water and a heaps of yeast into an enormous Hobart bowl and watch the massive rising eruption. It was an absolute pleasure to pound that swelling mass before the Hobart arm took over most of the kneading…and the exercise let out all the frustration I was feeling about an unobtainable love interest.

So now years later, the pleasure of bread making has returned as I bake for two. A neighbor donated sourdough starter from the Sea Wolf bakery on Stone Way and I plunged into the process, seeking training from various web sites. After several failures that were exceedingly heavy (not quite hard tack so edible but not pleasurable), my wife Michele took pity on me and ordered a scale, proofing basket and Dutch Oven. I found a web page (Pioneer Woman) with step by step photos that guided me to the successful loaf seen in the photo above.

It took a great deal of willpower to avoid cutting into that loaf before its time. But when it was ready, it was marvelous…with butter and a taste of wine.

Now it is up to me to care for my starter. Am I up for it? We shall see. We know a professional baker who visited the Northwest from Texas to take training near Edson…and it was the first time he had every left his starter. He had finally relented and trusted his wife to keep the culture alive and well. I do not care to be a slave to my starter but since we will probably not be traveling for a while, I can devote some time feeding my culture. Long Live Sourdough!