Over the years, in every postal station where I worked, there were many occasions on which different people brought treats. Local politicians brought doughnuts just before elections, for example. Those were very popular. I tried one once and the glob of fat, flour and sugar lodged about eight inches down my oesophagus and refused to budge for several days.
I was young, so I tried again on another occasion. I discovered that for some inexplicable reason, chocolate doughnuts sprinkled with coconut had no adverse effects on my system. I ate two. After that, to the end of my career, I never saw another chocolate doughnut in any variety box brought into the Post Office. Maybe the word got out that they were best.
Sometimes people would bring home-made cookies. I was given some fresh hot cookies after receiving my first physical chastisement with a belt as a three year old child, so I generally declined those particular emotional trigger treats. The juxtaposition of those two disparate elements was never lost on me over the years, i. e. ass-whipping and delicious chocolate chip cookies. Many years later, I read about how that very technique had been studied, perfected and employed by many unscrupulous people with several clever variations.
In time, like Pavlov's unfortunate dogs, a creature will come to feel a strong loyalty toward their oppressor. It is a type of cognitive dissonance that reminds me of a four hundred dollar per hour lawyer I hired once. The man had a big bowl of jelly beans on his desk. You could have as many as you wanted and you were encouraged to fill your pockets. Then he gave you the bill.
As an employee, I have always asked, “Did we come here to work or to eat?”
Some people brought wonderful healthy fruits and they usually disappeared quite rapidly. You should see how fast a few dozen posties can make a pile of watermelons disappear. Bagel day was a huge event and seemed to carry a special aura of its own. I've also seen people bring in everything from samosas to figs and Stollen to pomelos.
The corporation furnished on occasion, hamburgers, smoothies, mineral water and sausages. (Usually right after or right before an unusually heavy work-load.) I sometimes wondered if they had read some of Pavlov’s lab notes on the subject of altering human behaviour. In time, most letter-carriers figured out their own personal diet and tried to stick to it. Mine became modelled after that of a draft horse. A bag of oats in the morning before my run and an apple afterwards for a treat. Plenty of water and new shoes when required, rounded out my logistics.
After my first year delivering mail, I decided that it was my turn to bring in some treats. The neighbourhood postal stations were smaller back then and I only had to plan for thirty people. I racked my brain for culinary ideas. One day, I got my inspiration when I wasn’t even looking for it. I was on an East-side Vancouver route when I came upon the largest oak tree I’d seen since visiting an old plantation in Louisiana as a boy. This Canadian tree spread like Yggdrasil over an empty corner lot.
There are several varieties of oaks and each one has a distinct fruiting cycle. This tree was of a type that produces pecan-sized fruit once every two years. The entire lot was awash in beautiful, fat acorns. I examined several and found no worm holes. I rolled a smoke and set to work gathering them into my mail pouches.
I had one pouch half full when I saw an old woman nearby. She had been squatting and gathering acorns long before I got there. Our eyes met and she smiled. I went near and continued gathering acorns. She was an old Chinese woman and because my mother-in-law, Chun Ying had taught me some Cantonese, we spoke Cantonglish. I learned from her that rural Chinese people fed acorns to their pigs. Then they barbecued the pigs. She learned from me that Native Americans ate acorns and hunted deer. They also tanned the deer leather for their moccasins with the tannin from the acorns.
Over the next few evenings I shelled the acorns with a good knife and chopped the meat into a rough meal. When this was done, I made a screen sieve and set the mash under cold running water. The pure white tannin came out like milk. It was many hours before the wash was clear. That done, I spread the meal to dry on a sunny window ledge and the next day after work I roasted the meal gently to the point where I could grind it to flour between two flat stones.
Nearly a week after I had gathered them, I held in my hand a jelly jar of beige, even-grained, sifted, acorn flour. It was enough to make one loaf of bread. The myth that native peoples don't eat processed foods was busted! I decided that everything in my bread recipe had to come from trees. Thus, I sweetened it with pure maple syrup, moistened it with olive oil, added walnuts, pecans, filberts and a dash of cacao powder. After some cinnamon bark, nutmeg, fresh ground coffee, water, salt, baking soda and it was ready for the oven.
I watched through the oven window so as not to bake it a second too long. Everything went perfectly. I set the loaf to cool, wrapped it up in a cloth and took it to work the next morning. At a lectern where we punched the time clock by the door, I opened the cloth and sliced my Cherokee biscotti into as many pieces as possible. The first guy who happened by, grabbed a slice and took a big bite.
His face became an instant mass of lumpy red spots like he'd fallen asleep in a forest and used a fire ant's nest for a pillow. He explained that he had a tree-nut allergy. That was the first time I had ever heard the term. I apologized profusely and he explained that he carried his own medication. I removed the loaf to my own desk and shared it with only one other gal after giving her a thorough verbal screening for any allergies. She liked the bread but said it was “a bit dry.” I polished it off that day with gusto.
Last Winter, I figured it was time to try again. I waited until it was good and cold. I fried up a pound of thick-cut bacon, just so. I sat each raft on a paper towel and had them all in crispy clean layers in a large square metal cookie tin. There was a container of maple syrup for dipping and four big blocks of fresh yellow corn bread to go with it all. I put strong rubber bands over the box and set out for work.
The mercury was well in the minus and the ground was hard as stone. A perfect morning for a truly healthy snack. Out near my bus-stop stood a thirty foot tall cedar. As I waited for my bus, it crossed my mind that a variety of urban critters could likely smell my bonanza of pork, even wrapped as it was. Being so cold, they would likely be quite hungry.
As I smoked Drum and scanned the streets, I heard a stirring in the cedar tree about twenty feet up. I couldn't see through the thick foliage but sprigs of dry needles were raining down and something was chuffing. I clutched the bacon box and decided on several escape routes and wondered where was the damn bus?
The chuffing sound became two distinct sets of growls which rose to crescendos worthy of a Sumatran shadow puppet play. Whole snapped branches began to rain down with puffs of fur. Whatever was in conflict up there sure sounded serious. I stood with my eyes riveted on the tree. After several anxious moments, something fell from the green arboreal sanctuary and landed on the frozen ground. It was a raccoon of about twenty pounds and when the poor fellow hit the deck he sounded like a half deflated soccer ball being struck for a corner kick.
I was thinking that he must surely have ruptured something internal, when his opponent raced down the tree trunk, crossed over my feet to his fallen foe and ripped a big patch of fur out of his back. Then the attacker paused, looked at my tin and sniffed. That stopped hostilities long enough for the base-jumper to gain his feet and counter-attack. The bigger coon of the pair began to chase the smaller one down the street and their wicked snarls melted into the other sounds of the early morning ambience. My bus arrived before the coyotes came and I brought the bacon to work.
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