Growing up in the West, one hears a lot of stories about Native Americans: their tracking abilities, their benevolent and heroic use of the coup stick, their methods for scalping and for removing arrows, their metaphysical union with the natural world, their rain and sun dances, and their use of pigments and natural dyes, among many other things. But perhaps more than any other skill, one hears of the Native Americans' ability to use every part of the animals they hunted and killed. As a child I entertained myself by trying to imagine what, literally, you would have to do in order to use, literally, every part of an animal the size of a Volkswagen.
The hide, of course, would have many uses as a natural fabric. The muscles would be delectable on the spot, eaten raw, or after being sun dried, smoked or roasted. The blood would serve as a potent source of water and nutrients. The bones could be sharpened, or used as bats and clubs. The teeth would work handily as buttons or ornaments. The fat could be eaten, used for fuel, lubricant, or as waterproofing. Other than delicacies, the internal organs could be used for a variety of purposes, according to their shape and material composition. The intestines could be used as containers or as cord. The stomachs and bladder would serve admirably as canteens. The tendons and veins would make excellent rope or string. Nearly every remaining part -- the eyes, the tongue, the esophagus, the lungs, the spleen -- could be eaten; but to use every single part, to let nothing, literally, go to waste, would require not only an open mind and nimble imagination, but a kind of moral focus, a meditative obsessivity, in comparison to which our behavior as fanatics in the cathedral of excess stinks of flatulent laxness and degeneracy. Especially in the spans of poverty Ms Vidal and I cross through, I try to use everything in my kitchen. When I eat an apple I eat the seeds, the core and the stem. When preparing beets, I use the greens as well as the flesh. But still, my meditative obsessivity falters; I let Attention leak away into Distraction; Imagination fails under the furrowing tread of Habit.
Recently, I made a quick meal for Ms Vidal, who sat hungrily grumbling in the other room. We had, as usual, a scant variety of options in the larder. Determined to make something delicious, using available supplies, I set about in that thoughtless trance, the Zen-state, that fuels all creation. I cut up two zucchini, some cold chicken leftovers, and a stalk of green onion growing on the sill. I fried them at maximum heat in the cast iron, spooned them into a bowl, and seared a halved over-ripened peach -- enough past its prime to be garbage -- in the skillet, much as Mitch the Mexican used to do with tomatoes. The other half of the peach I sliced as best I could and gave them a quick turn in the skillet before folding them into the zucchini and chicken mix. I garnished the lot with the seared half peach, slices of cold feta and some paprika. This I served with a cold glass of white wine. Chief Joseph I am not, but I am trying.
