What the Bear Found in the Buckwheat

But first, a digression:


My dad (pictured above) has a few signature turns of phrase. There's "dreck," a nod to the Hutterish he heard grandma use on the phone with her mom for private conversations amid the chaos of seven children. Dad claims it means "dirt," and it does, along with things much dirtier, like smut and excrement. Only I didn't know that until Justin, who speaks some German, explained why it wasn't necessarily appropriate to trot that word out in polite company. When I confronted dad with this information, he was very noncommittal, which we all know is the next best thing to a straightforward confirmation.

There are others, too, but my favorite involves bears and buckwheat. Here's how it works: Say, for example, you beat out your arch rival at the Davidson County 4-H warm-up horse show one year. That victory might be celebrated for days with exclamations of "You sure showed her where the bear went in the buckwheat!" In this case what you've done is given your friend a good-natured schooling. Here's another example: An ex-boyfriend, after breaking your heart, suddenly decides he wants to undo what he calls this “terrible mistake.” Only you've moved on, and so you walk away, leaving him standing in the street, crying. This incident might upset you, but your dad will ponder it with relish, saying, as if he can't believe his good fortune, "You sure showed him where the bear went in the buckwheat." Only this time what you've done is flipped some poor sap the bird.

Make sense?

The beauty of this whole process is that the hows and whys and wheres can be planned and schemed for weeks, even months, in advance, in which case it becomes a rousing call to arms. Like the scenario below.

That’s me, circa 1990 something, with Sparkle (no I didn't name her), the 18-year-old horse that I got as a present for my eighth birthday. Sparkle is what we call an old-style Appaloosa, distinguishable by the massive build and barely there broom-like tail. These are what Appaloosas were like before being inundated with Quarter Horse bloodlines. Another distinct Appaloosa trait is an all-out, down-and-dirty pigheadedness.

In Sparkle's case this meant that every year she earned her previous owner a purple ribbon in trail (a class where horse and rider have to navigate obstacles that might be encountered along the trail, and some that never would) at the county 4-H horse show, which qualified her to move on to the state show in Huron. Only Sparkle then refused to go through the gate (that the rider had to open, ride through and close in less than 30 seconds, ideally without taking her hand off the handle). Failure to complete the task within the allotted timeframe meant automatic disqualification (and one of those shameful white ribbons).

Sure enough, my first year in 4-H, Sparkle and I purpled in trail at the county show. Unbeknownst to me, my dad, grandpa and uncle Kenny, who were all familiar with Sparkle’s state show track record, debated about what might be done to prevent a repeat performance. They concluded that Sparkle didn’t do well at the fair grounds in Huron because she didn’t care for the acoustics and feel of the indoor show rings in the Hippodrome or Beef Complex buildings, and though they, with the possible exception of my dad, agreed success was unlikely, they devised a month-long training regimen in a simulated state-show-like environment. (i.e. They set up a wooden gate in the quonset, which I had to practice over and over again, with a radio blaring in the background.)

In the end, Sparkle went through that gate like a trooper (that's a blue ribbon I'm holding), but then I didn’t expect her to do anything less than that because, to their credit, my trainer triumvirate didn’t reveal how poorly they thought things would turn out until after the fact. But for all their planning and scheming, I don’t know who showed whom where the bear went, but I suspect it was Sparkle that taught the lesson: A good horse like that will never push a rider beyond what she’s able to handle.

Unfortunately, my next horse wasn’t so generous. Pepper (again, not my choice of name) taught me the difference between dying and only having the wind knocked out.

I can’t tell you much more about the bear in the buckwheat than that. As for the phrase itself, preliminary research (per Google) indicates it may have originated in a Russian fairytale about a beekeeper and a honey-stealing, marauding bear. There’s treachery and drunkenness and vengeance involved, but I don’t know what happens because that darn Google cuts off the end! So now I’m going to have to resort to inter-library loan. (Also, I found there's a variant of the phrase in which one indicates where the bear made dreck, if you know what I mean, in the buckwheat, but that just doesn't have the same ring.)

In the meantime, you can get your buckwheat fix elsewhere. You won’t be sorry; I promise.

First, Bear in the Buckwheat Pancakes:

I got the recipe from the New York Times.

J. was skeptical at first, but has since deemed them "company" pancakes, meaning they're good enough for guests.

And then there's these:

Buckwheat Bear Butter Cookies, or Bear in the Buckwheat with Butter Cookes, or Bear in the Butter Cookies, or Butter, and Buckwheat, Too, Cookies.

I could go on, but I won't. Suffice it to say these cookies are way more wonderful than you could possibly imagine just looking at the ingredients on the page. Though some initial reaction to the first batch indicated they'd be even better with a good sprinkling of sugar on top.

You can find the recipe here, though its been featured on several other blogs as well.

ps--

My aunt took these pictures the winter of 1991 when Sparkle wintered with her horse, for company. When it comes right down to it, she wasn't exactly an attractive horse with her mangy tail and cataracts, but she made a very awkward little girl feel graceful. And in these, you can see why.

Some Context

When I was in college I had so many words, so many ideas constantly demanding my attention that I filled journal upon journal besides writing all the papers and projects required of an English major. And then I went to graduate school and after that I got a job as an editor for an online publication and though the ideas still come, I lose them because at the end of the day, my words are all used up. The difference, I'm sure, involves all the other commitments on my time that come with being an adult -- and I know I’m not alone: a good friend of mine who completed a master's program in poetry two years ago hasn't written a single line since completing her thesis. We both agree that all we need is a little discipline to help us follow through on our good intentions.

And while I'd describe my life as fairly orderly, and even disciplined in some regards, that may be the biggest difference between my mom and me, at least when it comes to the kitchen. She's neat and orderly, washing dishes and utensils as she goes to prevent a big messy backlog at the end. I just stack them in the sink -- or by the sink. She follows a recipe to the letter, reading back through at the end to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. (The one time, at least to my knowledge, that she didn't do this, she forgot the sugar in the pumpkin pies she made for her ladies' Bible study and at the last minute had to remake all eight of them using, horrors, frozen pie crust -- but that's another story for another day). I improvise and substitute and it drives her nuts, especially as she is an alpha cook. (I have a lot to say about this, but it will have to wait for another day, too.)

When I was in high school, we would get into epic fights in the kitchen, usually while I was baking for the county 4-H Achievement Days. She'd hover with a ruler (I'm not even exaggerating for the sake of a good story, as other members of my family are wont to do), measuring how much batter was in each muffin tin, how big I was shaping the buns, if the loaves met the size specified in the recipe, and I would just lose it.

You must understand, though, that my mom is one of the best cooks I know and that my success at achievement was a direct reflection on her reputation. Achievement days are a three-day event: All the entries -- from livestock to visual arts to the various categories of baked goods -- are judged on the first two days. On the third day, the exhibit halls are opened to the public (mostly moms and grandmas come) and the whole thing culminates with a barbeque, usually pork or beef, though there was the unfortunate sheep incident (where everyone complained) that my dad still talks about (because he was on the fair board and let some of the mothers who wanted a healthier alternative line up the sheep and the man who barbequed/ruined it).

My brother, who is five years older than I am, made waffle cookies -- similar to these; I'll post the real recipe when I can find it -- his first year in 4-H (when he was 8) and he earned a white ribbon (which means disqualification!), a disgrace he has yet to live down. It was a technicality -- something about a frosted cookie being entered in a category for unfrosted cookies -- but all these years later, my mom has not forgotten. All that to say, my mom really had more at stake than I did in this thing and it was shameful of me to provoke her by refusing to level that tablespoon of cinnamon with a knife. (If you're reading mom, know that I'm sorry.)

Now that I'm older and, I'd like to think wiser, sharing a kitchen with my mom is much easier, as long as I remember my place. And, for her part, she trusts me more. But mostly I think it's because we no longer have to deal with achievement-day baking and the approval of the old home economics teachers the county extension agent would round up to judge it.