Writing exercise 7
The prompt for today is simple and singular:
-Literally just tell me about a time you had dinner.
The challenge with this sort of writing is often to persuade yourself that it might matter, that anyone might care. You might worry about being grandiose, or pretentious, or inane. Tom Wolfe didn’t have that problem. Hunter Thompson didn’t have that problem. You don’t have that problem either, because I’m literally telling you to do it. That’s the exercise.
~~~~~~~
The Meal
Eight of us gather each year.
Leaving tomorrow about noon to drive to an undisclosed location in eastern Oregon. To meet up with some good friends, our annual Memorial Day gathering. One of us found a private campground, and we should have it all to ourselves. This is truck and car camping, no hiking in weight. We're all old. We will be one usual member short as he is recovering from surgery. But two new people have been invited.
These are all older veterans that don't want to be around the mass triumphalism that has become Memorial Day. We will eat too much, tell too many stories, maybe drink a bit too much. But it will be free of dress uniforms and political grandstanding. These men and women don't have time for your “thank-you-for-your-service.” This is not their day; they all came home.
The big meal is the highlight of the trip. A bit of a competition. Done without kitchens, over fire. Each has a special dish. Carefully prepared, planned, and always surprising. The talk is constant. Full of humor and rough plain talk. Veteran talk. Full of acronyms, mispronounced place names. Yet behind the conversation is a deep regret and resignation that each did not do more.
To serve has many meanings here. To serve a cup of venison chili. Or to visit the wounded in a veterans hospital. To train and fight at the limit of your capability. We sit in camp chairs, receiving, being served. Each in turn. Spinning a story of a dish made by hand. Assembled by an unspoken shared experience.
Good food is not a recipe to be reproduced. No plan survives serving the meal. This is not a metaphor for some grand idea. We are not philosophers. Just campfire cooks. Remembering those that once were, and noticing today, what is.
.
The prompt for today is simple and singular:
-Literally just tell me about a time you had dinner.
The challenge with this sort of writing is often to persuade yourself that it might matter, that anyone might care. You might worry about being grandiose, or pretentious, or inane. Tom Wolfe didn’t have that problem. Hunter Thompson didn’t have that problem. You don’t have that problem either, because I’m literally telling you to do it. That’s the exercise.
~~~~~~~
The Meal
Eight of us gather each year.
Leaving tomorrow about noon to drive to an undisclosed location in eastern Oregon. To meet up with some good friends, our annual Memorial Day gathering. One of us found a private campground, and we should have it all to ourselves. This is truck and car camping, no hiking in weight. We're all old. We will be one usual member short as he is recovering from surgery. But two new people have been invited.
These are all older veterans that don't want to be around the mass triumphalism that has become Memorial Day. We will eat too much, tell too many stories, maybe drink a bit too much. But it will be free of dress uniforms and political grandstanding. These men and women don't have time for your “thank-you-for-your-service.” This is not their day; they all came home.
The big meal is the highlight of the trip. A bit of a competition. Done without kitchens, over fire. Each has a special dish. Carefully prepared, planned, and always surprising. The talk is constant. Full of humor and rough plain talk. Veteran talk. Full of acronyms, mispronounced place names. Yet behind the conversation is a deep regret and resignation that each did not do more.
To serve has many meanings here. To serve a cup of venison chili. Or to visit the wounded in a veterans hospital. To train and fight at the limit of your capability. We sit in camp chairs, receiving, being served. Each in turn. Spinning a story of a dish made by hand. Assembled by an unspoken shared experience.
Good food is not a recipe to be reproduced. No plan survives serving the meal. This is not a metaphor for some grand idea. We are not philosophers. Just campfire cooks. Remembering those that once were, and noticing today, what is.
.