Lives in the Balance

Like a lot of people around the world, I’ve been following the story of the soccer team and coach trapped in the cave in Thailand.    In a time when we seem to be bombarded by bad news daily, the completed rescue of these young men so far away makes the Earth seem a little smaller and a little brighter today.   The heroism and fortitude of the rescuers has been amazing and inspiring.    I am in awe of their bravery.

Now that the team is out of the cave and recovering in the hospital, I can’t help but wonder how they got to such a dangerous place.   I’m always curious about the decisions that are made when bad things happen.  

Anyone that knows me can tell you that I’m not the most “adventurous” guy around.   I’m definitely a worse case scenario thinker.   It kind of drives my family crazy.    I don’t like risks or taking chances, especially when lives are at stake.    I am sure I miss out on a lot of fun because of this, and I’m sure that my girls have too, but I am my mother’s child.   I’m a worrier.

The story I hear about this 25-year-old assistant coach and his young soccer team is that they went exploring the cave after a game.   Apparently, there was a sign at the entrance of the cave that warned of potential flash floods.   That means that either the leader read the sign and ignored the danger, or he was oblivious to the sign and walked past it without reading.

This also means that he was either not fully aware of the cave and its dangers (meaning he had not done any prior research or had any general knowledge of it), or he knew all this and ignored it, therefore endangering not only himself, but his young team, who followed him.   He apparently did not check the weather or knew it was monsoon season.    He was completely unprepared for potential problems and did not have proper supplies or food to sustain them in case of problems.     He (and those that followed him) blindly and stubbornly entered the cave and kept going deeper and deeper until they realized they had reached a point of no return.  

Hundreds of people aided in the search and rescue, with dozens of workers and divers risking their lives in the flooded cave system to find and extract the team.   One diver lost his life in the effort.

I can’t help but see the blatant parallels in the leadership, lack of skills and general knowledge with our current national situation.      There was no sense of the great responsibility required.    Lives were at stake, yet the most dangerous path was chosen.   The unbelievable arrogance of saying, “follow me, I know what I’m doing,” despite knowing very little.

At what point, I wonder, did the young team begin to question his leadership?   Did they ever?  Even when they were trapped miles deep in total darkness with waters rising that could soon choke out their lives…did they ever say, “why did we follow you here?” 

Fortunately, they have lived to see the sun again, but only because of the sacrifice of others.    I hope they learn from their mistake, and so does the world; that following someone who doesn’t know what they are doing, and leads without the best interests of those following, is not only foolish, but very dangerous.

Livermush

I’ve come across some odd menu items as I’ve travelled to different areas of the country.   I find it interesting that each region has specific local delicacies that those folks consider staples, while the rest of us might not consider eating them at all.    This weekend I was in the Highlands of North Carolina, just outside of Boone, and as I looked at the breakfast menu of a local diner, I came across a selection I had never seen before.    Along with other breakfast meat options, such as “bacon,” “sausage,” “ham” and “steak,” was a listing for “Livermush.”

For those not aware (like me), I have learned that “livermush” is made up of pig liver, cornmeal, sage, black pepper, and apparently anything left from the pig after all the good stuff is taken.   This is pureed into a “mush” and formed into a loaf, where it is then refrigerated until it “congeals.”   When the “meat” is needed, a slice is carved off the loaf, then fried and served for breakfast, or possibly on a sandwich.  

Not to offend those raised on “livermush,” but whether separate or combined, the words, “liver,” “mush,” and “congeal” are not in the least bit appetizing to me.    

Now, anyone who looks at me can tell that I am not a stickler for healthy food options.   I’ll choose hot wings over a salad any day of the week.   However, I do have my limits, and “livermush” is over the ridge and out of viewing distance of the line I won’t cross.    That being said, I did eat Spam when I was a kid.   In fact, I have very pleasant memories of Mom frying Spam to a golden brown, covering it with a slice of Velveeta cheese (which would probably do wonders for a slab of “livermush”) and serving it up for summer lunch.    Unlike many meals Mom fixed that I have attempted to recreate as an adult, I have not attempted the “fried Spam and Velveeta sandwich.”   I just don’t think I would have her magic touch.

Spam is probably a first cousin to “livermush,” as is the northern relative “Scrapple,” which I have also not sampled.   Scrapple has similar content, and it can be argued whether the choice of the word “Scrap” in its name is better than “liver” or “mush.”    I am on the fence.

I remember when I was a kid and Dad bought some hogs to have prepared for hams, bacon, sausage, etc.     After they were slaughtered and processed, he came home from the butcher with a box of hog heads.   This was fascinating to me at the time, and I watched with morbid curiosity as he boiled them and worked to remove the meat.   He chopped up what needed to be chopped after it came off the bone and added various spices and vinegar to make what he called “souse,” but which is also known by the more unappetizing name “head cheese.”   He talked about having watched his Dad make it and I’m sure at the time I thought, “someday, I’ll teach my children how to do this.”   One bite of the finished product was all I needed to swear off on “souse” for the rest of my life, and therefore end the dream of sharing the making of “head cheese” with my kids.   I know they are grateful.

I must admit, however, that I have come across a local “delicacy” that is so unappealing to me that I would choose “Livermush,” or “Scrapple,” or probably even “head cheese” rather than partake.    When I visited Rochester, New York with a co-worker several years back, the locals insisted that we try what is lovingly known to them as a “garbage plate.”     In appearance, it actually does look like the plate used to scrape all the leftovers together to transfer to the trash. 

Built on a base of macaroni salad, home fries and baked beans (one on top of the other); meats are chosen to add layers, including hamburgers, fish, ham, chicken tenders, red hot dogs or white hot dogs, and then topped with mustard, onions and hot chili sauce.   If you say to yourself (as I did initially), that you like some of those things separately, so it might not be so bad, then you will probably find yourself unprepared (as I was) for the nauseating visual of the garbage plate that they proudly present to you.

I poked at it with my fork for a while before giving up and deciding that my “garbage plate” needed to go home to the garbage.   My co-worker was braver and had a “when in Rome” attitude that pushed him to persevere and taste the full “Rochester Garbage Plate” experience.    He spent most of his evening in his hotel room sick, and soon after converted to a Vegan life-style that he continues to this day.   

I guess we all have our food eccentricities.    When I married Connie, she was shocked to learn that I grew up eating Chili mixed with spaghetti noodles.    I’m sure this was a poor family way of making the food go further, but I’ve also been a strong believer that adding pasta (or cheese) to almost anything makes it better (unless it’s a “garbage plate,” which is a concept that cannot be saved).  

I can’t help but wonder what kind of things we eat now that will be strange to my grandchildren and great grandchildren.  In the meantime, I’ll stay on the lookout for local delicacies, and if they don’t have the words “liver,” “mush” or “garbage” in the name, I might even give them a try.

Further reading, for those with strong stomachs:

 Livermush

 Scrapple

Head Cheese

Garbage Plate