Elixirs of the Gods

Over my lifetime, I had amazing mystical experiences entailing food, drink, and physical contact. They are wonderfully erotic memories, surprising me in dreams.

As a young boy, my grandfather would cure my colds during harsh winters. Parents, nurses, pharmacists, and doctors had little effect as I suffered sore throats, stuffed noses, unbearable coughs, restless nights, and severe headaches. “Enough is enough,” my grandfather said, “I will cure you.” He would take me into our basement, whispering not to make noise. Fruit and vegetable preserves filled large, wooden cabinets stocked for a long winter. He would open a locked one filled with fruit preserves, behind which he hid his short, round bottles of peach brandy. He made it himself from white wine, strong peach juice, and his secret brew. He kept the lights off so no one would suspect we were there, especially my mother (his oldest daughter). He poured a small glass, good for four or five long sips. He told me to drink it fast, make no noise, and “never, ever tell your mother.” It was our secret. When I drank it, I swear I could feel the bottoms of my toenails. It “lit up” my throat, lungs, and stomach. And it cured me, almost. We would do this once a week until I was better. As a boy, I believed it worked. I still do.

“I died and went to heaven” was a common reaction to anything good when I was a boy. Being in a poor, ethnic New York community, more than one glass of milk at dinner was rare, as was more than one pair of shoes. My father always brought wonderful surprises into my young life. One was a visit to the local ice cream parlor, and I had my first milkshake—vanilla, of course. Pure and thick. He said it was “the food of the gods.” I believed him. Throughout my eighty-something life, I have had hundreds of thick vanilla milkshakes. Tradition is a good thing when it comes to a visit to heaven.

While visiting friends in southern France, we stayed for a week in their family’s historic farmhouse in a beautiful village near Mount Blanc. We met them when we opened our home to their family when her sister was married close by, and in exchange, they invited us to stay with them. She was American but married a Frenchman and lived in France for decades. It provided a unique opportunity to become immersed in French culture. At the end of our visit, her husband invited me to join him in their basement for a drink … a special liquor brewed historically by his French family. The basement had housed their cows during the winter. He led me to a small corner room with a tiny, locked cabinet. Only a single bottle was inside, along with a few small glasses. He held the bottle to a shaft of light entering a narrow, stone window. Its contents were amber in color with floating ingredients including some screws and branches. He poured two glasses to the very top, handed me one, and toasted our friendship and time together. “We drink together fast,” as he smiled. I did … and never, ever have I felt what I felt … indescribably powerful, reaching every part of my body, a syrup-like liquid coating my throat and stomach, toasting my brain, and altering my consciousness. Truly never, ever … or ever again. I was less in a daze and more in a trance as he cautioned me not to stand or walk. He laughed, as did I. After a few moments of silence, we stood, embraced, and bid each other farewell.

A friend recently extolled that “chocolate is God’s apology for broccoli.” I love accepting his apology frequently—any kind in any manner. My first taste as a boy was at Easter when the Easter Bunny delivered a small basket of 4-5 orange chocolate eggs. My parents cautioned me to eat only a few each day. I failed miserably. They took me to the Easter egg hunt at the Buffalo Zoo, and I searched for chocolate eggs with tons of other kids, lucky to find a few—one of God’s best creations.

I have summited many mountains in my lifetime. On climbs beyond a single day, I endeavored to pack fresh, green grapes. When setting up camp, I placed them in glacier snow over night. In the morning, I retrieved them and put them in an outer pocket of my backpack. They became my treat while climbing … crystalized, tasty, and accessible. Never have grapes tasted so good, especially under a hot sun with no breeze. I would raise nearly each one to an imagined god of the mountains in gratitude … silent prayers. In my sleep as an old man, I often dream about climbing mountains. I swear I can taste my grapes in the dark of night.

After five days of trekking the Inca Trail through a continuous rain forest filled with deep mud, dense foliage, hard rain, wind, and more than a few spiders, and the Andes Mountains above, I near my destination—Machu Picchu, one of the world’s extraordinary wonders. Going over Dead Woman’s Pass (13,828 feet) was a workout. It met my highest expectations. Trekking out a few days later, a few of us opt for an alternative route back, taking two days, to a small train station. Fortunately, the sun joined us, and we could strip our rain gear.

Unfortunately, our footpath (fussweg) was less marked, and we became a bit lost, wandering into a small village at nightfall amid a lively celebration filled with music and dance … and food. We were greeted warmly and invited to participate. We did. My two companions could speak Spanish and were more familiar with Peruvian culture than I. I clapped to the music and danced a bit poorly. Near the end of the evening, with an incredible star-filled universe above, we shared a mushroom stew in a small bowl with handles … warm and tasty. I noticed that most savored the stew, eating slowly and relaxing. I did the same. In a short while, I grew tired and spread out a blanket to rest. On my back, I noticed something peculiar … the stars were moving around slowly, fuzzy and clear, reflecting some faint colors. The gods were close. Magic mushrooms was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep. In the morning, I awoke in the same place with a colorful blanket over me, feeling well-rested, and my companions nearby. Villagers greeted us into the new day with buckets of water and bread. We bid them farewell but not without first revering our mystical time with them … and their gods.

Hiking high in the mountains, I seek freshwater streams flowing from glaciers. Cupping my hands for a drink is heaven. Over the years, I seldom use a water purifier, though one is in my pack. Risk is minimal in my mind, but truth begs to differ. Even so, mountain streams mesmerize me with their purity and rapid flow; rocks clearly along their bottom speak to me. Truth is, I have little patience for purification. When I see the water, I want to taste it immediately, feeling its essence in my hands and mouth. I sense the gods are nearby smiling … maybe sipping a little, too. One of my fondest memories is my young children sipping stream water below Collier Glacier in the Three Sister Wilderness fifty years ago.

There were many warm late summer afternoons when my spouse yearned to pick wild Oregon Blackberries. Fortunately, the best patch was on our country property south of Eugene. It was an entire acre with the best sunshine, soil, irrigation, and drainage. The berries were large, plentiful, and delicious. But the bushes were thick and thorny … and a short, uphill hike from our family home. Linda carried buckets, and I carried a ladder to lay over bushes to access the biggest and ripest berries. We believed they were superior to Marionberries, and we called them Fusselberries (named for my wife). We would spend hours picking, evidenced by berry stains, thorn scratches, and bruises. We exercised caution as black bears also liked them.

Pie and cobbler resulted in our family’s delight. No doubt that they were the food of the gods.