Breaking Onions

On Saturday I got up out of my little tent early, awakened by the sadistic crowing of a rooster in a coop right next to the campground. The sky was already brightening over the pastures beyond the fence and the jagged outline of the Wallowas beyond.

I knew from the conference schedule that they were serving breakfast at the lodge, and that it was included in my weekend package, but I decided instead to stop on the way in the little town of Joseph, which is named after the famous Nez Perce chief, who is buried only a few miles away. I wanted to contribute to the local economy as part of my experience there, and also to meet some locals.

Joseph is the kind of farming town you find in a lot of places across the West near scenic mountain areas that tourists have discovered. Its one-time exclusive agricultural character has partially given way to the influence of summer and winter visitors. For now, most of the businesses in town are still oriented to farming and everyday life, but the main street has acquired an upscale boutiqueish feel from the infiltration of shops, restaurants, and real estate agents that serve the out-of-towners. It was easy to conjecture that in twenty more years, the agricultural businesses might well be displaced entirely to somewhere else in the valley.

I parked in front of a cafe on the main street. The lit neon sign said "open" but all the windows and even the front door were shaded with thick curtains as a shield against the morning sun. I wasn't sure the door would open until I pulled the handle.  I parted the heavy curtains on the other side to step inside, as if going back stage at a theater.

The interior was plain to the point of barrenness, in the manner of a typical small-town rural cafe. The sound of a pleasant fan filled the room. About half a dozen diners sat at the simple tables eating. All of them were obvious locals. The cafe was part of the old Joseph, not the new.

I took a seat by the window and a few minutes later the waiter---either Asian or Indian, I couldn't tell, came out smiling and offered me coffee and a laminated menu. I looked it over and ordered the bacon and cheese omelette, as I was hungry. For the sides I chose hash browns and toast. I typically might eat only part of those, since I try to stick with a mainly protein diet lately. The paleo regimen seeems to work very well for me.

As the waiter left with my order, he passed by another table where an older couple was just finishing their meal. He remarked to the man that "it's looks like you'll have to take some of that home."

Ample portions, I thought to myself. I won't go hungry this morning.

My order came back quickly. When the waiter put it down in front of me, I got a big kick of out the spectacle that greeted me. The three-egg omelette was of normal size---it alone would have sufficed for my breakfast. But it was dwarfed on the plate, crowded to the side by the enormous mountain of hash browns. I'd never been served more potatoes at a restaurant before in my life.

I thanked the waiter and began eating my omelette. I knew there was no chance I was going to be able to put any size dent in the hash browns, let alone eat the whole thing. They looked like they would fill my entire stomach for the day. I could already picture the kitchen staff scraping most of them off into the garbage.

At one time in my life this would have caused me sorrow, in some way that anthropomorphized the potatoes and their tragic uneaten end. But I'd long since gotten over that kind of petty guilt over my personal consumption. It was what it was.

Instead the idea of so many potatoes being served to me, right near the potato-growing regions of eastern Oregon, gave me a warm feeling, as I were participating in a festival of local agriculture abundance, in the way I wish the Portland Rose festival had been.

The overly ample portions reminded me of when, a few years back, I was driving across nearby southern Idaho for the first time, on the back roads and two-lane highways through the farming region around Boise.

It was autumn and I noticed the large number of heavy trucks that I passed, all with open beds heaped with thousands of recently harvested potatoes and giant onions. They are piled on the truck with a minimum of effort to keep them secured, and inevitably stray ones fall off the heap and tumble onto the road, where some get smashed by the tires of other vehicles.

It's obviously a tolerable waste for the farmers and a minimal cost to the agricultural industry, otherwise they wouldn't let it happen. But it has a curious side effect, at least for the giant onions. When they get smashed down into an exploded pancake form on the asphalt, their sweet fresh aroma fills the air,  and you can get a deep nostril-full of it, even when you are just driving by with your car window rolled down.

When I smell that now, it carries me far away. I imagine myself in France, with my friends, gathering in the kitchen in the late afternoon to start the meal. It always begins with the smell of fresh-cut onions.