Quest for Ambrosia
Ambrosia. In classical mythology it was meant to be the food of the Gods and those who partook of it would become immortal. In today’s world it has become to mean any food especially delicious to taste and smell. Also, a desert made of oranges, coconut and/or pineapple. Or a soft rock group popular late in the last century.
Food, without it we die, period. Too much and we become one of the, over fifty percent of the U.S. population that are overweight. Food can be a source of enjoyment and celebration, or a way to find comfort and consolation in times of stress or sorrow. It can even be given as a gift for a holiday or accomplishment.
As for myself, I confess and plead guilty to being a few pounds above target weight for someone of my age and stature and enjoying an occasional indulgence of culinary temptations and treats. Ok, let’s face it, I like to eat, and I deny myself very little. But daily trips to the gym and moderation of intake have kept my weight, as well as my glucose, in check and my doctor happy.
The search for the elusive ambrosia has been a destination for many trips on the motorcycle by my wife and I. We have dined on the exotic and the common. In places ornate (but not too ornate) and places that are best described as “repulsive”. Both types have served us delicacies and disasters that mask their façade. Though we have had some delicious meals, we have yet to find ambrosia.
A large portion of the many thousands of miles, trekked each summer by motorcycle, have been ridden to some type of eatery. Whether it’s hundreds of miles, or just around town. North, south, east, or west.
Lately we have discovered a small hole-in-the-wall place southwest of us, in the collage town of Slippery Rock, called “Elephant 8”. It serves Asian dishes of mixed types that has us going back.
The other side of the coin had us hungry and in search of a restaurant, this past summer, whose name we could not remember, but we were determined to find.
After a failed search of over a hundred miles and a hunger that demanded sustenance, we rode to a nearby Italian restaurant that was directed to us by Judy’s cell phone.
Outside the restaurant was a wood fired oven filling the air with smoke and an aroma that was reminiscent of “hunt’n camp” many years ago.
After we were seated inside, the menu proudly proclaimed the pizza and stromboli’s were cooked in the outside wood oven.
Our hunger now was at its most volatile and a wood-fired stromboli was the only thing that would fill the void.
Our wait for the wood flavored Italian entrée was a short one and we had just barely finished our salads when the waitress brought it to our table.
It was dark and had a hard shell that could have been used as bullet proof armor. Inside, the dough was undercooked and raw and after a polite protest we were given an apology by the cook with the explanation that the oven had over heated. Our hunger had overruled any thought of returning the hard dough and we ate what we could.
When we finished, we paid for our meal, understanding that things don’t always turn out as planned, and we were given a ticket for a free meal the next time we go back. If we ever do.
Just days ago, I preformed my yearly ritual of washing the bike and storing it for the winter so our quest for Ambrosia will continue next year.
It’s that time of the year when the deer are in rut and in search of mates. All the while hunters, hoping to harvest their own form of Ambrosia, are pushing them all through the woods and out onto the roadways. It’s a dangerous time to be on two wheels with Pennsylvania being a leading state for road kills. Body shops are always booked solid from now until after December.
I too will join the legions of hunters in pursuit of the white-tailed deer. But not with the enthusiasm of my younger self. It’s not the harvesting of a deer that I have lost enthusiasm for. My Dad once told me that “taking a deer is the easy part. The work starts after it’s down.” He was right….
Long Lonesome Highway 