"Ya. Meat."
The quote above is one of the most oft-quoted vonB family phrases.
Yet I cannot lay claim to it - it is from a Nepali friend of our friend Brian.
The story goes that. . .
(with a few omissions, inaccuracies and minor embellishments)
(for which I will never be asked to submit work to the Oprah book club)
(and I can live with that)
(Really)
. . .Brian decided, as his 50th birthday present to himself, he would join a group and hike to the base camp of Mount Everest, something he had long wanted to do.
The group was quite a mishmash of characters: leaders, a veritable UN of hikers, and assorted sherpas. As is Brian's way, he quickly befriended the sherpas - these were the guys doing the lion's share of the duties, and Brian seems to be drawn towards the honest, humble and hardworking.
There was once particular fellow that Brian seemed to spend a lot of time with, and between them, they developed a method of broken-English/pantomime/point-and-make-faces communication that served both of them quite well.
Without fail, every meal everyone ate was rice and some sort of vegetable.
Rice for breakfast.
Rice for lunch.
Rice for dinner.
On about the 5th day, though, there was an added bonus at dinnertime. Something vaguely protein-ish in nature was perched atop their rice.
Brian went over to his sherpa buddy, pointed at the food in the bowl, and said "Dude, what's up with this?" Questioning look on face, shoulders shrugged.
Sherpa smiled beatifically and kept on keeping on.
Brian continued, "So is it goat?"
No response.
"Is is some sort of field animal you found while we were hiking?"
Nothing.
"What kind of meat is this?"
Finally, the sherpa's eyes lit up; acknowledgment.
The magic word had been articulated.
Sherpa looked at Brian, pointed to the bowl and said, "Ya."
"Meat."
'Nuff said.
Maybe sometimes it's better not to know the specifics.
After hearing this anecdote, the vonB's began to incorporate it into any meal where we sat around the table, silent; totally focussed on the food we were digging into like cavemen around the fire. (or hyenas on the velt.)
Amid the smicking and gnawing and smacking, one of us will look up and at each other, and grunt out, "Ya. Meat."
Yet I cannot lay claim to it - it is from a Nepali friend of our friend Brian.
The story goes that. . .
(with a few omissions, inaccuracies and minor embellishments)
(for which I will never be asked to submit work to the Oprah book club)
(and I can live with that)
(Really)
. . .Brian decided, as his 50th birthday present to himself, he would join a group and hike to the base camp of Mount Everest, something he had long wanted to do.
The group was quite a mishmash of characters: leaders, a veritable UN of hikers, and assorted sherpas. As is Brian's way, he quickly befriended the sherpas - these were the guys doing the lion's share of the duties, and Brian seems to be drawn towards the honest, humble and hardworking.
There was once particular fellow that Brian seemed to spend a lot of time with, and between them, they developed a method of broken-English/pantomime/point-and-make-faces communication that served both of them quite well.
Without fail, every meal everyone ate was rice and some sort of vegetable.
Rice for breakfast.
Rice for lunch.
Rice for dinner.
On about the 5th day, though, there was an added bonus at dinnertime. Something vaguely protein-ish in nature was perched atop their rice.
Brian went over to his sherpa buddy, pointed at the food in the bowl, and said "Dude, what's up with this?" Questioning look on face, shoulders shrugged.
Sherpa smiled beatifically and kept on keeping on.
Brian continued, "So is it goat?"
No response.
"Is is some sort of field animal you found while we were hiking?"
Nothing.
"What kind of meat is this?"
Finally, the sherpa's eyes lit up; acknowledgment.
The magic word had been articulated.
Sherpa looked at Brian, pointed to the bowl and said, "Ya."
"Meat."
'Nuff said.
Maybe sometimes it's better not to know the specifics.
After hearing this anecdote, the vonB's began to incorporate it into any meal where we sat around the table, silent; totally focussed on the food we were digging into like cavemen around the fire. (or hyenas on the velt.)
Amid the smicking and gnawing and smacking, one of us will look up and at each other, and grunt out, "Ya. Meat."
It truly is a phrase of perfection; succinct yet speaking volumes.
So, as you dear readers tuck into your holiday feast either tonight or tomorrow, surrounded by the warmth of family drawn near and the bounty that you are fortunate enough to have placed before you, may you all have your own "Ya. Meat." moment: A time of gratitude for whatever we may be given, with our best interests the only intention.
