Winter Counts(42)

WILD ONION, WOOD SORREL, AND CORN SMUT SALAD

BISON TERRINE WITH CHOKECHERRY AND PINE NUT PESTO

I had no idea what most of that was. “What’s corn smut?”

Marie shook her head. “I think it’s a fungus? What’s it taste like, Tommy?”

“Don’t even know which one it was,” he said. “The salad was good; meat pudding was pretty banging, but they gave us like only a bite. I’m out, yo. Gonna head over to the gas station, see if they got any of that Chester Fried Chicken left. Catch y’all later.”

Soon after Tommy left, a man dressed in a white chef’s uniform stepped in front of the truck, holding a microphone. He was fairly young looking, and had two long black braids tucked behind his ears and trailing down his back. He was wearing leather fringed pants, the kind that Indians supposedly wore a hundred years ago. I’d never actually seen anyone dressed in those, outside of museums and old movies.

“Hello everyone! I’m Lack Strongbow, citizen of the Muckleshoot Nation, and I’m honored to be here. If you don’t know, I’m the executive chef at Red Eats in Los Angeles and the leader of the new indigi-cultural food movement. I hope you all are enjoying the indigenous cuisine we’ve gifted you. Today we put together a menu using ingredients from the Great Plains! How about a round of applause for my associates, who cooked this meal for you?”

The crowd applauded politely, and I stole a glance at Marie to see what she thought of this. She was watching the chef intently.

He went on. “I want to start by making an important point, something I hope every person here will take to heart.” He waited a moment to increase the suspense. “Put down your frybread! That’s right, I want you to throw away all the flour, dairy, and sugar you have at home. Get rid of it! Frybread isn’t indigenous! It’s the food our grandmothers had to invent when the government robbed us of our way of life! I honor our elders for doing what they had to do, but there’s a reason diabetes is killing our people.”

He held up some type of shrub.

“Indigenous people need to eat indigenous foods, the proteins and wild plants our ancestors lived on. Instead of eating commodity cheese, go out and forage for some edible plants and roots! My friends, we must decolonize our minds and our stomachs, and I’m here to show you how. After lunch is served, I’ll give an indigenous cooking demonstration, and we’ll also be offering short classes over the next week, absolutely free of charge! You can also buy my new cookbook, on sale right here. Thank you again for letting us nourish you—your bellies and your spirits.”

The line for the food truck was still long, so I asked Marie if we should leave. She looked at me indignantly.

“Let’s try it. What he says makes sense. Less sugar and dairy, more vegetables.”

“That sounds good,” I said, “but how is a single mother with three kids going to find the time to go out and, you know, pick wild herbs? Won’t work here.”

Marie grimaced, and I could tell she was frustrated. “I think what he’s saying is that Native people need to take more control of their health. Small changes, right?”

“Don’t sound like he wants small changes. Get rid of frybread? Not gonna happen. You made some skillet bread yourself this morning. Pretty damn good, too.” By the look on her face, I could tell I’d said the right thing. “You stay here and try the chef’s food. I’ll run over and catch up with Tommy and see you in a bit.”

I went off in search of Tommy. He’d said he wanted some fried chicken, and there was only one place on the rez where he could get it. I drove for a while, thinking about the frybread my mother used to make. Was it unhealthy? I suppose, but I’d loved it so much. I remembered the way the house smelled when she was cooking, the damp and yeasty feel of the air, the shape of the little discs of fresh dough, and the crackling of the oil when she dropped them in. While I was reminiscing about frybread, my phone rang.

“Virgil?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Ben. Marie gave me your number. You holding up okay?”

“Doing all right. Trying to get things in order. I saw Nathan day before yesterday, and I met with Charley Leader Charge in Rapid City—”

“I heard. He’s a good lawyer, one of the best around. He’ll be able to help Nathan out.”

“Hey, I owe you some thanks. Charley’s not making me pay anything, said he talked to you. Appreciate it. Right now, I couldn’t afford any high-dollar attorneys—”

“Don’t mention it. Charley and I go way back. I got him out of some jams in the old days, and he hasn’t forgotten. Let me know if he gives you any guff, I’ll set him straight.”

“Okay. Sounds good.” I pulled into the convenience store parking lot. I’d finish with Ben and go inside, see if Tommy was there. “I’ll let you know if—”

“Hold on. I want to ask you about something else.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me what’s going on with Rick Crow.”

I’d been so focused on getting Nathan out of jail, it was hard to get my mind wrapped around that situation again.

“Well, we went to this bar in Denver where he usually drinks, but he wasn’t there. Then we found his dad—he lives in Colorado. Said he hadn’t seen him lately, but he said Rick had called, told him about some hemp-growing business out here. First I’d heard of it—that ring any bells?”