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by David Heiniger
I read what Stephen Hawking had to say on the subject. Something
about a Ping-Pong ball in a moving train and the earth’s speed relative
to the sun and how, if my twin spent his life in space, he’d come back
younger than me. Of course, I don’t have a twin and even if I did, it’s
still a bit much to wrap my mind around. For me, it begins first thing
every morning, this obsession with time.
It starts with my wife telling me to get up before I’m late for work and
the kids to get up before they’re late for school. I guess it’s not really
an obsession with time but rather an obsession with beating time, as if
it were something to be conquered. My 16 year old son is eager to be
21 so he’ll be a grown up. My 15-year-old daughter can’t wait to be 16
so she can drive. Even I fall for it sometimes; I can’t wait until I have
30 years on the job so I can retire. We’re wishing our lives away, as my
mother would say, and why? Out of some foolish notion that time is
something we can beat?
I love to cook. My wife, on the other hand, well… cooking isn’t her
thing. She hates it for the same reason I love it: because it can’t be
rushed. It’s pure artistry to mix this ingredient and that, in just the
right ways and in just the right amounts and then applies heat in just
the right way and in just the right amount to create something new and
wonderful. She doesn’t like to wait for that magical reaction so she
turns the heat up thinking she can speed it along, but it doesn’t work
that way. Instead of cooking faster it just singes the edges and leaves
the middle raw, fringe on the eggs and raw yokes. Is there anything
more American than that?
It seems to me that the things that can’t be rushed are the best things
in life. Take this hardwood floor I’m sitting on right now. It’s been
here, in this house for nearly a hundred years. And how long did it grow
before it was chopped down, milled and yes, aged just right before it
was turned into this floor, maybe another hundred years? This floor
might have been an acorn during the Revolutionary War.
The truth is, nothing can really be rushed. It takes what it takes to do
everything we do, even if we hurry. I can make love a little faster and I
can make love a little slower (my wife’s preference) but it still takes
what it takes. I can’t tell you what any of this has to do with that Ping-
Pong ball or the age of my imaginary twin. I can only tell you that the
leaves fall from the tree in autumn, which is a long way from April and
there’s just nothing we can really do about that. When basketball
season ends, we must suffer through endless baseball games, some
relief finally coming with the start of football season before Stockton
can yo-yo the belt high dribble one more season. Then we find out that
time has expired on the yo-yo dribble too.
So here I sit, with the door closed and the voices of my family
throughout the house sounding dim and distant. No one really knows
where I am and to be honest, I don’t think anyone has even wondered.
I’m glad that there is a light in here, not because I’m afraid of the dark,
but so that I can admire the beauty of the wood on the floor.
Ice Cream is another thing that can’t be rushed. I don’t know how long
it takes Ben and Jerry to pull this stuff together but I do know a thing
or two about eating it. It comes out of the freezer hard as a rock,
steaming cold. My spoon can’t penetrate so I must wait. I wait and
watch and sometimes it seems to me that the edges get colder before
they warm up, as if the coldness from the center must work it’s way up
and out. I wait and watch and the more I watch, the longer it takes,
the proverbial watched pot. Could this phenomenon have something to
do with that Ping-Pong ball? Something about melting at a rate
mathematically relative to how much it’s watched? Ouch, my brain!
Back to the subject at hand. Cherry Garcia if you must know, and yes;
I intend to eat the whole pint. The edges finally soften and become
creamy and it’s time to start working the spoon. Just peel off the soft
creamy parts and wait for the rest to be ready. If the cherries are still
frozen they don’t have as much flavor and everyone knows a flavor not
tasted is lost forever. Now that would be a true tragedy. Maybe not as
much of a tragedy as my daughter turning 16 and not getting her drivers
license or my son turning 21 and not getting to gamble, but a tragedy
nonetheless.
No, ice cream cannot be rushed. It is my job to see that tragedy is
averted and that is why I sit here, alone, happy that I don’t have a twin.
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About David Heiniger:
"I live on 3+ acres in Washington that my wife and I have dubbed
QuiXand Ranch (she has the 3 acres, I have the +). She breeds and
races Whippets while I dabble at writing, motorcycle riding and Ice
Cream eating. I am currently working on my first novel and I manage
to work a full time job selling "propane and propane accessories"
between scoops."
