Kim Phelps: Capitals of the World
There's a hidden "capital" out in NE Oregon.
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Kim Phelps is a mostly retired cattle rancher in Wallowa County, Oregon.
In the California of my youth, there were a number of capitals. Yuma County was the Lettuce Capital of the World, Corning was the Olive Capital, Castroville was the Artichoke Capital, and so on. No place had the audacity to call itself the Flower Capital of the World; but Lompoc, where my uncle farmed, was at least the Flower Seed Capital of the World. The fields in the valley bloomed beautifully in the Spring, and were then combined like little grain fields. The seed was sold to Burpee and other big seed companies.
All of these places had annual festivals, with parades and floats, and a Lettuce Queen or a Flower Queen riding on the biggest one. You wonder if any of the girls had second thoughts about being an Artichoke Queen. (“Are you a woman, or are you an artichoke?” La Strada, 1954.)
This sort of thing is not as fashionable as it used to be, and Oregon never really got on the bandwagon—though Ontario, Oregon, claims to be the Onion Capital of the World. There is a county in the northeast corner of the state, however, which undoubtedly is the Potluck Capital of the World. A stranger would never know it. There is no sign proclaiming it on the highway coming in from the West, and there is no public Potluck Festival. There are certainly Potluck queens, but they are generally not high school girls. No, you have to be a local, or invited by a local, to be part of this.
You would think this year’s pandemic would slow down potlucks here, but not at all. They go on just as frequently, but we are having them outside around bonfires. It’s winter now, and there’s snow on the ground, and these scenes are reminding me of the old “Li’l Abner” comic strip. Some of the “Li’l Abner” episodes took place in Lower Slobbovia, where the citizens stood around in snow up to their waists, greeting each other with phony Russian accents: “Disgustink to see you!”
Snowy potlucks aren’t a new thing. Our old friend D. always had one in the dark days of January, and they had to be outside because no more than four people could fit into D.’s tiny cabin. So he would have a big warming fire and a smaller barbecue fire going, and it was once so cold we had to stick beers in the snow close to the warming fire to keep them from freezing. Another feature of D.’s potlucks was his dog, which always managed to sneak steaks off the grill. No matter how many times this happened, D. never took precautions against it.
The purpose of this article is not to get into potluck stories, but merely to reassure the public that potlucks in particular, and social life in general, have not been affected too much out here by this year’s plague.
One more story, though.
There is a black lichen that grows mainly on the lodgepoles, but also on other conifers in this area. It’s a hairy, dangling, flowing lichen like the Spanish Moss of the South, and it can be gathered fairly easily in large quantities. The Nez Perce and other peoples used to pit bake it, which reduces it to a black gelatinous mass. It actually has a good, somewhat nutty flavor, but most people are too put off by the color and texture to give it a fair trial. So one of our principal Potluck Queens took a whole thin venison flank and made a roulade with it. The filling was the black gelatinous mass, with a little sausage meat, breadcrumbs, and onions mixed in. Every scrap of it was eaten.
I should conclude with some sort of moral, but nothing occurs to me. Merry Christmas, all of you!
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Editor’s note: This is Kim Phelps’ last post. I am grateful to Kim for joining this effort in its early days as well as for sharing great pieces!
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