Bird eggs are an invaluable part of the omelet. In fact, a person couldn’t get around making an omelet without eggs. Most birds that I have been introduced to have names like Chipper the parakeet or Henrietta and Karl the lovebirds. These birds live in cages, and after the newness wears off, seem to annoy their owners who have to selflessly feed and clean their cages with only the thanks of a helpless little bird in a cage to gawk upon.

I don’t quite understand the fascination with the caged bird. I can understand the corporate farmers with their beakless small caged birds because money can make any crime bearable for the majority. As I ponder the question of non-capitalist bird owners, my thoughts fly away to the zoo. I see a couple on a date:

A man looks at the zoo birds. “I wish I could have one of those bald eagles in a really small cage on my night stand, do you?”

The woman replies, “Yes.”

The man grabs her hand and says, “How do you feel about going back to my love nest? You can meet my lovebirds. I named them Joy and Happiness. Even though they are lovebirds, I keep Joy and Happiness in separate cages across the room because I like surround sound. For dinner I’ll prepare foie gras. We’ll stuff ourselves ‘til our stomachs become as bloated as a goose’s liver. Afterwards, I’ll put on my yellow Big Bird outfit. You can tie me up and ruffle my feathers. I want to be your lovebird. Chirp, CHIRP!!!”

The woman, “Okay.”

Not realizing his date likes to pretend she’s an insane cat named Sylvester who kills birds for pleasure, the next morning the man makes omelets more slowly than usual. He hobbles over to his refrigerator and takes out a white styrofoam container of eggs. With pride he opens up the container containing the aryan eggs. He looks at her with excited eyes, “I figured you would spend the night so I bought an 18 pack.” As he cracks the eggs, he recites his poem.

“Millions of hens raised for their eggs
spending their lives in battery cages
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
no blue ribbons for these laying hens

seven or eight birds to a cage
not enough room to turn or spread a wing
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
beakless and stressed is a look that never wins

no thoughts of blue ribbons for these laying hens
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
beakless and stressed is a look that never wins
tier upon tier in hu-u-ge warehouses

I love the machine that provides the means
to force chickens to produce cheap eggs
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
not enough room to turn or spread a wing”

The woman starts to purr and rub herself against the counter. The man stops singing.

She is now on all fours crawling toward him, meowing. He turns off the stove.

Flapping his arms like a chicken, he runs to the bedroom to put on his yellow Big Bird outfit, yelling, “CHIRP! CHIRP!!!”

Basically, if you’re a Westerner visiting Thailand and can’t laugh and smile while your vegetables are cut on a fly-infested cutting board, then you’re mentally going to have a hard time.

Sure, we would like to drive 30 minutes to the nearest city and dine at a clean outdoor patio with misters or large fans. We would like to be waited on by an attractive server who keeps the soda water, ice cubes, and Johnny Walker flowing, while we eat an omelet with proper utensils and have the option to wash our hands with running water and soap instead of wiping them on our trousers and pretending they’re clean. Right now, time and money are working against us. Despite our time and money limitations, we can afford some cheap beer, a cheap omelet and good conversation somewhere in the countryside. To our surprise, we get more than good conversation and cheap beer. We got a four star omelet. I now know how dirty Cinderella felt when she put her warty, corned, fungus-filled peasant foot into the clean slipper. The omelet was my slipper. My dirty hands were like Cinderella’s feet. The moment when my fingers brought the omelet up to my lips and my tongue reached out and tasted the bursting flavor of peppers and egg, I felt like a princess.

The other day, I was reading Ancient Wisdom, Modern World by the Dalai Lama. Here I summarize the Dalai Lama’s words about health: Sickness is a product of the environment. If you come from the West, the sickness tends to be mental and stress related. If you come from the East, the sickness tends to be water-borne and sanitation related. I imagine a journal entry from Westerner suffering from mental and sanitation sickness:

Dear Journal,

After eating the disease-riddled omelet, I got diarrhea. I attribute my discomfort to poor sanitation practices used at the restaurant. Squatting over a hole in the ground has made my thighs sore. I have come to agree that Western toilets are for out of shape, lazy people. Now I wish I was in better shape and hadn’t spent so much time at the beginning of my ministry sitting by the pool looking at the ocean.
Suffering Sam

Dear Journal,
I’m still sick; I get depressed looking at my dirty self in the mirror. I came to Thailand to volunteer at a school. I teach kids about Christ through English Camps. When I look at myself, I no longer see Jesus in my face. I resemble the heathens he was trying to save. In all the pictures of Jesus I’ve never seen him dirty. (Maybe bloody, but that can’t be attributed to his personal hygiene). The only thing whiter than Jesus’s face is his robe. I’m no longer Christ-like, I’m dirty like the devil…….Save me, Jesus!!!!
Suffering Sam, the dirty sinner

The journal ends, but Sam’s story is only beginning. Like the diners who must drive to the cafe instead of taking a sunny ten-minute Saturday morning walk, Sam is in too big of a hurry. Sam can’t wait for Jesus to impress upon him that everything will be all right.

His fast-paced heart lets the anxiety of dirtiness grow big and tall in his life. The grim reaper waltzes Sam’s depressed thoughts over to a gun. His dirty fingers smudge the white ivory grip. He can’t put the barrel in his mouth because he’s afraid of catching a cold from the last person who might have blown his or head off. His Western mental sickness of being afraid of objects that don’t smell lemon fresh saved his life. The gun fires but only takes off his ear. Friends find him passed out from shock, lying on the ground, with one hole still suffering from sanitation sickness and a new hole suffering from mental sickness.

While pedaling to lower Stanley, Idaho for an omelet, my eyes keep following the Salmon River. Right now, a majority of the Fish and Game salmon are returning to the fish hatchery. This is a remarkable feat because they float all the way to the big wide Pacific Ocean, and then for some reason, they decide to swim all the way back to where they are born in these large cement bathtubs.

A person can identify a fish hatchery salmon from a native salmon because the Fish and Game make sure to exclude the adipose fin from their salmon.

Cruising past the fish hatchery with my eyes still focused on the river, I see a bald eagle sitting on a post. We both happen to be looking at the same stretch of river. I feel bad for it because this week the Fish and Game have stopped stocking the Salmon River with rainbow trout for the season. I suppose it’s time for the eagle to fly south where it’s warm and where the rivers are stocked year round. Taking a closer look at the bald eagle, I notice it has all of its body parts. I don’t think the eagle was hatched by the Fish and Game. I yell at the bird, “Shoo, shoo, fly to Alabama where it’s warm.”

Our eyes meet, but I don’t think the eagle understands. It remains sitting on the post. I suppose we are too different to connect. The eagle has mom and dad eagle parents; I have mom and dad human parents. With so many animals and fish bred in captivity, I bet test-tube babies can commune more naturally with nature, both being conceived in a similar sort of scientifically engineered environment. If I were a test-tube baby, I would want my animal spirit to be a Fish and Game hatched salmon. Like the fish hatchery salmon, when I have lived a full life, I will feel a tug on my heart and crawl to a rest home to die. Like the farm raised salmon in the grocery store, when I die, someone will come along and add some pink to my cheeks so that I may look presentable at my funeral.

I’m eating a Cambodian-style fried egg omelet when I hear an oink-oink…

click photo to watch short film

Indian Curry Pot Restaurant & Guesthouse
I wouldn’t want to stay at a place called the Curry Pot,
even for the price of $3 a night.

I imagine a hammock strung above a steaming pot,
with curry smells rising up in dreamlike wisps of spiciness,
curling through the air, drifting below my nostrils as I try to sleep,
infusing my dreams with temples, rats and brightly-colored saris.

Anyway, I’m not looking for cheap accommodation.
I’m looking for a good omelet.

Usually I order curry at Indian restaurants,
This time I try an omelet
with a baguette and fresh fruit on the side.

I sit at one of the few tables,
notice an adorable little girl with big brown eyes
milling about between the tables
but my attention is drawn to the sea turtles on TV.

Mid-omelet,
not expecting a baby to be sleeping in a restaurant,
I am surprised to hear
a whimper from the corner.
A woman immediately appears from the kitchen
to breastfeed the baby
who had been nestled quietly in a bed behind the counter
the whole time.

As I’m swallowing the last bite of banana,
I meet the owner, a happy man
who enjoys chatting with his customers.

He pulls a chair up to my table,
talks about his native land of Pakistan,
the restrictions,
strict Muslim codes
compared to here in Cambodia.

He takes customer service to an unfamiliar and appealing level
of intimacy and entertainment.
It’s as though he’s chatting with a friend in his living room.
Then I realize that’s exactly what’s happening.
I’m the friend who has entered his home to enjoy a meal.

Here in Cambodia,
he’s allowed a family,
a business on his own terms,
freedom to be a homeowner and entrepreneur.
Selling curry, omelets and cheap accommodation from his living room.

I’m from Boise, Idaho
where people place a different value on property.

Yes, a person can own a piece of land.
On that land
they build or buy a box
to store possessions.
The backyard
simply a place for the dog to piss.
Beautify the front yard,
motivated by a Better Homes and Garden look.
A fancy exterior will increase property value.

Indian Curry Pots
do not exist
in Boise, Idaho.
The only type of acceptable business
in suburbia:
a Garage Sale.
Make way for new possessions!

As I get up to leave, I realize
the 5-year-old girl is his daughter.
She comes over to sit in his lap,
wants to know if I can
recite the ABC’s.

America, Better Change.

click on the picture to watch the film
Click on the picture to hear the poem.

click on photo to listen to the poem

Brandon Follett and Amy Johnson

The above poem is written by Brandon Follett and Amy Johnson.

I went to a food drive at a ski resort.
The big poster at the entrance read,
“Only canned goods, Please.”
I donated a can of Spam.
It’s odd that poor people
all seem to enjoy
canned food,
boxed food,
water, and butter.

Another time
I went to a food drive at a bar.
Once again the big poster read,
“Only canned goods, Please.”
This time I donated an ear of corn.
Corn tastes good
with butter and water.
The social worker at the door
said, “Poor people only eat
canned food,
boxed food,
water, and butter.”

I’m in Thailand
now broke.
Spent all my money
on restaurants and guest houses,
I’m looking forward
to being a poor and hungry person.
It’s been months since I’ve eaten
processed food.

At the market,
I ask where to find a food bank
or how to get free food.
A farmer and I start talking.
He doesn’t know where to get free food
but he too is poor.
He said, “We can eat poor together.”
I agree to free room and board
in exchange
for several hours of farming and an hour English lesson
per day.

I sit down for my first poor persons meal.
Oh, I can’t wait to dig into a big
plate of Kraft boxed macaroni and
a hot bowl of canned peas.
Yum! Yum!

Instead, the farmer wrecks
my appetite with organic:
duck eggs,
rice, tomatoes, catfish, coconut,
and bananas.

Day after day
to my disdain
I eat yuppie co-op food.
One day I tell the farmer,
“Man, you talk about how much you like America.
You’ve got a cell phone with a Britney Spears ring tone,
a computer with the latest pirated Microsoft software,
and a TV that shows Sponge Bob dubbed in Thai.
Don’t you want to eat poor like an American?
Don’t you want to eat food that’s bright orange?”

The farmer replies,
“I hear what you’re saying.
I too am getting tired of the same old fresh food.
Good news!
The lettuce should be ready in about a week,
the mangos are almost in season,
and this year an avocado might appear.”

I start to become passive aggressive through farm suggestions.
I mention, “Let’s give the farm a make over:
chop down the fruit trees,
till under the vegetable garden,
fill in the fish pond,
burn down the duck house,
eat the water buffalo parents and babies.
Then buy a new shiny tractor
and a 5th of Johnny Walker black label
on credit.
We’ll take turns trying to drive straight.
We’ll tear up the ground till we run out of gas
or run out of Johnny Walker.
Then we’ll plant row after row
of corn.”
The farmer asks, “Why?”

“So we can eat boxed macaroni!
The great farm state of Iowa
has to import 80% of their food.
Stop diversifying.
Put all your time, money, labor,
and belly into a single cash crop.
With the money you make,
think of all the processed food you can buy.”

The farmer didn’t let me burn the duck house,
chop down the fruit trees
or eat all his water buffalo.
I’m still poor, eating like a yuppie who shops at the Boise Co-op.