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Let's talk about the little things. The first one is millet. You know millet: the little round seed that is the grain of choice for about half the people in the world. The little round grain that North Americans feed to the birds. That millet.
I love millet. Every week I cook up a batch of mixed grains, and millet is always in the mix. So last week I was combining steel-cut oats, millet, and quinoa. I measured three cups of water, then a cup and a half of grains. For no reason at all, millet was the last into the measuring cup—perhaps it was the first time it had been the last.
As I picked up the cup to verify the level of the grains, I realized that a dozen little millets were clinging to the inside of the cup. And as I watched, several fell off or jumped a couple of inches over from the group. Now, any fool who took high school physics will be able to tell you that this was all about static electricity. Probably true, though I've never seen this happen with quinoa or steel-cut oats.
But even this rational explanation couldn't detract from my delight. They looked alive, these little millet grains, hopping and clinging and dropping and sliding around the inside of the plastic measuring cup.
Oh, my goodness. I was enthralled. Looking back on it, I marvel that I ever stopped watching the show. I suppose the water came to a boil and it was time to dump the grains into the pot or breakfast would never happen.
But how could I have let the materialist demand for breakfast overcome the sheer fascination of my jumping millet?
Now, I know I can duplicate the experience any time I want by putting some millet into a clear plastic cup. But I haven't done it. And then, I know you want to suggest an infestation of insects as the cause of the motion, kind of like Mexican jumping beans. But this is not the case!
So that's a millet story. Here's a dog story. Walking home just two days after a recent Arctic Vortex storm, I came across a dog—a golden retriever—standing on a very high windrow of snow and ice. He was accompanied by a handler or owner or walker, attached by a leash. But he was proudly on that five-foot mound—King of the Mountain—and had no plans to leave. He was firmly planted, his four feet weighing into the snow.
There's a classic dog story—Albert Terhune might be the author—and I think the title is simply the dog's name. A warrior dog. I think this golden had read the book (or someone had read it to him) and he was hoping to appear on the front cover of the next edition.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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