Chinook
by George Hosier II  - July 15, 2008

The Fondue Pot

Alaskans are blessed in many ways. However, in other ways we are woefully deprived. One of the areas in which we have been most deprived is in the acquisition of a distinctive regional dialect, unless you consider the speech of Alaska’s indigenous people to be our colloquial heritage. You see, an accent is kind of like cheese. It must be allowed a long time to properly age. Likewise, to cultivate a full-bodied accent, residents have to be rooted to an area for several generations in order to develop little quirks of inflection and mispronunciation unique to their local culture.

Furthermore, cheese must be left alone while it develops its full flavor. People also must remain isolated from other folks during the dialect brewing process, so they don’t start copying their neighbors. On this point fate was not kind to Alaskans. By the time white folks began arriving in the Last Frontier in any significant numbers, radio had already been invented. Television wasn’t far behind. As a result, Alaskan dialect is about as piquant and nuanced as Velveeta when compared to the Gouda jargon of deep-woods Maine, the Romano vernacular of Puget Sound or the Extra Sharp Cheddar brogue of the Louisiana Bayous.

Actually, that wasn’t a very good analogy. With a majority of Alaskans being transplants from all over the map, any medium sized social gathering in Interior Alaska today sounds more like a gourmet cheese tray than a wad of Velveeta. A potluck I attended the other day illustrated this reality poignantly.

One of the first guests I encountered was Arlington Heathcliff Revere XXIV, primly bearing a covered terra cotta dish. I asked him what was in it.

“Whazzit look like? A sangwich? Yoah ‘bout to hexperience the often envied but neveh duplicated pot of original Bwostin baked beans.”

Ar-ar, as his friends affectionately call him, always sounds as if he has a Boston baked bean permanently wedged in each nostril.

“Smells good. What did you season it with?”

“I’ll nevuh tell, onna conna it bein’ a closely gahded family secret.”

“Secret recipe, huh?”

“Shuah. My muthuh and ahnt would cotch me by the hundahweah and lock me in the bahn, if they had any idear I spilled the beans! ” He snickered at his own pun.

“Can’t you even tell me one ingredient?”

“Ok. I substituted the sugah fo beah.”

I wracked my brain trying to figure out what he was talking about. “You mean there’s bear meat in there?”

“No suh, what’s wrong with yoah eahs? Not bayuh! Beah.” He must have seen the baffled expression on my face. “You know...a malt likkuh brewed from bahley and hops. It’s wicked tasty—puah rapsha, in fact. Takes a regulah hum-drum potty to a whole notha level.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about the effects his dish would have on my potty. Making a mental note to avoid his beans I turned to flee. As I did so, I bumped into Joey, nearly causing him to drop the casserole dish he was carrying. Ar-ar murmured something disparaging about another “pahster dish”, but Joey thought that was a compliment.

“Datzit!” he beamed. “Spaghetti Wif mushroom sawce!” He set down his culinary contribution and grabbed us both in a hug. “Whazzup? I ain’t seed yooze guys since I come back from my brudduh Chico’s toidy-toid birfday bash in New Yoak.”

“Been visiting family down in the Big Apple, have we?”

“Yooze goddit. My Dawtuh an’ I rode a Taxi ucross da Brooklyn Bridge jest so’s she could say she been to Joyzee! Yunner stan? I even tuhk a pitcher of ‘er posin’ by da East Rivuh.”

I was attempting to mumble something congratulatory when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Knute Nielsen was looming over me, clasping a gallon-sized ziplock bag in his massive hands.

“Can ya tell me who I shood be giffen dis to, eh?”

“What do you have there, Knute? Something yummy, I hope?”

“Yah shoor, you betcha. Cuhdden keep a Yooper lak me from bringin’ Lutefisk, yah knoo. An’ also some wahleye from my brudder’s lake in Sow DahKOda. Yah gonna love it, eh?”

“That sounds...great. Why don’t you set it over there on the table?”

He lumbered over to deposit it with the other gastronomic time bombs.

A bowlegged leather-faced man in a Stetson and a pair of ostrich skin Tony Lamas, ambled over. A tiny denimed woman dangled from his arm. It was J.B. Tiddly and his wife, Debbie Sue.

“Wall, thar yew are, sugar dumplin’!” Debbie Sue greeted me. “Hairyew?”

I was embarrassed that she seemed to have noticed that I was overdue for a haircut. I was about to explain that I had an appointment with the barber the next day, when she continued. “Ah wuz jist bettin’ Jay Bee thet yew wuzzen man enuff ta trah one lil’ itty bitty swaller of mah faymuss chili.”

J.B. grinned his broad Texan smile. “Ah tole her yew luck lahk a feller what got a hankerin’ for spahcy food. Bud ah doan bleeve yew been innerdooced to mah honey pah’s award-winnin’ concawkshin, rahcheer. Et’s so dadgum good, Ah even smear et awn mah toass fer brackfust! Dijeetchet?”

“Uh, no.” I admitted and then instantly regretted it.

“Yee haw. Thayet’s whut Ah lak to hear. Ah’mo scoop yew up a big ol’ spoonful raht naow an’ lechew prahm yore taste buds. Debby Seyew caws it her ‘tonsilectomy bah bonfahr’. Sorta lahk eatin a raid hawt brandin’ arn wrapped in bob wahr, worshed daown with Napalm. Naow jes secher rear ayend daown in attair cheer an’ hep yersef!”

With an elaborate protestation of regret, I declined. I explained that I was in the mood to start with something a bit milder like huffing a 12 oz. canister of Grizzly Joe’s extra strength pepper spray. Gesturing expansively, my right hand accidentally became entangled in the blue perm of Mrs. Hadassah Zuckerheim, who happened to be passing by on the way to place a tray on the potluck table. Mortified, I apologized profusely.

She accepted my apology with her characteristic grace. “Sohrry Schmohrry. You shouldt be vatching vere it is your clumsy handt you are vafink!” She began jabbing me in the sternum with her forefinger. “Oy, gevalt! If I vanted my blintzes undt Kugel on da groundt I couldt haff trown dem dere vitout your help, ya?”

“I really am very sorry. Are you OK?”

“Do I look OK?” She turned, scandalized, to J.B. and Debbie Sue. “Can you believe the chutzpa of dis klutz? Like he didn’t just try to use my headt for a bowlink ball, he vunders if I’m OK!” She gave me a little shove. “Get avay fhrrrom me alhrready! May all your teet fall out except vun in da fhrrront, so dat you can have a tootache, Godt forbidt!”

It was a relief to hear that she had forgiven me, and was harboring no hard feelings. Suddenly, however, I was overtaken by an acute sense of insignificance. Here were these vivid personalities with their ethnic dishes and their colorful dialogue, while all little old boring me could contribute was my generic non-accent, some moose stew and sourdough biscuits with fireweed jelly. Truly I was the plastic-wrapped slice of processed American cheese food among 6-year old Goudas and Camemberts and Roqueforts.

I decided that it was time to invent an Alaskan accent on the spot. I took a deep breath, smiled broadly and launched a new sub dialect,

“G’day, schmuks! Top o’ da mharrrnin’ tow yer. Dad yer shee dee shoize o’ me pot o’ Bwostin biked moose shtoo? Cuhdden hahdly fit it in me cah! Yah, shoor you betcha schmetcha. Tuhk me toidy-tree hours to cook it, bah crackey!”

My attempt to blend cultures was unsuccessful. It seems that all I managed to do was offend everybody. From now on, I’m just going to speak cottage cheese vernacular. That is, if I ever recover from being lassoed, mugged, smacked with a Harvard varsity rowing oar, stabbed with a fillet knife, and pummeled about the face and neck with a Dreidel, all at the same time.
 

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