The Origin of Frybread- a Native American tale
As invited guests touring the sprawling reservation lands of the Windigo Lake Indian Tribe of Wisconsin, a circle of anthropology students studying Native American Indian History at UW-Madison were among those who recently found themselves sitting cross-legged in a remote cave heavily decorated with rock art in the style typical of ancient times.
According to tribal elder and tour guide of the day, Choka (grandfather) Pipe GreyEagle, the task of cataloging and preserving this gallery of ancient rock art on Manitou Island is job one because of the deep cultural significance contained within the prehistoric composition. To wit: the various symbols used are actually the picture words of an ancient prophecy foretelling the apocalyptic collision of the eastern and western hemispheres.
In the dancing fire light illuminating the cave with an eerie glow, Choka Pipe raised his buckskin fringed arms to signify that he was about to speak. All fell silent.
“My heart coils like a snake sunning in the spiritual warmth of your many blessings,” he began. In his left hand he held the wing of an eagle. With it he fanned himself against the heat of the open flames.
Back in the late seventeen hundreds, according to Choka’s oration, this gallery of ancient cave paintings was accidentally discovered by white iron ore prospectors who were at the time fleeing for their lives. The territory the ancestors of the modern day Windigo Lake Indian Tribe of Wisconsin called ‘Miskousing’ – meaning land of the good waters – was not open to just anybody with a brand spanking new musket and shiny buckles on their shoes. These white prospectors were trespassing. Furthermore, their trespass on Manitou Island was considered to be a violation of a sanctuary long held to be the home of the Great Spirit.
The prospectors were captured. In keeping with the custom of the times, the prisoners were to be served with the evening meal, as the main course. The whole tribe was to share in this victory supper. Somehow the prisoners escaped. And in their futile escape attempt, they hid right here in this very cave.
“They were the first Europeans to gaze upon the ancient prophecy you see before you now,” Choka said, outstretching both of his fringed arms.
These ancient cave drawings depict the life and times of an old warrior chief known as MarshHawk. “Hundreds of years ago our forefathers were a nation strong in numbers,” Choka Pipe informed his cave-dwelling audience. There were some stick figures painted on the wall that were supposed to be interpreted as meaning “a whole bunch of ‘em.” When Choka spoke, he would point to various symbol writings on the walls to give substance and validity to his words. The entirety of the experience was surreal.
“Our numbers were much larger back then, larger than all possible winning combinations of Wisconsin’s Powerball lottery game,” the fringed one said. I caught his wink. C’mon now. Did the writing on the wall really say all that? I raised my hand in inquisition.
“There will be a question and answer period at the end of the lecture,” Choka told us, looking a little perturbed. I lowered my hand.
The point Choka was making was that the tribe of antiquity was so large that, according to the writings on the wall, it had to be broken down into smaller units. These units were tribes within themselves. Each of these tribes was then divided into clans. Each clan had its own head chief. Each chief was in charge of his own village. had been given the distinguishment of clan chief.
Choka Pipe GreyEagle reached into a leather medicine pouch affixed to his waist belt and tossed a handful of its contents into the fire. There was a blinding flash of light followed by a thunderous earsplitting boom. And before I knew it, it started to rain, right there in the cave. My head spun around and around. I was somehow transported back in time.
The rain came down in sheets. Then before I knew it, immediately in front of me, I saw MarshHawk. He had his bow drawn. The buck he had been tracking all day was right there within range of his arrow. MarshHawk had him but now the torrent of rain was making it all but impossible for MarshHawk to see his target.
Another flash of lightning. In a moment of blinding indecisiveness MarshHawk loosed his arrow. At the exact moment of flighting chance, the buck bolted. The arrow missed its mark and sailed over a hill.
A painful scream “aaarrgh!” echoed through the woods. MarshHawk had hit something, or from the sounds of it, someone. To his astonishment a man wearing a metal helmet with horns sticking out of the sides came charging up over the hill. He had a double headed bizzerker axe in one hand and was limping from a leg wound. “Is this your arrow, skraeling?” the hairy giant bellowed. Lightning flashed behind him.
MarshHawk became like a snake who suddenly lost his slither. “Nope,” he said and turned tail for greener pastures.
There was a fallen oak tree down by the lake shore. MarshHawk was in a full running stride towards it. The Viking jumped out from behind the tree, holding out the arrow. “Are you sure this isn’t your arrow?”
“It’s not my arrow, Helmet Head.” MarshHawk spun around and blazed off in another direction.
He had gotten as far as an open field when he became exhausted. There was a hollow log lying off to one side. MarshHawk crawled inside it to hide.
“Well how come this arrow has got the same markings on it as the rest of the arrows you got in your quiver? How about that? Can you tell me about that, skraeling?”
MarshHawk looked over his shoulder. There was the Viking, looking at him through the other end of the log. “Aaarrgh!” MarshHawk screamed. He zipped out of the log and hid in a nearby cave.
The cave was dark. There was a narrow tunnel that snaked its way deep into the earth. After so much crawling around, the tunnel opened up into a large cavern. MarshHawk leaned up against a rock.
Before he knew what was going on the Viking showed up and he wasn’t alone. “Do not be afraid, skraeling. If it’s not your arrow, it’s not your arrow. Come, sit down. My missus will make us something to eat.”
The other five Vikings with him piled their flaming torches together in the middle of the cave. One of them took off his helmet and placed it upside down on the fire. The Viking missus put a large amount of animal fat into the helmet and heated it to a very high temperature.
She then took some flour, salt, and baking soda and mixed the ingredients together. From the ball of dough formed she flattened out small pieces and dropped them into the hot grease, cooking them first on one side then the other.
The Viking with the wounded leg handed MarshHawk a piece of the fried bread. He said, “The day will come when other people will follow us to this land. They will give you cast iron kettles to cook with and you will make bread just like the way my missus here showed you. Let this fried bread forever be a symbol representing the… “
There was another blinding flash of light, followed by a thunderous boom. My ears were aching. I flinched in pain.
In an instant Choka Pipe stood before me. Observing my discomfort, he apologized. “Sorry about that, choonchkay. Sometimes I get carried away with the flash powder. My bad.”
I rubbed my eyes. “That’s okay, Choka, that’s okay.” I looked up at him. “What da…what does the frybread represent?”
“Nobody really knows for sure. Vandals destroyed a crucial part of the prophecy quite some time ago. Perhaps frybread represents the advent of the eastern hemisphere. Perhaps frybread represents the fate of the western hemisphere. Whatever the case, just keep in mind that while frybread is brown on the outside, it is still white on the inside.”
