Author: J. Thorp

Feel the Burn

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I had kind of an involved, downer of a post for tonight, about the lengths we’ll go to as a nation to avoid sacrifice or discomfort. There is virtue to be found in a some self-sacrifice, a little pain, and I may yet write that post — but as a light-hearted lead-in perhaps, tonight I share these:

There is a chance tonight (however slight) for frost, and a chance tomorrow (however slight) that I may do some fall cleaning around the yard, deck and shed. So I went out to the pepper pots tonight and plucked countless ripe (pictured) and ripening chiles.

Smoky yellow habaneros, plump green jalapenos, cayennes like lean red flames and serranos like green firecrackers, some turning red. Beautiful aren’t they?

I’ve done a little digging online to find a way, better than freezing and short of canning, to preserve them more or less intact. I’ve seen some interesting ideas involving vinegar and olive oil — but if you have suggestions, do share! (I also have a recipe for jalapeno chili vodka that I may have to try.)

The kids were amazed that the jalapenos are the mildest of the bunch — and that the habs are as much as 60 times hotter, chemically speaking. Why grow ’em? The sweet, smoky taste they impart is critical to a good batch of Old Lamplighter.*

See what I mean? Good things come from a little pain and suffering.

* * * * *

*Old Lamplighter is my best hot chili recipe. Permission to brag: It actually won a chili contest at my old job: took Best Overall and tied for Best Heat. (Of course, there was some controversy because the contest was my idea — but the ballots were cast secretly and verified independently.) I make thick, mild stuff for the little kids — Good Dog Chili-Dog Chili. Bren and Jodi mix ’em to get the temp just right for them …

Holy Guacamole!

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Speaking of chance encounters, I stumbled across a heretofore unknown blog by someone we know. Our mystery writer’s identity is hazy, and we’ve promised to keep it that way — but the voice is strong and lovely, and it would be a pity not to share!

So rather than hanging around here reading this, have a taste of Holy Guacamole, the newest addition to the Friends and Good People menu.

Strong as Silk

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By the way: I have a new article, entitled “Strong as Silk,” in the current issue of Inside Kung Fu magazine. Check it out on newsstands if you’re so inclined, although it’s more technical that anything else. Otherwise, I’ll add to Kung-Fu Writing when I get a chance. The articles aren’t available on the IKF Web site to my knowledge.

Chance Encounters

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Used to be a standing joke with Jodi and I any time we visited a city of any size that she would meet someone she knew. Her home state, South Dakota, isn’t big, population-wise — but the combination of relatively few people and genuine need (in the rural parts of the state, especially) to get on well with your neighbors seem to add up to everyone in South Dakota knowing every else. Plus, the county-specific license plate numbering helps. So wherever we were, Jodi would pick up on some faint South Dakota signal, track at to a particular person, and immediate begin chatting like long-lost cousins.

I’m from Michigan. This doesn’t happen to me. However, one of the unexpected joys of visiting New Haven with Bren and Gabe last week was a series of three unexpected encounters, one of which brought back fond memories of a fourth.

First: I had stopped by the Yale School of Music offices to say hello to a friend and former colleague, S, from my college days. She was not in. The next day, while visiting the souvenir vendors outside the Yale Bowl ahead of the football game, I ran into her — almost literally. This isn’t hugely unexpected — Yale’s not that big of a university — but she and her husband were seated at the opposite end of the stadium. So that was cool.

Second: We sitting in the stands when a vendor stops nearby and chides the man in front of us for wearing a Philadelphia Eagles hat. I look up, and see that the vendor is a black man wearing a Minnesota Vikings cap. As he passes, I tell him we’re visiting from Minnesota. He says his family’s originally from South Dakota, “so you know they were Vikings fans, too!” Then he says he needs to get back to the Twin Cities, especially for the Winter Carnival in St. Paul. Now, the strangeness of seeing a Vikings fan in Connecticut could only be rivaled two things: finding a black man from South Dakota in Connecticut (the African-American population of the entire state of South Dakota is less than 1 percent, out of a total population of less than 800,000) and finding anyone outside of Minnesota who wants to visit during the winter. (My native Minnesota friends all want to leave that time of year!)

Finally: After the game, we went to Mass at Church of St. Mary on Hillhouse Avenue — the church I used to visit sometimes when I was in college and Jodi was attempting to convert me. The homily was given by a guest speaker, Deacon George of the St. Cloud, Minnesota, Diocese — just up the road from us. As we left the church, I told him where we from — Albertville/St. Michael area. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I know just where that is — just to the north of St. Cloud.”

Well, he tried.

The latter two encounters, at the time, seemed like significant hints of home after a week away. The first — running into S outside the stadium — called to mind the queen mother of chance encounters from the last time I was in New Haven. I was working for a marketing agency and was sent to Connecticut to visit a client. I stayed an extra night with a friend to visit Yale — but that night, he had agreed to stay with S’s grandmother while S and her husband went out. “It’s fine,” he said. “We’ll have dinner with Babci.”

My ears perked up: babci (BOB-chee) is Polish for grandmother.

I arrived at the house, and there was Babci — and immaculate, tiny little Polish woman in her late 80s, who introduced herself as Stella. “Dzien dobry!” I said. “My late busia’s name was Stella, too.” Busia (BOO-sha) is how my family learned to say it — “like a small child would say,” this new Stella explained.

We talked about all sorts of stuff — in particular, about my family. She asked me about my busia’s golubki, or stuffed cabbage, and told me that the trick was to use Savoy cabbage, because the leaves hold up better for stuffing and your guests are less gassy. She asked me about my kids, and offered to knit them mittens and stockings. She was instantly dear to me, like a my own busia’s warm, paper-light kiss, and I think of her often.

She’s in her 90s now, no longer living with S, though she visits multiple times times a week. Na dzrowie, Babci! Sto lat, niech zyje nam! To your health, Babci — may you live 100 years for us all!

Bronx Purgatory

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Let me start by saying that Bren, Gabe and I had a great time in New York and New Haven. The weather was fantastic, the Deezledub ran like a champ*, and the Yankees and Elis** both won.

That said, for first-time visitors to Yankee Stadium, the bleachers are a bit like purgatory — you see heaven firsthand and are witness to its glory, but you can’t … quite … reach it. Let me explain.

Narrow is the way
First, you gotta get there. Despite their noteriety, the subways weren’t bad. Narrow, yes, but packed with fellow Yankees fans. Makes you feel good.

Then you get off the train. An aside here: I asked my dad if he wanted to come on this trip. His response: “I’d like to have seen New York around 1790. Not since.” He would consider the clausterphobic concrete confines of NYC a vision of hell, I suspect. I wouldn’t go that far, but you do get the feeling that the Bronx, over the years, has been paved with good intentions … not all of which have been realized.

There’s no beautiful approach to this stadium. It’s grittier, more “real” than you might believe, given the pristine white of the uniforms and the clean-cut multimillionaires swinging the lumber. Then you see it: the line of ticketholders filing slowly through the gates. The excitement is palpable. You reach into you pocket to find the tickets — only the thousandth time you’ve double-checked. You smile, because you are one of the chosen.

Shedding our worldly possessions
Our camera lost its charge on the three-hour Circle Tour of Manhattan Island, so we prowl the souvenir shops along the narrow way, looking for a cheap disposable, or failing that, an expensive disposable. Finding none, we head back to the gates — and lo! a stadium souvenir stand with a solitary Fuji hanging on the pegboard behind the cashier.

“How much?” I ask.

“$20,” she states flatly.

Judge not! my conscious admonishes, and I smile and hand her a crisp $20 bill. She hands us the camera, and we get in line. From somewhere above us, a loud voice proclaims that only small, child’s backpacks are allowed into the stadium — no other bags. Brendan carries ours — a green knapsack barely big enough for a grade-school reading textbook. In it is our dead digital camera, sweatshirts, a notebook, a bottle of water, and souvenirs from the day thus far.

Then I notice that no one, but no one, is carrying anything remotely close to the size of this little knapsack. I approach a nearby angel — a no-nonsense black woman with security written all over her. I point to Bren’s pack and start to ask … she slowly shakes her head. We turn back.

“What will we do with the backpack?” asks Gabe.

“Throw it away, I guess — we have no place to put it,” I say.

We tie our sweatshirts around our waists, stuff our pockets with souvenirs and the two cameras, grab the notebook, triple-check that we have the tickets, and carry the rest of our belongings in search of a trash can. Finally, we resort to quietly slipping it into a plastic bag tied to the side of a hot dog cart while the owner serves his customers.

St. Peter at the gates
We get back in line. It’s moving quickly now, and when we reach St. Peter, he’s stocky, with a crew cut and the same uniform and no-nonsense look as the angel from earlier. He is about to scan our tickets, then frowns. He shakes his head: “Not here. Bleacher gate.” He points back around the corner, past the hot dog stand.

“OK, thanks. C’mon, boys.”

We turn, and there’s no easy way out … unless the angel lifts the ropes for us. I approach and smile. “Wrong gate,” I say. She raises the rope, but does not smile.

The bleacher gates aren’t exactly pearly. We enter into a dank tunnel, past a smiling old man like Charon on the Styx. Incidentally, he doesn’t seem concerned about bags or backpacks — only tickets.

We follow the tunnel nearly to its end, and see section 59. We emerge into the light of Yankee Stadium. The sun is blinding, but in a few minutes, it’ll drop behind the upper decks. The grass is immaculate, and the atmosphere is electric, even with only a handful of fans here this early. So this is baseball heaven.

Saints and sinners
We could see the visitors’ bullpen from our seats — and if we stood, we could see the line of fans waiting to get into Monument Park, home of Yankees heroes in marble and bronze.

“Wanna go down?” I ask.

The boys nod excitedly.

“Wait just a sec; I’ll find out where we get in line.”

I step back into the corridor. The angel’s brother, by the looks, stands in a wide doorway opening toward the field.

“This the way to Monument Park?” I ask.

“No admittance,” he says.

The line had looked pretty long. “It’s full up for tonight?” I venture.

“No admittance with bleacher tickets.”

I told the boys. They took it better than me. They wanted to see the Yankee greats, but this was still The Coolest. Trip. Ever.

To me, it was as if we were chosen, but as yet unclean. We could sit with the sinners and glimpse the saints, but not yet commune with them.

Next time we’ll know. Next time we’ll be worthy.

* * * * *

*The Deezledub is what I call my devilishly fuel-efficient Golf — a diesel Vee-Dubbleyoo

**We went to Yale football opener, too — technically the Bulldogs, but they go by the Elis, too, after Elihu Yale. Elihu — that’s a name you don’t hear much these days …