2012 THANKSGIVING

Oh my . . . my kitchen is a mess; but the food was worth it. As long as I take food somewhere else to eat, I can get away with it. When folks come to my house to eat, I have to clean up behind myself and it’s not easy. I tend to be, either - or: create or clean up, but not both at the same time. So my sink is full of dirty stuff and counter tops are cluttered with other stuff that made it only that far. I don’t mind cleaning up but it can take a while before the urge moves me.  

I’m not a traditionalist. Usually, when friends or family want to conform to tradition, because it’s tradition, I jump out of line and be something different. My mother was a great cook but holiday meals were special because of who you sat by and the great stories that were created in the process. So abandoning the Turkey tradition is easy for me. I’ve spent the last two decades rubbing shoulder and breaking bread with Cajun cooks, from New Orleans to the back waters of the Atchafalaya Basin. In the process, I paid attention and now have a few “Killer” recipes committed to memory. I wouldn’t call it tradition, more like “Just do the very best you know how.” 

There is something about cranberries, pecans, honey and orange zest that stands alone, has nothing to do with tradition; so I made cranberry sauce. Caramelize thin sliced onions and brussel sprouts in butter for a green vegetable and mixed up a little apple salad; it was coming together. I know; it’s Thanksgiving and you need a main dish that everything else can rally around. Gumbo is always a good choice but today I chose Shrimp & Grits. Recently, since I’ve been back in the mid-west, when I mention Shrimp & Grits someone is bound to tell me about South Carolina Shrimp & Grits. Down there, they serve creamy grits; which is O.K., I suppose. I prefer baked, cheese grits and there is no comparison. Throw in ‘dem shrimps with a little Cajun Trinity {onion, celery & bell pepper}, cook ‘em down, juicy with as much cayenne pepper, paprika and garlic as you can stand. 

Sipped on a glass of Pinot Noir and fed my face. Now I”m full and there’s pie in the refrigerator that will have to wait. This life sure is good and I’m Thankful as I can be, every day. I don’t eat like this every day but I am thankful every day: hope Y’all are havin’ a wonderful holiday.

BELLA NAPOLI

Bella Napoli is a bonafide, Italian Coffee Shop, Deli, Restaurant in the Brookside neighborhood of Kansas City, MO. Depending on the time of day, table trappings evolve from coffee cups and muffins to panini’s in styrofoam boxes and then linen napkins and a pedigree wine list. I hang out there with a morning coffee klatch that has been meeting every day, except Sunday, for a very long time. I was allowed to sit and join in a couple of years ago. They are used to me disappearing for weeks or months at a time so when I return, it’s a happy, fun time. 

Attendance generally runs 6 to 8 through the morning but then some days it gets crowded, like today, there were thirteen of us. I think the record is seventeen. We have an understanding with management to put chairs back and go away by 11:00. Good friends are treasures and these characters are the real deal. This round table is missed when I’m on the road; not enough to keep me in the zip code but I do miss the good conversation, the wide range of interests and expertise. It’s difficult to be in house and not learn something new. 

Swimming is going well. I get my laps in early now and write later but the day unwinds about the same. I still have to discipline myself to do guitar work in the evening but it will come. It’s harder to do work when you have friends who want to play. This life is getting tougher all the time.

WATSONVILLE

After driving a while and then a mile or so on gravel you come to the mail box at 6082 Rollenhagen Rd., off the beaten track between Grand Rapids and Muskegon, Michigan. A left turn puts you on a two track drive with a 15 acre meadow on the left, and a deep gully full of maples and hemlock on the right. A hundred yards farther you can see the tan paint of the barn through a maze of more trees and a red pickup truck or a tractor, or small bull dozer parked there. As you close in on the place, through trees on the right, the two story, tan house with a gambrel roof begins to take shape. I call the place, Watsonville.

For all legal and official purposes, this is where I live. Most of the time I’m somewhere else and the people who own the property come and go without fanfare. Duane and Laura Watson have the upstairs, back bedroom. Other Watson’s, son Ben and brother Doug, dwell in the basement. Now that daughters Kelly and Jaime are married it leaves three bedrooms unoccupied. One of those rooms is mine. It isn’t always the same room but I merit a closet and haven’t had to sleep on the sofa yet. When visiting family or friends beat me to my regular room, I just bump down one room across the hall. 

Days begin early here. Duane, a teacher, is usually up by 4:00 a.m. and covers the 12 miles to school by 5:00. Laura is an administrative assistant at the same school but doesn’t leave so early. Bedtime comes early too. I’m usually the only one up when I drag in at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. I sleep until 6:30 and am the only one in the house when the sun comes up. Wait; that’s not altogether true. Helix, the calico cat usually follows me into the bathroom, jumps up on the counter top and waits for me to turn on the water. I make the faucet trickle as he prefers running water. After he drinks his fill, he jumps down and I can take care of my morning chores. His name derives from DNA structure; yeah, biology teachers. 

I have to remember to close my door every time. Oliver, the long hair, tan cat learned years ago that the latch on my door doesn’t catch every time and if he leans against it, sometimes it opens. He likes to sleep on the pillow as he sheds. He’s named for Charles Dickens’ character Oliver Twist. He’s the only cat that will crawl up in your lap and solicit affection. Mango is the old, yellow & white, battle worn, veteran, barn cat with scars to prove it. He’s earned his place in the house and is old enough I don’t know the origin of his name. 

While we’re on animals, Sanford is the most recent critter: a 2-yr. old Chiwawa-Terrier mix. He thinks he’s 10 ft. tall and bullet proof and he is a good watch dog. He covers the front yard and meadow from his perch in the bay window and he can hear a crumb hit the kitchen floor from outside on the deck. We have a new generation of chickens in the coop. Last spring’s raccoon invasion resulted in the loss of all 14, free range, laying hens and 9 raccoons paid the ultimate price for that indiscretion. We are beginning again with a redesigned, coon-proof chicken house. The new pullets stopped peeping and started clucking a couple of weeks ago and should start laying soon.

The house is heated with a high tech wood furnace, located out by the barn. A thermostat controls the fire box which heats water to 170 degrees, fed underground into the house. It goes through a heat exchanger in the traditional, forced air furnace and heats the house, then recycled back to the fire box. With another heat exchanger in the hot water tank, we use 170 degree water to heat well water to 105 degrees. 

The meadow is planted in either rye or oats for the deer in winter and the wood pile needs to be replenished regularly. So there’s always something to do on Rollenhagen Rd. Sometimes I cook. Sometimes I help with outside chores. Sometimes they just like having me around. When people want to know where I’m from, I don’t know what to say. I usually say something about all of us coming from Africa, a long time ago. But if they need coordinates, Watsonville. is what I tell them. 

JUST ONE MORE

I don’t know how many times I’ve photographed this light house, too many to count. It’s always the Grand Haven pier, but then it’s always new. The only constants are the pier, light house and the catwalk. The sky can have any combination of clouds or blues, and water color, waves and beach always different than last time. Birds come in and out of the frame and direct or indirect, high or low angle; light is always changing. Today the wind was strong, out of the northwest. Low clouds were lined up all the way to the horizon with little, narrow gaps between them. I wanted low angle sun light on the red light house and I had to wait. Being focused and ready when one of those narrow little windows opened and the sun came through, was a waiting game. You might get a minute and it might only last 5 seconds. My fingers ached from the cold and it was difficult holding the camera steady in the wind. But something always complicates the process and you have to work around the inconvenience. You have so many elements working, it’s like juggling 5 or 6 balls, waiting for them to be in a perfect alignment and being ready on the shutter the moment they get there. I took 88 frames this morning; after edits and deletes I had it cut down to 6.
Day before yesterday the remnants of Hurricane Sandy were curling around and down through Ontario, stirring up Lake Michigan. There were 20 ft. waves crashing over the pier and on the beach. The catwalk question didn’t need an answer. It was obvious why, in the old days, they needed a raised steel walkway, with hand rails and a life line from shore out to the light house. This morning the wind still has a cold edge and there are 6 to 8 ft. swells feeding into the channel but the lake has settled down. I decided to stop taking photos when my hands were too cold to feel the on/off switch on the camera. I figured there were a few good shots in there and it would be more rewarding to write and edit with hot coffee and a bagel than to keep leaning into that wind, working for a better photograph. But it’s like picking mushrooms or stones up off the beach. You have 6 in hand and decide to stop after just one more. Then you find #7 and it wasn’t enough after all and you keep looking. You begin to question your own intelligence after you collect #15, the one you promised yourself would be the last one, but it wasn't quite good enough to be the last one. 
I had turned my back to the wind, putting my camera back into its bag. For all practical purposes, I was finished taking photos. Then, for the same reason I suppose that alcoholics take another drink, I reached into the bag and took out a different lens and swapped out my mid range for the big baby. We were close enough we didn’t need the magnification but the “Big Baby”  has an anti-vibration feature that senses and corrects any minor motion, as you trip the shutter. I thought about the cold but it wasn’t going to get any colder, still the sun was getting higher and I might not have this chance again for a very long time. So I took more photos. I caught up with coffee and bagel a little later, exactly what I needed and my hands warmed up just like I knew they would. My hair has a bad case of “Bed-Head” and the runny nose will slow down soon. But I’m exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing.