Check it out…a new piece published on Yahoo….!
Recently, I decided to take the family on a trip to Yellowstone National Park. Being parents of three children, my wife and I decided to invite my mother-in-law to join us on our trip. Now most of you are already conjuring up ideas about where this story is headed. However, let me assure you that my mother-in-law is not the pressing problem of this story.
We stopped for lunch in a charming college town that sits between Seattle and Spokane. My wife had wanted to visit her alma mater and procure a sweatshirt from the university of her youth. In the parking lot of a university bookstore a sign read, “Go Wildcats!” and I poked fun at my wife’s sleepy university boasting of my alma maters famous reputation. Taking in my wife’s annoyed stare, I put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. As I backed up I noticed that the backdoor of our family minivan was open. I clearly remember pushing the button that automatically closes the door and thought it strange that it was open again. Thinking that my wife probably went back there to get something out of the cooler, I pushed the button on the dash and the backdoor automatically closed. When the light on the instrument panel turned off, I put the van in drive and we were off to Yellowstone.
We glided across Washington, Idaho, and Montana listening to music, having conversations about politics, religion, and family. My mother-in-law patiently entertained our infant son as we passed from the plateaus of the Northwest into the great mountains of Big Sky Country. As the Clark Fork River gently crisscrossed under the interstate I decided to stop at a rest stop so we could take a break. My mother-in-law politely asked if I could get her bag for her so she could retrieve her jacket. I told her that the bag was in the back, next to the cooler. I opened the back of the van and rummaged through the bags.
When her bag was nowhere to be seen, I immediately I realized what had happened, the bag had fallen out. Jogging my memory I tried to recall where exactly that happened. We had stopped half a dozen times and that bag could have been at any number of rest areas or gas stations in one of three states.
The next day we changed our plans from fishing and picnicking at the Hyalite Reservoir south of Bozeman and instead spent a majority of the morning perusing the aisles of a Missoula big box store in search of inexpensive replacements to my mother-in-laws tee shirts, shorts, toiletries and unmentionables. At that moment it all came to me, “Go Wildcats!” Immediately my wife called the university bookstore not only had they found the bag but they had secured it and everything inside. Breathing a sigh of relief we continued on with our trip every stop remembering to check the luggage.
I have a ton of stuff in the works….I will be posting soon so I will give you this tidbit to keep you going…
“So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.”
— Jack Kerouac (On the Road)
My wife and I sit in our black camping chairs on the sidelines of a high school sports field. The black chairs smell like a recent ocean campfire and sandy remnants of the American West Coast fill the tiny cracks of the chair’s seat. I watch our oldest boy run as fast as he can and work very hard to impress his coaches. He periodically looks in my direction, looking for a wave or nod of approval, to ensure that I am watching him. This is his first year playing football and though his mother is not sure if she likes the violent brutality that is the nature of this American sport, she has been very supportive of his quest for masculinity. The idea of football clashes with her liberal peace loving gentle tendencies but I can assure you that by the end of this season she will be on her feet in full team regalia screaming, “GO EAGLES…!” As we sit here on the sidelines, it is hard not to eavesdrop on people’s conversations. The conversations that take place at a suburban Peewee football practice are extremely intriguing, especially in such a turbulent economic time in our country.
I live in the epicenter of the American middle-class rat race. The best way to describe the socio-economic group that I reside in is to listen to the song by Pete Seeger called, Little Boxes, “Little boxes on a hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same.” I don’t think I could write words that describe American suburbia any better. This song was written as social and political satire during the American suburban explosion of the early 1960s. Most of us became familiar with the song because of the Showtime program Weeds where the little boxes are actually very large boxes. However, the point still remains that they all look just the same.
Today’s little boxes are suffering an interesting and exhausting misfortune as the recession has taken it’s toll on our ticky tacky housing market. In my neighborhood alone we have at least three homes that sit empty due to foreclosure or bank repossession. In the last few years the value of our homes have plummeted. In some cases nearly 100,000 dollars. Today what used to be hundreds of well-manicured lawns now suffer a jungle of two-foot high weeds. Homes that once could have been featured in Better Homes and Garden lay in neglect as their former owners endure lay offs, adjustable rate mortgages, and a struggling economy.
As I drive down my street I can’t help but wonder what stories each of these homes hold within their tick tacky walls. Stories of late bills, laid off adults, strict budgets, teens without summer jobs (as most have been taken by unemployed adults with Masters Degrees), and for some families, times of unreserved financial ruin. Each of these homes has a different tale, but as I pass the last home on the right, my nameless neighbor smiles and waves as he puts his trash can on the curb.
My neighbor’s smile is what gets me the most. In America, people are usually afraid to draw negative attention to themselves. One could be in the middle of a life crisis and when they place their trashcan on the curb, they will still smile and pretend that everything is just great. It is difficult to talk to these people about hard times unless they offer the information up during a three-minute conversation next to the mailboxes. One neighbor moved out of their house in the middle of the night. I am still not sure if this was because they wanted to hide their shame of bank repossession or that perhaps the nighttime was the best time to move according to their schedule. Nevertheless, one day they were here and the next they were gone. A few months later the husband returned to the home to get a few left over items and I asked how things were going. “It sucks brah, we are livin in a two bedroom apartment in a shity part of town. They cut my hours and we just couldn’t keep the place.” He shrugged his massive shoulders and tried to hold on to the only dignity he had left. Perhaps it’s a male machismo thing or maybe it is just human nature to feel like a failure when you lose your home, even if the circumstances are not in your control.
There have been plenty of times in the last few months when I have wondered how and when we will get that check we have been waiting for in order to pay our bills, so far we have weathered the storm and hopefully this economic hurricane will end soon.
Though times are hard, I noticed that as Americans we always seem to remain positive and defiant to our current financial plight. Though Americans are not traveling to Boca or Maui as much, they sure as hell are finding other ways to get their minds off hard times. Some people may call this financial frivolity but I think of it as headstrong perseverance and the pursuit of happiness. I once had had a professor tell the class to look outside the window and count U-Haul trucks for one minute. “That is America on the move. They are all moving to find a better place in life.” It made sense! Even if you lost your job, house, family, car, dog, and the kitchen sink, most of us would rent a U-Haul place our remaining items inside and head for better pastures. Eventually with enough perseverance and hard work we could gain back everything we lost and have a chance to lose it all again if we wanted.
So as I sit and watch my son running up and down the field I cannot help and wonder about the stories of all the people that live in our little boxes that look all the same. I decide that I will start to observe my fellow football parents and take note. Perhaps I can get a glimpse of the stories that they hide in the walls of this average American community.
There are many characters at a middle-class suburban football practice. There is the professional guy that shows up only once in a while in his fancy car and tie. He clicks away at his Blackberry and talks loudly into his Bluetooth headset. He doesn’t usually watch the practice and when the practice is done he motions for his son to quiet down and get in the car.
The dozen or so guys that work in the trades talk about their Locals and how work is hard to come by these days. “I am on my third lay off, I guess it’s back on unemployment.” An electrician says to his carpenter friend. “I hear that the Port of Seattle is hiring, maybe you can get some work there.” Times are tough for these guys, but overall they seem optimistic and are happy to have the time to be involved in the peewee football season.
There are the middle-aged women that take their kids to practice in their skintight clothing. The years of bearing children and late evening ice cream binges have no place to hid in their matching Lycra top and bottom. They gather in groups to walk around the track talking about their kid’s teachers, what their therapist told them about a new study, and yesterday’s Oprah program about kids having kids.
There is the angry dad that irregularly walks out onto the field and tells the coach how to do his job only to be told to calm down and get off the field. This guy usually throws down his hands and stomps off the field in a tizzy. He then finds his wife so he can yell at her about how screwed up the coach is. Though he works himself up into an angry fuss, he is always back the next day to continue to embarrass himself in front of the kids and their parents.
My favorite is the glossy eyed dad with paint on his fingers who makes funny comments about how all the kids look confused and how much fun the boys are having running around in circles not knowing exactly what they are doing. He takes numerous sips from his Big Gulp cup and gets funnier with every drink. He tells you about his kitchen remodel that he is doing on a very strict budget because they cut his hours at the city. By the end of practice his wife is carrying the camping chairs to the car and taking away his keys.
There is the average family that is very friendly but annoyingly compares everything about their kids with yours. “He plays baseball and track and basketball and chess and hockey and is on the honor roll and is the best kids in the world. He is so polite and has great manners and is such a well behaved boy.” As they are telling you this, their kids is throwing his helmet on the ground and calling the other kids words that they learned when their dad watches his team lose. They are usually the most out of control kids and are in dire need of positive reinforcement and discipline. They shake their heads back and forth when they hear this and say things like, “oh my, he is such a passionate kid.”
Everyone has a nice car that they probably struggle to pay for. They talk about canceled vacations, home improvement projects on hold, campers and boats they are selling, the horrible weather, their children’s schools, local sports teams, new diets, their unions, how Obama is doing a horrible job (at what they are not really sure) and what delicious meal is gently resting in their crock pots filling their home with the smell of stewed pork loin and onions. Many parents show up in their work boots, scrubs, ties, uniforms, and Peewee football hats.
They are hard working, when there is work, and they love their country. They are the center of the American middle class and the foundation of our society. They work hard, play hard and pray for success. They appear optimistic about the world; yet seem political and socially uninformed. They are on the frontlines of our recession and are feeling the pain of a struggling economy first hand. They don’t know exactly why we are in such horrible times economically, but know that Obama, Bush, Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan and the US Congress are to blame. The BP oil spill, Iraq, Afghanistan, terrorists, global warming, immigration, amber alerts and the economy worry them but they try not to think about it. They resemble a moderately minded simple America that will strive to reach their goals and find happiness at any cost. They went to the state universities, trade schools or technical colleges. They go to church. They are married and divorced they have problems and flaws but they are practical and rational. They are materialistic yet diligent. They feel that financial success in happiness. They all have a interesting story and are reluctant to look weak or talk about hard times. They come from every background and have a confident demeanor. They are proud and patriotic. They are America.
This summer I have an extremely large amount of important weddings I will be attending. A few of these nuptials I have the honor to be apart of. As I sat at the rehearsal dinner for the first wedding of this summer’s ‘fantastic bash of wedding weekends,” I decided that I wanted to write about weddings in general. Now if I was a part of your wedding don’t get too jumpy and think that this essay is all about you. This essay is not about one person in particular you egomaniacs. In fact, this piece is about all of the weddings I have attended in my thirty-two years around the sun. And since I consider myself a fine connoisseur of holy matrimonial events, this is my take on the whole subject.
Here is my hypothesis, going to a wedding is uncomplicated, you RSVP, pick up a gift, put on a tie, sit in a church for 45 minutes and then your get to eat expensive food, dance, have great conversations with old friends and drink to your heart’s content all on someone’s else’s dime. Though going to the wedding is easy, being in the wedding is a different animal.
I have a love hate relationship with being in weddings. Its one of those events that you feel honored to be apart of, yet at the same time it can be such a pain in the ass to deal with. It starts like this:
A good friend or family member asks you to be in their wedding, if you are me, this usually means that you are the guy that gets to play your guitar on some cheesy Shania Twain duet with a chick you have never seen before…artistic suicide….However, once in awhile you are asked to be part of the wedding party….I am not sure why they call this a party. It is more like an awkward blind date where you are required to bring family members.
First you have the Bachelor party, which is fun but a little bizarre because usually the party is a group of guys that all know the groom from different times in his life. Childhood friends, coworkers, and once in a great while the minister is invited. This is never a good sign because nothing good can come of a minister at a bachelor party. Don’t get me wrong, I love all you ministers out there, BUT…a bachelor party is not the place for you my friend. Lets face it, your presence is destined to ruin all the cursing and debauchery that is to occur on this groom’s last night of freedom. (This message is to 99.9% of Ministers. There is one in particular that I will exempt from this post, as he is often the instigator of the cursing and debauchery. You know who you are Father) I believe that most grooms that invite the minister are being forced to do so by the bride. It is a trick you see, she tells you to invite the minister because he would enjoy a calm and friendly guys night on the town. “It is polite,” she tells you, “you have known him for so long and he has always been there for us, don’t be rude honey pumpkin face.” This is all a ploy. Really, that minister is a spy from god commissioned by the woman of your dreams to make sure that your degenerate best man does not hire strippers and give you Everclear through an IV. After the bachelor party is done the seven or eight guys that may have barley known each other are now the best of friends and the groom is safely released into the clutches, I mean loving arms of his bride to be, and then there is the rehearsal.
The rehearsal is the oddest activity in the wedding shenanigans. You have approximately 30 people standing in a church or wedding venue. None of these people know what is going on and they are all waiting for direction. Most of these people don’t all know each other but they usually know a few other members of the “party” really well. So very quickly small clicks of friends begin to form. There is the bride’s strange uncle who keeps eyeing one of the bridesmaids. He is usually hanging around the bride’s Dad who is busy glaring at the groom, making uncomfortable small talk with the groom’s father and getting evil looks from his wife that he stopped talking to 25 years ago. The Bride’s mother won’t shut her mouth as she keeps telling the bridesmaids to, “stand here, fix that, that’s not right, and are you sure you want it that way?” The bridesmaids usually don’t know the groomsmen except for the one married couple who stand in the corner talking to no one but each other. The groom is standing with his bride in the front getting chastised by his soon to be mother in law and all he is thinking about is tomorrow is the honeymoon.
A crazy woman with a clipboard is dawning a Britney Spears headset and yelling at everyone to pay attention and the groomsmen who have all bonded from their night of iniquity are laughing and making rude jokes to each other about the bridesmaids that they have never seen before and the creepy uncle who is now taking pictures of the bridesmaids with his iPhone. The clipboard lady yells at all the groomsmen for the sixteenth time to, “keep it down boys!” This aggressive anger is directed to all the groomsmen but the married one who is still in the corner with his wife.
Eventually they pair up the groomsmen with some strange woman they are meeting for the first time. The groomsmen immediately forget the name of this friend or sister of the bride. This is especially awkward, as they have to walk arm and arm with this girl in front of a bunch of people as if they are old friends or lovers. The party walks up and down the aisle a few times pretending like they have never been to a wedding before and have no clue what will happen next. After the third time up and down the aisle the bride is getting upset with the groom because he is now with his buddies talking’s about the game and also making fun on the creepy uncle. The clipboard lady tells you where you have to be the next day and at what time and tells you 400 times not to be late and then you all go to a rehearsal dinner.
The rehearsal dinner is always one of the best perks to being in the wedding party. Perhaps this is why they call is a party. At a wedding there are always a few older guys who are willing to throw around cash for food and drinks as if they are Warren Buffett. For example, you are waiting in the restaurant bar and the creepy uncle asks the groomsmen in a creepy low voice, “hey so this is where all the cool guys hangout?” He is glancing at the floor and shuffling his feet around like a ten year-old. The groomsmen become queit and an akward silence fills the air until the Uncle says, “can I buy you guys a drink?” The silence is abruptly ended with a resounding, “sure!” one groomsman puts his arm around the Uncle and nudges him toward the bar, and here comes a round. Then ten minutes later the bride’s Dad does the same thing minus the awkwardness but this time a touch of arrogance is added so that we all know that he is “the man.” Then five minutes later the groom’s Dad doesn’t want to be one-upped by his parental counterpart, so he buys a round. All this and you still have not sat down to eat the 35 dollar chicken breast and rice pilaf you forgot you ordered four months ago when the groom called you during the game and asked, “Hey dude, chicken, fish or beef.” You say chicken and he hangs up. You wonder for a few minutes what the hell he was talking about and then earse the conversation from your memory with a shrug.
So now you are sitting at a table with one another groomsman, his wife or girlfriend and the bridesmaid that you are walking down the aisle with and you try to have a conversation. These conversations are all the same and will persist until the wedding reception is over. They sound like this, “So, you are a friend of the groom? Oh, high school? So you know John Stevens then? What do you do? I am in finance. Yes, I love it. Oh, you went to UW? I am a UCLA girl myself”…blah blah blah. After you tire of this simulating conversation you politely get up to mingle and have the same exact conversation with the Brides cousin who is in town for from Phoenix. You try one more time and have yet again, the same conversation with the grooms Aunt from Denver. After a few more drinks and a toast from the Bride’s Father you say your goodbyes and head home around ten in the evening.
The next morning you always wake up way to early because the high-pitched nagging voice of the crazy clipboard lady is haunting your dreams. You get your things together and triple check them to make sure you have everything. Cuff links, check, black socks, check, lighter for the reception cigar, check. You drive to the venue and get there too early where you get sucked into unloading a cousin’s car that is full of flowers, or silverware. You link up with the groom and his mighty men who are taking sips from a flask in the parking lot. You all collect your stuff and head up to a tiny room that likes to settle in at a nice temperature of 95 degrees. Now this has happened to me twice this summer. The groom’s dressing room is always 95 degrees and far worse then the bride’s dressing room. This factor is a bit annoying but it doesn’t really matter because as long as the flask keeps getting passed around and the three or four fans keep spinning you are doing okay.
After you are 80% dressed a photographer invades the tiny room and starts taking pictures of the groomsmen who are nearly dressed. As we are members of a tieless generation we all struggle to figure out what the difference is between a Windsor and a half Windsor. Once you are ready you head down stairs for the pictures.
Pictures are funny because once again you are all supposed to pretend that you know each other. In two cases I didn’t really know the bride that well and didn’t know any of her bridesmaids luckily some of my fellow groomsmen were old friends and they didn’t know them either. This relieved the tension, as we were able to tell rude jokes under our breath. You know the type, a bridesmaid looks to another and says something like, “do my hips look to big in this dress? I don’t want to show my ass to the world in your wedding pictures hahahaha.” All the girls laugh and then the groomsmen make a few off colored jokes under their breath that I will spare you the pleasure of reading. Think about it, seven guys bonded by a bachelor party who have had a few drinks and are now standing in the sun, use your imagination. After the photos are done we take our places and the nuptials begin.
I will skip the middle part because that is the most boring part of the story. You know what happens, “Do you Blank take this Blank to be your blankity blank.” It is always the same and it is happy and people cry and there is that romantic kiss followed by some cheesey love song and then the good stuff happens, the reception.
The great thing about being part of the wedding party is you get to eat first. By this time you are starving and your buzz is warring off so your need some food and one of those expensive micro brews from the bar (the Bride’s parents are paying so eat and drink up). The bad thing is that if you are married like me than your spouse has to sit at a different table than the wedding party. This is uncomfortable for her as she is now tasked with watching the kids who are board and enduring that same conversation about how she knows the Bride or Groom. This time the conversation is with distant relatives and friends that she has never seen before. So you do the nice thing and sit at the wedding party table for a few minutes and then by the time your wife and kids get their food you are done inhaling your chow and you can take over for her. You rush over to the table where your wife gives you an aggravated that is begging you to take her away from this place and you notice that your son has the pene pasta on all five fingers of his right hand and is eating them off one by one.
The meal is done and the best man is finishing his speech. He looks horrified as he is a bit buzzed and does not usually speak in front of people. He is over cautious about what he is saying because he knows he has had a few drinks and has been practicing this speech in the mirror for 37 days. His caution in a good thing because there have been many times where the best man is totally hammered and his speech is less than vigilant. After the best man’s speech the maid of honor says something that is unintelagible through her tears and everyone claps and toasts.
After the speeches comes the cake. Now I must say that this summer had a few cake incidences that can justly be descried as utter letdowns. We all know that the groom and the bride are supposed to smash cake into each other’s faces. For some reason there is a civility on behalf of the groom that has arisen that makes me sick. In three of the weddings I attended this summer there has been no cake smashing events to speak of. This is total and complete BS! Stop being a wuss and smash the cake into your bride’s beautiful face. It is the last time that you will be able to do this for your entire life without repercussions. She will tell you not to, but she knows you will do it anyway so for you to wuss out is weak and lame. Take the cake and smash it into her nose and mouth and pay the price later. It is your honeymoon night for goodness sake; any woman that would be pissed because you smashed cake in her face at your own wedding has issues. Do not be that guy, the guys that destroys tradition and fun. Even if this is your last act of total freedom, it is worth it. Stand up, be a man and SMASH HER IN THE FACE…! Okay, I am over it now. All of you grooms that I am talking about who didn’t smash the cake in their bride’s face, its okay, send your new wives to me and I will inform them that you get one free cake smashing on the house.
Once the speeches are given and the cake is cut, the music starts. Now, I have been to very few weddings where the music starts and the dance floor erupts with dancing wedding guests. Usually there is an inept emptiness that occurs. The dance floor is completely empty except for the half drunk bridesmaid that keeps saying, “come on, come on you guys. Lets dance, wooooohhooooo!” Everyone looks at that girl in absurdity and pretends like she is not hammered. I have been to a few “dancing receptions.” There was the Papadopoulos wedding (not their real name) where they kept throwing plates on the ground and yelling, “OPPA” as if plates grow on trees. Then there was not Martinez wedding (also not their real last name) where the drunken uncles kept tying to salsa dance with the young bridesmaids. Not to mention the dozen or so Filipino weddings that my family has put me through that are just like the Martinez wedding except you also have to suffer through the great 70s hits like Macho Man, and Remember by Earth Wind and Fire. If you have never been to a Filipino wedding just think of the Martinez wedding but instead of salsa music your extremely gay uncle (who really isn’t an uncle but for some reason you call him Uncle) is singing “We’re gonna have a good time tonight, lets celebrate.” on the karaoke machine.
This summers wedding dancing has been nearly the same experience. As I am not a dancer, I cannot really judge because I am part of the problem. Mostly these events consist of the drunken bridesmaid coercing the bride and a few other ladies out on the dance floor. Then there is the strange guy with the 80s hairdo that keeps snapping his fingers and biting his bottom lip while he flails his arms around to the beat of the song. That guy bothers me because I am not really sure what his intentions are or who he belongs too. As the DJ comes across the sound system with his cheesy radio voice announcing that “we are going way back, so all you lovers out there, don’t be shy and grab your partner.” Just then the Thompson Twins song from the 80s comes over the speakers, “hold me now….stay with me….” I make a break for the door and a few other groomsmen follow my lead. Twice this summer I have used this chance to run outside and light up a cigar with the groom. We tell a few jokes and stink up the rented tuxedos. This is the price they pay for charging me 150 dollars to wear a used suit.
A few dozen more songs play and the crowd thins even more, the bride and groom drive off into the sunset to start their happy life. The wedding is done and you now have to go back to work. You remove tablecloths, fold chairs, fill up you truck with trash that needs to go to the dump, and steal a few bottles of left over champagne. Then you make your way home to take off the monkey suit and the shoes that are causing your feet to blister. Overall, you decide that it has been a beautiful day filled with love, romance and great memories. You were a good friend and been a part of the most memorable day of your buddy’s life and you are pleased that you had a part in making your friend’s wedding picture perfect, even if there was no cake smashed in his bride’s face.
This afternoon I began a quest, a mission if you will. I had a goal and I was determined to accomplish it. After reading the essay The Green Burrito” by local author, Phillip Heldrich, I was inspired and resolute to try my attempt at the recipe that Heldrich included in his essay. I am a sucker for a good burrito and though I cannot say that I have ever ordered a “green burrito” I am sure that I have had one that was possibly titled something different.
I started my afternoon by heading to the Olympia Farmers Market to pick up the ingredients. I was going to make this for a dinner meal so I decided to pick up a few extra items to garnish this possible Mexican culinary masterpiece. I started my quest searching the fruit stands for only the freshest fruits and vegetables in the stacks. Smelling and touching the Anaheim chilies, yellow onions, Roma tomatoes, and fresh garlic cloves, I carefully chose the ingredients whose density was written in the recipe that Heldrich added to the end of his piece. As I was leaving the produce I stopped, remembering that I must obtain a heavy bunch of cilantro if I was going to attempt to create an authentic meal. A good Mexican feast cannot be made without cilantro and I prefer cilantro heavy garnishes to frame my meal. Though I am not a master of the Mexican culinary art, I do consider myself a fine connoisseur of Mexican cuisine and I know that cilantro is the one key ingredient to making your dishes authentic.
After meandering through the fruit and vegetable stands at the market, I headed home to begin my attempt at the Heldrich’s green burrito. Here in the Northwest it can be a rarity to get clear, warm, sunny weather. Recently, the powers that be have graced us with sun and warmth. This serene weather encouraged me to make this meal outside. Armed with my heavy cast iron pan and some propane I heated my grill to the perfect temperature. I began roasting the Anaheim chilies on the hot grill. The heat pressed against my face and immediately the smell of the roasting fruit filled the air. As the chilies browned I added butter and olive oil to the pan. It melted quickly under the heat and coated the surface of the black cast iron. I must confess that I am very bad a following recipes. Perhaps it is the massive pull of the right side of my cranium that pushes me to artistically toss in ingredients to add to already good recipes. As a child my culinary mother, who never used recipes, I have followed her example and created a habit of tossing in this and that.
For the “Green burrito” I tried to stay as close to the recipe as possible but could not help but to throw in a few extra spices that I loved. A dash of chili powder, some cumin, a couple of garlic cloves and some fresh black pepper could not bring me too far away from the recipe that I was following. As I mashed together the rest of the ingredients I periodically stuck my finger in the molten mixture and tasted the heavenly combination of beans, chilies, garlic, oil, and butter. Now this is not a habit I practice when cooking for guests but I figure that when it comes to my wife and kids that sticking a somewhat clean finger into the food to ensure perfection can’t hurt.
When the main portion of the meal was cooked, I picked up the heavy cast iron with a oven mitt and retreated to my kitchen to finish preparing the meal. My first thought was that homemade pico de gallo sounded like a good addition to this feast. I quickly diced some onions, tomatoes, peppers, and the beloved cilantro and mixed the contents with some herbs and spices. I was almost ready to begin the meal. I carefully rolled the burritos and melted some cheese on the bubbly surface of the fresh tortillas. I called out for the kids to wash their hands. When all the microscopic bacteria were removed from the surface of their little hands we sat down to begin our feast.
The first bite was heavenly. The hot contents of the beans seeped into every crack of my mouth and filled me with deep satisfaction. I was cooking for my family and so I decided I would not add ingredients that presented too much heat. For this reason I brought to the table a bottle of Tapitio to add the spark that every burrito longs for. As I watched my kids devour the burritos I smiled with contentment. “Hey Dad, what are these green things?” for some reason most kids are automatically hesitant to eat anything green which is something that I find interesting. “The green stuff is the secret ingredient,” I told him. My son crinkled his nose and continued devouring the burritos. The mission had been a success and the recipe lead to a culinary masterpiece. Now as I sit at my table staring at four empty plates and a basket that once held a plethora of corn chips, I realize that I owe my gastrological contentment and bloated feeling to my teacher and the author of “The Green Burrito.”
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This is an excerpt from an essay portfolio I submitted for a writing class. Names have been changed in order to protect the charters identity.
I stand on my backyard deck with the heat of this summer’s first sun beating down on my head in agony. I pick up my cell phone in order to access one the dozen applications I have downloaded in an attempt to entertain myself or add convenience to my already convenient life. I am not looking for closest Thai restaurant in which to indulge my hunger in a plate of curry noodles. Nor am I searching for an update on my favorite Baseball team because I already know they are loosing. Today I am looking for the temperature. As I fling my finger from right to left on the three and a half inch by four-inch screen of the piece of technology, I see the smudges from my dirt stained hands smear the screen. I choose the application that allows me to access the weather from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and I am shocked that the temperature is only 73 degrees Fahrenheit. The fact that it is only 73 degrees shocks me as I am now standing on my deck in what seems like a spa like state of heat. It is true that I have been working outside cleaning up the unattended state of a Washington backyard. However, on this first day of full sunshine and heat I would have guessed that the temperature was at least 80, maybe even 85. But now as I look down on the small dirty screen of my overpriced handheld computer I am in utter dismay that the temperature is a pleasant 73 degrees.
“This is it, I have officially become a wussified civilian who complains at 73 degrees.” I thought to myself. You must know that the reason for my attitude problem was that only two years ago I was suffering an existence of a soldier stranded in a dessert war zone that reached 140 degrees and I endured it under extreme pressure while wearing 75 pounds of Army gear. However, here I stood back home in the Pacific Northwest wearing cargo shorts and a tee shirt that read, “IN-N-OUT Burger, Quality you can taste.” I had become softer, fatter and lazier and I was cherishing every minute of it.
In the deserts of Mesopotamia I lived with only what was given me. Everything I ate and drank usually was carried in an old dusty pack and though I complained to my fellow soldiers, I never spoke a negative word to my superiors. Okay, maybe one or two negative words. The difference was that here in the back yard of my Puyallup home, I was not wearing a restrictive bulletproof vest that reeked of sweat and dirt. There was no sand flying sporadically through the air in every direction creeping into every crevasses of my being. Here no one was trying to blow me up with a roadside bomb, up or shoot at me from the top of an apartment building because I was an infidel. Here, if I wanted something, I went and got it. If I didn’t think it was right to go somewhere, I didn’t go. If I was sad I cried, if I was happy I laughed and I could complain about everything and nothing. It was freeing and scared the hell out of me. Luckily, for me, the only problem I currently faced was extreme thirst.
In the desert I had experienced a tremendous amount of thirst, hunger, homesickness, and exhaustion. After returning home and hanging up my Army boots, I tried to remember these times of depravity in order to be thankful for what life was like in America. I recall a time when I was sitting in a hole, south of a town called As Samawah in Iraq. I shared this luxurious hand dug battle position with a friend named Shawn Schroeder. Private First Class Schroeder was a sadistic and demented fellow from Sothern California that said very few words and the ones he did say were usually ones that pointed out how much he hated you or how you were not worth his time. He was an asshole, and I loved him. I couldn’t think of another person that I would want to be stuck with in a hole in Iraq.
Shawn and I had climbed into our hole in the black of night. Only the green glow of our night vision goggles provided enough light to see the bridge we were ordered to watch. We were tired and weary from the lack of sleep and food. This lack of comfort was all to common for a soldier in a war zone. As we settled in our hole our Sergeant, a young, square chinned, twenty five year old Army Ranger from the mid-west, crawled up to the rim and told us in an almost unintelligible whisper that we could take turns sleeping but needed to make sure that one of us watched the bridge and let him know if anything looked fishy. He smacked me on the top of my helmet and told me to stay alert. “Where is he going?” I asked, Shawn said nothing and set his machine gun on the brim of our hole facing the bridge.
“Okay, who gets to sleep first?” I said. “Would you shut the hell up, do you want the entire Iraqi Army to know we are here?” Shawn adjusted his night vision goggles and looked at his watch. Our hole was about four and a half feet deep and only four or five feet square. It was cramped but big enough for one of us to stand while the other sat down and got some sleep. “Ok, I will take the first hour and wake you up to take over.” I sank into our hole and took off my helmet. “Hey Schroeder, do you think I can smoke in this slit trench?” I whispered loudly. “No dummy, get some rack.” I clicked off my night vision goggles and closed my eyes.
An hour later I felt Shawn’s boot kicking me lightly, “Kerrigan, wake up, its your shift.” I jerked awake throwing helmet on my head and scooping up my rifle in panic. I felt like I had been sleeping for hours and that my precious slumber had been interrupted by a train running over my head about forty two times. The silence and darkness of the desert was so immense that it created a heavy feeling that I had never experienced before. It was as if I was floating through space on a dirt mound staring out into nothing. I leaned my rifle up against the dirt walls of our hole and squeezed passed Shawn in order to take his spot behind the machine gun. “Wake me up in an hour.” Shawn said as he handed me his watch and slumped into my sleeping spot. Not thirty seconds later, he was asleep.
I connected the watch to a loop on my vest and checked the machine gun to make sure that everything was ready to go if the Republican Guard decided to use this bridge as a way into the city. This of course was very improbable, as most of the Iraqi Army had been surrendering to us for the last three days. The only action we had seen was a few firefights and RPG attacks by some radical wing of Saddam’s Special Forces called the Fedayeen. Most of the time it the Fedayeen consisted of three or four guys in civilian cloths hiding in a building and shooting at us until we called in attack helicopters to take care of them. I assumed that our purpose in this hole was to stop the Fedayeen from escaping or resupplying. This of course was only an assumption because as a Private in the US Army I was only entitled to know about jack and shit, which meant nothing.
I peered through the sights of the machine gun and stuck a pinch of Copenhagen in my mouth. I picked up this nasty habit from the peer pressure and machismo attitude that was viral in the Army. The benefit was that this cancer producing mixture of American chewing tobacco helped to keep me alert and took the edge of the extreme exhaustion that my body was enduring. I glanced down at the watch and realized that only ten minutes had past. The buzz from the tobacco was long gone and the sweet smoky taste from the ground leaves had faded. I reached into my mouth with my two fingers and grabbed the moist wad of tobacco tossing it into the dark void. For the next fifteen minutes I glanced down at the watch another five times. The minutes of excruciating silence and the entrancing green glow from my night vision goggles had sent me into a near hypnotic state. My eyelids felt heavier than 100-pound weights and I tried to tell myself that sleep was only a few minutes away.
I peered into the darkness fighting the urge to sleep; the exhaustion was too much to bear. At that moment I made a decision that was not only cruel but went against everything that I was taught in boot camp. I kicked Shawn’s boot and told him it was his turn to stand guard. Only thirty-five minutes had past and the guilt of my fraudulence was so overwhelming that I almost told Shawn the truth. Instead, I sat down, closed my eyes, and decided that I would pull a few more minutes on my next shift. As the half hour mark approached on my next shift I again gave in to my temptations and woke Shawn early for his shift. I continued to do this to him throughout the night until the sun began to rise over the desert. Three years later, Shawn and I would be back in Iraq with a different unit and I would admit to him about the horrific transgressions I committed that night in our hole. I expected Shawn to be angry and call me a bunch of names that are not fit for literary publishing. However, as I confessed my sins of deception to my good friend he only smiled and confessed that he had been doing the same thing that night in our hole. He then went on to tell me that he had committed this act of betrayal on many other occasions during our first tour.
As morning came, I counted the time and discovered that Shawn and I had been sitting here in this hole over watching a bridge for at least twelve hours. The sun had risen over the ancient arid terrain and I could smell the date trees that sat in perfect rows parallel to an irrigation ditch that stretched through a near by orchard. In front of us stood a dilapidated old bridge that led into the city. Only a few shrubs hugged the bridge and struggled to survive this dry landscape. In the midst of this desert, were Shawn and I looking over the bridge that loomed over a dry creek bed from the comfort of our hole. The song of a lone holy man gently and methodically hovered in the distant air crying out to the residents of As Samawah to awake and pray. Shawn and I complained to each other about unendlessly. The truth is that I was the only one complaining, I am not sure if I complained out of frustration of boredom. Nevertheless, I complained and Shawn listened.
It was only two weeks into the invasion of Iraq and here we were the most powerful Army in the world and Shawn and I were sitting in a hole, watching a bridge and we had no water. The heat was obstinate and the thirst almost insufferable. “Donald Rumsfeld is an Asshole.” I declared allowed. “I bet he is sitting on a nice leather couch in the White house with the AC humming overhead while he stirs his cold drink and tells Bush what to do. How can we be sitting here in the Iraqi desert without any water? We are Americans, didn’t anyone plan to get enough water.” I spit the fluid that gathered in my mouth from the disgusting wad of tobacco that lingered between my cheek and gum and dehydrated me more than I naturally was. The stream of brown saliva and chew landed in the dirt next to Shawn’s boot. “You know what Kerrigan, you are the Asshole. Here we are sitting in a hole waiting for Saddam and his Republican Guard to attack us, and you are spitting the only remaining fluid you have left in your body on my boot.” I laughed and spit again as Shawn smacked me on the head. My helmet took the blunt of his aggression. “You know you love me you big hoto,” I declared to my buddy. “Shut up” he said.
Our square chinned Sergeant scurried over the dirt and collapsed at the side of our position. “Eat some chow Assholes.” He threw two brown MREs or Meals Ready To Eat into our hole and smiled. “We will be moving out as soon as we get the call.” He started to move back to his position when I called out, “Hey Sergeant, where are we going now?” The sergeant furrowed his brow and looked at me with an aggravated stare, “Hell if I know Kerrigan, does it matter? We are going to go find bad guys to kill. Eat your chow and be ready to move.” His boots sent up small clouds of dust as he sprinted back to his position.
I ate my “chicken, chunked and formed” with the crackers and peanut butter that I found in the MRE. “Hey Schroder, you want my charms?” I laughed and threw the 1940s replica hard candy at him. He stood behind the machine gun like a statue and gave me the. No one liked the Charms that came in the MREs. Most soldiers didn’t like the hard candies in faux 1940s wrapper because they were a sorry replacement to the modern day Jolly Ranchers that we all enjoyed back home. Also, the Charms were not half as good as the fruit flavored candy that sat on every 7-11 shelf. The reason I hated the Charms was because I assumed that they were only added to the MREs because some bureaucrat sitting on the defense committee in Washington DC probably had some nostalgic memories of this candy during his time on the Korean peninsula in 1951.
By the mid afternoon Shawn and I sat on a Blackhawk with the rest of our squad headed for some other town in Southern Iraq. We would have hundreds of nights like the one in our hole. Some would be easier and others would be far worse. We would laugh, cry, bleed and deceive each other in order to get a few more minutes of sleep. However now, these days in the desert were behind me and I was a different person than I was before I left home to fight a war. Today, I was grateful for the things I had and promised myself that I would remember nights like the one Shawn and I had in our hole.
I hopped off my deck, picked up my garden tools and took a long cold drink from the garden hose in my backyard. As the cold refreshing water spilled over my face I thought, “Oh what it would have been like to have a hose like this in Iraq.” I went back to work and made a mental note to send an email to my friend Shawn who still wore the uniform. I would address the subject line, “Our Iraqi hole.
There is something about taking a drink from a garden hose. I know this is a practice that many people may find repulsive. I can hear the words of my germaphobic sister in-law chastising me for how disgusting and unsanitary this act may be. I am aware of the fact that it is quite probable that my backyard garden hose is possibly a cesspool of microscopic bacteria that has been slowly festering and reproducing within the dark walls of rubber. It is true that water that has been sitting in the hollow darkness for multiple months and is probably laden with germs that would love to take over my body and send me into a nauseated spiral of gastrointestinal sickness. However, as I work in yard of my Puyallup home my thirst draws me toward the elongated green rubber hose has been sitting in my grass like a skinny python since last fall. The blistering northwest sun has been peeking through the sporadic clouds all day radiating at a blistering 73 degrees; sweat drips from my pours that are not used to this uncomfortable combination of warmth and sunlight. The hose calls to me.
I ignore the push to quench my thirst from that hose and tell myself that I will go inside for an ice-cold beer or perhaps a glass of sun tea that has been slowly brewing on the red surfaced cedar planks of my backyard deck for nearly four hours. I wipe the sweat from my face with my soil stained hands and the dust-burdened perspiration collects in my palm and drips from my fingers. The draw to the hose is becoming unbearable. Surly this unsanitary act can’t be that bad. Children all over this great land have been taking thirst-quenching drinks from the water hose since its invention. I begin to rationalize my thoughts by telling myself that if I leave the water running for a few minutes it will wash away any impurities that might be festering in the darkness. I continue turning the dirt in my garden with the old rusty garden hoe I procured from a community garage sale in 1999. I try to put the thought of the garden hose aside when the power of the hose becomes to much to bear. I look over my shoulder at the facet protruding from the blue siding of my home and it begins calling me like one of those crazed rings in Tolkien’s book. To Bilbo Baggins there was The Ring, for me there was the garden hose. “Come and drink from me, I am your precious,” the hose speaks to me and I give in.
I throw down my rusty hoe (circa 1999) and walk toward the facet in anticipation. The pull toward the hose is insufferable because I know that at the end of that hose will spew a delicious thirst quenching drink and an endless source of hydrogen and oxygen that is sure to satisfy me to the very bottom of my being.
The green handle to the facet creeks in agony with each turn and the pressure from the water fills the hose with force and speed. I try to keep myself from running to the end of the hose like a child in excitement and opt to walk briskly to the fountain of refreshment no spilling into the dry grass. I hold the hose a foot or so from the nozzle and bend down to let the cascading water hit my face. The ice-cold water makes me shiver and moan for a brief fraction of a second and instantly I feel invigorated. I can’t seem to consume the arctic H2O fast enough and my stomach begins to bloat with the revitalizing solution. I bring my other hand up to the hose to gather the cold fluid and clean the dirt and sweat from my face. I feel a strange combination of nirvana and exhilaration that can only be compared to the adrenalin that is felt by cops chasing robbers or bungee jumpers leaping from their bridges. I am a new man who has been given a new start to his day and I don’t feel bad about it. On the contrary, I feel energized. I gave in to my worldly inhibitions and I am a rebel. “Bring on the microscopic bacteria,” I think to myself. It is as if I have the world’s germaphobic public standing in front of me and I am lifting my middle finger at them in a rebel spirit that is organically American. I look to the heavens and proclaim, “That’s right, I had a desire of the flesh that could have horrible implications on the state of my well being and I give a damn, give me hose water or give me thirst,” I yell into the blue void that looms overhead.
It takes everything that is in me to stop showering myself with this hose of wonder. I am drenched in the delightful bounty that the hose offers to me. I take one more long drink, slowly and methodically gulping the fresh water. I gather my composure and drop the hose into the grass. As I walk back to the faucet a cool breeze hits my wet face and natures air conditioning comforts and extinguishes the heat that is radiating from my body.
After deep analysis of my recent interactions with the garden hose I have come to believe that though it may be a disgusting cesspool of bacteria, it is also a revitalizing fountain of liquid refreshment that under the right circumstances should never be ignored. It is my belief that no matter how much risk is involved by consuming water from a backyard garden hose, that this act of simple rebellion and self-gratification is well worth the potential jeopardy that one might experience from taking that ever-refreshing drink.
Have you ever looked forward to something so much that you want to share this excitement with every person you meet? After returning to college later in life every quarter feels like a new page in life is turning and an excitement about learning overtakes my thoughts and captivates my every action. I had been in the “real world” for many years and after serving in the military decided to avoid the horrid job market by returning to school to complete my education. Uncle Sam would be footing the bill so it seemed the wisest choice for my future. I loved school and soaked up every moment of every class. I had never been a model student in my youth but now in my early thirties I have taken to school like it is my place in the universe.
I had attended a few quarters at the University and had decided that I wanted to keep working through the summer. I spoke with my adviser prior to registration to get a thorough description of how summer classes worked at the University. She explained to me how there were two terms and that classes were condensed into a four week course. Upon hearing this information I was initially surprised and excited. The fact that I would get to complete ten credits in four weeks and then have the chance at ten more seemed exciting and opportune. I quickly registered for three courses and flirted with the idea of taking a fourth class in the second term though I decided to see how the first term went.
As the quarter came closer I had many conversations with fellow students asking them if they had taken classes in the summer and what they thought about the experience. The response was a resounding Ahhhhhhhh! I did not find their descriptions of tremendous work load, cramming and brain exhaustion encouraging. After all, I thought that this would be a great opportunity to knock out fifteen or maybe even twenty credits. I completed finals from the spring quarter and planned to enjoy the week long break by working in the yard and reading something other then an assigned book. It was time that I re-read Kerouac’s Big Sur and my ratty second hand version of this literary masterpiece was calling my name.
On the first day of my break I stepped out on to my deck to find that my plans of yard cleanup and gardening would be ruined. An incessant rain fell on every surface in my yard. Even the grass that desperately needed to be cut was screaming out for me to save it from the ocean of precipitation that was forming around its slender blades. I went back to the warmth and cover of my home and did what any full time 21st century student would do on a break from school, I surfed the web. I rummaged through social networking sites and op-eds in the New York Times for what seemed like fifteen minutes but was actually one hour when my zombie like web surfing was interrupted by a familiar chime. I had received an email from one of my future professors that read “Syllabus” in the subject line. Though I was glad for a break, I was eager to begin these summer classes in an effort to be one of the few students to thoroughly enjoy the expedited learning experience as oppose to dreading summer quarter’s very existence.
I printed out the three attached documents the professor had sent and began to read. To my dismay a feeling of hopelessness and anxiety began to well within my deepest being. As I looked over the workload for the first term I realized that I was experiencing a strange form of PTSD. Not the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from which I already suffered from my time in the service, but a strange Pre Traumatic Stress Disorder that was equal parts horrifying and exciting. I decided that my rendezvous with drunken Jack in the wilderness of California would have to wait and that I better get a head start on my reading for the summer terms.
On the first day of class I arrived twenty minutes early in order to secure a seat near an electrical outlet. I plugged in my laptop and mindlessly surfed my Netflix cue for films that I no longer wanted or had already seen. The professor entered the room and began class with a short introduction and three hours of lecture. The material was fascinating and as a student of history I was enthralled with nearly every word he spoke. Yet at the end of class I was sure that I would have to re-read my notes at least thirty two times in order to remember anything the energetic balding history professor told me. I went to my next class and found it to be more creative and freeing than the history classes that I was stringently addicted to. Creative Non-fiction writing would be challenging yet enjoyable and I suppose that it is a good sign to feel a bit more relaxed when you are required to be creative. Though the workload would be full, I knew that it was all work that I would enjoy, work that would better me as a writer and teach me some skills that I lacked.
I returned home to have my fill of Japanese BBQ and hear the stories of the many adventures that my kids had on this longest day of the year. After the kids were securely in their beds for the evening, I sat on my space foam mattress to conquer the massive amount of reading that lay before me. I looked out my window remembering that the professor from my second class brought to my attention that tonight was the summer solstice. Unfortunately a blanket of luminescent clouds crowded the sky obstructing my earthly view of any miraculous events that would occur in the heavens. However, in this moment I feel that no matter how much work this summer quarter will be that the challenge will be stimulating and enjoyable. So now I read, type, dream, read, and type some more, the sound of suburban America closes down my day and find that I am looking forward to the lessons tomorrow will bring.
kerriganbrian
What Is America? 