Blackeyed Peas... A Southern Specialty.

I noticed a bag of blackeyed peas in the pantry and made plans to prepare a pot of them soon. An old friend and coworker of mine from my time working in the shipyard was from Alabama and he’s the one who first had me try them. Beans aren’t my favorite and when he asked me to taste them I balked. Just try em, you peckerwood, he told me. So I did. Wow, delicious. I think of Otis and Evelyn Johnson and their hospitality when I make these.
I first get my vegetables diced up. Carrot, onion and celery. I sauté in butter with a little good olive oil and add a couple of bay leaves and some fresh herbs. I used thyme and rosemary, tied in a bundle. I cook them over high heat until they start getting tender.

When the vegetables are ready, I add my peas that I soaked in fresh water over night. If you haven’t done this step, you can do a quick soak where you put your peas in a pot of cold water and bring to a boil. Let them boil for 1 minute and turn the fire off and let sit in the hot water for an hour. Drain and rinse the peas and they’re ready to use. I add them to the sautéed veg and bring them up to temp in the pot.

With a pound of peas, I add 4 cups of chicken stock and 4 cups of water for a total of 8 cups of liquid. To the liquid I also add a couple of smoky ham hocks for flavor and some ham steak that I cubed up.This can also be made vegetarian by omitting the chicken stock and using all water and leaving out the ham hocks and ham.

It takes about 45 minutes for the peas to plump up and get tender. When I get a good boil going , I turn the fire down and gently simmer the pot until cooked down and finished. When the peas are tender and where I want them, I’ll pull out the spent herb stems and bay leaves and discard. The ham hocks are taken out and I pull any smoky meat there may be and add that back to the pot. The pot of blackeyed peas is now the consistency of a nice stew. Most of the broth has been absorbed and cooked off.

This pot of peas is now ready to serve up and enjoy. In the South, many people make this dish on New Year’s Day for good luck in the coming year. A little salt and pepper, a dash of hot sauce or a dollop of sour cream. However you like it. It’s a delicious, hearty and stick to your ribs kinda meal. Enjoy... And peace.

Spring has sprung.

So, I’m sitting out here on the patio in my rocker, surveying the back property and absorbing the beauty of wildflowers in bloom. Butterflies are hopscotching from flower to flower, birds are darting through singing their songs of Spring and there’s a clean breeze blowing, making the patches of dappled sunlight dance. Short pants, bare feet and a cup of hot coffee. It’s the first time I’ve really looked at the beauty of the yard as I rest in my comfortable chair and take pictures with my camera eyes. Our finally abundant rainfall this season has allowed ample growth to flourish and provide a palette of colors to tease the eye and promise that the Summer coming will be gorgeous.

The dingoes have been helping me out here as they lay in the sun to keep warm. Afternoon is waning as the sun drops lower in the West and the cool breeze becomes a bit chill. Almost time to move back indoors and settle in for the evening. I enjoy this picturesque view.

I now gather up my pack of wild dingoes, making sure they’ve not eaten anyone’s baby and take a sip of delicious coffee that Glo just gave me and depart this lovely landscape that we’ve created. I take a deep breath and recognize the beauty of my life and I’m grateful and humbled. Peace to you, all.

The shofar doesn’t work...

When the three dingoes venture through the patio door and into The Outback, there are times when they are lost and exploring for hours on end. I call and no answer, just a rustling of furry things in the underbrush. Because I have one percent Jewish heritage in my blood, I took out my trusty Shofar and blew the rams horn out into the ether hoping that it would stir some primal gene in the dingoes brain and they would return, contrite and unharmed. But alas, no such luck. I blew the Shofar until my lungs prolapsed and I had to reinsert them back into my body. At my wits end, I drove downtown to the local Aborigine Outlet here in Pedro and picked up a brand new Didgeridoo. It was so long that I had to strap it to the roof of The Bomber just to get it home.  I figured this Didgeridoo would do the trick and get the dingoes back indoors. Glo helped me carry it out to the patio and set it up. I asked Glo for instruction and she said to blow hard and that I would be a natural because I’m full of hot air. So I did. And a sound emitted that I’ve never heard before. Ghostly, haunting and calling. Like foghorns across the water. And the yard went silent.  Magic was happening. The nasturtium of The Outback parted and the dingoes emerged in single file. Humble, reverent and smelling of squirrel turds. They walked up onto the patio and I continued to blow the Didgeridoo. But I made one mistake and blew for a bit too long as other animals came through the brush, drawn to my sirens song. There came an anteater, a Wooley sloth, a Stegosaurus and a Dodo bird. They all sat in rapt attention as I continued to play. I had no idea the variety of creatures living out there. No wonder the dingoes wouldn’t come in. I drew a last breath and finished my sonnet. The yard once again became The Outback, the denizens moved back into the undergrowth and the three dingoes trooped indoors to feast on Scooby Snacks and cheese stuffed blintzes. It was another interesting day here in Pedro.

Life as my Father.

I drove around Pedro today, on my own time running errands and listening to my music library on my iPhone playing through the speakers in my truck. I finally got that together and now have some decent tunes while I’m driving. It was a whole thing for a few days, believe me. As I have my route planned, the last stop is always at the house on Leland St. to stop in and check on Pop. Sometimes, it’s just a perfunctory check and I’m on my way or like this time, I pull up a chair to shoot the shit with the old man. By old man, I mean that in jest and figuratively. Pop is celebrating his 93rd birthday on April 30th. 93... How the hell did THAT happen? I always tell him that he won the gene pool lottery. When I sat down, we traded some stories back and forth, Pop had his handy local paper at hand to keep me apprised of what’s going on and I got to gauge his aura and see what color his shockras were emanating today. I saw a rather healthy looking individual who’s got game. Having grandpa skin, the slightest brushing against the wall can produce a dark bruise on his arms. I saw that his arms were clear and healthy looking which told me that the care my sisters are giving him is phenomenal. It’s a beautiful thing between us. We talk about being kids in that tiny house, my Mom’s antics and the influence my parents had on us kids. Growing up there was quite a ride but we were bathed in love. Tough love, too. War stories, being on the road with his bus, the sandwich shop... The stories are endless. My Pop has come a long way from the streets of Jamaica, Queens, a world war, crossing the country to start a new life, meeting the love of his life, having 9 kids and outlasting most of his family and friends in life. But, he has us kids that he calls his legacy. My talks with Pop are priceless as is the care from my three sisters who in many ways have their lives on hold to give Pop the care he deserves. There are tough days when people don’t feel so good, mean words are spoken and eventually apologies are made. The fabric of our family is strong with a large thread count. It takes a lot to tear it. My brothers and I are close and when we get together there is no end to the hijinx. All are very smart and funny dudes. You have to be on your toes when they’re around. I wanted to write something tonight with substance, something to get my writing juices flowing. I have a lot to say and I’m a little rusty with content. My years of anger are long gone and I want to write with the same fervor. Hopefully muscle memory will kick in and the flow will resume. We’ll see.

Peace and love to you all.
Caseman.