Thinking about life and salsa

I'm domestic when I'm worried. I used to clean the house. Now, I cook or write.

There's too much going on. Work stuff. Family stuff. I'm getting ready to officiate my nephew's wedding. My cousin, Patrick, passed away last week. I'm definitely in my head lately.

I've reached the stage in my life when guys hit the midlife crisis. But sports cars don't have the head and leg room I require and Ash says "No effing way" on the motorcycle.

Screw it. Let's make salsa.

Roasted Salsa
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. You'll need a baking pan and some olive oil.
Cilantro
Lime
Four whole tomatoes
Yellow onion - slice in half and pull the peel
Garlic - I used one clove of elephant garlic
Jalapeno peppers -5
Red bell pepper

The process
Place the tomatoes stem side down on the pan. Put a film of olive oil on all the vegetables. Roast for about 20 minutes, or until the red bell pepper turns black. Pull them out and let cool for 15 minutes or so. Handling them while they're still warm makes what you need to do easier.

Start with the red bell bepper. Pull the blistered skin off. Lop off the top and slice in half. Scrape out the seeds and ribs. Throw it in the food processer.

Next, the jalapeno peppers. For two of them, take off the top part and stem, then slice it lengthways. Scrape out the seeds and ribs. Slice each half in quarters and put in processor. For the other three, take off the top and cut them in quarters and toss it seeds and all into the processor.

Next is the onion. Roasted onions are slippery and their structural integrity has been compromised, so please be careful when you cut them. But coarse chop them and toss it in the processor.

Lastly, the tomatoes need to be done. WARNING: Roasted tomatoes hold onto their heat for a while. The blistered skin will come off easily, so peel it. Lop off the top and cut them into quarters and put them in.

Add fresh cilantro to suit your taste, along with the juice of one lime. Run the food processor for whatever consistency you like your salsa.

That'll do it.

Roasting the vegetables makes a big difference. I'll never make salsa again without doing that. It may not make up for not buying a motorcycle, but it's close.

Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,
It's been a long time. I'm not saying that to be an asshole or anything, but it's been 11 years since I got that phone call at 6:30 in the morning on November 12, 2001.

We knew it was November 11 when you left, because there's no way you made it to midnight that day. You worked around the farm most of the day, and I know for you, that day was probably about as perfect as you could get. In a place that you loved, doing the things that you loved, working around the farm, cooking up some venison, having a few

and some of your favorite deer camp "horse dervies" which no one in their right mind would eat

By the way, that pronunciation died with you. But I'm bringing it back. Along with the camel joke.

For the first time since you left, November 11 was Veteran's Day for me. I didn't think much about it being your last day. And I know you wouldn't want it any other way. "Ten years is a long time to grieve," you'd say.

Like almost every other thing you said, you'd probably be right.

But the thing is, there's not a day goes by that I don't think about you. Everyone misses you and still talks about you like you're still here, even eleven years later. That's strong, Dad.

Dad with his little buddy, Levi, sporting the do-rags.

I'll let you know that I finally visited you. Twice now. The first time, I lasted about 15 seconds. But it broke the ice. This past Memorial Day, I went with Toby, his buddy, Mike and Ashley and we drank a beer with you. For you, I guess is the more appropriate term.

I still haven't been down to the farm. I may never go, even though I know it is a special place you chose because you wanted to retire there someday. Someday just came way too fast.

I know what you'd say about that, too, Dad: "I wanted this to be a place where you boys could go and take your families. You should go."

But I really only know it as the place where you died and would only know it without you. Toby and Duke know the place with you there. They got to see how you looked at it and talked about it.

I know that's where your spirit is. Danny has said he's seen you there. I hope he's right. But he knows the place with you there, too. I think that's why I've been reluctant to go: I'm afraid I won't see you there. It would just be the place where your journey ended and I don't want that. Hopefully someday, I'll be able to make that trip and walk your land with you.

I miss the way you'd laugh. The way you'd grin, with the glint in your eyes because you knew something funny was coming. There was that snort thing you'd do. Then three or four chortles that could be mistaken for a coughing fit. Now I'm thinking that watching you laugh is the reason I try to make people laugh.


I think what I miss most about you is how damn philosophical you were. I'm not really sure that others know that about you. But there was just so much I learned about how to be a man shooting pool with you. You taught me more about life playing pool and drinking a few beers than all of my professors put together. You were my greatest teacher. I want you to know that.

I guess I've come to the reason for this: I'm working through some things that I need to change about myself. I don't have your patience, and I sorely wish I knew your secret. I don't have your wisdom, even though I'm as old now as you were when I graduated high school. I'm still not half the man you were, but I'm trying, Dad. I'm trying.

So for me, November 11 was Veteran's Day. I'm fairly certain you'd be comfortable with that. But your birthday's coming up next weekend. That's always been harder for me. I don't think November 19 will just be Saturday.

Love you,
Number one son (I even remember the Charlie Chan reference)
Joel

Comparing John Wayne and John Wooden

There's a line in a John Wayne movie that I always loved. Now this is a stretch, so bear with me. But I thought of it when I read that John Wooden passed away.

In "The Cowboys," as John Wayne (as Wil Andersen) is leading a group of youngsters on their first cattle drive, the come across an Indian burial ground. Cimarron asks what it is and Mr. Andersen says "Little Big Horn." Cimarron says "They didn't even give him a decent grave!"

"It's not how they bury ya.
It's how they remember ya that counts."

                            - John Wayne (as Wil Andersen in "The Cowboys")


That has always stuck with me... It's how they remember you that counts.

John Wooden built one of the most dominant powerhouse college programs ever at UCLA. He won 10 NCAA championships in 12 years, had four perfect seasons, and was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame as both a player and coach.

He coached basketball for 30 years, but Mr. Wooden has been known longer as a teacher, humanitarian and thinker since the mid-1970s. He was humble, wise, giving and brilliant. I think it would be even more fitting if he was remembered as a teacher than a basketball man, and I think he would be proud if that was the case.

I read a short piece about Mr. Wooden after he passed away about the folks who saw him almost every day in his favorite diner. I thought it fitting that the kids he has talked to over the last 12 years in the diner probably do not realize he was one of the greatest coaches who ever taught the game.  So I'll finish this with my favorite quote:

What you are as a person is far more important
than what you are as a basketball player.

                            - John Wooden