Family Portrait

Two shakers of Tony Chachere’s Original Creole Seasoning (both open).

Three boxes of assorted teas. One dozen plastic go-cups from various Mardi Gras parades. An unopened jar of cayenne pepper. Half a container of Morton’s Sea Salt – Extra Coarse. A half a jar of creamy Jif peanut butter. A half-jar of Thrill Your Grill Pork Rub. An unopened bottle of Mrs. Dash Grilling Blends – Chicken (No MSG). Three sets of stainless steel barbecue skewers. A bottle of black pepper. A brand-new container of Weber brand New Orleans Cajun spice mix.

One bottle of Uncle Steve’s Pure Ribbon Cane Syrup “rich in nature’s flavors” and three-quarters’ full – this, in a box on the floor of the closet, right next to the hamper full of wet towels.

This is the legacy of the son we never wanted – the gifts that Ross left behind.

Yes, he’d officially moved out a year-and-a-half prior, but in the two-year span of our adventure in man-child-rearing, Pat and I got to experience the joys of a boomerang kid, if only for a few weeks. It was actually better the second time around because he’d trained us so well the first. Ross was heading back to the South to house-sit nine months (rent-free, natch) for a buddy who’d just been deployed to Iraq. In his typically charming, knuckleheaded fashion, Ross had neglected to calculate how the expiration date on his Phoenix lease corresponded to his departure date for the Palmetto State… and now he needed a place to crash for a few days while he got his affairs in order (rent-free, natch).

So after two weeks of rose-colored reminiscing, non-Chelada beer-drinking, Poore Brothers Jalapeno Potato-Chip bingeing, football-watching and when-exactly-are-you-leaving-again nagging, Ross’s car turned west from the North 74th Place cul de sac and headed off to a new adventure.

Pat then changed the locks on the doors and installed a new video security system.

That was seven months ago. Ross called yesterday.

“Hey Cousin, what’s going on?”

“Hey Ross! What a pleasant surprise – what’s up with you?”

“Well, I think I’m coming back out to Phoenix – June 2nd through 9th.”

“Really?” I said, thinking to myself: I hope you’re not planning to stay with us… and I really hope you’re not calling to ask for my frequent flyer miles. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“Well, remember that girl I was seeing for a while – [ REDACTED ]?”

“Oh, yeah, [ REDACTED ] – as I recall, you never introduced her to us because you were embarrassed by us… She’s not pregnant, is she?”

Dramatic pause.

“No – No, she’s not pregnant, at least, I don’t… no, she’s not pregnant. She was just in Savannah a few weeks ago and we hung out… and so I’m coming back out to Phoenix. I didn’t think I’d be back so soon.”

“No, it certainly is sooner than expected… I’m glad she’s not pregnant. So, uh, is this serious with [ REDACTED ]? I mean, if you’re flying halfway across the country…”

“No – no. It’s not serious – it’s not like it’s a long-distance relationship or anything… I just got a good deal on a plane ticket and thought I’d come out -”

To Phoenix… in June… when it’s 110 degrees. And it’s how many miles from Savannah to Phoenix again?

“Well, it’s a shame you didn’t wait a week longer to book your tickets, Ross, because we’re headed out to the beach house on the 19th…”

Dramatic pause.

“Well, you know, I could change…”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. So about [ REDACTED ] – are we going to get to meet her this time? I assume you’re not staying with us – that you’ll be staying with [ REDACTED ]?”

“Yeah, but I’d like us all to get together while I’m out there.”

“Great! Would love to see you. We’ll be on our best behavior when we meet [ REDACTED ].”

“Cool – I’ll call you when I get things settled.”

“Cool – oh, and Ross, did you get all those speeding tickets I sent you? They kept coming to the house so I just bundled them up… Suffice it to say, you may not want to get pulled over while you’re out here. In fact, you may want to have [ REDACTED ] drive you around. See you in a few -”

The relentless nagging. The unsheathed passive-aggression. The overt nosiness. It has come to this: I have become the mother I never wanted to be to the son I never wanted.

Dammit.

And here, I’d worked so hard to cultivate my child-free lifestyle: We drove a German two-seater from ’02 to ’06. We traveled to Italy for a long weekend back in ’04. We went to Germany for Oktoberfest among other things in ’11. We toured with a rock band in ’07 and ’12. We trained for ridiculous athletic events. We drank, gambled and stayed up all night. And still, after two-score years of child-free bliss, I find myself haranguing the 29-year-old to make sure he comes to visit while he’s here in Phoenix for his cross-country booty call?

Who am I?

The first time Ross moved in was October 2010. It was my fault – I’d invited him: I’d flown him out to Vegas (free, natch) so he could keep me company at the World Series of Poker (back when I did interesting things). He wanted to launch a new career in a new locale and leave the dull drudgery of drafting back in Baton Rouge. Trading AutoCad for Photoshop, he moved into our guest room in Scottsdale and set about getting gainfully employed with friends of mine in the advertising industry.

In the meantime, we – correction: I – did what every new parent does: I worried and bought him shit. Plane tickets. Beer. A used car (after I tried to fix the clatter trap he drove out here and my mechanic refused to let me drive it home because it was unsafe). Hotel room in Vegas. More beer. He did take the colitis couch off our hands  (long story), and we unloaded one iPod and two laptops on him (one of which he returned so I could give it to my nephew). To be fair, he paid us back for some of it. We put the rest on his tab for the day his Lucky Cherries scratcher ticket comes in.

In exchange, I got to worry about walking around nekkid in my own home. I got someone to take out the trash for me every week. I got one unfortunate call at 2:08 AM; I got to wake him up with my bullhorn on Thanksgiving morning after the drunken onslaught that is Thanksgiving Eve (who knew?). I got to howl with laughter when our dogs greeted him at the door the first time he came home late. Note to interlopers: They weigh a combined 178 pounds. They have all their teeth. They don’t like being awakened at 2 in the morning. I got to do a lot of cooking – ribs, gumbo, jalapeno poppers. I got to eat haggis. I never got to meet [ REDACTED ]… but I did get to know Ross for the sly, talented, thoughtful, creative, witty, bat-shit-crazy-nutcase-about-football that he is.

Then when he left, we got our lives back.

There are things I will never experience because we’ve chosen not to have kids – child birth, first tooth, first steps, first flush of that first potty-trained poop (no photos, please), first day of school, first crush, first “I hate you! You just don’t understand me,” first arrest… (well, actually). It is this litany of milestones that stretches onward through life’s many adventures: The great migration from childhood to teenhood to adulthood… and if you’re a parent, you’re holding your breath while you sit on the sidelines watching it happen at break-neck speed. I watch from high up in the grandstands, removed from the action but still able to appreciate it.

I do not regret not having a child of my own. Better that than to regret having a child I didn’t want. If you’re honest with yourself, you come to realize that parenting isn’t for everyone. There are plenty of kids out there that didn’t ask to be born. My heart aches for them every day.

I’m glad I had the choice to be child-free. I’m glad I married a man who came to that decision with me. I think I can speak for him and say we’re both glad we took Ross in for the six months plus two weeks that he lived with us – and we’d do it all over again… but we wouldn’t do it again, right now.

Because I’ve still got an unopened container of Mrs. Dash, a half-empty bottle of Uncle Steve’s syrup and an ice-cold can of Chelada that he can tuck into his luggage for the plane ride back to Savannah on June 9.

The son we never wanted looks like a terrorist… or a pervert.

Boston 2010

I have not run the Boston Marathon, but I count myself lucky to have been at the finish line three years ago.

We cheered on Pat’s sister Valerie and our dear friend Christopher as they competed in – and completed – their first Boston Marathon. We joined thousands of friends, family, lovers, cousins, runners, walkers, dignitaries, children, tourists, workers, volunteers and knuckleheads screaming ourselves hoarse, raising more than a few glasses and blinking back a tear or two at the thousands that streamed across that line, ending a 26.2-mile run and a journey that stretched months and maybe years before that.

At the 114th Boston Marathon finish line a single pulse churned through the hearts of the crowd: Anticipation. Little kids wriggled through the barricades to cross the finish line with Mom or Dad while gruff cops looked the other way. Runners burst into tears and dropped to their knees to kiss the pavement and struggled into a volunteer’s arms to stagger down the chute. Whoops of glee echoed through the stands when the dizzying focus of binoculars landed on a familiar gait way down Boylston Street revealing a glimpse of their runners. Our runners. 

Lithe and slender and quick as whippets; plodding, blistered and worn down by miles; driven onward by a cause greater than themselves (cancer, AIDS, Wounded Warriors, domestic violence, Sudan, peace, Mom, Dad); racing against the internal measure of a personal challenge – hour after hour after hour they came, each triumph fresh every time their feet touched that line.

Bars opened up at the crack of dawn and hit capacity before the first runners left Hopkinton. Grocery stores and markets ran low on colorful bouquets. Tom cradled tulips in his arms for a good two hours for Valerie. A Babel of languages swirled up between the buildings from the grandstands. It was there that I learned a full bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne can fit in a standard bicycle bottle.

Eleven-deep along the sidewalk, we searched for the handwritten names emblazoned across their shirts – Go Dana! Go Mike! You can do it, Terry! Almost there, Julie! A weak smile, a half-wave, a nod – their eyes on the prize and the Old South Church looming beyond, we pushed them onward with our shouts, cheers and thunderous claps.

“There she is! There she is! It’s them! It’s Christopher! Go Valerie! You can’t do it, sweetie!” We cried for them, like we had cried for so many that had come before.

Late into the afternoon, the party rolled on. We bought beers for triumphant strangers – many of them still clinging to their foil race-wrappers for warmth, absently rubbing their medals between their fingers or staring awestruck at the news coverage of Marathon Monday. They did that! They ran Boston.

And though some may have ended their day in defeat – bested by a competitor, falling just-short of a goal – the achievement would be etched in their hearts and ours, having borne witness to an accomplishment they may not recognize for another day.

I have not run Boston. After my first and only marathon – London 1995 – it wasn’t in these legs to qualify, though I ran the Las Vegas Rock and Roll Half in 2011 and the New Orleans Mardi Gras Half in 2012. Celebrating in Boston at the finish line was enough for me – I marvel still at all of those that streamed across and at the city that encircled them in a great, big, loud, proud hug.

Nothing can take that away from me – nothing will take that away from them.

The finish line will never be the same – not for Boston, not for any marathon, not for any race of any distance of any kind.

The taut tape that spans the finish line will no longer stand stand for getting up off the couch, setting a goal, pushing yourself and achieving something – it will stand against hatred and anger and fear. The third and fourth and fifth and 20th people to cross will not just be vying for the podium or an age-group prize, they will be competing for the dignity of the injured and the memory of the lost. On and on through every runner that charges onward toward the goal, up to the last straggler whose brave effort will sweep up the confetti, they will cross the line for the volunteers, the police officers, the EMTs and paramedics, the spectators that charged onward into the blood and smoke to help.

They will finish for Boston.

Here’s what I knew about Muse going into the show:

1) We had free tickets in the skybox seats directly across from the stage… with a full bar and semi-private restrooms, plus nice comfy armchairs and a fully catered meal.

2) Um, I think some of their songs are used in those commercials… and didn’t they have that song in that Tom Cruise movie? And aren’t they the theme song for the NCAA basketball tournament. Something madness? I was only passingly familiar with them since I spend the majority of my radio time with NPR (and it’s a news / jazz channel)

3) Muse is one of my nephew’s favorite bands, and in our efforts to reach out to the young people and try new things, I figured I should be adventurous and broaden my horizons.

For those keeping score at home: Muse 4,827 – Horizons, shattered.

Best concert I’ve ever seen – but more than seen: Experienced. They had lasers, people. Lasers.

Lasers.

After the show, the single most telling utterance came from Pat when he wondered what the electricity bill for that concert was. Surely, APS had to divert some hertz from other parts of the grid for Muse to put that show on. I imagine that when they hit particular low notes – spine-compressing, kidney-rocking, bowel-shaking low notes that can only be heard by dogs – people in the surrounding neighborhood experienced a brown-out.

In order of appearance, my thoughts on the show:

Skybox. Vodka cran. We have lift-off.

1) The seats did not suck. We’ve been to our fair share of concerts and normally, I’m standing off to the side wondering if the floral print I’ve selected for the evening is going to piss off the notoriously diva-riffic lead singer (He prefers all friends and family to be wearing black or dark neutrals). We don’t sit at those shows, and frankly, we don’t go to very many concerts: We rely on the nephew and other friends to keep us informed of new auditory developments (see NPR above). I preferred the skybox to the floor because it gave me a greater perspective on everything that was going on around the stage and in the sky (they had video screens that descended like a spaceship). There are no bad seats in the house at a Muse show, but I wish I’d had my trusty binoculars (note for future shows). Lagniappe: Semi-private bathrooms (no lines!) and Lucia took good care of us so we didn’t have to get up from our plush recliners to get our drinks. They do not have this amenity backstage.

2) They have that song in those commercials… Yeah, I was familiar with their music in its various commercial applications. I’d stumbled upon the ever-repeating two-or-three hits on the Top 40 outlets when I was trying to avoid the latest developments in Syria on NPR, but the hits don’t really capture the depth of Muse’s music. No car stereo has the capacity to evoke how awesome that show sounded last night – and very few home stereos that don’t cost as much as a car could do it justice. It was a sound engineer’s wet dream. I could hear every single one of the drums – best drum sound I’ve ever heard in a concert, and this is while they’re simultaneously producing bass notes that might have registered on the Richter scale. I heard influences ranging from Pink Floyd to Queen to Hendrix and they even played the opening to Led Zeppelin’s Heartbreaker, making it sound modern and fresh but just as loud and big. I get annoyed at all of the dub-step production I hear on television commercials these days – but if this is what dub-step is supposed to sound like, I get it … and everyone else is just a poser. I felt like Muse fully executed what U2 was trying to do back in the late 90s (and maybe still today) when they took off on that techno / disco tangent and never came back. Muse just proves you can play with technology and use engineering to create an enhanced experience of sound, while still boasting the fundamental musical talent and composition chops (this, coming from a person who can’t carry a tune in a bag). Either way, the live show was SO GOOD, that we seriously debated getting in the car this morning and driving to Vegas to see them tonight. Suffice it to say, the road-trip rule is in effect: If Muse is within 500 miles (a six-hour car trip) of your home, go see them. You can sleep in your car on the way back, but you probably won’t be able to sleep because your mind will be spinning with images like this:

Fire! Fire! Fire!

3) Muse is one of my nephew’s favorite bands. He’s never steered us wrong before. Alter Bridge, Tenacious D, Tremonti Project, planking, Party Shark, The Walking Dead: I have him to thank for all of these wonderful additions to my life. Don’t tell him, but before the show, Pat decided to listen to some Muse tunes and he was less than impressed. Again: Coming through the speaker on your Mac, it sounds a little flat and manufactured. Seeing it live rocks your world, melts your face off, bleeds out your ears, blows your mind, makes you wish you were high (which is a state of affairs that has never happened to me, but last night, I distinctly thought, “This is why people get high when they go to concerts. I wish I was high.”) Call it peer pressure at 4,000 decibels. Muse: It’s a gateway drug to good music.

The moral of this story: Don’t doubt the nephew. Enjoy the Skybox. Roadtrip rule for Muse.

The Official Krewe of Helios-Arizona Thanksgiving Day Turkey Gumbo

We did not win the inaugural Gladiators of Gumbo this weekend in Shreveport, but neither were we chum for the lions. Competing in a field of 31 professional chefs, caterers and home cooks, Roux the Day represented for us amateurs, winning the winner-take-all non-seafood division, while The Spicy Crabs took the seafood division. Gumboo-yah won the People’s Choice Award, and Krewe of Helios-Arizona unofficially came in second*.

In my first outing as a competitive cook, I learned a helluva lot, had a helluva time and decided I’d come back for seconds next year. I don’t know if that means I am a glutton for punishment, but I definitely could contend for the title of a Gladiator of Gluttony.

The throngs of hungry people!

So here is the Gladiators of Gumbo competition by the numbers:

• 350-400 people served by the Krewe of Helios-Arizona team. I estimated that I cooked seven gallons of turkey and sausage gumbo, which yields roughly 448 quarter-cup $1 taster servings. If they liked their taste, they could come back for a $4 one-cup bowl. We served several bowls, but I don’t have an exact total because the currency was $1 coupons deposited in our KOH milk jug, which was collected and counted at day’s end by the Gladiators organizers. People came up so fast and furious that I didn’t even sample the finished product until two hours after the cooking was over and the team kept serving the tasters that my friend Stacey and I had set aside for ourselves.
• One 22-pound turkey (one of only two available in the grocery store because apparently they don’t keep them on hand except for at Thanksgiving and Christmas). 10+ pounds of andouille and smoked sausage smuggled up from Lafayette by my cousin Stephen. Six onions, nine bell peppers, 12 stalks of celery. Three sacks of frozen cut okra. Two large cans of petite diced tomatoes. Five tablespoons of kosher salt. Six tablespoons of black pepper. Six tablespoons of cayenne pepper. One tablespoon of ghost-pepper salt (the second secret ingredient). Six cups of bacon grease (the supreme secret ingredient) lovingly collected by three families – thanks to Mom, sister Kelly and cousin Michelle. A pound of bacon only yields about a quarter-cup of bacon grease, so they ate a lot of bacon.

My beautiful bird – and I really don’t care if you don’t eat turkey. Your loss.

• $250 raised in tips by the Krewe of Helios-Arizona for the People’s Choice Award.* The Gladiators of Gumbo cookoff benefited the Volunteers for Youth Justice, which provide intervention and advocacy for kids in the juvenile court system.  This ranges from the court-appointed special-advocate program for abused and neglected children to diversion programs for first-time youth offenders. In addition to taster-tickets, each team had a tip jar to raise cash donations for VYJ. The total tally of tips for a team determined the People’s Choice Award. Shameless prevaricator that I am, I brought four signed copies of my sister-in-law’s cookbook, One Dish at a Time, and sold them for $25 each (regular price, $30 – without the celebrity autograph). The Official Pat and Stacy Gumbo Recipe that I cooked at Gladiators of Gumbo is on page 161. We raised $100 off book sales and another $150 or so. According to the event chair, my high school friend Angie, we came in second place in the People’s Choice Award – behind Gumbooyah, which raised about $300. No one else was close… but they didn’t award a second-place trophy, ribbon or medal (much to my grave disappointment – I’m all about medals).
• 7, 4 and 11 – The length in pages (7) of my official Krewe of Helios-Arizona Gladiators of Gumbo timeline, checklist and shopping list – it was in 14-point Helvetica font, which contributed to the page count – but in all that level of sphincter-checking detail, I left only three things off the master list: a flashlight (which my Dad remembered), tablecloths (which my Mom brought) and Bloody Mary ingredients (which our adjacent competitors sipped all morning). The hours of sleep I got the night before the event (4) when my mind was racing through said checklist at 2 AM and we had to be on-site at 5:30 AM to check in… hello 4:30 AM alarm clock; and the hours of sleep I got the night after the event (11), including a post-cookoff nap.

Gladiators of Gumbo Tasting Notes:

• I had no idea what I was up against: Seriously. Because of the overwhelming crush of people, I tasted only three gumbos other than my own – hell, I didn’t even leave my tent to pee until noon because I was waiting for the organizers to take my official entries to the judges. The gumbos I tasted were good: Our neighbors at the Krewe of Centaur featured a duck gumbo. Their head cook, Corky, skinned the ducks and chopped their breasts on site in his fabulous cast-iron caldron (which prompted some serious burner-envy in my Dad). I sampled the chicken and sausage of the People’s Choice Award-winning Gumbooyah. It had a nice little pop of green onion on top. I also had an origin-unknown seafood gumbo that was so lusciously outstanding, I was glad that I was not competing against them.

Burner envy

• So what did everyone else think? Because I didn’t leave our tent, I relied on my friends and family to give me the lay of the land. Both my cousin John and my sister Kelly said Roux the Day would be my toughest competition. Apparently, their roux was a bit thicker than mine and they really developed their flavors well. Two guys that had sampled every single offering returned to our tent for seconds and told my Mom that Roux the Day was their favorite gumbo, but that ours had the best spice of any entry they’d sampled – not too fiery to overwhelm the ingredients, but just enough burn at the end to remind you of the heat. Kelly sent my nephew Carl out with a handful of singles to sample the local talent (her words, not mine), and as they tasted the competition, she was surprised at the number of miscues out there: People leaving chicken skin in the pot, samples oozing with oil. She might have initially mocked the seven-page checklist but Section V, Chapter 4, Item E, Subsection ii – CHICKEN PICKEN (or turkey jerkin’ if you want to be accurate, if slightly offensive) specifically stated: remove all gristle, skin and cartilage … and on the timeline, Section II, Item 8, noted that we would be skimming off all fats at precisely 9:30 AM on cook-day. Attention to detail like that is the difference between first place… and not first place, since they didn’t award anything other than first place… and I didn’t win. Moving on.

• Why won’t my nephew Carl be receiving any gifts for his next two birthdays? He chose Wicked Good Voodoo Gumbo as his favorite. I won’t hold it against him for that long because the Voodoo crew’s little doll kept the rain away, although it didn’t do much for the gale-force winds that kept extinguishing our fire… even though Pat Bertinelli said I shouldn’t have to worry about the wind because it’s never windy in Shreveport like it is in Arizona.
• What does bitterness taste like? Of the hundreds of people we served, a handful refused to try our turkey gumbo. I didn’t get the exact reasons – some mumbled they didn’t like it. Others might have been allergic. I think many probably equate turkey with the cardboard served at Thanksgiving between football games. The Pat Bertinelli Method™ produces a succulent turkey that was their loss. We debated in the tent whether I should use chicken as my protein next year – but I think I’m going to ride the bird I came in on. I’m not changing just because less than 10% of the samplers had such uninformed and unadventurous tastebuds that they refused to even try it (REALLY? YOU’RE AT A FOOD FESTIVAL – GO EAT SOME KETCHUP AND GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!) And then we had the woman who insisted on seeing our roux before she’d even fork over one sad pink ticket to try our gumbo:

“I’m not eating any gumbo until I see your roux.”

“Oh, OK… well, let me get a bowl,” I said, a little puzzled, but trying to be polite and congenial. “You can tell this is our first time at this.”

Our cooking area was in the back of the tent so the servers wouldn’t burn themselves. I drew up a bowl of gumbo and brought it back to the front to show it to her.

“Your roux’ too light. I’m not eating it.”

I refrained from saying: “Your ass is too fat, bitch, you don’t need to eat it!” Or perhaps, “And you’re a rude cow, but at least I can change my roux.” Or possibly, “You want a closer look at my roux? Why don’t I shove your ugly face in that boiling pot?” Or my old standby: “Well fuck you, you fucking fuck, and the high haughty horse you rode in on!”

“Walk it off! Walk it off,” my sister said,  as she pulled me from hurdling over our serving table to pommel the interloper. “She’s not worth it. I’m sure she’s a plant from another team, just here to rattle your cage. Walk it off – didn’t you give up cursing for Lent?”

Stacey prepares the samples for the judges

• What does goodness taste like? My friends Darren and his wife Stacey came over from Arlington, Texas – I hadn’t seen them in 10 years. He acknowledged that he was fully prepared to lie if my gumbo sucked since I was a friend, but Darren said mine was his favorite because it was a solid gumbo – no gimmicks like alligator or liquid smoke – just a solid, flavorful gumbo. That was really nice to hear, but it was even nicer to see him and Stacey… and so many cousins, friends and almost-family members that I only get to see at weddings or funerals (Angie, Aunt SuSu, Troy and Libby, Miss Carol, Bob, Marion, Samantha, Chicken Cousin, Kim, Stephanie and the Nugget, Carl, Michelle, Livvy and Jack – sorry we ran out so quickly, but we weren’t the first to run out). It was a hoot to cook next to Corky and the Krewe of Centaur (even though my ears are still ringing from their sound system). It was an honor to cook against the legendary Ernest’s Supper Club and Chef Tina. And it was overwhelming that sweet Penny drove up from Austin – arriving at 10 PM before a 4:30 wake-up call – to help with the cook… and that dear Stacey saved cardboard boxes for our signs and kept calling to find out if we needed anything while she drove her daughter from Point A to Activity B to Event C – and that she worked in our tent all day, even though she’d be cooking for her own guests that night. What can I say about Mom, Dad, Kelly, Gene, Carl and GraceAnne? They had no idea what I was getting them into – but they threw themselves into it (and put up with me) the way families always do (the family that enters a gumbo cookoff together… never mind). And even now, back in Arizona, I have to thank all of my test-cook guinea-pigs – Bob, Linda, Veronica, Nate, Liz, Colton, Cynde, Dragon, Gina, Val, Tom, Troy, Dirk, Kellee, Kat, Cathie, Kathy, Katerina from Scotland, Ricky-Chris, Chris … and of course, sweet husband Pat, who didn’t blink when I said, “I think I want to enter a gumbo cookoff… in Louisiana.”

First bowl served… to Troy Ebarb – and he’s a coonass, so he knows from gumbo.

Gumbo not a dish for an intimate meal, but a gathering of friends and family – like a Thanksgiving table. Having cooked 17 gallons of the stuff over the past three weekends, I should know. Like football, food brings Southerners together – it’s probably one of the only things we can agree on (unlike football), and one of the few things that bridges the sad legacy of racism in our region. Everyone – black or white – has an opinion about their gumbo, and we share tips and recipes like baseball cards and trade secrets. I believe that Southern culture is a lot like gumbo – diverse ingredients, different ways to put it together, but in the end, it all merges into one rich flavor that tastes like nothing else.

That is a fine bird… even if it arrived at 10 PM.

Aleve, you complete me.

I crawled from bed this morning into a cavalcade of cracks, pops and cramps. Besides the grease burns, nicked fingertips (no blood drawn… yet) and isolated scaldings, competitive cooking has put the hurt on this 41-year-old body… and I have one more week of it.

Since January 1, I have run, biked and swam a total of 159.63 miles training for my first Olympic-distance triathlon … and thank God for that because I don’t know how I’d otherwise manage my three-day cooking odyssey at Gladiators of Gumbo next weekend.

There are 22 teams competing in my division – non-seafood – and they make no distinction between professional chefs and home cooks like me… nor are they making a distinction between hometown cooks and Arizona interlopers. All tasting by the judges is blind – and they have no expressly stated prohibitions against blatant bribery and underhanded tactics in the People’s Choice division. It’s a popularity contest – this is Louisiana: Vote Early and Often.

Yesterday was supposed to have been my full dress rehearsal. Sweet husband volunteered to roast my turkey whilst I was at work on Friday, so I could come home from my post-work workout to an evening of vegetable chopping, chicken-picking and stock-building.

He put the bird in the oven at 7:11 PM – right as I was emerging from my 2,200-meter swim. I didn’t finish vegetable chopping, chicken-picking and stock-building until 12:55 AM. I realized it was past my bedtime when I sat on the couch, glanced at facebook and discovered it was a friend’s birthday… because it was already tomorrow.

Stock-building at midnight. Sounds romantic… but it’s not.

Oh, and sweet husband burned my sausages on one side… because he forgot about them whilst he was spending quality time in the bathroom, talking on the phone to his nephew and surfing the web on his iPad. He’s a multi-tasker, that Pat Bertinelli. He also washed his hands thoroughly upon resuming his turkey-roasting and sausage-burning post-doody duties.

I awoke exhausted on full dress rehearsal day and promptly forgot to put my canned tomatoes in the ice chest, per the official Krewe of Helios-Arizona Gladiators of Gumbo Master Timeline and Shopping List™. Our group of volunteer tasters would be coming over around 2ish… and I knew the food wouldn’t be ready before 3.

So I fired up my trusty Bayou Classic Outdoor Cooker and started the roux-making. After last week’s speed round, I decided to make a larger quantity of roux to extend the cooking time by reducing the surface area of bacon grease and flour contacting the pan. Instead of an 18-minute cook, I coaxed 45 minutes from it and I learned that I could hold the skillet on the edge of the cooker to keep it from overheating. This will be the foundation for my winning Gladiators entry. Stirring the roux on the back porch, I felt into a trance – it looked like spun silk swirling around and around and around… and then I spilled some on my foot and snapped out of it (thank God for my leather clogs and jeans! Safety first!)

Pat returned to the store that morning to buy mulligan sausage – and he returned with the glorious Nathan’s Smoked Sausage. BEST EVER – so perhaps there was a reason for his having burned the first sample. This time, he did not go to the bathroom while the sausages were on the grill. We dumped everything in the pot within the first hour of the cook to let the flavors develop more fully. Total cook time came in at 3:54:21 – and four hours is my projected cooking window for Gladiators of Gumbo. Unfortunately we did not have the Test Cook 1 sample for comparison… because Pat ate it. He didn’t seem to understand why that mattered. 

Tasting notes:

Pat still claims my roux is too light when I add the vegetables. I still claim that I’d rather quit the roux too early than too late and risk valuable cooking time by having to re-do my roux. The volunteers agreed that our heat levels are good – the spice doesn’t seem to overwhelm the taster, but it does develop over successive bites. I still haven’t decided whether to add our Pat and Stacy Homemade Tabasco Sauce – a little dab’ll do ya – because we didn’t have enough to include in all three of our test cooks so I don’t have a baseline comparison (although it was a hit in our Mardi Gras gumbo). Unloading everything into the pot early helps with flavor development at the expense of some turkey disintegration – although I think I have a nice solution for that: Test Cook 1 volunteers had suggested shredding some turkey to ensure there was a bit o’ turkey in every bite o’ gumbo. At 12:15 in the morning, I didn’t want to shred my fingertips into the turkey – but for the Gladiators competition, we will have a combination of shredded and chopped turkey in the pot since we will be starting our preparation at a more reasonable hour. We also have a secret sausage ingredient (of the non-burnt variety) coming from my cousin Stephen in Shreveport.

Now I just need to finalize the official Krewe of Helios-Arizona Master Timeline and Shopping List™ and disseminate it to my army of hungry minions in Shreveport. Oh, and a special shout-out to my friends Kat and Cathie who kindly cleaned my kitchen while I tended the pot. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Without you, I wouldn’t have been in bed at 8:38 PM last night.

No shredded fingertips in this 20-pound turkey.

Test-cook No. 1 in the can.

Normally it takes anywhere from 45 minutes to 90 minutes to make my bacon-grease roux.

On Sunday, February 24, during test-cook No. 1 for the Gladiators of Gumbo cookoff, it took 18 minutes. 18 minutes!

I managed to brown my roux and assemble a palatable version of Pat and Stacy’s Thanksgiving Day Gumbo in 3 hours, 18 minutes, 56 seconds, while cooking for the very first time over an open flame on my new Bayou Classic Outdoor Gas Cooker… and I didn’t burn the house down. Although technically, it took me 22 hours and 58 minutes to cook all of it – since I really started on Saturday at 2:20 PM when I pulled my 24-pound turkey from the brine, popped it in a 350-degree oven and commenced three thrilling hours of bird-flipping, vegetable-chopping, sausage-grilling and okra-snotting, and truth be told, I forgot the okra-snotting until Sunday morning (add that one to the checklist!)

Logistics, my friends, logistics: In the controlled confines of your suburban kitchen, you may know your gumbo recipe inside and out – but outside in the great outdoors, cooking over an open flame that could extinguish at any moment because of the 15-mile-an-hour wind gusts, well, it’s a whole ‘nother ball game… especially when you have to think of every single last possible little tiny thing because you can’t just run to your pantry from the Festival Plaza in lovely downtown Shreveport. Need some salt? You’d better have packed it in your color-coordinated cooler. Burn your roux? You’d better hope you remembered the extra, pre-measured flour and bacon grease. Everything – including bottles of water to slake your thirst and non-gumbo snacks to keep your blood sugar levels up – everything must go in a cooler and into the truck so we can take it out to the cookoff… at 5:45 AM on Saturday, March 9.

Tucked onto my front porch with a folding table turned on its side to block the wind and my fire extinguisher at the ready, I commenced test-cook No. 1 at exactly 1 PM – or exactly one hour after I had planned to start. I had my cooler packed with labeled vegetable and meat containers. I had my giant stock pot, filled with warm stock (it keeps its heat overnight). I had my welding gloves, my cast-iron roux skillet, my lucky olive-wood roux-stirrer, my iPhone timer, my checklist and two rocking chairs. Since they were already on the front porch when I got started, I figured I might as well be comfortable (Note to self: Measure Dad’s pickup to see if a rocking chair will fit)

Now, I love to cook, but I can count on one hand the number of times that I have cooked over an open-flame… including the grill. It’s Pat’s domain, and frankly, I think it’s best for me to stay away from flammables. It’s safer that way. Thus, we decided test-cook No. 1 should be conducted on the front porch so Pat could watch me from his office window.

We did a safety test on the Bayou Classic. I now know how to open the propane bottle, choke down the rudimentary carburetor, put the lighter-wand beside the burner, ignite it, open up the regulator and listen for the thumping satisfaction of fire! (Since you can’t see the blue flame of success in broad daylight).

Then I turned it all off and did it again to Pat’s satisfaction…

“I really am glad I have the fire extinguisher,” I said.

“Well, let’s hope you don’t need it – and besides you’ve got the hose-bib right there,” he said, motioning to our garden implements.

“But you’re not supposed to put water on a kitchen fire.”

“This isn’t a grease fire.”

“uh-uh, it’s bacon grease and flour. Sounds like a grease fire to me. I’m glad I have the fire extinguisher – and it’s almost full.”

“I’m glad you have it too,” he said… and then he took shelter indoors from the wind and left me to my gas-powered devices.

The flames came out of the Bayou Classic so fast that for a moment there – several, actually – I thought I wouldn’t have any gumbo to test on my unsuspecting friends whom I’d invited to stop by since I just knew I wouldn’t be able to store an extra five gallons of gumbo in my freezer. “Bring your Tupperware!” I exhorted. “Free food!” But for those first 18 minutes of terror, I seriously thought I’d be giving them a free slag-heap of burned flour and rancid grease.

Cooking in the path of gale-force winds, I couldn’t get the flame low enough for the slow burn that produces my normal roux. Instead, I stirred furiously and resulted to picking up the cast-iron skillet and stirring it in mid-air and then dropping it back on the burner with a thud when my wrist gave out. I did that four times… and my wrist finally gave out. The roux wasn’t close to the traditional brown of my trusty roux-penny. Instead, it looked a little like peanut butter – but I didn’t care: I was 18 minutes in and it wasn’t burned. I dumped half my onions to sweat them and bring the roux temperature down – this bought me time to unload my chopped garlic, half the celery and half the bell pepper – my skillet wasn’t big enough to hold everything – and I was going to have to pour some stock on this puppy.

Objects in this image are heavier than they appear.

Fortunately, I’d thought of this one: I’d poured a half-gallon into an iced-tea pitcher. But then I had a bigger problem – I wasn’t cooking my gumbo in my skillet. I was cooking it in the 7-gallon aluminum gumbo pot that was sitting cold behind the rocking chair. Logistics. Logistics. Logistics. I turned off the regulator, heard the whump of extinguished fire and closed my propane tank. I dumped the contents of my skillet into the gumbo pot. Then I opened up the propane tank, choked down the rudimentary carburetor, touched the lighter-wand to the burner, and opened up the regulator – I was cooking once again with gas.

Note the windscreen which doubles as a prep table.

I dumped all my remaining vegetables, poured all the stock in, offloaded my tomatoes, emptied my pre-measured container of spices and sat in my chair. 31 minutes elapsed. My work would be done for the next couple hours. By the time 90 minutes had elapsed – or the point at which I’d normally start to fret over the temperature of my roux – all of the elements were in the pot and it was simmering. I poured myself a glass of wine (they won’t allow us to BYOB at the cookoffs, but there will be beer on site). My work here was done… and I’d done it all by myself.

Tasting Notes:

I don’t want to tip my hand to any competitors that may be reading this, but our tasters agreed that the consistency of the gumbo was just fine. Our biggest concern was that the turkey wasn’t as flavorful as our traditional Thanksgiving turkey. We think this is because we used such a large bird, and it was still frozen when it went into the brine. The internal temperatures were fine when we cooked it, but it just didn’t soak up all the juices. Meat to vegetable ratios were good – it wasn’t too tomato-y. We are not fond of Hillshire Farms smoked sausage – generates way too much grease. Spice levels checked out among everyone – from our Louisiana friends, Veronica and Liz, to our more tender taste-buddies, Kellee and Rockin’ Bob. Oh and we cleared five gallons of gumbo – 10 people brought their Tupperware and we had only about 2 cups of gumbo left. We will thaw that as a comparison to taste against Test Cook #2, scheduled for this Saturday at noon. Full dress rehearsal – one week before the cookoff.

I’m a glass half-full kinda gal.

Thank God I’m not a fan of Dancing with the Stars or America’s Got Talent… but I do watch BBQ Pitmasters on Destination America and Chopped on Food Network, so it came as no surprise to my sweet husband when I proclaimed, ”I want to enter a gumbo cookoff.”

“Sounds good,” he replied calmly. I was surprised that he didn’t offer anymore pushback… until I realized he was probably more shocked than relieved that he hadn’t been smacked with: ”I’d really like to start cooking pharmaceutical-grade meth in an underground lab.”

Or perhaps: ”Man, I’ve got an itch to go hunt zombies with a crossbow.”

Or maybe even, “I’d just love to set Anne Burrell’s hair on fire.”

Hey, I can’t be the only one that’s ever had that thought.

Regarding cooking, I have always followed the maxim that you should have one dish that you can do better than anyone else so it can be your go-to contribution for potlucks, tailgates, hospital visits and wakes. Mine just happens to involve a minimum investment of six hours, a two-gallon cast-iron caldron and a destroyed kitchen.

I think we excel at gumbo because so few other people in Arizona know what it is, and in our exile, Pat and I have been forced to hone it to its most basic and outstanding elements. I can’t do much else – red beans and rice, grits, muffalettas – but what I can do typically involves beer and a side of rice (and I am terrible at cooking rice, by the way).

Pat thought we’d be entering the Arizona gumbo championships, which is hosted by the local Southeastern Conference alumni association. Now that my alma mater (Texas A&M, ’93) has joined his (LSU) in the SEC, I felt obliged to go all Johnny Heisman on the competition and decimate them, not unlike how the Aggies beat the hell outta the Oklahoma Sooners and the National Champion Alabama Crimson Tide… and really, how hard could it be to win the Arizona state gumbo championships?

Apparently it’s impossible – because they canceled the 2013 Arizona gumbo cookoff, effective February 15.

It was then that I turned my attention to my hometown: Shreveport, Louisiana. My hometown may not be the birthplace of gumbo, but it’s in the same general neighborhood and a high school classmate is chairing the annual Gladiators of Gumbo competition on Saturday, March 9.

I looked at Pat and said, “I believe this is what the young people mean when they say, ‘It’s on.’”

Pat said, “Good luck!”

My co-chef would not be joining me on the journey to the homeland for this epic battle of roux-based goodness – but that hasn’t stopped him from sharing his hard-earned expertise at every turn during my preparation phase.

I am told that our gumbo is outstanding – and this is not just from the Arizonans who try to mix it with our grits and our red beans and rice at our annual Krewe of Helios-Arizona Mardi Gras celebration. Come to think of it, these are the same Arizonans who think I should take requests from my parade float when they demand “purple beads, not gold ones!” at the annual Downtown Phoenix Mardi Gras Parade. (Hey, you’re lucky you’re even getting beads, pal! The other float riders in Phoenix seem to think these are 2-cent trinkets to wear and admire – not hurl at the begging masses)

Most Arizonans seem to think that our gumbo is too spicy, which may come as a shock to those of you living outside the Grand Canyon State until you realize that most people living in the Grand Canyon State moved here from places with winter, like Illinois… or the Dakotas… or Canada.

Suffice it to say, it’s not their opinion that counts – it’s that of the many Louisianans who have in fact told us that our gumbo is “the best they’ve ever had.” Pat and Stacy’s Gumbo™ has been Seen On TV… and has also been Featured in a Bestselling Cookbook (which I kindly signed when my sister-in-law was 5 minutes late to her booksigning). Rachael Ray (yeah, that Rachael Ray) even said that ours was the “funniest recipe” she’d ever read, although Valerie’s publisher did not reproduce it word-for-word in her cookbook because it encourages beer-drinking and is not written in the dry, scientific, sanitized language of modern American cookbooks.

Our gumbo recipe is so good that people who love us know they don’t want to be invited to our Thanksgiving table: They want to come over the following Friday to watch football and eat the rare and wonderful Thanksgiving Day Turkey Gumbo, which is like cooking a unicorn in a cast-iron pot. Our Thanksgiving Day Turkey Gumbo is so coveted that we’ve started cooking two turkeys on Thanksgiving – one to eat at the holiday spread and one for Friday’s gumbo.

It will be thus that I make for the Gladiators of Gumbo. Go big or go home… actually, I am going home, and my Mom and Dad and several high school and college friends have agreed to help me out since my co-chef is staying home. The Krewe of Helios-Arizona team will be competing in the Non-Seafood Category (grand prize: $400) and the People’s Choice Award (grand prize: $250). I have to win both to cover my costs because the plane ticket alone will wipe out the Non-Seafood Category prize – and there is no second place cash award.

We can prepare our proteins, vegetables and stock the day before. We have to cook the roux on site. Normally, we make a 2.5-gallon batch of gumbo over the highly controlled conditions of our Scottsdale kitchen. At the Gladiators of Gumbo, I will be making my roux outdoors over a propane flame – and I will be required to produce a minimum five gallons of gumbo. My pot holds seven.

I’ve put in a call to my cousin Jim, who has competed and placed in Cajun cookoffs, but my insight from uninterrupted hours of BBQ Pitmasters viewing has led me to believe that logistics will win the day.  We arrive for check-in at 6:00 AM, and we report our samples for judging at 10:50 AM. Doors open to the public for People’s Choice judging at 11 AM.

Thus I put together a timeline and checklist demonstrating a level of anal retention that might have shifted the earth’s orbit just slightly with the strength of my sphincter check. It’s three pages long.

I test it today on my first prep-cook – scheduled for high noon (winds out of the north, gusting up to 15 mph). Our full dress rehearsal is set for next Saturday at 7:00 AM.

StoryCorps, the national initiative that invites people from all walks of life to interview one another and share the stories of their lives, has parked its humble Airstream in Phoenix this spring. The NPR member-station I represent, KJZZ 91.5 FM is hosting the visit. We invited Justice O’Connor to record an interview for the kick-off celebration and media day.

Now, if I were a ring announcer at a boxing match, I would have run out of superlatives to cast like rose petals at her feet long before this Icon of American Awesomeness ascended those three steps into the Airstream: The First Woman on the Supreme Court (FWOTSC), 2002 Inductee into the National Cowgirl Hall of Fame, the woman who managed to work all those years with Clarence Thomas and not punch him in the face, 2009 winner of the Presidential Medal of Freedom, living proof that Arizona exports more than gun-touting, grammar-challenged racists, decider, explorer, author, web developer, peacemaker, small in stature – huge in impact, giant among women and men, Retired Badass from the Court of Last Resort…

And I stood there looking like a dork in the background of an official station photo opportunity. See for yourself.

Looking like a complete doofus with FWOTSC

She arrived in a dusty Dodge Ram pickup truck. Her son Scott drove her. They arrived promptly at 1:30. He called her Mom.

He called her Mom! Not your Honor. Not your Majesty. Not your Supremacy. Just Mom. “Well, Mom and I…” and  ”Mom does this ~” and “Mom does that ~” and ”Mom blah-blah-blah ~”

Not like me who stood there slack-jawed and didn’t even managed to introduce myself, or throw myself at her feet, or offer up the grateful thanks of a nation for her service and fortitude. No, I pretty much committed the cardinal sin of radio: Dead air. Starstruck silence. Frozen awkwardness. Duuuuuhhhhhh.

Granted, I think my employers probably appreciated my lack of genuflection… until they posted the photos online and realized their salesperson was photo-bombing a Supreme Court Justice.

And now I have a large, black, antenna-festooned SUV parked indiscreetly on my cul de sac… and I may not have a job anymore.

Instead, I just have a painful photographic reminder of yet another brush with greatness.

From the shady confines of the Team Athena Riding Clydesdales Party Pavilion™, I took a long draw on my cold beer and gazed out upon the shimmering brown waters of Tempe Town Lake. I pondered my sweet husband Patrick, aka Clydesdale #1, riding his bicycle over 56 wind-whipped miles. I considered the coming suffering of Clydesdale #2, Jason Robert, running his 13.1-mile half-marathon under a blazing noonday sun. I breathed a sweet sigh of relief.

“Not the swim. Definitely not the swim. I mean, maybe if I was in the Arctic Ocean, during a tsunami, with sharks to the left of me and sea lions to the right, only then could the swim possibly be the hardest event – but on a day like today?” I clicked to the tracking app on the iPad to follow Pat’s progress – the breeze that cooled us in the Party Pavilion simultaneously punished him on Rio Salado Parkway. “On a day like today, I’m glad to be the swimmer.”

Swim, Athena, Swim!

And this little swimmer swam her heart out – a personal-best time over the 1.2-mile distance in 48:43. That’s 4:03 faster than my last Half-Ironman relay six months ago. In fact, this vast improvement in my 2,000-meter swim vastly improved our place in the overall standings: Team Athena Riding Clydesdales finished 70th of 73 relay teams.

If I had posted my previous 52:46 swim, we would have finished next-to-last – or penultimate, as my friend Laurie likes to say.

But you will find no boasting from me – because, let’s be frank, here: I am no Haley Anderson… or Diana Nyad... or even Diana Nyad’s third cousin, twice removed. In the universe of triathlon, I do just one thing better than any of my weekend-warrior friends: I jump in Tempe Town Lake and swim around it without compunction (OK, maybe just a little compunction – and compunction is a lot different than competition). Apparently, this one thing is such a game-changer that superior runners and cyclists will gladly settle for being in the top 95 percent of all finishers in exchange for having me on their triathlon team.

So I gamely did what every other relay swimmer did yesterday: I plunged in the water, peed in my wetsuit, threw some elbows during the start, got a nice groove going in the first 500 meters, zigged left, zagged right, felt the churn from the wave of fast ladies overtaking me as they closed the two-minute gap between our starting times, almost crashed into the turn buoy, headed back for home, zigged more right, zagged back left, avoided crashing into the lane-marker buoy, overtook a dude that had started two minutes in front of me, turned for the finish line, staggered up the steps, stumbled toward the transition, wobbled around while Jason pulled the timing chip from my left ankle and slapped it on Pat, kissed Pat good-bye and then wandered over to the Party Pavilion™.

Team Athena Riding Clydesdales Party Pavilion Set-Up

It was 7:40 AM.

I adjourned to one of the nicer flush-toilet accommodations to apply my Nathan Sports Power Shower wipes to cleanse myself of lake contamination, change into dry clothes, comb my hair, affix my sun visor and settle down for a long afternoon of waiting with my parents, my non-racing Clydesdale (either Jason or Pat, depending on the time of day) and my 72 fellow relay swimmers.

At 8:23 AM, just as Daddy and I were deciding which would be the best path to take to the neighborhood coffee bar for breakfast, Pat called me.

“Are you OK?”

“My tire blew.”

“Don’t you have extra tubes?”

“Not the tube – the tire, the new tire that I bought on Friday and just put on.”

The fancy new tire that replaced the old, reliable tire that was bald in some places with the threads showing through. Shit.

Team Athena Riding Clydesdales jumped into action: Jason sent me to the Landis Cyclery tech van. We located Pat on the iPad, and the wrenches at Landis directed us to the nearest on-course tech tent. I called Pat back at 8:26 AM.

“Go west about a half-mile on Rio Salado. We’ll meet you at the tech tent – they’re right across from the parking garage and before you get to Mill. I’ll bring my credit card so we can buy you a new tire.”

Mom, Dad and I hoofed it to the tech tent, arriving just as Pat pushed his hobbled Cannondale under the canopy.* The wrenches hoisted it onto the stand. I fumbled through my wallet for payment. They handed me the blown tire – yeah, it split right along the bead – I hung it around my neck so we could return it for a refund. Pat wiped the sweat off his sunglasses – and just like that, they were done. Wha?

“Off you go!”

New tube. New tire. Seven minutes flat. They would not accept payment. Landis Cyclery (no relation to Floyd) is now the official bike repair shop for Team Athena Riding Clydesdales. Independently owned, they have been serving Valley cyclists for 100 years. Seriously, super nice guys. Please support them because they support us!

Landis Cyclery saves Clydesdale 1

And where were we? Oh yeah – why the swimming leg is the easiest part of the triathlon relay.

Mom, Dad and I decided to continue onward to the neighborhood cafe, which not only had warm muffins and hot coffee but also Bloody Marys. We crowded around a counter clogged with other incredibly fit-looking people, tucking into luscious omelets and sipping refreshing mimosas. Coincidentally, they too had R’s written in black magic marker on their right calves. I exchanged thumbs-up with my fellow relay swimmers.

When they asked about the tire that I was wearing as a pageant sash, I explained the sad story of Clydesdale 1 and lauded the efforts of Landis Cyclery accordingly – and then we all said a silent prayer of thanks that we were not flailing around on balky bicycles or warming up to run on hot pavement like those other poor bastards: our teammates.

At 9:48 AM, we made our way back to the Team Athena Riding Clydesdales Party Pavilion™. At 10 AM, I cracked open my first beer, carefully poured it into a plastic cup, checked our Clydesdale 1-tracking device, grabbed my trusty cowbell and walked purposefully over to a nearby corner to cheer him on as he churned up the hill.

“Go Pat Go!” I shouted. “You can do it! Two more laps! We have cold beer waiting for you!”

I managed to ring the cowbell vigorously and continuously without spilling my cold beer: It’s hard being a relay swimmer.

Ride, Clydesdale 1, Ride!

After blowing a tire, jogging with his bike in his bike shoes to the tech tent, replacing said tire and inner tube, throwing a chain, repositioning said chain, and trying to make up for all the delays that these delays caused, Clydesdale 1 did not have a fun day on the bike course, finishing in 3:40:22 for a 15.25 mph average – which is unfortunate, because he’d been averaging 17 mph on the first of his three 18-mile laps… before the dreaded tire incident, the surge of adrenaline and the subsequent bonk on Lap 3.

“I will say this much, I killed them on the turns,” Pat recalled during his debriefing in the Party Pavilion™. “Those pros are fast, and they have their carbon-fiber bikes and fancy wheels, but I killed them on the corners… I was going inside, way outside, showing them a wheel, and they were like, Whoa! And then we’d come out of a turn, and they’d pass me like I was standing still.”

You will recall that Clydesdale 1 was a bad-ass motorcycle racer prior to entering the triathlon universe. If he could glue plastic pucks to his knees to take the turns more aggressively, he would. As it stood, Clydesdale 1 earned the respect of all the skinny triathletes on each of the 25 turns on the course (seriously, the course was shaped like a hand – with fingers – and they had to loop it three times, which meant he got to demonstrate his mad turning skills 75 times)… but then they clobbered him in the overall standings. He finished 69th of 73 riders – 94th percentile (I finished 60th of 73 swimmers – 82nd percentile – so he blew my lead).

Unfortunately, these delays meant that Clydesdale 2 was mounting the course at roughly 11:30 in the afternoon… in Arizona… in the late summer (and yes, mid-October is late summer for us). Ever the gamer, Jason had arrived at the race at the crack of dawn, even though he could have stayed in bed another two or three hours – and he probably should have. Jason will be running the New York City Marathon on November 4 to benefit Chances for Children (support him!) and the Soma Half-Ironman was to be his final long training run before that race… except that he woke up with a head cold.

As Jason was circumnavigating two sweltering laps around Tempe Town Lake, I was wrapping up my recovery from my swim in said lake and transitioning to training hard for the next day’s hangover – but that would not detract me from my remaining relay swimmer responsibilities! Because Jason does not have an iPhone, we could not employ the Clydesdale tracking device during his run (Find My Friends or Find My iPhone apps), so it was up to me to scan the heat waves with my binoculars, spot the correct blue speck running in the distance, ring the mighty cowbell and cheer him on to victory (all without spilling my beer).

Run, Clydesdale 2, Run!

And I had to do this outside of the protective, shady confines of the Team Athena Riding Clydesdales Party Pavilion. I had to reapply my sunscreen! I also had to deploy my persuasive powers on my husband to encourage him to extricate himself from the Party Pavilion and join Jason as we crossed the finish line in triumph together!

“No way in hell am I gonna run after I just rode 56 miles on my bike!”

“C’mon, Pat, I just swam for 48 minutes – you can run for a quarter-mile.”

He rolled his eyes. No one respects the contributions of the relay swimmer – but he does respect the urgings of his Mother-in-Law. On fresh legs, I jogged out to meet Jason, who was flagging but still chipper.

“Let’s finish strong!” he said, as we began galloping toward the finish. Pat joined up with us about 200 meters from the gate and as we three joined hands triumphantly and crossed the line together – much to the delight of the race announcer, who couldn’t pronounce my name, but did say, “One of the most creative team names I’ve heard – Team Athena Riding Clydesdales! Let’s give it up for Team Athena Riding Clydesdales!”

Notice that he did not say “one of the most appropriate team names.”

Our workday completed, Team Athena Riding Clydesdales gathered our medals – which also double as beer-bottle openers (SCORE!) – and we decided to retreat to the air-conditioned comfort of the great indoors. The Soma Half-Ironman had thrown its worst at us – and we had defeated it (well, we had not been defeated by it – we managed to finish third-from-last). It was time to take these Clydesdales back to the barn, and for mighty Athena to take a shower and maybe a nap.

We’d earned it – well, at least, they had earned – I am, after all, the swimmer.

*Because he arrived at the tech tent under his own power and no one helped advance him along the course, Clydesdale was able to accept tech assistance from the officially sanctioned wrenches. He checked with a course marshal on this one. Good to know for future races… and there will be a future race because Pat wants a do-over.

The Face of Pre-Race Hydration

Having cast aside the comfort and relative anonymity of triathlon relays months ago, I set my sights on my first real solo multi-sport adventure: Nathan’s Tempe Triathlon on Septmeber 23 at TempE.coli Town Lake. Yes, I’d competed in the Anthem Sprint Triathlon weeks before – earning a silver medal as the second-fastest of the fattest – but I didn’t feel right counting that event since I could have waded through the swim.

My taste of the silver medal, however tainted, had inspired new dedication to training – after all, I was mere seconds away from being the fastest of the fattest – how well could I do if I actually stuck to my training plan and larded my training table with something more than burritos and beer. Ergo, I redoubled my commitment to good nutrition. I was going to hydrate the shit out of myself… Or should I say piss?

Pre-Hydrated and Ready to Rhumba!

It was thus that I found myself standing outside of a bank of 20 Port-O-Lets at 5:45 on a Sunday morning with 462 fellow competitors. I have said it before, but it bears repeating: Pre-race Port-O-Lets are not a beacon of civilized society. The human digestive tract was not designed to process Gu’s, Chews and cardboard-flavored Bars to the exclusion of other nutrients (like beer and burritos). Crossing that threshold (and holding my breath), my stomach was turning somersaults anyway because I was more than a little nervous about my first non-wetsuit open-water swim that didn’t involve waterskis and a beer cooler.

I did my business and trotted back to the transition area to leave my flip-flops and iPhone with my gear (yes, I take my iPhone to the bathroom – so does my husband), and then I took my place in the lemming-line of barefoot women, ages 35-and-older, to await our 6:42 starting plunge into the dark murky waters of my Waterloo.

Standing in that line with my husband and Sherpa, Pat Bertinelli, 6:42 came and went… as did another 20 minutes.

“I gotta pee again.”

“There are 20 Port-A-Potties right there. Take your pick.”

“I’m not gonna go barefoot in a Port-O-Let!”

“And yet you’re gonna swim in Tempe Town Lake?”

He had a point, but I had a plan: I would pee in Tempe Town Lake, because… everyone else does!

After another painful 10 minutes, I walked cross-legged toward the lemming cliff… hopped in and… couldn’t pee. Never have I been so disconsolate about incontinence. I swam courteously to the outer edges so as not to baptize my fellow racers with the fiery urgency of my bladder… and I concentrated really hard, but I just couldn’t go. Not that it stopped anyone else: The starting gun fired, and I plowed through hot pockets of everyone else’s waste stream, en route to getting kicked, slapped, mauled, groped and pounded by invisible hands and feet.

Urine Lake – There I am, in the yellow head-condom.

I kept waiting and waiting for the open water to open up – but it was not to be: I was mid-pack! For the first time in my life, I was in the thick of it – and it SUCKED! It’s easy to swim when you’re last. You don’t have to worry about navigating the flailing bodies. You just have to worry about swimming straight and surviving to the finish. Mid-pack, you have to worry about whether you’re gonna get swum over – or in my case, whether you’re going to swim over someone else. Seriously: I was overtaking people on the swim! I was in the hunt! I was visualizing the podium!

I was getting kicked in the head and choking on a big splashes of urine-tinged lake-water. AWESOME!

I staggered safely from the water in 20 minutes, 45 seconds (313th place overall, 67th percentile). Not a nautical-speed record, but also not last. In those brutal 750 meters, I had passed a couple of dudes who had started 8 minutes in front of me. I’d also passed a couple of ladies (117th of 189 – 62nd percentile) after throwing some elbows of my own. I ran toward the transition area, right past the Berlin Wall of 20 empty Port-O-Lets! No time to lose!

All though I swim… and bike… and run in the top 75 percent of all competitors, I can sit on the grass, put on my shoes and socks and remember to buckle my bike helmet like a champion! Mitt Romney may mock the 47% as a bunch of layabouts, but this one transitioned the hell out of the Nathan Tempe Triathlon: My fierce swim-to-bike transition was a blistering 2:32 (47th percentile for the ladies), while my bike-to-run was 2:03 (55th percentile). Some may say it’s because I spent a few weeks practicing those transitions in my garage during my “brick” bike-run workouts… I would say it’s because I had to pee with the urgency of a 65-year-old man at 2 o’clock in the morning after a night of beer-drinking revelry.

After that Epic Transition, I Gotta Go!

Nevertheless, I mounted my bike and zipped past that vacant metropolis of portable-plumbing marvels. I recalled the story of four-time Ironman World Champion Chrissie Wellington: As a matter of principle, she purposefully lets loose a stream of liquid contempt on racers she feels are abusing the drafting rule (maintain three bike lengths’ distance from the nearest competitor). Grinding up Rio Salado Parkway, I thought about emulating this role model of womanly athleticism… and then I thought: “No fucking way! I’m not peeing on my new bike! You know how much I paid for this?”

And so, I kept riding – careful to maintain my three-length distance, announcing authoritatively “LEFT SIDE” when passing my victims, and making sure I put the soul-crushing hammer down when I overtook them, forcing them to drop three lengths back into my backdraft of shame. At least that’s how I imagined it: The reality is that I dropped 9 minutes, 12 seconds off my bike time from the Anthem Sprint Triathlon over the exact same 20K distance. By not peeing on my competitors and focusing on my ride, I finished in 45:27 (128th for the ladies, 67th percentile – baby!).

Rolling into the transition, my heart soared when I saw sweet husband / Sherpa, our upcoming Half-Ironman relay teammate Jason, training buddy Kellee and her sweet husband Dirk. Buoyed by their cheers, I ripped off my helmet, fastened my race-belt, pulled down my visor and again ran right past the mostly empty shrine to chemically enhanced waste disposal… I say mostly empty, because at this point, roughly 1 hour, 8 minutes into this epic multi-sport adventure, the top 10 overall finishers – including the first-place woman (kudos, Adrienne LeBlanc – age 43 !?! – 1:06:29) – had already finished and were, no doubt, punishing the toilets in the same way that they had punished the race course.

And so now, I will open a window into my soul as we circumnavigate Tempe Town Lake together on foot… the contents of my bladder, now expanded by at least a liter of purposeful hydration from my bike-bottle and accidental hydration from my lake-swim, sloshing along at a dismal, but consistent, 12-minute pace. All those people I had passed on the bike? The ones suffering in my backdraft of shame? Yeah… they passed my sorry ass on the run… I watched my name cartwheel down the race results as their legs pumped past me – their ages written clearly in black Magic Marker on the backs of their left calves. Any woman in the 40s was fair game… and it seemed that all of them were making a meal of me right now.

Do you know how painful it is to run when you gotta pee? Almost as painful as when you have to run.

I did not pass a single woman on the run as I scanned down the sidewalk, looking for a lonely Port-O-Let… a public toilet… an open building… a discreet corner… The race course actually passed a set of public toilets – next to the urine-and-manure scented horse park on the north side of the lake – which found me doing mental calculus to determine how badly sweet relief would impact my overall time. Could I spare 2, maybe 3 minutes? Hadn’t I already sacrificed that amount of time by jogging so awkwardly that even the para-triathlete passed me at a brisk limp? Looking forlornly at the loos (and the Spandex-clad man waiting outside them for his 10-year-old son – the same father-son duo that had passed me about 10 minutes into this journey), I put my head down and trudged onward. Only one mile to go.

The man and his boy re-passed me again without breaking stride… at least the kid didn’t pee on me.

But soon, I could hear the thumping bass and dub-step rhythms of the finish line. I jogged a little faster, possibly breaking the 10-minute mile barrier, if only for 500 feet as I hurtled past a cheering Pat, Kellee, Dirk and Jason, running through the finish line, bending gingerly to drop off my timing chip, then all-out-sprinting toward the Port-O-Let that was about 500 feet beyond.

“We’re so proud of you! We’re so proud of you! How was the race?” Kellee called, as I dashed past her.

“I gotta peeeeeeeee!” I shouted, joyous at the green “vacant” sign on the door.

Ahhhh.

A vision of speed: There I go… ’cause I gotta go!

I finished the race in 1:47:18… good enough for 27th in my age-group, 137th among the ladies and 366th overall… or the 75th, 72nd and 79th percentiles. Sadly, Nathan’s Tempe Triathlon did not have a category for Fastest of the Fattest, so I competed against the incredibly fit (and likely not-as-hydrated) ladies in my age-group. If I had run just three minutes faster – which I have accomplished in many other 5K races (10:45 to 11 minute miles – easy!) – I could have picked up 10 places overall, and three in my age-group (apparently women in their 40s are badasses), and I would have had a chance to surpass my time at the Anthem event, even though the swim / wade in that race was 350 meters shorter!

Still, this is why we run the race – to overcome challenges (and to live a life of what-ifs until the next opportunity for vengeance presents itself).