Christmas of Infamy

In the 60'sand 70's, many upward bound gays found inexpensive summer cottage rentals along pristine beaches and a sleepy village atmosphere in New Buffalo and Sawyer, Michigan.  Word of mouth popularized the area, and as time went on, many couples purchased property in the area, making it an unofficial gay enclave. It became a year around community of gay professionals with second homes . Sort of strange ,since that area centered around Tower Hill, a large summer camp of bible thumping conservative Christians . It was a studied co-existence

So it came to be that my friendship with Dr John Rippon , an esteemed University Professor, got me invited to weekend up at his Sawyer home to what had become a tradition a among area residents. It was a “gathering of the clan” to a Christmas fete, among a group that had forged strong friendships over the years . 

The event was built around a progressive dinner among 5 homes . Each house was full of invited guests who joined in preparing a portion of this gala event that was linked by everyone walking and caroling between the houses in a spirit of Christmas cheer.   The invited comprised professionals rom all walks; such as the Governor’s Office Manager, VP of Standard Oil, Research Chemist, Consumer Reports Division Head, actors, interior designers, area professors and industry execs.  Many had life partners well before it was legal or even acceptable to do so legally.  Our commonality was being gay. But it was a learned and sophisticated group.

John, along with neighbor John Lamping, hosted the first gathering, which was Champagne and appetizers. John had rented this extravagant ostentatious silver champagne fountain which towered on his dining table along with silver chalices. It was quite the spectacle.  John(s) and I, and one other couple, made various pate’s and palate ticklers, all placed on silver trays, lain out across the dining table at the bottom of this huge fountain. John Lamping’s partner Craig was absent, pleading a long bout with a stubborn flu.

With all in readiness, the flock came caroling to the door and were admitted to the start of this Holiday revel. 

The first pours had just begun and the conversations bubbled along with the Champagne, when there was a phone call. It was Craig calling from the City.  John Lamping took the call. Ten minutes in he started to weep. I was by the phone in the kitchen and among the first to see.  I put my arms around him. “What is It, John” 

“Craig just told me it isn’t the flu, He has AIDS,” he sobbed.

 By this time others had noticed and come around and the word spread.  There was weeping and much hugging.  There was no discussion needed, This party was over.  Guests all went to their respective houses and John Rippon. Phil and Chris and I were left to console John Lamping. We cried. We held one another and we drank Champagne until we turned in; drunken, feeling lost and scared.

The next day most were so distraught that we all took our leave and went home. John went to Chicago to console partner Craig.  

The very next year I was invited back to a small Holiday gathering at John Lamping’s home in Michigan.  Craig was there.  He had been a strong muscular Hollywood-idol-handsome man . Now he was barely 125 pounds, gaunt, and with eyes that appeared as if they were looking out from the bottom of twin tar pits.  Craig wore gloves putting ornaments on their tree , because he had Petechiae, an opportunistic disease where any touch of skin would cause small bleeding spots. He tired very often and rapidly, necessitating frequent naps, and his beautiful body was adorned with the stigma of Kaposi’s Sarcoma lesions , brown patches of the spreading cancer within him.  It was a hard visit. Craig died that following February. He had been marketing manager for Marriott Hotels and he was beloved by co-workers. They gave a beautiful memorial at the O’Hare Hotel. It was the first of many memorials I would attend

That was the start of "Hell". Many others went rapidly.  We were scorned by mainstream America, refused addition to hospitals, treated as Pariah by police and cast adrift by a uncaring President unwilling to admit the pandemic, much less allocate funding for a cure, or even treatments.
Most of us spaced our time between memorials with work, funding events for our own, helping thru monetary contributions , hot line staffing, and home visits to the infirm. It was a bleak time of grief and social ostracism. We had pervasive feeling of helplessness and profound sadness.

 So, Christmas still has a double meaning to me. I can still join in the festivities of the season, and old  friendships, but a large part of me still always remembers that Michigan shores day where the world changed for me .

Some of the boyz in happier times- Dear Craig Spencer R.I.P.in bold striped shirt . Rick Emmanuel R.I.P. (in yellow shorts) succumbed to AIDS two years later. Ricks partner, Bill Spahr (In black tee  top) lives on with AIDS thanks to a constant drug cocktail and frequent checks

-Jerry Wendt 2017

Chicken Liver Cognac Pate

I originally learned about chicken liver pate from Jewish friends who made it as part of traditional cuisine. I tweaked it over the years and came up with what I have here. I also found a Pepin recipe that approximates my own and have given him published credit. But I have substituted and added many variations to bring more flavor to the recipe.  I have included some in my notes here.  Whatever your own fancy, the result will be much better than the grocery store bought tubs . Get a nice bottle of red wine and settle in. This recipe is easy and flavorful. Have fun with it - Jerry

Chicken Liver Cognac Pate-

Base Recipe-Jacques Pépin Published March 2007 Food and Wine
 

Ingredients
1/2 pound chicken livers, well-trimmed
1/2 small onion, thinly diced
1 small garlic clove, smashed and peeled
1 bay leaf
1/4 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
Kosher salt
1/2 cup water
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons Cognac or Scotch whisky

PREP
In a medium saucepan, combine the chicken livers, onion, garlic, bay leaf, thyme and 1/2 teaspoon of salt. Add the water and bring to a simmer. Cover, reduce the heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally, until the livers are barely pink inside, about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and let stand, covered, for 5 minutes.
Discard the bay leaf. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the livers, onion and garlic to a food processor; process until coarsely pureed. With the machine on, add the butter, 2 tablespoons at a time, until incorporated. Add the Cognac, season with salt and pepper and process until completely smooth. Scrape the pate into 2 or 3 large ramekins. Press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the surface of the pate refrigerate until firm. (Best left in fridge 2 days) Serve chilled.

NOTES
I have varied this in several ways using combos of these :
Added 1/2 cup (sauteed in sherry and butter) sliced button mushrooms
Added 2 chopped hard-boiled eggs
( Using combos of above required water/broth reduction )
Added 1 TBLSPN capers
Added 1/4 cup crushed roasted black walnuts
Added 2 TBLSPN  truffle oil
Substituted chicken broth for water
doubled the recipe

I use small loaf pans lined w/ Saran Wrap to make unmolding easy




 -Jerry Wendt

Dungeness Stuffed Mushrooms

Dungeness Crab Stuffed Mushrooms

Ingredients
2 doz large button mushrooms(Portabella will also suffice)
2- 5 ½ oz tins Dungeness crab ( not Maryland blue or Alaska King, or Stone), flaked
1 medium sweet (Vidalia or Mauii) onion- chopped
2 Tbsp sweet unsalted butter
½  cup sweet sherry ( I use Gonzalas Beyez Nectar)
2 cups shredded Gryuere (or Swiss) cheese)
3 Tblsp Hellman’s mayonnaise
pepper fresh ground Talamanca
parsley (chopped) OR chopped chives


Preparation
Wash mushrooms gently, remove and chop stems.
Using paring knife, scrape “gills” out of mushroom cap so you are left with a hollowed out shell. Save the chopped stems and shavings.

Saute’ onion in pan w/butter until just soft.

In large bowl, combine flaked crab, sauteed onion, shredded Gruyere, and  mayo
Mix in chopped mushroom stems and gills.  Mix in Sherry. Pepper to taste .

Preheat oven to 400°

Stuff mushroom caps with mixture , mounding on top. Place on baking sheet and  bake in oven for 35-40 minutes.(keep an eye after 25 minutes)  Serve warm with a sprinkle of either parsley or chopped chives.

Notes-
My “trick” is the hollowing out of each mushroom cap. Most recipes just have you remove the stem leaving little room for stuffing.  This part is a bit labor intensive but makes for more tuffing and a much better tasting baked mushroom.
Dungeness crab is sweeter than other varities. It melds perfectly with the cheese and sweet Sherry. Talamanca pepper from Ecuador has a bit of heat and a strong flavor pepper. A little goes a long way, but that peppery taste and “heat” on the tongue really gives a boost to the creamy taste .
You can use Portabella mushrooms but they add a different flavor. Ditto Swiss or Emmantaler cheese insted of Gruyere but, again they make the taste different. I have also used German Butterkasse cheese -it doesn’t shred as well, but it does have a great flavor in this. 
I did not appropriate this recipe, but made it up as I went . I have made it many many times , BUT I never wrote down the recipe.I just used the same things by rote, so you may hve to tweat the amounts- esp the sherry and mayo.  Any check the time in gteh oven.The higher temp is necessary to melt the cheese, but they can also burn, so keep an eye on them. The mushrooms will “weep” water out so that is O.K., Just out of the oven they are also soft but firm up a bit when they cool .

A long time (late) friend made me a chocolate-frosted banana cake with walnuts every year fro my birthday (Even brought one all the way to Greece one year) .  I, in turn, made her my crab stuffed mushrooms for her birthday. Her friends became familar with the practice and she would have to hide my gift because ,otherwise, all of a sudden, people would appear knowing she had them. So well received was their flavor !

I hope you enjoy them as much as I have as a part of my “repetoire”


Sourcing Dungeness Crab by the tin
http://sportsmanscannery.com/product/dungeness-crab/
http://www.theoceanharvest.com/zen/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=2

Sourcing Talamanca Pepper
http://www.spiceace.com/chiles-peppers/peppercorns-black-talamanca.html

The Counter Girl

Coiffed to perfection
she stands at her station
with studied foundation,
a touch of translucent La Rose blush,
lush Esquito mink lashes
framed in veiled Chanel ombre eye shadow over
defining Revlon color stay liner,
all dusted with shearest Guerlain powder,
and completed with Dolce & Gabbana aubergine lips
lined in NYX plum for definition.

She’s the counter girl

On her feet 9 to 6
behind her station,
attentive to every passerby,
she demonstrates technique to a matron,
teaching how to apply perfect tones
while ringing up a boxed soap set
and spraying L’air du Temps
on some strips for another intersted customer.
All over and over-
so many brands , so many colors.

She’s the counter girl

Home to a precious 4th floor walk-up
with chintz Laura Ashley wallpaper
she put up herself over dingy walls
to give her ruffled furniture definition
from a silk Hermes scarf covered lamp light.
Her windows look out at a next door brick wall
and a firescape she has set with geraniums
to give a bit color to her view
over the air conditioner,
a tired old unit about to give up the ghost.

She’s the counter girl

Every day 6 days a week
She takes the E train
59th and Lexington
with a packed lunch,
and vitamin water,
and her current issue of Allure-
ready for another onslaught,
another sale,
more screaming kids,
and Upper East Side bitches.

She's the counter girl

Even with her cosmetic perks
and store discounts
She finds it difficult to stretch her
fourteen dollar an hour wage
plus commission
to handle a Manhattan studio apartment rent
and building utilities,
along with food and sundries,
and a seasonably fashionable wardrobe
to be presentable as required for the job.

She’s the counter girl

So ever on the lookout;
among the guys buying for their wives,
trophy girlfriends, or Mothers-
Even presentable ones along her route
or on her studied Sunday museum and gallery visits,
hoping for encounter with a man to call her own
after a few dates with flowers and dinners,
an engagement,  the wedding,
and a cute little house in Connecticut;
She is always at her best.

She’s the counter girl

It takes just one damn chance
to work this all out.
People do win the lottery,
so she hopes and prays
thru days of slush and wind and snow,
or summers deluges and hot wilting sun,
that there is someone to take her away
from makeup and fashion and standing all day
to a place far away...
where absolutely and finally...

She’s Amy, not just the counter girl.

-Jerry Wendt 2017

Dreaming Forward

Time as a point:
birthdate.
Time as linear:
memories.
Time as 3 dimensional:
dreaming in color.
Time as multi dimensional:
a void of ignorance.

Perception of time is experience.
Beings in our continuum
can only operate  dimensionally
in  linear manner-
sensory perceptions are contained to the now.
Perceiving history is a singular line
of one experienced track
back thru time.

Our forward conception remains mere conjecture,
with glimmers of deja vu
or nagging perception of veiled alternates,
but time as a field has infinite paths and dimension
 existing independent of the existential,
 beyond comprehension except in field theory.
From infinite futures one path
is followed mostly by involuntary serenpidity.

Theory has it
dimensions  contain all time and space
there are things that  exist simultaneausly
in infinite parallels outside of time constructs
using them as a butterfly
flitting from flower today to flower yesterday
and the same flower in multiple universes,
all one, with no limitations.

The idea boggles current minds
but only because experience has closed channels.
Extrasensory perceptions are eschewed as hoax.
The concept is called metaphysics
and many strain to embace it,
as  science experiments
finding new evidence
giving time and space new dimensions.

What grand thoughts are these-
transcendental beings
simultaneously in different dimensions
in different timelines:
ethereal spirits
now only evidenced by particle physics
But conscious in our thoughts as surely
as the ability to
dream forward.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Frank

Frank

The happenstance passage of a noisy truck in front of the farm last night awoke me from a sound sleep.  It was one of those times when the awakening is so abrupt you remember the dream you were involved in.  That brings me to this story. 

My dream was about a long gone friend, Frank DiCecco.  The story of the dream couldn’t possibly match the reality of my trip with this man, so I want to tell you about He and I, while the thoughts are forefront in my mind.

Frank was Dr Frank DiCecco, a doctor of biology and professor at Truman College, Chicago.  Frank was also a body builder. He stood about 5’8”  but had a chiseled physique.  He took very good care of himself not only with daily gym visits but in diet and in care of his skin, the softest I ever felt. He was very much the Italian with beautiful olive complexion, dark hair, and an infectious pixie smile that could win anyone over.  

Frank collected antique Chinese Celadon and had a love of old Persian carpets, which were throughout his house.  He was an excellent cook and collected art of upcoming artists. He cultivated orchids and had a small greenhouse .  He built a harpsichord from a kit and then taught himself to play it.  He jaunted around in a vintage 70’s-something Volvo P1800 automobile- probably the only sports car Volvo ever made. 

I met Frank through an ad placed in the Advocate, the singular national gay newspaper of the day. There was an insertion for a gay winetasting group forming in Chicago and I answered it.  Frank did too. The group formed and we had several decade’s long run of tastings together . Through that group I initially met Frank and we became friends. 

Frank lived on Berwyn Avenue, an old Polish bungalow neighborhood far north in Chicago.  Many times I would come into the city and stay the weekend. Frank had only one bedroom with a standard bed and no sofa so I would have to sleep with him.  He slept in the nude and required me to also.  Nothing ever happened- not for my imagination being fulfilled, but while inadvertent touches in the night would send electricity through me, Frank slept soundly and nothing ever occurred sexually. Not that there weren’t erotic things. Frank loved to pose and he was also an exhibitionist, so he enjoyed me watching him naked in front of the bedroom mirror as he went through his routine. I cannot tell you the strength needed to contain my titillation Several times he allowed me to apply oil to his body and photograph him, the likenesses being used in his escort ads. Oh yes, Frank was also a hustler, which is a gay male prostitute. He had a separate phone for that service and at times during our weekends, he would excuse himself and go out for a few hours, leaving me to read in his study  or bed.  But before you judge, let me tell you more about this amazingly complex and diverse man.

On one occasion, Frank and I decided to have a formal cheesecake party. We had engraved invitations made and the guests were requested to wear jacket and tie. We each made four esoteric cheesecakes and had them displayed on Depression Glass cake stands on his dining table along with silver Champagne coolers filled with bubbly.  About forty guests attended our “salon” afternoon, eating and enjoying Frank’s recital of classical pieces on the harpsichord.  It was talked about in the gay circles throughout that season as “the social event”

On another day Frank dragged me along on a picnic at the gay nude beach up by Illinois Park near Zion .  He frolicked and posed very casually in the buff.  I had on khaki club shorts and a polo. I wasn’t as free-spirited as Frank and I didn’t do public nudity well. But I did enjoy the “scenery,” as well as the shrimp mousse and salad picnic lunch and wine we brought with. I was excited to be out of my element as Frank made me very much at ease

 These kinds of things I would not do alone and Frank enriched me with his metropolitan savvy demeanor and zest for the different. I learned about ethnic cuisine from Frank. We would visit many small Chicago restaurants throughout the neighborhoods.   I went along on architectural jaunts to see the amazing history in Chicago with Frank, and we extended our winetasting group knowledge with tastings we did on our own. It was always an adventure with Frank.

Frank had a side to him best described as quirky. He would be very warm and close for a period and then, suddenly, retreat into himself for a span of time, not returning calls nor getting together. This sometimes went for a few months.  That was just Frank, and I learned to live with it. There was never any discussion or contention, and at the end of a reclusive time, I’d hear from Frank all bubbly and going on as though no time had passed.

As time progressed Frank took up home remodeling. He was also very adept in handyman skills and he bought a house on Surf, northside of Chicago. It was an emerging neighborhood and he felt he could turn it and make money. This  project took about two years.  At the end of the renovation, Frank bought the house next door and was going to remodel it, living in the recently completed home.

Then he went dark. After four months I was worried as he had never been out of touch that long. I called. No answer. No machine.  His “escort” line was disconnected.  I did this for about three weeks. One day from work I called and the line picked up.  Some stranger answered.  “Who are you,” I queried?  It turned out to be a real estate agent showing the house . He informed me he was surprised the phone was still connected as the owner had died a month ago and his sister was selling the property for the estate.

I was shocked. “Died,” I implored, “how did he die?”  The man had scant information other than he thought the story was the owner had been murdered. “Oh my God, murdered ?”  There was no other contact I had and no newspaper item in the files. I was distraught.

Finally in conversation with one of my work colleagues over my frustration in not being able to have closure, he volunteered to try to solicit something from a friend he had who was a  Chicago precinct police captain, calling in a favor.

A week or so later my colleague gave me the captain’s number saying he had information.  Trembling, I dialed.  A husky brusque voice identified himself as did I.  He related to me the information he was about to give me was information that was “sealed” by the court  and he could only divulge this reluctantly, with my assurance I would not say where it had come from as it could jeopardize his job.

The captain informed me “your friend was living an ‘alternative life style.’“ “Yes, I know he was gay,” I answered. He went on. “It appears your friend had taken on a roommate in his house for additional funds.  He was an African-American man.  I don’t have indication for sure but it appears they had a relationship.  This fellow and your friend had a strong altercation and that man took a ball peen hammer and bludgeoned your friend to death with multiple blows to his head and body.  He was apprehended and arraigned to stand trial for murder in a few months.”    “Do you have any family contact,” I asked?   “I’m afraid this is the extent of the information I can give you,” he said.  I thanked him and hung up,  devastated and crying.

And that was the end. I never had the name of  Frank’s murderer and whether he was convicted. I never got any further definitive answers. Frank was not particularly a fan of blacks and I could not envision him involved with such a fellow. So much left unsaid but my dear special, precious, loving friend was gone . Frank had left with eternal mystery.  I still wish I knew more, but that’s it.  To this day I shudder cold at that image stuck in my mind, of that hammer going up and down, up and down into Franks head.  Time doesn’t soften that picture. I think in a way, I loved him. Maybe that’s just what I want to believe, but what I know is that I have the memories of great times we had over many years. I miss him still.

Jerry Wendt August 2015 1470 words

 

Candy Chatter

Ah, the Whitman's Sampler. Loved as much by us kids as the recipient (Mom) because the lid had a diagram of what every piece was - precluding the dreaded vanilla cream ("You can't put it back- now just EAT it !"). There was no Godiva, Debauve & Gallais, or Chocopologie by Knipschildt- so, unless you went downtown Chicago to Marshall Fields, Whitmans was the upscale selection available. 

Though, my Mom (and others) really took a liking to those chocolate covered cherries ...that you could get even on a kids allowance at the drug store. If I had a hankering now days, I'd make em Fannie May, which has a store right in the neighboring town !

No discussion about chocolate would be complete without my beloved Frango's . Working right across the street from Field's I had easy access to their trademarked Frango candy.( They gave samples ) The Frango mint was renowned and desired nationally, but my choices were the Orange Frango and the Raspberry Frango. I cannot tell you how many trips about this country I made carrying a hostess gift of those raspberry morsels, eh Mary Dean ? While the orange met demise when Fields was bought by Macy's, you can still get those raspberry delights, which I warn you are addictive ! 

Finally, why are the Ferrero Rocher and Lindt truffles strategically placed on the route I must take in Walgreens to get my diabetic Metformin refilled at the pharmacy counter? Of course, I can be stalwart and do drive -by pick up avoiding the store, and then take a diversion route home past... er... Bakers Square ? 

OH NOOOOOO !

A Remarkable Lady

A Remarkable Lady

I saw her looking at me through the window from outside of my car . The first thing I noticed was Her flawless beauty.  Her porcelain skin set canvas for Her piercing dark eyes.  I could not discern a nationality because She seemed to embody features of several.  She had prominent cheeks and a set chin but Her lips were very soft and feminine, slightly parted as if in a breaking smile.  Her hair was dark, looking soft but not at all like she had been to a beauty shop. It had a luster of its own as it fell about Her shoulders. She seemed inordinately statuesque for Her delicate featuring.  I will say tall, but perfectly proportioned.  The most exquisite lady I ever recall seeing.  A timeless beauty.

I could not tell what she was wearing because it was very bright outside.. But I didn’t feel any heat from a relentless sun. I remember her just standing there unshaded in the bright light, like a photograph where the settings filter out the surroundings.

I thought it odd She didn’t speak or seem to have question. Just standing quietly so intently looking at only me. There was no anger, no consternation. Was She beckoning to me?  No, there was no gesture. Still, that piercing look.  I felt exposed.  What did this absolutely Heavenly woman want with me? I wanted to ask, but it seemed as though I couldn’t force myself to move towards her. I was immobile in my position, which seemed odd.  Was I fearful?  No, I felt very rested and peaceful.  She just stood, still looking at me. I felt a power in her look.  For unfathomed reason it consoled me.  She radiated peacefulness. 

I had a feeling she had a message for me. But I had never met her; never saw her before.  A creature of this beauty I certainly would have remembered. That light got brighter. So much so that I perceived her fading  into the background.  This was getting very vexing.

I awoke in a room.  Where was my car?  What was this place?  The woman was not there, but a Phillipina lady in flower print outfit asked me who I was. I was foggy.  Strange question.  Further dialogue gave me knowledge I was in a hospital.  It seems I had a very bad car accident,  “T-boned” at a intersection and pinned in my car, the Fire Department had to pry me loose, taking so much time paramedics thought I would not make it out alive.  But here I was.

As reality dawned more, I very sharply remembered that lady. That beatific creature of infinite understanding and resolve.  I had a lot of time to think about her lying in that bed recovering, and I am convinced I was granted a brief look into the Face of God that day.

                                                                                                      - Jerry Wendt 2017

Awesome

Awesome. . .

A time we flexed our growing independence.  Adjusting to new changing bodies and wrestling with feelings of  dawning sexuality, we completed our mandated formal education and graduated.  CLCHS.  1962 . Running track and homecoming queens, slam books, the twist, school plays, sneaking cigarettes, cruising the Freeze, making out, affecting a “look”. Our very own adventures. Anticipations.  It was awesome

We moved forth, some to further learning at college or University, some to adjusting to the regimen of a workplace. Mastering a skill or a craft.  Some sought a partner and  some to starting a family.  We all expanded ourselves and went forth into the world with youthful confidence and trusts of our teachings. We had fervor and ambition and conviction and drive. We were involved. And ready to change the world. It was awesome

Children came for some,  career awards and achievements of all diversities for  others. For some, success was easy; some fought hard.   We found the constancy and comfort of love.  Some bought a home of our own or  made a figurative one surrounding ourselves with friends.  We added bonfires, baptisms,   volunteer work, travel, a belief set,  avocation, expanding ourselves and walking an infinite number of paths. We experienced art or craft and music and sports  and  travel as we grew into the comfort of knowing our unique selves. We nurtured others and found fulfillment in raising our own children and grandchildren. It was awesome.

Adversity came upon us and into us.  For some it creeped in. For others it smashed us up in a car wreck of emotion at sudden and abrupt happenings.   Illness, injury, death, loss of work, divorce, abuse of ourselves or others.  We lost friends and family.  But, somehow, we got through it and survived. We became better selves.  Maybe diminished, but learning from our experiences. Never forgetting, but proud that we could still weather on to one more tomorrow. A brighter time.  And that was awesome

We join again together today, a rekindling of all our memories. Relating our humanity to one another.  As we step close to the portal of our 7^th decade, we are all wealthy.  Wealth of memories, wealth of experiences, and wealth of friends and family .  And we are delighted to celebrate that wealth with the glory of finding that even now we can still hope, we can still dream, and we can still find ever new delights in living and in our appreciation of life.

Today in our own  myriad ways, we celebrate that.

And that,… THAT my classmates and friends is still awesome.

Welcome  fellow classmates to our 50^th reunion of the CLCHS class of 1962 !  

                                                                                                   -Jerry Wendt 2012

Chatting with Hermione

Hermione was all aflutter having just come from Infernetta’s Wing Waxing and Nail Salon, sporting her talons burnished in a lush prehistoric purple.

Now, it isn’t very often that a guy finds himself seeing a dragon, much less sitting across from one in a coffee shop.  Indeed, adults rarely see dragons at all.  Children do more often, well, because they are children and have little notion as to realities. But dragons do exist, just beyond the realm of consciousness, and they rarely make the journey between.

It started with me shoveling my front walk after a January snow.  It was very slippery and my foot caught a patch of underlying ice. I upended, hitting my head on the sidewalk.  Things faded to black, and the next moment I found myself sitting in front of this very warm hospitable dragon in a very strange coffee shop.

Hermione introduced herself and quickly related as to how she was very lucky in getting booked for a new series of children’s dreams and that, along with husband Nevermore’s recent success with cooling breath mints that were all the rage in the dragon community (dragon breath creates great demand for products like this, she told me ), things were very good with them .

“But enough about me,” Hermione added, “What’s going on in your world? Oh, but first, let’s get you a little warmer-upper. Now I can’t recommend the ‘Brimstone Latte’ I’m having as they can give you hiccups.  Matter of fact they did that very thing to me last time I had one and I singed quite a few dragons around me; which I can tell you is not a good thing.  Maybe you should move your chair a tad back, just in case, O.K.?  I know; we’ll order you a Crème Brule, and I can finish it off for you.  They say my caramelizing is to die for.”

So, settled in, as much as one can be with a dragon, I started relating to Hermione the latest news in our world. She was very pleased to know we have a female president, that global warming was getting worse, and that a new volcano had erupted in the Hawaiian chain. Things were just getting interesting when I started feeling wonky, stars started swirling around, and things faded out again.

I found myself lying on my sidewalk on that January day, shovel still in hand. But you know the strangest thing- my sidewalk was cleared completely… and bone dry.                    

 -Jerry Wendt

Just an old parrot squalking

"Cookie" 83 years old Cockatoo living at Brookfield Zoo

In this contentious political election that has brought so much heated debate and vitriol to the forefront ( It’s like zombie road rage)  some characterize me as “Ostrich”  with my head in the sand.  Not so. I am more the sage old parrot sitting on my perch observing some around enrobing themselves in ignorance and stubborn disposition.  I watch, knowing in my experience that understanding means using ears more often than mouth.

I also learned long ago that my rights stop where yours begin and conversely. There is too much “me”  and “I” going on, and not enough “you” and us.

I am surrounded by friends, which I also know to be the best part of life. Sometimes that means I hold back in deference to that bond.  Not that I would lose it, because I am assured my friends also value me more than any position I may take.  Mutual respect is another of those things not used often enough .

But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what is going on around me. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have an opinion, And it doesn’t mean that my opinion is any less valid than yours is.

 I have already voted for Hillary Clinton to be our next President.  In my exercised vote from my choices, I have decided she is best able to represent our country and accomplish what needs to be done.  She isn’t untarnished. I recognize that.

Whatever your conviction, I hope you also vote your best choice.

I am proud to live my life as a citizen in this USA.  I do realize many, many people cannot say that. I understand many have rightful reason to that position.

I hope that January brings a marker that I can rededicate myself to being a better person , to listen more, to be more understanding and still stand to the spirit of my conviction in voice and deed. And I do hope that I can join others of the same bent, help the disenfranchised, do my part as good neighbor, and having even small influence in living with you in an ever better country ,  in my “parrot opinion” still the BEST country in this world, The United States of America.

For the time being this old parrot is still standing ground that it is of worth. Maybe not as vocal nor as active as earlier in life, but still holding out for us all to rise and be the best that we can be. That I’m still up for the effort to try for from my own perch

Jerry's "Awesome Dude" Mexican rice (and Shrimp Reggio)

Jerrys’  “Awesome Dude” Mexican Rice

2 cups long grain white rice

4 tblsp  corn oil
1  medium sweet onion, chopped
1 can La Preferida mild diced green chilis
1  14.5 oz can  Red Gold petite diced tomatoes with lime and cilantro
1 28 oz jar Mild Pace Picante sauce
1 32 oz carton Kitchen Basics unsalted chicken stock
¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 tblsp cumin

Heat oil in sturdy 4 qt pot ( high heat)

Add rice and stir often until just starting to turn golden

Add chopped onion ( careful – it will steam up)

Stir until rice is golden brown

Add  2 cups of chicken broth carefully (again it will steam up –so hold face back from pot)

Immediately add chilies, diced tomato, Picante sauce, cilantro and cumin

Add ½ cup more chicken broth and bring to boil

When at boil, cover, and turn down heat to low – timer set to 24 minutes

Stir occasionally. At 14 minutes, turn heat off but leave pot covered and stir once or twice more

At end of time, uncover and fluff rice. Let cool and serve or refrigerate. May be frozen . Serves 8-10

I tweaked this dish until I finally came up with these brands and amounts as best.  I bring it to Hispanic gatherings and have received accolades as being the most flavorful. If  you  like more “heat” you can substitute hot diced chilies and hot Picante sauce .

Originally I made this rice to serve as base for a dish called Shrimp Reggio that I got from one of those Williams-Sonoma recipe cards when their store used to have drawers of recipes in card files they gave out.  Here is that recipe:

Shrimp Reggio

2 lb. lg. shrimp
2 red bell pepper  

1 orange bell pepper
1 yellow bell pepper
2 cloves garlic
4 tbsp. EV olive oil
2 lb button mushrooms, sliced
½  cup white. Balsamic vinegar
¾ cup. white wine or chicken stock

Cook the shrimp with shells removed. Roast the bell peppers until the skin is blackened; remove the skin and slice in thin strips . Saute 2 cloves of garlic in 2 tbsp. olive oil for 1-2 minutes. Add 1 lb. sliced mushrooms and saute quickly. Add bell peppers, ¼ cup Balsamic vinegar and wine or chicken stock. Bring to simmer; add shrimp and cook for 1-2 minutes more.  Pour over rice and serve. Serves 8.

I simmer down the wine and /or chicken stock so it isn’t watery and tweak the Balsamic to taste.

Together the Shrimp over the Rice makes for a showy and tasty “company” entree’  with a green salad side.

I serve with a “big” full oaky Chardonnay.

Yacht Races

Yacht Races

Larry Jacobs came to be my friend by way of an urban gay social group called “Professionals Over Thirty” in Chicago.  I was on the board of this large organization . Larry was  from Lake Geneva, where he was a life-long resident. Larry knew everyone there , making him a fun social doyenne, and, because Lake Geneva is so close to where I was living in Crystal Lake, we became friends.

One time ,Larry had received an invitation to a “do” at the summer farm of Chicago’s Fire Commissioner Robert Quinn.  He invited us ( Joe Szucs and I) to come along, telling Quinn we would accompany him.  Larry advised us Quinn was quirky but did not delve deeper and I, knowing many gays in the city, knew “quirky” was a common trait  and did not ask more.  Mistake.

This was to be a luncheon afternoon event, so Joe and I arrived at Larry’s digs and all motored together over to Quinns. The spread was on the outskirts of Lake Geneva, isolated and, in what appeared to be an original old farm house that had been added onto.  Lots of large old shade trees, a large pool, and  extensive well manicured grounds surrounded. It was very comfortable but not at all grand or pretentious. Just a large old country home. 

We were greeted by Quinn, who was well into his 60’s but still working ( He had been Fire commissioner for over 40 years) A very masculine, burly, and brusque man, Quinn was often quoted as being of the opinion that Firefighters needed to be very “manly” men.  He took exception to any of his firefighters having long hair.  I also recall an article where he was criticized as having two Chicago Fire Academy cadets stationed up at his Wisconsin farm. His response was that “they are good with animals.” Hmmm.  But he was very genial to us and I found him quick to smile and very attractive in his presence.

Before being escorted into his living room for appetizers and drinks, we were given a tour of the house. I noted the upstairs was a series of “bunkrooms,”  giving indication this was a domicile seeing a LOT of overnight traffic. Then downstairs again, the conversation turned to “toys.”  I was very much the neophyte in the genre and asked questions.  Quinn was delighted by my naïveté and gleefully brought out a large trunk to “show-and-tell” the various items.  I had to admit I was fascinated by the novelty of it all, and Quinn as much by my interest, was going through each item with ribald demonstration.  We came to a electric cattle prod.  I had no idea that cattle even needed prodding. Laughter all around.  Quinn explained that in sexual encounters it was fun to “prod” your partner in areas to titillate their participation.  Obviously an S & M appurtenance, I indulged more information.  Quinn eagerly energized the prod. I hesitated.  After all, he had already explained the prod had to be used below the chest so as not to cause a heart aberration (Cardiac infarction or stoppage). All right, he said, he would set the appliance of lowest energizing, and just barely touch my thigh.  I was on the spot.  “O.K.,” I said. ZAP !  Oh Jesus Christ, MOTHER OF GOD that HURT ! Enough. The room was in laughter.  Quinn along with all around guffawed, and I was given a double Scotch. And it wasn’t even afternoon yet.  Zowie, I was not asking any more questions and soon the bottom of the trunk was reached, (There is a LOT of shit people can buy to enhance sex, I learned that day) and it was lunch time.

We repaired (apt term for me) to the dining room. Wow- If I was interested by the “toy box” I was really taken aback by the dining room. An opulent table for 16 set with finest linen and china and beautiful Daum stemware.  This was the least of it. Remember, this is the guy with a long stated reputation of being a crusty “manly man.” After being seated, a lovely Semillon was poured.  The amazement was the pouring was done by four beautiful youthful and muscular men.  Naked men with only leather strapping, chains, cock-rings, boots, and dog collars with leads from their necks.  I was just astounded.  Quinn had a cat-‘o-nine tails at his setting and would flog the servers as he found them lacking or slow, yanking on their leads. Not brutally hard or to inflict pain, but for pleasure that, from the smiles on the waiters faces, not entirely reserved for his own enjoyment.

Lunch was exquisite: Pike Quenelles with Mousseline sauce.  There was other stuff but I can’t remember at all what it was.  I just recall the entrée as I had asked Larry if Quinn cooked, and Larry laughed, telling me he (Quinn) was a big customer of the same caterer that did all the Lake Geneva grand mansion summer soirees. Well, the food was good but the service was way better.

The Commissioner called us from table to his pool .  I commented to Larry and Joe we had not brought suits and I was still a bit of a prude to go “skinny dipping” in this crowd of mostly strangers . Larry “shushed” me.  Sangria was served and it was announced the “Yacht Races” would ensue. Now, with the previous events, that should have clued me in, but  I really had the idea there would be model boats that would race, and we would bet on them. Sometimes I even amaze myself at how dense I actually can be.

Here was the actual real plan.   Aforementioned waiters, now unencumbered with extraneous paraphernalia, presented nude at the pool, which had dilineated lanes . Four of them in the pool.   There was a inflated float for each to lie prone upon, facing sunward up. These young men were the “yachts,”  or more aptly, sailboats.  They each had a small piece of lightweight fabric that was somehow attachable to their manhood. “ The “hankie sails” I lovingly like to remember them as. Joe grossly called them “cum rags.” Each ‘Yacht”  was attended to by another young man whose sole purpose was to be the “wind.”  By manipulating the “masts” of the boats of their attendance, they could cause a condition of “full blow” wind so to speak with an erect “mast.” Under this condition the “winds” could push the “yachts” forward in the lane in a race.   “Sailing” was entirely dependent on tumescence.  I was thoroughly attentive. I don’t think anyone really cared who won. I had no idea who was refilling my wine glass repeatedly but these races must have delightfully gone on for a long time as I was most completely snockered.  After the races I noticed the young men were attentive to the guests and some were repairing to inside the house, evidently to enjoy the summer “breezes” (in a manner of speaking) in a more indulgent and personal manner.

Larry, Joe , and I decided we had enough “afternoon”  .  Or rather, in hindsight, Joe and Larry had had enough of me .  I know that had I stayed it would have been a very carnal tryst for me. I was so horny I lost all focus, but screwing sloppy drunk is no fun, so it was very considerate of them to drag me home. I crashed at Larry’s house that night.  So much Bea Arthur as Vera Charles in “Mame.”  But I can tell you without any doubt this was the most decadent day I have ever spent, one that lives in memory also as one of my best times ever.

We never went to another time at Quinn's because, shortly, a few years later, Quinn was relieved of his position by  new Mayor Bilandic in 1978. He died a year later. There were a few whispered comments about Quinn that never made it into the mainstream media as he had such a strong image to Chicagoans and the city’s history. I often wonder if he became so jaded he used that prod above the waist.  Never to know.  Even Joe and Larry are gone now, leaving me alone to tell you about some of the boisterous veiled history “back in the day”

So that is my true story of  “Yacht Races.” 

©Jerry Wendt 2016

Robert Quinn died in 1979 wintering in Florida. He remains a historic Chicago icon