Harvest Time

My Pumpkin, originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

Yesterday I dragged Kevin, our political writer from Chicagoist, down to St. Anne, Illinois, just east of Kankakee. I had reserved seats for the Local Beet's farm dinner at Genesis Growers, an organic farm in St. Anne.

Even with the rain that came down, it was a wonderful time. I was glad for a change that I didn't have 3G service down there (thanks, AT&T) as the conversation was good with other guests. The social aspect of farm dinners is very underrated; it's another reason I like dining at places with communal tables like the Publican, Urban Belly and the Bristol.

Anyway, at one point farm owner Vicki Westerhoff brought us to her pumpkin patch while touring the farm and showed the assembled guests how to pick their own pumpkin. I went right in there and went to town, picking this beauty. Kevin also picked his and gave it to me. So now I have 2 pumpkins and a lot of ideas for what to do with them.

I'm thinking about finally diving in and making pumpkin beer with some of the meat.

This...

Skyline at Night, originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

is why I love living in this city. the view of the skyline from Shedd Aquarium at night is something to behold, even when you're taking a photo of it with an iphone.

Tranquility and Its Short Supply

Sunset over Caledonia
Originally uploaded by bridgeportseasoning.

Was ready to head out to work this morning and found a flat tire on the bike. 'Course, I being me thought that this was a harbinger of a bad day. Then it's rained all afternoon at the office in Evanston and I find myself thankful that I'm not biking in this slop.

Up and down week overall. Started off with a bang Monday with a visit to Kinnikinnick Farm for a dinner prepared by Stephanie Izard and Ryan Poli for Outstanding in the Field. wasn't planning on writing about it, but the combination of the beautiful land and the charm of farm co-owner Susan Cleverdon swayed me. The trip to Kinnikinnick was preceded with a side-trip to New Glarus. By the end of the day I couldn't wait to get out of the car.

Now I'm catching up on final planning for Taste of the Nation Chicago, with procrastination being my greatest enemy again. Not good as hunger messaging chair for the event. Still it looks as though things are rounding into shape.

If you can show up to taste of the Nation, please do so. All proceeds for the event are benefiting the Greater Chicago Food Depository, Near North Health Services Corporation and the Illinois Hunger Council.

The More Things Change: Reflections on Ten Years in Bridgeport

Once, I was couch surfing at my Aunt Debbie's in Rogers Park when her two youngest kids, Phillip and Eric, decided to start playing baseball in the house with some friends. Predictably, this ended with some china being broken and Phillip trying to run away from the responsibility.

Somewhere in there things escalated, words were exchanged and I called Phillip a "fat boy" (well, he was). Aunt Debbie, sensing that Phillip would not accept an apology - and might try to choke me in my sleep - strongly suggested that my time couch surfing at her place was done.

I made a hasty phone call, packed up my seabag and two heavy duty plastic bags (containing what belongings I thought necessary) and slowly made my way in blistering heat by bike to Bridgeport, where Sue let me crash on her chaise lounge.

That was ten years ago yesterday.

What's happened since then has been, as the song goes, a long strange trip. The couch surfing turned into Sue and me becoming roommates and, later, flat mates. Meanwhile, I slowly began getting my shit together, a process that involved much denial and resistance, trial and error, false starts and stumbling into things I both cared about and was good at doing. And, as I've written here before, I slowly came around to accepting what this neighborhood is and embracing both its charms and shortcomings. We always joked that I would leave if Puffer's closed, as that was the place that I could always call a refuge and hold as Exhibit "A" that I wasn't crazy for living down here.

Then I found out about the chili at Ramova Grill; the tchotchkes at Bernice's; the kugelis at Healthy Food; the tradition of the procession of St. Rocco; Dave Samber's creepy pocelain dolls at Polo Cafe; Modji Fest; Bev's hot dogs; Ed Marzewski almost single-handedly establishing developing an arts district along Morgan while tending bar at his mother's bar/package store at 31st and Morgan; Mark Lennon's unwavering loyalty to the kids at Benton House; the bed and breakfast run by Benedictine monks; Gio's fusilli arabiata; the priceless mural inside Nancy's Best Little Hair House and Day Spa painted twenty years ago by an unknown graffiti artist named DZine; Pancho Pistolas add a second floor; Freddie's adding the adjective "Fabulous" to describe their below-average pizza; Paulie's pizza gravitate to Punky's; Graziano's on 31st make way to Trattoria 31 which made way to the amazing HAN 202.

I've watched some kids at McGuane Park grow up from mischievous teens to college graduates; others became gangbangers. Thanks to the common ground of pet ownership I've learned a bit about some of my neighbors, and they about me. Bridgeport Coffee House opened five years ago and, quickly, residents both lifelong and new found a place to patronize and maybe get to know each other a little. Mitchell's Tap is now in the old space, but I never left. At 30 I was trying to figure things out and just hoping to make it to the next day. Still haven't accomplished the former, but damn if life didn't drag me along the entire time. I can honestly say I wouldn't change a thing in the past ten years.

Bridgeport has changed almost as much as I in the past decade. When I first moved down here, the city was just starting to fill up Stearns Quarry with the intent of turning it into a nature preserve and park. Slowly, the giant hole was filled to grade and the landscaping began. The park opened Memorial Day weekend. Artists are fleeing the high rents of Wicker Park, Bucktown and even Pilsen in favor of the neighborhood's western half. Sue and I sat atop the hill we dubbed "Mount Bridgeport" Friday night for the fireworks, eating cheese and crackers, drinking beer and cava, marveling at the view, joking about becoming naturalized Bridgeporters. We sat there, a half-moon shining above us, content in the moment.

It's with a certain point of pride that I look at living in one neighborhood for ten years. As an adult, I never imagined I'd live in one neighborhood for such a stretch of time. Growing up one of my goals was to live east of Halsted near a major league ballpark. Never did I think it would be on the south side of town. I treasure the close priximity of the neighborhood to Pilsen, Bronzeville, UIC, downtown and Hyde Park. I can negotiate it and the rest of the city with ease and quickness via bicycle or train. Bridgeport, to me, is a microcosm of Chicago itself: if you let it, you fall in love with it unconditionally.

Here's to another ten.

The Rise of a Dirty Old Man

I've only been half-joking when I tell people that I seem to have reawakened my kavorka in the past year or so. Never was that more true than Saturday night. I found myself in one of those bars in the back of a liquor store on the northwest side, only this one was built out into a spacious sports bar and kept clean. This wasn't those old Armanetti's like the one on Division where my mom and stepdad were engaged thirty years ago over amaretto sours, 7-and-7's and Slim Jims.

I was with my old friend Chris Hyatt, who invited a bunch of people out to the Bank of America cinema at Six Corners to see a Roger Corman movie starring Ray Milland and Don Rickles that was totally worth the five bucks admission. We were reminiscning on the Vicodin-and-gin days of the Unofficial Soup Kitchen when we noticed the bartender hanging on our every word. Or, shall I say, mine.

"I think she's into you, Chuck," Hyatt said.

It could have been the beer talking, but I gave her the once-over. She let her hair down after the third round Hyatt and I had and it was classic Northwest Side woman: a near-mullet. She was pulling back Jager Bombs with the best of them and singing along with every song on the Internet jukebox (ugh!). And that was when Hyatt and I decided to hit an IHOP to soak up all the krausened goodness of Old Style.

I managed to catch the train home and sent Hyatt the e-mail address of a photographer friend of mine who was looking for an assistant. He e-mailed back that he went back to the bar to see if the bartender was interested in him.

"Seemed possible," he replied.