Find your own Magic

There is a sign over the highway entrance into Walt Disney World (WDW) that proclaims it is “The Most Magical Place on Earth.”  I’d never been there, but I know there’s a certain amount of guilt put on American parents who deprive their kids of the Disney magic.

I acknowledged that early on.  When our kids (now 42 and 40) were young I told them I could take them each to a beautiful foreign country for what it would cost to take them to WDW.  And I did.  I took them each on an eye care mission to Guatemala when they were teenagers.  Did I really deprive them of the most magical place on earth?  I was about to find out.

My wife and I were at WDW to celebrate our granddaughter’s fifth birthday.  Birthdays at a resort are a new tradition her family started.  For three years we spent the birthday weekend at a sprawling indoor water park in Chicagoland, which was magical in its own way.  WDW, however, is on another level, magically speaking. 

Pundits say five is the perfect age for children to enjoy the Disney experience.  June would turn five on a trip that included her Mom and Dad, both grandmas, an aunt, two uncles, two cousins, and her Papa.  I think being with family provides its own magic.  But WDW is stiff competition.    

When I got home, I found that Walt Disney World is but one property of Walt Disney Company, a major independent and publicly traded multinational entertainment and media conglomerate.  It’s not a subsidiary or part of any larger company, but rather, the parent/holding company itself, owning brands such as Pixar, Marvel, Lucasfilm, 20^th Century Studio, ESPN, ABC, Hulu, Disney Parks, and more.  The company's total value as of February 2026 is approximately $186.5 billion USD. Their brand of magic has a high cost.  

But back to the trip.  Walt Disney Company’s property in Florida, Walt Disney World, occupies 45 square miles (26,000 acres) of low-lying land near Orlando.  The average number of daily guests is about 150,000.  The number of visitors to the Magic Kingdom alone often reaches 90,000.  And it feels like every one of them is ahead of you in line for the next ride.

WDW is one of America’s largest employers with over 80,000 “cast members” in the park each day.  I kept seeing doors by rest rooms marked “Cast Members Only.”  I assumed cast members were those people who paraded around in costumes with big heads representing iconic Disney figures like Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Turns out everyone is part of the cast - the maids, the servers, the food service staff, the gardeners, bus drivers, you name it. 

The biggest stars of the cast are still the costumed characters from famous Disney animated movies.  Those heads, including eyes and smiles, are way out of proportion to their bodies.  And they are locked into whatever expression the artist chose to create with plastic, fiber glass, and paint.  They play their roles without speaking, using only pantomime.  Each looks overjoyed.  Can unrelenting displays of joy day after day create magical overload?  You’d have to ask those cast members, and they won’t talk.

No American kid I know can feel magical 24 hours a day, day after day.  I know June couldn’t.  It was in the Animal Kingdom that June experienced her low point.  She failed to meet the height requirement for the “Avatar Flight of Passage’ ride. She broke down.  Some might describe it as melting down.  In any case, it was not a magical moment.  She pulled herself back together though.

I’m not sure what moment was June’s most magical.  But I know what mine was.  We were back at the rooms in the “Art of Animation” section of the park.  Low key.  Blocks of motel rooms built around a swimming pool with gaudy statues.  The largest was a gigantic fiberglass monument to “Ursula the Octopus” the famous sea witch from “The Little Mermaid.”   Our rooms were on an outside corner by a lake.  Thank God it was quiet and not crowded.  There was a lawn with trees and bushes.

On February 17, June’s birthday, we took tables and chairs from our room, put them outside, and ordered pizza.  We had a cake with candles for dessert.  It was just us.

As it started getting dark, June organized a game of sorts.  She was the cook and I was chosen as the server.  June and the I went to a big tree where she “baked” pretend cupcakes on a square ground drain. It looked like it could have been a grill. 

I held my hands together like a bowl and she filled them with sticks, some leaves from the bushes, grass, any stuff would do, and then June and her server delivered the cupcake to someone of her choice in the family, describing in detail the flavor of the cupcake.  There was a lot of pretend chocolate and cinnamon involved, with mint thrown in for good measure.

Then the person who received the cake became the next server, and everything was repeated.  It was good to see full-grown adults involved in an imaginary cooking show.    They were a little confused but played along nicely.  I spoke with my wife, known by June as Goggy, after her short-term stint as a server.

“How did you like June’s restaurant?”

“I complimented her right away.  Told her how much I liked her restaurant.  You know what she told me?”

“No idea.”

“It’s not a restaurant anymore, Goggy.  It’s a café.”

Evidently, June’s business model changed rapidly.

June was delighted at how the whole project was going, but then the last adult was served, and the café closed.

“What can we do next June?” I asked.

“Well,…”  June starts her sentences like that when she needs time to think.

“I know.  We can build a Fairy House!”

“A fairy house?  Are there fairies around here?”

“Well, yeah Papa.  It’s my birthday.  Fairies always come see you on your birthday.  If you listen close when you go to sleep, you can hear them flying.”

She sounded so convincing.  I wanted to ask how she knew all this but held my tongue.

“Where do Fairies like to live?”

“Well…., they’re very small.  They like to be in bushes and out of the wind.  I know, we can make the house there.”

She pointed across the yard to a bush that looked as if a frost had hurt it.  The leaves were brown and dead looking halfway down. 

“We can break these branches and make a little hole in here, then make a floor.” 

June was the architect and I was the general contractor.  I broke out twigs to make a little pocket in the bush and tried my best to fashion a floor with them. 

“Now we have to make them a bed.”

June began gathering bedding material that bore a close resemblance to the cupcakes we had just baked.   We carefully laid sticks and leaves and grass on top of the stick floor.  Amazingly, it held.  June stood back and pronounced the fairy house done.

“All we need now is something to draw the Fairies attention to their house.  Something shiny or bright.  Look for something Papa.”

It was getting darker.  I wondered why the pizza was taking so long.  We struck off in different directions looking for the perfect thing to attract the Fairies.

Sometimes, you get lucky.  By the best-traveled sidewalk near our rooms, I came upon a plastic pink barrette pressed into the dirt.

“June, I got it!”  

June approved.  I laid it on the fairy bed.  The Fairy House was complete.

That was the kind of magic I hoped I’d find at Walt Disney World.  An idea from the mind of a five-year old that sprung to life on a warm night as darkness fell was pure magic to me.  You can have the rides.  I’ll take the Fairy House.

Santa Comes to the Shack

I was editing stories last week.  Stories that have become chapters in a book.  I like writing from scratch much better than editing, but you can’t have everything.

I was startled by a loud knock on the shack door.  I write with my back to that door.  Before I could turn around, someone barged in. 

The shack is pretty small.  As the door closed, I spun around and there he was, standing in front of me with his hands on his hips.  He was all tricked out in his Santa uniform.  Red velvet trimmed with white fur, knee high black boots, a ridiculously wide black belt, the long stocking hat with a white ball on the end, the whole deal.

Santa strikes an imposing pose.  I mean, a legendary myth who has existed for seventeen centuries suddenly appears to an old human in a 12x12 shack?  If I hadn’t known him for so long, I’d have been mad.

“Jesus, Santa, you scared me half to death.  Have a seat, old fella. Take a load off.” 

I pointed to the futon beside the desk.  After two solid years of constant clutter, it’s actually clean.  I purged a lot of books, clippings, papers, and things that made me wonder why I kept them in the first place.  You can actually stretch out and take a nap on that futon again.

Santa plopped down, loosened his belt a notch, and took off his boots. 

“McClure, it’s been a long day.  I’m counting on you for a drink.  Do you happen to have something brown with a considerable proof count for an old friend?”

“You’re in luck, pal.  I restocked for the holidays.”

I reached under the little table by the stove and pulled out a bottle of bourbon in a small burlap sack. 

“Grab me two of those tin cups over there by the chainsaw, would you Santa?”

Santa took two steps in his stockinged feet and got the cups while I uncorked the bottle.  Within seconds we were clanking our cups together to toast Christmas 2025.

Santa looked out the big shack window down to the bottom of the ravine. 

“Is that a creek down there?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it ever dry up?”

“Never all the way.  When it rains, it flows fine.  When it’s dry, it ponds up.  Ices over in the winter.  But the water is always there.  Sometimes you have to look hard to find it.”

Seemed curious he would bring that up. 

“So, Santa, besides being very thirsty, how have you been?  It’s been a whole year, you know.  You said you were going to come see me in the summer, but you didn’t make it.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.  I get busy.  And I’m aware I live in a place that’s hard to travel to. But I’ve been thinking about you.  

“Really?  What have you decided?”

“I’ve decided it’s time you consider what you can do to help the world before you leave it.”

“Well, joy to the world and glad tidings to you too, Santa.  What makes you think I’m checking out?  And how do you know I haven’t been thinking about just that?

“Well, I hate to say it, but you’ve been known to lose track of time.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know my wife and I talked to our financial person, who thought we should talk to an attorney, who updated our wills, and fixed things up so they’ll be smooth for the kids.  And now we’re starting to throw unwanted junk away.  What do you think of that?”

“I’m impressed. Your kids will appreciate that.”

”Thanks. I’m amazed myself.  Never thought I’d get there.  But you know, my wife’s a big help.”

”McClure, everyone who knows you is aware that your wife keeps you on track.  I mean, you’re not the most organized human on the planet.”

“I know. I owe her a lot.”

Santa, as much as I love him, has developed that curse (or is it a blessing?) that haunts people who have a lot to say, limited time to say it, and little regard for how others might react.  You’d think someone who has been around so long, with no end in sight ,  wouldn’t feel rushed.  But come to think of it, he might be gauging how much longer I’ll be around to listen.  Whatever the case, he’s blunt.

Your country is not doing well.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And you feel powerless to change it.”

“I wouldn’t say powerless.  Small though.  And tired.  We’ve come all this way in the U.S. during my lifetime, and now the things I value most: equality, empathy, and justice, no longer seem to count.  Greed and power are what our American leaders are after now.  Rampant capitalism.  And if it requires cruelty?  So what?”

“Listen to yourself, McClure.  Does that sound hopeful?”

“No. But you have to admit, hope is hard to find these days.  But you didn’t come all this way to talk about politics.  Have another drink and lighten up, Santa.  It’s Christmas, remember?”

I poured Santa another couple fingers of the brown stuff. 

“Thank you.  I get a lot of milk and cookies, but rarely a cup of good cheer like this.”

He glanced at my computer screen. 

“Is that the farm book you keep working on?”

“You know it is.”

“Refresh my memory.  Does the story begin in 1951 and end in 1969?”

“Yes.  My first 18 years.  All spent on that little dairy farm.”

“That was 70 years ago.”

“I know.  I want to show people how America was, how it could be still.”

“Hasn’t it really been done for a long time.  The book, I mean?”

“Yeah.  I’m trying to improve it.  Polish it up before publishing.”

“Don’t you think you should put the past away after it's published and write about what’s happening now?”

“I do.  And I try writing about today’s events too.  But what’s happening now…it’s awful to put down in print.  I could cry.  The racism, the violence, the brutality, the hate.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t written about Gaza.”

“How do you know I haven’t.  Wait a minute.  Have you been reading my stuff?”

“Every bit of it.  But it’s possible I missed it.  Did you write a post about the genocide?  How it decimated Palestinian families, destroyed their homes, ruined their land?”

“No.  I have lots of drafts and can’t finish any of them.  And now, we seem to have blown past it.  I don’t think anyone cares.”

“Well, you’re wrong about that.  I care.  And I know you care. For 35 years, you worked every day to help children and their families succeed.”

“Sometimes I wish I were still on the job.”

“Well, I don’t expect you’ll go back to work, but you’ll never turn that off.  Have you stopped thinking good writing can change people’s minds?  Have you given up helping your readers find the kindness in their hearts?”

“It’s so complicated, Santa.  Critics of Israel’s actions in Gaza are labeled antisemitic.  That’s the furthest thing from my mind.  It’s the current right-wing Israeli government I oppose, and our country’s blind support of them, not the Jewish faith.  For Christ’s sake Santa, how do we even allow that narrative to continue?”

“Settle down.  You’ve written nuanced views before, McClure.  Keep trying, you’ll find the words.  And don’t give up.  If you aren’t careful, you’ll stop writing altogether.”

“Don’t worry about me, Santa.  That won’t happen.  I’m just letting off steam.  Let’s talk about you. Like, what are you doing here besides drinking my whiskey and cheering me up?”

“I’m on a road trip.  Things at the North Pole get hellishly busy this time of year.  The elves keep running to me with their problems.  Mrs. Claus is upset with me and anxious.  It felt like the walls were closing in on me.  So, I hitched up the reindeer and took off.  You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

“I know the concept, minus the reindeer.  Congratulations on getting away.  It’s good for your mental health.  So, what have you done with this stolen time?”

“I went back to the basics.  When I begin to doubt why I exist, I have conversations with children.  It narrows my focus.  Calms me down.”

“Explain that, will you?  I need that.  I think everybody needs that.”

Santa tipped up his tin cup.  His nose disappeared. He lowered his cup, stared into it, and frowned.

“You want another one, Santa?  Are you going to be all right to drive?”

“I told you I’m with my reindeer. They know the way home.”

I poured Santa another drink.  He looked out the window with a smile.  I had a feeling he was about to tell me a story.

“Have I told you about my reindeer?”

“No.” I replied.

“My sleigh is powered by an eight reindeer hitch.  That’s four pairs.  A poet named Clement Clarke Moore named them in 1822.  Starting from the front are Dasher and Dancer, the lead team.  Behind them are two swing teams, Prancer and Vixen, with Comet and Cupid behind them. 

Then closest to the sleigh, connected directly to it, are my wheelers, Donder and Blitzen.  They’re my go-to reindeer.  Not only are they the biggest and strongest, they're also the smartest and most reliable.   I count on them for steering, braking, and overall control.  I love my whole team, but Donder and Blitzen are special.”

“What about Rudolf?”

Santa inhaled deeply and blew out his cheeks as he exhaled.

“I don’t usually tell people this, but Rudolf is a pain in the butt.  I mean, he wouldn’t even be here if Montgomery Ward hadn‘t paid Gene Autry to record that hokey Christmas song in 1949.  Now, he’s the only reindeer most people know.”

“I thought he was good in the fog with that blinking red nose.”

“Fog, schmog.  What do airplanes do when they find themselves in thick clouds?”

“I think they adjust their altitude up or down until they’re out of it.”

“Of course.  And that’s exactly what I do.  That line in Autry’s song ‘Rudolf with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight’ was never spoken by me, I tell ya.  Donder and Blitzen guide the sleigh.  Rudolf just farts around up front, blinking his nose and acting like a hotshot.”

I decided I should change the subject. And also, cut Santa off from the bourbon.

“You were about to tell me about the kids you’ve been seeing, weren’t you?”

Santa’s eyes twinkled.  As he smiled, his dimples showed. 

“You don’t know what it’s like, McClure, being with those kids.  Among all the humans on the earth, children represent the very best in you.  But then, I don’t have to tell you.  No doubt you’ve learned that all over again, being so close to June these past four years.”

Now my eyes started to twinkle.  Or were they welling up with tears?

“Think of it from a child’s perspective, McClure.  Meeting me is a leap of faith.  First, adults bring their children to see a stranger dressed up in an outrageous costume. And then they tell them to sit on my lap.

“Go ahead,” the adults say. “Tell him what you want for Christmas.”

“And damned if they don’t.  You know why?  Because they believe in me.  You can see it in their eyes.  They trust me.  For no good reason at all.  Yeah, they may talk about some toy on the market, but I think what they’re really after is for someone to just see them, listen, and respond.”

“A personal conversation then.”

“Yeah.  Is there a better kind?  You remember. Seeing, hearing and speaking in real time in the same physical space.  Not characters in a text, not a face on a screen, not a voice through mics and earbuds.  Actual sound waves vibrating through the air.  Retinas soaking up the light off each other’s faces.  Real life, real time, real connection.”

“Where were you?”

“I was at a local preschool with three, four, and five year olds.  Talked to them in groups of ten or so, then had a discussion with each one individually. l was like a starving man at a buffet.  I may have brought joy to them, but they gave me so much in return.”

“What do you say to them?”

“As much as possible, I let them ask questions and drive the conversation.  When that doesn’t work, I thank them for the cookies they leave me, suggest the reindeer need food too, and urge them to be sure to be asleep when I arrive at their house.”

“And I always try to counteract gift getting with gift giving.  I suggest they get a gift for their Mom or Dad and then watch them closely when they unwrap it.  I tell them to look into their parents’ eyes and see the joy there.  I want them to understand that giving of themselves to those they love is just as good, if not better than receiving.”

“How does that go over?”

“They get it.  Kids understand so much more than we give them credit for.  Recognizing and treasuring joy comes natural to them.  What do you suppose happens to those beautiful children when they grow up?  How can they go from being kind, empathetic children to spiteful, unforgiving adults?  How do adults become so distant, so uncaring, so disuntrustful of one another?”

“Now who sounds like they’re losing hope?  I don’t have the answer for you, Santa, but you know as well as I that humans can change.  But we can’t create change if we stop talking, if we give up on each other.  Isn’t Christmas all about discovering the child that lives within us that becomes the light of the world?”

Santa just looked at me.

“McClure, if you keep it up, you’re going to start sounding downright profound.  I’m glad I stopped by.  How about one more for the ditch?”

He held out his cup.

“I think you’re good to go, Santa.  You have a big night coming up.  If you have another bourbon, your nose is going to be as red as that lead reindeer of yours.”

“You think so?  Is that a variation on “friends don’t let friends drive drunk? 

Santa pulled on his boots and tightened his belt.

“Hope I see you again next year, McClure.”

“Me too.”   

I opened the door for Santa, and he stepped out onto the shack porch.

“You can’t leave without saying it, Santa.”

He smiled.  “You’re kind of a little kid at heart too, aren’t you?  OK, here goes.”

 

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

 Brussels Sprouts (Thanksgiving 2025)

June was with me in the spring when we planted the garden.  She had just turned four.  I explained what each plant was. 

“These two are Brussels sprouts.”

“What’s that?”

“Your Mom and Dad buy them in the store.  Like little cabbages.  We roast them in the oven.”

“Papa, they’re little.”

They did look a little puny.  A one-inch stem and two pale green leaves.

“They’ll look a lot better when we get them in the ground.  With some sun and rain they’ll be fine.  We’ll eat them on Thanksgiving.”

We planted them in the end corners of our small, raised bed garden.  Peppers and tomatoes.  Garlic planted the previous Halloween.  The Brussels sprouts.

Her Mom and Dad gardened at her house in the city too.  Cucumber vines.  Tomatoes in pots.  Every time we were together, we checked out the progress of the vegetables.  Like June, the plants grew fast.

It was a very hot summer.  The peppers and tomatoes looked healthy.  The Brussels sprouts grew taller but didn’t look good for a long time.  In July the bugs started eating the leaves.

“Papa, the Buster spouts have big holes in them!”

“I know June.  Those are Brussels sprouts.  But they have a long way to go.  We don’t eat them till Thanksgiving.  They like cold weather.”

Truth was, I was worried about those Brussels sprouts too.  I shook some talcum powder on the remaining leaves, a trick I found on Google.  The bugs don’t like the finely ground silica in the powder.  Didn’t seem to help, though.

 I had pulled the garlic on the 4th of July. Big white bulbs with streaks of purple. Sometime in October,  I harvested the remaining peppers and tomatoes and pulled up the plants.

I had a bumper crop of Serranos and Habaneros.  The Poblanos had lots of healthy leaves, but the peppers were small.  The cherry tomatoes, especially the yellow ones, outdid the slicers.  The grape tomatoes were a bust. I’ll change things next year.

The garden was bare except for the Brussels sprouts.  They still looked bad.  The stalks were tall, and the tops had leafed out, but the sprouts were small.  When June visited in early November, she ran to the garden ahead of me.

“Oh Papa, it’s all gone!  Except for those Buster sprouts.”

“We had a good year.  Now we just have to wait to see what happens with our Brussels sprouts.  They’re on the menu for our Thanksgiving dinner.  Turkey and ham, cranberries, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, and Brussel sprouts.”

“And punkin pie!” 

“Oh yeah, can’t forget your favorite.  Pumpkin pie.”

I looked again at the Brussels sprouts.  Still small.  They sell them on the stalk at the local Kroger around Thanksgiving.  At least I had a backup plan.

June and her Mom and Dad came the night before Thanksgiving.  She walked in our door with a pumpkin pie her Dad helped her make.  In the morning, we were working together to put the meal together when June’s Mom remembered something.

“Hey, what about the Brussels sprouts?  Where are they?”

“Still in the garden,” I said.  “June, let’s go get them.”

“OK, Papa!”  June’s enthusiasm is infectious.  She makes us all smile.

“First, we have to go to the shack and get my cleaver.  They’re not easy to cut.”

We brought the cleaver to the garden.

“Can I do it, Papa?”

"Not yet, June.  You can do it when you’re older.  This year you can bend them over, and I’ll do the chopping.”

June grabbed the top of the first plant and tilted it towards her.

“Farther June.  Bend it down till it almost touches the ground.”

June struggled a bit but was able to get the stalk parallel to the dirt, and I chopped it off.  We did it again for the other plant.

“How do they look, June?”

“They got big Papa.  And they used to be little.”

“They grow like you, June. Bigger all the time.”

  

Breakfast at the Shelter 2025

 

Open Table Church got a late start on its once-a-month Sunday dinner and Monday breakfast project at the Ottawa PADS shelter.  Illinois Valley PADS started tearing down its worn-out shelter on Ottawa's West Side this summer, but structural changes to the former Ottawa YMCA Building on the Fox River, its new temporary shelter, took longer than anticipated.  PADS in Ottawa couldn’t open till October.  Stuff like that happens. Even good plans bend to reality.  Open Table was just glad to be back for another year.

I’m on the breakfast crew.  We phone our peers serving dinner on Sunday evening to make sure we have what’s needed for breakfast.  Our breakfast grocery donor, Gary Reardon, had made his monthly delivery before our arrival; 60 eggs and three big bags of frozen tater tots were in the refrigerator along with sliced ham and shredded cheese that were already there.  My partner that morning, Nelson Nussbaum, brought a gallon of orange juice.

Gary has been buying breakfast fixin’s for years.  But this year brought a new twist.  His daughter Emily teaches English at Newark High School. When local homelessness and her dad’s donations of eggs and such came up in a classroom discussion, a young man who raises chickens and sells eggs, FFA* member Brayden Kocourek, took a keen interest.

“Where does your dad buy eggs?” Brayden asked Emily.

“Wherever he can get them at a decent price.”

“Well, I could sell him the eggs and knock a dollar a dozen off what I usually charge.  I’d like to help the homeless, too.”

Emily explained Brayden’s idea to her dad. Getting fresh farm eggs, supporting a young man’s business, and encouraging philanthropy among young people?  It was a no-brainer YES.  And so, the circle of giving widened this year.

Sixty has been the magic egg number for years.  At times, we have eggs left over, but the shelter always uses them later.  However, when we showed up that Monday morning, the population at the shelter was 66.  We were surprised to have that many people so early in the season.  If we cooked two eggs each for even half that number of residents, it would take 66 eggs.  

Some people just have coffee and don’t eat breakfast.  Others don’t want to tie into a big breakfast and instead opt for fruit, a muffin, or a bowl of cereal. Feeding seventy percent of the residents a hot breakfast that includes eggs is a pretty good rule of thumb.  So, to be safe, Nelson made a run to Handy Foods and bought a few dozen more. 

We got to the shelter at 6:00 a.m. and began getting ready in a kitchen we’d never been to before.  Everything was in a different drawer or cupboard.  We spent a lot of time finding things.  An electric stove replaced the gas range.  It took a while to get organized.  My old omelet pan disappeared, but a new one took its place.  We slowly got the hang of it.

We found the baking sheets, got the tater tots in the oven, put the ham in a crock pot, and located cheese for the omelets.  We cook eggs to order, but we promote cheese omelets because they’re well-received and quickly made.  Breakfast was underway.  Nelson took the orders, and I manned the stove.

The coils on the burner of that old electric stove smoked.  I don’t know if someone spilled grease on them or what, but it was annoying.  The burner that best fit the omelet pan and was handy to the supplies was not only smoky but badly tilted.  I was able to level it up by sliding a table knife under the front coil.  You have to adjust.

I  cooked four omelets on that smoky burner before the alarm went off.  It was pretty loud for a smoke alarm.  I looked for a round white disc on the ceiling or wall, but couldn’t find it.  Usually, when that happens, I take something flat and fan the air under the sensor, and it goes off. 

This was a different deal.  It was a hard-wired, full-fledged fire alarm system.  Staff came into the kitchen and announced they were evacuating the building.   6:45 a.m., and everybody had to go outside.  The fire department would soon be on its way.  Oh boy.

Nelson and I joined the stream of people coming from the old Y gym, now divided into men’s and women’s dorms.  Most had been roused from sleep and looked dazed.  Many were wearing pajamas and socks.  We stood on the sidewalk and the berm at the corner of Jackson and Paul.  The air was cool and the sky cloudy.

In all the years we have volunteered at the shelter, I’d never seen the whole group in one place at one time.  Sixty-six residents plus staff and volunteers.  No one was really worried about a fire.  Nelson and I were probably the only people who had seen smoke, and we knew exactly where it came from.

The staff did a great job of managing the evacuation.  A young staff member took charge, explained that the fire department would be coming to check out the building, and would decide when we reentered.  He took roll call to make sure everyone was out.  When he butchered their names, he laughed at himself, and the crowd laughed too.  Everyone was very accepting of the situation.  I looked around at us.

I counted seven babies in their parents’ arms with blankets wrapped around them.  A double stroller held two toddlers.  There were people of all ages, shapes, and sizes.  I’m 74 and was likely among the oldest in the crowd. I ended up standing next to another older man who walked slowly with a walker.  I looked down at his feet, and he was barefoot.   I asked the man if I could get him a chair.  He declined.

“I’m going to sit on that little concrete post over there.  It’s my favorite.  I got one with my initial on it.” 

There were four concrete posts about three feet high, probably installed as bollards to protect the former west-facing workout room with all the windows from a runaway car on that corner.  It’s now the dining room.  Each post has a letter on it.  It looked as if someone had written on the top of each post with a nail when the cement was wet.  Y-M-C-A.

I walked over with him.  He backed up carefully and lowered himself onto the M.  I sat next to him on the C. 

“So, what’s the M stand for, sir?’

“Marvin.  Nice to meet you.”

He stuck out his hand, and I shook it.

“I’m Dave.  Does this mean if some guy named Charley wants my seat, I gotta move?”

Marvin laughed.

“No.  Once you sit down, nobody knows.”

He looked at me a little closer.

“When did you get in?  I haven’t seen you before.”

“My partner and I are here cooking breakfast.  I’m a volunteer.”

“Yeah?  What’s on the menu?”

“Eggs how you like them with ham and potatoes.”

“Sounds good. Thanks for coming.”

A fire truck with flashing lights was coming East on Jackson Street, and another approached down Paul Street.  Firemen in full gear got out of their trucks, put their hats on, and walked towards the building.  As they came through the crowd, I stopped one and explained to one of them that I was cooking eggs, the stove was smoking, and that probably caused the alarm.  He looked at me blankly and went on in.  I sat back down next to Marvin.  I don’t usually talk to residents about their problems, but Marvin seemed different.

“What brings you here, Marvin?”

“Oh, you know.  Circumstances.  My legs started going bad, and I couldn’t work anymore.   When money got tight, I gave up my place and moved in with my girlfriend.  That worked for a while, but her daughter and two kids got kicked out of where they were living and needed a place.  She doesn’t like me much.  Thinks I take advantage of her mama.  I didn’t want no trouble, so as soon as she moved in, I left.  One thing led to another, and here I am.”

“What do you plan to do next?”

“The staff here are talking about me taking my social security.  But I’m only 63.  I always figured I’d go till 65, get the most I could, but I don’t know.  I’m what they call ‘a guy with limited options.’  No kids, no family to speak of.  What I really want is a job.  But I don’t whose going to hire me with this damn thing.” 

He banged a fist on his walker.  I just listened.  The staff at PADS will help him decide what’s next.

“But hey, sounds like I got a hot breakfast coming.  Could be worse.”

As he said that, it started to sprinkle.  Mothers with babes in arms pulled up the blankets to cover their heads.  The Mom with her toddlers in the stroller pulled the collapsible roof out to keep them dry.  The adults just kind of took it.

Soon the rain stopped, the firemen gave us the all clear, and we went back into the building.  The staff member who took roll call came into the kitchen.  We opened a window and cracked an outside door near the stove for better ventilation.

The evacuation changed our routine.  Usually, people get up slowly and eat breakfast over a couple of hours. But because of the evacuation, everyone was up and wanted breakfast at once.  It got a little frantic.  But Nelson kept everything cool.  People ordered, then leaned up against a wall in the hall and waited calmly for their orders to be filled. In about an hour and a half, we had everyone who wanted a hot breakfast fed.

After the “fire”, Nelson and I  filled 32 more orders of eggs for a total of 36.  Somewhere along the line, I ran out of yellow cheese for the omelets, scrounged up a bag of shredded Mozzarella and a shaker of Parmesan, and finished off making cheese omelets with those.  They were a hit.  I may start with them in November.

Marvin ordered his eggs sunny side up, and I threw in an extra one.  I hope he settles on a plan that results in him finding a home, and I don’t see him again in November.  Because there but for the grace of God go you and me.  Count your blessings and pray for Marvin, the babies, their parents, and all of us who stand together in the rain as one with our futures before us.

 

*FFA – Future Farmers of America  

June’s First Year of School

I visited June’s school before she finished her first year at the end of May.  June is my four-year-old granddaughter. Although June would correct me and say four and a half!

June attended Humboldt Park Montessori School in Chicago. On Generations Day, they invited one person from an older generation to spend the morning with each student. My wife visited earlier in the year, so it was my turn.  The students were instructed to teach their guests how to complete tasks by doing some with them. 

June was assigned to teach me Collage, Puzzles, and Wash the Baby.  June took her role as a teacher seriously. 

We began with Wash the Baby.  June brought a plastic basin covered with a towel from a shelf nearby to a very low table.  I managed to sit on one of two tiny chairs.

Under the towel was a fully dressed baby doll, a small pail for water, a brush, and a bar of soap. 

“OK, Papa, I’ll get water from the sink, and you undress the baby.”

I did as told and put the clothes in a pile on the table with the naked baby doll on top of them.  So far, so good.  June returned with the water but stopped before pouring it into the basin.

“I’ll pour the water in the tub, but you put the baby in and do the washing. Do you know the most important part of Wash the Baby?”

I had ideas but kept them to myself.  

“No.”

“DON’T GET SOAP IN THE BABY’S EYES!”

June wasn’t messing around.  I washed the baby under June’s watchful gaze.

“Now, Papa, you dry the baby while I empty the bathtub.”

June left, and I toweled off the baby.  We both dressed her.  June folded the towel and covered the basin just as it had been when we got it.

“What’s next June?”

“Papa, it’s not over.  If we don’t put the baby back on the shelf, we’re not done.” 

June put the basin back.  It was a side of June I hadn’t seen. Strict with the rules.

Next, we did the Collage.  June brought a tray with construction paper, a pot of glue with a brush, small pieces of colored tissue paper, and bits of dried flowers.  June brushed lots more glue onto the construction paper than I would have.  I wanted to scrape some off but didn’t.  We were in this together after all. 

“What’s next, June?  Do we make a picture?  Like a tree or something?”

“No, Papa.  We just make it pretty.”

June dropped bits of tissue paper randomly, possibly in vague rows, and I sprinkled dried flowers somewhere in between.  When we were done, it really was pretty.  June put it on a wire rack with clothespins to dry.  I put the materials back on the tray and put it on the shelf.  I was catching on.

We finished with Puzzles in no time. June and I do a lot of puzzles together.

“These puzzles are hard, Papa.  Know why?  All the pieces are the same color.  You gotta look for shapes that fit together.” 

The puzzles weren’t too difficult.  We finished our three projects with time to spare.

June suggested we read books.  We went to a corner with racks of books, a padded mat, and bean bag chairs.  We drew a crowd.  There we met students who didn’t have grown-ups who could come to school with them.  June picked out books, and those kids gathered around us.  June introduced me. 

“This is my friend Tanya.”

Tanya got close and looked me in the eye.  I bumped fists with her.

“Are you Papa?”

“Yes. June talks to me about you.”

Tanya gave me a big smile.

“Where’s Oliver? June talks  about Oliver, too.”

“He’s sick and had to stay home,” Tanya said. “He’s going to be mad.  Oliver's Gramma was coming with him.”

After four books, our reading activity petered out. One student pulled another down to the mat.  Someone else joined the pile. There was chasing, rolling around, and a lot of laughing.

The teacher, who quietly observed and helped only when needed, let them play awhile.  That ended when she brought out snacks.  The kids helped themselves and brought snacks to the grown-ups.  After that, my time at school was over.

I learned some concepts about Montessori at our daycare center when I worked at YSB, but I’d never seen a pure Montessori school in action till that day. I was impressed.  June learned a lot in her first year of school, but more importantly, she discovered she could learn on her own. I can’t wait till she’s five.    

A Day in Court

 For Antonio, long a friend of our son and our family, April 23, 2025, was not a normal day. He was scheduled to appear in federal court at the Dirksen building, 77 W. Jackson, downtown Chicago.

Antonio is 49.  He was born in Barquisimeto, one of Venezuela’s oldest cities, but spent most of his life in Maracaibo, center of the country’s oil industry. 

Hugo Chavez, who became president of Venezuela in 1999, reorganized that industry, boosted oil prices along with his OPEC partners, and used the profits to fund food subsidies, establish educational opportunities, and create health care programs for all Venezuelans. Under Chavez, unemployment and poverty were cut in half, and per capita income more than doubled between 2001 and 2013.

 That ended in 2013 with the global decline of oil prices and the early death of Chavez, of cancer, at age 58.  During the Chavez years, corruption, conflict between branches of government, monetary blunders, and poor policies across the board revealed the true face of the government in Venezuela, one of the most naturally rich nations on the American continent.

His successor, Nicholas Maduro, continued previously unrestrained spending levels despite huge drops in revenue.  That created a giant budget deficit that sent the country into a downward economic spiral.  In 2014, Venezuelans suffered food shortages and a scarcity of basic goods. 

In response to high inflation, a national electricity crisis, and an unprecedented increase in crime Maduro censored the media.  Corruption increased among government officials.  Added to those woes, rampant human rights violations became apparent to all throughout Venezuela.

Protests, led by university students, were supported by civil organizations and opposition political parties. Together they demanded changes to the political-economic model, the resignation of Maduro, and new elections. 

Thousands of Venezuelans joined the protests.  Over a three-month period of violent demonstrations, 43 people were killed.  Recession raged.  Inflation surpassed 63%.  Maduro’s government was forced to make huge cuts in public spending.  Average citizens struggled to access food and medicine.

Faced with the national crisis of 2015, Maduro’s government suffered an overwhelming defeat in the 2016 legislative elections.  The president’s opponents gained more than 75% of Venezuela’s national Congressional seats in 2016.  Such a majority would have allowed Venezuela’s National Congress to approve more sensible laws, enact constitutional reforms, and replace members of other public bodies such as the Supreme Court and the National Electoral Council. 

But before they were seated, rather than following the will of the voters, Maduro installed an alternative National Constituent Assembly in 2017 with the objective of usurping the functions of the National Congress.  A Supreme Court handpicked by Maduro legally validated his flagrant violation of the will of the Venezuelan people. 

Mass protests exploded all over Venezuela, lasted for months, and resulted in violent clashes with riot police.  Another 66 demonstrators were killed.

After the imposition of the sham National Constituent Assembly in 2017, neighboring Latin American countries as well as the U.S., Canada, and Spain refused to recognize Maduro’s newly installed assembly. In the presidential election held early in 2018, Maduro claimed victory despite readily apparent and widespread fraud. 

The U.S. decried his election as unfair and anti-democratic before voting even took place and applied crippling economic sanctions preventing Venezuela from trading with traditional partners.  Canada, the EU, Mexico, Panama, and Switzerland joined in.  Those sanctions remain in place today.

By November 8^th of 2017, the United Nations Relief Agency announced that over 3 million people had fled Venezuela due to massive shortages of food and medicine, along with political persecution of those perceived as the opposition.  Millions more Venezuelans have since left their homeland. 

Antonio was among the Venezuelans who sought haven early.  He came to the U.S. in 2018 and made his way to Chicago, where he applied for and was granted asylum. 

Antonio’s goals when arriving in Chicago were simple: find work, live cheaply, and help his family back in Venezuela.  He was no stranger to hard work, but his inability to speak English limited his opportunities.

Like many educated but non-English speaking immigrants, Antonino put his former career on hold and took whatever jobs were available.  I’m sure to miss some of the jobs he has held, but here goes:   Amazon warehouse, Uber driver, Door Dash, quality control at a suburban food plant, driving a truck route restocking spices at Mexican grocery stores (where his Spanish was an asset).  He worked constantly, often holding more than one job. Antonio put himself on a fast track to achieving legal status.  After gaining refugee status came a work permit, a driver’s license, and his green card (legal permanent residency). Green card holders must prove themselves worthy of keeping their status.  Antonio‘s approach was simple.  Work hard and stay out of trouble.

Antonio was helped by an affable personality and a network of good friends.  He settled in the Pilsen neighborhood where he met my son, who is fluent in Spanish. They have been close friends ever since.

Antonio networked with Venezuelans all over Chicago and beyond, sharing information and sharing strategies for success in a new country. 

As a legal resident, Antonio began helping family and friends in earnest.  President Biden created the Humanitarian Parole program for certain residents of Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela in 2023.  It was a new path to legal immigration that required an American citizen sponsor and considerable scrutiny prior to arrival.  This as opposed to blind admittance after immigrants crossing our border. 

On the first day applications were to be accepted, Antonio and I were at a laptop on my daughter’s dining room table in Chicago, applying for his niece and nephew, both in their late teens, to be part of that process.  I sponsored them because I trusted Antonio to keep them safe and ensure they became assets, not liabilities, to the U.S..

Once their applications were received and accepted, they were vetted online by Department of Homeland Security officials.  Antonio’s niece passed the online screening and was approved for an individual interview.  She traveled to Colombia (the U.S. Embassy in Caracas is long closed) to sit for an interview with the U.S. State Department.  She was approved. 

Being approved for Humanitarian Parole meant she could enter the U.S. legally and avoid the danger and expense of an overland trek to the border, putting herself at the mercy of coyotes, essentially human traffickers.  Instead, she flew directly to O’Hare, passed through immigration, and was waiting when Antonio and I arrived at O’Hare to pick her up.  Her uncle had a job lined up for her immediately.  It was the kind of legal immigration many Americans demand.  Why don’t we do that for more immigrants?

His nephew was not so fortunate. He was screened out of the process.  No reason was given.  He remains in Venezuela.

Besides helping his family, Antonio helped others. I often tell Antonio he should become a social worker.  In Chicago, he ran into a recently arrived friend from his community in Venezuela and became a mentor and guide for him.  Antonio provided him housing at the beginning and helped him find his first job, where he remains, now promoted to a management position.

Like Antonio, he worked constantly and lived cheaply, saving his money to finance the journey of his wife and two children to the U.S..  Humanitarian Parole was not yet available to them.  They were forced to make the difficult overland trek.  Having arrived three years ago, they gained Temporary Protective Status (TPS) and await asylum hearings.  Our new President revoked their TPS status, along with 350,000 other Venezuelans. That question is now tied up in our courts. 

They seem unlikely targets of deportation. Both parents work, they rent their own apartment, and their children are flourishing in school. Yet they are at risk deportation every hour of every day.

Early on I asked Antonnio why it was so important for him to help others immigrate, to leave Venezuela for a new life.  To him it is simple.

“They have no future there.  Venezuela is such a different place now than when I grew up.  I had access to schools, my parents had a stable income, I was able to get an education and a good job.  That’s all gone.  It will be years, decades more than likely, before Venezuela can provide their citizens with any kind of a future.  Or even the promise of a future.  They can’t wait that long.  Here they have a chance.”

Antonio was determined to become a green card holder, a permanent legal resident, and he succeeded.  With that in hand, he was able to sponsor his 19-year-old daughter to join him in America.  She lives with him now, working and seeking to further her education. 

Legal permanent residents must wait five years and a day from the date of asylum or refugee approval, to apply for citizenship.  Antonio applied for citizenship on that day.  His biggest worry was the citizenship exam, given completely in English.  He passed.  That is why he was scheduled to appear in federal court.  He asked that my wife and I be present with him.  We agreed right away.

The courtroom on the 25^th floor of the Dirksen Center was crowded.  A Bailiff entered and told us to rise.  Magistrate Judge Jeffrery Gilbert, appointed to the Federal Bench on May 7, 2010, representing the Northern District of Illinois, walked into the room.

We were told to be seated.  The Clerk of the Court presented the judge with a petition containing a list of applicants who had been approved for naturalization along with all necessary forms and documents.  She asked for approval of the petition and Judge Gilbert granted it, subject to each applicant taking the oath of allegiance. 

But before administering the oath, Judge Gilbert gave remarks to the candidates awaiting citizenship.   Here are some highlights.

“As a group you are 101 individuals from 39 separate countries.  Alphabetically you range from Albanians to Yemenis, no Z countries today.

You will become known as naturalized citizens, with all the rights and responsibilities of American born citizens, but I prefer another term.  I consider you ‘citizens by choice.’  I was born an American and remain so.  But you chose to be Americans.  You could have chosen to be a citizen of another country, but you chose America.  It’s a subtle but distinct difference.

All of you have a story of seeking arrival, as does almost every American family, unless they are Native American or were brought to this country against their will.  I want to share my family arrival story with you.

My grandfather was a tailor in a small village in Eastern Europe.  One day he walked some distance to a larger town to buy supplies for his shop.  As he returned, he saw smoke and as he got closer realized his village was engulfed by fire.

His house was destroyed but his wife and their son were spared.  They knew the fire in their village had been set by neighbors of a different religion, and that they had to flee.  They left with nothing.  It took them two years of hiding and travel across Europe, stopping to earn money, but finally they reached Europe’s western shore where they boarded a ship for New York.  They passed through Ellis Island in New York Harbor.  And now that man’s grandson, me, is a Federal Judge.

It is not an uncommon story.  Americans by choice are credited with extraordinary achievements.  I consider them to be the rocket fuel which powers America’s success.
Are you aware that some years ago 150 of the leaders of the Fortune 500 companies in United States were citizens by choice?  By your presence here you have proved your persistence, your independence, and your tenacity.  May you go on to do great things.  I have no doubt many of you will.  I want to be the first to thank you for choosing our country.  Please participate fully as a citizen, make your voice heard, and vote.  You can register today. 

Well, you’ve listened long enough to me.  Let’s get down to business.  Please repeat after me, inserting your own name at the beginning after the word I.”     

"I, _______________, hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

And with that, 101 people from 39 countries become Americans.

When you think of immigrants, perhaps Venezuelans in particular, you may think of them as opportunists who come to our country to take advantage of our benefits.  You may even think of them as a threat to your safety, as they are now depicted, as gang members, criminals who endanger our country’s safety well-being. 

You have no doubt viewed video of Venezuelans shackled, their heads shaved, pushed down and doubled over between two prison guards, being forced into an El Salvadoran prison.  It’s an image we have all seen repeatedly and can’t forget.  I see it as a politically concocted caricature of the Venezuelans I’ve come to know.

I have another image. I think of Antonio. I think of his niece, his daughter, and his acquaintances. I wish you could know them. You would feel fortunate, as we do, to have them as neighbors and friends.

Because of my interaction with them I know they will add to, not take away from, the well-being of our country. Just as the U.S.A. was changed for the better by that first immigrant in Judge Gilbert’s family, and by your immigrant ancestors and mine, the future of our country now belongs to our children, and the new immigrants that join them.  It’s the story of our country.  Rather than fear the future, let’s ensure that story continues.

Making Pulled Pork

  

A friend who shares original poems with me wrote about a pork butt, in free verse, which prompted me to ask him if he makes pulled pork.  He said no.

Pork butts and pulled pork go together like peas and carrots, and pulled pork is deceptively easy to make.  I do it all the time for people who need meals delivered, for big get-togethers, or just for my wife and me. It freezes nicely, keeps well, and people like it.  I feel better when I have some in the house.

I told my poet friend I could send him my pulled pork recipe if he’d like.  He responded with enthusiasm.  And when I still hadn’t sent it days later, he reminded me.  Sometimes you shoot off your mouth without thinking. Truth is, I don’t have a pulled pork recipe. I just make it. Could be the pulled pork is different every time, but the final product doesn’t seem to be.  

I tend to think everything is simple but it’s not.  After much thought I decided rather than writing down a list of ingredients in made-up amounts, followed by a step-by-step process, the kind of recipe your mom wrote on an index card and kept in a box, I should write it as a blog. I apologize in advance to my friend the poet. There’s background to consider. And nuance.  Everybody likes a little nuance, don’t they?

For starters, pork butts aren’t butts at all. They are cut from the shoulder of a pig.  The actual butt, or hindquarters of a pig, are cured and made into hams.  On a side note, if you see a small cut of pork called a picnic ham being sold in your favorite store know that it is a chunk of brined and cured pork shoulder extending possibly to the front leg.  Meat cuts are named with marketing in mind.  The reality is that when you buy a 7-9 pound pork butt, you’re buying a pig shoulder.

You’ll know that for certain after you bake it at a low temp overnight when it is fall off the bone tender, and you see a chunk of smooth bone poking up from the fat end of the butt.  That bone is the pig’s shoulder blade.  Pull it.  It comes out easy.  But I’m ahead of myself, talking about a fully cooked butt.  Let’s start at the beginning, with the pot.

I was once driving through Tennessee on a road trip and found a factory second kind of place selling imperfect Lodge cast iron cookware.  I may have been close to South Pittsburgh, Tennessee where Lodge cookware is made.  Doesn’t matter.  I bought a Lodge 5-quart cast iron Dutch oven.  If it was flawed, I couldn’t tell.  I’m glad I bought it because I use it a lot.  It’s my "go to" pot for baking a whole chicken, and I don’t make pulled pork in anything else. 

I don’t want to get all snobby here.  Any oven-safe cookware will probably do, I just think cast iron works best.  You could probably cook pulled pork in the big roaster made of thin steel you cook a turkey in.  You know the one with a speckled blue finish?  It’s not as thick or heavy.  My experience with cast iron has been good but in the end, anything big enough with a good lid will do.

I am challenged to find pork butts small enough for my 5-quart pot.  Butts are amazingly uniform in weight.  Seems like they’re all about 9 pounds.  A nine-pound butt threatens to take up all the room needed for the liquid that cooks out of the butt and collects in my pot.  If you’re cooking a big butt, and it is crammed with pork butt and ingredients, put a cookie sheet under it to be safe.  You might avoid an all-out emergency involving smoke alarms and opening all the doors and windows downstairs.  You get the idea.  Now on to the butt itself.

I trim some but not all the fat off the butt. If you’re queasy about fat, this may not be the dish for you.  One side of the pork butt is covered with a solid sheet of white fat.  I remove the thickest parts of that fat blanket.  I suppose you could take all the outside fat off because there’s lots more fat running throughout the pork butt you can’t get to.  I know that’s vague but use your own judgement. 

After trimming some fat, I let my butt sit on the counter to warm up and dry off before I start getting it ready for the oven.  First, I coat the butt with olive oil, then salt it well with kosher salt.  I’m sorry, I have no idea how much salt I use.  Maybe a big handful or more.  Be generous, a pork butt is a big chunk of meat.  You’re just salting the outside of it.  I use a lot of salt and have never been told my pulled pork was too salty.

If you need to prep your pork butt a long while before cooking it, like prep in the morning before cooking it at night, you can put the salted pork uncovered on a plate in the fridge and take it out later to warm up.  It’ll dry out well that way.  You need your butt dry when you put on the rub. 

I wish I could tell you more about the rub.  It’s the most vague part of this story.  But then again, why should I assume I know the kind and amount of spices you like?  The goal is to have enough powdered spice to cover the whole outside surface of a dry salted pork butt.  The proportions?  The ingredients?  All I can do is tell you what I do. And so far, I’ve never screwed this up.

I go to the cupboard and get the kind of bowl I eat dry cereal or oatmeal from.  You have a stack of those somewhere. I want to end up with just a little more than half the dry spice in the bowl as compared to a portion of Cheerios I would eat for breakfast.  I don’t measure the amounts.  Here’s what I can tell you though. 

The biggest part of my spice mix is garlic powder.  I start with that.  Not garlic salt, mind you, the powder.  On top of that, I put powdered red pepper of some kind.  I like using powdered Ancho chili mixed with a smaller amount of cayenne.  I add about the same amount of powdered black pepper.  I also put in some Chipotle powder. 

When my granddaughter June was a baby, I was making pulled pork at an Air B&B in Wicker Park in Chicago.  From a fully stocked spice drawer in someone else’s kitchen, I discovered two spices called Harissa and Zaatar.  They are Middle Eastern spice blends. Think of them as you would the chili powder Americans put into Super Bowl chili.  Zaatar has sumac in it which makes it distinctive.  I think it adds a lot to the pulled pork.  I use plenty of both in my spice bowl.

So, with your half a cereal bowl of spices, thrown together by instinct, you’re ready to apply the rub.  Stir the dried spices well.  Put your butt on a big cutting board and rub every inch of it with the spice mixture.  Hold the butt on its side and blot the edges with the spices that fell off.  Plop it in your cooking pot.  Then scrape together the spices strewn about on the cutting board and counter and throw them in there too.

Don’t skip the vegetables.  I cut two or three poblano peppers in half, take out the seeds and stems, and put those in the space between the pork and the side of the pot.  You can use any kind of peppers you like, although bell peppers don’t add much.  Add a serrano or two if you’re brave.   

I cut two or three yellow onions in half and do the same thing, along with some garlic cloves.  I’ve done carrots too, but they’re not as important as fresh peppers and onions.  There is only room for so many vegetables.  The veggies cook up so soft that when you mash the contents of your pot, the pork and the veggies meld together.  The veggies disappear but their flavor and texture are part of the dish.

Here's the best part.  After you’ve done all that, simply put the lid on the pot and put your butt into a preheated 225 oven (on a cookie sheet to be safe) shut the door, and don’t open it again for 12 hours.  I usually start mine in the evening.  If I get it in the oven at 7:00 p.m. I wake up to the smell of it at 7:00 a.m. and it’s ready for the last steps.  I’m usually up anyway. But if you happen to take it out a little early or let it go a bit longer don’t worry about it. 

After taking it from the oven I leave the Dutch oven on top of the stove with the lid on and have a cup of coffee. Then I take the lid off and have another one.  With two big spoons, one on each side, I then transfer the whole butt from the pot to a bigger shallow pan.   I scoop the veggies out with a slotted spoon and put them in the pan with the pork. 

To finish off this dish I switch to two utensils; a big fork and a simple potato masher.  Pull that shoulder blade out of the butt and push the potato masher straight down into the middle of the whole thing.  It will probably moosh right through the meat and touch the bottom of the pan.  Taste it.  It’s beautifully soft slow-cooked spicy pork. 

Keep mashing.  Your vegetables will disappear into the pork.  If you have some leaner butt chunks you may need to separate the grain of the pork, pulling it apart with the fork, but if it’s cooked right pulling the pork is not a big deal. I find the potato masher does most all the work.

The last steps are simple.  Put some pulled pork on a slice of bread, eat it like a taco, and see how it tastes.  It’s a good time to add one of your spices if you want a particular taste to stand out more.  All up to you.

Just two things left.  If you are going for a more commercial tasting pulled pork, add a bottle (or more) of barbeque sauce along with liquid left in the pot your butt was cooked in.  It’s good without it but your guests may think it’s better with the BBQ sauce.  That’s probably what they are accustomed to.

Then there is the liquid left in the cooking pot.  A lot but not all the liquid left behind is grease, and we’ve been taught that grease is bad for us. And I’m sure it is. But you don’t eat pulled pork every day.  Chances are you don’t eat it often at all. 

The hidden truth about grease, or any kind of fat, is that it makes food taste really good.   To get your pulled pork to the texture you want; first add the barbeque sauce (if using it) and then some (or all) the liquid from the pot. I’ve done it both ways. Don’t skimp. Live a little.

My kids talk to me about food a lot. My daughter was a food science major, and my son is a great cook like his sister. They’ve been trying to avoid high fructose corn syrup, or any corn syrup really, for years. I’ve gone along. They’re smart kids. By checking sauce ingredients, I’ve found a barbeque sauce sweetened with cane sugar called Montgomery Inn.  Not Montgomery, Alabama but a renowned BBQ joint in Montgomery, Ohio.  I like it.  Use as much of any kind of sauce as you like. It’s important to make this creation your own. 

And then serve it on a quality bun while it’s hot.  Put some in the fridge for later. Freeze some. Share it with friends.  A whole pork butt makes a big bunch of pulled pork. Enjoy it.

And don’t worry about the specific amount of anything.  It’ll turn out fine.