A Chance to be Cool

    For once I felt like I was part of the “in” crowd. I had been invited to a party at the cool kids house. In this case, the cool kids were Jim and Cherie. I’m using the term “kids” somewhat loosely since most of the guests, including yours truly, were in their 50s, 60s and maybe beyond. You know that warm, fuzzy feeling you get when the invite comes your way. My inner kid was beaming. The occasion was the aptly named “pestopalooza”. I guess that means you can put “palooza” after almost anything these days and it makes it into some kind of grand extravaganza. I had heard of this celebration of all things pesto in the past, but for some reason, the stars had never aligned properly to allow me to attend. Luckily for me, Jim and Cherie live a mere 5 minute bike ride from my house. The invite came with a promise of sending me home with a jar of pesto, so how could I say no. I even had heard rumors about the possibility of basil-infused desserts, which sounded exotic. I wasn’t too sure I would like those but, hell, I’ll try almost anything food related at least once.

    The weather was not going to be a factor as this particular Vermont fall was serving up day after day of near perfect temperatures and azure skies with wisps of clouds to ensure killer sunsets. Earlier that day, the warmth had encouraged wasps around our house into a kind of frenzy and while we were finishing up a painting project accessed from a roof, they took to buzzing close to my head like miniature alien spacecraft on sinister black wings. If I ignored them, they mostly went about their business (whatever that was) and let me continue with my painting. After cleaning up from the painting project, I dressed in my very casual (and typical) Vermont outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. As soon as the sun started going behind the hills to the west, the temperature started to drop. I threw a fleece into the bag on my bike in case it got really cool. I wasn’t sure if this was a fully indoor or outdoor event or some kind of hybrid, free flowing from the house to the back yard. 

    Since I know Jim and Cherie, I wasn’t nervous but you know how it is when you head over to the cool kids house. You don’t want to make a social gaff that lands you in the undesirables corner for an undetermined amount of time until you get back into good graces. I had some guesses about who might be there since we live in a small neighborhood where I know most of the residents. Jim has recently joined the ranks of the retired (good choice Jim, I don’t think you’ll regret it) and Cherie teaches and makes art. I figured there might be some artsy types at the party and that was OK with me. 

    The invite said that drinks started at 5 PM (BYOB) and I showed up at a fashionably late 5:30 with a single can of beer in tow. I mean, this wasn’t like those high school days of bad keg beer and bottles of liquor stolen from Mom and Dad’s cupboard. I knew that Jim was known to partake not only in basil but in another leafy green plant that grows buds and I’m totally cool with that. But I had my days with Mary Jane and, at least for now, she and I have parted ways. 

    I thought about my trip to their house the day before. I had mistakenly put the event on my calendar for Saturday when it was actually set for Sunday (could have been a major faux pas). I swung by on Saturday to let Jim know I wouldn’t be able to help with the pesto manufacturing process but would be by later for dinner. He was sitting on the steps with a large bowl full of green buds. I had to examine it closely to identify their variety and recognized them as basil. If they had been that other cash crop, it would seem that Jim was really getting ready to party! Jim gently corrected me on the date and I admitted to my mix-up. When in doubt, admit fallibility. Don’t try to fake your way out of one of these situations, it will always come back to bite you. 

    I put aside my musings about the day before and entered the kitchen to see Jim busy with several pots of water heating up on the stove and alternating between checking them and slicing up fresh tomatoes and mozzarella for a salad (surely there would be some basil added to that as well). I recognized a couple of neighbors but other guests only seemed vaguely familiar. It’s a small town, so recognizing people is not too surprising. The first person I get introduced to is named Jonathan. So, with me being there, this was at least a two-Jonathan party and who could ask for better than that? My friend Larry was there, getting button-holed about his legislative work. Poor guy never gets a break. He put on a brave face and dove right into the issue. I guess if you’re drinking a pint of double IPA, almost anything is tolerable. 

    I meandered outside to grab some chips, veggies and some of Jim’s famous basil dip. There was already a fire going in the middle of a circle of chairs. Guests were either sitting or standing around it balancing plates and drinks as they chatted. The mosquitoes were making a last ditch end of season effort to siphon off as much human blood as possible. Thankfully, smoke from the fire was doing a decent job of keeping them at bay. I hadn’t brought a hat, so my bald head made for a great target. Cherie was at the grill cooking a large pile of sausages to go with the pesto pasta under Jim’s watch. Dinner was imminent. After a long day of climbing in and out the third floor window onto our roof, dodging wasps, and painting, my stomach was growling. 

    Dinner was buffet style and once the food was set out the kitchen became a chaotic maelstrom of plates, silverware and food getting piled up. There was an approximation of order as people served up salad, two different kinds of pasta and picked out their sausage. I sat at a large round table on the screen porch where our once a month poker group meets when the weather allows. I almost expected to see a deck of cards and felt a slight panic when I realized I hadn’t brought any pennies. I was introduced to people around the table and we talked about old Vermont houses and how we all came to be in this little central Vermont town. I guess I’m somewhat of an “old-timer” now. Not in Vermont terms, because I don’t come from 7 generations (or whatever the current metric is) of Vermont farmers living in the same town. Regardless, I still consider myself a Vermonter and have lived in Randolph for 29 years, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere.

    As the conversation evolved, I learned that Vermont is already seeing some climate and political migration. In one case, a couple had moved from the Shenandoah valley because they couldn’t stand the politics. I wasn’t sure exactly what they meant. I always pictured that place as a bastion of peace and tranquility. I was shocked as they described a local militia with the sole entry requirement of new members coming with their own AR-15 (yikes!). Then they shared the story of a Black Lives Matter march that had been buzzed by a pickup truck full of rifle carrying folks who didn’t seem too sympathetic to the cause. They had had enough and moved to Vermont. Good choice and now they got to take part in pestopalooza. 

    I learned that Jim and the other Jonathan are a couple of New Jersey jamokes. I guess I can excuse that since I was born in Manhattan. Vermonters like to look down on what they term “flatlanders”, but really, this is the darn 21st century folks. It’s going to take all types to keep Vermont from devolving to a museum and playground for second home owners. But I don’t want to digress into my own fears and apprehension about the future of our beloved state. I’m just glad I got to party with the cool kids! I’m even glad that I got to try a basil infused brownie (although I have to admit that when I saw a plate of brownies, I wondered what Jim might have infused it with).

    As the party wound down, the last remaining attendees gathered around the fire pit, watching the sparks float up to the sky. The crickets serenaded us and Homer (the cool dog at the party), weaved his way around our legs. The logs snapped as the flames warmed our faces. I didn’t ask, but I’m hoping that I can now be considered one of the cool kids and get invited to whatever palooza comes next.