Chapter Ten: The Killer Sound of a Rubboard

 To finish up this Mardi Gras season,  we need a parade and a street scene, albeit a virtual one.  So I am posting the last chapter of the first of the mystery novels Killer Rubboard, because it is here we meet Mambozo and everything ends in a party.  I know that's not the way that true life is, but I think it is the promise of a good Mardi Gras celebration done the right way.  So you probably don't remember the plot line of the original story , but just remember that there was a missing bead that Cayenne MacKenzie Del Roi was hired to find by Mary Dan, and chaos ensues.  But like each of the four mystery novels in the series, the last chapter always ends in a parade/love fest on Mardi Gras Day. And here we are on Mardi Gras day.  So make yourself a Frito pie and dig in.

Thanks everyone for revisiting some of the old stories.  Happy Mardi Gras to you all!

Mardi Gras, Homer Style

Well, the Krewe of Gambrinus has come a long way since this article was written in 2007.   Award winning, mind bending, gut busting hilarious and joyful-- they are a treasure to our state and to those of us who love Mardi Gras.  The Bossy Panty Twirlers are now know as the Bossy Panties, and while everyone is grounded this year from parades,  they are a sight to see when you get a chance in the future.  Karen Berger is working on an update, but for a blast from the past, here is what ran in Killer Rubboard back then, along with some spicy haiku added from  Jennifer King.  

Mardi Gras, Homer Style

By Karen Berger, with haiku by Jennifer King

Karen Berger, along with her husband Steve McCasland, own the Homer Brewing Company and are founding members of the Krewe of Gambrinus, A Social Aid and Pleasure Club. They have been instigating Mardi Gras celebrations in Homer since 1995 and have taught hundreds of Alaskans of the traditions and history of the Carnival Season. Jennifer King owns her own business Fit for A King in Homer, but more importantly, plays trombone in the Bossy Pants Brass Band.

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We are hunkered down With the low light of winter A delicious time Beads start to appear On people around Homer And downtown Fritz Creek Our Cosmic Hamlet Recognizes Mardi Gras In a special way………

 

It began with a mess-o-crawfish, a King Cake, a handful of beads and a homemade cardboard crown in 1995. The crawfish came from Breaux Bridge, Louisiana  proudly known as the "Crawfish Capital of the World". The King Cake was from Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune, Mississippi, a true "Party in a Box". Steve had brought the beads with him from New Orleans, via Dallas and Seattle, to Homer from a trip to the real thing circa 1986. Mind you, this is before the availability of the useful www and finding our sources required phone calls to old friends and kept business cards from past travels. With all of the authentic accoutrement we could find, we gathered around as big a table as we could create, covered it in newspaper and took to pinching tails and sucking heads. It was a first for everyone except Bob Folse (a Homer Coon-ass), Steve and me, and the blended mix of folks just didn't quite know what to do with those crustaceans. Luckily for them, a fisherman contributed some king crab legs and all were happily cracking something. We passed out single strands of beads for everyone and Steve gave his much shorter then story of the King Cake. We sliced it up and passed it around, no one really grasping what it would mean to "get the baby". Jerry Breese, a local bachelor, was crowned our first "King of Homer Mardi Gras." He proudly wore his poster board crown for the rest of the party and proceeded to take it to his home and store it reverently in an enclosed, dust-free china cabinet. (Something that most bachelors of Homer are not noted for having.)

 

Your bright eyes meet mine Strands of beads adorn your chest You who wear the crown

 

Mardi Gras 1996 came and King Jerry was working out of town and unable to return for his kingly duties as party host. I was given access to his house where I was able to retrieve the ensconced crown and Steve and I hosted the second party in our new, tiny house. This was the year Steve began making his world famous gumbo. (Sorry, no links to this recipe, but I'll tell you he stirs his roux for at least 4 hours. Yes, by hand, 4 hours and always uses ghee as the oil and only in a cast iron skillet. That's all I can share or he would have to kill me.) I, again, ordered the King Cake from Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune, Mississippi. The masses came and the momentum was picking up. Some even wore masks. The cake was cut and passed around, whereupon I found myself holding up the little pink baby. Now I'm Queen! (It's good to be queen.) Honestly, I had no idea where that baby was in the cake….remember it comes from Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune, Mississippi. They put the baby in it. That special King Cake Where the baby is hidden Who will get the slice? 1997 marked the first Winter Carnival parade for Homer Brewing Company and we created a float with a throne made of kegs and a cauldron of "brew" using dry ice. It sounded good, but didn't really work out too well. The yet-to-be-named krewe on the float were dressed in empty "Bioriginal Organic Malt" bags. We tossed candy root beer barrels to the crowd. It was a start. The party was held at the home of a friend that had moved to Homer and had held the dubious distinction of being an elephant handler at the New Orleans Zoo. He well  understood Mardi Gras. The King Cake from Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune, Mississippi, was cut and passed around. All of the pieces had been taken and still no baby. The last piece was passed to Steve … and he was crowned king. We were beginning to wonder what juju was that baby had that wouldn't allow us not to throw this party.

 

The cold time of year Feels right for making merry You and me and beer More music and BEER We can't get enough, I fear Grog, nog, and more cheer!

 

1998's party came and once again we were gathered back at our small house with even more joining the krewe. We've got our Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune, Mississippi King Cake and those folks were starting to remember me. Steve cut the cake and passed it around. The suspense of the baby is such a party highlight. There is a quiet that takes over while the baby is being sought out in those pieces of dough, fruit and colored icing. The discovery was made and it almost seemed like voodoo has more to do with it than juju as I came up with that plastic baby for the second time. It's good to be queen, but Double Queen????

Double queen you are No one could be more royal All down on one knee!

 

1999 brings the first parade with beads to toss. I had discovered School and Carnival Supply (www.school-carnival.com) in Gulfport, Mississippi. The helpful employee, Darlene, spent a great deal of phone time with me as there is still no www. and the first real parade throw was sent up for the Winter Carnival parade. The beads were a huge hit with the crowd. The float is starting to show more effort, embellishment and festooning in the afternoon that we spend out in the cold building it. Whatever the theme that the Chamber of Commerce announces for the Winter Carnival is somehow entwined into our float, but the theme of Mardi Gras is always the basis for our float. This was the year of "Homer is Where The Heart Is" as noted by the heart on the palm of my waving hand. The photo that was run on the front page of the Homer News and I really did feel like "Queen for a Week" as it is a weekly publication. We won "Honorable Mention" from the parade committee, probably due to the amount of beads we tossed and bribed the judges with.  I saw her bare breasts Today when the beads hit air I think she wants you

 

The party that year was once again at our tiny house, with folks spilling out around a bonfire. Who says you can't draw a crowd for a party on a Tuesday? Now I'm on my 4th cake from Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune Mississippi and by now they have all of my mailing information on file. Bless their hearts. It is this year I make the royal rule that if you have been king or queen once, you are exempt from taking a piece of King Cake. I make this rule knowing that something has to be done to get that baby out of our house, but I'm sure my ulterior motive is that I just don't want anyone to ever "out royal" me. This is my only way to rule the world! Remember the elephant handler from New Orleans? Yep, that's right. That baby wasn't going to let someone that didn't understand Mardi Gras and the importance of its traditions get it. It's a very smart baby. King Jim Pitt. We are all quite pleased with our new king and as you can see by his photo, he makes quite a statement as a human being. He really does appear kingly.  All is well until that summer and the hurricane force winds of change blow around King Jim and he has to move from the Cosmic Hamlet. He attempts to give me back that poster board crown, but I declare, which I can because I am double queen, he host a Lagniappe* (Lagniappe: an old Creole word for "something extra." ) party. It was held in our backyard in August. We call Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune, Mississippi, and order up another King Cake. Pass the cake and from King Jim the crown passes to now King Ray. Who is this King Ray you ask? King Ray just happens to be the hottest Cajun accordion player this side of Eunice, Louisiana, and is the "Ray" in the Ray-Jen Cajun Band. What did I tell you about that baby?

 

That baby must know It is that stuff, the music Makes us want to live Makes us want to go Go Go Go Go GO GO GO! But not anywhere Music and people Oh, and maybe food and drink Don't we have the life?

 

In honor of King Jim, he has since gone on to that great throne in the sky. Bless his soul. King Ray hosts the party and the krewe continues to grow. This is the first year poetic license was taken with the King Cake and it proves that the magic is in the baby, not the cake. The lucky piece is taken by Diana Carbonell. A woman with intense community spirit and the amazing ability to create anything out of paper mache. This is very important to float building. Oh, and she just happens to be a professional chef. Queen Di is a welcome addition to the Royal Family as we do like to eat.

 

Oh, it's the season To eat bowls of beans and rice Purple, green, and gold

 

The Winter Carnival floats begin to take on a greater and grandiose look with the use of the brewery's new space. We now have our own den*. (Den: A large warehouse where Carnival floats are built and stored.) 2001 is the year of "Back to the Future" and we build a parody of the movie, 2001, A Space Odyssey monolith. Ours is a "Mardilith" and Queen Di demonstrates her amazing paper mache creativity with our first Bouef Gras* graced the roof of the pulling van. (Bouef Gras: The fatted ox or bull that has, since the Middle Ages, been a part of pre-Lenten celebrations.) It symbolizes the last meat eaten before Lent. Queen Di adds a proper throne to the Royal Cache of goods and looks stunning waving her queenly wave from the rear of the float. Her photo graces the Anchorage Daily News and we again win Honorable Mention for our parade float efforts. The party that year was notable for its amount of great food, a new large house (finally), a raging bonfire and live Cajun music. The momentum of the essence of Mardi Gras is growing. Queen Di creates her own version of King Cake and Steve makes his ever growing longer speech about the royal responsibilities that come with the baby in the cake. "You can't just have the munchies and grab for the cake. You must be prepared to host a party, participate in the float building, ride on the float and generally represent our still un-named krewe in a royal manner. For this, you will be treated like the king or queen you are. Wishes and demands are generally met." The suspense builds and the moment is met with slight confusion. The baby slips about and is found lying helplessly on the floor by Tom Marakowitz, longtime employee of Homer Brewing Company. No one is quite sure exactly which piece of cake it fell from, but Tom's save crowns him King.   Sitting on my stool The bass strap slung on my neck My sharp eyes see all The parades are becoming centered around how many beads we can toss to the crowds and how well we can bribe the judges with "special throws". It seems to be working, no matter what the theme of the parade, we usually receive "Honorable Mention" from the judging committee which nets us a little cash from the nice sponsors at ACS and it goes into the bead fund. Believe me, it is drop in the bead bucket, but it helps.   Here comes that woman! The one who always wants beads The one with no bra! Tom's party is unusual in that he lives on Crossman Ridge here in Homer and it is an impressive hike into his neighborhood. His party is hosted by Regent Phillips, his "next door" neighbor. Due to the remote location and true winter weather most often experienced at Mardi Gras, the mix of the party leaned heavily to the male persuasion. Everyone knows that a party without a closer ratio of boys to girls can sometimes run amuck. Not that this one did that, but I felt that when it came time to cut the King Cake, again, from Paul's Pastry Shop in Picayune, Mississippi, a new double queen royal ruling needed to be enacted. Along with the above mentioned considerations, the party must be on the road system or at least a team of snow machines be made ready to shuttle the fainter of heart. With this in mind, and believe me the munchies were running rampant at this party, the pool of cake takers was thinner than the crowd that was gathered. There were a few scares, as the munchies overtook a few folks that did not live on the road system took a piece. Again, the baby knew just where to go. With the air as thick with suspense as it was with other things, the baby found its way to Rick "Freedom" Cline. This man was due for some kingly pleasures and privileges as he had spent the last year standing by his wife that battled and won against breast cancer. They were on the road to conception and during his reign Sharlene became pregnant with twins. She was a beautiful sight, full bellied, at next year's party at their lovely home on the road system.

 

My head is swimming With thoughts of you and of love On this Mardi Gras

 

The parade that year was noted with the addition of Bung and the name of our Krewe. We are now "The Krewe of Gambrinus, a Social Aid and Pleasure Club" and Bung is a character from the comic strip Wizard of Id. The term "bung" is also associated with a beer keg as it is the hole in the side of the keg that is used to gain entry into the vessel. Bung is made to look like the comic character with his very large nose and pointy hat. Two hands are made, one that looks like its tossing beads and the other is the famous flag inspired "peace sign" hand. Again, made by the paper mache talented Queen Di. This was 2002 and we were a country at war. We again win Honorable Mention in the parade.

 

It seems very odd That people are fighting wars When there is music I can't help but think We are so fucking lucky Think it every day

 

The next in line for the throne was Tarri Thurman. The baby felt it was time to have another queen. Di and I were finding ourselves being taxed by all of the feminine duties that come with the royal life. We are now up to 2003 and this was the year that a new tradition was born. The Epiphany party. It is tradition that King Cake be eaten on Epiphany as that is the day that the Three Wise Men wandered upon the baby Jesus. In the history of the king cake, it's design, a braided circle, comes from the supposed route the Wise Men took making way to the baby Jesus. They were walking in the sand and in an attempt to keep King Harrods's troops from finding the Wise Men; they would walk in circles and odd twisting ways in order to throw them off of their trail. January 6th, being Epiphany, began the new tradition of a Krewe gathering at the brewery to eat beans and rice and anyone's leftover holiday treats. A king cake is served, now traditionally made by Queen Di and the recipient of the baby is responsible for throwing a party during the carnival season that runs from Epiphany to Mardi Gras. Not a huge party, just a gathering of folks to help while away the long nights of winter. All rules are off regarding the taking of cake. It's a whole new tradition. Everyone takes cake. Let the new tradition begin I announce, as double queen. The cake is cut and is passed around by someone other than me. I'm enjoying myself at this party, not having any prior encumbrances or titles; chatting with King Ray as the cake makes the room. I reach for my piece, as it has been years since I've had a taste of cake, where what do I find….the baby. This makes 5 pieces of cake and 3 babies for me. What are the odds of that? That's it. I'm finished with cake! This is when Mardi Bowling began and for those that haven't been, I say, come on down to Homer for some fun theme bowling at our Kachemak Bowling Alley. I don't have to have this party every year, but it is so much fun, it just has to happen and we usually have this the Friday night before the parade on Saturday of Winter Carnival. You readers that have made it this far with me are very much invited. Just come up with a bowling name and dress kind of wacky. Think bowling alley cheese!

 

The Epiphany Is when we start to party Eat gumbo and cake At this first party We see who will be host For the next event Any fun will do Bowling, skiing, or a fire For all of our friends

 

We are now up to the King Tobias the Fair as our King for 2004. A humble king, indeed. 2005 gave us King Cefferino Maryott, partner of Queen Di and professional chef as well. I did mention how this Krewe likes to eat didn't I? 2006 brought us full circle, as we have a relative of King Ray's, his beautiful niece, Queen Emily, who will be reigning during the 2007 Mardi Gras season. We needed some youth in the royal family.

 

The queen is a doll My friend and partner in crime She is of my heart I will sit and sew And make her a special crown To adorn her head

This year's parade is shaping up to be a real, over the top, no holds barred event!. We're going for First Place kind of spectacle. You read it here first … you'll see it on Saturday, February 10th. Homer's Winter Carnival first ever… marching brass band! Yes, that's right! The Krewe of Gambrinus, A Social Aid and Pleasure Club, introduces "The Bossy Pants Brass Band" in association with "The Bossy Panty Twirlers".

We have been talking About a band for so long Clarinet, trombone All the horns are tuned I take a deep breath and turn Your nod says "Let's go"! But I am laughing! So hard I can't purse my lips Bye-bye embouchure

 

I highly suggest a trip to Homer for this grand event. It will also be the 25th Homebrew Competition and the weekend will top off with a Cajun dance at Down East on Sunday, February 11th. You are now up to date on the history of Mardi Gras Madness in Homer and I hope you will join in our fun and frivolity or at least start some of your own, wherever you are. Carnival is a season to celebrate!  It is such a kick To get together often Ground full of new snow The drink on my lips The food on my tongue so sweet Ash Wednesday ... oh shit

 

From the entire Krewe of Gambrinus-Happy Mardi Gras!

Cake Carnage and Making Babies

 

Baby Art by Andi Smythe

Every wonder about those little plastic babies in the King Cake?   I got your background right here, baby.   Investigative reporting at its best from classic Killer Rubboard.  And if you want to revisit our "baby" gallery of folk art at its wackiest,  check that out HERE. 

Cake Carnage and Making Babies

By Aileen McInnis

"I got the baby!"

I love those plastic babies that abound during Carnival season. If you ever found one lurking in your slice of King Cake, then you know the feeling of being pretend king or queen for the day, a fleeting yet satisfying feeling.

In this issue, we issued a challenge to a variety of artist to redesign or being inspired by the King Cake baby in some kind of design. But where did those babies come from? Like most traditions around making babies, roots of the King Cake lie in ancient pagan roots. Sex and fertility, it seems, are at the root of most traditions that last.

Celebration of Twelfth Night, (January 6 on modern calendars, the Twelfth Night after Christmas) goes way back to Pagan and ancient Roman times. The darkest part of the winter from Winter Solstice to Twelfth night was a great time to celebrate, party and get a little crazy for many cultures. Twelfth Night celebrations seem to have a common ancestor in the King of Saturnalia from Roman times. This popularly elected "King," also given the delightful name of the "Lord of Misrule," presided over an old Roman festival that honored Saturn, the god of agriculture and civilization. The elected royalty would party all night and have a grand old time, and lead the crowd in unbridled fun and passion around the bonfire. Back then, at the end of a year of reign, the faux royalty had to sacrifice themselves to the death at that same bonfire in order to insure fertility of the crops. Sometimes it's good that traditions change, if you know what I mean.

I think Queens Emily and Linda would agree.

But from those roots, those early frivolities seem to share a theme with more modern times. They seem to share the idea that someone is picked by chance to have the glory and the power of being royalty. A-Queen-For-A-Day kind of thing. Choosing your mock royalty by hiding a token in a cake goes way back. The Romans favored the tradition of a fava bean or coin in a piece of cake. The fava bean was a symbol of fertility for the Romans and an important dietary staple. He who found it was elected The Bean King, The Lord Of Misrule, He Who Was Headed Toward The Funeral Pyre.

Well, of course, the Pagans couldn't be allowed to run wild for too long before the Church got involved. The Church knew that people had so much fun and folly during the mid winter feasts that they would never give it up and get baptized. So like many of the old rituals involving celebrations, the Church absorbed the masking, disguise, the chaos and the reign of a Bean King into a sort of Judeo-Christian tradition. In a great article on the history of the King Cake tradition, King Cakes: A Rich Tradition, the author writes, " In Europe, from the 16th century onward, Carnival came to be more or less accepted by Church fathers as a necessary period of foolishness and folly before the fasting and abstinence of Lent. Hence, Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of Lent, was one of feasting."

Art by Steve Montooth

This festival also retained its emphasis on masking and mock royalty. The Italians really got into the  spirit and to this day, Carnivale and the exquisite Italian paper and clay masks are well known around the world. The Creole Society of the South adopted the party aspect of the whole Carnival idea with the same passion as the Italians and tapped into the Spanish custom of throwing grand balls where a king and queen were chosen. Parades started, krewes went wild and suddenly everyone was masking and having so much fun and forgetting to go to work that the authorities actually outlawed Mardi Gras for a while in New Orleans. That didn't last very long. (You know the drill. If beads are outlawed, then only outlaws will have beads.)

The Twelfth Night Celebration signals the beginning to the Carnival season which last through Mardi Gras day. One of the longest lasting krewes in this country, the Twelfth Night Revelers, hosts the first Carnival ball on January 6th in New Orleans and names their chosen king "the Lord of Misrule." It is actually quite a serious affair but at the heart of the celebration, the TNR still poke fun at royalty by taking on different roles, dressing up to mock royalty, and masking.

During its early years, TNR embraced the tradition of a cake of randomly picking someone to be the King (who would then choose his Queen) for the evening of frivolity and mayhem. Turns out at many of the Twelfth Night Balls, when the partygoers got to the choosing a piece of cake (adorned with a true crown destined for the person who would find the token), it was a "first-come-first-served-all-bets-off" fiasco. One article described an early attempt at choosing the evenings royalty by finding the charm as "cake carnage." The token was never found because the inebriated guests made such a mess of the cake, so no queen was appointed that first official ball. A delightful image, isn't it? Ladies and gents of the court with cake crumbs and frosting staining those divine silk gowns and trousers. Now, the piece containing the token is carefully guided toward the predetermined royalty and entourage. No one gets hurt and no one is stuck with an outrageous drycleaning bill.

Twelfth Night, January 6, is the feast of the Epiphany, the night the Three Kings found Jesus in the stable and brought him frankincense, gold and myrrh. The day also marks the beginning of Carnival season. The token included in the cake developed to not only be a bean or a pea or a coin, but sometimes a figurine. The French make collector figurines, sometimes of royalty or court figures. In the United States during the l1800's, often times the token was a pecan or a coin. Some plantation owners were also known to put jewels in the cake. The little plastic baby became popular in this county in the mid 1900s, of course after plastic was invented and we made friends with China.

Beading by Linda Hearnes

King Cakes are taken to work or offered at parties. The New Orleans tradition is that each person takes a piece of cake and whoever gets the baby in their cake is "crowned" King or Queen for the day and that person is obligated to bring the next King Cake to work or host the next party. Some krewes also use the King Cake to choose their royalty for the upcoming Carnival season.

Like gumbo, every baker of a King Cake seems to have his or her own preference about what it really should be. The standard is made with a rich dough, more like a coffee cake than a traditional cake and cover with sugar topic in the traditional Mardi Gras color: purple representing justice, green representing faith, and gold representing power. New Orleans bakers have love to experiment and make chocolate, blueberry, cream cheese, pecan praline, even crawfish.

King Cakes, once used to choose the life of the party, now also earned the religious symbolism. There are tons of traditions and stories out there, and I don't know which ones are the true and accepted ones. Some include that baby represents the baby Jesus, who is the true King; the circular nature of the cake symbolizes the journey of the Wise Men who traveled to find Him; and the braiding of the dough represents the twists and turns the Wise Men took in order to hide their trail from King Herod, who wanted to kill the newborn king to protect his own reign. The purple, green and gold sugar that adorns every cake represents the official Mardi Gras Colors, representing, Justice, Faith and Power.

The baby remains one of the most endearing images of the Carnival Season. Let's get serious--- babies are cooler than beans or pecans. Now you can find baby figures that are pink, Caucasian, black, metallic blue, green gold and purple, glow in the dark cherubs with wings, and like most things Mardi Gras, are made in China. They are not just hidden away in cakes. The ubiquitous babies adorn necklaces, beads, tiaras, and jewelry as part of the celebration. The customs keep developing and keep changing. But the basics of the tradition remain.

You got your Bean King. Your Lord of Misrule. Your hiding behind a mask. Your cake carnage. Your human sacrifice. The king and queen expected to lead the willing into mayhem, fun and excess and espirit de corps. Your royalty chosen by chance. And all of it represented in the little bare-naked amorphous form of the King Cake baby. An endearing symbol of Mardi Gras if there ever was one.

Babies. That's what I'm talking about. And if you are lucky enough to shout, "I got the baby!" this season, all hail to you. See you at the bonfire.

Conclave by Joe Karson

 

This is not really a Mardi Gras story and it was never included in Killer Rubboard, but I can't help it.  I read this story around the  same time as Killer Rubboard was being published and loved it.  I hounded Joe Karson for it until he gave it up to include here.  Food is an important part of celebrating the season and that's good enough for me.

 

CONCLAVE

 By Joe Karson

Pope Ken I was still lying in state inside St. Peter’s Basilica. Cardinal Lovano had just paid his last respects and now he joined the other cardinals at San Damaso Courtyard, the lawn outside the palace where the new pope would reside. This was the second sede vacante, period between popes, in the past year. Ken’s reign as Supreme Pontiff was brief by design, but the cardinal had hoped for a little more rest before returning to his Vatican duties. At their last conclave, the College of Cardinals had become hopelessly deadlocked, and, following a time-honored procedure, elevated their eldest member to the Throne of St. Peter. Ken, born Francis Kenneth Dolan, was eighty-nine and thus became the first American pope. Despite the historic precedent, his six-month papacy was as brief and unremarkable as anticipated.

   Still, like all popes before him, Ken I brought a few harmless innovations to the Vatican. Replacing the helmets of the Swiss Guard with leather aviator caps bearing the Harley-Davidson insignia seemed a harmless whim; as did transforming the sedia gestatoria, the pope’s ornately carved mobile throne, into something resembling a dune-buggy. No, these were minor deviations from tradition that the new pope would surely set straight. But it was in just this matter of electing his successor that Ken had chosen to truly assert himself. This was certainly his privilege. Though the ritual of Holy Conclave has been chiseled in stone, Vatican Law allows that each pope may ordain specific instructions for the next election in his will. Ken had done so. And until the election, the deceased pope was still Sovereign of Rome. Cardinal Lovano sighed and shook his head. Well, maybe Ken’s instructions for electing the new pope would make things easier. He hoped so. The typical squabbling and political intrigues of the last conclave had made the aging priest weary of the whole process.

   “Extra omnes! Extra omnes! Everyone out!” Cardinal Lovano listened to the command that for centuries has heralded the start of the secret conclave. He watched the Swiss Guard struggle with their billowing costumes as they shut the gate to St. Peter’s Square. Funny, he was starting to like those new hats. The shadow of the enormous gate fell across the cardinal’s bright red cassock. Dutifully, he wheeled his Il Fumo Deluxe charcoal grill to its assigned position in the courtyard. The chili cook-off to select the next pope was officially underway.

*

Cardinal Lovano watched the other cardinals as they stoked their grills and hunched busily over their worktables. Nearest to him were the Americans. The cranky old Pole from Chicago and the dapper Boston Irishman didn’t have a prayer. Their mothers had still cooked for them until the women were too feeble to stuff a kishke or peel a potato. Neither of the Americans knew how to boil an egg. Besides, the priests of the Curia Romano, the Vatican bureaucrats who were doing the judging, would never choose another American. Ken I had easily settled the issue of American popes for the next millennium. At least the issue of North American popes.

   There were still the Latinos. Cardinal Lovano figured that the Central Americans and their Caribbean cousins were out of the picture. Once, while serving as a missionary in Guatemala, he had shared a pepper pot that gave him heartburn for a week. A bowl of menudo in Santo Domingo made it instantly clear to him why the cattle herds of that region were raised mainly for the manufacture of baseballs. But the South Americans—that was another story. They had the beef, the chiles, the spices. And they knew how to use them. The arch-conservatives of the Curia, however, had little love for the progressive South American priesthood. Half the Catholics in the world lived in Brazil and Argentina, but the Roman clerics were certain that they were all being led straight to purgatory. In L’Osservatore, the Vatican newspaper, priests and bishops from the Catholic Continent were frequently branded as radicals and communists. No, the next pope would not come from the New World.

   Then there were the French. In a culinary conclave, it would seem only natural to give the French a little edge. Cardinal Lovano knew better. The French contingent had passed by with a dazzling collection of provisions and utensils. This, thought Cardinal Lovano, will be their downfall. They would undoubtedly produce a fine dish, but it would be five shades of pastel, ruffled and truffled and fluffed into a mousse, then floated in a hearty gel of daffodil nectar. The French were good but chili just wasn’t their game. The Curia would be looking for something alla zappatora—simple and nourishing. They wanted Verdi and the French would give them Debussy. Also, the Curia knew catechismically that the only good things about French cooking had been stolen from Italy. Most of them applied this principle to French culture in general. As good Italians, they could never make a Frenchman the new Vicar of Christ.

   Politics would also keep the Spaniards out of the running. Like their brethren across the Atlantic, the Spanish clergy had become too liberal for the stodgy old priests of the Vatican. All the sunny flavors of Spain, no matter how expertly blended, would not warm their hearts enough to accept a Spanish pope. There had been only two non-Italian popes in the past five hundred years and the present keepers of The Church were going to put things back on track. The Grateful Dead posters in the palace were history, no doubt, but they would be replaced with the original Botticellis—not Picassos or Renoirs. Cardinal Lovano could see the handwriting on the kitchen wall. The next pope would surely be Italian and it was all going to boil down to who could cook.

   Cardinal Lovano scanned the courtyard, searching out his countrymen. The Italian cardinals had been scattered about, according to the Curia, to keep them from collaborating. The old priest had to laugh. The Inquisition would have been unable to extract a recipe from any of these men. No, the Italians had insisted on being separated so they could mix their ingredients in pectore— secretly. Of course, separating Italians when they cooked was always a good idea. Cardinal Lovano remembered a Feast of Ste. Cecillia when his mother and an aunt had argued in the kitchen over how many onions to stuff into the porchetta, the suckling pig. His aunt relented; but when his mother presented the succulent entree to the table, Zia Lydia grabbed it and threw it out an open window. Cardinal Lovano had no problem cooking away from his fellow Italians.

   Paoletti, the Florentine, was set up near the gate. Cardinal Lovano watched the man work at his cutting board. He had a reputation as a good cook and his native region produced some of the best beef in the world. But he was a Tuscan and all Tuscans were mangiafagioli—bean-eaters. They couldn’t scramble an egg over there without tossing in a handful of favas. The Church was still officially split by the Bean Schism—Ken I had introduced this dilemma and left it as a Mystery of the Faith—but Cardinal Lovano was sure he knew where the judges stood. Strict traditionalists in all other matters, he figured that they were anti-fagioli to a man. Poor Cardinal Paoletti would undoubtedly load his otherwise excellent chili with beans and blow himself right out of contention.

   Cardinal Lovano located his old friend, Bellini, without even looking. He smelled him. Cardinal Bellini was from Portofino and all he could cook was fish. Everyone had heard the story of how he once went into the hills above his famous fishing village to perform a baptism. The grateful parents rewarded Bellini with a fresh rack of lamb, which he took home and boiled into a chowder. A man who could do that was surely facing a stiffer test than most at the conclave. Still, fish was Bellini’s strong hand and he would have to play it. Lovano caught the unmistakable odor of calamari drifting over from his friend’s grill. The old cardinal shook his head. Even in California, fabled birthplace of Ken I, people did not put squid in their chili.

   The cardinal from Turin, Rosario, was close enough to look over his shoulder and shoot Father Lovano a confident smile. Truffles were his game. He had brought an entire sack of the precious mushrooms from the steep hillsides of his home. Those Piedmontese and their tartufi, sighed the old cardinal. He knew that all the truffles in the world would not save Rosario’s cooking. Cardinal Lovano was acquainted with the man’s fare and the rudeness of his palate. Would he balance the somber-toned fungi with sweet basil and menta? No. Would he cut the musk with just a pinch of dragoncello? No. Would the olio be fruity and light? And, Heavenly Father, what about the wine –what chance did he have of getting the cooking wine right? Cardinal Lovano knew the answer. Plus, he knew the Curia. Would those cautious old padres turn the Vatican treasury over to a man who put truffles in chili?

   On a bit of high ground, beyond Rosario, Cardinal Lovano spotted the somewhat disheveled cassock of Gremaldi. He was the one the other cardinals called “Saint Francis.” Cardinal Gremaldi was from Calabria, the southernmost part of the country, and he was a vegetarian. Although many of his colleagues considered this to be a serious character defect, he could not be instantly dropped as a papabile—a serious candidate for pope. Not for his dietary creed alone. True, he would be stewing vegetables for the descendants of monks who had long regarded Friday as a fast day because they had to survive merely on pasta, cheese, lobster, and pastry. But even this would not disqualify him in Cardinal Lovano’s mind. The cardinal’s faith in good cooking was so strong that he believed it could triumph in any situation. Unfortunately, he had tasted Gremaldi’s food. The man deemed salt an exotic spice! He could make an eggplant, the glory of his sun-drenched homeland, bland as a Communion wafer. His polenta should send him to the confession booth. It would take an intervention by St. Francis, indeed, for Gremaldi to prevail on this day.

   And there was Cardinal Reda of Venice. Intentionally, he was set up far from Gremaldi. The only vegetation to ever reach Cardinal Reda’s mouth was his cigar. Venetians were said to be big meat eaters because they lived so near the Austrians and Slavs. Cardinal Lovano had been told as a child that Venice had canals because they were needed to remove all the gore. Perhaps it was true. He remembered Venetian restaurants where you could not get a scampi that hadn’t been stuffed with sausage and rolled up in ham. If you ordered a salad, there was a boiled tongue sticking out at you. After dining one night on what turned out to be tripe and jellied pig’s ears, he learned not to ask too many questions. There was fine food in Venice, but Reda had been raised on the city’s carnivorous excesses and these were all that he brought to his cooking. Like Rosario, he knew nothing of subtlety—the gentle touch needed to create a great dish. He would fail.

   Cardinal Lovano looked out past the courtyard. The sun was directly overhead, shining down on the Tomb of St. Peter, and already the square was nearly filled. All morning long people had thronged through the Porta Santa Anna and under the Arch of the Bells to be close to the historic event. The noise was becoming incredible. L’Osservatore had leaked the details of the conclave, so the Swiss Guard was busy with overzealous Romans who tried scaling the courtyard wall with recipes and bundles of spice. The civil police broke up brawls between militant groups of fagioli and anti-fagioli. Fortunately, most of the crowd just stood patiently in front of the Sistine Chapel where they had been promised a decision by nightfall. Coals from the chosen grill would be put in the celebrated fireplace to produce the puff of smoke announcing a new pope. But that was still a long way off. Right now, there was work to be done.

   The cardinal diced his onions then measured them carefully. It had to be right. He had always thought of onions as social vegetables. Alone, they could be bitter, but in a stew they were mellow and sweet.

He dropped the onions into the pot. Next, he prepared the garlic. Garlic was certainly the most Catholic of vegetables. He had met Anglicans and Episcopalians who recoiled like vampires at the slightest hint of the pungent bulb. There were Lutherans who had never heard of it. For old Lovano, garlic was a rare and intoxicating perfume—and it was as such that it had to be applied. As with the onions, using just the right amount was everything. Bay leaf and dried, sweet red pepper, of course, would accompany the garlic. These three ingredients were the Holy Trinity that brought the savoriest flavor out of all meats. Cardinal Lovano had learned to always use them together. When he added these to the veal shank searing at the bottom of his pot, an aroma arose that caused more than a few of his colleagues to turn their heads. One of the Americans, the one opening cans of Hormel and praying, suddenly lifted his nose like a bird dog. The cardinal reached into the pot and turned his veal. By using the whole shank, with the bone, he added marrow to the broth. This was the flavor of his mother’s osso buco and there was nothing richer in the whole world. The Lovanos were from Milan, in Lombardy, where the secrets of slow cooking in covered pots had been handed down for centuries. Cardinal Lovano inhaled deeply. The beef and the whole peppers he would next add were to be the heart of the dish—the veal stock was the soul. He closed the lid.

   The beef Cardinal Lovano chose was from the Chiana Valley, near Florence, because it is simply the best. It had been favored by Roman emperors. But he did not use the popular loin cuts. These were valued for tenderness alone and were often bland. Instead, he used the tastier meat from the shoulder and neck. The pot would make it tender. He added his beef to the veal, which was flaking off the bone.

   Now came the peppers and tomatoes. Cardinal Lovano had selected three varieties of pepper: plump green bells, mild and fragrant; medium-strength yellow wax peppers; and fiery red Serranos—the same hot peppers sold by street venders during the Feast of St. Gennaro and consumed by young men to show their bravery. But he did not use the Serranos to make his chili all ‘arrabiata, or “rabid,” as was the style in some parts of the country. He used just enough of them produce a seductive nip. They would keep the mouth watering for another spoonful without overwhelming the whole dish. This was very important. Every ingredient had to serve its role, but no more. The tomatoes that the cardinal chose were San Marzano plums, ripe little beauties that smelled of summer. These had the full flavor and thick flesh that could stand up to the heat of the pot. He mixed in the peppers and tomatoes along with a dash of rose-scented Tivoli olive oil and a pinch of basilico.

   After everything had simmered together for a while, Cardinal Lovano checked his creation. It looked and smelled just right. The time had come to add the vino. He uncorked a bottle of mellow red wine known in his native Lombardy as sangue del Giuda—“blood of Judas.” Yes, this seemed to the old priest like the perfect agent for warding off any treachery inside the pot. It would help keep all his ingredients working in harmony without any overly ambitious flavors. He poured in some wine directly from the bottle—the proper amount could not be measured but only tasted—and stirred the pot. A growing audience watched intently. Every time he opened his lid, Cardinal Lovano attracted more attention from the other members of the College. Now, several of them had abandoned their own pots and stood around him, closely following each move that he made. When he brought his big wooden spoon up to his mouth, they strained to smell and taste the chili along with him. Old Father Fontanella of the Curia, frail and bent, hung on to a younger cardinal for support. His lips twitched as if he were reciting the rosary. Cardinal Lovano closed the lid. He was not quite finished.

  
Back at his table, the cardinal carefully unwrapped a crusty little nugget. He had been saving this treasure for a special occasion and now it had arrived. The finely aged cheese barely seemed edible. But when he began shaving the stone-like morsel into a bowl, his nose was treated to a feast of spicy aromas. Each magical scrape of the grater brought the cheese more to life. The cardinal lowered his face to the bowl, savoring the resurrection. This sharp, spirited pecorino romano playing over the top of his chili would be just the final touch it required.

   Cardinal Lovano carried the cheese to his pot and opened the lid again. The other cardinals, who had been joined by two more judges, pressed closer. When he sprinkled on his cheese, the bouquet of delicious fumes that had been hovering over the pot burst into full bloom. Old Fontanella cried out, Santissimo Padre—Holy Father!” Cardinal Lovano bowed his head and closed his eyes. The cardinal from Milan was the humblest of men, but he knew that satisfaction with a job well done was not a sin. Breaking into a broad smile, he looked up at his fellow priests. He had worked hard and his recipe was good. It was very good. Maybe even . . . infallible.

(c) Joe Karson 2020