Carolina Chocolate Drops in New Haven

Carolina Chocolate Drops on stage at New Haven's
International Festival of Arts and Ideas
Photo by my old shipmate and friend, Wojtek Wacowski.

It is no secret that I'm a traditional music junkie.  Past posts about Pete Seeger, Peggy Seeger, and John McCutcheon testify to that.  I've been getting banjo notables to sign my banjo for a good while now and I've got a list of people that I'd like to track down and have them sign my banjo.  The members of the Carolina Chocolate Drops have been at the top of my list for some time, but their tour schedule rarely brings them to the northeast.

A few weeks ago, Kimberly the Ever Vigilant happened to see that the Drops were scheduled to appear at a free concert on the New Haven green as part of the International Festival of Arts and Ideas so, this past Saturday, Kimberly, Ian and I packed our trusty orange picnic blanket and a variety of yummy munchies and made our way for an evening of musical bliss.

The Carolina Chocolate Drops had their beginnings at the Black Banjo Gathering in Boone, NC, and honed their traditional Afro-Appalachian string-band music playing with then-90-year-old African-American fiddler, Joe Thompson (1918-2012).  Their set-list includes a lot more than string band music from the 1920s, though, incorporating disparate influences such as the music of minstrel shows, and Celtic "mouth music" as well as hip-hop and rhythm and blues, sometimes all at the same time.

Dom plays my banjo, with Hubby and Leyla.
Rhiannon is obscured by glare and my poorly placed body.

Last Saturday, the Drops put on a fine show, performing favorites like "Goin' Down the Road Feelin' Bad," and "Cornbread and Butterbeans," as well as a traditional Haitian song about a musician whose romantic prospects are limited because he has no friends and no family, and the title track to the band's latest album, "Leaving Eden," a song about the sorrows of leaving home in the hopes of finding work elsewhere.

After the concert, the members of the band were available for autographs and all seemed very happy to sign my banjo, looking at the other signatures.  "I'm going to sign next to Peggy!" said Rhiannon, excitedly.  Hubby signed/doodled his signature, with drawings standing in for letters.  Leyla, who isn't a regular performer with the Chocolate Drops, but who had played banjo beaufitully, asked, "Are you SURE you want ME to sign this?"  I did.  Dom's signature was small and careful and then he spent a minute or so playing my insturment, while the rest of the people in line watched in what I'd like to believe was pleasure.

My banjo head continues to fill up.
CCD signatures are transcribed for your reading pleasure.

Thanks to Charlie Barrett, for shooting video of Saturday's event and posting it to his YouTube channel!!

Restaurant Review: Mexican Road Food in New Haven

This past Friday, I picked Ian up at the bus stop after school and we hit the road for North Stonington, CT, where my friend Eric and I were playing a gig at the North Stonington Congregational Church as a benefit for the United Church of Christ's Neighbors in Need offering.

As luck (and a little bit of planning) would have it, we reached New Haven at 4:00 with enough time to get off at Long Wharf Drive (Exit 46), where we stopped for lupper (you know, like brunch, only later...). Not only is Long Wharf the home of New Haven's information center and the pier where the schooners Amistad and Quinnipiack dock, but it has two parking areas where a variety of food trucks do a brisk business. I've always been a fan of lunch trucks, probably because we never had an ice-cream truck drive down the country road I lived when I was a kid or some similar deprivation.

New Haven has an embarrassment of riches, when it comes to trucks lining the harbor and, during the summer months, the food vendors are joined by trucks selling flags, kites, oriental rugs, and just about anything else that could be sold from a truck. Even on this cold and windy October day, there were no fewer than four trucks in the parking area waiting to sell us food, and another several trucks in a second parking area just about 1/4 mile east of where we had stopped. Ian and I passed the hotdog truck and two apparently identical "Ixtapa" trucks (who were selling tacos for $1.50 each) and made our way to the bargain truck, "Santa Apolonia," for the $1.00 tacos.

Ian ordered three tacos de res (beef tacos) and I got an assortment of four: one beef, one enchilada, one chorizo and one pork, with a couple tamarind Jarritos, of our favorite Mexican sodas, to wash them down. Prep time was longer than seemed reasonable, but that may have been due to the cold wind and little spits of rain that kept Ian and me literally holding on to our hats.

When we were given our food, it was carefully wrapped up in a single styrofoam container, with the plates neatly stacked inside, along with some lime wedges and two salsas - one red, the other green.

Food in hand and jackets zipped up to the collar, Ian and I walked across Long Wharf Drive to a picnic table by the water. As we unpacked the food, the wind caught Ian's plate and nearly blew it off of the table, tacos and all. Somehow, my son, the taco-ninja, managed to snag his plate full of beefy goodness before it went completely airborne. The four-inch tacos were delightful, especially the chorizo, accompanied with the salsa verde and lime juice.

Next time we pass through with a bit of time on our hands, I expect that Ian and I will stop to try some of the other offerings, either from Santa Apolonia or one of the other trucks. It is a great way for some comparatively quick and tasty eats and, at just a dollar each, there's no reason not to try a bunch of new things.

The Benefits of a Beard

Back when I was first ordained, in 1992, I was a clean-shaven young man with nary a whisker to mask my boyish good looks. People often commented on how young I looked and how they couldn't believe that I was old enough to be a minister. I even had a couple elderly church ladies actually pinch my cheeks.

Then, in 1995, something happened. At first, I thought it was an accident. Kimberly, who was pregnant at the time, and I went home to Virginia for Thanksgiving and I forgot to pack my razor, so I came home with a week's worth of... well... to call it "beard" would be generous, but humor me.

Please.

My beard doesn't really grow in that fast, or that thick, but I had always kind of wanted to grow a Grizzly Adams beard and getting a week's accidental jump on it galvanized me to leave the razor in the drawer, despite the ribbing I took at church about "trying to grow a beard." Eventually, though, I had to admit the pitiful state of my facial hair. The razor came out and I shaved everything down to a nice little goatee.

A couple weeks later, Kimberly and I were taking a Lamaze classes at Yale-New Haven Hospital and the nurse midwife who was teaching the class noticed that every single dad-to-be in the room was sporting some sort of facial hair. "How many of you guys started growing your facial hair since your wife has been pregnant," she asked us, and every single one of us raised our hand. "That's perfectly normal," she told us, "many men feel the need to grow something themselves when their wife is pregnant. Some take up gardening. Others grow facial hair." I guess since it was winter, none of us had opted for setting out flats of tomatoes, but maybe my leaving the razor at home at Thanksgiving hadn't REALLY been an accident at all. Maybe it had been a subconscious drive to create!

Over time, the goatee thickened up and became pretty respectable, though I always chose to wear it fairly small. Still, even with the goatee, people would comment on how young I looked and would, at least metaphorically, pinch my hairless cheeks.

I wore that goatee for 13 years and every child who drew my picture, whether it was my son or a kid from church, portrayed me with a brown circle around my mouth that made me look like a toddler that had thoroughly enjoyed a fudgsicle. My goatee became something of a trademark. One Halloween, some of my parishioners (a dad and his two young sons) came to a church party dressed as me -- with paper clerical collars and paste-on goatees.

Still, I longed for more. Every time my family went on vacation, I would decide to give the full-beard another try, but each time, my wife would "suggest" that I go ahead and shave back down to the goatee so as to avoid public ridicule. Such spousal wisdom is hard to ignore.

This past Christmas, though, I finally got my chance! With three months of sabbatical -- on a schooner -- in Africa -- I figured I just might be able to pull off the beard growth I needed, without having a congregation chuckle at my attempts. I could look as ratty as I wanted and be able to pass it off as "salty." It was the perfect time to forget the razor!

So, just before Easter, I came back home furrier than I left, still no Grizzly Adams, but with fuzzy cheeks to match my furry chin. My wife likes it. My son told me that I should definitely keep the full beard. What was even better is that nobody made any comments about how young I looked, anymore, not even visitors to church. The cheek-pinching was over! Life was good!

Then I went to the mailbox.

As I sorted through the mail, setting the bills aside, tossing the fund-raising letters in the recycling and separating out credit card offers to shred, I came across a piece that didn't fit any of my ready categories. The envelope had red lettering on it and I opened it with a certain trepidation. It proved to be just what I had feared: proof that my new beard does, in fact, make me look older. I had received an AARP membership application, along with my own little plastic card with an authorization code! Alas, I guess the beard works a little too well.

Now, all I'll have to do is wait another dozen years until I'm old enough to become a member.