Heavens of the Heart

I like when you take a warm clump of cornbread, dunk it in the hot chili, and it comes apart in pieces, the cornbread mixing with the tomato sauce, the peppers and other powerful potions.

I mean, sometimes I hear harps.

I like the way cream clouds your coffee, like the dreamscapes in a Ken Kesey novel. I like old pickup trucks, a little rusty, or tureens of hot soup. I like the way the sauce bubbles in a cheesy tray of stuffed shells.

Obviously, I’m fond of forming these mini-heavens in everyday life. You never know for sure what really awaits you after the clock expires. Some folks are so sure they’re headed to some heavenly afterlife. Me, who knows?

Mostly, I like when stuff comes apart, unplanned bursts of real life (see cornbread above). I like when the dog gets loose, and someone has to chase him frantically up the cul-de-sac in the rain. I like when waiters drop a big stack of dishes in the middle of one of my incredibly wry and witty toasts. 

Bam! Silence! Cheers!

There is, in the universe, an anti-force. It exists — as sure as cloudy days and Christmas — to keep us humble, to ward off vanity. Still, we are not humble. Still, we chase perfection, knowing the universe is rallying against us.

This cosmic anti-force is the source of clenched jaws, mental anguish and that nagging feeling that you’re not doing enough with your life.

Honestly, do you get that too?

The other night, I was putting pajamas on my grandson. Still damp from his bath, Puddles’ arms would not slide into the PJs as planned — he may as well have been smeared in pine tar. 

Then he does a quadruple spin, a gold medal move, trying to worm his way back to nakedness…total purity and freedom, the uniform of the womb.

Even when difficult, my 1-year-old grandson is another little heaven. He’s got these Tony Bennett eyes and a crooner’s gift for mischief.

On a walk the other night, Puddles and I spot the popcorn vapor trails from a Vandenberg launch. Dusk. Heat. Galileo. Harps. 

“Isn’t family everything?” I ask him in the moment.

“No,” he says. But he’s still pretty young.

I was having that same conversation with a friend the other day, how family is such a source of playfulness, scandal, bemusement, germs, frustration. Not my family necessary. But yours and most others.

My buddy spoke of an elderly sister who, scouting her local McDonald’s for new friends — as older folks will do — latched onto a couple who happened to be heading to Asheville, N.C., just as she was. They invited her along on their roadtrip, promising companionship and adventure.

Being old, what did she have to lose?

The road-trip goes fine. She enjoys the scenery, the conversation, the company of fascinating new friends. Till she discovers they were actually going to Nashville, not Asheville. Oops.

Point is: There is nothing more entertaining than the triumphs and failures of our own families. They are an anti-force within the anti-force.

I was thinking about all this the other day as I was planning a chili contest. Other than the birth of a child, there is nothing more life-affirming than a good mid-winter chili contest. It has the glint of resurrection, of a sun-splashed Opening Day.

Chili today is even more magnificent than it used to be, perhaps the only item in the world that has improved with time. Has TV improved with time? College football? Media? Rom-coms? Corporations? Ma-and-pa diners? Your marriage. Medicine?

OK, maybe medicine. Maybe your marriage. Way to go!

Chili has definitely improved over time. There are all sorts today:  turkey, chicken, beef, bison, vegan. You plop on some sour cream, christen it with Tabasco, dip your cornbread. 

Heaven.

Chili contests are best held when it’s raining or snowing, and there’s a fire in the fireplace.

Warning: Everyone wants to have a personal moment with the person who wins a chili contest. These bursts of attraction are temporary, last about 3 seconds, but for a mega-moment, this chili champion is a rock star.

Don’t we all relish the thought of being craved?

OK, not everyone. Who even needs other people? Not me.

So, my ultimate point — finally — is that if you happen to find yourself a chili contest hero, please don’t let such fame change who you are — you imp, you ump, you lovable grump.

Because, one day, you may happily be headed to Asheville.

And then you’re not.

Hi. Me again. Reaching out on behalf of the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, which honors my late wife and son. The donations help struggling families across Los Angeles, providing everything from blankets to financial support. Any amount helps. Click here to donate.  If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you in advance. There are many good causes; this is just one of them. If you have any problems with the donation site, please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Mark your calendars: Happy Hour Hike planned for March 21 in Pasadena! Stay tuned for details.