I spend too much time in bathrooms, but not out of vanity.

I remember lights, police car lights. Loud knocking.

I was sitting on the bathroom counter, on the edge of the sink. He clipped my toenails. Maybe it was my fingernails.

Cold night.

Wind through threadbare pajamas.

Mom.

She had been on vacation for two weeks or other. Just gone.

A Peddington Bear book and Grandma was there.

By Sarah Eva Krancic
Special to the Tribune
Published October 20, 2002

Every year the 1,000 friends and neighbors of the village of Utica put on a pot of coffee, unlock the back door and invite thousands of day trippers to call themselves neighbors for a day.

This tiny burg 100 miles southwest of Chicago draws thousands for its Burgoo Festival, named for the hundreds of gallons of hearty stew the locals prepare for the big day.
Crowds descended on the 500-foot stretch of picturesque Clark Street last Sundayfor crafts, a Civil War re-enactment, pork chops, pasta frittatas and, mainly, the burgoo itself.

Weeks before the event, the head chef, the “burgoomeister,” decides on the combination of meat, vegetables and spices that will become the stew. This year’s burgoomeister, 4th-grade teacher Joe Gurski, enlisted extra help: his high school friend and Edison Park resident Jerry Oskvarek. Neither chafes at wearing the apron in the family.

“Joe grew up in an Italian-Polish family, and I grew up in a Polish family. You learn to cook,” Oskvarek said.

The two have collaborated for the last several years with burgoo master chef Alberto Saorin, owner of Alberto’s Ristorante in Ottawa, to fine-tune the closely held burgoo recipe.

Working ahead

The day before the feast, locals gathered to help marinate the beef, chop the vegetables and set up the three outdoor cauldrons that hold the burgoo. The staging area is the back yard of City Hall, a simple brick building that doubles as a dining hall for this occasion.

Each pot has a 4-foot diameter and sits atop an iron cylinder that holds the pot off the ground, leaving room for a wood fire underneath. The stews simmer over an open fire for 12 hours or more, beginning the night before the feast and stretching through to the morning.

Right on schedule, the first shift of volunteers lit the fires at 9 p.m. Saturday. Gurski, whose right-on assessments of cooking temperatures and stirring techniques make it clear why he’s the burgoomeister, doled out seasonings and firewood as needed and gradually incorporated the meat along with gallons of a rich-looking stock and cabbage, celery and carrots.

A crowd of locals and tourists-in-the-know hung around until midnight or so, drinking beer and taking turns with the paddles used to stir the stew. People drifted in and out after that, until the last good-sized wave of stirrers straggled in around 3 a.m., when, as it happened, Utica’s bars close for the night.
That crowd lasted for only about an hour before heading home, leaving a core group of dedicated stirrers to hold out until morning.

Veteran stirrer Chuck Sherman moved his paddle conscientiously, last year’s lapse–not his–that burned an entire batch of burgoo never far from his mind.

Even the burgoomeister acknowledged that the night gets long around 4 a.m.

“The first sign of sunlight is a real spirit booster,” Gurski said.

Up with the sun

When the sun did come up around 7, the streets filled in a matter of 15 minutes. The morning was crisp, and vendors bundled in winter coats scanned the skies for clouds that could put a damper on the festivities as they unpacked crafts, antiques and homemade baked goods.

But the sun rose clear and golden, a textbook autumn day. By midmorning, customers eager to pay $2.50 for a bowl of the stew lined up the length of a village block. Saorin stopped by to add the final seasonings and pronounced the burgoo done. Volunteers from the LaSalle County Historical Society ladled the first bowl at 10:30 a.m., and all three cauldrons were empty by 2:30 p.m.

Every year during the Burgoo Festival, Utica residents turn the original story of stone soup on its ear. Instead of a band of travelers teaching the townies a lesson, Utica residents put up tables in their front yards and open their pantries. Folks such as Gurski give up a night’s sleep to cook for thousands while others put up jams and bake pies.

And somehow the magic of that secret recipe works on the crowd of 15,000, making it feel downright cozy.

Photos and text by Sarah Eva Krancic
Copyright (c) 2002, Chicago Tribune

“That’s illegal in 37 states,” He said.
I was about to apologize for handling his merchandise, after all, I was at a Montana gun show, but then I realized he was speaking about the gun itself.

Booth #107 was registered to one Rusty Potter.

“I can tell you like my glasses. Make an offer,” He said.
“That’s ok, I was just-”
“Trying to tell which direction I was looking? Aren’t they great? Here, try them on.”

He offered the glasses for me to try on. I took them, hoping that the fondling and few turns of perspective would be enough to appease him.

“Go ahead, put ‘em on and I’ll try to see where you’re looking.”

I put on the glasses and the interior of the fair grounds pole building went nearly black.

“I can hardly see anything.”
“Aren’t they great. They’re state issued. To cops that is.”
“Why are they so dark?” His joy must have made him hard of hearing. He didn’t respond.

“Ok look at something. Are you looking?”

I placed my gaze on a small handgun in the far corner of the table.

“Ok.”

Rusty lay an arm across his ample belly and put his other hand to his chin. He squinted, narrowing his eyes to emerald slivers.

“You’re looking at that blonde over by the Holstein pens.”
“Nope.”
“I hope not cause that’s my wife you soma’ bitch.”
“Didn’t even see her.”
“Ok, hold on, I can get this.”

Rusty really squinted now. From my self contained darkness I could of swore he had his eyes closed. But when he drew back his fist and threw it towards my face, implanting an eagle, his class ring mascot into my chin, I realized his eyes weren’t closed. The glasses flew off my face and hit the ground shortly after I did. I looked up at him in hazy amazement.

“What was that for.”
“You weren’t looking at my crotch?”
“What? No!”
“Oh. Those glasses work real good,” He said.
“Too good.”

I rose to my feet and handed Rusty back his real good real bent glasses.

“Real sorry about that.”

I mustered a polite smile despite my aching jaw.

“Let me make it up to you. What do you like? Twenty bucks takes it.”

He clapped his hands and spread his arms out like an over zealous Vegas dealer. My eyes went back to the small gun in the far corner. Something about it, I think it must have been its miniature unthreatening size, kept drawing me back to it.

“That one.” I said and pointed to the pea shooter.
“Excellent choice.”

Excellent I’m sure because that’s all he could ever hope to get for it. Boy what I wouldn’t give to have the guts to point to the piece that looked like a tank gun. I’d like to hear him say “excellent” to that.

He took the gun and popped the clip to show me it wasn’t loaded, then wrapped it in a wade of newspaper like a flea market vase. He then wrapped half a yard of masking tape around the wad. I wondered if John Law would consider this an acceptable firearm carrying case. I left well enough alone and handed him my twenty bucks.

“Will you be needing bullets today, sir?”

Sir? Two minutes ago this guy had laid me out for looking at his crotch, which, by the way, I did(I don’t know why, my eyes just drifted there). Now he’s calling me sir. A gun, or gun wad, really does get you respect.

“Yes, I guess I will,” I said.
“Can’t shoot the damn thing without any bullets. What good would it be then?”

Yes, what good is a wad gun without any wad bullets.

“Tell you what, I’ll throw them in free of charge, cause I like you.”
“Thanks.”

He put the gun and bullets into a bag and handed it to me.

“You go right on ahead and do what that bag says.”

The bag had rows of smiley faces and at the bottom said “Have a nice day”. How pleasant and dangerously mislabeled.

I took the bag and walked away, hoping, although the experience had been unique, never to run into Rusty Potter again.

As I left, I accidentally went past the Holstein pens and more importantly, Mrs. Rusty Potter. She was speaking to a young man in a shirt that read: Bad attitude, Good aim. I must have been staring because she stopped listening to Mr. Good Aim and stared at me as I passed.
I looked back to Rusty. He was watching me. I turned back towards the exit nearly running into Mrs. Rusty. She just smiled. I gave her a quick yet cautious nod so as not to get myself into trouble with hubby. One eagle dimple would serve well enough, two would just be bragging.

In the car I unwrapped my new gun. A gun. I had just bought a gun. Maybe it was the brief altercation, the crack to the jaw, which made me buy it. Maybe Rusty was the most successful businessman there, laying someone out every 5 or 7 minutes until his table was cleared. A glimpse of fear is good motivation to want to protect yourself somehow.

On the side of the barrel was etched J.M. Who was J.M. and why did they carry such a small gun? It must have been a Jan or Jenny. This was definitely a girl’s gun if I ever saw one. But how many guns had I ever seen. Let’s just settle it by saying you’d never catch Dirty Harry brandishing this saucy sidearm.