It’s getting closer to the summer solstice, and the sun is hanging longer in the sky. So I have time to set up my tent, make a fire, and cook food before dark.
The day started in Omaha. I woke up early for a comic book workshop in Springfield Nebraska. The hour went by almost in a blur of drawings and wacky fun. One kid drew me with big feet and enormous toes. The workshop ended like many of the others–I got out my phone and took a selfie video of the kids chanting along with me. “When I say Do, you say ART! DO!
ART!
DO!
ART!
Then the kids filed out. I picked up the drawings they’d left for me, broke down my banners, and wheeled all my stuff back to my car in my blue collapsible wagon.
The euphoria of a successful workshop starts to mingle with a little exhaustion. But in the back of my head is the knowledge that I’ve gotta do this again, tomorrow, about halfway through Iowa. I have time, but now I need to be on my way.
So I drive through Omaha to Council Bluffs. I meet with the youth services director, who shows me where I’ll be performing in July–this beautiful park just across the street from the library, right in front of a huge fountain. I imagine the space filled to the brim with kids. I get this familiar feeling–excitement, just a little fear. The word, I suppose, is thrilled.
I visit a few more libraries on my way to the campsite I’ve picked out, just north of Des Moines, Iowa. It’ll be my first time camping this year, and I want to start the summer in style. But first, I want to go to the campsite and set up my tent. Jerry’s aunt is fond of saying that you want to set up your tent and your sleeping arrangement so no matter what else you have ready you can go to sleep when you want to. Everything else can get done in its own sweet time.
I find the campsite, and pick out a spot in the back corner. The campground is a little more than half full with RVs, people on bikes headed to the High Trestle Trail that runs from Ankeny all the way to Woodward, Iowa, not far west of where I’m staying. I get my tent and air mattress set up, and then I head into town. I get a ribeye steak, a sweet potato, and some firewood, and head back with the sun still well in the sky.
The recipe isn’t anything fancy–season the steak and sweet potato with olive oil, salt, and pepper. Wrap the sweet potato in foil and put it as close to the coals as you can. Then grill the steak over the campfire–the sizzle crescendos as the oil bubbles in the pan–until it’s done to your liking. I leave it on a little longer than I usually would but when I eat it with knife and fork, sitting at a picnic table watching the fire, it melts in my mouth.
I started the week in Elgin, Iowa, not far from Dubuque. The day before I left was plenty of stress and anxiety–do I have everything, am I forgetting something–but once I’m on the road and it’s too late to go back the excitement takes over once more. A summer of art, creativity, and wacky drawings. And with Jerry’s and Karen’s voices telling me to eat healthy, a summer of fruits, vegetables, and home cooking.
For the first few days I ate chicken sandwiches that I’d made at Jerry’s house before I left–grilled chicken, spinach leaves, and avocado. Jerry’s mom has a recipe for baked chicken that’s even better, but the sandwich has a great balance of crunch and juiciness. That, some oranges, and my new road trip snack–raw asparagus spears! People think I’m crazy, but when they’re fresh they have a great crunch to them, without the stringiness that asparagus can get if you cook it for too long.
The sweet potato takes longer to cook than the steak. I get a little impatient and it ends up a little undercooked in the middle. I’m disappointed–when cooked low and slow sweet potato takes on this almost cake-like texture, and if you add a little cinnamon it’s a great dessert.
Then I clean up my utensils. Camping definitely comes with its chores, but something about being outside, with the sound of birds and crackling fire, gives me an extra sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. The next day I’d drive down to Ankeny, Iowa. A big group of kids, energized by the end of school, would draw and brainstorm with me. They’d concoct a story in which The Other Thing blows up all the McDonalds in the world, and is turned into ice cream by a cosmic snail. I’d drive past the High Trestle Bridge, lit up purple at night, and I’d tell myself that next time I come here I’ll rent a bike and take the trail. As I go to sleep I hear the chant in my head. “When I say DO, you say ART!”
DO!
ART!
DO!
ART!