Come sun or storm, the music's still playing and the pie just might be in the oven.
I had it all planned out. I was going to spend Saturday evening watching the “We Love New York: A Homecoming Concert” on CNN, maybe do some simple chores (like pay bills or dust) while the less entertaining artists performed, maybe make something fun for dinner (a.k.a. pizza delivered from the restaurant down the street or, you know, tacos), maybe prepare a treat like brownies or popcorn, maybe even pie.
I was eager to see Bruce Springsteen and Paul Simon, Jon Batiste (love-love that song, “Freedom”) and Kane Brown.
But, as we all know now, Hurricane Henri had something to say about that.
Some Internet headlines called it a “disaster” when rain and lightning rolled in and organizers sent the 60,000 music lovers home, but I would say instead: Such is the way with outdoor concerts.
Probably the most memorable concert I ever attended was called due to a vicious Colorado thunderstorm. My sister, visiting from Alaska, and I had tickets to see Jackson Browne at Red Rocks. There’s never a bad reason to go to Red Rocks, but Jackson Browne was at his peak when my sister was in high school and college so she was pretty fond of him and was positively influenced by his activism and songwriting.
And I liked “Lawyers in Love.”
Opening for him was blues singer Taj Mahal and alt-country crooner Steve Earle. Earle was the reason I was interested and why I was willing to sit through a headliner who was kind of before my time. Steve Earle, though, spoke to me. His first album, “Guitar Town,” dropped when I was a reporter at a weekly newspaper in a town of about 4,200 in southern Colorado. I didn’t always feel like that town, that newspaper, that life were a good fit, so I appreciated Earle’s stories about people who weren’t ever satisfied, small towners with fearless hearts, angry young men who wished someday to take Exit 0 off the Nowhere Road.
We got to Red Rocks early, climbed the steep stairs, staked out seats about half-way up, bought a hot dog and a refreshing cold beverage, and sat in the sun, fully anticipating music under the full expanse of a starry Colorado sky. Taj Mahal played first and, although both of us were only superficially familiar with his discography, he was delightful.
Steve Earle took the stage as the sky was growing dark. He played a couple songs, grumbled a little bit when he had to adjust his amps (“This must be a union gig”); and then when raindrops started hitting the stage, he excused himself so he wouldn’t get electrocuted. He’d be back to finish the set, he said, when the storm blew over.
He apparently didn’t understand that that’s not how Rocky Mountain monsoons work.
We — and by “we” I mean myself, my sister and thousands of other foolhardy fans — sat in a light rain waiting with communal joie de vivre for Steve Earle, or at least Jackson Browne, to return to the stage. A few minutes in, as is nearly always true in a Colorado rain, there was a big crack of thunder and someone in the heavens opened the faucets to full flood levels.
I think at that point some disembodied voice told us to vacate the premises, advice that was unneeded because, you know, it was really coming down then and most Jackson Browne fans are smart enough to come in out of the rain. As we were descending the stairs — 515 from the top of the amphitheater to the lower parking lot — there was another earth-shaking clap of thunder, a lightning strike that turned darkness into day, and all the lights in Red Rocks went out.
You know that U2 video where they’re singing “Sunday Bloody Sunday" and it looks like it’s raining because Bono is all sweaty and there’s a fog machine? Imagine that — only with a real deluge and no light. Now imagine all those people in that video — 9,500-and-some —who are cheering for the Edge in what appears to be a downpour but can’t possibly be and put them, pushing and wet, on the rain-slickened stairs, trying their best not to get struck by lightning.
"And the rain came down / Like an angel come down from above / And the rain came down / It'll wash you away and there ain't never enough." — Steve Earle
The electricity also went out that night at Bandimere Speedway, the whole town of Morrison and most of Denver’s western suburbs.
The drive down the mountain, with no streetlights to illuminate the way and headlights absorbed by the wet pavement, was slow and scary. Once we got to Denver, we stopped at the first Denny’s with functional lights. We ordered hot black coffee and a piece of pie; and when the rain was still coming down when the pie was gone, we ordered omelettes.
They rescheduled the Jackson Browne part of the concert for some weeks later, after my sister had returned to Alaska. We got a refund, which was both surprising and OK because I don’t think Steve Earle was even in the lineup for that show. Sure, the whole cancellation was disappointing — as I’m sure it was Saturday in New York -- but I’m convinced the way the evening unfolded was more memorable than it would have been if Jackson Browne had taken the stage.
Long ago, I also had tickets to a September Bruce Springsteen concert at an outdoor football stadium that, despite the “Rain or Shine” promise printed on the ticket, was cancelled by snow. That show was rescheduled two days later, and in spite of the heartbreaking beginning, it was one of the greatest concerts I’ve ever been to.
And my nephew and I stood in a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd to see Bruce Hornsby on the stage of a street fair in Fort Collins some years ago. A thundercloud opened up with vehemence four or five songs in. Hornsby hadn’t even gotten to “Mandolin Rain” yet, which was both ironic and upsetting. People scrambled for cover; drenched, we sought refuge in the ATM foyer of a downtown bank. I guess the show resumed after the rain stopped, but we didn’t return. When the storm softened into a slow rain, we made our way back to the car and went home where hot chocolate chased the chill away.
I have tickets to see the Eagles in Denver next month. It’s an indoor venue, so I’m pretty sure weather won’t delay the show. I’m trying to take it easy, but every day I check my email sure there’s going to be a message that says COVID has cancelled the show. Again. The concert was originally scheduled for March 2020.
I can’t tell you why, but I’m holding my breath.
I might be a certain kind of fool, you know, but I am ready — mask and vaccine and all — to take it to the limit with 18,000 of my closest friends. Rain or shine.
The Pie:
Golden berry and Bourbon-Peach Pie
There are always golden berries at the grocery store down the street from my house. I noticed them a few years ago when I was shopping for some other berry — blackberries, probably, or raspberries. I noticed them because they were unusual, round and shiny like a cherry, but a deep yellow, almost orange that was decidedly not cherry-like. I had no idea what to do with them, but I figured we could come up with something tasty. How hard could it be with such a pretty berry?
My sister was visiting from Alaska at the time, and she too was perplexed. An avid reader of English novels, she suggested we make a “Golden Fool.” Basically, a fool — fouler in French, which means to mash — is a handful of berries, mashed with a fork, and then folded into fresh whipped cream. Fools are commonly made with some combination of blackberries, raspberries and strawberries and are often complicated by recipes on the Internet. The Golden Fool was, of course, delicious because the golden berries are tart (but not puckering) and the whipped cream is, well, whipped cream. So there was no way to lose with such a fun, romantic dessert.
Golden berries, it turns out, are pretty common all over the world but are native to the tropical climates of Peru, Colombia and Ecuador. It’s been cultivated in England since the mid-18th century, and goes by several different names: uchuva in Colombia, topotopo in Peru, amour en cage (love in a cage) or cerise de terre (ground cherry) in France, Cape gooseberry and golden berry, which is what it is marketed as in the grocery store near my house.
Because of it's called a Cape gooseberry in some circles, you might think it is related to a gooseberry. It is not. It is instead most closely related to tomatillos and includes a paper like husk that must be removed to discover the pretty golden treasure inside.
I don’t really remember where I found this recipe — somewhere during some journey on the Internet, no doubt. I was struck by its pairing with peaches, Colorado’s summer treasure, and the rich fall flavor of bourbon. I made it when my cousin paid a rare visit from California. Topped with a pretty crust and a sauce made of sour cream and maple syrup, it was a treat fit for company.
The recipe
2 to 2½ cups golden berries
4 cups sliced peaches
2 cups sugar
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup butter
¼ to ½ cup bourbon
Sour cream
Maple syrup
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Roll out the bottom crust and place in a 9-inch pie plate. Trim, leaving a 1-inch overhang. Place in the freezer while you make the filling.
Add 2 tablespoons butter to a small saucepan and melt on medium heat. When butter is melted, add sliced peaches. When peaches are slightly caramelized, add bourbon. (Add the bourbon to taste. I used ½ cup which created a deeply flavored peach. The alcohol does cook out, but the boozy smell remained.)
Let the bourbon and peaches cook for about 6 minutes. Then set aside.
In another saucepan, add golden berries, sugar and salt. Cook until it boils and some of the berries split.
Combine the fruit mixtures, then pour into the bottom crust. Add the top crust. Fold the bottom overhang up over the edge of the top crust. Crimp to seal. Cut some steam vents in the top crust. Sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon.
Bake 35-40 minutes, until the filling is hot and bubbly and crust is golden brown. Remove from oven and place on a wire rack to cool. Serve at room temperature.
Top with a mix of sour cream and maple syrup. (We had this pie three times: once without the sauce; once with the sour cream and maple syrup mixed together and poured over the pie like a sauce; once topped with a small spoonful of sour cream and the maple syrup drizzled over the sour cream. All three options are good, with no one registering a favorite, although the sour cream-syrup sauce was probably the least preferred option.)
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