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Super Storm Sandy Stone Soup

On Thursday October 25, 2012, Governor Chris Christie told the people of the Jersey Shore to evacuate. Superstorm Sandy was on her way.

I’ve been through hurricanes before, and like many people, I didn’t buy into the “Frankenstorm” hype. It wasn’t until I saw the ticker from NOAA at the bottom of my TV screen that I got nervous. NOAA people aren’t smiling into the camera as they talk tragedy. These people are scientists. They know what they’re talking about and they didn’t say Superstorm Sandy was coming to the East Coast–they named our towns specifically.

At approximately 3 pm on Sunday October 28, the ocean met the lake, the inlet breeched. The storm still had a few hours before landfall.

A house crashed into the Mantoloking Bridge.


The power went out. People hunkered down. The Jersey Shore was dark and silent but for the wind howling along the coastline.

On Monday morning, boardwalks floated a mile inland. Houses sat blocks from their foundations. A boat from the Belmar marina perched on a street sign three towns away. 483419_4878917939701_507805190_n

Superstorm Sandy



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Cliff drove up Highway 35 those first few days. He works for the power company.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know.” The man doesn’t cry, but he was shaken up pretty bad.


For three weeks they worked 18 hour shifts, coming home to eat and shower. Over 2 million people were without power. An elderly couple approached his truck asking about the status in their neighborhood.

He couldn’t give them an answer because there were so many trees down and they had to wait until the tree guys came to remove them.

“Trace, she was shivering and there was nothing I could do.”

I thought about that poor old woman huddled with blankets next to her husband trying to stay warm. I nearly cried when I heard the pilot on our hot water heater kick on and thanked God we have a gas stove.

Brian and Chris were at 10th Ave Burrito cooking for First Responders and anyone else who needed a hot meal. I couldn’t get to the restaurant because Highway 35 was flooded.

On Tuesday, I pulled into the driveway of my restaurant, anticipating the worst. I was lucky.

I called Borough Hall and asked what they needed.

“Coffee cups for the volunteers,” Tabitha said. “And Tracie?”


“Whatever you got.”

I wasn’t prepared for this. People stood in the cold rain charging their phones on 2×4’s set up with electrical jacks.

Those first days I drove from Toms River to Belmar, cooked, served, and prayed. The power wasn’t going to be restored anytime soon, so Mayor Matt Doherty set a curfew.

I stood in my kitchen and cried.

Too dark, too lonely. So cold.

The gas rations kept me from coming back to Belmar, so I went to the Silverton firehouse where 29 of their guys lost their homes in the Brick fires. They brought their families to the firehouse and went out to rescue more people.

Their wives worked around the clock feeding the hungry, the exhausted.

An EMT from Delaware put her backpack next to a cot and walked into the kitchen. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

In unison, we told her to go get some sleep.

A part of our world was ending. What could we do? Embrace one another and convince each other everything would be all right?

I watched the tired firefighters clamber on a truck. They hadn’t eaten since their last call.

A little boy stood in the doorway of the kitchen. He asked his Grandma what he could do to help. His grandmother dried her hands and pulled him close.

I handed him a basket of bread. “Why don’t you put this on the big table next to the plates?”

He smiled, happy to have something to do.

Grandma said “thank you” to me and a minute later, he was back.

“What else.”

We laughed, tears in our eyes.

No matter what happens in this country, we’ll survive because people are willing to pitch in. A woman lost her home. She chopped onions to disguise her tears. She’d reserve them for later when everyone else was safe. We pulled together the best part of ourselves and threw it into the pot.

On my way home, I stopped at the Elks in Toms River to have a beer. A truck arrived from Virginia. They needed volunteers. It was the night of the snowstorm.

I put a few chickens in a pot of water and peeled potatoes. Nancy chopped vegetables while Sue opened cans of tomatoes. People came in from the cold and we served Brunswick stew. It wasn’t much, but it tasted good.

An old woman took my hands in hers and thanked me. “Did you make the soup?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

She lost her house and was sleeping at her daughter’s house. They had come for extra sleeping bags and blankets. I handed her a lantern and a new pair of gloves.

“Yes ma’am. I did.”

“That’s the best bowl of soup I ever had,” she said.

When I cry, it’s not tears of sadness but of joy. Yes, it was a sad time. But we made it. We’ll always make it. We took the best parts of ourselves and gave them to others. Like in the fable Stone Soup. It takes a community for a feast.

I saw it firsthand.

We all did what we could, and it worked.

Brunswick Stew for Melissa

Recipe for Brunswick Stew

1 3 lb fryer chicken (leftover chicken can be added to store bought chicken broth)
1 medium onion
2 cups diced potatoes
1 large can crushed tomatoes
2 cans corn drained
1 package frozen baby lima beans
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. black pepper
1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
1 tsp. marjoram
1 tsp. cumin

Clean whole chicken and put in a large stock pot with water enough to cover chicken (about a quart). Boil gently for about one hour or until chicken is cooked through and the meat falls off the bone. Strain, reserving liquid. When chicken is cool enough, pick the meat off the bones and put in pot with stock. Add the rest of the ingredients and stew for about 20 minutes. Serve hot with crusty French bread or a grilled cheese sandwich.

What the Bleep is in my Pantry, I’m hungry!

DSC_0004I’ve been gone a while. It took us two days to pack up the Budget truck for the North Carolina Seafood Festival in Morehead City, North Carolina. We packed 350 pounds of alligator sausage, 200 pounds of shrimp, stuff to make jambalaya and lobster macaroni and cheese. We had over a thousand crab mozzarella croquettes and the makings for lobster cakes. We had lobster bisque and seafood gumbo.

I barely ate all weekend. In fact I think I lost about four pounds. It’s hard work, these festivals.

Surrounded by food, and spilling shrimp juice on my legs, I didn’t feel like eating.

We got home late last night and went to bed right away. This morning I woke up with the dog in my face. She’s a little (no, a lot) pissed off we left her for so long. I gave her a shin bone from the freezer that “Uncle Steve” brought over he being a butcher and all. Belle loves Uncle Steve so I put the “babysitter” on the deck and tried to fall back to sleep.

Cliff left for work at 6 am. God Bless him. We’re both incredibly exhausted and psyched we didn’t fight. You see, he has his way of doing things and then there’s my way. Hmmm. Figure it out because I know you all have experienced what I won’t mention here.

My stomach is growling and I know there’s nothing to eat because we’ve been gone since Tuesday.

I open the refrigerator anyway.



I open the freezer. More Uncle Steves wrapped in brown butcher paper. A couple of pot pies. One ice cream sandwich.

Something long wrapped in aluminum foil.

A bag of Sabrett’s and burger patties leftover from the softball party.

I open the pantry and see cans of chicken broth, pork and beans and some Stove Top Stuffing (don’t say a word, cuz I know what you’re thinking. I don’t have to do everything from scratch).

A few cans of black olives.

Beans, pasta, tomatoes,

A box of Uncle Ben’s rice.

Taco shells.

Nothing to eat. I look at the dog through the sliding glass door. She sure is enjoying that meaty bone. I don’t feel like getting out of my pajamas to go to the store. I have clothes in the laundry that smell like Seafood Festival.

If you’ve never worked a seafood festival, you wouldn’t understand.

Trust me, you don’t want to.

Beans, pasta, tomatoes. Chicken broth.

Chicken broth and ditalini. Simple. No onions. No celery. No carrots.


I can’t even have a bowl of Captain Crunch because there’s no milk.

I put on a pot of water and open a can of chicken broth.

I look in the pantry again.


I open a can of tomatoes.

And a can of white beans.

I add some spice.

That long thing in the freezer wrapped in foil? The other half of garlic bread I made two weeks ago.

On goes the oven.

Now I’m starving and the smell of garlic bread has the dog staring at me through the glass. She has abandoned the babysitter.DSC_0717

The bread is crunchy and I’m on my second bowl of cheating pasta fagioli.

If you ever find yourself without something to eat, look in your pantry. I’m sure you’ll find something truly delicious in there if you look hard enough. This should also influence your next trip to the grocery store. The beans were 79 cents. The can of tomatoes on sale for 59 cents. The broth was two for a dollar. Pasta on sale 4 for 5 bucks.

I didn’t share, but I could have.


Pantry Pasta Fagioli (pasta and bean soup)

2 cans chicken broth
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes
1 can white beans, rinsed and drained
¼ tsp. black pepper
½ tsp. oregano
1 beef bouillon cube
½ tsp. chopped garlic
Pinch herbs de Provence
Pinch savory
¼ lb ditalini pasta

Cook pasta according to package. Rinse in cold water and set aside. Bring the rest of the ingredients to a boil. Lower heat and simmer for 20 minutes. Add pasta and simmer for 10 more minutes, longer if you like your soup thick. I like mine brothy. And I add more black pepper after.