Chillipop
It is five a.m. and the smell of fried grease and chicory coffee is so thick you can almost taste the grits, bacon and eggs before you swallow your first cup of “Good morning, Sugar.” (The words of the ebony-skinned Cook spooning out the grits with a grin as big as the skillet). There are other smells - of swear and manure - of broken hearts and desperate dreams. All mixed into the noise and the whirring fan above the stove swishing in black flies that sometimes get mixed into the pancake batter. It’s five a.m. And the Track Kitchen on the backside of the race track yawns like a scraggly barn cat - waiting to feed the grooms, trainers, exercise girls and wide-eyed strangers who share a common dream: To live and breathe and love the most magnificent creatures on God’s earth. This is the Mecca of blue bloods, crown princes, and Arab sheiks. This is Keeneland. The pulsing heart-beat of the Kingdom of the Thoroughbred Race Horse.
I am six - or close enough. I stand beside my dad, a horseman, scooting my tray. Staring at the grits. Hoping not to spill any grease on my new cowgirl boots. Waiting for the stories that will whisper secrets. And Truth.
I’m lucky that morning. A storyteller appears. She is “horsey” and gruff. And her name is now forgotten. But the story, about a horse trainer and a magnificent Arabian horse…about a llama and a boy abandoned in a barn at the backside of the track - this story I remember. This “story” inspires a different story. About something bigger than winning - about the power of Belief - about an unlikely trio who manifested nothing short of a miracle…
This is Chillipop.
It is five a.m. and the smell of fried grease and chicory coffee is so thick you can almost taste the grits, bacon and eggs before you swallow your first cup of “Good morning, Sugar.” (The words of the ebony-skinned Cook spooning out the grits with a grin as big as the skillet). There are other smells - of swear and manure - of broken hearts and desperate dreams. All mixed into the noise and the whirring fan above the stove swishing in black flies that sometimes get mixed into the pancake batter. It’s five a.m. And the Track Kitchen on the backside of the race track yawns like a scraggly barn cat - waiting to feed the grooms, trainers, exercise girls and wide-eyed strangers who share a common dream: To live and breathe and love the most magnificent creatures on God’s earth. This is the Mecca of blue bloods, crown princes, and Arab sheiks. This is Keeneland. The pulsing heart-beat of the Kingdom of the Thoroughbred Race Horse.
I am six - or close enough. I stand beside my dad, a horseman, scooting my tray. Staring at the grits. Hoping not to spill any grease on my new cowgirl boots. Waiting for the stories that will whisper secrets. And Truth.
I’m lucky that morning. A storyteller appears. She is “horsey” and gruff. And her name is now forgotten. But the story, about a horse trainer and a magnificent Arabian horse…about a llama and a boy abandoned in a barn at the backside of the track - this story I remember. This “story” inspires a different story. About something bigger than winning - about the power of Belief - about an unlikely trio who manifested nothing short of a miracle…
This is Chillipop.
It is five a.m. and the smell of fried grease and chicory coffee is so thick you can almost taste the grits, bacon and eggs before you swallow your first cup of “Good morning, Sugar.” (The words of the ebony-skinned Cook spooning out the grits with a grin as big as the skillet). There are other smells - of swear and manure - of broken hearts and desperate dreams. All mixed into the noise and the whirring fan above the stove swishing in black flies that sometimes get mixed into the pancake batter. It’s five a.m. And the Track Kitchen on the backside of the race track yawns like a scraggly barn cat - waiting to feed the grooms, trainers, exercise girls and wide-eyed strangers who share a common dream: To live and breathe and love the most magnificent creatures on God’s earth. This is the Mecca of blue bloods, crown princes, and Arab sheiks. This is Keeneland. The pulsing heart-beat of the Kingdom of the Thoroughbred Race Horse.
I am six - or close enough. I stand beside my dad, a horseman, scooting my tray. Staring at the grits. Hoping not to spill any grease on my new cowgirl boots. Waiting for the stories that will whisper secrets. And Truth.
I’m lucky that morning. A storyteller appears. She is “horsey” and gruff. And her name is now forgotten. But the story, about a horse trainer and a magnificent Arabian horse…about a llama and a boy abandoned in a barn at the backside of the track - this story I remember. This “story” inspires a different story. About something bigger than winning - about the power of Belief - about an unlikely trio who manifested nothing short of a miracle…
This is Chillipop.