Summer has officially ended, and with it, the last of my patience. Between soccer season, the eighth grade, and my rapidly declining tolerance for discomfort, I’ve decided: we are done with tent camping.
I’ve camped in tents my entire life, but this latest trip to Bethel, Maine was the final straw. The campground was fine, technically. Scenic even. But the bathhouse… oh, the bathhouse. At first glance, it looked charming in that rustic-New England way: white rafters, wooden stalls nailed together by what I assume was a man with a hammer in one hand and a Bud Light in the other. They say painting things white deters bugs. Well, apparently, no one informed the bugs.
The place was a spider sanctuary. It looked like a Harry Potter set, the one where Hagrid cheerfully insists the giant spiders are “friends.” I half expected Aragog himself to crawl out and ask how my weekend was going. The stalls were so narrow both my thighs pressed the walls at once, like some bizarre yoga pose. And the showers? Let’s just say the drains had collected so much hair I wondered if some enormous man-beast had bathed before me, so furry you couldn’t tell if he was a camper or a woodland creature auditioning for Narnia.
As I stood under a trickle of water pretending to be “pressure,” I found myself obsessing: could this tiny stream actually penetrate that much hair to reach the man’s skin? Or had he started shaving mid-shower just to get clean? Judging by the drain, I’d say he lost the battle. I was horrified, but also weirdly impressed by his dedication.
Tent City
We arrived with our friend Ashley and Andrew, also tent-dwellers. Our best friends Cristy and Don had booked the site next to an empty one. We asked to move closer, but the campground office informed us that site had been “locked”, meaning some savvy campers paid twenty bucks for the privilege of not being exiled. Apparently, privacy is worth exactly $20 in Maine. Cristy, always resourceful, suggested we call the mystery campers directly to see if they’d surrender their spot. The office staff looked at her like she was requesting access to nuclear codes.
So we set up anyway. And let me be clear: I am not a minimalist camper. I am a maximalist. When I camp, I don’t just bring a tent. I bring a home. Our ten-person, two-room tent went up, followed by a queen blow-up mattress, a twin for Ethan, and the LL Bean camping dresser I bought specifically so our clothes could be displayed like a retail pop-up shop. Then came the rug, the Christmas lights, the dual-zone heated blanket (which didn’t work, but it looked luxurious), comforters, throw pillows, and a canopy for the kitchen.
By the time we were done, it looked less like a weekend campsite and more like FEMA had staged a relief effort for suburbanites who refuse to live without dimmer switches. We had two coolers, a Blackstone, folding tables, totes stacked like Jenga, and, tragically, no vase, which I considered a personal betrayal on Sean’s part, because how was I supposed to forage wildflowers for a centerpiece?
Just as we stepped back to admire our encampment, a 65-foot diesel motorhome pulled into the empty site. The kind of rig that costs more than my house. I braced for Reba McEntire and her band, but instead, out stepped the sweetest retired couple, armed with clipboards and efficiency. As the husband rounded the corner, he locked eyes with me. I know what he was thinking: “Is this a refugee camp? A yard sale gone terribly wrong? Or a kohls one day lot sale?” He smiled politely, but the judgment was loud and clear.
Night of Suffering
That night, Ethan slept soundly in his sleeping bag while Sean, Leia (our pit bull), and I froze under my “decorative” comforter. Leia shook so hard she could have powered a generator. At three a.m., I woke to find Sean missing. After forty minutes, I did what any rational spouse would do: concluded he was having an affair.
In my mind, he was sipping bourbon in some cozy fifth-wheel, wrapped in a Pendleton blanket, while his new lover massaged his shoulders and whispered, “You deserve better than decorative throw pillows.” My blood boiled. Leia whimpered. I plotted my next move.
Then I heard someone outside. At last, I thought, he’s back, guilty and ashamed. No. Sean was turning on the patio lights and brewing coffee…at three in the morning. Fresh from a shower. Apparently, his version of coping with insomnia is personal hygiene. I wanted to scream, but instead lay there, seething with gratitude he wasn’t spooning a stranger, and rage that I was still freezing to death.
Day Two: Tubing Salvation
The next morning, bleary-eyed, we boarded a bus for our tubing trip. They fitted us with life jackets and drove us upriver. I attempted to start a sing-along, the trauma of Bible camp bus rides dies hard, but Sean shut me down with one look. I tried “Kumbaya.” Silence. I tried “Sweet Caroline.” Ethan muttered, “Cringe.” I resorted to humming “Camp Kookawaka Woods” by Patch the Pirate, quietly, in protest.
Tubing, however, was glorious. Floating three hours downriver with a cooler is my kind of religion. We tied ourselves to Ashley, Andrew, Cristy and Don, forming a makeshift flotilla, and drifted along like contented river trash. Ethan had the time of his life. I could almost forgive the spiders, the hairy drain, and Sean’s midnight coffee. Almost.
Dust and Despair
After lunch (Ashley heroically produced ham Italians), it was nap time. Cristy and Don retreated to their air-conditioned camper. I stretched out across our blow-up mattress, trucks rattling past and stirring up enough dust to trigger my asthma app. The particles streamed in through the mesh windows like we were living inside a snow globe, if snow globes were filled with dirt and resentment.
Just as I started to doze, Ethan dragged his mattress on top of mine and bounced around like a caffeinated feral puppy. I kicked him out, gasping under the weight of dust and disappointment. That’s when Cristy appeared. She plopped down next to me, looking fresh from the spa. “Wow,” she sighed, “this is terrible. You need air conditioning.”
Really, Cristy? Really? Nothing like a well-rested friend in climate control to remind you of your poor life choices.
The Pivot
And that was it. My breaking point. There would be no more tent camping.
Last night I fell down a YouTube rabbit hole and ended up watching this sweet girl visit her Nonna in Southern Italy. For thirty minutes I sat mesmerized as they documented all the food she ate over ten days with fresh ingredients, big flavors, simple methods. It was intoxicating. I wanted to book a flight immediately, but instead I looked over at my kitchen counter, where four pork chops were staring at me like, “Cook us now or lose us forever.” They were on their final day of the use/freeze-by window. Add to that the peppers and tomatoes I had just plucked from the garden, and suddenly inspiration struck.
To start, I heated some avocado oil in a skillet over medium-high heat and browned the pork chops for a few minutes on each side, until they developed a nice golden crust and hit 145°F inside. Off they went to a plate, loosely covered with foil to keep them warm and humble while I focused on the sauce.
Into the same pan went the sliced peppers. Pro tip from me to you: wear gloves when cutting a Thai chili. I did not. My finger burned so intensely I had to soak it in milk for twenty minutes, like some deranged dairy ritual. Lesson learned. Anyway, peppers cooked until tender, then in went the tomatoes.
Once the tomatoes finally broke down into something resembling sauce, I splashed in white wine. A quick simmer for two minutes, then a taste test and some adjustments: a pinch of salt, a little sugar for balance. Finally, I finished the sauce with balsamic vinegar and butter. Glossy, tangy, rich.
At that point, the pork chops rejoined the party. I spooned the sauce over them and let everything simmer together for another five minutes. Then I served them up with more sauce than was strictly necessary, because restraint is not my strong suit.
And that’s how Braciole di Maiale al Sugo (Brad’s Italian Pork Chops) came to be, equal parts Southern Italy inspiration, garden harvest, and desperation to use meat before it went bad.
Braciole di Maiale al Sugo (Brad’s Italian Pork Chops)
Ingredients
- 4 pork chops about ½ lb each, 1–1.5 inches thick
- 2 tbsp olive oil or avocado oil
- 1 small sweet pepper orange or yellow, thinly sliced
- 1 green pepper thinly sliced
- 1 small Thai chili pepper minced (optional, adjust to taste)
- 3 cups cherry and roma tomatoes halved or roughly chopped
- 4 garlic cloves minced
- 1 tsp salt
- ½ tsp black pepper
- 1 tsp dried oregano or thyme/rosemary
- ¼ cup white wine or chicken broth optional, for deglazing
- 1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
- 1 tsp sugar
- 2 tbsp butter
- Fresh parsley or basil for garnish
Instructions
Instructions
- Season pork chops with ½ tsp salt and ¼ tsp black pepper.
- Heat 1 tbsp olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Sear pork chops 3–4 minutes per side until golden brown (internal temp 145°F). Remove and keep warm.
- Add remaining 1 tbsp olive oil to the skillet. Sauté garlic, sweet pepper, green pepper, and Thai chili for 3–4 minutes until softened.
- Add tomatoes, remaining salt/pepper, oregano, and sugar. Cook 5–7 minutes, stirring, until tomatoes burst and form a sauce.
- Deglaze with white wine or chicken broth (if using), scraping up browned bits. Simmer 2 minutes.
- Stir in balsamic vinegar and butter. Taste and adjust seasoning.
- Return pork chops to skillet, spoon sauce over, and simmer gently 2 minutes to rewarm.
- Garnish with fresh parsley or basil before serving.
Notes
- The Thai chili adds a background kick; omit for a milder version or replace with red pepper flakes.
- Sauce will thicken as it simmers—cook longer if you prefer a reduced consistency.
- Serve with mashed potatoes, rice, or crusty bread.
