Gasparilla Chili Invasion

Our ship launched at the 1992 Gasparilla Parade

The following story is one I wrote of my first Gasparilla party at my new home in Hyde Park.  My whole world was fresh, my home, my sweetheart, my friends. At the time I wrote this little story I knew I had to write, but I had no idea that I was a writer. That seemed too pretentious a title for me to adopt. Writers were real people, who published books, who wrote constantly, who had a voice.  I had none of that, then. I never would have dreamed all of that would come true twenty-six years later, in 2019 when my first book, Writing in Wet Cement was published. I’m sharing that fresh life with all my 2026 readers, for the beginning of a new year of writing, parties, contemplation, joys and lessons.

January 30, 1992 was the day before Gasparilla. Tim and I were discussing the menu. “It’s going to be cold, maybe even raining,” Tim warned me on that dark day prior to Gasparilla. We were preparing the house for the invasion due to occur the following day. We had been counting on good weather. “Everybody may be inside until the parade. What are you going to cook?”

I looked out the windows of my beloved 1920s bungalow, the first home of my own. In December of 1990 I had purchased the house as a safe harbor for myself and my two children, Ali, twelve, and Neal, nine. This was going to be my first big party.

It did look cold. I wandered onto the front porch. Yes, it was definitely a chilly day, due to be just as cold on Gasparilla.

“Chili, of course, I’ll make chili.” That would keep everyone good and warm and fit into any potluck contributions the horde would bring the next day. Hugo's Cubans, chips, salsa, beer, cheese and fruit, and Jean's famous chocolate covered brownies would complete the offerings.

The wind and rain were crashing on the roof and thrashing the trees outside my kitchen window as I gathered the ingredients for Chili. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed as I contentedly stirred the chili in my favorite crockpot, adding a bit more garlic and salt. The world looked dismal for my first Gasparilla party. I hoped the weather would change overnight, as it so often does in Tampa.

Tim and I set out for our pre-Gasparilla errands. First, to pick up the scaffolding we had rented on Howard Avenue, one block south of my home on South Watrous. Next we raided the dumpsters at Dud Thames’ Bike Shop on MacDill Avenue, collecting the huge discarded  bike boxes we had been squirreling away for weeks, stored in my broken down garage. Then, off to the grocery store for chili fixings.

Once home I settled into my favorite task, cooking. I made a crock pot of chili, enough, I imagined for the expected fifteen pirates.

Gasparilla, February 1, 1992, was cold and clear. Thankfully, no rain was on the horizon or forecast. We got the scaffolding out in the driveway, put out lots of buckets of paint and brushes, and hauled out the bike boxes. Ali, Neal and Tim started erecting the scaffolding into our “pirate ship,” attaching the bike boxes that had been cut into pirate ship shapes onto the scaffolding with man’s best friend, duct tape. I watched from the kitchen window as the ship took shape, occasionally adding my artistic touches here and there to the evolving vessel. Both Tim and I were in full pirate regalia. I, complete with my jeweled sword, which was eventually taken away from me after claims (unfounded, of course) were made that I was taking my pirate wench role far too seriously and had assaulted various men along the parade route. Lies! Rumors!

Soon the pirates and their kids began arriving and the ship took serious shape. The Crow’s Nest, a plywood platform, was built and attached to the top  of the scaffolding. The kids could climb up the scaffolding to the top of the Crow’s Nest to have the best view of the parade and catch the most beads. 

The house started to fill up. Who were all these people? The chili pot began to empty out. I’d never made a lot of chili before and didn’t know if I’d concocted enough for the enlarging crowd. Nervously, I perused my pantry and cabinets. I love to grocery shop, so I always have a good supply of all varieties of canned goodies on hand.

Now the kids were painting the ship, paint and brushes were everywhere. Portholes were

Kids hard at their creative touches with lots of paint!

painted in, along with “waves.” A flag was created and flown from the Crow’s Nest. Riot, rampage and paint, mixed with beer, wine and effusive pirates swarmed the ship. It was almost time to roll the ship down Watrous Avenue to Bayshore Boulevard and claim a good place for the kids to view the parade and catch beads.

One final touch: we had to name the ship. Holding aloft my martini glass, I announced the names Tim and I had agreed upon: SoWat for South Watrous and SoHo for South Howard. We painted the names upon the bow of the ship and prepared for our virgin voyage.

I ran back into the kitchen to check the chili. Oy vey! The fifteen pirates who had grown to fifty had dedicated the chili! Desperate measures had to be taken immediately!

I raided my cabinets, threw everything chili related that I could find into the crockpot, stewed tomatoes, salsa, roasted chilis, black olives, kidney beans, chili beans, onions, chopped leftover turkey breast. Somehow, I figured, by the time the vastly enlarged band of pirates returned there would be enough chili to feed the starving, drunken masses.

We set off and had a wonderful time. The kids loved their ship, as did various scantily clad wenches who made forays into the Crow’s Nest for bead collection purposes. Enormous amounts of beads decorated all of us. (I believe that may have been when my sword was stolen from me, for the good of myself and my fellow pirates, I was told. Rubbish!)

Friendly Neighborhood Peace Officer surveying the scene watchfully

A newspaper reporter from the St. Petersburg Times approached our ship, the only one of its kind ever seen at the parade route. We had certainly attracted attention. In fact, at one point a local police officer climbed into the Crows' Nest to view the crowd. (I seem to recall he was extremely handsome and very friendly, as any officer should be.) The reporter took notes and photos and asked us about the names we had christened our pirate’s ship, SoHo and SoWat.

Onward! Staggering back to my lovely little nest, the chili, enlarged upon and improved, fed the minions. My sword was restored, thanks to the success of the chili. The party continued until midnight, when the cops arrived to quiet us down and Jean's last brownie is eaten.

The next day the story of our SoHo/SoWat Ship was reported in the post-Gasparilla coverage in the St. Petersburg Times. Outside of SoHo in New York City, that was the first time I had ever seen SoHo referred as our South Howard neighborhood. SoHo was christened that Gasparilla.

Ever after, each time Tim  and I plan a party, all our old pirates and their now grown children request my chili. I always comply, rather than being forced to walk the plank for disobedience, as I never misbehave or disobey orders!

Krewe and Kids in Epic Form