By July 2033. Seventeenth camp. The heat this summer has been relentless — hitting a hundred by ten in the morning, the kind of dry Colorado heat that makes you think you're fine until you sit down and realize you're not. I've moved morning sessions earlier each year. This year we're on the field at five-thirty to beat the worst of it. The boys grumble. The parents wonder. We get it done.
Trevon Ashford is a junior this year and he's at a different level than anyone I've coached except maybe my own son Diego, and even that comparison doesn't fully hold. Trevon is faster, more patient in the hole, better in space. He's already hearing from college programs. He handles the attention with a composure I wouldn't have had at seventeen. I don't tell him that, because he doesn't need to know about my deficiencies at seventeen, but I observe it and I'm grateful for it. A player like that with bad ego management is a liability. Trevon is a gift.
Lisa drove up with lunch on Wednesday — brought green chile chicken sandwiches she'd made that morning and a jug of horchata and fed half the coaching staff and three linemen who happened to be near the equipment shed when she arrived. She's been doing this since camp number three. She doesn't make a production of it. She just shows up with food. That's who she is. I've been married to that woman for twenty-five years and she still shows up on a hot Wednesday in July with green chile chicken sandwiches and I am still, reliably, grateful.
Keisha is seven months pregnant. Diego calls me every Sunday with updates. This week: she's been craving tamales. Specifically my tamales. I'm making a batch next weekend and driving them to their apartment because a pregnant woman craving tamales is not a request you delay. I've already pulled the masa from the pantry. Ruben, wherever you are — your nephew's first child is coming. The line continues.
Lisa’s horchata didn’t last ten minutes in that heat, and it got me thinking about what else I could keep cold in the fridge for the rest of the week. Pecan milk is where I landed — creamy, a little sweet, and close enough to horchata in spirit that it scratches the same itch. I’ve been making a batch every few days since Wednesday, pouring it over ice between sessions while the boys hydrate and the sun does what the sun does in Colorado in July.
Pecan Milk
Prep Time: 10 minutes (plus overnight soaking) | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes active | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 1 cup raw pecans
- 4 cups filtered water
- 2 tablespoons maple syrup or honey (optional)
- 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 pinch sea salt
Instructions
- Soak the pecans. Place pecans in a bowl and cover with water by two inches. Let soak at room temperature for at least 4 hours or overnight. Drain and rinse.
- Blend. Add soaked pecans and 4 cups fresh filtered water to a high-speed blender. Blend on high for 60 to 90 seconds until smooth and milky.
- Strain. Pour the mixture through a nut milk bag or fine-mesh cheesecloth set over a large bowl or pitcher. Squeeze firmly to extract as much liquid as possible.
- Season. Return the strained milk to the blender or whisk in the maple syrup, vanilla extract, and salt. Blend or stir until combined.
- Chill and serve. Transfer to a sealed jar or pitcher and refrigerate. Shake well before serving over ice. Keeps refrigerated for up to 4 days.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 190 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 18g | Carbs: 7g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 40mg