pedaling

Thursdays are tough. By this day, my sleep time fluctuates and my do nothing time is near zero levels. It’s the last of the days where I lecture all morning and I’m near spent. I see my days as a string of circles, like bike chains that occasionally jump from one setting to another, but basically remain suspended around the same orbit.

I get up early, work until the last possible minute and, for the third day now, find my phone ringing just before I leave. It’s Amos, today telling us that unfortunately, for one reason or another, the roof has been cut too short.

I pass this problem on to Ed and pedal off to class. So what. Too short? There surely is a solution. My ideas on this are irrelevant. I know nothing about extending roofs or overhangs.

Past Lake Mendota I spin. By the time I see the boats on the very still waters, I am in a steady rhythm of pedal work and I concentrate on the class before me.



Purchase photo 1926


And now I am at the Union. One last look at the waters, a pause to admire the kayak lesson, and I turn inland, toward my own classroom.



Purchase photo 1925


It’s the end of the month. A mixed up month of warm air, happy reunions, camping misconceptions and artistic snafus. A month of mosquitoes and markets. Of adjustments. Including to the roof of the writer’s shed.

the rush

A busy morning. Let me huff my way through it for you.

Up early. Finish lecture review. Market – that’s right, I need to go to the other other market (the Hilldale one, just 6 minutes walk from here). I promised my students treats. Cherry muffins maybe? Time to leave Ooops -- Amos, the shed builder, calls. It is a long conversation. Something about metal strips being cut to six feet instead of seven. Wait. The interior must not be less than six feet. Ed is more than six feet. Standing up straight has to be an option. Discussion ensues. Suddenly, time is tight

I rush to the market. I buy muffins. And corn for myself. And flowers. I forget to take pictures. I go back, take two photos of the places where I shopped. (No picture of cherry muffins. Sorry.)



Purchase photo 1924





Purchase photo 1923



If I pedal fast, I wont be late. I’ll be sweaty though; it’s damn hot outside. I pedal fast anyway.

The last stretch is a walk up Bascom Hill to the main Law School entrance. Dare I join these marketing students? They’re having some combination of bonding and competition exercise on the lawn.



Purchase photo 1922


It involves running through sprinklers. I am so tempted to take my class and insist that we all run through sprinklers. But it doesn’t fit into my lecture on the interplay of customary law and general (imported) law in Zimbabwe and Burundi.

I go inside. With muffins. And lecture notes. For once, I do not hate air conditioning.

bathing

The last time I remember taking a leisurely, soothing bath was in May, in Brittany, after braving the cold spray of the English Channel for three hours. In those days (was it only two months back?) I still appeared to have the need to demonstrate to Ed (my occasional traveling companion) that I have adventure locked firmly into my DNA.

Today, we dance ever so gingerly around the topic of travel. The play of words and ideas is all very delicate, very unserious. At the surface, we ignore the other, even as we surely are aware of what the other is saying.

For instance, Ed tells me – some weekend soon we should take the ferry across Lake Michigan, and bike for a while, and pitch a tent. Noting silence, he continues, in a conciliatory fashion, I suppose – and eat a nice dinner.

Minutes earlier, I had already put in my own comment. My colleague told me how beautiful his recent trip to California was. He stayed at a fantastic b&b near Carmel and you should hear him rave about the food! Silence.


In the meantime, I continue to shower. I put off thoughts of bathing. That indulgence is, in my mind, for those splendid times when you do challenge yourself and hike out or pedal out and get unlucky with the weather. You come back to your lovely warm room, turn on the hot water knob and exhale.

Still, as I bike to work, I note that others are bathing on a fairly regular basis. The ducks are doing their morning stuff in Lake Mendota, and on my return, I note the cars are getting a soaking, as the city flushes its water mains.



Purchase photo 1921







Purchase photo 1920

bands of color

This afternoon, I watched a young woman exit Whole Foods. Two long braids of jet black hair fell magnificently on her bare back. The pleats were held together by many colorful rubber bands, twining up the length of the braid, all the way to her scalp.

I was itching to photograph her. But my itch worked its way more slowly than her footstep and by the time I told myself – oh for God's sake, just take it! -- she had turned the corner.

It is so often like that.

I leave you, instead, with the colors differently presented – in flower beds that I passed on my walk to Whole Foods. The two blues, and the prairie flames of gold and magenta. Beyond that, it was a hot and singularly discouraging walk. (And day.)



Purchase photo 1919





Purchase photo 1918

caption

What would you guess about the two photos that I took today? I’d label them “inaccessible.”

The first is straightforward: we walk through a mall (of all things) for no reason except to get to the other side and we spot this girl looking inside. And dancing. And looking inside. Wishing that what? That’s her secret, not mine. But whatever she is dreaming about is inside. Not something she can touch or call her own.





The second is just the view across the road where Ed lives. So pretty! One of my favorite pastoral scenes in Dane County. But it is substantially inaccessible. Not because it’s private – you can beg permission to wander through the prairie grasses. But because of the mosquitoes. They stand guard and forbid any entrance.



Purchase photo 1917


Summer in Madison has not been generous to those who love the outdoors. Not here, anyway. We barricade ourselves inside and work wishing that each day would be the last of the great invasion.


In the evening, I watch the last day of the Tour de France. Ed talks about future biking and camping in France. I’m thinking – can I be a spectator in life? And watch others do the impossible, as I slide under a crisp, white quilt and close the windows on mosquitoes?

the other one

With friends visiting from out of town… (mother and daughter)











I did the downtown market today. It’s not that I’m not proud of the Westside Community Market, it’s just that you don’t go there for a two hour stroll. You go with a purpose: to buy, say hi and return home.

And it was a beautiful day and a beautiful market on the Square. Colorful. From the vinegar bottles, to the sideshow.



Purchase photo 1916





Purchase photo 1915


And they do cut flowers so very well there!



Purchase photo 1914


Some items are identical to those at my local market. Same vendor even.



Purchase photo 1913


But, the crowds kept me from taking out the camera much. And I had a lot of “I should have” thoughts. I should have bought from that stand. Or waited til the other. Really, you cannot do the downtown market just once. You need to circumvent it at least twice. We did a one and a half compromise.

From there, I walked home. Only five miles. The lake was a notch smelly, so I took to the sidewalk. Initially, offering pretty views…



Purchase photo 1912





Purchase photo 1911


…then, uninspired. Couldn't even amuse myself with people watching.

I wish some of those people crowding the Square would hit the sidewalks occasionally. Once I left State Street, during the entire remaining (4 mile) walk up Observatory then University Avenue, I passed not a single walking human being.

peeking out

I’m learning, with the assistance of a highly skilled entrepreneur, on what not to do to launch a project (which has the goal of paying for itself – that’s how low my entrepreneurial goals reach). It’s tough going.

And so, I write this day off as too busy to toss around much in Ocean waters.

But, there’s always a smile-inducing moment, in every set of crowded hours. One came when I stepped outside and peeked down at the daylilies planted outside the condo building. And found this little guy peeking out at me.



Purchase photo 1910


As the bunny and I exchanged friendly stares, my project coach found great wealth among the flower leaves. There, lay a fine wine glass that some (condo) visitor must have tossed out. I expect now to be served wine in something other than a water mug when I next visit him. And here I offer you this lesson, one that I have learned by hanging around my coach: success comes from knowing every inch of your territory, and from plain old luck.

outsider status

Biking home after a far west errand, I stopped at Owen Woods. It’s Madison’s underrated park. Besides those living within spittin’ distance of it, no one knows much about it and no one visits it. Which, I suppose, is a good thing. When you do go, it’s as quiet as the bottom of the Grand Canyon. (I’ve never been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, but imagine it’s pretty quite there.)

I took a photo and contemplated whether I should take a walk down this path.



Purchase photo 1909


I didn’t. I used to live close by and the path used to be a regular trek for me, but now I’m a neighborhood emigrant and I feel I don’t belong here.

It struck me that Owen Woods is just one small piece in a larger framework of not belonging. For instance, I’ve stopped going to a book club that was neighborhood based. In my mind, I don’t share the issues of the neighborhood anymore. It’s as if I were to crash a condo rooftop party here (there’s one tonight, for all you condo party crashers!) when I move on to a place in Florida, or a nursing home or something. (BTW, I’m not ever going to move to Florida.)

Of course, one could dig deeper and tell me this: you don’t belong because when you lived there, you were married and had children who went to school there. That’s then. Now you ride a bike to work and have not seen Jason the color genius for months and when you passed your kids’ high school just this afternoon, it seemed strangely foreign.

What surprises me is that when I go back to Poland, although I am not always happy there, I feel, for better or worse, that I do belong.

Strange, how childhood neighborhoods never leave your gut, but other places, ones where you happily planted perennials and lilacs and roses, seem so very far away. Even though they’re just three miles down the road from where you now live.

japanese beetles and other matters of luck

Ed has a thriving population of Japanese beetles on his property. You know them perhaps? They’re too thick and crunchy to be attractive to the common insect-eating birds or reptiles. Kind of gross, too, if you squash them with your fingers. They eat up your plants at a healthy pace and so no one is happy with their presence.

Wanting to be helpful, I read up on them to offer some advice. (Also, I have found one or two on my balcony and though a balcony is a manageable environment, still, I wanted to know more on how to communicate to them that they’re trespassing.)

Well now, it appears that the only way to effectively control Japanese beetles is to plant things that they find less than tasty. An orchard such as the one on Ed’s property and the sprawling raspberries (want some canes? come, with a shovel and lots of deet!) -- these are like a party with an open bar for beetles.

Moreover, once you get a few beetles, you’re going to get more. They are attracted to each other and they go where their own scent makes them dizzy with happiness.

Traps, you say? Sure. Traps are so effective that they can entice beetles that had no intention of ever coming your way.

And so there you have it. Not only may you be so unlucky as to have a tree ruined by the pests, but that in itself may, in turn, lead you to have other plants munched up too. Bad luck begets bad luck.

I have a friend like that. Lots of bad things happen to her. Hello, friend, I’ll say. How are you? The answer is never good. Things keep spiraling, even though one has to imagine that she has had her share and the tide must surely shift now. Her bad luck follows her in much the same way the beetles follow each other. It’s all rather disheartening.

I thought about this as I biked to work the last couple of days. Because you cannot help but consider yourself incredibly lucky to be passing this every morning on the way to work. Makes you want to take out the old paint brush and paint. (Or, in my case, reach for the camera.)



Purchase photo 1908





Purchase photo 1907





Purchase photo 1906

on being Polish

To me, July 22nd will always recall a different segment of my life. It used to be the Polish equivalent to the 4th of July: the national holiday, the day to do picnics with your family and wave little paper flags showing your pride in being Polish. Which is different than the other national holiday – the once celebrated May 1st, because that was more about your solidarity with the workforce, so to speak. It’s ironic that a different Polish Solidarity brought down this kind of ill-construed communist solidarity.

Of course, July 22nd has been discredited. It celebrated the acceptance of a communist government in Poland (1944) and I use the term “acceptance” loosely. But, I grew up with this Poland. I didn’t know any other country, just the communist one and so it was my country’s holiday. Flags are up. Beaches and riverbanks are crowded with families taking a day off. Here I am, a preschooler in the Polish countryside, in July.





Now, that’s all over and done with and we’ve moved on, or back in time rather, since May 3rd is the national holiday and that celebrates the Polish constitution of 1791. I don’t live in Poland, so the change has passed me by and as I’ve said here, on Ocean, national holidays generally pass me by so I can’t say I feel more Polish on May 3rd than on any other day of the year.

And what of May 1st, you ask? Obviously these days, no one is in the mood to keep in place a holiday that celebrates communist solidarity. So aren’t you surprised to learn that May 1st remains a national holiday in Poland? A bit of a name change: it’s the National Day, or Labor Day. That’s fitting. Labor stays even as communism moves on. And what’s even more fitting is the fact that we now have a national holiday on May 1st and May 3rd, making May 2nd a de facto holiday because who would be foolish enough to come in to work on a day where the rest of the country is populating the beaches and riverbanks.

Anyway, I wake up on this day and think – oh, this used to be Poland’s holiday.

on building new things

Is being in the midst of construction ever pleasant? It’s not as tedious as going to the dentist, or maybe it is because I wake up to the sound of drilling upstairs in the unit above me and I think, oh my, that is one unpleasant sound.

The thing is, the unit was finished many many months ago. So why the pounding and sawing again? And will it ever stop? Wanting an image of an end date, I go upstairs, only to find that the sound is really coming from the unit two doors down. That one is nowhere near done. Sound travels in odd ways.


Late in the morning I try out the new bike path that connects the VA hospital with campus. Since it is easy for me to use only bike paths and parking lots to get to the VA hospital from my condo, I welcome this addition. It’s no looker, but it's hugely convenient. Speed. It offers speed.



Purchase photo 1905


Except that the path has trucks on it and it dead ends suddenly and it’s all because of construction and I sigh in resignation and go back to the lake path. Pretty, here, by the lake. A little out of my way, but today I am in no hurry.



Purchase photo 1904


But wait. After leaving the lake path, as always I cut through the Shorewood neighborhood. Except I cannot, because the road is ripped up and I have to toddle back and weave in and out until I end up adding miles and dirt to my bike tires.

The last stretch is up the steep hill to my condo. I pass a block of dusty pits and pools of water that will never dry of their own accord and I long for construction to move the project of building the new Whole Foods forward. It’s been a deconstructed mess far too long and I can hardly stand looking at the abandoned nothingness.

Upstairs, I settle in to work on my lectures until the sound of the sawing and hammering drives me outside to pace the streets and curse the sound of construction.

I would bike to Ed’s, but there I am reminded that we haven’t done much with the construction of the writer’s shed (even as Amos is moving ahead with his part of the work). My greatest effort has been mowing the lawn around the site. A nothing step, taken by a person who knows next to nothing about construction. Except that it takes time and it requires tools that make noise.

on the hill

It’s time to reacquaint myself with my office again. I start a summer schedule of teaching this week and even though I try hard to take most of my work as far as possible from my official work space, sometimes I need to lock myself in and keep my focus.

Except when my gaze wanders outside to Bascom Hill, that place of hurried academic movement, year round, up and down and across the green, they march and sit and throw Frisbees and think academic thoughts. Maybe.



Purchase photo 1903


In moments when I am not writing a lecture, I think about photography. I’ve received a handful of helpful comments from readers who know more about art shows than I do. And also from readers with questions. Many ask which photos I’ve selected for my October show. I’ll be more forthcoming later, but I pass to you this invitation:

…if you remember any photo on Ocean that you especially liked, send me a note. I’ve already revamped the portfolio with work that others have pushed to the front and I’ll happily do it again.


In the early evening (or, if the sun has not dipped yet, is it the late afternoon?), Ed and I take a walk along the fields that border his land. Hills, but not of the Bascom sort. Hills of labor, ones requiring stamina. And resilience. Heat, bugs, tough soil. We watch a neighbor ride his tractor between rows of saplings and exchange comments on the weather with the farmers taking a break at the side of the road.



Purchase photo 1902





Purchase photo 1901



It matters here, on the hill. Weather matters. Much more so than on Bascom Hill.

On other hills, children play and fawns romp.



Purchase photo 1900





Purchase photo 1899

celebrating

I’ve got a few good things to cheer about. Today marks a year in the condo. I noticed a wasp nest on the balcony. Celebrate!

More important: today is my daughter’s 23.5 birthday. We used to be into half birthdays. When she was, maybe, three. It brings back memories. Have a beautiful day!

Then there is the market.


The end of the week. It’s Friday evening. Another segment of the Tour de France. Men biking very very fast – it’s a good backdrop to getting projects done. Speed. No laughter though. Jon Stewart takes Fridays off so the TV fizzles into nothing and I switch to music.

And now here it is: Saturday morning. I take out my Pierrerue basket and cross the street.

Food wise, there’s nothing so totally satisfying as having the Westside Commounity Market just across the street. Open the door, step out, climb the little hill and there it you have it.

The market is celebrating its third birthday today. Such energy! A three year old, plunging forward with zip and spirit!

Ed is with me and so we pick up the freebies – delicious pain au chocolat, a gift from Madison Sourdough. And cheese curds. And then we buy. Tomatoes, cucumbers, yogurt (Only ten? Why only ten? Isn’t ten enough? You’re not thinking of me!), milk, curds, blueberries, flowers, etc.



Purchase photo 1898





Purchase photo 1897





Purchase photo 1896



Celebrations are fleeting. The day progresses. I push a lawnmower over mosquito homes, then watch the evening sun play with the willow.



Purchase photo 1895

update

Whereas in spring, I had two ongoing sagas that I monitored here, on Ocean, now I have three. To the building of the writer’s shed, and the progress of the farmers planting their veggies next to Ed’s place, I now add the art show as a project that started little and may turn out to be, well, huge. Because you have no idea how much you don’t know about the things you don’t usually do in life.

Let me catch you up on all three.

The farmers next door. That one’s easy. I take out my camera, I go out on the road and I take a few shots and occasionally wave to the various family members as they look up from their work. Several times I have felt that I should go out and help. It is such grueling work in this buggy heat (we are near marshlands and it is impossible to be outside without protective gear and lots of bug spray – neither of which I ever have on me and so I rarely stick around for more than a minute).

Progress report? Stuff’s growing.



Publish photo 1894



The writer’s shed. This one is a tough little number. Why can’t building a house be as simple as slapping a few boards together and putting in a stove for the winter? Ed is mostly done leveling the land, but we are nowhere near having a shed in place.

Still, Amos drove up today to claim the insulation and windows and it could be that in a couple of weeks we’ll see something standing in the spot designated as the place where one day I’ll churn out manuscripts.





And finally, the art show. Several of you have asked what that’s all about. I’m participating in the annual Madison Area Open Art Studio the first weekend of October. You know about it? Over 100 local artists open their studios to visitors that week-end. Me, I don’t have a studio and I hesitate in applying a term that grandiose to what I do. In my younger times, artists were people who either had elaborate studios and sold stuff to wealthy people or hung out in places like Chelsea (NY) and pierced body parts that even immodest me prefers to keep covered.

But, I live in a building where a handful of others do art full time and we are grouping together to display our stuff in the cavernous and unused office space on the ground floor. Very industrial looking. More on that later.

The goal is to get at least two dozen pieces ready for the show. There are two other “surprise” elements to my “presentation,” but you really have to come and see this for yourself because I am keeping quiet about it for now.

Oh, but it is difficult it is to learn the art of presenting art to the public!

color

My man Jason, the color expert (in the hair department) must be wondering what the hell has happened to me. I haven’t seen him in months.

It’s not that I haven’t thought about color. I have. Continuously. But all tint and tone speculations have had to do with photography. I am absolutely swamped with work in preparation for my photo showing in October. You may feel that this is a distant deadline. And that a Jason cut and color could fit within the busiest of schedules.

Sure. But the reality is that one Jason visit can pay for the printing and framing of two large photos. So there’s that. And, timewise – I start teaching next week and pretty much keep at it until December. I am in a pocket of quiet and I need to use it wisely.

What about the book, you ask? Oh, I’ve been thinking a lot about that as well. How, for example, I haven’t written a single word since I left Paris in June.

This morning, I sat with my cup of homemade cappuccino on the balcony and I looked at the colors of the flowers I have planted in big clay pots (or, in some instances, cheated and bought in ready-planted big plastic pots). So many appear to be purple and yellow.



Purchase photo 1893


And this is my life right now. Avoiding color, thinking about color, and watching an ant lug something across the concrete, feeling great relief that my load isn’t nearly as big as hers.






On a side note, I have been needing an official photo which depicts a person who likes the outdoors and is the out-and-about-in-her-home-town type. Ed took this one as I was setting out to buy groceries. I especially like the devilish flares coming out of my shoulders.

on the beauty of peas

Early in May, I helped Ed plant peas. Or, you could say that he helped me. Because really, I don’t know much about growing peas. Flowers, herbs – yes. I’ve planted my share over the decades. Peas? No.

Even though I have picked many a growing pea in my life. My grandmother’s garden in Poland had lots of peas, beans, and other climbers and periodically she would send me out before supper to pick her a handful. Loved that job. Tak, Babciu, oczywiscie, tak, od razu (yes, grandma, of course, yes, right away).

I so wish she had lived long enough that I could have told her how much I enjoyed picking peas for her. Kind of silly, I suppose. She probably knew.

And here I am, growing peas.

So often these simple acts become disproportionately important for reasons that have little to do with the final outcome. Peas. Big deal. I mean, it’s just peas.

But, the sweet pea -- it’s my birth month flower (do people still pay attention to birth month flowers?) and then there’s my grandmother…



Purchase photo 1892


So wonderful, so truly wonderful that we can make a big deal of these very small events.

from the Sugar River Dairy

Several weeks ago, we were just finishing up our veggie hunt at the Westside Community Market. I looked at my still not too full basket. Potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, peas… what’s missing? Yogurt. I like it with dill on a baked potato. Or with sliced cucumbers. It’s a very Polish thing – sour milk, yogurt, kefir – ubiquitous products in the old country. We drank them for supper, with potatoes on the side, or mixed with fruit, as an afternoon pick-me-up.

The vendors at the Sugar River Dairy stand were selling containers of plain yogurt and ones with fruit. We purchased both, polishing off the blueberry one right there on the spot. It stopped me short.

Pretty much the best I have ever tasted. This is no hyperbole. This is a fact.



The sun is still warm as we bike past the Sugar River. We paddled here once, before all the flooding spilled the Sugar waters beyond the river banks, creating green ponds around trees used to drier meadows.







Purchase photo 1891


This is farming country. Cornfields. Dairy farms. We see hints of family pride in doing things well.



Purchase photo 1890


We’re close to Albany, Wisconsin and the hills are something else. Our water bottles are almost empty by the time we reach 7346 County D – the address we picked off the Sugar River Dairy yogurt container.

We hadn’t announced our visit. Asking for an appointment is like asking for a commitment of someone’s time. I’d be happy just to see the place. And at this point, we would be happy to simply dump some more water into our empty bottles.

But, are we at the right place? There’s no huge building announcing production of anything. Yes, yes – there are some cooler trucks in the yard. This must be it.

It’s 5:30 and Ron, Chris and their oldest son are finishing the clean up for the day. And they are so welcoming! Would you like to look around? See how we do things?


Small. Yes. The whole operation could fit into a garage! But what care is taken into the making of this most wonderful, tangy, creamy yogurt!

Milk, brought in by Ron in his own milk-carrying truck. Three times a week, from just one farm twelve miles away, where they pasture graze their cows.










Heated (to pasteurize it), then cooled to introduce the culture. And then it all goes to this adorable machine which adds fruit and seals the containers.





Lids are placed by hand and then away it goes, to incubate, and finally cool off.



Buy photo 1889



So it’s a no-sweat operation, right?

No, not right. We’re a dairy state, correct? We produce milk, cream, butter, cheese. More and more, we note the appearance of wonderful artisanal cheeses, made right here, in Wisconsin. Small, family-owned businesses. Emphasis on quality. Last I counted, there were some five dozen artisanal and homestead cheesemakers in our state. What a nice support network!

How about homestead yogurt? I’m told we’re down to two – one near Green Bay and Sugar River Dairy.

Dannon, Yoplait (General Mills in the US) – they are the big players. Dannon has maybe three plants in the entire country. These spit out millions of little tins of yogurt that fill grocery shelves.

But wait, if Ron and Chris can do such a superior yogurt, where are the other local yogurt makers? Why aren’t they buying up machines that throw fruit into that heavenly, creamy, cultured milk?

We had to go to Israel to get this machine. None here for the little guy. And the fruit? Blueberries, peaches – you think we get them locally, right? Wrong. Michigan, right next door, producing all the fruit we could use, but they don’t prepare it for the little guys, in the quality way that we want. So we have to go to California for fruit!

Oh, but there’s moral and technical support for what you’re doing, no? I mean, we're so proud of what's happening here! Our state should throw accolades and awards your way!

No. It’s lonely out there, at the helm. Homestead production is so rare, so rare, that it’s one uphill struggle just dealing with bureaucracies and inspectors and agencies that cannot work out between themselves what it is that they hope to accomplish.

And still, The Sugar River Dairy continues to make the very best yogurt I have ever tasted. Why do they do it? Oh, that’s the wrong question to ask. The real puzzle? Why isn’t it easier for more farmers to do the same, so that our pasture grazed cows get to show off their milk and our dairy farmers can shove the giants to the side and place their own product out there, with the quality that they are so capable of producing?


We fill our jugs with cool well water. Delicious. We’re refreshed. We pedal home past many sad (in my estimation) cows standing in mud, waiting for their feed, primed to pump milk like robots for the big guys, and just one or two pastures of happy cows, grazing. Happy cows and great yogurt, supported by happy eaters like me.


Purchase photo 1888


And you. People who eat the stuff should demand quality. Look for the Sugar River Dairy yogurt at Whole Foods, or Willie Street, or Metcalfe's Sentry, or Brennan’s, or the Westside Community Market (among other places) and if your store doesn’t carry it, ask them why not. And say thanks to Ron and Chris if you see them at the market. For doing it the good way. Leading to this, one of the very best yogurts you’ll ever eat, on either side of the ocean.

(For the curious: the yogurt is not YET for sale outside of Wisconsin. Don’t even ask why. A tale of further continued frustration.)