I am living a capitalist dream

Not only did I strike gold with the Polack's Profiles idea yesterday --it'll make me rich! (see post below), but I found in my mailbox an envelope from L'Etoile asking if I would accept a 100% salary increase and a bonus. Would I accept it? Would I accept it? I gave myself a few hours to consider and then I said yes -- unfortunately I said this during the same phone conversation where I told them I would be a no-show this week-end. I explained that the Chef de Cuisine and I had cut a deal: he'll cover for me at the Market as forager (that is my job) and I will cover for him in the kitchen as Chef de Cuisine any tme he wants me to! However, I do fear that the management at l'Etoile was a little taken aback when I said "Thanks! I'll take the raise and now I am going to save you some money because I wont be there this Saturday."

Of course, I cannot work at l'Etoile this week because I am at this moment flying to my second home for the year -- in New York City.

On the flight over, I was getting into the groove by reading New York Magazine and by dollar-bill-golly, I had another Capitalist Cacophony go off in my head. Amy Sohn's column described the miserable "friendship scene" in the city. It appears to be difficult, nay, impossible for new transplants to NYC to find friends. If you think you'll make friends just because you are social and nice -- forget it! And if you are the shy type -- pack your bags and go back to your friends back home, because you wont find any here. The only way, THE ONLY WAY anyone will consider you for a friend is if you pack a good "friendship resume" with something that marks you as a standout.

Where there is a need, there is a service that will cater to it and so if you are a New Yorker, you can indeed sign up for friendship-searching services. But those can be expensive. Socialcircles.com charges $1,275 just for the initiation fee. After that, it's $600 per match. If the friendship falters -- you do NOT get your money back. A user complains in the article that she is out the initiation fee and two $600 shots an has yet to find someone who'll munch popcorn and watch a DVD with her on a farily regular basis.

Worse off are people past their twenties: their friendship pool is quite limited as people in the more "advanced years" are either married and not particularly interested in meeting strangers, or searching to be coupled. No one in that demographic wants to waste time on being your friend.

A 35-year old newcomer to NY states:
I thought it would be easier to make friends here than in Chicago...I was completely wrong. Now I go back home and when people ask how it is, I say 'Love New York. Have no friends.' And I'm not even shy.

So here's my pitch: I move to New York and offer my services. I will be a friend to all the 'losers' who have failed to secure one. I'll be good for a bunch of emails per week to check up on things, a call here and there, and then a meet-up every so often, to do dim sum and maybe go to a movie. I'll listen to whiners, I'll tell stories from my varied past, I'll even do karaoke if the need arises. At, say, a $500 per friend per month fee and a six month commitment on my part, I'll be better than the going rate by a mile.

Now, if only I could think of a good name. Polack's Pals maybe?

Forty-first street pre-election diary*

A student at the U of Warsaw wrote this about politics and the Polish immigrant in the early decades of the XX century:

The early Polish immigrant … had little opportunity to participate actively in local politics. They were handicapped by their lack of knowledge of the English language and especially by their lack of American education. ...most of all, they were strangers to the American system of government and did knot know or understand American politics.

I feel for them. Now, 100 years later, I sometimes do not comprehend how or why politics proceed in the way that they do here as well.

Back then, Poles established a bridge of sorts – The Polish Democratic Club. The purpose? To help with the election of Democratic candidates. They were successful, too, from what I can tell. If you walk along the far west blocks of 41st street in New York, you’ll pass the building that was once the home of the West Side Polish Democratic Club.

Leafing through the stories in the news...

I read today’s papers and the attention is still on an analysis of whether Kerry has turned the corner. In 41 days we will know. In the meantime, is anyone else paying attention to the fact that we have a hefty 150,000 troops in Iraq while the next biggest force – from Britain – is even now being cut by a third from its paltry by comparison 7,000 (acc. to the London Observer, cited in the NYT)?

In what has to be a moment of perverse gladness, I was pleased to see that the second most e-mailed article from the NYTimes in the past 24 hour hours was the one about how the current administration is seeking cuts in housing aid to the urban poor (okay, the third most emailed article was about the new mozzarella bar in Rome; I almost emailed that one to a friend as well! Yes, we are clinging to our colorful diversions and distractions!). We need to be reading this! Housing projects… Walking toward the east side of 41st street, you hit Tudor City – a residential community that was built before the days of the United Nations [United Nations – that’s the number one emailed article from the Times – the one about how Bush yesterday issued a scolding to the UN, a scolding, at a time when the US desperately needs to be reaching out to the international community]. When Tudor City went up, there wasn’t a UN there, on the other side of the street, just slaughterhouses and glue factories. It was an area of such ugliness that most of the buildings in Tudor City don’t have windows facing east, to avoid the then horrid view. In the Times, Dowd again refers today to the Bush administration “castrating the flaccid UN.” I want to ask, is the next step a return to the slaughter-houses? It would be an interesting statement to make, from peace to slaughter. Or, have we made that statement already?

I’m off to New York this afternoon. Obviously the city is much on my mind – I see the grid of the blocks and I count down the days. Forty-one to go.

*see “forty-second street pre-election diary” post, September 22, for explanation of title

Forty-second street pre-election diary, part 2

(see first post today, below, for explanation)

The President hates the campaign hoopla already!

A reading pal sent me the clip from the Wisconsin State Journal (here) describing the reaction to Kerry’s impending visit to Spring Green, where he will spend some time preparing for the forthcoming debate.

I just want to say to the President (okay, of the Village of Spring Green) that even if a Republican candidate were coming to my town with his entourage to prepare a speech, I would have the good grace to show courtesy and politeness and I would not go on record and say things like this:

Spring Green Village President Greg Prem was less enthusiastic about Kerry's visit. He said he's already overloaded by all the political commercials and campaign appearances hitting Wisconsin - and the election is still six weeks away.
"I guess to be perfectly honest with you," Prem said, "I'm kind of burnt out on the whole race."

After all, his visitor may be the next president of the US. No cabinet post for you, Mr. Prem!
Besides, it’s not that your town, Mr. Prem, is such a gem to lodge in for all those days. Taliesen, APT, the River – that’s fine and well, but my friend, who is not especially fussy, says this about the place where Kerry will be residing (having herself stayed there): “the "resort" they chose is that one on the golf course… It's okay but not especially great. The campaign people must have been reading too many glossy brochures.” And the food? She writes: “Where will they eat? The restaurant there is blah. That round barn restaurant is worse. There is always the A & W drive-in in Mazomanie.”

An eye-to-eye exchange

Minutes ago, I went walking in Owen Woods. I am going to be in NYC tomorrow and so I need to take in the smell of dry grass and forest before I face an onslaught of that ‘stale NYC air.’

Just at the edge of the prairie, I met up with a deer. She stood, not more than ten feet away, looking at me. I stood. She stood. I waited for her to run, she did not. Maybe she was captivated by my bright yellow “Museum of Soy Sauce Art” t-shirt. I said to her:

“Why don’t you vote on November 2nd? Don’t you realize that your habitat is being endangered? You have a high stake in this!”

I thought I heard her say:

“I cannot vote. You have to do that for me.” Of course, she’s just a deer.
Doe, a deer, a female deer. [So why the whiskers and beard-like hairs on her chin if it’s a female deer? Animals are strange.]

She stood a long time, unafraid. Eventually she turned and ran. So I ran too. Except not as fast. Obviously. I felt like I was a character that should adopt an Indian name, like “Tries to Run with Deer but Fails Miserably.” (A reader gave me an Indian name just last week; what was it?)
Close encounters with deer always make you feel like something profound has just happened. Or like you’re on the stage perhaps. Yeah, on the stage of 42nd Street (forty-one blocks away from the off-off-off Broadway Theater of the Absurd). The count-down continues.

People, take stock! We are becoming a nation of eating eccentrics!

I would bet that these days, for the 294,338,341 Americans (confirmed here), there are 294,338,341 ways to cook dinner right and an infinite number of ways of doing it wrong.

In the last 24 hours (I promise, no blog exaggeration here) I have had the following exchanges with readers and friends, through email, phone and otherwise:
Responses to my question – “can’t talk now, but do you want to have dinner sometime?”:

- oh yes, but keep it informal; formal dinner parties scare us away (you know who you are!);
- oh yes, but we don’t do more than 1 or so per week otherwise we get cranky (you know who you are!);
- oh yes, so long as it’s not in restaurants; haven’t you read Kitchen Confidential (you know who you are!)?
- oh yes, but not in any week where I have work deadlines, for chrissake… (and you especially know who you are!)

I have to add these to my lists of vegans, pescatarians, vegetarians, Atkinsians, lactose-intolerants, and all sorts of food-dislikes -- ohh, it's all swimming, swimming... I know I have stored this information somewhere… yes, I'm sure of it...

But where? Where did I put all these, collected over the years food fears and fancies?

Eureka! Capitalism is rubbing off and onto my once-socialist-Eastern European shoulders! I have discovered an entrepreneurial opportunity and niche! This is how it will work:

I will collect and store your food profile for a flat fee. You can update your own profile anytime. If you get invited to someone’s house I will send them YOUR profile, to warn your future host of your peculiarities and preferences. Or, if you yourself are having a dinner party, you can, for a fee of course, request profiles on potential candidates for the evening. That way, if you really want to cook fish and serve it on Aunt Cristabelle’s gold-plated china or left-over-from-Labor-Day-picnic-paper plates, you can check first if your potential guest will be repulsed before you invite her or him.

I will add this bit of nostalgia to my “It is different now” Monday post. Because I remember the days (these may have been back in Poland) when a dinner suggestion was a gift, a source of delight, and whatever the hosts did was fantabulous and the evening was never long enough, and if it glittered with silver –that was great, and if it was on folding chairs –who cares, and if it was take out –hell, so what?

I WANT THOSE DAYS BACK! In the absence of which, I’m setting up my newly created and hereby copyrighted (maybe not in the eyes of the law but in the eyes of blogdom) “Polack’s Profiles.” Catchy name, huh?

Forty-second street pre-election diary

[While friends and colleagues are engaging in a pre-election pundit-o-mania, replete with predictions, ballyhoos and attacks on the Enemy Candidate, I thought I’d retreat to the sidelines and comment on what’s it like to go through this process as a non-pundit. More than ever before, I believe this election to be a defining moment in history and I want to remember what it was like in the days immediately preceding it, in the same way that historians now analyze what it was like in Poland on the days before September 1, 1939. How was it then, when we still had Hope?
The way to identify my pre-election posts is to look at the title, of course. It will always have the name of the street which actually also happens to be the number of days remaining before the election.]

Today, I am on 42nd street. The day started off with great equanimity. A friend down the street has organized an election day party for Democrats only (hey, if you can arrest a person wearing an anti-Bush t-shirt to a Bush rally, you can hold a Democrats-only party, right?) and he sent forth invitations early in the morning. That may have been the high point. Immediately after, I get this email from another friend who writes that the state bearing my initials (NC) “now appears certain to go for Bush.”

Thanks, pal, for the note of cheer.

Not to despair. I am on 42nd street. Didn’t this place get a face-lift not too long ago? Still, it’ll always bring to mind the days of seedy movie houses. Which reminds me of another upbeat moment (yes it does!) from this morning. I read another email from a friend who refers me to his most recent post (here), all about strange bedfellows. Notice in it a plea for sanity in the way we pick our leaders. Of course, it recalls for me of my own post before the primaries when (on February 3rd) I wrote the following:

How can you explain the slanderous reporting that blasts away at the warm and fuzzy traits of tall people?? The NYT today says this about Kerry: “He will still never be cuddly. He is too tall, too gaunt, too lantern-jawed, too serious for that. His Iowa caucuses victory speech was solemn and windy, and he sat watching the Super Bowl on Sunday night with a band of firefighters from Fargo, N.D., whose union has endorsed him, tapping his right thumb and forefinger nervously against his teeth without making much effort to converse or connect.”Is there an expectation that he should have been warm and cuddly with the firefighters?

Already I am thinking, those were the good old days when one bickered about Kerry and Edwards and Dean and Clark and Sharpton and Lieberman and… who was that other guy? Kucinich! Once so memorable, now so forgotten.

Such Nostalgia!
I’ll have to end with another nostalgic recollection from the Ocean blog, this one from January 23 when I wrote:

(from a list of important presidential traits identified by the voting public):
He must be someone most Americans would enjoy having over for dinner. [Time after time I have this conversation: “why don’t you like him?” I ask. “I don’t know, he’s just not someone I would feel comfortable with; I wouldn’t enjoy having dinner with him” goes the answer. Is this an outgrowth of viewing this country as a land of opportunity? For the record, Americans please take note: 99.999999999999% of you will NEVER HAVE DINNER WITH THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. 99.98 % will never even see him eat on national television.]

The day is bright, so bright, great weather. But it can turn nasty pretty quickly. After all, look at what seems to have happened in North Carolina.

Finally, I am special

Today I got my super exclusive rouge elite card stating that I have risen above bleu medium elite status and have now joined the ranks of the super exclusive elite members of Frequence Plus, Air France’s frequent flyer program. This is not surprising. I use Air France for everything outside of this country. If I go visit family in Poland – it’s on Air France. If I have to go to Japan for work purposes – it’s on Air France. I will take Air France to hell and back just to rise to the top of the elite heap of flyers. And today I made it.

This is what I receive in exchange for my loyalty (and I quote, in their order of priority):

You have access to an exclusive reservation service (don’t people use Expedia, travel agents, or, among the exclusive set – their secretaries?)

Air France ticket offices are waiting to serve you (only me? They turn away others? That doesn’t seem fair…)

Choose your seat before your day of departure (oh come on, even Polish Airlines let you do THAT!)

We give you priority for your vaccinations (now halt right here: is there a line? Does ANYONE wait until they get to the airport to get vaccinated?)

Oh sure, then there are pages and pages with what I really want to see: that the rich get richer! Yes! Now I get 50% more miles each time I fly economy, just by being elite and wealthy in miles already, and even more if I fly upwards of economy! And my luggage gets special plastic coating to protect the Gucci leather (?) from the bumps it would otherwise receive from lesser bags. And it will roll out first on belt, and there’ll be lounges all over the world where I will rub shoulders with other super super elite members, just like me.

Now if I can only afford another ticket so that I could reap all these super elite benefits (they only last a year; cheapskates!) and, of course, cash in on my priority shots.

At the bottom of the Ocean

In a few minutes, law students are meeting with several blogging members of the faculty to talk about the phenomenon of weblogs. I’ll be there, but I’ll probably lay low. Because I’m not sure I want to reveal the truth behind Ocean. Nor do I want to tell them that a certain blogger with deeply embedded European roots, residing in Madison, Wisconsin, regards keeping a blog as akin to dancing a complicated tango or taking a photograph of a Thanksgiving dinner: it’s not all as it appears to be.

Raised on Polish literature that developed the art of allegorical writing to the highest standards, I can’t help but take that devious layering right back with me into the blog. That Saturday post about freezing tomatoes? Maybe a person or two recognized that it wasn’t really about tomatoes. I was involved in a writing project over the week-end and I got perversely stalled – frozen, as it were. Hence the post.

The texts and subtexts of a blog – so deliciously evil in their veiled meaning. Song lyrics thrown out to ones who may remember their import many years past, allusions, references, all nicely tucked into a plain text of a story. For there has to be a story as well.

Is it always like that? Is it one big inside joke? Of course not. For me, the greatest challenge in writing this (and elsewhere for that matter) is to find and develop a reason for writing any particular entry. There may be anger, passion, hope, joy, remembrance – all have prompted a post at one point or another. But it has to be a really dry day before I succumb and write anything, just to get something posted.

So, this is what I wont reveal to the group this morning. I appreciate everyone’s sudden desire to post thoughts about the political process, interspersed with comments on daily life. But for me, blogging is all about story writing. I take it seriously. It is hard hard hard to put forth something twice a day (that is my goal) given that it is only a hobby, to be sandwiched into all the other things that need to be attended to. The product may appear at times crude, insufficiently edited (I fired my staff of editors and fact-checkers -- oddly, they wanted to be paid, refusing to work for the sheer glory of it), lacking in grace and wit and humor, but it is here that I practice the craft of writing and story telling. Between you and me – and not for the audience today – that is what Ocean is all about.

It’s different now..

I had begun clipping favorite lines to post from Cohen’s article yesterday in the Times about the “Good Old Days,” until I decided, in the end, that the tenor of the piece was not one I could endorse and so then I dropped the project. But today, driving in to work, my mind started spinning. Gosh, there were some innocent moments way back when! I have no desire to go back to those days for all the political and social reasons that are so obvious as not to require enumeration, but gosh! Do you remember when one could actually say gosh repeatedly and not seem weird (or “strange” because as Cohen says, one didn’t used to say “weird”)?

Much of what is now only nostalgia can be said to have been lost because we’ve wizened up a bit. And so I notice that any list of revered past icons and habits and expressions, contains a salute to ignorance. And how much of what we do now will one day be lost because we will understand that it is causing everyone, ourselves included, great harm?

Everyone should occasionally sit back and recall a thing or two that was wonderfully sweet and benign – for a period in time. I remember when I could pick up a doughnut and a cup of coffee on the way to class and use the term “clogged artery” only to describe traffic congestion… I say this as I eat some disgustingly healthy whole grain-bar, rushing to write this so that I could meet someone for a ‘healthy’ spin around the neighborhood. Yes, sweet innocent treats of the past – joining the Union of Socialist Youth in Poland during the 60s to save our future, thinking that “going all the way” meant holding hands with a boy, kicking a soccer ball around with kids of many ages and stages amidst cow dung on the meadow where cows grazed and later gave us milk for the supper table, with plenty of buttered bread to go around. Sweet days indeed.

The word's just in: they got the sound right!

This afternoon I spoke to friends who had attended the opening night performance at the Overture Center for the Arts. After reading rave reviews all morning, I was not surprised to hear them say that it was “beautiful” “spectacular” “etc” “etc.” And, they said “the sound is magnificent!”

I am glad about that. It would be terrible, terrible to invest so much in this project and not get the sound right, even though it was a gift and you can more readily forgive a gifted Center that turns out to be a clunker, in the same way you can forgive a calendar that you get as a gift for the New Year that has absolutely the worst possible motif running through it (say cats, and you hate cats, or a-joke-a-day and you fail to laugh a single time for the 365 times you turn a page).

Of course, I marvel at the ingenuity of it all: to know in advance of such a construction project that you will get the sound right. I was sitting with a group of people last week and we were marveling about things that are incomprehensible to us – like sending a fax or writing a WiFi message (choosing to ignore the fact that, of course, sending a fax is more imaginable than creating a baby that has your horrid jaw out of invisible-to-the-naked-eye genetic material) – but I think this, too deserves inclusion into the world of marvels.

Or, maybe it was tested as it was being built? Perhaps someone was hired to drop a needle every so often to see how it echoed as it fell to the concrete. Or, better yet, an opera singer came in during construction and belted out a few lines of an aria to see how it was going. Maybe the ceiling had to be tilted differently again and again until Nessun dorma! sounded exactly right – how do I know, I’m no sound expert.

And herein lies the sad truth: neither are most of the people who attend the performances at the Arts Center (unless after you pass into some strata of refinement you develop audio-sensory skills that the rest of us down there haven’t even aspired to). But I want to find out: how DO things sound in the great new hall? Does it bounce of the walls? Does it resound? Is there an echo? I am a music buff. I have attended orchestral performances since I was a pipsqueak. But I could never tell if Alice Tully Hall was an improvement over Carnegie Hall or not. It struck me as the same.

The odd thing is, it can’t matter to the younger-than-me generation of concert goers. They have their ear drums completely warped and distorted through years of attending rock concerts. And if sound mattered so much in the Orchestra Hall, why does it not matter at all at the conerts where it’s all about Volume rather than Quality? So perhaps this new Orchestra Hall is not only for those of refined pocket book, but also of refined age. I almost qualify there!

In any event, I am looking forward to listening for the new improved sound and I hope I can tell, at least as much as all these enthused non-musician patrons say they can tell. I do not really remember what it sounded like before, but famous guest artists kept coming anyway and I suspect the capacity crowds they drew couldn’t tell how horrid the sound was, marveling obtusely at the gifts and talents of the performing artists instead. How odd of us all to have done so. Now we know better. Or – at least we think we do (I’m sure I will too!!) and that’s good enough, isn’t it?

Frozen solid: nc - yes; the tomatoes - no.

Yesterday at the market I bought a box of stunningly gorgeous Harmony Valley Roma tomatoes. They are in a moment of perfection, just waiting to be par-boiled, skinned and zip-locked into the freezer for winter use. My freezer already boasts bags of Ruth’s blueberries, Blue Valley asparagus, Harmony Valley strawberries, plus organic white peach slices for the future moment when I just have to make a batch of Bellinis for a crowd of people.

Here is a twenty-four hour photo-blog progress report on the tomato project:

Waiting for inspiration. Hoping for some such moment to arrive today. So far: not yet evident on the horizon. 

Little boxes, all the same

I’ll just put forth a few quotes from an article in today’s NYT Week in Review and try hard to refrain from commenting. I am aiming for a cheerful day. No need to start a downward spiral with writing paragraphs upon paragraphs about what’s wrong with this world, or at least with what is described as our world.

(From “Kerry’s Lesson: Lambeau Rhymes With Rambo”)

The key interview in this year’s presidential campaign was not with any of the big national newspapers or newsweeklies. It was for the October issue of Field & Stream magazine. John Kerry, the Democratic challenger, gave the magazine a half-hour phone interview. [well okay, big deal] President Bush went further, granting a private tour of his Texas ranch, and a long sit-down to the editor, Sid Evans. [oh brother.]

The candidates are…courting the newest niche demographic: the rod-and-gun voter. [great.]
(They are also) after something much more basic: proving their manliness. [that just thrills me no end.]

The Republicans are working hard to portray (Kerry) as.. a “girlie man.” It seems to be working. Sports Illustrated readers overwhelmingly voted Mr. Bush the better athlete and sports fan [dumb dumb dumb readers, for this reason:], a conclusion the magazine’s managing editor, Terry McDonell, finds baffling. “Clearly Kerry is the a much much much much better athlete,” he said, noting that Mr. Kerry has long played competitive hockey and also regularly snowboards, Rollerblades, windsurfs and kite-surfs. “Kite-surfing…is the hardest, most radical thing to do…” Mr. Bush, in contrast, was a cheerleader, and not, Mr. McDonnell notes, the kind that did flips.
[then we have this long stretch of writing about the Lambeau field thing again; enough already!]

Mr. McDonnell puzzled over what all this shooting and fishing had to do with being leader of the free world….Helen Fisher, an anthropologist at Rutgers (says) [watch now, here come the boxes, little boxes, And they're all made out of ticky-tacky, And they all look just the same] “Bush wants to be seen as masculine…because masculinity is associated with assertiveness and competence and judgment and team-playing and a host of traits that men aspire to and women adore.” [No comment. Really, I just can’t. Grrrrr.]

Signs of the Times

So, another Saturday of foraging for L’Etoile at the Farmers Market. You’re lookin’ pretty tired!
No, not exactly (yawn).. and this week was spectacular: lots of activities at the Square and at L’Etoile (yawn).

Oh? What about L’Etoile?
We had a visit from a former NYT bureau chief and now food writer for the paper…. I’m not sure I should be so open about who he is and what he said…

Just give him a blog nickname…
I would use one of the letters of the alphabet, which actually belongs to his initials -- W, but I was told recently that even in Wisconsin, if you say W, you mean GWB. I am greatly miffed at how the letter has been hijacked. Today on the Square I saw a sign that said (against a background of an American flag) “W stands for Women!” I was pretty infuriated by it actually. So, our great writer cannot be referred to as W. He has been called “larger than life” in a recent piece in the New Yorker, and if you scroll down below where I’ve included a photo, you may indeed believe that this not an inappropriate characterization. Why don’t I call him Johnny. Most of his friends do, even though J does not appear in his monogram. That way I can equally pretend he is my friend, forgetting about the fact that this is not the case.

So, you chatted with Johnny?
Oh yes. I can tell you this much. Johnny does not regularly read the blog, JFW, because he said: “You know, I love being here! Only in Madison Wisconsin would you have the front page headline of the paper be about bike locks!” I mean, if he read JFW, he would not be surprised about this very important story, detailed in a post here.

You talked about bike locks?
No, he was actually taking notes for a story and so he asked about my work for L’Etoile. In trying to fully understand the duties of a forager, he said “so… maybe I can refer to you as Chef O’s personal shopper?” I said if he did, he would be dead meat. Watch him do it anyway.

You know, he’s written quite a number of pieces a few years back predicting an Iraqi quagmire. Did you talk politics at all?
When he and I were at the Market, he told me that he was impressed how the Asian farmers have influenced the type of food that is being sold at the Market. He talked about the various places he lived in in South East Asia, Europe, etc. He said he has always told his children that they have to spend time in different cultures – it is a prerequisite to moving forward intelligently today. In this context he said that one of the things he cannot abide about GWB is his lack of knowledge about and indifference to the countries outside the US.

Larger than life and fascinating… So, other Market news?
This post is getting long, but I did want to mention a few things:

** Today was the day that marks my 5-year involvement with L’Etoile. As Madison was hosting another “Food for Thought” Festival, I was reminded that it was during this Festival 5 years ago that I approached Chef O. and told her she should hire me as a cook.

** During today’s Festival, I listened to Eliot Coleman speak on behalf of the small family farm. He’s a brilliant organic farmer from Maine. (I am a big-time champion of small family farms, preferably organic, and so this was a happy hour of listening for me). After giving up on academia, he bought some rugged gravel and forest-land and turned it into something he could cultivate, just by using the residue nature provided: clam shells for calcium, sea weed, manure, etc. He is phenomenally successful at growing things, with very limited use of fossil fuels and against all obstacles. He told of how he recently traveled to Iowa and proclaimed: my God, you guys actually have SOIL here – 6 feet deep! In Maine, there is none.

** Gifts: The Artesian Trout farmer gave me a gift of a smoked trout and Fantome Farms gave me a gift of pepper chevre. They suggested that I play around with combining the two and create a heavenly mousse.

So, how could I ever get tired of the Market when the people I encounter inspire with their generosity and teach me to fight rocky soil with seaweed rather than give up and move to Iowa? There’s nothing wrong with Iowa, mind you, but one should never move there just for the easier life and good soil.

Cef O. at the Food for Thought Festival today, unchanged from when I first cornered her here 5 years ago. 

Johnny at the Café, taking notes, enjoying the people and the food. 

Purple cauliflower and romanesco. What’s romanesco? Chef O. describes it as “cauliflower on acid.” 

Maybe the most rewarding thing about getting up so early is that you can look up and see this sky.
 

Parking lot effervescence

I am in my truck, about to turn on the engine, ready to leave the parking lot of Whole Foods when I hear, coming from the car alongside mine, a pounding on the window. An old old man with a substantial beard is obviously asking that I roll down the window. I do so. And so we talk:

u: Excuse me, but I just wanted to know. You have a sticker on the back of your car with the letters MV. What does it stand for?
n: It could actually be many things: Mini Van (for it is indeed a minivan), Mercury Villager (it is that as well), Martha’s Vineyard..

u: Naturally. It could also be Moravia.
n: Are you from Moravia (there is a tinge of an accent there)?

u: Me? Moravia? No, no.. so which is it? What does it stand for?
n: I picked it up long ago on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. So where are you from if not Moravia?

u: Italy. But I have lived in Madison for 46 years. But I am from Milano.
n: I love that place, you know! Just got back from a trip there this summer..

u: Yes, but you would go nuts if you lived there. Here, in America, you wait two months to get your tax refund back. In Italy? Maybe three years. If you’re lucky!
n: But you have now had a prime minister in place for longer that at any time since World War II -- two years!

u: And he’s a bastard! Listen, I don’t travel there anymore because it is so humiliating to go in a plane these days. I don’t like it. They treat you like animals.
n: What’s your name, btw? I’m nc.

u: I’m uc. (we shake hands through our car windows) I am the only physics professor on the faculty here who does not have a Ph.D.! Of course, I am now retired..

And so it continued for a long while. I could hear myself laughing louder and louder. I thought of inviting him to dinner some day. God, Italians are friendly.

Notes from the tail end of a summer season

One evening, many realities:

I am amazed at my previous posts. Newspaper links? With political overtones? What has become of this Ocean blog? Let me compensate by flipping the channel back to the here-and-now of this particular blogger’s take on life: I had in a five-hour evening stretch no fewer than five encounters (email and face-to-face) that positively shook me to the core. And so, to deal expressively with the onslaught of drama, I decided to look on the Internet for a translation of a genuinelly mournful Polish poem. I did not succeed, but trust me, it's beautiful and full of pathos and drama, in the truest Eastern European fashion. Searching for poetry on the Net is a good distraction -- I would recommend it to anyone in the (momentary, because if it's enduring, go see a shrink instead) depths of despair.

Next morning, looking to others:

I visited the blogs of people I know who live in far away places. One such person resides on the Virgin Islands. She hasn’t posted in the past few days and I would be concerned that she has suffered as a result of the hurricanes, but on the other hand she comes in and out of contact, occasionally sending messages such as this:

A.W.O.L.*
*Apathetic While On Liquor
Okay.So I've been drinking instead of posting for the last month.

An ordinary person might worry when they see a note like this. Not me. She explained that rum is cheaper than water on the islands and so life sometimes takes her in that direction. Hmmm. Not exactly a cheerful route, but definitely interesting.

I also got some interesting mail from my pals in Kyoto who had been traveling in the US this past month. They write: “Thank you for telling us about American air conditioning. I took a warm shirt. My friend did not and had to buy one it was so cold.” See (Tonya!), it’s not only me. Others find this to be a chilly nation as well.

Finally, looking outside, I am in love with the bright crisp fall day. By contrast, someone said this yesterday about living in New York: “the air is so stale that even if I open all doors and windows I cannot get enough of the fresh stuff.” Now, I happen to like the particular smell that belongs to New York. It’s a combination of subway-air-creeping-up-through-the-grillwork, food stands, vents from air conditioning units and the East River. But, looking out now at the Madison sky, I am thinking that I am not appreciative enough of the Fall season in the Midwest. So, count this as a note of deep appreciation and great joy at being able to go out and sit in my favorite outdoor spot and look at the fall flowers and take in a whiff of that clear crisp air (I will choose to ignore the fact that this particular neighborhood is less than pristine as it rests on a landfill, but whatever you want to say about the garbage of the previous generation, all those additives and preservatives certainly have made the trees grow with great abandon).

Each year these come back to liven up the end of the summer 

In contrast to the busy bee, this one is so lethargic, she can hardly find the center of the flower. 

At least two people I know will remember this poem: "..the rose is out of town." 

Behind the Times

Yes, I admit it, I did not read this op-ed article in the NYTimes until today. I am certain most regard it as a dated thing of the past (it is from the week-end), but in case you, like me, are behind in every aspect of life at the moment, you may have missed the Brooks-ian analysis of who is voting D versus R this year. What is neat about reading with a delay is that you can immediately click onto responses (full text here) to the article. I am including fragments of the Brooks piece and snippets from the four letters published a few days later. Emphases are my own.

From Brooks:

There are two sorts of people in the information-age elite, spreadsheet people and paragraph people. Spreadsheet people work with numbers, wear loafers and support Republicans. Paragraph people work with prose, don't shine their shoes as often as they should and back Democrats.

C.E.O.'s are classic spreadsheet people. According to a sample gathered by PoliticalMoneyLine in July, the number of C.E.O.'s donating funds to Bush's campaign is five times the number donating to Kerry's.

Professors, on the other hand, are classic paragraph people and lean Democratic. Eleven academics gave to the Kerry campaign for every 1 who gave to Bush's. Actors like paragraphs, too, albeit short ones. Almost 18 actors gave to Kerry for every 1 who gave to Bush. For self-described authors, the ratio was about 36 to 1. Among journalists, there were 93 Kerry donors for every Bush donor. For librarians, who must like Faulknerian, sprawling paragraphs, the ratio of Kerry to Bush donations was a whopping 223 to 1.

… Accountants, whose relationship with numbers verges on the erotic, are now heavily Republican. Back in the early 1990's, accountants gave mostly to Democrats, but now they give twice as much to the party of Lincoln.

…[as for academics:] University of California employees make up the single biggest block of Kerry donors …All but 1 percent of the campaign donations made by employees of William & Mary College went to Democrats. In the Harvard crowd, Democrats got 96 percent of the dollars. At M.I.T., it was 94 percent. Yale is a beacon of freethinking by comparison; 8 percent of its employee donations went to Republicans.

Readers’ comments:

[from Mass:] … It seems to me that the statistics show a correlation between education and political support regardless of numeracy or literacy. The fact that corporate chief executives and accountants are more likely to support George Bush is consistent with this observation: they are probably best educated that a third of his tax cuts go to the richest 1 percent.

[from a Yale astronomy prof:]… David Brooks classifies professors as "paragraph people." But even here at Yale, an institution known for its focus on humanities and arts, the majority of the faculty are scientists, medical doctors or involved with economics or business.

Our non-teaching duties involve fund-raising, personnel management and gigabytes of data, not unlike other "spreadsheet people."

Why, then, is the professoriate so united behind John Kerry (far more so than we were for previous Democratic candidates)?

Perhaps because teaching and research require open-mindedness, reasoning from facts rather than from ideology, nuanced interpretation of complex situations, and the ability to change one's mind - all traits that the Bush team has displayed less of than any administration in my lifetime.

[from a sociology prof and a management consultant:] While "spreadsheet people'' may be Republicans by and large, George W. Bush is not a spreadsheet person; his fiscal policy cannot withstand a quantitative analysis.

Nor is he a paragraph person - one could not find the prose to justify his conflation of Iraq with the war on terror. So what is President Bush?

David Brooks's framework leaves out an important group, what we label the PowerPoint or bullet-point people.

Bullet-point people traffic in the meaningless business-speak of the management consultant, language that eschews equally the nuance and hard numbers of reality...

[from Atlanta:] ...Academia is full of very smart people earning very little money relative to what they could earn. They are curious people, dedicated to pursuing the truth and teaching others.
Business is full of very smart people whose sole responsibility is to make money, for stockholders and themselves. The first group supports Democrats. The second group supports Republicans. Draw your own conclusion.

W on doctors...and love

Thanks to the pal who send me the following clip. After this morning's press tirade about Kerry and the Packers (see post below), this is a welcome antidote. Do click on it -- it's not a propaganda piece, just a little slice of a real newsclip.

From MSNBC (give it a minute to load after you click on it and choose movie media setting if a screen doesn't automatically pop up or else you'll miss the wonderful moment of stunned confusion on the part of the newscaster):

obgyn.wmv

Goat-mail

Here I am, in the middle of the month, in the middle of the day. Perfect time to respond to some emails, especially from those who are forever doubting the veracity of some of my statements.

1. Re: Fiona Apple: I now know who she is! No need to make fun of me there. I’ve known for a while, actually. Someone once gave me a CD of hers in one of their many attempts to educate me in the music of the last two centuries.

2. Re: On where to throw your money if you have no idea how to spend money and still want to show your support of this free blog: when I proposed “Save the Goat” I meant it! And I would not have suggested it had I myself not done things to support the Goat. Alright, so initially I got interested in it because of the quirky name. I like goats. I like several people who call themselves goats. Goats are good. Then, having inquired about saving THE Goat, I found that it is a legitimate effort to create a protected area out of the Goat River Valley in British Columbia. Studying the literature has instilled a great urge in me to go there and explore it myself. What’s stopping me?

- There’s quite a bit of logging going on there (hence the problem), but there are limited blogging opportunities: the region doesn’t seem to have WiFi. I’m not sure it has much in the way of electrical outlets either. The amazing red cedar trees appear to be completely unwired.

- Bears: the materials state: “As this is bear country, hikers should educate themselves on bear safety and practice bear-safe camping to avoid confrontations.” CONFRONTATIONS? What does that mean? Further, I read: “Hikers can camp on gravel bars along the river. A few sites have bear poles with hoisting poles.” What on earth is that all about? You hoist bears on poles? What?

- Safety issues in general: The whole thing sounds fraught with dangers. For example, I read: “After crossing a logging bridge over the Milk River [‘Goat’ and ‘Milk’! How cute! No wonder I was initially charmed!], the trail follows the Goat River upstream for 4 km, where a cable car ferries hikers across the river. Use the cable car at your own risk; it is potentially hazardous.” And if you get hurt? “The Goat River Valley is a wilderness area and access to emergency services is extremely limited. Hikers must be self-sufficient…”

Does anyone else think that this sounds positively terrifying? Still, it’s the Goat…

My correspondence with the Goat people up in B.C. 

Let’s count the number of ways this article insults Wisconsinites

Possibly in anticipation of Kerry’s visit to Madison today, the Washington Post ran a story (again!) on Kerry’s fumble over the name of the Packer stadium. Perhaps you should skip this one (here) if you do not want to suffer acute frustration and anger at the paper for feeding into the Wisconsin stereotype with such gusto:

This is a place where Packers jackets often outnumber sports coats in church [WP emphasis] and thousands of fans wear a big chunk of yellow foam cheese atop their head with the pride of a new parent. President Bush's warning to terrorists is apropos to the passions of Packers fans -- you are either with 'em or against 'em.

I got news for the news writers: I’m neither with ‘em or against ‘em, in fact I don’t know much about ‘em. And I doubt that I stand alone [n.b. the article states that the race is so tight in Wisconsin that even a few thousand votes may make or break a candidate (remember 'a few thousand in 2000'? That was our final count in favor of Gore)].

And here’s another paragraph that just packs it in to Wisconsinites:

Not only did he [Cheney] speak to the biggest issue in the state -- the Packers [nc emphasis]-- he did so with Bart Starr, the Hall of Fame quarterback, by his side. "I've never been around someone I was more impressed with," Starr said of Cheney.

I suppose that I have to take heart in the final paragraph (forgetting the fact that, by inserting that last little jibe at the end, the paper plays right into GWB’s desire to make big of something so trivial), which throws it all up to the stars – both the ones on the field and the ones up above. Here is the key predictor of who will be the next president:

In the end, it's the Packers' score -- more than the Packers vote -- that could determine Kerry's fate. In the past 18 presidential elections, if the Redskins lost or tied the last game before the election, the party in the White House lost, too. The Redskins' opponent Oct. 31: the Packers, but not at Lambert, er, Lambeau Field.

A Personal Call from the Democrats

There was an urgent message on my machine when I got home: "Tomorrow: Kerry! At the Alliant Center! He will be there! We would like to know if you can come. Please give us a call so that we can coordinate.”

Coordinate what?? Is this a personal invitation? Is it like being a delegate to the convention? Do I get to be in the front rows, applauding wildly (is it because they heard my loud cheers on Karaoke night yesterday?)? Do I act as a protector of the Kerry spirit, boo-hissing loud protesters, interveners and disrupters of the democratic process? Do I act as body guard too, jumping up to shield him from rowdy types that occasionally leap to the stage (did they read my post of outrage at the Barrymore for not carrying out a rowdy type from last week’s concert?)? How SPECIAL am I anyway?

Not very, I’m afraid. I’ll go there and I will be just one of thousands. They will have called every listed democrat this side of Milwaukee. I did this for Clinton and Gore when they rolled into Madison. I was a face in the crowd.

For a minute, I had believed that I was on their hot list. Then I remembered the size of my contribution to the party and reality set in.

The Kid in me

There are a number of bloggers who will provide excellent recaps of last night’s gathering of sociologists and tag-alongs at the Karaoke Kid (later in the day you may check here, here and here). I will not be one of them. I am about the last person on earth who should ever write about Karaoke. I never pay attention to rock groups and artists any more and it took me a long time to understand that a reference to Fiona Apple was not a comment about a brand of fruit from the Farmers' Market. But since I pick up songs easily, even as I am not listening to them, I do know words and melodies to the strangest collection of songs and so the urge to join up at the Kid is always strong. But no summaries: I do not know who sang what and when – it’s all a blur of TV monitors and different combinations of people standing up, sometimes falling down and dying (yes, there was a reenactment of a death performed with painful accuracy by the author of JFW), often singing with eyes closed as if their (okay, our) life depended on it.

So how is it that this pop-cultural ignoramus gets herself to the Kid so faithfully and shamelessly each time the trumpet sounds? Well, isn’t there an ancient song out there about Fools Rushing In Where Wise Men Never Go?

Two bloggers and a blogger mom 

Meetings, meetings, more meetings

I have been asked to chair a university committee (I’ve sat on this committee for a number of years now). I have never been asked to be chair of a university-wide committee before. I will be leading the group into making important decisions affecting dozens of students and costing the university hundreds of thousands of dollars each year (judging by the age of the retiring chair, this job is FOR LIFE!). I was expecting to be flown out for a retreat and training session – perhaps to Colorado? Don’t universities do that for people who will be making very important decisions affecting the lives and budgets of so many? I have looked daily in my campus mail, but no such invitation has been forthcoming. Only my schedule of committee meetings. Tomorrow afternoon I begin my official duties. I am thinking that my first action as chair should be to upgrade the snacks and food provided for the afternoon. The beverages in Styrofoam cups have to go! And no more packaged cookies either. Let's set some standards here. We are not just a rinky-dink school; we are part of a world-class university. We need to start learning how to display our worth!

Running from running

I’d fallen into the habit of saying “I no longer run. You know, it’s not very good for you, especially once you’re past your twenties and thirties.” Walking briskly? Yes, I can get fanatically committed to a daily trek around town. But rare is the day that I run, even though less than a year ago, I would enjoy the runner’s high as much as the next young marathoner out there.

Today I no longer can justify my running abstinence. The papers are reporting the findings of a Yale study (for example here) that whips my excuse right out the door. It appears that older runners (past 50 – I qualify!) are even more likely to improve their running performance during training than younger runners (take THAT you baby sprinters!). The researchers are concluding that whatever innards you have that are conducive to running (the article uses more medically precise words, such as musculature, oxygen absorption, etc etc) do not deteriorate or atrophy as a result of aging. They wilt and wither because people do not use them. In simple words: we get lazy.

One researcher notes:
“You can maintain a very high performance standard into the sixth or seventh decade of life.”

At least this gives me an excuse to put off training for a few more months or even years. What’s the rush? I can still improve my running time a quarter of a century from now.

Travel stories

Some people are lucky enough to have NYT travel stories coincide nicely with their time of travel to a featured destination. I had friends who were like that – perhaps even with an inside track to the desk of the main travel editor, because the minute they said they were going to, say, Kenya, bingo! The next week you’d see a story on Kenya in the Sunday paper.

My luck runs in the opposite direction. The minute I come back from a vacation, it is featured and described in loving detail, with supporting references to restaurants, museums and recent important events. Indeed, today I see that the Sophisticated Traveler is featuring Orvieto in Italy. I went to Orvieto in Italy in August. I blogged about it. I took inept pictures of it. [I say inept because even though I thought them to be decent at the time, they were nothing, NOTHING like those in the Times today. Curious? Check this link.] I suppose I can have the satisfaction of saying "hey, I picked it first!" -- as if anyone's listening. I guess that's what blogs are for.

Did I really eat three dozen desserts?

In an earlier post, I asked what fool would take on the judging responsibilities in a dessert-making contest in one’s neighborhood. Of course, in the end, I did agree to do it and, along with two co-judges, I picked what appeared to be the all-around best entry.

Reactions from the non-winners? One neighbor came up and explained that hers was an old and treasured recipe, passed on through generations, and it was okay that it didn’t win since it had already received accolades and praise and recognition elsewhere. Another wondered if I had had a chance to sample all layers of her creamy concoction, since there were surprise elements throughout, all the way to the delicious bottom of the dish. Finally, a child asked if my name card, which said “Hi, I’m Nina” with the scribbled line underneath “I can be bribed” was for real or whether I was joking (I assured him that it was for real). Unfortunately that attempt at humor was severely tested when it turned out that I had picked as number one (a cheesecake with a yin-yang fruit jelly design) the dessert made by immediate neighbor, a person on whom I rely for countless small favors throughout the year.

Other highlights from the evening include finding out that my block is less politically mixed than I had imagined. There’s hope! And yet another surprise – yes, there are others who think it great fun to sit on plastic chairs in the middle of a (blocked off) street until 2:30 a.m. speculating if we were doing in life what we had, in our youthful dreams, imagined we would want to do.

Thanks, J & J, for holding them back so that we could give time and attention to this very serious matter  

Third prize: obviously cheese and berries did well in this contest 

Second prize: chocolate, with raspberries from the back-yard 

First prize: an airy cheesecake with a lovely fruit finish 

Conversations

I may be the only blogger that has yet to do a poll on the blog. It’s not that I do not CARE what readers think, but I am drawn to the privacy of email for back-and-forth chats.

But I do think it’s time to be a little more interactive and so, in the spirit of active rather than passive reading, let me suggest a “match the comment with the speaker” game. All the comments were made this morning and as you know, I spend my mornings for the most part foraging for L’Etoile at the Market.

Answers are provided below the photos, for those who are non-players at heart, or lazy, or game-challenged.

Comments:

1. I spent a year at the Jagiellonian University in Krakow. No, I don’t really speak Polish. I haven’t been back since before the change to a market economy. I think it must feel different now.

2. If I had two chocolate croissants in front of me I would not be able to put one away until tomorrow.

3. You would like me to pick up some 50 pounds of nice apples at Weston’s Orchard stand? Like, literally pick them up and then carry them up all those L’Etoile steps? After or before I am done carrying this sack with 5 dozen ears of corn? Okay, so I can save bringing in the 32 pounds of Hickory nuts until later? Gee thanks.

4. Would you like a part time job this week picking pears?

5. I wanted to demonstrate my patriotism today so I asked for this red white and blue face paint job.

6. Can I practice the song at least once before singing it at Karaoke on Monday?

7. There are quite a number of Republicans these days who come to the Market in search of organic foods. I just want to ask them how they can have concern for what they eat and be so indifferent about damage to the environment, which will surely affect their children and grandchildren? I tell them – if you hate the Democrats and refuse to consider a vote for Kerry, could you at least vote for Nader, to send a message that you care about the world you pass on to the next generation?

The people behind the words:

A. Willie of Bleu Mont Dairy
B. Debbie of Carlanna pesto
C. Mrs. Harried, Dorotha’s mother
D. Ocean blogger
E. Selena of Future Fruit
F. My neighbor at the block party (not all conversations were had at the market)
G. Jeremy of JFW

One of the first stands I see each Saturday 

some people come to the Market to shop, others to gossip about karaoke (pictured: two bloggers and a mom) 

the beginnings of a block party 

morning sunlight: a photographer's dream 

pesto, Poland and Grisham 

Answer key:
1B
2G
3D
4E
5F
6C
7A

Welcome back, CNN

It's been a long time since I linked to a CNN story, but today I had to interrupt the long silence because one of the headlines linked to a picture of the new stamps that are being issued early in October (and if everyone is as sick of the little antique cars as I am, you will rejoice along with me at this fresh page of self-stickies).

Here, admire them along with me. [Does anyone else have the habit of reserving the less pleasing ones for bills to companies that you despise -- as if anyone, ANYONE at Mobil/Exxon, let alone the CEO, noticed that they routinely get the loser postage!? I'm already segregating them in my mind: dark clouds, lovely sun-tinted clouds -- so many allocation decisions...]

They are described as you-had-to-be-there comedians

Next time you’re feeling humorless, you should check out what’s playing at the Barrymore. Like, last night they had these dudes performing live comedy and singing and generally making crazy jokes sound, like CRAZY!
I was there.

You were not! I scanned the whole beatnik-humor loving audience and believe me, I did not see you. You would have stood out. You know, you’re rather conventional-looking.
I was there for the 10:30 show.

You are ****ing crazy! Like, how did you deal with all the, you know, naughty words and jokes about Ben Franklin smoking weed and letting lightning strike his kite, and German shepherds sniffing suitcases and the 1% of hardy germs that stay after 99% are killed off by Listerine and the songs about altar boys and *special* Ed and the birth of his first ugly baby and having bad profs hitting on their students --- does that type of humor appeal to you ??
I like most humor that is well done. 50% of theirs (it was Hedberg and Lynch, with a Rob Cantrell preshow) was terrific, mostly because of the delivery. I mean, you had to see these guys to know how you can make a five-minute joke out of Swiss Cheese.

Dude, I don’t remember that one! Like ****, give me a ****ing example of Swiss cheese humor!
If I say it now, I guarantee you wont laugh.

So, is there anything that you didn’t like, besides the other ****ing 50% of the jokes that didn’t work?
They may have worked, but Hedberg’s style is to play around with the mike and let his hair get in his way and the beer splash all over his face and so you lose some of the words.
What I didn’t like was that a few people in the audience were…out of control.

I heard that a guy jumped on the stage and did pushups with his own beer cup in hand.
Oh, he was funny enough. I was thinking about the one in the back who kept shouting every two minutes that someone was gay. If I had been on the Barrymore staff, I would have carried him out. Most of the audience, though, was cool.

So how is it that you knew about these dudes coming to Madison?
They were given a big plug in the Cap Times. I learned the other day that I should, from time to time, open the paper that comes to my house each evening.

You ****ing freak me out!
We are now into the next day. You should clean up your language already.

Open the door and let me in! There’s a mean world out there!

Just around dinner time, a well-dressed man came around ringing my doorbell. I thought he was selling Jesus paraphernalia or distributing “free” (nothing’s ever really FREE) Bibles – I mean nothing by this except to say that the only well dressed strangers that ever show up on my doorstep are of this métier. I opened just ONE of my two big front doors and I looked inquisitively but with suspicion at this guy.

He said that he knew me to be a friend, having seen my sign in the laundry room window that faces the street [it says: “it’s up to the WOMEN; elect X & Y” – I do not want to reveal my political bias at the moment; I’m sure you have NO IDEA whom I will vote for on Nov. 2 and I am somewhat baffled as to the message on my sign; someone gave it to me at the Farmers Market and it looked cool, so I put it up – though I am ready to concede that any number of things in this world are up to women, so it can’t be all bad]. I let him in. “Oh thank you!” he tells me, weary of rejections, I’m sure.

“I support all your candidates; what else do you want from me? Money? I donate! I do it all, even post signs in the window at the risk of waking up to splattered raw eggs the next morning” (I live in a politically “mixed” neighborhood; it may be the only one in Madison, but it certainly appears “mixed.”).

He asks: “Will you need absentee ballots for November 2nd?” Megosh! Yes!! Two from this household will have secured them for sure, but the third member, scheduled to be away that day – I’m not so sure… [Do NOT rob this house thinking it to be vacant on November 2nd. I am planning a mega election thing and we will all fight off burly criminals who interfere with the event.][Does that sound convincing and like a proper repellant to criminal-types? I’m not actually sure I am planning a mega event , but MAYBE!]

And so I filled out forms and signed papers and secured an absentee form and it was time to say good bye to the fine young man in the crisp chinos and blue oxford-cloth shirt. [I’m sure he was breaking down stereotypes and making a statement, like maybe: hey, *they* are not the only ones that dress up when duty calls!]

“Thank you!” he tells me.. “Thank you so much for being our friend!”

Now I ask you: would the OTHER party have treated me this well?

Discouraged

Of course, the newspaper only confirms what we already know: the rift between the US and Europe is increasing. Consider this, from reputable studies, summarized today (here) in the IHT:

76% of Europeans disapproved of current American foreign policy
47% of Americans disapproved of the way GWB was handling international relations

Both unions – the European and the American one – agree that terrorism and the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction are a major threat facing societies. However:

28% of Europeans believed that military strength is the best way to ensure peace
54% of Americans believed that military strength is the best way to ensure peace

When asked whether a war can be just:

41% of Europeans said yes
82% of Americans said yes.

And yes, Poland was part of the European sample, otherwise the divide between the US and the EU would have been even greater.

Working away…

Today marked the first day of intense teaching. My schedule keeps Mondays and Thursdays loaded with back to back classes and places less of a strain on the remaining days where I have only one class to prepare for.

The interesting challenge is to rev myself up for switching the substantive mindset midstream – from a morning hour and a half on Family Law, I sail forth and plunge into the first year Torts class. During the in-between half hour, I sit in my office and try to put myself into that body of Tort law, so that I can live and breathe the stuff by the time I am in class.

Several conclusions:

It is SO COLD in my office that I have a space heater going full blast, which of course makes it nice and toasty, as a result of which any prolonged period of sitting leads to a nice healthy morning or afternoon doze.

I am SO TIRED after the double teaching that I am all the more likely to fall asleep after the second class (it happened today).

I am SO SCARED that I will go into prolonged slumber, missing appointments, generally making a nuisance of myself when people stop by.

I am SO DEPENDENT on my afternoon cup of coffee to wake me up that I have set up this elaborate brewing system right in my office. But this, in turn, contributes to an atmosphere of complete peace and serenity, what, with me, my workspace and my cup of latte – as a result, I again am tempted to nap.

I wonder if having a jail cell with a concrete floor, a steel desk and a single suspended light-bulb would be more conducive to getting things done. Sometimes I think I have managed to make myself too comfortable. [now in the old country…]

Will they throw rotten tomatoes at my house after this week-end?

I came home to a message on my phone telling me that I was invited to be a judge in a neighborhood dessert competition this Saturday. After the glow of flattery had worn off, I began to consider my future in the community. They don’t hate me at this point. True, I missed the boat on the old-timers. I was one of the few women who had a full-time job and so I just didn’t get into the fun and games and gossip then. Round two is passing me by as well. There has been a significant turn-over in my block alone. I am one of the oldest now, having lived here since 1988. They all have kids, mine are up up and away.

But I like this new wave of fresh faces, even if I don’t always partake in their games and gatherings. Does anyone remember my post on the flamingos across the street (I’m talking February; please don’t look for it, it’s meandering and inconsequential)? My kind of people! Who else would have stuck the skinny plastic birds in all sorts of weird positions and then left them there until the snows began to melt?

So I want to show my thumbs up on the whole lot of them. I think well of so many of the individuals here; I don’t want to make enemies.

But now this judging thing has come along. How long will I survive if I reject someone’s famous apple pie? Or chunky chocolate chewies? It’s a no-win situation. I walk around, I sample, I look at the eager faces and what do I say, “it’s all good!” ??

It wont work. After showering praise on everything, I have to vote and select: number one and number two and number three. I know, I know, it doesn’t quite rise to the level of a Sophie’s choice-type dilemma, but on the other hand, people do get really invested in their baking. And to the non-winners I get to say –> not good enough. [Oh God, you don’t suppose I have to award the boobie prize as well, do I? And are there kids with fragile dispositions standing behind their goopy entries? ]

There is also the problem of eating it all. If I go to a winemaker and taste ten wines, I can spit nine out and walk away sober. It’s expected. I’m sure I’ll be allowed no such privilege here. Marshmallow madness with grape jelly? Bring it on! Peanut butter pumpkin pie? Yes, place it right here in front of me! I have to eat everything.

Oh, but how can one say no…I’ll survive this, I know I will. I am almost looking forward to the gluttony and the sugar high. And I’ll be sure to post afterwards. And hope that no one in the neighborhood reads my blog.

Deja vu

I tell myself that I will not start each day with a romp through headlines about the forthcoming elections and then, like a true addict, I wake up and click “display” rather than “delete” when I see a title that promises to put yet another spin on what November 2nd will bring about.

It is especially frustrating to subscribe to E-headlines from both the NYT and the IHT, because oftentimes the IHT will rerun an NYT story under a different title, so that not only am I depressed one day after reading it, I am, secondly, depressed again, based on the same content. How stupid is that?

It happened this morning when I read about the "stalled Kerry" in the IHT (here). Hey, it’s virtually the same story as the “On Labor Day, candidates have work to do” story from two days back (here), just doctored a little because we are no longer on Labor Day. And if you get to the end the second time around (and I did, just in case I missed something on first reading of it two days back) you get the same dismal line:

Republicans and Democrats say the biggest problem for Mr. Bush is the sense among Americans that the country is headed in the wrong direction.

Why dismal? Because if you believe that the country is completely off track, heading who knows where, and you STILL want to vote for the incumbent (as most, at this point, do), what hope is there in this world?

I’m rethinking my strategy. Tomorrow: no headline clicking. Unless it seems really important. Or optimistic. Or something.

Rugged individualism: my kind of thing!

Isn't it ironic, ISN'T IT IRONIC, that on the same day (September 3rd, see post below) that my mom was complaining about my absence of notable pursuits in life, the AP was running a story on its feature wire that included references to my various involvements with the kitchens at L'Etoile?

Did I even know? Of course not. But Doug Moe picked it up yesterday in the Cap Times (here), and I eventually picked up my copy of the paper LATE yesterday, threw it away (does anyone ever read the paper they subscribe to? Okay, okay, I do as well. Usually.), only to be told (more like teased) today at work that I am HOT STUFF (perhaps not quite that hot, perhaps not even lukewarm, but mentioned nonetheless).

The phrase that stands out for me is not the mention of my cooking activities at L'Etoile or my foraging, but my picking out Odessa due to my attraction to her rugged individualism. In truth, I just wanted to work for the best chef in town (why kill yourself for lesser beings), but it sounds cool -- like I am a rugged type myself.

To reiterate a phrase that I have used repeatedly in the last months, not knowing of its potentially irritating qualities, it's all good.

A face from the past. Maybe.

Yesterday, in the evening, I was walking home from Whole Foods (it’s an hour’s hike each way if I am fast about it), when a car passed, halfway up Old Sauk hill, honking wildly, with the driver waving in the most enthusiastic way. He pulled over by Crestwood School and I paused alongside.

“Wow, it’s been a long time! It’s so good to see you! How ARE you?” He asks.

He’s about my age, in gym attire and he looks vaguely familiar. Vaguely.

“Good, good…just walking home from the store…” I say.
He takes stock of my bags --“Oh, I see you have groceries.. Do you want me to give you a ride home? Where do you live anyway?”
I tell him vaguely “Just a few more steps up, around the corner. It’s fine. I’m in it for the exercise.”
“As you can see, I just came from the gym…” Yes, I can see that – he looks a bit ‘sweaty.’

Anyway, our chat ended soon after. Of course, even if I had been tired beyond tired, I would not have gotten into the car of a virtual stranger who obviously was not someone close enough to even know where I lived and may well have faked the whole “it’s been a long time” bit. I come from Eastern European ancestry that is steeped in dark suspicion and distrust of even the closest neighbor (Germany, the former Soviet Union, etc..). That’s not the point.

The point is that I probably did know him and should have recognized him. ‘Haven’t seen me in a while…’ -- Who? A judge from the Dane County courts that I once frequented? A lawyer representing the “other side?” A public school teacher? A parent of a child? Who? The guy was extremely gregarious – a trait that is not common among the men I know and one that typically makes me take note of the person exhibiting it. You would think, therefore, that I would recognize the bearer of the wide grin and booming voice. But no, I could not place him at all.

The question that I have is this: how do you find out without appearing completely rude? I could not say “you know, you do look a touch familiar, but who the hell are you?” I had hoped that prolonging the chat would have caused him to reveal some fact that would have solved the puzzle, but no such luck. What might have I asked?

My colleague is about to become a millionaire and it was my idea!

Ann of Althouse blog fame has posted (here) that she will now accept donations to her blog, given how much time and effort she devotes on a daily (hourly?) basis to the project. She notes that in the last several days her readership has been higher than high and perhaps some would now like to show financial appreciation for her work (example of a sacrifice made: toting her computer to a dinner party last Thursday, to loyally continue her simul-blogging of the convention). Imagine, if one tenth of the current 250,000 gave even a dollar, she’d be able to upgrade her little VW to a sporty car with one more letter thrown in (BMW).

Here’s the thing: I got her started. Really. She admits this. Without my words of encouragement, she may still be sketching faces during Law School faculty meetings rather than blogging for bucks. I think it is not unreasonable to remind her of various ways people have been compensated in the past for jumpstarting a business venture. Maybe 10% of the first million and after that it’s all hers? Fair, isn’t it?

The question may arise if you should dole out a buck to Althouse rather than to a political campaign of your choice this year (the Democrats are the needy ones, so let’s even it out a little, shall we?). There is something to be said for supporting our champ of pundits, the self-proclaimed moderate and shrine to the entrepreneurial spirit of success who even as I type is launching a patriotic campaign to make “Closer to Free” the Wisconsin state rock song.

If you’re a Republican and you slip her the greenback, it wont make you or break you and it wont make or break the Republican campaign either. I am certain you’ve written that with ten zeros after it in the last month alone. If you are a Democrat, you MUST support her so that she understands that you are reading her as well and that your hard-earned pennies are being handed over to ensure that she pays equal attention to your electoral needs.

I say go right ahead then: write the checks and include a note stating that at least part of the donation is to be targeted to the one who poured the concrete onto the Althouse foundation.

P.S. “Ocean” remains free. Donations honoring its content can be made to any number of worthy places. Just as an example, lately I have become fascinated with the Save the Goat Campaign. I’m full of ideas.

What are you, a New Yorker? A Virginian? What?

Last night, during a congenial after-dinner chat, I reiterated my idea (from an earlier post here) that perhaps the way you choose the place with which you identify is by looking to where you had your first serious crush. Mine, having been a wallop of a crush, was definitely in Warsaw and so even though I lived an equally large number of years in NY, I still consider myself more of a Varsovian and not really a New Yorker. Several points were made in response to this and I am posting them here because they offer us a chance to look critically at our younger years:

* Most report having strong crushes at very young ages and they view this as a poor marker of identification with a community. It was suggested that the better phrase may be “had a serious crush and could act upon it in a significant way.” But what does that mean? Kissing? Hair-pulling? Hand-holding? Or are we talking about an out and out act of physical errrr… embrace?

* One person said that even though he moved early on from NY to Virginia, his parents were such New Yorkers to the core (hey, New Yorkers always see themselves as “to the core”) that it was without a doubt a family identity that got passed on to the kids.

* Another said that if you lived your entire childhood years in one community then EVERYONE who came in later (moved there and joined the school in fourth grade, for example) was an outsider. They may CALL themselves a Yonkers dude, but they WEREN’T perceived as such by TRUE Yonkers-types.

* To which someone added that they are ashamed of themselves for the treatment they bestowed on true outsiders. This person, whom I would regard as pretty high on the kindness continuum, admitted to circulating a petition to “get [newcomers] X & Y out of the school NOW!” She reports being relieved to note during a recent high school reunion that this did not appear to leave any permanent scars on either X nor Y who, it seems, are among the more successful of the lot [yeah, sure, after years of therapy…].

* And then everyone tripped over each other in their recollections of real "formative years" behaviors: the unintentional (and admissions were made of intentional as well) hurts bestowed upon other classmates, all arising out of bending to “peer pressure.” It was said that if you cannot recall a single incident of (not necessarily deliberate) unkindness perpetrated by you during your school years then you are not being honest with yourself.

So am I a Varsovian because it is there that I offered no protest or defense of poor Fela during the birthday party prank of looking for bugs to put in her hair? Is the true place of affinity that, where you made a menace of yourself? Somehow I like my “fell in love with someone” dimension better.