indoor market: (white) chocolate art for sale 

anyone doubting it's spring? 

a very wet bird 

...snacking at the top of the Mark Hopkins 

just one more look to make sure it's still overcast...yes... 

In California: notes on a day spent rambling throught the past and present with my mother

Yesterday belonged to my Berkeley-residing mother. Things that stand out for me:

She wears a pedometer. We clocked in 12,000 steps. She says that's close to 6 miles. Not bad for an 81-year old.

She lives in a retirement home. It is where my grandmother lived and eventually died, back in 1993. The last time I had seen my grandmother, she was half there, half elsewhere, but in recognizing me, she made her way to the freezer and took out some chicken for me to take home to Madison. The women in my family are always hell bent on feeding others. My mother reached into her cupboard and gve me containers of Trader Joe's chocolate covered ginger. It is easier to take back home than frozen chicken.

I looked at numerous photos of her, of my grandparents. Theirs is an original story. They traveled to the States in the twenties. The Depression wiped out my grandfather's decent job in the auto manufacturing industry. My granfmother took night work baking bread and a day job cleaning. My grandfather became the head of the Polish chapter of the IWO. Eventually they all returned to Poland, in part fearing the McCarthy repercussions for their ties to the community of progressives and communists.

I spent a good part of the day preoccupied with a problem that had arisen back in Madison, about which I found out through email when I logged in back in Denver. Someday I will write a book outlining my theory of the inevitable destruction of civilized life as we know it, on par with the demise of the Roman Empire. But whereas I once read that the main (unappreciated) reason for the fall of the Empire was that the Romans cooked and ate out of copper pots, thereby gradually poisoning themselves to a weakened state, our own world will crumble because we do not know how to be civil and kind to each other anymore.

Berkeley is a fantastic place for seniors. The list of things my mother does to keep herself engaged in life sent me spinning.

When I visited Berkeley as a young adult (my uncle once lived there and so I have had family ties tot he place for a while now), I thought it was a cool town. All those hippies seemed to be part of a wonderful song where people lived for love, peace, and a little bit of pot and they did it all in colorful clothes, listening to cool music. Now, threads of that culture remain of course and it still has its radical underpinnings (90% voted for Kerry and as of yesterday, not a single Ronald Reagan stamp had been purchased at the post office -- so the local paper claims), the hippiness of it all seems sadder, poorer, without an anchor or a theme.

My California hosts met me in Berkeley for dinner at Zax Tavern. Yes, I have pictures of the wonderful food we ate there, but I am in Newark now. Remember? It's the place where my little trusty computer has been shunned and rejected by the Silicon hot shots who have ruled that it's not good enough for their high-tech scene. And BTW, cell phones do not work here either: it's one of the few spots in the country where you cannot pick up a signal. How odd is that!

In California: partly cloudy and warm (he, he)

Thanks for turning the forcast upside down and letting me have this day of sun, clouds and breezy warm air! To whomever accomplished this miracle: I am grateful.

I haven’t the time to write much, but I’m hoping the few shots, favoring what most delights me right now (fruits and flowers), will satisfy.

the first signs of Berkeley: two rain-washed faces looking out... 

Paradise flowers in the front yard 

Winter garden: a lemon, a blue sky, blooming fruit trees 

A February garden 

limes at the Monterey Market, after a morning rain 

Buckets on Shattuck 

strawberry prices I'd like to see in Madison 

looking out from Chez Panisse: a saffron gate or the Golden Gate?

Chez Panisse: Quinault River Steelhead baked in the wood oven with braised cabbage and Meyer lemon 

From Cody's, looking out on Berkeley hills 

In California: wet and ch-ch-ch-chilly

Why "Newark" (the place of my overnights)? Perhaps it is named thus because the immigrants from the east, as always, felt a lack of imagination when naming the new promised land and so they brought with them names of places they remembered with great nostalgia.

Perhaps not.

I am in the middle of Silicon Valley so my cabbie told me last night. My kind hosts -- let me call them Mary and Tom (for one thing, these are their names), are techie-bio-sciencie-engineering types. For once I thought blogging would be a breeze.Not so. Here in Silicon-valley-land (if that is where I am) the phone lines have too little juice to push forward a single post. I could publish from a tiny village in Umbria, from the hilly heights of Ravello, from the mountains of Nagano, from the desert of Arizona, but in Silicon Valley I am stumped.

Not to worry. Today I head out of the valley and into the Bay area with computer in hand.

(P.S. I can already tell what sentence I am likely to hear again and again on this trip: "it's never this wet and cold in mid-February, never!" Maybe this whole sunny California thing is a myth. Maybe they actually have terrible weather here this time of the year but they never admit it to those of us in the upper Midwest who struggle with surviving winter.)

(P.P.S. The triple posting from last night -- now corrected and removed -- is an indication of how my partnership with blogger has worked thus far out here on the west coast. Please be patient with any or all posting errors. It's going to be a challenge to get this right.)

In California: wet and warm-ish

I think my computer has a dependency problem. In Denver, it begged to be removed from the case, lovingly to be touched at the Wi-Fi points (basically the airport is one big internet café), then, again, as I arrived in Newark (yes, the odd thing is that I am staying in Newark, California), out it came and dialed itself up to life.

Would it be odd to visit with my mother in Berkeley tomorrow and blog at the same time, given that she does not know about blogs? And how about at lunch time, if I get inspired to comment on the food?

California – it’s a forward looking state, isn’t it? A blogger should feel right at home.

Word of my new love spreads as closet aficionados come forth and admit to their own sinful passion

No sooner had I posted my affection for the martini and suddenly my narrow world of wines and kir royals appears sheltered and small. I find that there is a bigger planet where gin and vermouth lovers mix and mingle. Only they never talk about it. Until this week.

Now that I am one of them, the door has opened and I feel included. This week I found myself a guest of a skilled martini mixer. Noting this in a blog post caught the attention of a friend, who thus far had talked only of an occasional indulgence into the world of wine. Suddenly he and his wife are issuing invitations to their (secret?) happy hour. The featured drink? A classic martini. I hadn’t heard from them for months and here I am, at once someone to include on a post-work gin and vermouth fest.

My own cabinet remains woefully inadequate for the preparation of anything that require something more than a corkscrew. Still, I am enjoying the discovery of this other world of cone-shaped glasses and submerged olives. In a month such as February, these are heavenly adventures indeed.

[Forgive the somewhat air-born tone of this post. I am currently onboard a flight out west.]

California, work your magic!

I am glad that I am flying west tonight.

What a week. After a totally humiliating Friday morning, a sad Sunday afternoon, a sadder Monday afternoon, a stressful Tuesday, an even more stressful Wednesday, I come home to this:

great, I'm being sued for being absent-minded

Yes, law profs can get sued! Yes it was my fault! (Did I know that those envelopes from said business had contained a bill? No I did not. I threw them away thinking they were yet again trying to solicit my business. Is that a good defense? No it is not. )

I sat by the clock this morning waiting until the magic hour appeared on its face (8:00 am) so that I could call said business, complete the payment that very second, expunge this horror from my kitchen counter and attempt to regain my internal sense of Being In Control Of Things.

Still, the weeks have got to improve! Honestly, I am not usually so in need of comfort foods and martinis late in the evening. But it's nice to know they're there. For the days that sometimes just appear too turbulent to be real.

Local talent recognized among bloggers in academe (and beyond)

Because we are one day after a big-time dog show and a few days short of the Oscars, I thought I’d sneak in my own little awards ceremony. Here’s to you, guys:

Best blogger residence where you can simultaneously 1. blog 2. eat 3. watch DVDs 4. doze off and no one will notice: Althouse, hands down. Others may come close on 1, 2 and 4, but the entire package belongs to her.

Best martini with almond-stuffed olives server, and best betting bandit in town: Bozzo (why bandit? he ran off with my chance at a Trotter dinner! read about it here)

yum 

Best advice giver, in the style of the now defunct Dear Abbey: Brito (paraphrased: if there is going to be an uneven exchange in gift giving, he should be the one paying the larger sum; unfair? who cares! Since I am, for once, on the benefiting side of the gender dichotomy, I’m fully in support of this advice.)

Best self-promotion effort: Freese (I’m not even going to post photos of the billboards around town that have gone up, seemingly overnight)

...almost wrecked my own car trying to take this photo while driving behind... 

Best alias retention by a “pretend-anonymous” blogger, long after everyone in the world knows who he is: "Oscar"

Best stick-to-the-law blogger, also reporter on topics I cannot possibly fathom given my miniscule knowledge of corporate law (prize awarded in spite of his effort to appease me with a post on cheese today): Smith

Hey law prof, have you spoken to a lawyer lately?

An interesting aspect of teaching law is that you can go a long time without actually speaking to a client or lawyer. Decades perhaps. This is, I think, unique to our profession. It would be unthinkable for medical profs to have zippo contact with a sick person or a practicing doctor, or for art profs to never encounter artists or pick up a paint brush, or to have music profs who would not be able to play the piano or some such instrument. But we do not need to know how to practice law – we simply have to know how to teach it. Whether you have any contact with the legal profession is entirely up to you.

Since my entry into the Law School was through the doors of practice (I directed a clinical program where we provided legal services to indigent people in the community), I am one of those who misses contact with my *other colleagues,* the practitioners in my field. I was, therefore, happy to spend an evening yesterday with a group of lawyers who are guest lecturing at the Law School this week.

As I listened to stories of bizarre clients doing awful things to each other, I though about how much I missed the days when I was part of that world. I thought back to my days in the courtroom and those minutes before your case is called, when you are making idle conversation with clients who are desperate, nervous, and angry. I missed it, but only for a minute.

Now that I have had my moment of nostalgia, I am happy to spin around and say – whew! Sure glad I’m not in the thick of it anymore. It’s a tense world out there, beyond the safe halls on Bascom hill.

Resolved: after a lifetime of distractions, I have decided to settle down. I have whittled my interests down to a handful; everything else is tabled.

Why this resolution? Because this week I am being reminded of a crazy year I had not too long ago. This year, things will be different: I am determined to stick with one large project. And just a wee handful of little ones.

A couple of years ago I got it into my head that I should try a different kind of hobby. I was then cooking several nights each week at l’Etoile and I developed a true interest in the small farms and wineries that stocked the shelves of the restaurant.

Wouldn’t anyone in my place decide to set up a nonprofit and advertise on the Net their services for taking small groups to France on an exploration of wineries, cheesemakers, distilleries and the like?

I did. Field to Table was born, with a staff of one – me. I was the trip planner, the driver, the idea person and the accountant. I even wrote out all sorts of legal disclaimers to preclude gross liability in case I messed up. Not that it would have helped.

In the end, I made three trips to France (Provence, Alsasce and Brittany) before I understood that my life was spinning out of control and I had to put a stop to some of my extracurriculars. Ceasing parenting responsibilities wasn’t an option and I like my law teaching job just fine. Field to Table closed doors after a mad year of trekking through vineyards, farmlands and some damn good country inn-cooking places on the continent.

But nothing really ends. One cheerful group that traveled with me to Provence remained quite bonded. Indeed, the trip, which could have ended with us killing each other in the cramped little minivan that I drove along obsolete and hilly backroads, actually resulted in lifelong friendships. I’m going to spend a long week-end with one of the Provence couples that lives in the Bay Area (family obligations require that I pop into Berkeley for a bit this month). They’re foodies, both of them and so postings about Things That You Eat will be part of Ocean fare once more.

Of course, having left New York in a total rain shower, having arrived in Madison to a drizzle, I am this week heading out to downpours in the SF area. Could someone pull some strings and help get rid of the clouds that are hovering over my days right now?

Field to Table memories: if it's Tuesday, it must be Aix... 

The aesthetic pleasure of noise, clutter and discomfort

Those of us who love coffee shops have a habit of groaning about how inadequate they are in New York. You get to the point where you are willing to buy stock in Starbucks just so that there would be more of them in the city and, even more importantly, that they would be larger, so that you could indeed count on sitting down to drink your coffee.

But it is not to be. In NY, my latte addiction either has to be treated at home (though drinking it in private is like downing shots of vodka in the bathroom; these are activities that demand companionship, or at least a murmur of voices in the background), or it has to be a commodity purchased on the run.

I wish I had taken photos of all the people I'd seen drinking their espressos while biking, roller-blading, walking.

In Madison, the problem is of a different kind. Oh there are Starbucks alright. And Ancoras and Victors and Steep and Brews, plus a host of newish babies on State Street. Many are large. Did anyone else think we were getting a Taco Palace of some sort when the new Starbucks went up on University?

Inside, our coffee shops are just too comfortable for words. We have plush chairs, tables, Wi-Fi, we have fireplaces, and newspapers loosely scattered. There are always a few people, but not so many that you could not get a seat at a table.

So why is it that sometimes I think back nostalgically to the inadequate coffee scene in New York? That I smile when I recall my impatience on Sunday as I stood with my paper cup, waiting for the oblivious idiot to get up and gather his trash from the dirty table, so that I could grab his chair and rest for a minute?

Dear New York, I miss you…

I am back in Madison. It took twenty minutes to drive home (I live about as far as you can get from the Airport). I miss New York.

The same rain that fell in the city this morning, created a slick surface here, in Madison. And my windshield froze over. And why am I driving anyway? People should not have to drive every day of their lives.

I got home and found that no one had broken into my house. The mail had accumulated in the mailbox at the curbside. No one had gone through it looking for checks and other good stuff. It’s eerily quiet here. I checked my email and answered all those wonderful wonderful people who wrote nice things in my absence.

Then it became horrendously quiet. Great! I have work to do!

I miss New York.

At this very minute, I would like to take a walk and pass places like this.. 

(When I am not driven crazy by it) I miss the pace most of all... 

yeah, little city horse, I miss you too... 

In New York: Monday morning

Today, the city returns to its workday insanity and I return to Madison. Next month, when I am in New York again, the saffron color will be a memory and nothing more.

I have never (before) much liked Central Park, at the same time that I found it to be an idea with genius written all over it. A New York without it would be a city without a heart, without air, without sun, without the seasons leaving a mark.

But this week-end, I loved the Park -- for its community, for its banter (“it is saffron,” no, “it is orange vomit”), for its love of art and love of hating art. People came out and commented outside of New York as well. Friends and strangers wrote emails and blogposts, there, too, sharing something of themselves (who would you want to spend your days with – someone who saw saffron and community, or someone who saw vomit and plastic-coated dirty laundry? Or, who saw no reason to comment at all?).

Just one last look at the ripple of saffron on a rainy Monday morning. It sent a ripple through the city, alright. And the world watched, for once not repulsed by our audacity as we let Christo do his thing, boldly, brilliantly.

black umbrella, bleak morning, saffron path 

In New York: Sunday in the park

Today I felt Central Park measured up to my beloved Lazienki Park in Warsaw. It was a day of play and promenades, always against the saffron banners.

Certainly there are critics who feel compelled to knock down the Gates art project. One reader wrote to me and said: "but it's sooo last century!" Maybe. But my reaction is closer to that of a New Yorker, an older woman who stood next to me on the Terrace of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and said: "This is a real happening! I cannot remember when we have had one of those, it's been so long. The measure of its success? That people came and got engaged. Just look at the crowds that are filling the park!"

Swinging up to an orange gate 

In the far northern corner of the park, mud football against a sea of orange