from Paris: comfort and joy

My pre-departure checklist is long. It is always tediously long. By the time I cross off the last line, I am late for the taxi. I go down and o9Miraculously, the cabbie looks in the rearview mirror and notices me. Can we make it to the Union before the bus leaves for O’Hare?

I’m on time. But just barely. The bus pulls out. My traveling companion is not with me. He’s chasing his passport somewhere on the back roads of Oregon. People really do forget to take their passports. I thought that only happened in movies.

The bus driver is taking a circuitous route. There has been a major accident on the freeway. I am not surprised. It is snowing lightly. The roads are smooth and slick from the freezing wetnesses.

At O’Hare, we face near white-out conditions. A foot of snow is expected. It’s hard to believe that some flights are coming in. Not everything is canceled.

We sit in the lounge waiting. Everyone is quiet, mentally making contingency plans. The Air France plane has yet to land.

But suddenly, there it is, inching forward toward the gate as the ground crew pushes away masses of snow.



surprisingly, it landed in the storm



at the gate; a sigh of relief -- we'll leave tonight


When flights are precarious, passengers begin to sense the need for cooperation. We board quietly, apologizing for blocking aisles, fitting into our seats without complaint, making no demands on those around us.

A baby cries. How old? Just three weeks. First trip to Paris? I ask with a smile. My companion, with passport safely tucked in his duffle bag wonders if it is always like that: one mother sees another with a child and the heart melts with tenderness. I say yes, but I admit that I am relieved when the mother moves toward the rear of the cabin.

Two hours of deicing. The minute the snow is hosed off, with a milky yellow substances that flow like bile across our windows, new snow covers the plane.

But deicing means we’ll take off. And we do. We lift off, immediately entering the white nothingness, floating in swirls of clouds and snow. Airbus planes are notoriously quiet. This only adds to the feeling of being smothered by the snow storm.

We land in Paris. A crowded train takes us from the airport through the northern districts of the city – those same neighborhoods that were so much in the press the past few weeks. And what happens now? Do the discussions continue? Will they ever turn into something other than endless debate and denouncement?

My companion is traveling with a sprained ankle. He hobbles behind me bravely, but at the hotel he collapses.

Me, I set out. I don’t wait another minute. It’s past noon – people are already sipping their vin rouge and eating their salades and plats du jour. I head toward the handful of cafés around the corner. I pick one that still might allow me to order what I want (on the promise that I wont linger too long):



comfort and joy. with chocolate


If I had to now turn around and retrace my steps, returning immediately after my café moment, I would still tell you it was worth it. There is no greater comfort than the joy of having a café crème avec un croissant, made with the sweet Normandy butter that gives it its incomparable flavor.

But I don’t have to return. I am staying here with the bare chestnut trees. And it is warm enough. In the forties, just as predicted.

Paris, as she was when I left her, two seasons ago, a lifetime ago.



winter song

hold that flight, I want to get on!

Okay. Enough. Really, I have had enough. It’s freezing here. In Paris, it’s in the forties. People are sitting in cafés and enjoying their espressos outdoors (with the help of heat lamps). I’m outta here. Next post: from Paris.

[I’m en route today, will be in France tomorrow, for many delicious days. Fine. One day of very hard work there -- I can handle that, especially since much of it will be conducted in the French way: over fine food and wine. The other days -- well, there's France out there. In the forties. With outdoor cafés. And winter landscapes. And good French people, going about their business, doing their thing, cooking their foods, growing their grapes...]

why did you do it, nina, why??

Here’s why:

I wake up. It’s – 4 outside. Fahrenheit. If it weren’t the last class meeting of my Adorable Torts section, I swear, I would not venture out. But we had a pot-lock lunch class and as it is, it nearly breaks my heart, because they are there together for one last time and it’s sort of like letting your birds fly from the nest – what a dumb cliché – because I know that after today, they will never again sit before me, computers primed and ready, Net images dancing in front of their eyes as torts stories pop into my head, four days out of the week, every week this Fall semester.

And don’t forget the pizza karaoke thing…

So I know I have to get up and get going. But I keep pushing the clock until suddenly there is no choice. I need to force myself in the direction of the Law School.

And so I set out. On Mr. B.

…because I want to see what it is like, biking in the dead of winter.
…because I want to test B’s ability to brake on ice.
…because my commenter from yesterday almost challenged me to do it.
…because I would have been late for class otherwise.
…because it is so damn cold that I figured suffering intensely for 8 minutes would be better than suffering moderately for 22.

I’ll say this much. It felt very very cold.

a cold walk

In the mornings, I have been lucky. Someone is usually driving from the loft building to campus and I can ask for a ride.

In the late afternoon – not so much. Gone are the days of tooting Mr. B’s horn. He has not been out since the first snow fell. As the temps hover in the single digits, I think kind thoughts about the garage parking next to the Law School. I gave it up with good reason, but I admit to missing it now.

I try to leave campus before the sun completely disappears. And I make stops along the way home: Mifflin Co-op, the Café, they all give two minute bursts of furnace air. But then I face the wind again.

At the last push, over the railroad tracks, toward the brick building, I start humming Lara’s theme. Had I a moustache, droplets of moisture would freeze over it and I would walk into the building with purple nostrils puffing out the only bits of warmth left in my body.

Yesterday a man approached me just as I was nearing the loft – He was bundled with layers of scarves so that I could barely see his face. He asked – do you live here? Would it offend you if I peed by the garbage bins? What am I supposed to say? Is the alternative for him to come upstairs, use my bathroom, beat me, rob me and move on? I said – please don’t ask, I don’t want to see this, listen to this, leave me alone.

I didn't stick around to find out if he had done it, like a dog, against the bins.

I tried to explain to a young woman attending to the UPS counter later today, that coldness is differently felt at different stages of your life. Being chilled to the bone means more today than it did on cold walks during adolescent decades of harsh winters in Poland.

because, most of the time, I know how to protect myself

Winter, 1973. I am done with college. I need to leave New York. My work is complete.

I rent a room in a farmer’s house in the mountains of Italy. I want my sociology male-friend to come visit, but he cannot disentangle himself. I want my college girlfriend to visit, but she cannot disentangle herself. I am lonely. I take the train to Venice. Once. Twice. Three times. Ten times. It is February, then March. The Venetian b&b owner knows that I am lonely. He reaches for me, there in his own house, with his son and wife in the floors above. I have studied the language, I know how to say no. I push him away and go out in the drizzly Venetian March air.

I am there again, years later when I travel back to Venice with my family – two little girls and a husband. We need a room. Behind the desk, the adult son looks at me blankly. I want to say “ call your dad – he’ll remember me.” I know he will remember me. But I refrain. We find another b&b. Better. Without the layers.

Spinning dizzying understanding

Most of you who read Ocean are not in any way connected with the legal profession. Me, I practiced the stuff and now I teach it. I am likely in some way responsible for the training of most, if not all, the young family law attorneys in town. Others teach about corporate mergers and acquisitions. I teach about marriage and divorce. If you practice either (what’s there to practice in marriage law?), likely as not you will have taken my class. Cool.

A commenter once wrote that I have never written with such raw emotion as when I was trying to sell the house. Watch me now.

I teach family law. I teach about compassion. I teach about clients who, for reasons too difficult to understand, cannot get it together at the time of divorce. I teach about lawyers and judges who are ill equipped to deal with what is thrust upon them. I teach about how impossibly difficult it is to make reasoned judgments in this area.

Okay. And then, suddenly, I have a personal issue that requires the intervention of the legal system. And I need to hire an attorney. And the other side needs to hire an attorney. And things are not going right. What? What’s happening? I did not say that! The other party did not say that! (The opposing party and I happen to be in good communication with each other.) Oh, suddenly I understand. The attorney on the other side is engaging in the art of exaggeration.

But wait, such conclusions! Where are they being drawn from? Oh! Reading blogs, I am told. The attorney on the other side reads OCEAN! Material from here? To be used against me? Poor Ocean is sobbing as we speak! That's just shameless! Oh, I cannot wait for this to be done with legal matters.

And now I am reminded of the time I was selling the house. Don’t write about this publicly – I was told. Keep quiet, keep quiet.

And I am reminded of the time I was called before the judicial system some 8 years ago, unfairly, on someone’s whim and fear. Keep quiet. This will resolve itself. Just keep quiet.

I cannot. I stand behind my life. I have made plenty of errors. I take responsibility for them. I am not ashamed to admit to them. But this? You, lawyer on the other side, shame on you. Shame. I will never teach my students to be like you. Yes, you may have won your case. Now go and sleep on it. Sleep on your conscience. Nighty night.

P.S. Had it not been for the asinine issue that arose, I would have been posting about my brunch this afternoon. And I would have said to you, pal, that I do indeed post photos of me smiling. Here's one that someone took this afternoon at said brunch.

make me feel like it’s December already..

My most recent days have had a lot of December in them. I may not write about it, but I certainly belong to the non-religious bunch who are nonetheless happy happy happy to:

a. listen to Christmas music;
b. put up the most splendid tree ever for the holidays;
c. cook, bake and otherwise think and work around seasonal foods. (In fact, I always gain at least five pounds in December. It is quite unfortunate that this follows the couple pound gain on Thanksgiving, but what are you gonna do…)

Okay. Holiday spirit. Here’s mine so far:

1. I was nice today to two friends. Over and beyond. C’mon! That counts!

2. Yesterday I bought a tree. I was told to get the biggest one sold. I bought the biggest one sold.



the challenge: to find anything in the heap of trees, for sale at the UW Forestry Club's annual tree sale


3. Dark chocolate, covering gingerbread. Yeah. That’s always on the list. I oblige.



suns, moons, stars


4. It helped that it snowed to high heaven today. I'm tickled to be walking, driving, skiing and otherwise moving in snow. I am. Today I walked. And within two blocks of my loft, I came across the risk-takers – those who believe in thick rather than thin ice. These dudes:



barely thick enough ice, during a winter storm


It’s a good thing that I am leaving the country next week. Otherwise I would be likely to post sappy little numbers here all month long. December is all about gloom and sap. Huge amounts of the latter, but always held in check by the former.

altered states

Caramels, from Vienna, with sea salt sprinkled on them. Mmmmm. Oops, there goes that tooth.

Extraction needed. I read Ann's blog post on this. Wow, that sounds like a nightmare! Better have a general anesthetic. Say what? I can’t drive after? I can’t party? I gotta take it easy? Forget it. Tough Polish peasant stock. Make friends with the surgeon by filling out initial form with BIG BLOCK LETTERS STATING PROFESSION: LAW PROF.

It gets his attention. So what do you teach? Do I say Family Law? Do I say Torts? No. Let there be no misunderstanding here: oh, personal injury, among other things. You know, medical malpractice.

Oh, and I want that laughing gas thing.

Man do I get a dose of the laughing gas. It’s like being totally drunk. My head buzzes in the nicest way, without the hangover. I think of all the wonderful people in my life. They seem more wonderful than ever before. I love ‘em all. I’m in love with them. I am making love with them. One at a time. What the hell, oral surgeon too, even though we just met. Pink cosmos are standing on the little dental table. God, I love having teeth pulled.

couples, part 3

So last night I took a friend and we hung out with the third in my list of cool couples.

Typically (but not this time) when I go there, I encounter a handful of others, mostly men, of varying ages, uncoupled men, or, if they are in partnerships, you get the feeling they wont last.

Both the he and the she in this relationship are professional white collar types. But it has not always been thus. For a number of years he was a Madison cabbie (and the assorted types who congregate here often are as well) and there is nothing more fascinating than listening to his tales of the city’s underbelly.

Because, apparently, there is an underbelly to this town. One that sweats its way into the open late at night. One where you suspect that the drop-off point for the passenger is also the drop-off point for, well, other stuff. One where poor women with children and with bundles that you imagine contain all their worldly possessions are transported to Beltline motels where they will await affordable housing.

God, you need to be tough to do the night runs. You need to insist on pay and try not to imagine how those dollars were procured. There is no romanticism or poetry (even if indeed, my friend, in his spare time, dabbles in poetry) about driving those who cannot or will not sleep. Though now, in the aftermath, there are tales to be told -- chilling tales with unfinished endings, for who knows what happens after the door slams behind the rider, never to be seen again by you, or maybe anyone.

[I have to say this: in addition to Madison’s underbelly, there is also the matter of this writer’s belly. I was told to show up for appetizers and drinks. Okay. I’m thinking peanuts and pretzels. But no. The photo tells part of the story. The rest is in my stomach.]


lox, leek cheese, fruits and stories

couples, part 2

About my second couple: last night was handed over to another awesome twosome in my trilogy of wonderful pairs. Mind you, when I say these three partnerships are wonderful, I make no comment on the nature of their relationship. They could be screaming and kicking each other all night long for all I know. I am only saying that, for me, it is cooler than cool to spend time with the both of them.

And whereas on Sunday evening I was pampered and peppered with French by people who have cousins living off of the wines they produce in the Sancerre region of France, last night’s couple has relatives that, like them, are as American as apple pie.

American: what exactly is so American about them? Can a transplant onto American soil even say something intelligent about this? Sure I can. I have eyes. I see someone making pink drinks and I think: it may be called a cosmopolitan but it sure feels local. American local. In Poland, only American wannabes (I’m guessing that's 64% of my country men and women) (please don’t write me in protest, I’m joking) (sort of) would even think of pouring anything into their beloved vodka.

Another example: I ask them about their relatives – if they trek down to any vineyards to check grapes for rot (it’s a curse for the French) and they tell me no indeed. Too busy volunteering for various political and social causes. You mention volunteerism to a Pole and he or she will ask “and what do I get for it?” And, too busy working at such American jobs as corporate forecasting for credit cards. Poles don’t work that hard and they don’t use credit cards.

Anyway, this oh-so-American couple feeds me regularly and welcomes me to their home and listens to my stories even though I am sure they think I am completely insane, because it is not unusual (like yesterday) for me to come in and note that I have had some dramatic event occur just moments ago. They know not to sigh audibly. They know that it will be a long evening and I will not leave before 11 before I get things out of my system.

(As a matter of fact I have been a lot calmer lately so perhaps my stories aren’t as dramatic as they once were, but still, they listen very very patiently.)

A good pal recently said this to me: Nina, you and I like to be with people who are different from us.

A correct statement. And it fits here as well. An example: this couple has young kids. At least, I think they still have kids. I haven’t seen them for months. I come there at 7:30 and both children are sound asleep. I am told. My kids were never simultaneously asleep at any time before midnight in their entire lives except at times when I drugged them (I mean with cough syrup).

And when I enter their home, dinner is cooking (see below) and there is no sign of a dirty dish anywhere. You know how it is at my place before a dinner party? Well-ordered and neat until about 5 when all hell spills onto every dish and pot, so that by the time anyone comes I feel that stacking things on the floor is the only alternative

Anyway (have you noticed? every first word of this post’s paragraphs begins with the letter A, how weird is that?), I am enthralled with these people. Obviously. So dearest daughters, I don’t want to hear any more claims that I am sometimes not sufficiently devoted to and intoxicated by things American. I am, to these people and by these people (in all ways: she makes the best cosmos in town). So there.







neat & tidy and delicious

peace

I lost a post. I worked on it in my spare (nonexistant) minutes, I tweeked it, corrected it , sensitized it because well, you know, people are prone to misunderstandings. And then, when I tried to bring it up, it disappeared.
Forgive me. I am spent. Tomorrow I will deal with my imperfect computer skills, Tonight I sleep.

loners

In a comment to the previous post a reader wrote: most of my friends are reclusive and therefore they live alone (or words to that effect).

Oh yes. I know about people who live alone. It used to be said of them that they turn weird after 40. That they are like only children – less competent at sharing time and space with another. Is this true?

In recent years I have met loners (those that live alone by choice) and I’m beginning to think that their single status is much underappreciated.

Oh now don’t start picking on me for being anti-coupling. I have lived far far more years as part of a couple than alone. So clearly I see its virtues. Someone cooks, someone cleans the dishes. Someone asks a question, someone answers it. Someone picks up the kid at school, someone picks up her medicine at the drugstore. It’s a project. So now that I have officially come out as one who favors couple-hood, let me get back to the loner.

Is there something to be learned from a person who rejects partnership? Is it like someone who rejects religion in that both view themselves quite capable of moving from corner one to corner two without additional assistance? Or are there other methods that loners incorporate into their game plan that are substitutes for the companionship of another?

The loner I know best these days would say that living alone allows him to eat milk chocolate whenever he wants to and sleep on the floor of a sheep shed if he so chooses. I believe he does both on a fairly regular basis. Of course, were I with a partner who wanted to eat chocolate and sleep in a sheep shed, I would probably insist that the shed be in the south of France and that we spend at least half a year in it. But that’s just me.

I called my loner friend just now to ask him what reason he would give for his, for the most part, loner status. It didn’t take him long to answer: I can get up at night and watch a bad video. I can hammer some and roast some chestnuts and then sleep a while longer.

Isn’t that selfish? I ask. I can also enter a situation, do some good and move on, he tells me. You think loners are weird? I think couples a weird.

I’m thinking about all this. I actually don’t think either are weird. I just think that loners get a bum rap in our world, that’s all.

couples

There are only three of them: couples where I am a devoted fan and loyal friend of both him and her. [They are all a him and a her and I am speaking about this side of the ocean and still, I may have forgotten someone, so forgive me.]

How is it that you wind up not liking the partner of someone you hugely like? Easy. One can be a creep, the other a gem. But more often, you simply do not know much about the other person. They may be better than best – how would you know? They don’t connect with you, nor you with them. It could be situational, it could be intentional -- no matter. It's fine that way.

But these three couples are different. For the most part, I do stuff with the both and it is always tremendous and wonderful.

And through a magnificent confluence of circumstances, within this one week I will see, separately, all three. It’s as if Christmas is coming early to the loft: I am that happy.

Last night I spent time with pair number one. That’s like a trip to France right then and there. They have young children to whom they speak French (possibly because they themselves are French) and this positively thrills me, as my fluency in French is about elementary school vocabulary level (okay, add to it putin, merdre and a few odd words of that nature, but after that, it’s all about Je prefere le tarte, je n’aime pas le poisson and similar basic French phrases, these very ones overheard just last night, as a matter of fact).

So in spite of the French, I understand the dynamics and feel like I am for a minute sitting in a tiny left bank apartment and we’re discussing the school situation for les enfants. [I am told Paris left bank apartments are indeed small, which does not surprise me since every single hotel room I have inhabited in Paris has been on the left bank and the dimensions were never more than 6 by 6 feet or less. Or so it seemed.]

As these people are European, it is entirely pleasing to commiserate about upbringing standards and to applaud our own stricter European approach to matters of discipline, where the kid knows that “non” to les glaces is non-negotiable and where if you don’t eat some poisson you may as well kiss le tarte good-bye. My kind of people!

My own daughters accuse me of giving them the Stare of Deep Disappointment when they misbehaved and at that point they said they feared for their lives, even though my punishment never ever went beyond the Stare of Deep Disappointment. But it was enough to send them into states of great misery, as us European types know how to give very effective Stares of Deep Disappointment.

Last night, at the end of the evening (which had a delicious salad of fresh spinach and market tomatoes, a poisson baked in an intense broth with vegetables, then cheeses and le tarte below) I left feeling that I can now cancel my forthcoming trip to France. I felt that satiated. [Thankfully, that feeling left me by the time I pulled into the loft and my forthcoming trip remains forthcoming.]

Report on couple number two and couple number three will appear later in the week. Or not. Sometimes these evenings are too private or too saturated with cosmos or wine so that the recollections are paltry.

think before you leave

Saturday night, which happened to be my last night in Chicago, we chased food. Never mind that Evanston has plenty to brag about food-wise. We wanted to go to a place that was a 45 minute drive away, in a neighborhood far west of downtown, among warehouses and fast food eateries.

Why the effort? The place has the reputation of being the best “inexpensive” (this term is admittedly relative) restaurant in town.

The place happens to be called Think.

And this says mountains about who we are, our small eating foursome that has sat around a table and chomped its way through many a meal in the last decades. We are bound in our common love of eating together (at places that show a great respect for the food, the people who make it and those – us – who consume it).

Fresh and honest, lack of pretension, intimate, exciting – food presentation qualities for which we will travel far.

So this should have created a perfect moment.

And it did. Almost.

I have no complaints about the food. Smoked salmon with capers and caviar over crispy potato nests in a horseradish sauce, followed by pasta with frutti di mare in a spicy tomato sauce, finished off with a chocolate dipped cannoli with mascarpone cream and fresh fruits. All great stuff.



think: in the beginning




think: what matters in the end


But life does move beyond the dinner plate and this morning our small band had to take a breath and move on to the next moment in time.

I drove my youngest to the airport. O’Hare was starting to swell, even at the crazy early hour of 6 a.m. The drizzle changed to rain and as I switched gears, turning northward toward Madison, I played one CD over and over and contemplated the days behind and the days ahead. If I sound pensive, I am that and then some. In a calm way though. In a good way.

tiny bubbles and rough spots

It could be put off no longer. A morning of pleasurable reading, followed by an afternoon of much-needed purchasing.

I had three helpful assorted types accompany me. A winter jacket of mine needed to be replaced. They’re good at that sort of stuff. I’m not. Me, I see the first approximation of what I need and I take out the credit card. Good enough – my favorite shopping words.

Someone stayed at my side at all times as I made my way through Bloomingdale’s until the right-fitting perfect-looking jacket was identified Sure you’re all right now? – they ask as I wait to complete the purchase. Yes, yes, off you go, attend to you your own needs, I’ll be fine.

But I wasn’t.

The salesperson tells me that I will be receiving two $15 gift cards because my purchase exceeds $200. If I dropped a few more tens, I could get one more $15 gift card, redeemable until the end of December.

Panic. That’s a bargain, right? I should look for another purchase. Where are my soldiers, my army of supporters? Okay, I can do this. Off to the lingerie department. A $30 undergarment and I am set.

I proceed smugly to the gift card acquisition desk waving my banners – receipts totaling to $302. Under my other arm – a coveted sweater, about to be reduced in price by three $15 gift cards. I am a whiz at this!

I pass other enticements along the way. Man, they really want you to shop here today! I don't need you to wine and sweeten me, I'm doing well.



Bloomie's bribes


At the gift card desk I am slapped right across my knuckles. You’re short by $15. You can only get two gift cards. Wait, put away your calculator. $270 and $32 add up to $302, I know it for a fact! Your machine lies!

Before taxes. We add the amounts before taxes. You’re short $15.

It still pays for me to do this, right? I mean, there’s a bargain here, I must take advantage of it, I am so close! I should have taken the champagne. No soldiers, no booze, no idea what I am doing.

Okay. Black tights. I can always use a pair. But $11 each? Not enough! Oh, but two pairs are going for $17.50. Do I need two pairs? No. But heck, I am now just $4 short. Who cares about need when you have a bargain so close at hand.

I purchase the tights, get the cards and notice that my cell is ringing. Furiously. Where are you? Call my soldiers. We left you paying for the jacket, you said you were fine, that you’d meet us in five minutes.

Yes, but then there were gift cards and so I had to go back and purchase lingerie, two pairs of tights and a sweater. Such a deal though! You’ll be proud of me.

They weren’t proud of me.

I felt I needed time to recover. Another blogger pal was waiting for me at Evanston’s newest chocolate lounge. You need places like this to help cream over the rough spots. The selection was large, but hey, I knew what I wanted.



Ethel's goodies



Nina's choices


On my way home I stopped at Whole Foods to pick up wine for dinner. Ah. It is a trend. This day is about chocolate, champagne and shopping. This time I know to grab the freebies. Anything to smooth over the bumps.




Whole Foods bubbles and sweets

windy city

It continues to be cold. Chicago feels like the capitol of Siberia. I don’t want this burst of frigid air, don’t need it, wish it would go away.

Maybe I am feeling surly for other reasons. Maybe it’s the shopping thing. A daughter tells me that several million have entered Walmart in the first hours of its opening after the holiday. Cool. I hope they found what they were looking for. Me, I hate being part of this buying madness.

I have no problem with laying down the credit card, nor with gift giving. I think commercialism (a euphemism for having warm and fuzzy feelings toward another as manifested by a burst of shopping on their behalf) in small doses is just fine. Sure it helps the corporate giant, but it also places a penny in the stocking of someone you care about. But I do not like milling around with a crowd of a million where half are sporting bags the size of large mammals. And sorry, but waiting in line just to get through the revolving door of Marshall Fields just isn’t right.

Still, I am surly only in short snippets. My daughters are in singing moods, Snowflakes are falling rapidly. I meet a blogging friend for a cosmo at the deco-ish Orrington Hotel Lounge. All good. Just take away the cold spell, please.

Oh Chicago, Chicago, you play with my senses way too much.




madness: hundreds pouring in



sanity: an evening cosmo with a blogger pal

what a difference a day makes

Thanksgiving.

The wind kicked the clouds around and now there are patches of blue.

Baking. Apple pastries, a spice cake, corn muffins, chocolate almond orange cake. Did Pilgrims do cake? Is this holiday about Pilgrims? The most American of American holidays. I remember when I was a kid, living in the States just for a few years (my father was with the UN), Thanksgiving meant nothing to my family. Jewish people do not celebrate Christmas. Polish people do not celebrate Thanksgiving. My only experience with turkey was when I occasionally made myself a Swanson’s turkey TV dinner. I thought the pasty gravy sucked.

Baking. It’s not my kitchen here in Evanston and so I do a lot of substitutions. No buttermilk? No problem! Let’s make some. No measuring spoons? No problem! Let’s free ourselves, get rid of the fine print, improvise. Pilgrims and Indians did not use measuring spoons or cooling racks.

Two million people are traveling through O’Hare airport this week-end. My older daughter is one of them. We drove over late last night to pick her up. Thousands of others were doing the same. The curb at the Arrivals terminals was packed five deep with waiting travelers. The cars squeezed in, plucked out their own loved one, moved on. You stand for more than 5 seconds, you get a $75 ticket. My arriving daughter is there, looking, looking and as she spots the blue car, her face turns into one huge grin. My younger one shouts out at the cars – leave ours alone! Don’t pluck her out! She belongs to us!

I hear the average American will consume 7100 calories today. That would be about five times as much as anyone needs. Butterballs, all of us.

I make use of mushrooms. I want our Madison Whole Foods to have these:






Dinner. Chanterelles with corn, exotic mushrooms on the herbed salad. The turkey is rubbed with olive oil and herbs. The mashed buds are herbed as well – with basil and chives. The soup dumplings have tarragon and parsley. Herbs and mushrooms. And chocolate and cranberries. An American Thanksgiving. Right?



baking for breakfast



baking for dinner



cooking for lunch



predinner crostini

History

I read in the Tribune: this will be the coldest Chicago Thanksgiving since 1956. That’s almost fifty years ago.

I took a walk by the lake today. Quiet, deserted. It was plenty windy already.



no swimming, no lifeguard, no kidding.

I began my adult life in Chicago. I moved here to go to grad school when I was 21. I had been hanging out in northern Italy for the late winter months just prior to this, living off of the remains of my au pair earnings. That in itself should tell you that I wasn’t ready to be an adult.

So how was it that two years later I was engaged to be married? Ah, love. And friendship.

Such different times! Everything about those days was different. I go inside a café now to get warm. Cell phones, computers – newcomers here. Life-altering events.



evidence of displeasure

In a city I am always anxious to walk, to pace the blocks. And so I am out again in the evening. Lights are on, a handful of people out walking their dogs during these predinner hours. Quick steps. It’s cold.

Love. I see one dog turning around, wanting so much to engage another. Other forces (the owner) pull at him. He has to leave. The encounter could have been different. It wasn’t though.



the pull toward pleasure

mean streets

I used to live here, though on the south side. These streets were once my streets.

So I am back. My first twleve hours. Impressions? My mental notes include the following:

A long detour getting here because Golf Road was cordoned off for blocks. Something to do with a dead body.

A trip to the local Whole Foods (smirk noted, thanks) reveals the mark up on just about everything. Because, you know, it’s the city and people will pay.

I must remember to set the alarm at two hour intervals so that I can move the car. You are not allowed to do anything (eat, visit, have sex, take a nap -- just to give a few examples of potentially non-interruptable activities) for more than two hours at a time. Must move, must move, get up and get out of here, out you go! Switch places, musical parking places, what fun!

I'm watching the preciously lovely, Dickensian almost, view out the window at dawn, with the gentle snow lightly covering the buildings of the university across the street from where I’m staying …Only to pretty much have it melt on the hot urban sidewalk by the time I get out with the camera (to move the car, what else).

I do like cities! I do! Their grittiness challenges you to stay calm, unperturbed. Feet up, exhale.



(at dawn. note student-type pulling all-nighter with term paper)

from torts to tortes

It is noon. My last pre-break meeting with my adorable Torts class. I want to prolong the moment of bonding before attacking them with questions about defective products. Defects are hard to get excited about on the day before the day before Thanksgiving. Coca-Cola bottles exploding in Glady Escola’s hand at Tiny’s Waffle Shop – is that happy news? Nothing to be thankful for there.

Twenty-seven times. That’s how often the word defect (or its derivative) creeps into my 55 minute lecture this afternoon. Cup half empty: defective products line our shelves. You cannot avoid them. Happiness is a day when a defective something or other doesn’t jump at you and scar you for life.

I asked the students if they expect to have a happy holiday this Thanksgiving. Three (15%) admitted that happiness was not on the plate before them. One expected supreme boredom (family issues I gather), two felt that Law School and the work ahead blew that bubble of bliss right from under them.

Surprisingly all but one (so 95%) are leaving town. Wow. It’s as if families and amorous pursuits suck the student blood right out of this town on the holiday week-end.

One went to the west coast, another is going to the east coast and the rest (i.e. 90%) are traveling within the Midwest. Are we a regional school? Not strictly speaking. Those amorous pursuits can make a sudden Midwesterner out of anyone.

I thought I ought not only pry. I should share. And so I told them what I am spilling out to Ocean readers now: that I myself am traveling down to Chicago (Evanston really) where my wee little family of four is gathering around the dining room table. I expect we will remain seated at this table a lot. I have been taught that the Thanksgiving holiday is all about eating (turkeys, tortes and pies come to mind). The Pole within me feels comfortable with that and so I see myself as being the mover and shaker of pots and pans for the next few days. So basically we will stay in and tub out.

Blogging will continue. I am sympathetic to the losers among us (me) who cannot pry themselves even during holidays from computer screens.

Chances are you’re traveling as well. Have a safe trip.

with a name like that you are destined to make chocolates

Face it, my name tells you little of who I am or what I do. It’s kind of foreign sounding, but otherwise uninformative.

But a year and a half ago, when I was making croissants and gougeres for L’Etoile’s Saturday market café, I met a then fellow baker, Gail Ambrosius.

Here’s a sad thought: since our time together baking at L’Etoile, Gail has commandeered her passions (for chocolate making) and is now establishing herself as (I think) one of this country’s leading chocolatiers...





...at the same time that I have commandeered my passions (for writing) and am now establishing myself as an eccentric small-time blogger, restlessly surviving life in a Midwestern university town. Impressive.

Ah well, had I been born as Nina Chevre, I may have tried my hand at making goat cheeses. Nina Lewandowska? Slated to marry and settle in America, land of opportunity for hookin' up with someone with a nice, short last name. Timing is of essence: I needed to get to it early, before historic forces would pressure me to keep “my own” (i.e. my father’s) name and not offer, instead, a chance to flee from the oppressive and wicked fate of having such a horribly long and unattractive last name.

I had told Gail when she was just getting going with her chocolate passion a year ago that I would stop by and take a look at her chocolate making facility. Okay, so it took me a while to actually visit her there (I finally showed up this morning), but in the interim, I have been sampling her goods (now sold in Madison at Steve’s Liquor and Café Soleil, as well as through the Net here). If you have never eaten one of her truffles, you are no true chocolate hound. Don’t even pretend.

Gail merges flavors in ways few have dared. Her finest (in my opinion): maharajah curry with saffron in a dark Dominican chocolate; earl grey tea sprinkles with organic lavender buds in a Venezuelan chocolate; peony and rose tea also in a Venezuelan dark; and special for this holiday season: a dense dark chocolate with cranberry and meyer lemon. That’s MEYER lemon and if you’ve never sucked on a MEYER lemon then you are a babe in foodie explorations and should rush to your nearest purveyor while the season lasts.

But first, try one of these, made by the queen of the dark, heavenly stuff:



earl grey tea and lavender buds



cranberry and Meyer lemon



Gail



my own box, traveling with me for the holidays

banana fana fo fina

Most people tell me they like their names. I think that your name becomes somehow inexorably intertwined with your inner core in a substantial way. Looking at it with distaste would be like finding fault with the appearance of some aspect of your cardiopulmonary system or something.

I have often wondered, is it stressful, therefore, to be an Elizabeth or David or any other name that is frequently tossed around? Or do these people feel the same warm and tender stroke of their inner-personhood when they come across their special (but not really all that special) set of letters?

And, conversely, if you have an unusual name (without it being off-the-wall bizarre or off-putting), is there a less modest reaction when you hear or see it articulated or scribbled somewhere? Do you have a sweeping grin stretching from one organ to another as you think to yourself “wow, this one’s about me?”

I almost never encounter any Ninas. When a Nina does wind up in the same space as I am, I have a hard time believing she is a Nina. I see her more as a nina or maybe Nina, but never Nina.

Man, does my gut feel possessive about that little letter combo. And why shouldn’t it? Nina has stayed with me my entire life. It has followed me from the principal’s office (“Nina, you have to do as Miss Kaufman asks you to do in music class. You are not to drop the music book on the floor with a bang, no matter what you think of her request.”), to the county courthouse (“making an appearance, along with her attorney, Nina L.C.”).

It is, therefore, strange and disconcerting when I come across the name randomly, unexpectedly, brazenly. It happened this afternoon, at my local little Italian deli. I’m still recovering.

guy talk

I’m going to get beaten for this post, I know it. But what can I say, Ocean says it like it is and today I talked guy talk.

Qualification: I am in no way implying at any point that women do not make great carpenters nor that they don’t, can’t or wont design things with metal, or subscribe to computer magazines, or that they scoff at spectator sports and do not know how to banter with hardware sales people or tinker and fix things around the house, or that they are incapable of being slovenly in their personal habits. So don’t even try to get me on that one.

It’s just that I have this friend who has the above traits and then some and when I give him a hard stare for some particularly annoying habit, I get that shrug that says it all: guys do that sort of stuff and I’m a guy.

Indeed.

Today, though, I put it to good use. This friend, let’s call him Mr. Guy (Mr. G., as opposed to Mr. B.), has great mechanical abilities. I mean, he is talented in ways that I can’t begin to understand, since no one in my family – going up or down or sideways in lineage – has any such talents except for my maternal grandfather and he sure as hell did not pass it on to the next generation nor the one after. Oh, I can be somewhat handy and one of my daughters appears to have a nascent ability to put things together, but none of it has received any nurturance or support and so tell any of us to fix or build something and all we can do is retreat and hide under quilts in shame.

Mr. G., on the other hand, designs and builds computerized machines for guys to use (he tells me his business clients are 95% guys and 5% women buying presents for their guys). So if you sit around and say things like – God, I’d like to figure out a way to sit by the window and work on my computer there, you’re going to get solutions.

We’re at Menards. Of course. Guy land, ostensibly. Do you have a hack saw? He asks me. I have never sawed a hack in my life. No, of course I do not have a hack saw.
Get one.
Can I use it for my Christmas tree? I get the stare that tells me I should know better than to use a blade meant for metal on a tree stump.

We’re at the restaurant supply store. One look at Mr. G. and the man behind the counter is all over the place showing possible units, talking about support brackets and wires and who knows what else. Then he gives me a discount. Why? Because Mr. G. talked dirty with him: all about brackets, wires, with weird silences in between and questions throughout. Guy talk.

clerk at K restaurant supplies

Oh, there were moments were I had to take a break. At the Winter Market I ran to my world of farmers and bakers and hid from the onslaught of guy-dom.




And after Menards I insisted on a latte at Borders, where I got lost for a few minutes in the relationship between de Beauvoir and Sartre*. The world of relationships and rebels is a world I understand.




But then we were at it again. Hold that in place while I saw off the ends. Have some varnish around? No? Not even a tack cloth? Get one.

Finally, at the end of the day, this:


new writing solution at the loft

And so long as I was being sucked into this horror movie of tools and implements and metal and varnish, I agreed to the ultimate: those who know me will absolutely not believe this, but it’s true. In the evening, I got roped into going to the Field House to watch a game (it’s like ballet! – he tells me). At least it was women playing volley ball. I honestly would have said no had the sport been of the rough kind.

Ballet anyone?










* Those who followed yesterday’s blog post commentary will appreciate my pull towards Sartre’s favorite words: “Naturally one doesn’t succeed in everything, but one must want everything.”

Addictions

Lattes. Health Valley peanut butter and strawberry bars. Nouveau Baujolais (but only on the third Thursday of November each year, when it is introduced and stores make a big deal about it).

Borders, Mifflin Street Co-op, Whole Foods (I can't help it. Willie Street Co-op should replace Whole Foods, yet I remain loyal to the corporate giant).

Ocean blog comments, others’ blog comments, comments about blogs.

Mr. B in the morning, Mr. B in the afternoon, Mr. B at night.

Sex and the City, urban stuff, other stuff.

Stimulating conversation, funny conversation, oh!-I-haven’t-seen-you-forever! conversation (that happened, btw, in front of Whole Foods today, so there we have another reason to love Whole Foods).

Travel to Europe, traveling through Europe, leaving Europe but planning the next trip to Europe en route home.

Reading the first chapters of books, writing the first chapters of a book, skimming through the first chapters of books.

Cooking for people, eating with people, having people cook for me.



given the comments to the previous post, I felt compelled to follow through: pureed squash soup, with goat cheese and fresh herb gnocchi.

More:

Inserting “you should” into emails, inserting “you should” into blog comments, inserting “you should” into phone conversations.

Getting a kick from having my own washer & dryer (for 25 years now, kick is still going strong), getting a kick out of having indoor plumbing (for 49 years now, kick is still going strong), getting a kick out of entering a warm place where thoughtful hosts actually cranked up the thermostat over and beyond 65 (ever since I moved to Wisconsin).

Chocolate after dinner, cereal after dinner, really, a whole ‘nother meal’s worth of food immediately after dinner.

Cosmos with cosmo-lovin’ friends, wine with wine-lovin’ friends, ummm, I’m drawing a blank on a third here. So, I failed to keep the momentum going. Perhaps that’s a good thing. Posts should be short. Ocean has been a little out of control lately.

chestnuts and jellies

In the late afternoon, after classes were done with, I engaged in a (frenzied?) email exchange about happiness. It was one of those one-upmanship things: who is more likely to search, and therefore find happiness – my email-respondent or me?

You aren’t entirely serious when you write about this sort of stuff. In fact, most people shrivel and hide if anyone even asks them about their happiness (what does it mean? there’s no such thing, etc etc). But insofar as we were able to conclude anything during this particular exchange, it was that he had small fluctuations (a little happy, a little sad) and I had great ones (a lot happy and less frequently for sure, a lot sad) and it all added up to pretty much the same bowlful of happiness.

But then we zeroed in to the heart of the matter: can a person who is a little this a little that ever fully appreciate the singular joy that comes with great friendship? Parenthood? Love? Companionship? An adorable Torts class?

I don’t get “little joys” people. My writer friend states: “if the chestnut is gone, there’s always a sweet potato.” (Meaning, there’s always something.) Well yes, but I am not ashamed to admit that I have a hierarchy of preferences on what foods I will place in front of me. Ahead of the pack come my two little chestnuts out in NHaven. It’s a given. But after that, I will chase down a truckload of foods before I settle for the sweet potato.

I look for them, I spend time on them. My friend says (by now the discussion has shifted to the phone) “I’m not a “more” person. I don’t need even more than I already have.” My heart goes out for you. More love and greater happiness seem infinitely better than an average amount. And why waste time on the potato, on the gray sky, on inertia, on fear of failure, when you can indulge yourself and revel in a heart-wrenchingly beautiful sunrise right there, outside your window, or a plateful of jellies at a café around the corner? But you need to crave them and expect to find them. Such joy when you do!




this afternoon, around the corner, at Jo's



this morning, out the loft window

(this post is dedicated to commenters no. 6 & 7 from the previous post)

Hey you! I know you love the Midwest. I know that you are not living here for reasons that have nothing to do with your feelings for this place. But come on, surely you do not miss days like today! Read on:

This morning it is confirmed. What touched my face with wet slobberishness late last night turned into an icy cold dusting of snow this morning.

Some people, whom I have heretofore considered reasonable human beings, actually claim a fondness for this shift in climate (from nice to awful). I sort of don’t believe them. Show your love! Join me out there in barren expanse of snow, ice and frozen earth!

And yet, and yet, I want to challenge myself. I have time. The Torts class doesn’t convene until noon. I am going to peddle my way to the countryside! Mr. B, you and I are going to love this Wisconsin blast of cold air if it kills us!

It nearly does. The temperature is hovering around twenty, the windchill is in the single digits or less. There are icy patches on the road and the wind is kicking up a nice 30 mph gust as I push against it, heading south.



(on Lake Monona, looking bewildered by the sudden freeze)

First, my nose disappears off my face. I can’t feel it, so it must be gone. Then my fingers, wrapped in Austrian leather (you guys mustn’t get the winters we do, is all I can say), freeze lovingly around the B. handlebars.

Ten minutes into the ride I do a nice 180 degree turn and head back toward the Square.

What I need is not a one-on-one with nature, but a one-on-one with a warm café. Preferably a welcoming space, painted in golden yellow tones. With gorgeous warm burgundy throw pillows. And a copper bar. Oh and please, find me a place with beautiful photos hung on the walls. A family-run café, where I can give the owners a hello kiss, because, you know, that’s how it’s done in glowing places where the espresso rocks and the croissants rule. Just one more request – a name that warms my soul on this cold November day.



Cafe Soleil

I am filled with love and good will. My adorable Torts class needs a pick-me-up as much as I do: load up the boxes with croissants, brioche, and chocolate squares.

Later in the afternoon, I set out home. Mr. B is grunting at me. Yesterday rain, today snow. I can hardly push him against the strong winds. I am undaunted: you will make it, so will I. You’re tougher than tough. Me, I’m just plain tough.

But I know our limits. I do want to see the fields dusted with snow. I want to take a look at the dogwoods and birches against the fresh powder coating the ground. But let’s be real here. I like the feel of my nose and fingers. I am resigned. I leave Mr. B at the loft, dust off the car keys and head out.



construction workers, heading home



outside the city: less snow, serene landscapes

Rain

I called my mother today to wish her a happy birthday. She thanked me and mentioned in a by the way fashion that one way of becoming a millionaire would be to set aside money otherwise spent on lattes at Starbucks. I did not correct her misconception as to where I purchase my lattes.

But I did change my coffee source for the day, moving from the Electric Earth Café to Joe’s, to avoid EE’s long wait, as most before you in line order sandwiches and other foods requiring great thought and deliberation.

At Joe’s, not only did I spend $2.95 + $.35 tip, but I put the latte into the new gizmo I attached to Mr. B so that I could transport the cup and myself safely back to the loft each day. Juggling a steaming latte in my hand while crossing the railroad tracks and making sharp turns proved tricky, so I plunked down some bucks on a nifty yellow wire thing. No, of course it is not intended to hold down your latte, though I noted with some satisfaction that is was made in Italy. Fitting, considering Mr.B’s own Italian heritage.




You might pick up from the photo that Mr. B is wet. I had neglected to take an umbrella in the morning and so I had my first taste of thirties temps, with rain and puddles throwing water against the black tights and the striped skirt number I chose to wear to work today, it being a heavy teaching day and this particular getup being my most ancient and resilient dress-up outfit, suitable for a November bike ride.

My mother did not mention the blog in the course of our talk. This was wise of her. Last time she noted it, in a letter to me, it was in a troubling context. I’m not sure she is entirely on board with the whole blogging phenomenon (an understatement, truly a whopper understatement) and most certainly she is not on board with her daughter blogging away as if there was no tomorrow.

Instead she talked about prescription drugs and Berkeley weather. She mentions California weather with frequency in winter months and especially when Madison’s weather is as it is today – cold, wet, dismally gray.

But in fact, I do not mind today’s rain. I have skylights at the loft and the rain against the roof here makes such a racket that a friend remarked recently that there must be no insulation up there. We looked up and indeed, it appears as if there are boards and then roof and then, well, sky.

Rain is not much of a factor in daily suburban life. When my daughters were little, they had slickers that were cuter than cute – with yellow ducks and blue polka dots. Their grandmother bought them the slickers and I took many photos so that their cuteness is forever recorded and future generations will maybe see the albums and say things like – wow, they wore cute slickers in those days.

But the fact is, they never wore them. Because slickers make sense only if you walk or bike in the rain. They do not make sense if you get in and out of cars and take a few steps through the parking lot to reach your destination.

I notice rain now, as I notice most everything about each day with an added twist of a sharper focus. I notice which sidewalks have cracks and which corners gather water in big puddles. I notice the color of the sky and I fully expect to go out and smell the wetness after the rain stops. I also notice when I am being snappish and when I am being calm and reasonable – as for example when talking to my mother in Berkeley today.

It’s too bad I did not notice the chestnuts in the oven last night before I fell asleep. FYI, chestnuts do not need 4 hours at 400 degrees to roast to a proper eating consistency.