bird story

A few paces south of the Beltline (the highway that wraps itself around the perimeters of Madison), you can pick up a trail that will lead you to the shores of Lake Waubesa. Eventually, you’ll reach railroad tracks that bridge a waterway linking Waubesa with Mud Lake (or Goose, or whatever other generic name you want to give to the lake adjacent to it). Following the tracks back toward Madison places you in the midst of the marshes where birds mate, eat, rest and generally hide from the likes of me.

I walked there yesterday. Watching the games geese play with each other, I thought a lot about the way we ourselves coax and tease, laugh, eat (an essential in my case) and play with, and generally chase down the objects of our affection.



he chases her



she then chases him



a secret, underwater pursuit



they're just so into each other



he's doing the mating dance



alone



traveling together



two take off



heading into the sunset, alone



watching



too much togetherness?



keeping up with her



two birdwatchers, waiting, with expectations

blue

Despite the attention on spring, on St. Patrick’s, on longer days and brilliant sunshine, with the end of spring break I am inclined to regard the world in various shades of blue.

From a drive to Governor Nelson State Park, just north of Madison:



two minutes outside Madison, total quiet




from the north, looking toward the Capitol, the lake is ice-free




...though evidence of winter is there, along the shore




blue shadows on slushy trails

spring break, one more time

Late morning. We are at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I need a new license. I moved, I have a new address. A daughter needs a license as well. Hers was stolen. We’re all there, waiting, the whole bunch of us. Nothing to read, nothing to do. There is a trivia quiz flashing on the electronic monitor. No, boring. Let me practice facial expressions for the camera. Which smile should I use, this one? Maybe. This one? Maybe. This one? – no not that one! I look at them. They are laughing so hard: tear-inducing laughter. Damn it, what’s wrong with that one?

We are walking down a Chicago block earlier in the week. Remember when I was in sixth grade? – I’m asked. Yeah… There was a quiz I had to respond to, how well I knew my parents. Remember? One question was about my mom’s favorite color. I knew you didn’t have one, but I needed to answer. You like blue, no? So I put down blue. Yeah… And then it was your turn. You could look at my answers and fill in your real ones. Yeah… And when it came to what’s your favorite color, you wrote “I have no favorite. NOT blue.” You broke my heart. Roll back, let me do it over again!

Did you love me forever, for those three days? Lucinda Williams sings on the CD. A new line to use when you fish for something that lasts forever. Did you only love me, for those three days? No, no, I love you forever!

Spring break. Last days of it. Snow melts. I cook one last dinner. One daughter is supremely late. I want to kill her, she knows the rules. A person cooks, you show up. But I can’t.

On the CD player, Woodie Guthrie sings a song we play each year on March 17th, for no good reason.

Go to sleep you weary hobo
Let the towns drift slowly by
Can't you hear the steel rail humming
That's a hobo's lullaby

Do not think about tomorrow
Let tomorrow come and go
Tonight you're in a nice warm boxcar
Safe from all the wind and snow



daughters

spring green

Come pub crawling, it’s St. Patrick’s! I’m one-quarter Irish.
I’m not Irish. Poles only recently love the Irish. In my days, Ireland was a place for the US bound Polish jet to refuel, nothing more. Your worthless Polish currency couldn’t even buy you a pint of beer at the airport.

Come pub crawling anyway. Green beer. You can take photos.
I have no interest in photographing beer diluted with green water.

The people, it’s all about the people.
If by The People you mean college kids getting drunk on State Street, believe me, I have enough connection to The People on an almost daily basis.

Please! It’s sunny. And spring break. Look! State Street is full of people your age!
(!)
It used to be Please Take a Walk With Me, now it’s please let’s drink green beer. You’ve lost touch with the inner me.

Have I ever asked you for anything with such earnestness?
(!)

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, do you know where your children are??
One of mine is by my side at the Irish Pub on State Street. And no, I am not having a green beer. And yes, I am finding it an interesting place for a few minutes of camera time.



green hats, green pitchers, greenbacks



she's got her work cut out for her today



an old woman rests her hand on the bar; it's my birthday, she says

reflecting on stuff

First of all, food. Most people start the day by thinking of all that’s ahead of them. I looked outside, noted the snowstorm…



view through the screen

…and put thoughts of work and chores aside. No use moving rapidly into the day when the day turns out to be the kind that pushes you back under the quilt.

So instead, I thought about the foods I had been working on the past couple of days. I’d never made any of the dishes before. It’s far more interesting to experiment with new stuff.


galette de crabe "le bec-fin" (crab and shrimp galette with a light mustard sauce)

But with old combinations of people there at the table. People, whose quirks and idiosyncrasies you know by heart. People who have eaten at your house so many times that they have grown used to your kitchen habits, who are patient, who can carry on even as you drift in and out of talk, with half your mind focused on the next dish and the next.

The loft this week is full of people, staying here, eating, coming in and out.

I’m sitting and watching the snow fall, thinking every good thought on the planet, neglecting work, neglecting worry, neglecting stacks of paper.

Spring break works its magic.

leave me alone, i'm cooking

Dirty dishes in the sink, most foods only half finished, nine people in two hours, here, ready to eat. What can I say, both the post and the food still need work. So, back to the kitchen sink for now. As to Ocean? Ocean's a patient sort. Later. Much much later.

spring break reconsidered

It’s too short. Even Thanksgiving feels longer for some inexplicable reason. But spring break comes and goes and you are left with the feeling that nothing happened: there was no spring and there was no break.

When I was in Chicago this past week-end, in that burst of warm air, I thought how different life would be if spring break fulfilled the expectation of a true pause in life, one that allowed you to revel in the warmth and light that I imagine for this season. My imagination moves me outdoors and places me at a table with terrific people watching opportunities. Something not dissimilar to this:



Chicago: reflecting on the essence of whatever


I ought not be bothered by the howling wind outside, the cold temperatures. I ought to be used to it. I am a child of northern climates. A chance of snow later this week in Madison. A chance of snow by the week-end in Warsaw, Poland. So I understand that this month does nothing to undo the nakedness of trees, nor does it help the first crocuses stay strong and sturdy against the gusts of cold air.

I understand that I have to wait, but I am not happy about it. I’ll stay indoors with the furnace blowing warm air and make do with my jug of flowers, the same ones that will soon appear at our local market. Okay, maybe not so soon. Okay, maybe in a couple of months. Maybe.

Some spring break.


Ocean colors

meanwhile, back in madison, spring break

A walk yesterday afternoon along Lake Mendota says it all.




Personally, I would not sit on a lake where half of it is no longer iced over. No, let me correct that: I would not sit on a lake where the only visible colors around me are shades of gray and the skies let loose something between ice pellets and rain.

Of course, it's not clear why I would be taking a walk under those conditions.

March here is so often a disappointing month.

from chicago: my people?

About time. Outside, there’s this:



In the seventies, sunny skies. Spring fever hits me. It is hard to move from couch to chair. Finally I get it together and set out. In the afternoon.

Some thirty years ago I spent many hours visiting homes and bingo halls in and around Wicker Park, a neighborhood just northwest of downtown Chicago. I was trying then to get a feel for the decaying and disintegrating Polish community. It had been a sad place really. Signs of Polishness had been replaced by check cashing outlets and resale clothing shops.

Today I went back to these streets. With good reason. I’d been hearing that Wicker Park and the adjacent Bucktown are Chicago’s neighborhoods of choice these days. For people like me, who have great feelings of ambivalence about urban gentrification (loving it, hating it, hating it, enjoying it), Wicker Park rules: it has a mixture of ethnicities, old stores and seedy bars, along with quirky boutiques and big time chefs doing their thing at refreshingly simple-looking eating haunts.










Here you find old mansions in various states of repair – many showing off intricate porches, but hiding interiors packed with a little known history. Some say Ignacy Paderewski banged at the piano here in the early 1900s. Poles done good. Some of them anyway. They’re back now, those ubiquitous Chicago Poles. I hear the language. It is spoken by construction workers spiffin up the place for others.





My walking companions know that when the sun gets that glow of a finished day, it is time to sit down, face the street, sip wine and watch people go by. It’s as important to do that as anything else that may mark a day.








Returning to Evanston, I have again put distance (block-wise if not otherwise) between myself and the Poles who keep choosing this city as their own.

Late at night, we go to the Stained Glass Wine Bar and Bistro, I study the menu and pick foods that reflect Chicago’s special melange of infusions and influences: prepared by chef Hernandez, it is a lovely sea food plate, with fresh peas and pierogi at the side.

from chicago: a mess on your plate

Is it a chain if there are nine locations of a given eatery? If so, then I am about to scribble some notes on yet another chain – one that we often choose for a meal when in Evanston: the Flat Top Grill.

Don’t stop there, Madisonians, read on, for there is this small sign tucked away at the Flat Top:



I’ve eaten at places similar to it before: you pile onto a plate a selection of stuff, you hand over your mess to the cook and you sit down. In minutes, your very own assortment is stir fried and set before you.

But the Flat Top really pushes it over the top, so that the entire restaurant spins around this stir-fry operation. At any one time, one or two dozen individual mounds are being swished and tossed on the huge flat cooking top. And no, they don’t (99% of the time) mix any of it up: you don’t get any of your neighbor’s spillings.

My eating companions have preferences. One of them especially likes a few select veggies, of the green and thin type, and so she carefully mounds her bowl with her favorites. There are also wonderful sauces and spiced waters that you can ladle onto your mound and she looks for her one or two precious blends each time.

Me, I have my cluttered mindset scribbled all over the plate. None of this meticulous selection and scrutiny. There are literally two dozen raw veggies (and a handful of fruits, plus raw meats and fish for those who like to throw in such stuff) out there to pick from and another dozen sauces and mostly I find them all irresistible, so that in the end, my plate looks like this:



It’s all very economical. Your mound of food is around $12 and for another couple of bucks you can get another round of it. If you take their wine suggestion, you’re out only $12 for the bottle.

I feel after dinner completely satisfied that I have covered all my veggie needs for a week. Guilt-free eating. As fresh and honest as it gets.

So one more little plug for a chain-ish place. Asian again. About to pop up in Madison. I’ll be there when it opens.

windy (city), warm thoughts

Just about two dozen years ago, my daughter and I took a stroll down Michigan Avenue in Chicago.


downtown Chicago, 1983

Today we again made our way downtown. And now I am spent. It is a shame that when I finally take to the road again and leave Madison for a quick trip to Chicago, I have so little energy at the end of the day that I can say nothing beyond that I am here.


downtown Chicago, March 10, 2006



March weather: eating outside

chained

I am tickled by the response to the new restaurant that opened less than two months ago on the far west side of Madison: PF Chang’s. Overheard: it’s okaaaaay. Too salty. Not as good as Muramoto.

Interesting perspectives.

Chang’s is a chain. In Madison, it is not cool to like chains. Okay, Whole Foods. You can admit to shopping at Whole Foods and people will forgive you. These days. And after shrugging apologetically, even serious types will tell you that they hang out at Borders.

But mention restaurant chains and the Inner Circle turns up the Inner Nose.

So why is it that yesterday, midweek, rainy and cold, Chang’s was packed, so packed in its huge space, that even those with reservations (us) had to wait? (Wee hoo, free apps as a result!)

Oh, I was initially put off by the huge stone horses at the entrance. Welcome, big crowds! You are now in Vegas! And my man Jason, who clips and colors with a mark of genius, just a parking lot away, shriveled his nose at the tofu when I asked for a lowdown . Too soggy, he tells me.

But others who have eaten at one of the many Chang’s outside the Midwest, brought in different reports and so three of us hiked west to give Chang’s a chance.

Oh there were imperfections: the wait, the forgetful waiter, the rain. Yes, the rain. I did not like being drenched on my way in or out. So there.

But the food was fine! Lettuce wraps, oolong marinated sea bass, black bean chicken. Main dishes hovering around twelve dollars.



Oh we are such great critics, you and I! We all love to knock down everything in sight: places, spaces, people’s cv’s, food. Too salty, too imperfect. It has been done better elsewhere on the planet.

Yes, of course. I agree. And somewhere on this planet there is real spring and flowers are blooming and people are looking out their office spaces and witnessing something far brighter than this:



today on Bascom Hill


I’ll pick small, earnest cooks and growers and producers over big guys most times. I’ll shove artisanal down your throat, I’ll preach the organic mantra. But I wont turn my back on a place that is packed with hungry people who, at the end of the evening, leave intending to come back. I’m one of them. Call me insane, but I am one who even loves a number of items on the Macaroni Grill menu (another maligned chain). I forgive the name there, just as I forgive the Vegas horses outside PF Chang’s. (I do not forgive the weather. Madison, get it together.)

taxes and tables

I met with a CPA today.

For more than thirty years I have been filling out tax forms – for myself, family members, pretty much anyone who walked down the road and asked me for help. I had 1040 confidence.

Then I started making mistakes. Not huge, but come July I’d hear from the IRS. They always included the worlds “you owe.” Nice little note that often came minutes before the fireworks of the fourth of July. Yay Uncle Sam. [Mind you, I like taxes, I do. I just don’t like to be told I made a mistake. Even if I did.]

And here we are, tax season at hand. Since 2005 was a year of Great Changes for me, I became concerned that I would be royally tax-screwed.

Go get help, said one friend.
Do turbo tax, said another.
Sharpen your pencil and do it yourself, another shrugged.

I sharpened the pencil, called a CPA and wrote down the time of the appointment.

Then I went for a walk.


a picnic table outside Monona Terrace: waiting for better weather

this morning

Misty scenes, misty dreams. Wake up, look outside.



morning, part 1

Eventually, a fog lifts, light comes through, something beautiful is revealed.



morning, part 2

midnight

It used to be that it had no meaning for me: midnight. Big deal. Hands of a clock, moving, always moving. I’m on the computer, there’s music. No compulsion to work at that hour, no pressure to perform. Post midnight time was my time.

Then midnight became synonymous with an Ocean deadline. Self-imposed. Post something by then or else. A journalist’s deadline, except I am no journalist. Just a blogger. Still, midnight is suddenly threatening.

And now it is a goal, not a given, that I should stay awake that long. On Saturday, I ended a night out early by saying at 11:45 I am ready to go home.

I am, therefore, pleased that my evening tonight with Tubbs is an early one. You know Tubbs – the Eldorado guy? And his new restaurant on Atwood Avenue? Tex Tubb’s Taco Palace? I get the name wrong a lot. I forget the Tex or the Palace, but Tubb’s sticks with me. Sometimes I think I would do well with a last name like that. Less subject to mispronunciation.




Tubbs does tacos right. My three, achiote rubbed tilapia, shrimp and grilled portabella, sitting on soft corn tortillas, flavored with chipotle dressing, made my eyes burn with joy. Though perhaps the burn was the result of zestiness, as I doused each taco with one of three salsas available in limitless quantities.





My eating companion wanted a taste and a small greedy part of me wanted to say no. The enchiladas on her plate were plenty delicious. I relented when I realized that each taco was only $2.50. If her bite was too substantial, I could easily order another.

I do wish the backroom where we ate was a little, well, warmer. I am used to eating dinner in my coat in Madison restaurants (winter or summer, the latter raising severe AC issues – it’s as if Wisconsinites can’t get enough of that cold air), but the nip here came from both the cool temps and the cool-ish space. I’m trying to recall why I thought it to be less than embracing and as I spin back, I am seeing gray tones and dim lighting. It’s okay, I can live with it. The food is worth it. But, oh, for a burst of warm air, warm tones, warm something! Maybe I am over dramatizing the fact that we are in March and it feels like the dead of winter still.

P.S. Why an early dinner? Because I am a groupie. Doesn’t it make me a groupie to hear Lucinda Williams in the summer in Milwaukee and then to enthusiastically show up at her feet when she comes to Madison?

day is done

Is a blog the place to exhale? I am exhaling, wearily, spent.

Thirty years ago, I had an Oscars party. I invited friends. I met someone who would, within minutes (yes…) become my husband for the next three decades.

Today, the snow fell, gently, then rapidly. I spent the day talking to people who were reviewing their own past.

It continued, the snow did. Eventually, I spun the wheels of my leased car and drove down to Lake Mendota with my daughter. She told me that one of her best memories is of a snowstorm many years back where I had shooed the family out for a walk by lake Mendota. Today she and I walked there, retracing the steps of ten, twenty years back.

Back home, I did what I needed to do: I cooked for you (even though so many of you could not be here). Roasted pepper soup, figs with cheese, beef with horseradish, citrus rubbed shrimp, chocolate pots de crème.

To you, for this day that was a whiteout weatherwise and clear as anything otherwise.



two birds, different, eyeing each other (Lake Mendota)



roasting figs



citrus rubbed shrimp



pots de creme