en route to Door County: sweet trails

It’s cold. The car steams up inside, freezes on the outside. So we head north.

Ed asks: we’re stopping at Oshkosh for chocolates, right?

This is a puzzler to me. I associate Oshkosh with kid overalls and experimental aircraft shows. A working town with no particular culinary traditions.

You don’t remember the article I read you from the NYT?
I don’t remember the article you read me from the NYT.

In case you, too, missed it, the article describes the old fashioned chocolate and candy shops in Wisconsin’s Fox River Valley (that would include the towns of Oshkosh and Appleton, with Green Bay thrown in for good measure). You wouldn’t think there would be such a high demand here for homemade chocolate. But there is.

And everyone knows where to find them. We pull up to a drive-through Starbucks in Oshkosh.

We’re looking for Oaks Candies. Know where they are?
Of course! Follow 9th to Oregon!




Inside, it looks…oldfashioned. I’m trying to understand candy labels – there are creams and clusters, but I’m beginning to see that Wisconsin has its own faves:




Anglefood, meltaways, oysters.

We buy a little bag of 6 candies for $3.26. We eat several. Very sweet. Fresh.

Where’s Doty Street? – we ask.
She knows we’re looking for the competition. But, she’s Oshkosh friendly. Down the street, turn right at the gas station except it’s not really a gas station it’s like a car dealer, and then right on Doty.

We follow the trail. Just a breath away from Lake Winnebago.




In a residential neighborhood, a house, with barely a sign announcing it’s business there in the basement.





Hughes Home Maid (pun intended) Chocolate Shop. You want authentic? You want friendlier than you could possibly imagine? You want an invitation into the kitchen? Free samples? Oysters? Easter Bunnies? The best English toffee? Here, put yourself in my shoes for the moment:






















We leave with a pound box of milk chocolates (Ed and I share a love for quality milk chocolate – we search out the stuff in all food stores) for $9.50.





I’m thinking we should stop now while the sugar is still under control. But we’re so close to the others! Shouldn’t one compare?

In Appleton, the gas attendant gives us directions to Vande Walle’s. It’s on Mall Drive. Easy.





Here, the samples are flowing at us fast and furious. Try this, try that. We do. And we take the self-guided little tour of the kitchens. More samples there.




When it comes time to buy, I am drawn to the garlic pistachios. You can understand that, can’t you? When the nice nice super nice saleslady describes the center of an aglefood chocolate, I’m starting to perspire. Still, I pick up a bag of toffees and chocolate covered jellies. I love those! Memories of Poland!

You need a bag to carry all that, don't you? Sheepishly -- yes. And where is...
Two miles down on Wisconsin, you’ll come to Superior. It’s there. – they tell us. They know what we’re up to. Our next stop on the candymaking tour. Wilmar Chocolates.





Would you like a sample of anglefood? No! I mean, yes, sure, thank you. I’ll pass. How about a cinnamon spice fennel piece? Yes, of course. No, I’ll pass. Mmmm… delicious.






Wilmar’s is different. At Wilmar’s, it’s criminal to pass on the dark chocolate stuff.

The clerk asks an older man who comes in. Would you like a piece of the cinnamon spice fennel… No thanks. I’m not into that newfangled stuff.

Wilmar’s is breaking new ground here.

In the back, one chocolatier is finishing up his work. You’re taking pictures? Yes… you know. Came here because of the article. Yes yes, well, hope you like our chocolates.





I can hardly stand the sight of another. And yet..

We have chocolate macadamia turtles. They’re very seasonal. Sure, throw in that. Three half pound boxes, $27. For small gifts, no? I'm still smiling. Must be all that chocolate covered anglefood.



Ed asks about the next stop, but I am sugared out. You can’t enter a chocolate making place and exhibit no enthusiasm for the free samples. It’s just not polite.

We listen to the radio as we make our way up north, into the Door County peninsula – the pinkie finger of our state, surrounded by the waters of Lake Michigan.

It’s cold, the sun is long gone, the snow layer around us is significant. It’s quiet.





Juniper Inn is off the road a bit, just past Fish Creek. The innkeeper is waiting for us. The fire downstairs is blazing. Cookies in a jar, a sherry decanter on the nightstand. Our “Sunflower” room looks over a forest of birch and fir.

We unload the car and head out for a seafood dinner at Kristofer’s. 20% off, all seafood on Fridays.

It is, as I remember it from previous trips many many years ago. Twinkling. Subtle. Nice.





We pass on dessert. Nothing sweet tonight, please.

the north

I have to put off writing ‘til tomorrow. I am done for the day. Too much sugar. Or something.

Say, can you tell where I am? A Wisconsin reader will know. I think.









Goodnight.

valentine's day

Hi, Happy Valentine’s Day!
Mmmm, I just had a dream…
(I’m smiling…what a sweetie…) about?
I was rebuilding a machine and I got a call telling me of a mafia connection…
(oh.)
Well, Happy Valentine’s Day to you anyway…
It’s just a Hallmark holiday!

Clarification: Hallmark was founded in 1910; according to Wikipedia, St. Valentine’s Day was first described much earlier:

The first recorded association of Valentine's Day with romantic love is in 1382, by Geoffrey Chaucer:
For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese [choose] his make [mate].

..written to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. They were married in 1381. He was 13. She was 14.


True, these days, I understand that one billion Valentine’s Day cards are indeed sent out to (one hopes) loved ones worldwide.
And guess who is not getting one?

OVERHEARD (later):

Richard, hi, this is Ed. I need that instructional video on repairing a spindle…Yes, great. Tried to call you last Friday. Oh, you took the afternoon off? To be with her? So what are you doing for Valentine’s Day? You got her a card? And body oil?
(how nice!)
Me? Oh, I did nothing. (big grin)
(and proud of it)
And proud of it!

(LATER)
Okay, okay, we’ll go to the mall and pick out a card.
(forget it! who wants to pick her own card?! and support Hallmark in the process?!)

(LATER)
I ask my students: how many of you think Valentine’s Day is silly?
I count hands. Half the class.


(LATER)
I note in the front office at 11 a.m. three staff members are receiving dozens of roses from their husbands. Wonderful.


But then:

(LATER)
I promise you, it’s okay. I rented a romantic comedy from the video store. I do not mind watching it alone tonight so that you can spend time with your cats.

(Why this incredibly conciliatory tone on my part? Because in exchange for not celebrating St. Valentine’s, my occasional, indeed, these days VERY occasional traveling companion offered to head up north tomorrow. For the hell of it. To embrace the outdoors. Soooo sweet! And yes, we're mindful of the snowstrom predictions. Oh, Wisconsin!)

(LATER)
You want to go to the mall and buy t-shirts?
(I’m charmed. My occasional traveling companion hates malls, hates shopping, clothes acquisition, spending money, using fuel… He must be thinking: it’s Valentine’s Day!)

At the mall we encounter men looking (belatedly? desperately?) for something to give to their (deserving!) sweetie.


chocolate?




lace? lotion?


Victoria’s Secret and Godiva chocolates are doing well.
Elsewhere, we buy the t-shirts and are almost ready to head back…

Say, do you mind if we stop at Sears?
(Really?)
I want to see if they have their computer operated wood milling machine…

They do.
Five minutes, okay?
At least it’s next to the exercise equipment. I go through an entire upper body work out program before he finishes studying the details.



machines


We head toward the Great Dane Pub. He eats a salad, I eat a hunk of meat. Sometimes, just sometimes, we don’t conform to gender stereotypes.

seeing red

An overactive imagination, I'm told.

Really? You mean, to the average person, these two are not 1. Russian 2. spies 3. enjoying the fruits of prosperity in the state of bucky badger?

Okay, okay, if you say so...

flakes

The snowiest winter ever! -- our local paper claims this about Madison. Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like Colorado, or Buffalo (my images of big snow places). It feels like it’s winter in a very cold place.

A student comes to my office and tells me – nice view, but my, it’s cold here! I know. A Scrooge corridor of cold.

The view? Well, you know it well. I post it now and then. Oh, you want to see it again now that you know it’s the snowiest winter ever? Here we are:





Wisconsinites know how to defend themselves from the cold. Note these two, photographed on my way to the bus stop.





I timed my walk to the bus so that I would not have to stand in the cold for long. The bus came early. Oh, thank you, thank you. One minute less of waiting.

You should know that I have a flex parking spot near campus. I pay only if I use it. I have used it only once this academic year.

Tonight, I contemplated using it a second time. Obama is speaking two blocks from where I park. An opportunity!

But, I received a threatening message from campus parking telling all of us with nearby parking that we should not use the lots unless we are there to work! Uff! You guys cut me no breaks.

I don’t really want to hear Obama anyway. Nothing that he can say will convince me that he is more electable or more capable of effectuating change (than she is). Nothing that she can say can convince me that she is more skilled at winning or accomplishing policy dreams (than he is). One of them. But which one? Who can tell? I worry about people who think they know. Really? I worry that they may have superior predictive visions. Because me, I just cannot tell.

But I’m straying.

Outside, snow is falling again. It looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, doesn’t it?





Confusion. An apt ending to a cold day where heated passion is about to take over downtown.

UPDATE: Oh! The beagle won! The world does know how to pick the best of the best! I am delighted!

return

It was a long trip home. The last bit of food on a Sunday morning…





…and then the usual catch this, catch that, wait for the storms to blow over and the winds to settle and the passengers to get on, get off – the usual.

There isn’t much to photograph on a day like that, though you can look like a first time flyer easily by taking out the camera on the plane and shooting the landscape out your window. And I do this, most often because it is a final wave, an act of parting and leaving behind that beautiful world, the one with the Boston skyline…





…and all those neighborhoods that we walked all day long.





At home, the thermometer outside never made it to the positive digits. But my heater is working and the orchid continues to bloom and, importantly – Valentine’s Day will mark movement into the last weeks of February.

Yay.

from Boston: wealth, art and the real beauty of a February walk

The early afternoon is set aside for the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. It is at once a uniquely splendid place and, at least to me, slightly disconcerting. It’s the brainchild and private collection of the irreverent, the prominent, the wealthy Isabella Stewart Gardner (she lived at the turn of the century; the previous turn). And it is packed with great art. Top of the line stuff.

How can one person have acquired so many of the world’s treasures??

It is also a photographer’s dream – there is a beautiful courtyard that throws light in all directions from the skylight (her idea!). And there are arches and sculptures and jasmine plants and blooming orchids. But you’re not allowed to take pictures.

You’re not allowed a lot of things: to use cell phones, to take photos, to carry a coat, to sit, to stand, to touch, to use ballpoint pens (only pencils!) – museum behavior, sure, but in this place, somehow these small pieces of life should not be so completely locked out.

Still, my eyes are trained to look at everything but the “no camera” signs and so I take out my clunky guy and begin to snap. Of one little hallway corner, where a Matisse is hung simply, above a door, stuck between other canvases.





…of the courtyard with Venetian Palace ornamentations and the winter array of plants…





…only to have angry men run up and scold me for my wrongdoings. And of course, I deserve it. But it makes me grumpy and so I start to notice other things besides the art. For example, I notice that the people who work here do not smile at you (and there are many, many guards; not surprising, given the fact that this was the site of the biggest art heist ever, back in 1990, when a Vermeer, three Rembrandts, several Degas prints and a Manet piece were easily taken out of their frames in the middle of the night).

And there is an aura of pretention, including at the information table where I encounter a condescending attitude from the ladies there when I stop to chat about some quirky museum details.

And I want to say – calm down. Isabella was born rich, she married even richer and so you at least have to temper your protective admiration by one degree, because spending money well was what she did best and though it’s commendable, you have to keep it all in perspective, no?

For a number of reasons, I linger for many, many hours at the Gardner home and so I feel myself to be immersed in the details of her life. I even borrow and read all the books on her, on the construction of her home, on the courtyard. Cover to cover.

And I leave wondering what it would be like to have to figure out a game plan on how to spend a fortune. (It’s good to occasionally mull over the problems of another.)


In the late afternoon, my little one and I walk the ever eclectic and always fascinating streets and neighborhoods of Boston.





And even though it’s a cold and somewhat wet February day, the walk is splendid. We make our way to the South End, where the brownstones are so gloriously Bostonian it hurts. And they are without the Beacon Hill aura of generational wealth. As the snow swirls and drizzles, we walk forever and occasionally, but not often, I remembered to take a photo.











There are a number of fresh and honest bakery/cafes in the area (ah, gentrification! Thank you for the fresh Vermont mozzarella and basil and tomato on a crispy baguette. And the cupcake!). We linger and watch people walk their dogs and come in for a warm bite and beverage.





It is a good moment.

We continue over at Newbury, with my own feeble attempt at spending money well (just two little shirts – one for her, one for me; no, not matching. I am more than twice her age).

It’s dark now. The snow showers are kicking up.





And still, we want to walk. Across the Boston Public Gardens…





Past the well tended and so very pretty blocks along Charles Street, all the way to the river, where we catch the T back to Cambridge.

And we have energy for one last hike, over to what is becoming a family favorite – EVOO. Roasted squash salad and a superb steak frites and a lemon tart, capped with an espresso macchiato and a final invigorating walk home.





I leave today, Sunday and that’s the tough part. Tough not only, not even principally because it is a high of -1 F today in my home town.

Sigh...

from Cambridge, with warmth

Satiated with foods from the salty ocean waters the night of my arrival (Legal Seafood, for the curious), the next night we set out to eat at Oleana. I like being in spaces where celebrity chefs rule. I suppose it fills fill a void I have in not caring much (anything?) about popular culture and the stars that parade through it. Oleana has two celebrities – both women. I am into women succeeding in politics and in the kitchen.

Ana Sortun is Oleana's chief chef and owner. And it’s a charmed set up: she cooks with produce from a local farm named after her baby girl, Siena. I want to be their CSA member! I want to be part of the Siena family! Okay, okay, I’ll not get carried away here. But you can see how all this would appeal to me.

Ana won the James Beard award for the Best Chef in the Northeast in 2005. Madisonians will remember (should remember!) that Odessa Piper, former proprietor and chef at our own l’Etoile (digression: does anyone besides me notice how the NBC news anchor always says “our own” correspondent so and so? Creating fictional communities, because we lack real ones...), won a similar award, for Best Chef in the Midwest, back in 2001, when I was cooking in her kitchen. (Admittedly I did not prepare the signature, prize winning parmesan cup with greens the evening it was judged to be sublime. But I did throw it together on other nights…)

Then there’s Oleana’s Maura. She won Boston’s Best Pastry Chef award twice in the last decade! And no, it’s not because there aren’t others. Boston has a strong Italian influence with a lot of damn good canoli bakers. Though I suppose that does not fit the image of the best of the best.

Oleana fuses flavors from the eastern side of the Mediterranean. Turkey, for example. Spices from Egypt. The menu is lovely to read: Grilled Haloumi in Leaves with Yellow Foot Mushrooms and Ouzo, Grouper in Parchment with Moroccan Spices, Meyer Lemon and Fried Almond Couscous …

So, of course, you want to know what I ate. I’ll be honest: I picked the main dishes before I even set foot in the place. The haloumi, followed by the grouper with Moroccan spices… Oh, and I can't not mention the Prosecco aperitif with the juice of blood oranges, accompanying the whipped feta and hot pepper spread at the start of the meal, and the espresso baked something or other at the end, served with a refreshing espresso Sicilian granita.


















On the ride back, our Lebanese cab driver asked about the food at Oleana.
How much? - he wondered.
Mid-twenties for mains, I said.
Reasonable, he nodded. Of course, my wife, she cooks the best food.
Married long?
Eleven years. We fight, but we understand each other. You? Single?
I am. But friends with my ex.
That’s good. I’m friends with my ex girlfriend. We meet once a year, catch up.

Food, the great welcome mat: I invite you into a conversation. In the space of ten minutes, we will review decades of life and sigh.

Do you wonder why I take meals so seriously?





At Oleana, there are wall hangings in the warm hues of middle eastern countries. With a fire place in the corner. Tiled-tables, waiters towering over you in the tight space of a long room. A bottle of Mediterranean wine (Cassis! At Oleana! The so very familiar Domaine de Bagnol!), a cup of Turkish coffee for one and an espresso for the other. I can hardly remember that outside, there’s a layer of ice and a dusting of snow.

from Cambridge, with snow

It’s always pretty, that lift up that takes you over the eastern edge of Madison’s isthmus.




By the time I touch down in Boston, it’s dark. And late. Delays. Hardly surprising considering the weather patterns from the last few days. I’m hungry. I head straight for the restaurant where I am meeting my little one. I’ve had images of sea food platters all day long. They all contain bits of lobster – a crustacean that I rarely (never, these days) see on my plate back home. But here, I am almost in lobster country. Isn’t Boston home to the lobster roll? With fries and slaw on the side?

Okay, but first comes the soup. Yes, I am in New England.






It’s brisk here now. In the morning, I go to the Law School and listen to a lecture. In the time I am doing this, a band of snowshowers has passed through. I look at the courtyard in front of the law buildings. I seem to bring the stuff with me. Here you go, a gift, from Wisconsin. Still, this is a feeble cover compared to back home! The paths remain stubbornly black. Dark vectors and a tangle of branches, refusing the sweeping cover of whiteness.





I’m used to this stuff. If I ignore it, maybe it’ll disappear.

I walk to the river and look around me. Not much activity here. Cambridge folk aren’t as hardy us we are. One runner. A few cyclists. Empty benches. Silence.





I look into courtyards, admire the spires, the statues, all of it. And now I appreciate the delicate layer of snow. You can’t deny it. Snow beautifies most anything it touches. At least in this month.





Still, it’s cold. I walk into a flower store to see if I can brighten a table with something not entirely seasonal. We must be close to Valentine’s Day. Buckets and buckets of roses.





I pick something with greater staying power and walk across the campus, back to the apartment, thinking ahead to dinner.

up and away

Slow crawl to work. Everything moved at a speed worthy of a broken record. [Remember how you could listen to a 45 RPM at 33 ?]

But, the sun is out, class is done, boarding pass is in my hand, suitcase -- oh, it's somewhere, in Ed's car waiting to meet up with me at the airport. And flights to one of my two favorite cities on the east coast.

And there, I shall eat. Because in winter, this is what you do: you contemplate the marvels of art and food. And send good vibes to the seeds that will bring forth a new season of bounty. Soon.

I'm dizzy with the possibilities.

whiteout

We got the snow. Without pause. Classes were cancelled. Roads were hard to track down. Trees sagged. Plows came out of sheds to do their job.

Beautiful.















Tomorrow I head out for a weekend of eating. It’s the only way.

a here we go again moment

The election back and forth. The malice directed at the other guy or woman – the one you don’t like. Seeing evil in them. I remember. I felt it. Elections encourage elevated feelings of hostility. Which continue if the other one, the one you didn’t want, wins. Hey, that’s not my choice. Yours! You idiot!

Your candidate. Her/his loss is your loss. it’s personal.

The snow. So delicate and lovely back in December. Dreaming of a white Christmas. Winter wonderland. Then.

White stuff coming down tonight. February storm warning. Snow, heavy at times. Again? Shouldn’t we move on? Change! Time for change! But not just any change! Better. I want better weather and better leadership and a better me!

The snow tonight. A foot expected. Yes, really.

what I’m up against, cont’d

Think flowers. Think orchids, blooming for weeks on end. Think April buds (soon!) and daffodils that bloom early. Think how grateful a Washingtonian (the state) would be if a month had just three sunny days in it. Think Valentine’s pink and tomato soup red. With basil. That’s regional seasonal! Basil can be grown indoors!

Just don’t look outside. Don’t go to the twelfth floor of your condo building and admire the view that you don’t have on your lower floor. On a day like today, stay on your own floor. For once, it's not better up there.





Alternatives for this day:

Snuggle with your puppy, your sweetie, or your guitar. Or, toss away your guitar and get cozy with the president of France if you’re her:




Yes, that's my new orchid plant. I proclaim February to be national (or at least regional) orchid day. With Carla humming in the background.