gray area

I shopped for a better mortgage on my condo this afternoon. Erin, representing the lending institution, smiled her way through the interview, but I think she is gunning for a promotion. She maintains a record number of loans processed in her credit union. And she is determined to lend me a mortgage-lending hand.

I brought Ed along because he has a history of telling me after these meetings what I should have done instead. His presence was a security against this.

He fiddled with magnetic 6 millimeter nuts during the fifteen minutes meeting. Erin commented that this was the most popular toy in her office.



Earlier in the day, I presided over appeals of nonresidency determinations at this university. (I caught a very early bus to campus. It was dismally gray out at the bus stop.)





Students sometimes have a hard time understanding how it can be that they are residents for voting and (part time) employment purposes, but not for residency determinations. But, the world is full of such inconsistencies. For property tax purposes, the value of my condo has gone up. For securing a mortgage – probably not. But, I intend to super-clean my condo before the assessor comes around. People are swayed by weird things.


The skies turned colorless and snowflakes fell again. After the interview with the lender, Ed and I drove out randomly, into the country (a mere mile from the office of this top loan officer – that’s Madison for you).

It felt sadly winterish.




We stopped at La Baguette and bought the bread for supper and I was very happy that Madame saw me enter. She waved her hand and smiled in greeting.

notes on a February evening

Do you remember this Tom Paxton song?

It's a long and a dusty road
It's a hot and a heavy load
And the folks that I meet ain't always kind
So are bad, some are good
Some have done the best they could
Some have tried to ease my troubling mind

And I can't help but wonder where I'm bound
Where I'm bound
And I can't help but wonder where I'm bound

I have wandered thru this land
Just a doing the best I can
Tryin to find what I was meant to do
And the people that I see
Look as worried as can be
And it looks like they are a wondering too... (etc)


Sometimes these lyrics are, for me, like a vinyl record of the old days: stuck in a crevice, refusing to move past the refrain. You can see their appeal on February days, can't you? There you are, in a state of replay, stuck in the same old habits, with the same old complaints about how you’re not getting to where you want to be.

Perhaps it is just a February thing.





I stopped going to the gym today. Just like that. I had been going every day, all year and then today, I said no. I’m sure you would understand: long day, super long. Everything seemed extraordinarily long, like nothing more could be done with it.


On an upbeat note, I had dinner with a friend who is very very happy. To spend a February evening with someone who exudes joy is a rare privilege. I thought afterward – if you have pent up joy, spill it now, because others need it even more than you do. If you don’t have that within you – okay, hang in there. Preferably in the company of others who do.

shopping extravaganza with Ed

Yes, shopping with Ed. There is a pattern there and it’s one worth noting, if only because it is always so predictable. And it says a lot about him. And about me. And it’s all fine, if you can look beyond the perimeter.

I don’t often buy canned foods, but occasionally it happens. If Ed’s around I ask him to open the can.

Then I get the comment: you have the cheapest (this is a good thing), clumsiest, most worthless can opener on earth.
(It’s true: I think I purchased it for 59 cents, maybe forty years ago.)
I can’t afford a replacement. (This is not entirely true, but translated, it means: I am not willing to spend money on a replacement.)

Still, my hands are the weakest part of my anatomy and twisting that piece of junk is getting to be hard.
I’ll get you a better one -- Ed tells me.
When?
Let’s go.

We are at Target. The range in manual can openers is quite significant: from $1.99 to $14.39. Ed points to the $2.99 model. Get this one. I have it, it works well.
It’s ugly.
Okay, which one do you like? I dare not say the $14.39 model, but it’s true – it’s a Kitchen Aid and it has red handles, matching the color of my Kitchen Aid tea kettle.
This one is okay… I point to the one just under, at $13.99.
But they’re all the same design! – Ed says with patience, but not really comprehending. Made in China. Same cutting blade, same grip.
Yes, but somehow it looks different.
I’ll buy you the $2.99 one.
No, forget it. I’ll buy my own. I fork over $15 for the red-handled one. Ed feels sorry for me and slips $15 into my purse. Every day is Valentine's Day.


We’re not done yet. So long as we are in shopping territory, we take a look at something that has been on the “to get” list ever since the bank down the street turned a blind eye on its malfunctioning outdoor thermometer. It used to be the first thing I looked at each morning (I can see it just outside my condo), but for whatever crazy banking reason, it’s busted and no one seems to care.

Understanding my temperature anxieties, Ed purchased a thermometer for my balcony for $6.99, but we could not read the screen against the glare of the sun. Back it went today.
We inspect the Target option, then the Menards option. I like the Target one better -- I say.
Why?
The name… (The brand name is Oregon and there is a picture of what must be Oregon pines.)
You know, I don’t think you’re joking.
Still, I am not unreasonable: It’s okay. I’ll settle for this one – it’s $3 less.

But two minutes later, at the sadly defunct Circuit City we find an Oregon deluxe model for 50% off. Such a bargain! Ed is jealous.
It reads barometric pressure, doesn’t it?
Yep! (Smugly, as I hug the Oregon box with the pine trees.)
Okay, I want one too, for the sheepshed.
So long as we're here, how about picking up the Sony flat screen? (My TV is the size of a laptop.) It’s 25% off. Ed pulls me away and I know that we are done shopping for the season, if not for the year.

We stop for coffee at my favorite Dane County café. I notice that the patron whom I had photographed back in January is there again. And today she again matches the paintings on the wall, this time picking up on the reds rather than the purples.




I think to myself how style is important, how the handles on the can opener are pretty and how spending pennies on a warm color is worth it.

I go back home, past the bare fields of a receding winter…





At the condo, I put my new thermometer outside and note that the temperature is 32.2. I unwrap the can opener and with great affection place it in the drawer. I wont really see the redness of the handles, but I know they are there, stunningly radiant in the drawer.

the morning after

Yesterday is a blur. I remember waking up to a light cover of snow outside. Good. We need a clean layer.





The old stuff reminded me of how snow is pretty and soil is pretty, but put them together and you have something significantly unattractive.


Then the cooking began. Ed disappeared, claiming that his cats needed him. I forgave him. Every day is Valentine’s Day.

This was supper for my old neighborhood friends. In my last year of suburb life, I’d cook pots of soup and we’d take our huge mugs straight to the TV, where we would eat, drink and listen to the political debates leading to the elections. Now, in my condo, I decided to cook soup again. Roasted tomato, onion, crimini mushrooms and corn. And garlic. In large amounts.





For the plate accompanying the soup, I made baked polenta with mushrooms and gruyere…





crostini with fresh mozzarella and grilled veggies…





White bean and garlic spread on bread…





Buckwheat crepes with smoked salmon…





…and pear and roquefort strudel.





Oh, and some dessert stuff that escaped without a photo.

The funnest dish was also the simplest: toasted coconut slivers with salt.





That was the eating part. More important was talking. Usually over each other and with gusto. (We have never been known for being quiet.) So that even Ed, whom you would not call a party animal, stayed up for most of the evening.





Oh, but wait: the post title is “the morning after.” All I can say is that even slow sipping of wine over a six-plus hour period is going to result in a lot of sipped wine. Either that, or I’m rapidly losing my hard Polish head. Or something. Sunday, therefore, was a slow day. My most significant activity? I went out to study possum tracks in the fresh snow around my writer’s shed.

back in the saddle

2008 was memorable in many ways and one stands out for me at the moment: I did not cook for anyone the entire year. (Except for myself, my family and Ed.)

I could toss around many reasons for this, but they’re unimportant. Today, I’m back in the cooking saddle.

That means dinner should be near ready.

That means posting about its not quite readiness will have to wait until tomorrow.

voluptuous pears

Maybe it’s the elevator -- I just heard these words on a library-borrowed DVD (Boston Legal) and I thought: how oddly insightful!

Because elevators are a quick rush in an enclosed and private space…

Because elevators are safe in a way that few other moving objects are…

Because elevators are the only spaces within which you can do absolutely nothing else but wait…

…but you have the illusion of privacy, so that you could behave atrociously and no one would be the wiser.


You know, it was a very busy day. Can I leave you with a valentine wish? Yes? Okay. In the words of Ed, everyday is Valentine’s Day.

It's all in how you regard things. Take a bowl of pears. So simple. So... voluptuous.

from both sides

Life is complicated. I said as much to a colleague who then remarked: things evolve.

It struck me that for some, things evolve, and for others, things resolve. I have a history of siding with revolution rather than evolution (But, happy birthday dear Darwin anyway…). It comes from an impatient predisposition.

But the comment – things evolve – gave me pause. Maybe it’s time to consider this different approach.

In the meantime, I want to put up two photos – one taken at midday, over an espresso break at the Lake Street café, and the other – in the evening, as the sun was almost down. Both are of Lake Monona. Same lake, one in a gray moment, one, patiently delivered, at a later time.



Lake Monona: at noon





Lake Monona: later

compromise

You think you know what it means. You (like me, like everyone) undoubtedly believe that in your life, you have made many. You, the giver, the one who asks for less than her (his) fair share.

But it’s not true. In establishing a world order within our brain, we already prioritize ourselves. And we are forever bargaining for a better deal. Cheaper, nicer, easier, calmer, sweeter -- pick your preferences!

(Or bargaining for our preferred political platform, but I’m shying away from political metaphors today, even as compromise on the Hill was a big news item of this day.)

This is how it usually plays: you ask me for something big. Something that would put me out of my element. I say no and then I go on to mention how much I am already doing for you. But that’s not compromise. That’s me painting a noble portrait of my wonderfulness at the same time that I am telling you a flat no.

At this juncture, let me pause to show off the imminent departure of winter: wet bark against a gently hued sky.





Good enough! Aren’t I easy to please?

Hogwash (a gentler form of bullshit). I’m not easy to please at all. I have my weather priorities and nothing will budge me from them and I would feel put upon if someone tried to convince me to live in even colder climates.



I made a small stop at La Baguette again. I said bonne journee because the owners are French and actually don’t mind humoring the customer who wants to feel like she is miles away from work and home. I picked up a warm baguette, took my picture and for a moment felt satisfied. Who needs Paris. I have Paris here. It says so on the wall!





No, not really. Ocean readers would not be surprised to hear me say that I have an insatiable itch to wake up elsewhere, preferably in a place that has good coffee and warm-from-the-oven breads. For this, I would, well, make a hundred compromises. And admire my own willingness to barter away my life, my future, my security – just for that morning moment over coffee.

But is this really a compromise? No, it’s me indulging my own vision of what is heavenly and meaningful. Isn’t a compromise when you let go a significant chunk of your own euphoria and look for opportunities to indulge someone else’s vision of what is heavenly and meaningful?

[Thoughts from an early morning conversation with Ed on this very topic.]

rescue

A day of extremes. The warmest February 10th ever. 54 degrees. (Don’t laugh, southerners!)





I wore short sleeves to class. Fantastic!

Less fantastic were the minutes I spent on the Net between classes. I track the discussions on the economic stimulus package and the rescue plans with some interest. Before law, before sociology, I was a committed, if not enthusiastic economist. And now I am reeling back into that world (especially since I studied economics in the Poland of early seventies, where we were taught that with time, the free market “capitalist” system would destroy itself due to greed; hmm…).

Enough. I leave my office at midday, for just a minute of that fresh, springlike air.





The lake surely remains frozen, but the ice appears wobbly. Indeed, two ice fishermen look like they lost something (someone?) to the Lake Mendota waters. Another man rushes over.





But, from what I can tell, it’s nothing. Not a rescue at all. A rush without a rescue.

In the meantime, the students stroll, seemingly shedding clothes with each degree that is added to the day.





And in the evening, the Sussex Spaniel wins the Westminster. A dog that was rescued from near death, the oldest dog to ever win the Show.

What a day! A shame that tomorrow, we return to winter.

grave thoughts

Tiny ants inhabit my Cymbidium King Arthur “Round Table.” In the late afternoon, when the sun is out, they climb out of the tangled roots to explore, or sunbathe, or something. Mostly, they make their way back to the base by sunset, but I have found one or two meandering toward other parts of the room. For the most part, they do not get very far.

It’s easy to understand why these ants live here: orchids have to experience cold temperatures to produce buds and so my pots spent the fall season outdoors. There you have it: they spend a sizable amount of time in the company of bugs.

I called the orchid store and confirmed what I already suspected: the ants are relatively harmless to the plant. And so now comes the guilt. Whereas before, I would proceed defiantly with an afternoon ant hunt (between life of plant and life of the little belligerent invader, I chose life of plant), now I understand that ant squashing expeditions protect not life at all, but some sanitary standard I have borrowed from people who would regard indoor plant ants as evil.

Still, if you must know, I have terrible associations with the whole idea of indoor plant bugs. As a kid, I went to a birthday party of one of my Polish classmates. It was a fairly unstructured event and eventually, a number of the more restless kids found pleasure in picking bugs out of a plant on the windowsill and placing them in the shirt of Fella Fastman. I was living in the States then and visiting only briefly and so I did not understand the social dynamics at play. I have always wondered if Fella was picked on because she was one of the few Jewish girls in the class. Anti-Semitism was not discussed, not then anyway (the early 60s), but no one could deny that it festered and cruelly made its presence known.

Fella was stoic through it all. The party girl’s mother eventually was called in and she quickly organized a game of heads or tails. We flipped a Polish coin and guessed the outcome for a good many minutes and then went home.



Ed has suggested more than once that I should leave the ants alone. Sure, but Ed coexists with all sorts of life in his sheep shed. Life that I would have expelled a long time ago. Indeed, when I visit his shed, I chase said life outside when he isn’t looking. (I leave the cats alone: they have squatters rights.) It seems to me that if you invite life to your warm space on a Wisconsin winter day, word will spread and soon you wont find a quiet corner to yourself. Already a possum has been studying the cat door of his shed, learning in his slow way how the cats get in. (His permanent residence is under my unfinished writer’s shed.)

On summer days, I have sometimes felt saddened that a random footstep of mine stamps out life on a pavement or on a dirt path. At least the crushing force can be regarded as careless or accidental. Here, I am deliberately squashing meandering ants. The whole idea repels me.

But so do bugs inside the condo.

Sigh… spring can’t come fast enough. (Plants with ants will be invited to spend the season on my balcony again.)

ice bricks

Navigating the day. It’s a bright one, though not as warm as yesterday. Fill up with b&b food (oh, the guilt!) and head out toward Lake Michigan.





Port Washington looks good from above. At least from this bluff. Views are truly wonderful if you selectively focus away from parts that are indifferent. For example, I don’t know why Part Washington puts its sewage plant by the waterfront, but it does. You will not see it here. I’m concentrating on the other vistas: lighthouses against a glittering body of near frozen water.






We drive to Harrington Beach State Park (on the coast of Lake Michigan, further north).

Cedar swamps, frozen, with few trespassers now, in the midst of winter.

Except deer. We see the tracks…




…and then, fleetingly, the deer.






We lose our way because deer tracks look very much like people tracks, except for the shape of the print.

Eventually we are on firm, if soggy ground. We follow the path to Lake Michigan.





…where the water is crashing against ice boulders and it all seems terribly unsafe.





…but not for Ed, who takes this opportunity to demonstrate to me that death is not as easy to stumble into as you may think. Which most certainly is a good thing.

Can we walk back to the car along the quiet nature trail? – I ask. We do that. We're both feeling agreeable. It's the weather, I tell you. All can be ignored, all can be forgiven.

The waves crash into the fissures and then retreat.





We are safe. Life is brilliant, all the dramatic twists not withstanding.

the call of the tame

Port Washington (Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Michigan) registered a record breaking 53 this February afternoon.

Ed and I were not in Port Washington at the moment when it hit 53, but we are here now and there are wisps of warmth as I write this. Truthfully, the warmth comes from a good heating system at the Port Washington Inn, and I have to admit that I had a very cold moment on the Port Washington seawall that juts out into Lake Michigan this evening, but still, earlier in the day, in all corners of Wisconsin, it was warm. Relatively speaking.

I saw it coming, We all did, here in our northern state. And Ed, who typically stays away from any mention of b&bs (too comfortable, too boring, etc) did a complete about face by suggesting that we get away to one this week-end. To fight cabin fever. (I am certain that he himself has never experienced cabin fever, as he loves his lair more than life itself, but still, it is generous of him to acknowledge the possibility of this in others.)

You could say we went Wisconsin wild today (in a tame sort of way). A hike. Of course. We start with that. Closer to Milwaukee, at the Lapham Peak State Park.
















The “heat wave” melted enough snow to make you think of spring, which is a good thing, but it also created streams of water at the lower elevations, which is perhaps less optimal.






Eventually, we leave the park and head due north. Past lakes where fishing families know that in this state, a February thaw is a very superficial thing.






Ed is casting about for his old map of local producers of foods and stuff (the “stuff” is mostly beer). He suggests a detour to a cheese maker. It is, really, a random pick. Proximate, sure, sort of. Well no, truthfully --not even that. Beechwood Cheese. It's in the middle of nowhere.

I call to see if they're open. Today? Sure. It’s the first Saturday of the month: that's cheese curd day. So you’re selling cheese curds? We’re driving in from Madison. Madison? That’s far! I'll save you some in case we run out. It sure would be a shame to drive all this way for nothing.

That should have alerted us, right there. All this way.









Truly, a remote place. And why should it be otherwise? Cheeses aren’t made far from places where cows grow and prosper.

The sellers are local women. They've seen new owners come and go. And still, the curds remain a village favorite. Good thing we saved you some! The plain ones sold out long time ago.




We take packs of plain and jalapeno spiced curds with us. Are cheese curds low fat? I ask Ed. I mean, what do I know. I was raised on Polish farmers cheese. Very white. Very bland. Good with honey on top. Nope – he answers. An unfortunate piece of information, given that we have been hiking and now it's just the curds and us, in the car, zipping along past long stretches of farmland.


Fortified, we arrive in Port Washington.

Our inn is quintessentially wonderful.




Who could find fault with a place that asks you in advance whether you want white or red (wine) on arrival?

But I’m in a hurry. We throw our bags down and head back out. The sun is almost down. Dusk. We make our way toward Lake Michigan (just a few blocks down the hill). The wind is picking up now. Was this day once warm?





The sea wall is covered with ice. You slip, you fall, you don’t sink – you freeze. Still, it’s beautiful now on this winter evening. Ice, water, moon.





...and Port Washington.





We stop at a place right by the water to get supper (“dinner” is somehow less fitting for evening meals here; maybe it has something to do with the quantities of butter served). I note the special is trout. Is it local? -- I ask. I don’t know. The supplier delivers and our cooks cook it. I imagine it’s from somewhere in the Midwest.





It is, in fact, quite good.

As we get ready to leave, the room breaks into a chorus: happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Will... A local boy, celebrating his thirteenth (or thereabouts). On this, the warmest February 7th in Port Washington. So we are reminded by the man on the TV screen above the dining room. It's good to keep informed while you're digesting trout and fries.

rushing the season

Well, a commenter last week predicted it right: we hit 40 in Madison and, consequently, the kids put on the shorts. You think I exaggerate? Outside my office window today, I see this:





I have to admit though: to the average bloke like me, forty is acceptable. You can walk and think if it’s forty outside. Your thoughts will not be disturbed.


And so I walked. All the way from the Law School, along Observatory Drive…





… down to the lake path, not very bike friendly now, but still, lovely and rather warm(ish). The hearty types (the ducks) were dipping in and out of water pools like crazy. The blackbirds? Not so much. Cowards, like me.





On I walked, all the way home.

I look forward to when these toasty days (it's all relative after all) become the norm. Just a few more months. How satisfying to see winter losing its grip!