Parental discretion advised: the post starts out in a gentle, bucolic tone and then turns towards violence and murder

It seems that for years now I have been foisting Indian Lake Park on friends and family. They always tell me they like it, but when I suggest a return visit, they balk. Too far (it’s only 15 minutes northwest of Madison), too doggy (people do like to take their dogs for a walk there – it’s permitted), too hilly (why is this a drawback?)!

But today I may have found an Indian Lake sucker and she packs a camera – meaning she doesn’t tsk tsk with annoyance every time I myself pause to take photos. In fact she takes even more than I do.

Indian Lake is splendid. A birch forest covers a hilly terrain on one side, and on the other, fields stretch upwards, from the lake toward the tree line. In spring the birches dazzle. But in my current “I love February every since yesterday’s post and ever since it decided to be a record-breaking 50 degrees today” mode, they are equally beautiful now.

Two small incidents did remind me that we are not always at peace with the animals that roam the wild, or even those under human stewardship: two dogs were (playfully, we were told) mauling each other and in their exuberance, one decided to entice Ann into the game, nearly knocking her down in the process. Then, as we retraced our steps, we came across a large bone. Those dogs! -- we said. But a few paces further, there was another large bone, this one with a perfectly preserved deer hoof at the end of it, leaving us with these tricky questions: who attacked the deer? And are we next in line?

Oh, it did not strike me until now that maybe Ann will not be so fond of returning to Indian Lake County Park after all!

They look like they're swaying to music. 

Are they bat houses or bird houses? 

A flash of color: a skier passing through. 

From a distance, the ice fishermen look like they are suspended in air. 

Crooked timber? 

A lovely path: heading in one direction, we find it littered with branches, on the return trek, it is littered with... other things. 

Law School: a place where enduring friendships emerge and where you're supposed to learn how to think like a lawyer. These are not mutually exclusive.

If someday you are lucky enough to have a class as together and as bonded as my Torts section from the Fall is, you don’t have to imagine you will never again come together as a group when the semester ends.

In spite of horrendous time/place scheduling issues, a reunion was indeed orchestrated and it took place at the Orpheum last night. [For non-Madison readers, this is an old movie-house-turned-restaurant (and theater).]

It was perfect. You’re all terrific. Thank you!

Are they announcing our arrival? 

The table is set... let the festivities begin! 

Posting on a quiet Friday afternoon

Yesterday, in an email exchange with a blogger and friend, we noted how little we actually knew about each other. One could argue that bloggers are people in search of stages, with not always a very interesting story to tell, that they seek audiences, that they reveal too much for no good reason.

And yet, my blogger friends (at least a good many of them) are some of the most guarded people I know (me included). If Ocean speaks for me, it does so quietly, I think, and the story it tells often is not an obvious one.

And isn’t it always like that with people? How many of their stories do we really know? I am reminded of a conversation I had a few years back with a relative of mine (whose identity and relationship to me, for obvious reasons, shall remain an Ocean mystery). We were sitting around a kitchen table, talking (this is a favorite spot and manner of communicating for me) and suddenly he got up, paced back and forth, faced me and said: “I killed a person once. You never knew this about me, did you? With my own bare hands.”

No need to worry, I do not think I am predisposed, by virtue of my relation to him, to commit heinous acts of this sort, yet it did strike me then that not only did I really not know of this particular episode of violence in his life, it is not the only thing that I did not know.

It seems to me that the dissatisfied person is the one who cannot live with that degree of mystery. The calm person accepts this inability of ours to find out much about the other, through blogs, conversations, or otherwise, even as he or she enjoys both the experience of perusing what little information is made available, and the experience of putting forth a little of his or her own life for someone else to take a look at.

A post card from Madison: rewriting the month of February

A reader from Massachusetts sent me an evocative note describing an early February outdoor ritual that she has put in place, and now I am wondering if I have been unfair to this month. She is right – there is something about the light outdoors that is a unique February phenomenon. And it is beautiful.

I cannot show it off well, not from a simple post of two photos that I took this morning during a walk along the Highlands, but if you look at the play of sunshine against the trees and snow, you’ll understand that there is a magic there and it does not appear in March, or April, or May. It belongs to February.

the tones are gently calming, the harshness has been put aside until next year... 

a misty blue sky and ink shadows on the snow 

Role reversal

I received a notice of a preferred customer sale at Sherry-Lehmann (one of the top wine merchants in NY). Apparently I have been selected as one of their “Best Clients.” This surprised me, as in the last twelve months, I have purchased a total of 4 bottles of wine there, none costing more than $20. My love for good wine must have wafted over from Wisconsin – in other words, they could smell a sucker from a thousand miles away.

I left the brochure on the kitchen counter for several days, thinking it is a bit ridiculous to purchase wine in NY, given that Steve’s in Madison sells perfectly acceptable wines. But I am mad at Steve’s because they have not restocked their wonderfully inexpensive yet full-bodied Sicilian Cusumano Chardonnay 03 and so I picked up the brochure from Sherry-Lehmann this morning and examined it more closely, reveling in my Preferred Customer status.

And I was tempted. Wouldn’t you be? A special private shipment is coming in from the south of France of Les Romains, Terroirs Historiques – Grand Cru quality at an every day price. “Light, pale yellow gold…citrus fruits…Chardonnay richness…competes with many top Burgundies…” Say no more!

...full-bodied... every day price... tempting... 

I call.

You’re from Wisconsin? Madison Wisconsin?
Yep.

I used to live there. You probably were not even alive then… 1969 -72.
I was alive.

So you want a case of Les Romains?
Yep.

Don’t you have a good local wine store there?
Yes, but I am mad at them for not having any more of the Sicilian Cusumano Chardonnay 03.

So you want us to ship you a case of this from the South of France?
Could you please? Isn’t it a nice, full-bodied wine with citrus fruits and Chardonnay richness?

Oh yeah. It’s a good enough wine. It’ll come sometime in mid-March. It’s still in France. I used to live right off of Park Street, near the Belt-way.
That would be Beltline. So do you have anything else, as long as I have you on the line?

Well yes, sure, but do you want my advice? Go to your local wine merchant and buy some wine from him. We’ll get this case out to you soon though. Take care now!

Why would I undertake the incredibly unrewarding task of simul-blogging the Apprentice?

Because I had a terribly long week and I need a diversion. It’s that simple. Ann suggested it, and it seemed preferable to surfing through yet another three dozen blogs and then falling asleep on the kitchen floor (remember: I have had almost no sleep in the last twenty four hours). Why not simply read a book? I need a new influx of reading material. Tomorrow I am sending out a dozen emails with the Q: have you read anything recently that you’ve loved?

Here’s the caveat: I have never seen the Apprentice. I am an Apprentice novice. I know about The Trump of course, and that’s reason enough not to ever turn on the show. Another issue that I have to face: I am so tired that I am concerned that I will not stay awake long enough to even see the beginning of the Apprentice, let alone the conclusion (is there a conclusion? does someone win? I do not know). If I suddenly stop, forgive me. Imagine that I am then asleep. Most likely on the kitchen floor.

CONTINUED:
Sixteen candidates are left. Who will be fired next? Oh. We only lose one tonight? Fifteen to go? To be resolved in fifteen weeks of shows? The Apprentice seems terribly long suddenly. Like a commitment to a semester of classes.

Okay. Suddenly someone is playing the guitar. It’s Danny. I don’t get it already. I am fired as a simlublogger.

No? Let me continue then.

A lot of people are talking about feelings. And teams! How did I miss that? Are there teams? Okay, I am rooting for this one! (Is there another?) (I am in over my head. On the Apprentice?! Yes, my IQ is higher than 100!)

CONTINUED:

Here’s Mr.Trump. The pink tie, the horrible hair, the bad performance – it makes me think that this man is famous ONLY because he is rich. Oh. That’s not an original point?

Now we are talking about Nescafe. I hear French-style music in the background. Actually I am reliving a nightmare: I have stepped into a class and I seem to have missed the first dozen lectures, yet I still have to take the exam. This is the Apprentice for me: the nightmare class that I joined mid-stream. Tomorrow I will get one hundred emails telling me I have completely misunderstood the show (ie not studied well enough for the exam).

This show makes me feel like a failure even though I have not been fired.

I am only twenty minutes into it. I know! I can fire myself from simulblogging!

Ocean, YOU ARE FIRED!

Stuffed with rose jelly, glazed, and with a sprinkling of candied orange peel

My sister writes from Poland and reminds me that today is Fat Thursday – the day everyone in the country eats one (actually more like two or three) of these:

glazed until it glistens