merrily we roll along

Rerun performances: same baked treats for breakfast, same squash soup with goat cheese dumplings, same Cornish hens, same chocolate-orange yule log. We are a family that repeats itself.

All this talk about people staying up late to wrap presents? Hmmm. Me, I just get up before the rest (lofters sleep late) and spend an hour playing on the computer. Merrily. Eventually I get to putting ribbons on boxes. Selectively. Weirdly shaped boxes don’t get ribbons. What for, who’ll even notice? I bake, then I wake. It all works.

What did I enjoy putting underneath the tree? I have to give credit to Jenny’s inspiration: origami papers to make wild animals and a set of paint-by-numbers cards. I warned the recipients that it worked best if you had a potent beverage next to the paints .

Afternoon activity: each year it’s the same. A several hour discussion as to which movie we should see late, after dinner. Endless reviews are presented, three agree, the fourth vetoes, and then we start again.

Christmas. What is it about this day for people like me? Each hour evokes the mood of the same hour last year and the year before. On this one day change is not welcome. Just today, repetition is bliss.




secretly, last minute



an ornament hiding in the ribbon box




new latte mugs, Bourges cookies

it’s Christmas eve, spot, we’ve got lots to do…

So goes the opening line of a kids’ book. Then, in fewer than 100 words, a story unfolds. It’s not a high-drama thing. Spot bumps a few ornaments and the (single?) mommy dog gently scolds him before telling him good night. The next day they find a bone or some such conventional doggie toy and all is well.

I probably haven’t done a great job of convincing anyone here of how evocative this little story is but believe me, it became a favorite in this house – for building on a feeling of warmth and eagerness that so often accompanies this night before Christmas. (Or you can go the poem route. Same thing.)

[Of course, I’m remembering reality here on Ocean. I just read a few blogs where family members were sick for the holidays, and we wont even go to the more troubled corners of the globe which, at last count, outnumber households of peace, of love, of joy.]

This evening of great music and beautiful colors, of foods and friendship and love has had its share of bumps even in households where all should be calm and all should be bright, such as this one. Some eight years ago I distinctly remember wanting to take the gift ribbon so that I could tie it tightly around someone’s neck until they squirmed. And this morning I woke everyone with a growl. I can’t get your goddamn VCR to work and so if you want to watch your goddamn favorite video later today you can goddamn get yourself someone else to fix the goddamn machine! This blasphemy on Christmas Eve day no less. [Thanks Ed. Everyone should have a friend who can fix goddamn machines on short notice.]

It’s because of all this range of bad impulses and frustrations that surface at the slightest provocation that New Year’s resolutions become so attractive – sort of like the idea of dieting after a pastry indulgence. I’ll be good tomorrow.

For me this day is special. I dig deeply within my cluttered soul to make it so with a determination and insistence that comes from no religion but from knowing that I can and should do better. An unexpected visit (Oscar and B., thank you), a moment at the window watching the fog hide the Capitol, Christmas Eve dinner as it has been eaten since as students we first ate it in Scotland decades ago – fondue, with daughters at our elbows now, with laughter, always with laughter and love.

Happy holidays, happy days, gentle loving days to y’all.



Christmas Eve on the lake: a gathering of friends

in the matter of the tree, part 3

So it’s beautiful. But then, it always is.

1966: I set out in the cold, snow-covered, dismally poor Polish countryside, in search of a tree. I am staying with my grandparents in their village home and I am determined.

I find a small tree, ask a farmer to help me bring it home, where we make paper ornaments, my sister and I, adding them to the dozen glass ones we had kept from years ago. The entire project takes great effort. Most likely, more effort than is expanded by my Polish Christian friends who also have trees that year. For me, the tree has no religious symbolism at all. But it is beautiful and I want my childhood sugarplums even as my (parental-sibling) family is already beginning to unravel – a process that would continue even to this day.

2005: There is a gift under this tree, delivered earlier today by my summer real estate agent. It is somehow fitting that the first gift (one gift) should be from her. A Wisconsin girl, she brought a Wisconsin cheese and a Wisconsin wine. She sat down, looked around and said: this loft fits you. It is how I imagine apartments in Chicago look. A Midwestern girl, she thinks within a Midwestern orbit.

1999: When my daughters go off to college, the tree project is always accomplished on the day after Thanksgiving. They want time with the pine scent, with the colors and lights, with the feeling of sugarplums dancing before them. By Christmas week, when they next see the tree, the branches are turned down, brittle with the weeks of waiting for the daughters to return. I mist the needles with water, I check the base to make sure it is drinking and still it becomes dry, significantly so by Christmas Day.

I was thinking this year that I do not want my limbs to turn down, brittle from sitting quietly and waiting for my daughters to return home for a visit. When they come I should be fresh and peppy, having myself returned from somewhere just in time to greet them.

2005: With each year the daughters take on more of the project. Now, in their adulthood, they do it all. No, wait, we unwrap the toilet paper from each ornament and lay it on the table for them to pick up and place on the tree.






No one is hungry this year during tee trimming, possibly because it follows dinner. Or is it because so much is different this year?






I am the only one who has grown used to the loft. I have lived here now for four months. It feels like home. How does it feel to my daughters? Their dad?

When the tree first went up, earlier this week, it offered an intense scent. Unmistakable and pervasive, it alerted you to its presence. By now, the tree has adjusted. You could say it is part of the loft – it no longer feels strange to see it here and the fragrance blends into the smells of cooking and the freshness of its lofty environment.

Maybe this year’s Christmas tree project was the toughest after all. Or maybe what we are trying to do here at the loft as everyone gathers for the holiday is actually quite simple. Maybe the enduring nature of this project, which has survived our reshuffling, their moving out, my moving as well, maybe all this is why our tree this year is especially tall, beautiful.

in the matter of the tree, part 2

I wake up knowing that the day is now longer. We are moving toward summer.

And still the tree remains untrimmed.

[One year, I imagine that we will wake up on December 25th and decide that there just wasn’t the time or the will to trim the tree (even though tree decorating remains at the top of our list of pleasurable holiday rituals). And the tree will remain there, in its beautiful, pristine splendor, naked, without ornamentation that one year. There’s beauty in that as well.]

We intended to go through our splendid evening of tree trimming last night. But the day took another direction.

Suddenly, as everyone rushes to get things done, my pace has slackened. I have my daughter here, at my side and the movement through a day becomes very different. More protracted, leisurely. We have things to do, tasks, chores, all of it and yet our inclination is to linger. For no reason, we detour to look at antiques and embroidered pillows, we sip lattes at length and watch calm moms handle toddlers’ spills of frothy milk. Outside on Monroe Street, we pause just to look at how stunning a stream of cars can be against a receding winter sun, framed by the bare branches of Madison’s numerous trees.






At home, I want to bake something. One does not come back from ten days of pastry-gawking in France without wanting to do at least the simplest pastry (an eclair) right here, filled with the familiar rich crème patisserie (chocolate this time).





And as we drive to the airport late in the day to pick up daughter number two, it becomes clear that tree trimming will not take place on this solstice night. It cannot be rushed. These hours have to be taken as they present themselves. And they are presenting themselves very slowly, deliciously. Dare I say it? Christmas may just have to wait.

Or not. A new plan is hatched: tonight. The tree gets dressed tonight. I think.

to be continued

in the matter of the tree

Before leaving for France, I bought a Christmas tree for the loft. It was no small matter, if you forgive the wording here: the instructions were that it should tower.

Ed, with his rusty truck where mice have taken to nesting and myself, out searching for a big tree. It took two days until, indeed, one was found.

The tree rested on the truck for the weeks I was away. Monday, first thing, while the crows slept and the sparrows dozed, the tree was brought into the loft. Up it went, reaching for the ceiling, the 30 foot ceiling, up up (okay, maybe not to the top, but pretty darn high).

Secured, positioned, ready for the arrival of three people who, together with me, have decorated a tree every year since time began.

First person arrives. She looks critically at it and pronounces it magnificent. But in the wrong place.

Second person arrives and says “not bad” and notes that the position could stand adjustment.

Third person about to arrive. First two people have given excellent advice. The entire loft is rearranged. The tree is pushed against the brick wall. It kind of rocked and wobbled in protest, but it survived the transport from point A to point B.

Tonight, the trimming begins.

Let it be noted that of equal importance is the food that you eat while you trim. Bubbly drinks and festive nibbles.

So, on this day I'm dreamily raising my glass (of cranberry grape juice at this point) to the tree, the wonderful tree that brings people and food together.

To be continued.



wobbling heights

weighty thoughts

Yesterday, Tonya wrote about a dinner party discussion she had where she posed the question “which would you prefer: to be invisible or to have the ability to fly?” I got all serious on her. Because I really don’t want either.

I was telling this to my daughter who is home for the holidays and she asked if not flying or invisibility, which super power would I like to lay a claim on?

Can it be a talent? I want an extraordinary talent. Can I have that? – I asked her.
She sighed in the way that people do when you are not cooperating with them and generally being difficult.

Typically, when people play this game, they refer to super hero powers of the “read minds,” “instant transport,” “strength,” “cause things to freeze or burn,” that kind of thing.

I don’t want any of those, I told her.

You don’t want instant transport? So that you don’t have to waste hours getting yourself from one place to another?

No. If getting there is interminable, then the arrival is more rewarding. If it’s cold outside, then entering a warm room is more pleasurable. Besides, where is the exercise in instant transport?

Pick another then. Surely there is something you could live with. Fly, read minds, twist metal, you can pick one, can't you? It's just a game.

No. I want none of it. Patience. Can I ask for an inhuman dose of it?

The universal conclusion has to be that I’m not good at playing games. I cause trouble and make people gather up their belongings and go home prematurely. Okay, fine. I have myself a New Year’s Resolution. Less stick in the mud, more go with the flow.

from Madison: my Oscar speech

I’m feeling grateful. The trip was such a boost for me, but the boost came not only from being in France. It also came from those who hovered and helped. And there were many:

* Every trip I have ever taken in the last 20 years has had three people tracking my moves and, when the technology evolved to permit it, sending peppy emails. It means tons to me, guys. Thank you.

* And speaking of emails, my students are used to a 5 minute email turn around. There is hardly a minute in the day when I am not connected. Except when I travel. Sorry. It took me sometimes hours to answer your Qs. You are so patient. Now I’m back to 5 minutes, okay?

* On this trip there was Ed: my travel companion with almost as strong a personality as mine. Thanks for not taking that train to visit friends in Nottingham the day I punched too hard. Oh, and thank you for looking at the maps so carefully that when we got lost, it was almost always my fault. Almost. That return to Yvoy? I really was right. I took the correct turn on the round-about. And thanks for loving the food so much. And for ending each day with a smile.

* The chefs at both Cheval Blancs: dang blasted, you guys rock! And chef Michel – your office clutter (and your derriere) was adorable.

* The Air France agents who handed out Valrhona chocolates at CDG airport. This year I had access to the business lounge. There I am pampered and spoiled with champagne, croissants, cookies, baguettes, you name it. But the masses upstairs get nothing. This time everyone at the gate got champagne and Valrhona chocolates. How nice.

* Oh, all the French waiters. I want to kiss your professional faces – you are so great at what you do. My heroes.

* The older woman in Blere who decided she wanted to guide my car out of a tight spot. Her gesturing and waving me forward was precious. I will not forget it soon.

* The commenters, all of you, thank you. There are times when I wonder how sane I am typing away at 4 in the morning, bugging locals for Internet access, conniving ways of dialing up if all else fails. I mean really, you have to wonder. Then. I hear from you and I know you’re reading and it makes it less nutty to be testing the patience of all those around me. Thank you for your words, your encouragement, your time.

~~ from your very humbled Ocean author

from france: final fireworks

Yesterday -- the last day. Morning spent walking through the rich countryside of central France; the afternoon -- in an ostensibly sleepy cathedral town that was not so sleepy on the last shopping Saturday before Christmas. Dinner at le Cheval Blanc. And it’s over. This morning we head back for Madison.

Here it is, a final burst of fireworks from a day that had it all:



is this any way to start the day?





Yvoy le Marron: village chat





he gets around (but why not through the chimney?)





la vraie campagne (the real countryside)




the sun comes out





the ducks play




forest light



Later, in Bourges:




here as well




first stop: pastries of course




dare I order the big one?





no, two small ones will do (Ed shares)





crowds come out on this last Saturday before Christmas





but at dusk, in the shadows of the cathedral...





it's not all about shopping -- a Christmas fair: colorful scarves, beautiful voices





at the fair: a dreamer




hot stuff





on stilts: working the crowds



And back at the Auberge du Cheval Blanc:



the best meat dish of the trip: terrine with onion confiture




scaling back: only 4 this time





the best rendition of that oozing chocolate indulgence

from the vallée de la loire: from this valley they say we are (maybe) going

Friday morning. Gray skies, one packed suitcase, one duffle bag, time to leave Le Cheval Blanc and slowly head back.

The plan is to spend one more night in the valley of the Loire, but closer to Paris. Then, one last night in Paris and we head back (on Sunday) to snow-encrusted Wisconsin.

How long will you be working on your post?
Give me another minute…

Two hours later I look up with my most beguiling smile. I’m done.

In the meanwhile, Ed has gone exploring the small town of Blere, where we have settled in for the past three days. Ed, the same person who has kept France at arm’s length for a few days, has now discovered two places and he wants to share.

A chocolate shop and a motorcycle store.

The first is easy. A dozen of this, a dozen of that – purchases for people back home.

Why a motorbike shop? You have to understand Ed to know the answer to that. Suffice it to say that when we pass through parking lots in front of famous sights, my eyes wander to the architecture while his remain longingly transfixed on an R100RT model of the BMW bike wedged in some obsolete corner of the lot.


Ask the shop keeper what you need to ride a motorbike here.
Say what? Why would I want to ride a motorbike here?
How else are you going to zip between villages the summer you spend holed up in France writing your book?

Monsieur at the shop is tres charming. Keep it below 45 kph and you don’t even need a license, he beams.

There you have it. Your solution to the excessive fuel consumption and expense associates with renting cars in Europe.
And when is it that you think I am going to do this?
Knowing you, once you get going on an idea – it’s a done deal.

Maybe.




I see this, btw, ...




...around every corner


Finally, we leave. We drive toward Yvay le Marron. It's a small village, with a population of maybe 100, not to be found on any map that I have. I picked it from my “restaurants with rooms” book, randomly, with an eye toward being closer to Sancerre.

[What’s so great about Sancerre? It’s not a tourist destination. It is pretty alright, all perched on a hill top, with fields of grapes, like skirt folds, cascading down on all sides. But it’s not as if there is some great monument or sight there. So what’s the big deal?

The big deal is that if a French friend (living in Wisconsin) tells me “I have this cousin, he owns 35 hectares of vineyards and produces a lovely little Sancerre wine” you can be sure I will say “oui” to an invitation to stop by and visit him and his lovely wife, right there amidst all those Sauvignon grapes.]



on the way we come across a market. with many snails and oysters and cheeses and, well, French stuff.



fresh and honest


How long have we been driving to this Yvay place?
Close to two hours.
Where the hell is it already?
Ask a mechanic at a gas station. I cannot direct you to a place that is not on the map.
Why a gas station? You think those who are mechanically inclined know everything? I’ll ask the first person we pass.

We have these kinds of conversations often, Ed and I. Point, counterpoint. Another round. And another. Today each fizzles into nothing. We are returning home soon, No need for either of us to win rounds. These are the final hours of jostling and prancing.

Let it be known that the first person we passed had the right answer. Yvay le Marron. A village in the middle of nowhere. With three stores and a restaurant called Auberge le Cheval Blanc, with rooms for overnight guests. [Yes, I do stay in places with names that are not Le Cheval Blanc. Okay, maybe not this time, but truly, I have chosen inns with other names.]




from the outside, looking in...to le Cheval Blanc



It is late afternoon. The drizzle is constant now. Le Cheval Blanc is charming. The prospect of driving another 100 kms on winding country roads to get to Sancerre and then turn around and drive through the dark back again is less than appealing.

But we do it. Already on this day we have paused for motorcycles, chocolate shops and provincial markets.Why would I not add a winery to the list of quintessentially French things?

Off we go.




trees in misty fields




well now. what have we here. would you believe me if I told you that one of the herdsmen kissed me while I got out to take photos and that he had wine on his breath and a wide grin and everyone laughed, including Ed?




clip and burn: shaping the Sancerre sauvignon stalks all winter long



Andre Vatan -- that’s the name of the domaine. We find it, finally, caves and all. Andre’s wife greets us and spends the rest of the afternoon talking to us about their wines.




an older "cave" of the Vatan Domain


We taste last year’s Sancerre and I give Ed one of those “I’d do you this favor for you if you needed it; wont you carry six bottles for me on the plane?” glances. I know what he’s thinking: she has her suitcase, her computer, her purse, her camera, her other six-pack of Loire wines, a picture that she bought that does not roll up and a bag full of food treats for her year ahead. What the hell is she thinking? He shrugs his shoulders, nods his head in a total I don’t get her way. He has one duffle bag. That’s it. [You have to pick your traveling companions carefully. A person who travels with only one duffle bag has his virtues.]

The drive back is an adventure. The drizzle is steady. The road curves and dips. We lose our way once, I forget to turn down my brights more than once. Eventually there is a sign: Yvoy le Marron 3 km. We are there.

Monsieur le chef Bruno is younger than monsieur le chef Michel of the past three nights. He is more adventurous. A risk taker. The food is creative and spirited. The butter content is down by about 85%. Not everything works perfectly. The crustacean trilogy is one third great, two thirds okay. But when it works, it sings. The fish main course is a wonder and the millefeuilles pastry dances.



fish in two sauces, risotto, tomatoes



yes, five cheeses on my plate



a napoleon, decorated


After dinner a new plan is hatched. Why leave the valley, why go back to Paris, why do any of it? Another night here and on Sunday morning we can hustle back to the airport. You can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Le Cheval Blanc is a quiet little gem. We’ll give it another day.

from the vallée de la loire: lazy crazy days of winter

The goal was to do three things on Thursday: visit a renowned chateau, drive to a Renaissance town and then finally enter the city of Tours – virtually in the back yard of where I’m staying. So close and yet so far, for I’ve yet to see this provincial center, this cathedral city with an old heart and a new zesty feel to it (so say the books).

But it was a late start. Blog posting takes a while. The decision as to where breakfast should be eaten takes even longer. Finally the big one: is Ed game enough to do these outings or should I venture forth alone? Three hours shot, just to think all this through.

It’s close to noon by the time we (yes we: Ed’s there, with the map, picking the slow winding country roads to get us to our places) set out for the Chateau Azay-le-Rideau. In truth, there are rewards to being sluggish and unmotivated. Really. The day speaks for itself.

We arrive at the Chateau and it is closed. I get one of those peers over the glasses that says – you done your homework on this one? We drove an hour to find something closed?




from the outside looking in: chateau azay-le-rideau


I look at the sign: Damn. It’s a siesta thing. Closed for a two and a half hour lunch break. Oh, the French.

Do we wait for it to reopen? No we do not. We’ve had our look. Nice. A walk along the river would be equally pleasing. The river, though French, does not take a two and a half hour lunch break (the rest of the town does. Everything but the bread store is shut tight, as if it were middle of the night, December 24th).




along the river Indre




the Indre, further from town


Here is an insert: what’s with Christmas in France anyway? Are they all ho ho ho about it? Sort of and with their own twist on familiar themes. There’s the matter of Santa. St. Nick already makes an appearance early in December here, so what sense is there in bringing in Mr. Claus at this late stage?

And why is Mr. Claus into windows here instead of chimneys? You have to think that a child or two would be frightened to have a fat old guy peering in through the window and yet they seem to love this concept of a peeping Tom in a red suit. Santas climbing the walls alongside buildings are everywhere.




outside, looking in




the pig is puzzled


Okay, back to this slow moving day. Our next stop is Chinon. We become obsessed with finding a tasty creperie for lunch (there were lots of them in town). Of course it has to be The Perfect Creperie. In the search for The Perfect Creperie, we found the perfect Renaissance town. Beautiful.




(one of) the gems of Chinon


But by the time we settled on the Chosen One, it stopped serving food for the afternoon. In fact, they all closed by 3. It was a great idea foiled by incomprehensible and obtuse opening hours that fail to take into account the needs of two tourists with a slow moving pace and cravings for the perfect crepe.

And so Chinon remains the town with memories of old streets, climbing Santas, a glass of Chinon wine at the local café and a leisurely time spent in the car (say like two hours) watching people pass by. It was almost dark before we were motivated to leave.

So finally we set out for Tours. Tours is big. Tours at rush hour is no fun. Tours looks daunting and intimidating for people who have not stepped into a crowded urban scape for several days now. At the outskirts of Tours I do a totally crazy maneuver and we retreat. To our own little inn with the chef with the sexy derriere.

For indeed, instead of expanding our palate and subjecting ourselves to another dining experience, we decide to not budge for dinner and eat, once again, the dishes lovingly prepared by monsieur le chef Michel.

I wont do the usual photo run. I’ll just put up things that puffed out at me. That’s enough. They exemplify well the state of the stomach after the meal. Oh, let me throw in the cheese platter, where once again I selected 4. Because it was our last night here. I had to!




an appetizing appetizer. inside: snails in garlic butter




she's cutting my fourth selection; yes, that's right, fourth.




crepes stuffed with Grand Marnier soufflé




and on the side, a little soufflé, because I really needed even more dessert.