Thanksgiving, part 4: food crazy

America is a nation of closet foodies. Ask anyone out on the street and so many will tell you Thanksgiving is their favorite holiday because it’s all about eating yummy stuff all late-afternoon long. We pick our favorite holiday by what it delivers to our stomachs, how about that!

My turkey didn’t grace the table until after 9.

I take on Thanksgiving cooking in the way that one takes on a massive housecleanig project: ambitiously, with sleeves rolled up (actually I prefer cooking in an undershirt) and with a lot of components mapped out for the day. Grit and determination. Especially if I am cooking the entire meal in someone else’s kitchen. Without many props.

I start Wednesday evening and cook straight through until we sit down, whenever that may be, the next day sometime, with a few hours out for a little sleep and a brief walk, just to get that housebound feeling out of me.

So, let me randomly throw out a few dishes of the day (we counted fifteen). Broken up by a walk.


apple puffies


squash with dumplings


chive scones


Lake Michigan at Evanston


snack food



chipotle corn


caramelized endive


with roasted garlic and herbs


the bird


chocolate with raspberries

Thanksgiving, part 3: why the skip?

Why no post on this day? You'll have to read about it tomorrow. I haven't an ounce of energy left now.

Thanksgivng, part 2: for the beauty of each hour of the day

Both my daughters are tremendous singers. No, really. They are superb. Oh, they have the vocabulary of today’s music. But when I listen to them play around with phrases of songs that are more traditional, songs that were part of their (my?) youth, for years on end – I dissolve.

I’m not in Wisconsin right now. Thanksgiving, en famille, is south of the state border. Much to be written and considered and photographed, but it all has to be put aside. Cooking (and music) come(s) first.

Here, let me post this still life of an alive moment. (It’s part of tomorrow’s dinner.)

Thanksgiving, part 1

I have known Matt, over at Blue Valley Gardens, since my buying days at L’Etoile Restaurant several years back. Matt’s asparagus is legendary. If you’re from around here and you like fresh and honest, you’re at his stand at the market stocking up on the green (and white) stalks in the spring. It’s a given.

Matt also grows berries in the summer and spinach in the winter and, more importantly, he raises turkeys. Good turkeys.

I bought one from him this year (I am not alone – he sold some 200 for Thanksgiving meals around the county) and on Monday, I drove out to his farm to pick it up.

No, no, not by the neck, out of a flock of gobbling birds. Mine was out in the shed, in a box and ready to go. But I am of the opinion that those of us who do eat meat should treat it as something that comes from a farm, not from a freezer section of a supermarket. And, we should care about what happens to that turkey down there on the farm, before it reaches the store shelf or your table.

So, there I am, out at Matt’s farm, admiring the winter greens...




And the half-out-of-it bees (that still manage to get tangled in Matt’s pony tail)




And they’re all swell, but what I want to admire most are the turkeys.




And they are beautiful.
So I ask – am I going to be eating one of those?
No, no – he tells me. Yours is closer in kind to this one:




So the others, what are they for?
Oh, just as pets. They’re really neat, not at all dumb. And here, see what I can get them to do? [Matt shows how he can lull a turkey to sleep]





Turkey time, coming up. May all yours be as well cared for as Matt’s are.



Driving back, I’m remembering the conversation with my Yorkshire colleague. I note to her – your grass is still green, isn’t it?
Green? Yes, of course.
It’s green year-round?
Absolutely. Yours isn’t? What color is it then?

Well, it turns brown. But on days like this, it is a beautiful brown.

London hours

That’s all I had in London after Yorkshire – a few hours to watch the stars come out and the buildings light up...



… then a meal, wake up Sunday at 4:30, post, catch the 6:55 from Paddington to Heathrow,* the 9:15 to Paris, the 1:20 to Chicago, the 5:00 bus to Madison.

It is all I needed. I cannot afford London (taxi to Paddington: $30, train to Heathrow: $30; the Tube: not in operation early on a Sunday). Perhaps it is fitting that my last day in the countryside had a big blow out. My London hours didn't fizzle either -- out they go, with a big bang. England, of all places, ends with a blow out meal.

Anyone who studies the London foodie scene will know the name of the city’s best man in the kitchen, Gordon Ramsay. Not that anyone can get a table in his flagship restaurant. No matter – he is so way over my budget that I swear, it’s like a meal at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago (another place I have never tried) – putting it on my credit card would max it out instantly.

But he has a couple of protégés around town. They have their own kitchens, but they belong to Ramsay’s restaurant group. I looked over the half dozen and picked the one that would not kill me financially – the Boxwood Café.

It is sleek. I knew it would be – in Knightsbridge, sharing space with the Berkeley Hotel, I mean, come on. It’s going to have a lot of women wearing black in very interesting bare shoulder arrangements and men – trying to invent a look of some sort (men are still struggling here, don’t you think?).

I have to admit, I chose to dress down. I often do. I don’t want to be uncomfortable when I eat. Nondescript stuff. Passable attire. No one will frown, but no one will say – nice!

I could only get a very early reservation, but that’s fine. I’m hungry early. I arrive, am ushered to the bar where I spend a wonderful ten minutes photographing my pink aperitif, with a Nina-in-the-mirror effect in the background. The aperitif was so expensive that I decided it deserved the permanence only Ocean could deliver. They must have thought I was nuts. Hey, ol’ boy – see that lady in the bar with the nondescript attire? She is photographing her drink over and over again.



In spite of this, I get a nice table.

I order the tasting menu. Seven small plates, chef’s selection, no decisions for me, plenty of opportunities to see how good a kitchen it is. And a wine walk to go with it (where the restaurant selects pairings for each dish).

I have to say, I was hugely impressed with 90% of what I ate. [I would have used something other than red peppers to zest up the ceviche of Irish organic salmon with grapefruit and coriander and I would have opted for a different dessert. Anyone can do a great chocolate fondue. Most of us can’t bake beans. Ergo, please bake something for us.]


ceviche of salmon


chocolate fondue

Ont the other hand, the seared loin of yellow tuna, fennel, red onion, quail’s egg and black pepper sauce was phenomenal, as was the warm roasted wild mushroom salad with curly endive and smoked bacon.


tuna, etc.


wildest of mushrooms

But I want to mention what happened to me early on and what has been the patters since I got my spiffy SLR digital Sony. I get discovered! My cover is blown. [But, what is my cover?]

Suddenly, everyone fusses and hovers. The manager comes out and introduces himself. And at the Boxwood, I get not one, but three wines with the cheese course (no, at this point even I cease emptying the glasses). And they are great wines.



And toward the end, I get an invitation to the kitchen, to meet the chef.

We lean against his kitchen wall, the chef and I, and we chat. Turns out he spent a year in Wisconsin when he was young. No, he did not get his inspiration there. He admits this. He has vague memories of dining in supper clubs around Lake Geneva.

So we’re chatting and I tell him what I liked and no, I didn’t question the red peppers on the salmon, nor did I meekly hint that the beef would have been okay with an eight hour slow cook rather than nine hours, because at nine it practically melted in your mouth and I’m not sure that this is necessarily a good thing, even if, or especially because this is Dedham Vale beef.

When I booked the table back in Madison, I had promised I’d be out by 8, but I wasn’t. Not even 9. Someone sure had to wait because I was preoccupied with being fussed over.

Blown out tires, blow out meals -- both expensive. Good bye England. I must say, I like what you’re doing with food these days. What a surprise.


*Heathrow: where the magic number is one bag. One carry on. One. It can be a little suitcase. It can be a backpack, what it cannot be is Nina with little suitcase and laptop case and camera and purse. Oh, rules.

Yorkshire cliffs, gannets and other assorted beasts

It’s especially gratifying when you look out the window in England to see a blue sky and the pale pink promise of a sunny morning. You know it wont last, but it’s a pick-me-up.




Not that I needed a pick-me-up – I was out and about before five – two and a half hours before sunrise.

I indulged in a British cooked breakfast. Scrambled eggs and smoked Scottish salmon – irresistible. And then I went to pay the bill at the inn.

Except I noticed they did not charge me for the dinners. Nor drinks. Good American abroad that I aspire to be, I pointed this out to the clerk. No no, she tells me – dinner is included in the price. I do not think that is correct, but she holds her ground. And so two more dinners go by in England where I am undercharged. I am on a roll! It gets cheaper and cheaper to eat here!

(But everything else is a slap in the pocketbook, including hotel internet access which is always an extra. A heapin’ little extra.)

I set out toward the coast. I need to return the car at York by 1 and catch the 1:33 London train. I have plenty of time. It’s barely light out.

Except, on a detour into the forest…



…you know, to avoid the big roads, I get lost. Tick tock tick tock.
And in Scarborough – a fair-sized town by the coast, I get lost. Getting unlost takes time.

Finally, I get to the rugged coastline. Stunning. Breathtaking. Awe-inspiring.





And colder than cold. The wind is so strong that at the cliff’s edge, it feels like any moment I will wind up down there:



Now, these guys do not seem to mind the gale. Wooly beasts. They stare at my jacket (you know how sheep always stare at you, until you stare back and then they look elsewhere) and think – you poor human, with your skimpy duds...



I retreat to the warmth of the car. I go up hills, down hills, around curves – can you make yourself sick with your own driving? I pull into a village at the Bay where I am told Robin Hood kept a secret escape boat. (I always half thought that Robin Hood was a fictional character. Sort of like Santa Claus.) Maybe one of these?




Probably not. I'm guessing their purpose is different.



Up the steep alley, a local grocer puts out his regional seasonal.



And down by the water, pools are forming and a brave English lass is determined to corner and catch a little fish, just to show that she can. Except, somewhat predictably (and much to the relief of her parents, I’m sure) she can’t.





No puffins here. Too cold for them, too cold for me. Plenty of gannets, but that’s a less interesting photo. Here, you can have it anyway.





Okay, I need to head back before I get blown away into the choppy waters of the North Sea and before the car hire place shuts down for the week-end. There is the matter of my flight home early Sunday and classes to teach the next day, etc etc. I can’t afford a missed connection.

If I hurry up, If I do not pause for pictures, I should be okay.
Fine, just one last look. It's the sheep that make me stop everytime.





Zipping south now, radio’s on, music comes through, the sun is now behind some clouds, but I had my moment in its wind-battered rays. I am content.

…Until I hear a big bang. And the car begins to rumble and wobble.

A blow-out, damn it. Right there in the Yorkshire moors.

I suppose I should be able to change it myself. But I can’t. It’s one of those skills that you acquire, never use and promptly forget.

Can one sweat on a very cool and windy day?

It would take another page to describe how I got myself and the car into a nearby garage where a gent did the proper heave ho up, pop it out, pop a spare in and off you go.

I would have arrived at the Car Hire within four minutes of closing had I not gotten lost in York proper. Fortune had it that in driving aimlessly up one carriageway down another, through roundabout after roundabout, I found myself in front of the rental agent just as she was packing up to leave.

The cabbie who rushed me to the York station for my 1:33 to London was a gem. But I feel sorry for him. He was convinced Hillary Clinton would make it to the presidency and so I bet him a pint on it. He’ll lose, of course.

from a British train: have Internet, will travel

That I made it on time is quite the miracle. But I did. Even more miraculous was my returning the car in York seconds before the rental agency closed. I had sort of an interesting mishap out there, by the North Sea. I’ll write about it later, tonight. This short post is to tantalize and to prove that indeed, the London-bound train does have WiFi.



Robin Hood Bay: bright sun, strong winds

a day in Sheffield: knives, unions and halls of learning

A short post. Most of the daylight hours were spent at the Law School at the University of Sheffield.





The drive there and back was a challenge. Under wet skies, navigating the narrow lanes of Yorkshire and the main highway linking England, The North with England, The South and finally, working through the city itself, I gave many thanks to the wonderfulness of TheAA.com – far better than Mapquest, it marks points precisely, allowing you to check off petrol stations and such, just to reassure you that you are on track. Only… I needed someone to read while I drove.

My apologies to the cars that were forced to pull over the one time I got distracted and forgot to drive on the left side. My thanks to the university hall porter who got my car out of a parking pickle. ‘Tsalright, luv. I used to drive lorries you know.

You have to wonder how this city, which I have always associated with knives and textiles, the industrial revolution and the birth of unions, has managed to keep pace and not lose ground even as industry has moved elsewhere. I understand that it is now a travel destination, a cultural center. With a remarkable university.

And as elsewhere in England, in case you have enough of urban life, a ten minute spin will put you right back in the rolling hills. Because for the English, nothing clears the mind and inspires the senses as much as an invigorating walk.





Do you have a walking stick? All British people have walking sticks, don’t they? -- I ask my Sheffield colleague, who graciously indulges all such off the wall questions of mine.
My friend has one, but she’s Dutch.

So much for images.

At night, I come back to my White Swan Inn at Pickering and order a half pint in front of the fire. Black Sheep will do? Yes, absolutely.




Followed by Whitby crab and herbed roasted guinea fowl, topped with a "pudding": chocolate with "boozy cherries and clotted cream."




And port. One has to keep some images in place.

from Pickering: picturing England

A work day for me today and so you get a short-ish text with a photo recount of Thursday.

It will surprise no one that, having meetings in Sheffield, I would choose to stay two hours away in the deep Yorkshire countryside. Perhaps I can say that I am being frugal. A country inn, the White Swan at Pickering, is inevitably less costly than comparable city accommodations.

But really, I am a sucker for these village inns. They are high on ambiance and atmosphere and it hardly matters what the weather is like, I am happy sitting in front of a fireplace there, listening to local chatter, waiting for the dinner hour.

I do read about where to find good food ahead of time. One must, in order to eat well here (and truthfully, anywhere. Great food isn’t the norm, especially in northern European countries).

The White Swan sources locally and uses some of the best purveyors of meats and seafood on the islands. And the prices are remarkable – nothing like London. More like Madison.

And they have WiFi.

So, my day, yesterday:

A London breakfast on the run: note the toast. There is always cold toast.




I take the train on a wet wet day – the Flying Scotsman. Only I get off at York, rent a car and drive up toward the moors, to stay here:




…with a view out the window onto the village market square:




Remarkably, the skies began to clear a little. And so, in the late afternoon, I venture out into the moors and dales. First, the dales:








The colors are still pronounced in the dales. Sort of like our early autumn. But high in the heathered moors, the season is over. In the setting sun, they appear golden.




And everywhere, I have company:




The sun sets by four. I drive to the coast, just for a quick look at a fishing town, Whitby, now in the darker shadows of the evening:




Then back to the White Swan, where a fresh and honest meal begins with Scottish Loch Broom scallops




…and moves on to what they do so well here – longhorn beef, from a farmer five miles up the road. The dish has plenty of potatoes (in goose fat, yes, of course) and glazed beetroots.




I could not pass up a cheese. I took just one, the handmade Wensleydale Braffords Camembert, with chutney:




For dessert – apple and bramble oat crumble with cinnamon and almond ice cream.




I’m off now. It’s hardly light out, but the drive is long and there is the matter of work to be done.