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.

playing the game

I may as well bring out the apple pie. Today, I am one of you.

True, not many all-Americans choose to start a Sunday with three rounds of bowling, but, suffice it to say that when Ed said this morning “we should bowl,” I acquiesced. At Union South – the student hangout.











It’s a little downscale as compared to the suburban alleys from last week. The scoring board makes mistakes. The balls are chipped. But hey! It’s cheap. And I can work on my score. So that I don’t get LOL in my comments when I report my final count. (59 last week, 81 this week. That’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it??)

It does not take long to feel weariness in the hand and body. I know it’s time to move on.

I suggest we head for the giant expo (at the Alliant Energy Center) of orchids. I used to grow these back in the days when I had fantasies about being a serious gardener. But mine never looked this complicated.














Yes, yes, I do indeed purchase an orchid. It is a statement of hope. I can grow these again. I can. Just you wait.



At the other end of the hall of the Alliant Energy Center, there is an RV expo. Flowers for the ladies, RVs for the guys. Predictably, Ed tugs on my sleeve and pulls me over to the big vans. I refuse to take photos. These machines are huge and sort of creepy looking. But I do like the little ones alright and Ed is clearly enthused by the mechanics involved.

I ask him – so, supposing we loaded up one of these guys onto your (very old) (very very old) pick-up. Where would we go? What would we do?

Well, you can park overnight at any Walmart parking lot in the country… or you can go to an RV park, charge up and head for the mountains and leave the RV and hike up for a few days of camping.

Now which part of that was supposed to excite me?

Still, I can see this is a tad more adventurous for him than, say, southern France and so I do not close the door on the possibility. It’s good in life not to close doors.

Similarly, I do not object when Ed suggests that we stop by Dane Brewery for a beer and a peek at the kick off. A shocking idea, given that we both hugely dislike football. And what do I say?

Sure! A nice pilsner and a plate of fries with gobs of ketchup! Why not?





It’s like reading a different blog here, on Ocean, isn’t it? You have to stay open-minded to get the full bang out of a Sunday in February.

square days

You can’t say that Madison lacks mood or character. Spend a summer Saturday morning at the Capitol Square – the place sings with the market! It’s a carnival of people, foods, flowers.

But downtown on a winter Saturday morning? Nothing would drag me there.

Except, maybe, a gentle snow, a willing Ed, and a suggestion of winter play. Of sorts.

And, though it is cold, it’s not so bad that you can’t start thinking about groundhogs and counting the days ‘til spring.

In the meantime, we are right in the midst of Madison’s Winter Festival. If that sounds a bit grandiose, well, maybe it is a tad overstating the level of frolic. It’s definitely not Mardi Gras down on the Square, but it is, nonetheless, utterly charming in a cold sort of way. Traffic is diverted, snow is covering every inch of concrete and road, kids and adults are trying out alternative ways of moving around.





And it’s all really sweet. No, truly, it is fantastic to see the Square looking perfectly Alpine, or Nordic, or some such loveliness.





Ambitious people are creating winter art. Like this ice sculptor: he's starting to chip away at an ice block:





We watch for a while, then head to the newly opened patisserie on the Square (“Sucre”). (People like me need frequent warm up spots.) Fantastic baked goods! As pretty as any in France.





Okay, back outside, our man is still sculpting and the snow is falling and it is all so wintery.





So, it’s a perfect moment to wander into the new cheese store (Fromagination), also on the Square (to warm up again).





Starting to look like Paris here, no?

Further up, snow sculptors are packing down and chiseling their stuff. Couldn’t quite figure out what this is, but it looked significantly impressive.





Getting totally nostalgic now (oh, look, he’s sculpting where the Flower Factory sells its stuff in the summer!), we decide to scoot over to Monona Terrace, thinking that the Winter Farmers Market is there. (It’s not – it’s at the Senior Center these months.)

Finding nothing, we walk out onto the bike path and watch the handful of kite enthusiasts standing out there in the cold, snowy expanse of frozen water, flying their banners.





The color is barely there on this white on white day, but still, there is something majestic in their effort to put that splash of brightness in the sky.





Satisfied, we walk back to the ice sculptor – finishing touches now.





We end the day at Sucre. Best cherry scone ever. Wonderful sandwich. Great coffee.
Life’s beautiful, here in Madison on February 2nd. Snow and all. And only a few weeks now until Spring.