olive twists

parchment cone of olive twists

Yesterday I craved salty, earthy olives. I remembered these delicious Olive Twists my friends and I enjoyed with a bottle of Conundrum at Amical, a little Bistro in Traverse City, Michigan. On that warm August evening, after watching Hamlet 2 at the TC Film Festival, we dined al fresco and started our meal with briny, funky, flaky pastry.

I was certain I could find a recipe online, but through my quick perusal of the usual suspects--epicurious and the blogosphere--I didn't really find what I wanted. I found a recipe for cheese twists in my Bon Appetit cookbook, and decided to improvise. Amounts aren't exact because, well, I'm really an improvisational cook, which is why I don't think I could ever write a cookbook.

Olive Twists
*makes 30*

1 sheet prepared Puff Pastry, thawed
1/4 lb pitted kalamata olives (or any other olive you like)
lemon zest and juice, to taste
thyme, to taste
red pepper flakes, to taste
1/4 cup grated parmesan


Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Combine olives and seasonings in a food processor until roughly chopped.

Lightly roll out the puff pastry. If it separates along the fold lines like mine did, that's just fine. You'll have three equal sections.

Spread olive mixture on pastry; sprinkle with cheese.

Cut each of the three sections into ten short pieces. Next, twist and stretch each section. This will be a bit messy and the filling may spill out a bit--you can scoop it back into the twist.

Places twists on prepared baking sheet--I covered mine with parchment paper. Bake for about 8 minutes or until golden brown and puffy.

Enjoy warm or cool. These are delicious with wine and cheese:)

mad about madison!

photo of Wisconsin State Capital, Madison, taken by Darin ten Bruggencate, courtesy of wikipedia, and licensed by GFDL

"Well, if there's a long wait at the Nepali restaurant, then we could go to the Greek place," so said M as he, D, and I walked up and down State Street in Madison deciding where to eat.

Now that's a sentence you don't often utter when considering places to dine on a remarkably chilly evening. Or any other evening, for that matter.

Lucky for us, there was an open table by the window in the tiny restaurant, and we settled in for our very first Nepali meal at Himal Chuli. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I selected the Roti, Dal, and Takari, and I further chose the Chana Takari with chickpeas, potatoes, and carrots. The food was delicious--utterly familiar and vastly different than any other food I've ever eaten because of the spice and herb combinations binding together favorite foods. A gentle heat underscored the dal and the takari, and the mild soft, buttery bread was a perfect accompaniment.

We headed back out into the cold, in search of a basement bar where D and M could drink Strongbow hard cider and I would sip a Bombay Sapphire G & T as we talked about the conference on Liberal Education that had brought us all together from various corners of the state to the Capital city.

The next afternoon, after attending more sessions and parting ways from new and old friends, I bundled up in an extra layer, slung my messenger bag across my shoulder, and walked up State street to the Capital Square. I made it to Cafe Soleil just before they stopped serving lunch, and enjoyed a Dairyland classic: grilled cheese. This one melded together several artisan cheeses and caramelized onions and thinly sliced tomatoes. I stopped by fromagination on the recommendation of several fellow bloggers, and selected a cheese to bring to Michigan for Thanksgiving, dried cranberries, local chocolate, and local crackers. One more stop: Barriques Coffee Trader, a brilliant coffeeshop cum wine shop, stocked with reasonable bottles of wine and an espresso bar. I purchased a French pinot noir and an Argentinian torrontes. Loaded down, I walked back down State Street, past the hippie shops and fair trade coffee shops, smelling nag champa incense whirling on the air and mingling with a thousand cuisines.

And then it was back to my car and a long drive across the state, past a graceful field of wind turbines and rolling farmland, and back home.

friendship

I've been thinking about friendship quite a bit lately, as I settle more into my new home and my new job and continue to make new acquaintances. Building community proceeds slowly and hinges as much on serendipity as intention--the few non-work friends I have in M- are people I met either at the Farmers' Market or volunteering for a political campaign this fall.

But more I've been thinking of friends from other stages in my life, those thoughtful men and women who joined me for part of my journey, whether through the awkward days of high school, the halcyon days of undergrad, the fleeting years of my Master's program, and the intense days of my doctoral program, not to mention the in-between post-grad years before I landed this tenure-track position. Living the rather itinerant decade or two of life that higher education and life in academe requires, I've becoming increasingly separated from these friends, not only geographically but also in life stages. We email, facebook, or chat on the phone occasionally, but it's hard to bridge the distances between our lives when faced with so many competing demands and new challenges.

In the idealistic world in my mind, we would move along together at a similar pace. But, priorities shift, new locales beckon, unforeseen opportunities and new relationships arise, setting us on an altogether different course than our dear friends. And the beauty of it is that we learn and grow from one another, even as our paths diverge. I think it was Anne Shirley, the plucky heroine of my childhood favorite Anne of Green Gables series, who famously declared that true friends were together in spirit, a sentiment that seems fitting and comforting.

twd: chocolate-chocolate cupcakes

a single scary cupcake...

As I mentioned in my last post, the chocolate-chocolate cupcakes were the finishing touch to the first annual Wine Club gathering at Chez Dharmagirl...I imagined and inspired commingling of chocolate and pinot noir, as both meld heartbreak and bliss...

Friday night I mulled over the decorating possibilities, and reading Dorie's suggestions for filling the cupcakes with marshmallow cream put me in mind of a Martha Stewart cake creation, filled with 'mallowy meringue and a profusion of cute ghosts fashioned out of multi-sized marshmallows...

And so it was that I headed home from the store with a bag of classic jet puffed marshmallows, a bag of mini's, and a jar of cream (otherwise affectionately known as fluff). Buying commercial marshmallows forces me to willfully suspend my disbelief, or at least overlook my objections to these puffy delights on the grounds of vegetarianism (gelatin) and whole-unprocessed-foods-ism (corn syrup, likely of the high fructose variety). I know you can find vegan alternatives, gourmet products, or make your own...but when you have a bevy of tiny ghosts to make and you live in a small town some distance from gourmet foodstuffs, sometimes you have to compromise food values.

I set about making the cupcakes, selected for the indefatigable TWD bakers by Clara of I♥foodforthought. They came together nicely, and I was eager to taste the batter--a delicate yet rich, bright chocolate flavor, more nuanced than my standard 6 minute chocolate cupcakes from the Moosewood Cookbook. I poured my best chocolate into these cakes, using my the last of my Valrhona cocoa powder and bar chocolate. I baked them a tad long, as they were a bit dry, a problem many other bakers experienced. I take full responsibility for not checking them soon enough. I stripped the cupcake papers, filled their centers with the aforementioned fluff, and topped them with the shiny glaze.

As I talked to my college friend E., catching up on months of news, I fashioned 36 diminutive specters, drawing on eyes with leftover glaze. Arranged on stacked cake plates, the ghoulish cupcakes looked more kitschy than scary.

When my friends arrived, they marveled at all the little marshmallow ghosts and likely wondered at my sanity. What I realized an hour into the ghost assembling process is how much I love doing fancy detail work, and how I only seem to spend the extra time for a big event, like Wine Club or the holidays. I'd like to change that, and to allow my full creativity time to flourish. I suspect that the baking creative spirit will invigorate my writing and vice versa, much as it did when I was writing my dissertation those several years ago when I began baking in earnest...

As I look ahead to November and my participation in NaNoWriMo, I need all the inspiration I can find, through Dorie and Martha and, mostly, through all y'all:)


a towering ghoulish mass...

return to race day

chicago half marathon, october 2006


Yesterday morning I laced up my trusty asics, grabbed my iPod shuffle, and drove to a local park to meet my friends B, K, and J for my return to "competitive" running...

My last race was October 1, 2006, when I ran the Chicago half marathon. Since then, my running has mostly fizzled out. This fall, however, my friend H and I decided we would run together two mornings a week, and soon I felt the peaceful easiness returning to my feet and lungs.

And so when I heard of this local race, I recruited a few of my guy friends who run to join a team with me...

And so on a chilly, colorful autumn morning, we set forth, battling winds, gravel hills, and the stench of a petting zoo (seriously. the trail wound behind the local zoo). I quickly lost sight of my friends and was fairly certain I was the last person in the pack, but I paid no mind...

This is your motivation to train longer, and harder. To make fitness a true priority once again. This is your moment to realize you don't have to be first, and you can even be last. To be in the now, to breathe, to know that all things change constantly.

As I picked my way up the steep gravel hill, I heard my friends cheering me on: "You're almost there! Keep it up!"

I rounded a corner and hit the straight away. The clock came in sight: 29:39. I can actually make it under 30 minutes! I sprinted to the finish line, with a race time of 29:50. Not anywhere near my best time, but so much faster than I thought I would be after such a long hiatus.

And, imagine my surprise to receive a 3rd place medal for my age group (okay, so there were only 4 people in my age group...). And, my team, the Hillside Hipsters, won first place in the team division, thanks to our ringer, J, who ran the race in 18:05. K and B ran in the mid 20s to round out our stunning finish (in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that there was only one other team). We're already planning to enter another race in December--the question is whether I should run the 2 mile race or the 5 mile race...

twd: caramel peanut topped brownie cake

someday I will own a digital camera and take better foodie photos...


Coffee hour is an old-fashioned, even quaint concept--a tradition of building connections, of taking time out of a busy day to slow down over mugs of steaming java, whilst noshing a little something sweet. My friend B. started the school year with a big box of Starbucks coffee he brought in, and last week we decided it was time to bring in more outside coffee (industrial strength as opposed to the novice level served in our cafeteria). We also decided to make Coffee Hour a true event, complete with treats and a formal invitation. We invited all the instructional staff on our hallway and a few colleagues from other buildings who come to our hall to socialize. Though our campus is tiny, people tend to tread well-worn paths to the office, the cafeteria, and the classrooms. Our hall, located next to the gym and past the large lecture hall, doesn't see much incidental traffic. We wanted to reward those who made the trek on purpose.

I decided to bake this week's TWD selection, the caramel peanut topped brownie cake selected by Tammy of Wee Treats by Tammy, early, and so Wednesday night I was scrounging around my chocolate drawer to see what I could find. An 85% Lindt bar would have to do. Unsalted peanuts would work. I had cream left over from the creme brûlée last week. I also found a 6 inch springform pan I had forgotten about, so I greased, floured, and papered it and a wee 4 inch pan for the excess.

Since the cake is true to its name and a brownie style cake that doesn't see a mixer, the batter came together quickly, and in no time the scent of warm chocolate, that most comforting of fragrances, wafted through the house. Once again, I was grading papers, and checking the cake intermittently. The springform cake burned just around the edges--I belatedly remembered the rule about lowering the temperature 25 degrees for dark baking pans. Once the cake cooled, I used my new tomato knife (thanks, Grandma!) to trim off the burned edges, ridges, and even bottom. I hoped that with enough caramel topping, the cake would seem moist and perfect. I also suspected that hoping for the caramel alone to transform what I knew to be a slightly dry cake was akin to putting lipstick on a pig...

I left the student papers behind and set about making the aforementioned caramel. I love making caramel, though I'm always scared that I'll miss the crucial moment and burn the sugar into a disastrous mess. Caramel making, along with any kind of candy creation (besides the too-easy -to-be-believed ganache truffles) is a lesson in patience, in faith, and in observation. I could have cooked mine a tad longer, but I erred on the side of caution. The caramel took a good deal longer than Dorie suggested to turn a golden brown, but eventually it did, and I added the cream and butter to glorious effervescence. I ran my finger around the edge of the spatula and tasted one cooling dollop--like the buttery softness of my favorite cashmere sweater on the first nippy day of fall. I poured the peanuts in the caramel, gave it a swirl, and then spooned the nut studded topping on the brownie cake.

The next morning, my colleagues and I set up the coffee boxes in B's office, and the table full of sweets--naturally--in my office. We pulled chairs into the hallway, and tucked in for enough coffee and treats to arrive at our first morning classes with the java-sugar-jitters. Our conversation ranged near--the local geology of our campus and region--and far--relationship dynamics and who does the baking. Since then, everyone wants to know when our next Coffee Hour will be.

Incidentally, I toted the tiny 4 inch cake to Chicago to share with my best friends--we met for a weekend of shopping, eating, and sitting in coffee shops. After hitting Pops for Champagne, a truly sparkling bar, we headed back to the apartment where we were staying. We ate the cake with plastic forks as we watched the opening sketch on Saturday Night Live, then fell asleep, with sweet dreams for all.

twd: chocolate whopper malted drops

chocolate whopper malted drops, courtesy of my web cam


This week teachers, students, and professors returned to school as summer sun gave way to crisp fall breezes. I embarked on a full semester of teaching two writing classes, American Literature, and first year seminar. The amount of energy required to move from inertia to full activity never ceases to astound me. This week was exhausting and fun as I met my classes and reconnected with friends after summer vacation.

Thursday night I stopped by the grocery store to buy the necessary supplies for this week's TWD recipe, Chocolate Whopper Malted Drops (on page 85), selected by Rachel of Confessions of a Tangerine Tart. I quickly located Carnation malt powder next to the Ovaltine and Hot Chocolate, Whoppers in the candy section, and my favorite 60% Ghiradelli chocolate chips in my favorite aisle--baking! After baking the cookies and eating way too many Whoppers as I was chopping them, I decided that next time I would splurge for candy store malted milk balls, which seem to have an extra layer of higher-quality chocolate.

The dough came together easily with a mousse-like texture, and an utter deliciousness when scooped up and eaten raw! Several TWD bloggers suggested that the dough was too chocolatey, but I was fearless and even used my favorite "mahogany gold" Valrhona cocoa powder instead of my standard Ghiradelli cocoa. Although Dorie doesn't specify to chill the dough overnight, I did anyway.

Friday afternoon I set about baking the cookies while emailing my students about their first writing assignment. I set up a baking station and a computer station on my kitchen island and seamlessly moved between the two. The rhythm of forming balls of dough to fill a baking sheet, emailing while the cookies baked, and lifting their molten goodness on to the cooling rack soothed my agitated soul.

In addition to the fun of being back to school, our campus community was saddened with the news that one of our colleagues lost both of the babies she was carrying when she went into labor way too early. The memorial service was that afternoon. The warm smell of baking chocolate wrapped around me, holding me tight against the sober truth that, as my friend B. so eloquently stated, "mother nature can be a real bitch."

As the first batch of cookies cooked, I brewed strong coffee and heated milk on the stove for a cafe au lait--the perfect counterpoint to the caramelly, chocolatey wonder of the cookies and the heavy sadness in my heart.

My thoughts turned again to C and the sadness of the memorial to come. I thought about the complexity of issues regarding women and motherhood, thrust once again onto the collective consciousness with political events of the week.

There's never been a week when I both wanted and didn't want to be a mother so much.

I ate another cookie, loaded up the baking sheet, and returned to my laptop to help my students, and steer my mind into more practical and less complicated emotional waters.

On Saturday, I packed up the cookies and gave them to my friends A and J, who were hosting an open house to share their new, beautiful home with friends and colleagues. They--the cookies, though also the party and the home-- were a hit, and more than one person admitted that they ate more than 4 cookies. Another TWD success! Thank you, Dorie, for a recipe that brings comfort, joy, and chocolate to those in need when life is full of sadness and elation.

haiku: old friends

driving to miltown
lattes and french cafe fare
catching up a year

the best cake i've ever made...and no, it's not chocolate!

Yesterday I headed to a local farm to purchase peas and strawberries, and came home contemplating where I should take these foods...

The peas: I stir-fried them with green garlic, spring onions, yellow pepper, and tofu, and served over coconut bulgur. I bit into the fat shiny pea pod and realized these peas were meant to be out of the pod, as the pod was too fibrous to eat. I slipped the peas out of their jackets and enjoyed my dinner.

The coconut bulgur was an experiment--I was planning on making coconut brown rice but was too hungry to wait the obligatory 50 minutes for rice. The bulgur made a lovely substitution, and the leftovers made a delicious breakfast. I added walnuts, cinnamon, flax oil, maple syrup, and shredded coconut for a tasty alternative to my daily oatmeal.

But I digress. I promised cake...

The strawberries: so glossy and red, they are delicious eaten plain, but I was besotted with visions of a towering strawberry cream cake, all red and white and luscious. I pored over all my cookbooks and, as usual, settled on a recipe from the illustrious Dorie Greenspan, an aptly titled Party Cake. I read the recipe, called my friend B to see if she and her fam wanted to join me for cake on Sunday afternoon, and then strategized. I cut out parchment circles for my cake pans, read over the recipe, and went to bed with visions of berry goodness dancing in my head...

After enjoying the aforementioned bulgur for breakfast, I walked to the closest thing to a market, a Kwik Trip gas station to buy a tiny bottle of whole milk (for the cake) and a Sunday Chicago Trib. I brewed a mug of strong coffee and tied on my summer apron, and I was ready.

The cake is fairly simply to make, and in no time the layers were baking, and I was slicing berries into a sauce pan to make a quick jam. This was good practice for my upcoming BerryJam 08, in which I will can 8-12 jars of strawberry jam to carry me through a year without fresh, local berries. The cake was golden, the jam bubbling, as I made not one but two types of frosting, following Dorie's suggestions for playing around. I made a simple vanilla buttercream (the kind without eggs) and a mock creme fraiche (whipped cream + greek yogurt).

As the layers and jam cooled I pressed my new vintage hostess apron, which features a red sash and a charming strawberry print. I carefully assembled the cake, slicing the layers horizontal to make a four layer cake, and spreading jam and buttercream between each layer (they ended up blending all into one). I enrobed the cake with the mock creme fraiche and then carefully arranged strawberry halves in concentric circles on top of the cake like so many sparkling rubies. A final berry in the middle of the cake was framed with mint leaves. Ahhh. I traded my "work" apron for my berry apron and relaxed.

I took about 5 pictures of my masterpiece, but since my camera is antiquated (i.e. 1999), you will have to wait for pics. The cake had just enough time to set before my guests arrived. What joy to share a cool, overcast summer Sunday with good friends and delicious cake! Perhaps a new tradition is in order? I think back to my great grandma, Cookie Grandma, who entertained the family every Sunday after church. I don't know if I could make such a treat every week, but maybe once a month we could gather for our own version of food, fellowship, and faith.

wet wisconsin weekend: polka mass and breakfast on the farm

This weekend has overflowed with rain, but more importantly, with Wisconsin Culture. My new state of residence has many rich traditions that I've been fortunate enough to witness.

Yesterday I attended Polka Mass with my friends A and The Beard. A explained afterwards that many parts of the mass are usually quieter, encouraging more serious reflection, but with the oompa-loompa of the polka band, the entire mass seemed a jolly affair. The church was packed--kids wearing Packers jerseys, cute old couples wielding umbrellas, and nuns wearing an abbreviated, modern habit.

Check out this YouTube video clip for a taste of polka mass:


After dancing at a colleague's retirement party and staying up entirely too late skimming an improbable and highly transparently plotted romance novel, I fell into a half-sleep, awaking early this morning ruing the two glasses of inexpensive wine I indulged in at the aforementioned soiree. I brewed a mug of strong, thick coffee, and pulled out my raincoat, stuffing my trusty 35 mm camera and tracfone in the pockets. I met A and The Beard, as well as A's parents, for our next Wisconsin adventure: Breakfast on the Farm.
courtesy of the Wisconsin Milk Marketing Board


This annual event usually draws upwards of 5,000 participants, who line up for shuttles on yellow and black school buses comandeered by jokesters with Yooper accents, pay six dollars to receive a cow handstamp and a dairy-centric breakfast, and dine on the farm.

We dodged raindrops as we scurried into the Feeding Barn, where men stirred huge skillets of eggs to a gooey scramble, studded with diced ham and cemented with copious amounts of cheese. Women doled out generous portions of eggs, and servers also offered handfuls of cheese cubes, segments, and curds; cinnamon bread with fresh butter pats; cherry flavored donut holes; and egg-cellent accoutrements. Another tent featured dishes of vanilla ice cream topped with strawberries or the farm's own maple syrup.

We trekked through rivulets of mud and thickening crowds to a sturdy tent filled with picnic tables, and sat down to enjoy the mostly bovine-produced repast. A cheerful band stopped playing old standards just long enough to introduce the family of the farm, as well as crown the dairy princesses and Alice-in-Dairyland.

I watched as families sat down together to share food, boy scouts wandered the aisles in search of empty plates to throw away, and young people proudly wearing FFA, 4H, and/or John Deere gear congregated on the sidelines. I felt thankful that these young people will carry on the largely invisible, under-appreciated, grossly underpaid, and altogether vital work of feeding us for the next generation

We wandered to a beautiful tall red barn where local vendors displayed pamphlets and disseminated information about dairy and other agriculture issues, and barn swallows tweeted and twittered from one rafter to the next. Here I learned that my adopted county has 6,000 more cows than humans.

As I rode the bus back to the parking lot, I felt homesick--struck by the beauty and deep, rich culture of this place that still doesn't feel like home. I still feel like an outsider, a cultural anthropologist of sorts, with my heart and soul still somewhat unattached from this place and its very kind people.

Last night one of my colleagues stated that my new home and Holland, where I grew up, are very similar. He then revised his statement to use Muskegon as his Western Michigan point of reference, and in some ways I can see the connection: the manufacturing history, the flight from manufacturing, the prevalence of Christianity, agricultural links, and strong ties to European heritage. But somehow, it seems much more different to me--the prevalence of sports culture (Green Bay Packers), the different version of Christian faith (Catholicism versus Christian Reformed), the more progressive politics (though no less confounding than the conservatism of Western Michigan). And where am I in this comparison? At times firmly aligned with one place or the other, and at times aligned with someplace far away. The process of acculturation is long, slow, and filled with tumultuous emotions and surprising discoveries, and I hope this summer offers me more moments of cultural richness in which I can connect more fully to the spirit of this place.

fabulous frittata

Yesterday morning I drove to Sheboygan to sign my insurance papers, and decided to treat mytself to "brunch" at the previously mentioned Field to Fork. I ordered the vegetable frittata and wrote in my journal and jotted notes for my classes while listening to the chef prepare my brunch at the open kitchen beneath the loft where I was sitting. The swirl of eggs being whisked, the intoxicating scent of breakfast meats lingering in the air (not that I partook...I'm not that lapsed of a vegetarian. Yet.) heightened my anticipation. When my server set my plate down in front of me, my hands ached for the digital camera I don't yet have so I could share this beautiful creation with y'all...

The frittata was plate sized, with a thin, ruffled edge. Studded with sauteed vegetables--summer squashes, peppers, onions, and mushrooms--and topped with thin slices of crecenza (sp?) cheese, and topped with a salad of frisee, miscellaneous spring greens, cucumbers, more peppers, halved grape tomatoes, and a light vinaigrette, it was a sight to behold. Beautiful, fresh, and bursting with simple flavor. Delicious. I savored every bite, and ate to the point of fullness, munching on wheat toast spread with creamy butter, and sipping perfectly acidic coffee.

I picked up a can of San Marzano Tomatoes, a half pound of Guatamala Antigua coffee beans, and a 3/4 lb. slab of Wisantigo Strevecchio cheese (an aged Wisconsin parm-reg style cheese) and headed back home to the joyful task of unpaking and arranging my library. Then I met some of my new friends for cocktails and felt the welcome of new friendship and the joy of working and socializing with like-minded, fun-loving, thoughtful, and intelligent colleagues.

last desserts

Friday's the big day: we load up the 16 foot Penske truck with all my worldly goods. There's much questioning about the size of the said truck: will it be large enough to hold all my boxes? I'll spend the night at my parents' home and then make the drive to WI on Saturday morning to unload with the help of my new colleagues/friends.

Yesterday I baked my last goodies in this kitchen that I've hated yet grown accustomed to, with its dark pressed wood cabinets and annoying refrigerator that insists on freezing my baby lettuces...

First I made a cute two layer six inch chocolate cake, which I'm just about to frost. I'm bringing it to Grandpa C, who loves sweets, but particularly chocolate cake. He's refinished a Hoosier cabinet for my new place and I promised to pay in chocolate cake.

Then I made an ultra rustic peach and blueberry galette, with Michigan peaches and my own family's blueberries (I have many stories about that to come). I had to dig my rolling pin out of the box it was already packed in, and attempt to maneuver it on the small counter space left free during the packing frenzy. The pastry crumbled and fell all apart, so I had to press it back together...It certainly wasn't the prettiest of galettes, but it was tasty.

My friend K came over to spend the night and we enjoyed the tart and tumblers full of wine (as I already packed my nice stemware). K and I are friends from college--we were the two highest officers in our--brace yourself--sorority (more on that another time:)--as well as editors on our college newspaper (she was editor-in-chief and I was Features). We caught up on college gossip and discussed the travails of young motherhood and single life, respectively. We're planning a visit for her family to come to WI and go to a Packers game (her husband is a HUGE sports fan)...we have to wait until Brett Favre retires to get tickets, but it will certainly be an adventure (especially for me, as I'm functionally football illiterate).

up north adventures: sassy scrams and tiny bubbles

artwork from wikipedia, 1915 English magazine illustration of a lady riding a champagne cork
From The Lordprice Collection, copyright license found at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

Two years ago H, S, and I discovered the delicious foods at Kejara's Bridge, a little cafe smack dab in the middle of the Leelanau Peninsula. I still remember sitting out in the garden, dodging bees, and feeling more than a little windswept, as we ate our fresh, clean flavored breakfasts. H and I ate there twice this visit, talking about our dreams of buying the place (it's for sale)...a real dream since other lives and other jobs beckon, not to mention a serious lack of capital. But it's fun to imagine the possibilities of a different life.

The most delicious item on the menu, in my mind, is the Sassy Scram (which also happens to have the best name). Three eggs are scrambled with spinach, red and green pepper, red onion, tomato, feta, and white cheddar. Served with whole grain toast and fresh fruit, the concoction makes a lovely breakfast or lunch. I've made similar dishes at home on a random Tuesday when I don't feel like "really cooking," but somehow Kejara's is a bit more delicious, which I suspect has something to do with their much more liberal use of cheese.

The ambience veers towards the boho-hippy, with local art for sale on the walls, an eclectic range of vintage tables, and folksy music. We were lucky enough to listen to Bob Dylan (well, I was. H isn't a big fan of Dylan, but she softened towards his vocal stylings by the end of our lunch). There's something about Dylan's rambling narratives that comforts on days--like this one was--when all I could think about was the melancholy of leaving and moving on to new chapters.

On our last visit, H and I had the pleasure of serendipitously running into an old friend from college who's doing really important and great work.

As my time on the Peninsula drew to a close, H and I had one more destination in mind: the vineyards of Larry Mawby. As I've mentioned before, vineyards dot the land in this region. What distinguishes Mawby is that all his wines are sparkling. He uses the traditional methode champenoise, and his wines are effervescent and lovely. The tasting room rollicks with music that can only be described as *sexy fun*--selections like "Let's Get It On," "Lady Marmalade," and "You Sexy Thing." Between the tiny bubbles and the fun music, H and I were dancing in our chairs, reading all the poetic text on the walls describing the various wines. I bought a half-bottle of Talismon, an estate wine named one of the top 100 wines in the US, and Sandpiper, available only at the vineyard. H bought a bottle of Fizz, a demi-sec sparkler, and Sex, a wine rife with jokes. Add my new purchases to the bottle of Conservancy I bought when I visited last fall, and I'm ready for celebration!

up north adventures: the tao of lake michigan

Last Tuesday morning, I repacked my car and left my parents' home for a mini-break in Northport, Michigan with one of my best friends and her family (minus her husband, who had to return "downstate" to work). I decided to take the scenic route, following 31 up through the coastal towns of Grand Haven, Muskegon, Ludington, and Manistee, before angling over to the peninsula around Benzonia...the drive lulled me into calm joy interrupted with existential quadries about the sheer beauty of the land unfurling outside my car windows. Not being on a strict timetable, I stopped with every whim...for coffee in Manistee, for dried cherries in Glen Arbor, and more coffee and bread in Leland before arriving at the M's home.

The Leelanau Peninsula beckons with rolling dunes, verdant farmland, sumptuous Lake Michigan shores, and a smattering of small communities, each offering a new vista, a delicious eatery or two, and an individual ambience. I love this place. Why? I've been fortunate enough to spend a handful of days there every summer for the past 13 years, as the M's have graciously opened their home to H and her group of giggly, silly, rambunctious friends. Now we're not so rambunctious as we were at the beginning, but we're still giggly and silly, eating chocolate and talking about our dreams. We've grown up--some of us have husbands, some have babies, and some have drifted away. But the place remains, changing a bit with each year as a new winery pops up, or we discover a new favorite place to spread our silliness. This solitary visit didn't supplant the whole group visit, but was a chance for me to temporarily shake off the moving stress.

The Peninsula, and particularly the M's home, has always been my wonder spot, that place where nature's beauty soothes the stressful edges of everyday life, and the constant crash of waves in the background reminds me of the paradox of constant change/non-change.

On Thursday morning, I took a yoga class at the Leelanau Center for Contemplative Arts--yin yoga, which is deeply restorative--and the teacher concluded with a passage from the Tao te Ching, a text I used to read fairly regularly, the lessons of which are especially apropos now. Tears stung my eyes as my relaxation merged with the reminder of something familiar and strengthening.