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.

saturday mornings

I love sunny summer saturday mornings, mornings that shimmer with the promise of a new day. I love rolling out of bed and throwing on my yoga togs, strapping on my chaco sandals, and hitting the sidewalks. I love strolling the farmers market and talking to my favorite farmers, colleagues, artists, and new friends. I love stopping at my favorite local sandwich shop for a cup of strong alterra brew. I love walking back home, my tote bag filled with veggies--asparagus, spring onions, baby lettuces, spinach, and fresh mini-mozzarella balls. I love gathering up my yoga mat and driving to my gym, where I can stretch out, explore my boundaries, consider my edge, before heading back home to cook up a saturday lunch of roasted yukon golds with rosemary, a salad with baby greens, roasted chickpeas, fresh mozz, and a tangy lemon honey vinaigrette, and finally, a scrambled egg with spinach, asparagus, and green onions. I brave the damp fog that blows in off the lake and sit on my deck, planning my next step, or not planning at all. Laundry and garden need tending to, but so does the stack of enticing books--amy bloom, kate christensen, anita shreve, russ parsons, and carly phillips. Could every day be as wonderful?

"these are the days that must happen to you"

There comes a moment every Spring, well, since I've been professor-ing, when I shift from teaching full-time and reading student work (the good, the bad, the surprising, the dreadful...) to teaching part-time or no-time and having my time fluid and free yet again. As glorious as this freedom is--freedom from alarm clocks and packing lunches and snacks and grading, good lord, the grading)--it's an adjustment.

Last week, after the Florida mini-break, I went to "faculty camp," a several days long series of workshops and fellowship with fellow teaching faculty. I learned some nifty ideas to apply in the fall, and some good ideas to think about over the summer for the sustainability project I'm coordinating in the fall.

So this week has been my week of transitioning, and it's going fairly well. I'm staying up later than usual reading. I just finished Kate Christensen's The Great Man, which won (and is most deserving of) the PEN/Faulkner award. Now I'm debating reading for class--my International Literature class starts next week--reading for sustainability--the theme that I need to develop ASAP--or to read for sheer pleasure. The scales are tipped in favor of the latter.

On this rainy Tuesday, I walked downtown in the drizzle for a cup of Alterra coffee made strong, at the local breakfast/lunch joint that serves my favorite brew. I meandered home, sent a few emails (my many inboxes are exploding with unanswered messages), made lunch (homemade spinach and parm pizza--the trick to a great crust is leaving the dough in the fridge several days), and then headed to She-town for some supply gathering. Grassfields milk, both skim and whole (I have thoughts of a vanilla bean ice "milk"), Alterra beans for home, and various other goodies. I walked up and down the aisles of TJMaxx looking for surprises (Vera Wang notecards and Scharrfen-Berger tasting squares of chocolate), reveling in the fact that I didn't really need to be doing anything else.

I lingered over dinner preparation--a faux salad nicoise, with petite yukon golds (not local, not organic, but still tasty), local asparagus, garbanzos, and local spring onion, tossed with my good olive oil and a squeeze of lemon; an omelet with yuppie hill eggs, local organic spinach, and saxony cheese from Saxon creamery. Add a slice of toast made with whole wheat amish bread and a glass of Chilean Cabernet Rose, and it was a stunning meal of simplicity. What a lovely turn away from heavy soups and roasted things.

The lilacs are blooming, the garden is planted, and winter is over. My eyes are open for everyday miracles and subtle surprises, and my heart is slowly opening to a new season with endless possibilities. My mind is cracked open for new projects, new perspectives, and establishing new neural pathways for positivity.

And before I veer off into new-agey nonsense, I bid you a lovely evening, my dear readers.

beach weekend

Memorial Day weekend my family and I convened in Florida for a mini-vacation, a time to reconnect with each other after a long, busy winter. As glorious sunshine and heat streamed down and the wind swept the gulf into undulating ruffles of water, we chatted, laughed, golfed, ate, walked, wandered, and cried.

A few favorite moments:

1. Attempting to play nerf football on the beach with wind blowing the light-weight, aerodynamic toy off course. Mom and I stayed safely on the shore while Dad and L. manned the water line.




2. Sitting at the beach bar at the Don Cesar, a luxurious, storied, PINK hotel in St. Pete Beach. L. enjoyed a wheat beer, Dad a crown on the rocks, Mom a lemon sipper, and I delighted in a Florida freeze, a minty, limey, slushy, boozy confection. We watched a plane fly across the ocean, dragging a sign congratulating Terry on her Sweet 16, and we overheard the squeals of delight over the pulsating beat of Usher from the aforementioned birthday soiree at the other end of the hotel.




3. Some utter silliness in the car with Mom, involving food related mishaps.

4. An afternoon in Safety Harbor, where we parked under the shade of the Banahoff Live Oak, a towering beauty of 300-500 years age, romantically draped in Spanish Moss. We also enjoyed a lovely visit with Lois, the proprietress of Safety Harbor Antiques and Collectibles, SHAC, and "docent" of S.H.A.C.'s five cent tour of the town, given via a hand-drawn "ladies map" (all context and landmarks and no directions) and a pink highlighter. She gave us a thorough yet brief history of the town and highlighted points of historical, artistic, and quirky interest. She's delightful, and I would go back to Safety Harbor just to see her and the famous tree.

a day at the farm: saxon creamery

photo taken by J.K. and ever so graciously shared with me

"Eating is an agricultural act," writes agrarian philosopher and author Wendell Berry. I've been thinking about the ethics and practice of eating lately, partly because I'm coordinating our campus' Common Theme for next year. We've selected the tagline "It's Easy Being Green" to energize folks on campus to think and act more sustainably. The theme will be carried out through intellectual inquiry, classroom tie-ins, practical changes, and nifty programming. I can't wait! Truth be told, I'm more than a little nervous to be coordinating this initiative, but I have so much help that I know it will be a collective effort and it will be wonderful.

My personal focus for the project (because I can't possible DO everything, just coordinate everything) is two-fold: green food issues and eco-literature. One of the primary goals of the green food issue is to explore local food connections. So, when I recently received an email from the Southeast Wisconsin Slow Food Convivium inviting me to tour a local dairy farm, I quickly signed up and invited my friends.

And so, on a windswept Saturday in mid-may, A, J, and I drove to Saxon Creamery in Cleveland, Wisconsin for a morning of tasting and touring. Our tour began with a brief history of the farm; you can check out their excellent website for more information on their history and excellent cheeses. We then toured the production facility, a spotless and cool converted beer warehouse (only in Wisconsin, right?). We peered through a series of windows to see the gleaming stainless equipment, white cheese-shaping molds, and marveled at 16 pound wheels of cheese floating in salt-water brine baths. Racks of cheeses lined the last room, the aging room, where the temperature and humidity is carefully monitored to simulate a cave.

While we were touring the facility, Elise had shaved off generous slices of the three cheeses: Big Ed, Saxony, and Grassfields. When Jerry brought us back into the front room, we enjoyed endless slices of cheese, trying to detect the subtle differences in the cheeses, from the sweet&salty Big Ed, to the nutty Saxony, to the creamy&buttery&tangy Grassfields. I love each of the cheeses and have a hard time settling on a favorite, though later that day I bought a wedge of the Saxony (for comparison, think of a mountain cheese, like and aged Fontina). Jerry surprised us all with bottles of maple syrup from the farm as take-aways.

We then drove through downtown Cleveland, bustling with Saturday morning rummage sales and the quintessential Wisconsin celebration, the Brat Fry. After driving over the interstate, we pulled over on the side of the road, and saw the farm spread before us under billowing clouds. To our right was a ten acre woodlot (home of the maple syrup) and surrounding us were fields of grass and specks of cows far in the distance.

Our tour concluded at the farmstead, where Jerry explained the seasonal process of breeding, and how calves are taught/encouraged to pasture. We gazed at a small field filled with adorable calves gently mooing and staring at us (likely wondering what the dumb humans were up to now). One paricular caramel colored calf stared straight at us, looking happy and sweet.

We then traipsed over to the farmstead where Jerry explained what each of the red wood buildings was used for, and then took us into the milk parlor. This milking facility is modeled after New Zealand farms, where the comfort of the cows is paramount and human comfort is secondary.

Jerry's passion for pastured, grass-fed dairy is palpable, and his dedication to this particular farm and its bounty is deep. His message to us was to supprt farms such as his and to support our local communities. Education and knowledge about our food has the power to change all of our lives--producers and consumers.

I don't feel virtuous or self-righteous as much as I feel committed to truly knowing this place where I now live. And I feel a deep gratitude to the farmers whose labor is invisible in the foods that grace my plate so many times each day. I want to really think about the lives that have contributed to my food--human and non-human alike--and to truly appreciate and support them through the power of my fork.

journeys

I love shutting the door to my bedroom at night and being enclosed in soothing darkness. I turn my alarm clock away, and snuggle in to crisp sheets and a plethora of pillows. After a quick week of early mornings, there's nothing like a Saturday when I can wake up when I please, turning the alarm clock to see just how many hours I slept. Nine sounds about right:)

Last weekend I met Mom in Chicago for a quick trip, and we had a lovely time, though this trip was marked by unexpected deviations from the very loose plan. My train was cancelled, and so I decided to drive to the city. In the city. Downtown Chicago. When my nerves would start to frazzle, I reminded myself that driving in Atlanta is in some ways more challenging. Despite a little extra space and a lot more $$ spent on parking said car, we had a pleasant, quiet time.

We discovered Quartino, an Italian tapas restaurant where wine is served in 1/4 carafes, and the atmosphere is hip and fun. We also hit Cafe Spiaggia, my perennial favorite, for soup and pasta and gelato and a very dreamy waiter. And, of course, no trip to Chicago is complete without a stop at Vosges Haut Chocolates and Intelligentsia Coffee. I bought a black cat espresso bar and a bag of beans, Persephone and Harmony, I believe the blend is called, and am stretching both out as long as possible.

The previous weekend I traveled to Waukesha, just outside of Milwaukee, for an English Department meeting. What fun! My friend/colleague A. and I circled around "historic downtown Waukesha" in search of a little bakery or cafe for breakfast but wound up at the ever-ubiquitous Starbucks instead. What fun to read and hear poetry and prose from talented writers, to discuss new approaches to teaching, and to simply form connections with other English Profs.

And now, here I am, spending a quiet Saturday morning at home, drinking the aforementioned Intelligentsia coffee and luxuriating in the calm before the storm--storm of end-of-the-semester grading, that is. I have books to return to the library, packages to mail at the post office, and (hopefully) veggies to buy at the farmer's market. But for now, a quiet (seems to be a popular word with me this morning) spell at home is fitting and right.

opera cake

dharmagirl here... so music chick is here visiting me, all the way from Michigan. Hooray! since the wind was howling and the SNOW swirling all day, we decided to stay in and:
a) learn the solja boy dance via the youtube instructional video;
b) watch *the starter wife*; and
c) bake. after much poring over my extensive baking cookbooks and amassed foodie mags, we settled on the ambitious OPERA CAKE in Dorie Greenspan's *Paris Sweets* cookbook. We had to make a few adjustments, eschewing Dorie's advice NOT to halve the cake recipe (we did because I only have 1 jelly roll pan and neither of us wanted to leave the house to ask my neighbor B if she had such a pan), and selecting an alternative coffee buttercream recipe from Regan Daley's *In the Sweet Kitchen* because Dorie's recipe required a candy thermometer, and, well, I don't actually have one (the horror!).

Step One: divide and perform the tasks.
dharmagirl: everything egg-y, including separating 5 eggs, and making two different meringues. folding aforementioned meringue number one into the cake base. making a true buttercream using aforementioned meringue number two. chopping chocolate.
music chick: grinding everything. i mean, almonds. mixing the base of the cake. clarifying butter. making the coffee syrup. creating the ganache.

Step Two: comment on the process, contemporaneously and retrospectively.
music chick: i carried out the duties of the sous chef. it is by far the most complicated and beautiful cake i have ever been a part of. and this has been one of my favorite days in a long time.

dharmagirl here. what great fun we've had! this cake is BEYOND. well, we haven't actually eaten any yet because it has to CHILL, but the components are delicious. what a perfect antidote to a CRAPTASTIC (thank you, craptastic carl, one of music chick's potential suitors who earned a gold star for LAMENESS back in the day) day: good friends, great conversation, glamorous cake. Thank you for the most lovely visit, music chick!!!

contemplative

This past week has been a very internal week, a drawing inward, a retreat from the world, a quest to find answers and the next best steps on the path of my life. At the end of a week, I don't have many answers, and though part of me craves a continuing interiority, I know that it's time to be out of my head and into the world. I'm ready to stretch my legs out over dry sidewalks and run through neighborhoods, run through fields, run with-and not to or away from-my thoughts. To make this path literal, to explore new territory, to clear away old patterns and forge new trails. (alas, I'm slipping into cliches...)

My week of thinking was spurred by viewing a very fine production of *Agnes of God,* a play that gripped my psyche in subtle and not so subtle ways. Issues of motherhood, of faith, of reason, of love all swirled together, interweaving with news of friends undergoing fertility treatments and giving birth, to create a powerful wave of thinking. And longing. Or not.

And now Spring, beloved, ravishing, aching, unrequited Spring begins to tiptoe into town, dispelling winter gloom with the promise of glorious fecundity.

It's all a little overwhelming.

primavera...

Spring Break is a lovely tradition, though supreme sadness descends when the week ends and I must finish the semester in a mad push to the end. Spring Break typically symbolizes the tail end of winter and the around-the-cornerness of spring, hoorah! This winter, however, likes to linger. Yesterday we received 8 inches of snow in Western Michigan. I was worried that my drive back to Dairyland would be fraught or postponed, but the roads were clear, the sun bright, and music lilting. I hauled my bags of provisions--CHARD, Koeze's peanut butter, grazing fields eggs, bionaturae whole wheat pasta and crushed tomatoes, Uncommon Grounds coffee, sencha vanilla tea, two kinds of artisan bread from the Journeyman Cafe--into the house, made a quick pasta dinner, and turned on a little Spartan basketball, and tried to stretch vacation just a teensy bit longer...

And now here I am, with my large piles of student papers mostly graded, and just a few grants and proposals to craft before this week becomes too crazy-busy.

I'm starting to feel the call of lightweight, floaty dresses; tissue-tees; bright colored prep-ster capris a la jcrew; shiny, brightly colored flats; and fresh, shimmery, glossy make-up. Spring fashion delights me more than any other seasonal garb!

road trippin'

Today my friend B and I headed across the fair dairyland state to attend an awesome conference, chat it up with some fellow professor types, and forage for good eats after our minds were filled with new ideas.

First, we visited a candy store that carries Vosges exotic candy bars--I purchased my ever favorite Barcelona bar (dark milk chocolate, smoked almonds, and grey sea salt). We found a groovy little grocery store that featured organic produce and natural/organic goodies. I bought a bouquet of organic CHARD (hoorah!) and a small paper bag full of organic yukon gold potatoes. Tomorrow I'll make a simple dish of sauteed chard, garlic, mashed yukon golds, and olive oil. Yummm. Then we browsed in a used book store, where I bought my very own copy of Jhumpa Lahiri's pulitzer prize winning short story collection The Interpreter of Maladies for six dollars. Then it was back in the car in search of caffeine and all we could find was the ubiquitous Starbucks. We drove the rolling hills of central Wisconsin and found our way to Green Bay, where we drove through town on a whim and serendipitously settled into spicy goodness at Nukeo Thai. Delish!

I'm happy to report that Green Bay seems alive and thriving even with the news of Brett Favre's retirement, which has broken a few hearts and induced many a tear to fall across this great state this week. (note: if you would've told me a year ago that I would blog about Brett Favre, not just once but on multiple occasions, I would've been full of scoff and snark).

natal day

These gorgeous pink and white tulips, imported from the netherlands, are a bday gift from my parents, who brought them to me all the way from the other holland!

I feel blessed today--the small acts of kindness and thoughtfulness have lessened the sting of turning 34, and have reminded me of what's truly important--family, friends, loving kindness, and shared time.

And chocolate.

My "sally" moments ("but I'm going to be 40...someday") will continue to flit in and out of my consciousness, but for now I'm glad, and so grateful that I know so many wonderful people who share their lives with me in a multitude of ways.

organic girl

Today I found a new array of organic produce at my local Copp's grocery store: organic girl. The ubiquitous earthbound farms clamshells of greens disappeared, and in its place are more shapely, non-petroleum based clamshell containers of greens and salads. I selected the baby arugula blend, took one of the $.55 off coupons, and finished my shopping.

The blend is good, composed of mostly arugula. Peppery, distinctive, and fresh, it provided just the bite I needed on a Friday evening after a long week. While it's good to see the container is not made of fossil fuel, the fact that it's made of corn ("I'm in everything!") isn't all that much better, but it's a start.

I dined on a salad of baby arugula blend, roasted chickpeas, oranges, and cucumber with a balsamic orange dressing. Tasty. Then, I made a pizza with a part whole-wheat crust, spicy tomato sauce, roasted red peppers and broccoli, caramelized onions, arugula, and kurt henning's mozzarella. What a wonderful meal!

While most of my meal was decidedly not local, some of it was organic, and all of it was delicious. And, it was inspired by Barbara Kingsolver and her family's tradition of pizza Fridays, a tradition I'm trying to practice here as well. I cannot wait until Spring, when fresh veggies and fruits begin to show up at the farmer's markets and even on my own terrace garden. For now, snow continues to fall, melt, meld into ice, and fall yet again. We're experiencing the snowiest winter on record, and everyone is weary and grumbly because of the interminable stretch of winter. Spring seems a fantasy, a fairy tale, a gossamer dream...

ice floes

Today the temperature soared to thirty, nary a cloud drifted in the sky, and brilliant sunshine streamed down, melting the massive snow piles and inches of ice. To riff on country singer Deanna Carter, "I still remember when 30 seemed cold." And I have to disagree with former midwesterner T.S. Eliot--February, not April, "is the cruelest month." Everyone I know in the frozen tundra or nearby states reached the point of utter frustration, impotent rage, and/or depression weeks ago. But. Today the sun, the sky, the warmth called me outside for the first time in weeks.

As I walked the treacherous sidewalks, seeking one foothold after another, I found myself drawn to the layers of ice ensconced between inches of water. The ice bubbled, cracked, and shifted under my feet, and a fresh stream of water flowed upward. How like my heart, at moments in my life, beginning to thaw from the inside and out, with a translucent, cracked resilient layer of ice in the middle. I also thought of that wonderful scene in *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind* where Joel and Clem venture out onto the ice and first share an intimate moment, surrounded by major fractures, but buoyed up by thick layers of frozen river water.

To boost sagging morale at work, I've baked chocolate chip cookies for my colleagues. And, in anticipation of my upcoming birthday, I've baked two dozen chocolate cupcakes to tuck into my overflowing freezer. I envision a pink meringue frosting with pink coconut gracing their naked tops. And now my home smells of home, of sweetness, of bliss.

home

I'm trying to find the Gretel Ehrlich quote that speaks of home being simultaneously nowhere and everywhere at once, a rather po-mo, po-co concept...but my sleepy eyes aren't alighting on the right words tonight.

Where is home? Is a place always home even after I'm gone? How long must I live in a place before it becomes home? What determines home-- landscape, architecture, food, culture, people, and/or the visceral intuition that zings through my body-mind-soul?

And what is homesickness if not for that tortuous ache, akin to unrequited love?!?

My landscapes shift, couldn't be more different, and yet are beloved each.

Austerity of snow and ice, fecundity of humidity and abundance.

Home. Homeless. Homeful.

the loveliest village

The one drawback to the fixed webcam is the image reversal you see here. C'est la vie. I'm composing this dispatch from Auburn, where I'm attending a conference. My "posse," the former Jane Austen Reading Group, has yet to assemble, so I walked to Mellow Mushroom tonight to pick up pizza and a large Abita root beer to go. I strolled down the street, as the sun set, leaving the temperature hovering around 50, and I felt glad. I ate too much pizza in my hotel room and then finished my presentation. It still needs a round of proofreading, but I can't look at it anymore tonight.

Where to begin drawing the contrasts between this former home and school of mine to where I am now? A vast gulf divides us. And I realize how I've become re-midwesternized when I'm surprised that every person I pass on the street says hello, and every man holds open a door. And the accent....oh, how I love it. And miss it. I had a moment of cognitive dissonance this afternoon when I drove into town and was listening to NPR and hearing a thick Wisconsin accent (of course the Dairyland State is receiving major press attention because of the pending political primary on Tuesday).

I can't seem to find the version of myself who lived here, but that's okay. I didn't really expect to, and in many ways I'm very glad that she has been absorbed into who I am now. I think of my life as a series of small transformations, whose additive sum eventually creates a new version of myself.

On my way to Auburn I had the chance to catch up with my friend M for the first time in years. We had a lovely long lunch, and then I was back on the road, in my rental car, a silver Mustang that purrs. Suddenly, my G6 seems rather weak...

Tomorrow I'll reconnect with more friends, and spend some time on my own wandering my old haunts. And remembering how much I came to love this loveliest village on the plains.

craving chard

swiss chard, dharmagirl's trusty macbook webcam

Before returning to work in January, I treated myself to Barbara Kingsolver's delightful *Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.* She writes about food politics and the importance and experience of eating locally with an awareness of the difficulties and moral dilemmas her family and her many readers may face. These qualities, along with her lovely prose, further fired me up to do my best to eat even more mindfully, thoughtfully, and compassionately than I already do (and, I think I'm doing fairly well, not buying into the SAD--standard american diet). Still, I have miles to go before I eat, as I order chocolate from around the world and bread from Zingerman's in Ann Arbor--not exactly local, and foods that I will have an impossible time giving up as they sustain my overall well-being on these long winter days. Being amidst a deep freeze in Wisconsin does not afford many local vegetables at this time of the year. I console myself with the fact that I'm joining a CSA (community supported agriculture) this Spring, and that my dairy products are local.

Anyway, Kingsolver wrote so lovingly about Swiss Chard that suddenly, my craving for this hearty green skyrocketed. I searched my local grocery stores to no avail. I told my colleagues/friends about my Chard situation, and it seemed the only possibility was to travel to a larger city in search of this vegetable. I decided I would have to wait for my next trip to Milwaukee to find this elusive green, when, to my utter delight, I received a package from my Mom, to whom I had also bemoaned about my chardlessness. Inside I found this beautiful bouquet of rainbow chard, ready to be consumed. What a lovely surprise and perfect gift.

And so, on another sub-zero day, I will make a large pot of soup--tomato base, with garlic, a variety of herbs, cannellini beans, whole wheat pasta, and CHARD. I will eat this alongside a wedge of Paesano bread from Zingerman's and rejoice at being blessed with such thoughtful family members.

My seed catalog arrived this week, and I'm nervously dreaming of Spring and the project I'm about to undertake--growing a smattering of my own foods in containers on my deck.

And I'm writing again, squeezing in more time for journaling, working on my scholarly article/presentation, and thinking of essays that I want to polish and submit for publication. Trying to think of myself as a REAL writer, instead of someone who simply dabbles and teaches others how to write.

the scholar at work

photo of dharmagirl, courtesy of macbook photobooth

snow swirls and spins
hot chocolate and toast
reading, taking notes
one week to prepare
back to Auburn
presenting
this time, with degree
haywood and bushnell
intrigue, scandal
breaking the mold
matri-literary?
the question before me


busy at work, making my once-a-semester stab at scholarly writing (how i miss the possibility of a new project! how little time i have to write when i'm drowning in student writing that needs urgent, dire attention...). winter's relentless grasp drives us all indoors, seeking fleece throws, steaming beverages, and hearty fare. i can't wait to shed a few layers next week when i'm in Alabama! excited to see my friends and my mentor/professors, now colleagues. anxious to be back in the place where i lived, loved, and grew so much over the course of six years. already anticipating a surreal, bittersweet return. stay warm, stay happy, and have HOPE that spring will arrive soon (imagine my delight at receiving a seed catalog in the mail...visions of container gardening dance in my head...)

fromage chapeau

Thanksgiving, 2007. Holland, Michigan.

To recap an earlier story and share the photographic proof (without a digital camera there's a delightful delay between event and image)...

I return to the parental homestead for the traditional autumnal feast, complete with the traditional football frenzy of the Detroit Lions versus the team du jour. This year, that lucky team is none other than the Green Bay Packers. Surrounded by my family, those dear Lions and Bears fans, I take a break from the kitchen (hence the cute apron) and boldly enter the living room wearing something special from Wisconsin. I'm met by hoots and hollers. My brother threatens to tear up the foam wedge of fromage, which I've borrowed from my friends the G-family. My cousin shields his face from even looking at me, and my Mom snaps this photo...

stream, meet lake

Lake Michigan, December, 2007

winter records

My first winter back in Michigan after living in Alabama for 6 years and Georgia for one year shocked me with freezing temperatures and seemingly endless snow. My family joked that an especially cold winter was a welcome home gift for me.

Now, here I am, my first winter in Wisconsin, and it's a winter for the records. The snowiest January in a decade. Long stretches of days in the single digits.

A truly frigid morning: -11 degrees, with a -40 degree wind chill. Certain we would have a "cold" day, if not a snow day, I camped out on the couch watching the school closings scroll at the bottom of the tv screen to no avail.

As I headed outside into the insanely cold weather, a line from *Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer* zipped into my mind: "weather not fit for man nor beast."

Welcome to Wisconsin?!?

this one's for the cheeseheads

from wikipedia, licensed via GFDL

Assimilation happens slowly, with small yet seismic jolts underneath the surface. Somehow I think that dreaming about Brett Favre two nights before the NFC championship is one such subliminal shift. And, NO, it wasn't that kind of dream.

Sadly, the god-like Favre and the good ol' Pack suffered a heartbreaking loss on the frozen tundra. A collective tear was shed by the entire dairyland state. And, yes, I did watch a good 1/3 of the game. I had to. I'm in Wisconsin now. Assimilation is at work. The frozen tundra, incidentally, is also not a joke. A deep, soul-drenching cold has submerged my new state and now snow falls in small squalls and swirls (apparently I'm fond of s-alliteration this evening...).

And so, another move, another place slowly becoming home, another winter, with bone-chilling and soul-testing depths of cold and barrenness.

new home

I'm watching the sky turn from grey (where it's been stuck all day) to dark. Right now it's at that moment of slate blue before slipping into sapphire and then black. My East wall is predominantly windows, affording me a lovely view of the lake over and through the rooftops, electric wires, and satellite dishes of neighboring homes. That's what this photo represents. Unfortunately, on gloomy winter days, the lake melts into the sky (or vice versa), but trust me, it's out there.

Join me, won't you, for a little tour of my new home: the aforementioned window filled room is the living room, with cozy booknooks, and a comfy couch to stretch out on and watch Lake Michigan, fat squirrels that eat the fallen bird seed, or small and colorful birds who perch on the feeder.

Now, head west, and you're in the kitchen, the literal and figurative heart of my home. Newly redone, the kitchen features a glasstop cooktop with warming center, a hot water dispenser, quiet dishwasher, many lights, and a pass through window that also provides views of the stupendous Lake Michigan. A portable Island is a good place to eat and read, or to set up my laptop.

In the front of the house you'll find two bedrooms, one decked out in pink and green and serving the dual purpose of guest room and study; the other, with amethyst walls and light blocking shades, is the perfect bedroom for sleeping long and late.

Finally, highlights of the bathroom include a pedestal sink, and a shower with a rainhead. The other lovely trick is that the door won't stay open--allowing it to naturally close holds the heat in the small room and makes for a gentle start to the day with a warm shower.

So, please, come and visit! I've already hosted my Michigan moving crew (Mom and Dad, though they only saw the place in disarray), the VP (who spent an afternoon enjoying tea, cocoa, and chocolate pound cake), and my Grandma C is on her way for this coming (and very cold) weekend.

goodbye, michigan

My holiday visit to the magical mitten draws to an end after nearly two weeks of relaxation and reconnection. Today my parents are driving me back to Wisconsin to help me start moving into my new place (hoorah!).

I enjoyed catching up with college friends at one very pink first birthday party for little S; a day of tromping around in the woods and chatting with best friend S; a lunch of spinach feta quiche and darjeeling tea at Schuler’s Bookstore and Cafe in East Lansing and an afternoon shopping with best friend H; a delicious breakfast (cranberry oatmeal pancakes) at Morningstar Cafe with my grandparents; a vigorous yoga class; breakfast, lunch, and shopping at Zingerman’s with S; watching Rodgers and Hammerstein’s 1960 production of *Cinderella* with my Mom, Grandma, Aunt B, and cousins F, N, A, S; cooking with my family; sharing a Christmas eve cocktail with my brother L; and spending lots of quality time with my mom and dad, shopping, eating, walking in the woods, drinking wine, watching movies, and chatting.

Now it’s time to establish some new routines and goals, starting with moving to my new adorable apartment with lovely accoutrements.

I’ll miss the quiet beauty of my parents’ house in winter on days like yesterday and today when snowflakes alternate with searingly gorgeous blue skies, drawing a sharp distinction between black tree branches and fluffy, sparkly white snow lining the woods and draping over pine boughs.

happy christmas eve!

After a *grueling* train ride to Michigan on Friday (the train from Chi-town to EL was 3.5 hours late due to a derailment which necessitated our train using different tracks that needed a different engineer, who couldn't make it to our train for 1.5 hours)...and after 24 hours of blowing, gusty high winds and powdery, horizontal snow...and after some last minute christmas shopping...and after a lovely first birthday party for little baby S. and visit with friends...and after 2 delicious meals at Zingerman's...I'm here in good ol' western Michigan, in a white winter wonderland, ready to celebrate with my family. Our traditions are shifting this year and it's a year of transitions. It's good to remember that times, circumstances, and people change and sometimes our rituals need to alter as well.

As Zora Neale Hurston writes in one of my favorite novels, *Their Eyes Were Watching God,* "there are years that ask questions and years that provide answers"...I would add that there are years for new beginnings, and years when we survey all around us with fresh eyes. This year has been one of questions and answers, and many blessings. I'm grateful for all of the wonderful people who continue to touch my life with their kindness and generosity. I hope you know how special you are, and how I treasure you. I know it sounds trite and hackneyed, but you are my greatest gift.

"what does this song mean? my whole life i don't know what this song means..."

photo courtesy of wikipedia, licensed under creative commons


I think I've mentioned Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne" on this blog before. Yesterday morning I heard the song for the first time this holiday season, and, sure enough, I was in tears by the end of the song. And then the DJ announced that Dan Fogelberg passed away this last weekend. I wouldn't consider myself a DF fan, but this song has a strange emotive power.

Meeting again after years in the frozen food section symbolizes the coldness that intervening years can create between estranged lovers. The coldness melts as they attempt to reconnect, however superficially, and aided by a little alcohol. At the end of the song, the snow turns into rain, illustrating the perhaps greater sadness of an emotional thaw after years of frozeness and emptiness...isn't it heart-rending? Doesn't it perfectly express that distance that exists where there used to be none?

Have I mentioned that I love grocery stores?!? I think that's one of the reasons the song resonates. The grocery store represents quotidian necessities, and, for a foodie like me, a place of infinite possibility, on which the song capitalizes.

In other news, I've stirred some interest in writing a collaborative fun romance tale, and plan to create a blog for this creative endeavor in the new year. This all stems from my paper-grading-stress-induced-confession-of-funny-romance-stories at study night on Sunday. My very talented colleagues are creating romantic phrases that are discipline specific, and what more fun than to write a collaborative story?

a truth universally acknowledged...

watercolor sketch of Jane Austen by her sister Cassandra, 1804, courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

Saturday afternoons mean watching PBS cooking shows amidst grading, baking, and doing laundry. Between Rick Bayless' *Mexico, One Plate at a Time* and *America's Test Kitchen,* the most wondrous "commercial" appeared: montage of scenes from various Jane Austen films appeared, accompanied by the strains of Coldplay's tear-jerker "Fix You." At the end of the lavish display of love requited and not, appeared the kicker: The Complete Jane Austen, January 2008! Jane-ites, unite:)

opalescent lake michigan

Today was the best kind of winter day--sunny and crisp, with a bright blue sky in counterpoint to gleaming white snow. When I arrived home around 3:30 pm, I layered on wool and fleece and headed outside. I wanted to walk by the lake because the magic of light and snow created the illusion of opalescence...the lake gently undulated, slowly, under small patches of thin ice. At once white, silver, blue, and pink, the effect was as breathtaking as the chilly air. The sky turned pink and violet, striped with thin grey clouds. Small ice floes are beginning to form around the shoreline, and yet flocks of geese still remain.

In between my interminable, infernal grading, I baked a loaf of cranberry orange nut bread for my American Lit class tomorrow morning. I'm a little nervous that someone may be allergic to nuts...I try to be sensitive to such needs, but this was one of the few treats I had all the ingredients on hand for. I just tested an end slice--crunchy, tart, and nutty. Delicious!

I'm excited to plan ahead for next weekend, the winter solstice, when I'm back in Michigan visiting my dear family and friends. My va-cay begins with a short visit with my two best friends S and H (and H's lovely family), and a very special first bday celebration for S! Hoorah! And, watch out, Zingermans, here I come! S and I will enjoy breakfast, our favorite meal, there, and my brother L and I will stop there on our way back to Holland to buy the Fromage de Noel. And cranberry pecan bread (very different than my aforementioned "tea loaf," this is a dense, bread-bread. I know that sounds ridiculous, but my addled brain cannot think of a better description).

citrus love

photo by Scott Bauer, from the Wikipedia Commons

One of the bright spots on these gloomy, chilly winter days is the profusion of delicious citrus fruits. I love starting my morning with half of a ruby red grapefruit--a tart and tangy wake up! And a juicy navel orange at lunchtime brings a smile to my face. I particularly need the nutrients of citrus now as I'm trying to drive away a common cold...

I'm in the thick of grading essays...one class after another...and everyone's stress level is high as we anticipate our long January break.

My neighbors continue to play video games late at night, and the digitized sound of shooting and who knows what else thumps up through the floor and fills my bedroom. I try to crank my classical music via NPR as a peaceful antidote, but then it's simply too loud to sleep. So I made use of my guest bedroom and slept wonderfully, even if the bed is much smaller than my own big bed.

tales from the city

This morning I'm recovering from a long day of fun yesterday, all whilst hosting a little common cold. C and I set out for the big city late yesterday morning. Our first stop was the Allen Edmonds shoe store/factory, where we discovered a secret cache of *nice* women's shoes at reduced prices...like Cole Haan, Privo, and Ugg. We also discovered some very attractive men with some damn fine shoes.

We then made our way through some of the sadder parts of Milwaukee to the cute gentrified area of Wauwatosa, where we met A and Red Beard for a delicious lunch at City Market. I had a veggie quiche, a cranberry walnut scone, some fresh fruit, and coffee. Sitting in the pastry case was a Buche de Noel, and I was filled with zeal to make one myself. A said they made one in French class when she was in HS.

We said goodbye, and C and I searched for the secret shop, which proved a little tricky. In the middle of our search we went to a few neat shops--a women's boutique and an independent bookstore. After many circuitous routes, we finally found the secret shop and spent a wonderful while in the tiny gem of a store, buying gifts and dreaming of future visits...

Then it was off to the controlled madness of the shopping mall. I have never seen so many security guards and police, which saddened my heart to think of how much needless, senseless violence happens. We shopped, chatted, and drank coffees and lattes from Alterra.

Our final stop was for pizza in She-town, a perfectly delicious ending to a delightful day.

To think that this time last year my future was so uncertain and all I knew of this place that I am now was indeed my now friend C, and the possibility that I could end up here. And now here I am, and it all still seems a bit of a miracle to me.

frozen tundra: it's no joke

Between the Brett Favre obsession and the cold weather, I've been schooled on essential Wisconsin-ism this week. Let's just say that to even question Favre's god-like status is tantamount to blasphemy in these parts. And, apparently, to argue that up-and-coming QB's are "the next BF" is a logical fallacy.

As for the weather--jeez louise, as my friend B. would say--it's a depressing situation. The low temps for the next few days are as follows: -2, 0, 0, 23, 5, 5. That 23 looks like a heat wave:) I've made quite an impression on campus with my pink uggs, which I usually intend to change out of, but on cold days, they're just warmer and comfier to wear than heels.

Tomorrow I shop! I'm most excited to go to a nifty little specialty store that I can't write about here because I would spoil the surprise for many people who may be reading this blog and receiving a gift from me. And, I found a little cafe with a delicious menu for a lovely lunch. Then there's the mall, which will be *crazy* with harried shoppers. I may need a few zen/yoga/happy place breaks throughout the day.

This week's highlight was a talent show on campus. The students gave phenomenal performances, and I was so impressed with everyone involved in the grand production. The final act was a student doing the Solja Boy dance, which I've decided I simply must learn. I've added learning the dance to my increasingly long list of things to do in January when I have a break (list also includes moving, writing a conference paper, preparing for one new class, revamping two classes, going to doctor/dentist/eye doctor, etc).

baking up a storm

The first winter storm of the season brings excitement, nervousness, and non-stop weather updates on TV. I started my morning at Lowes, where I selected a snow shovel--my very first. I've never been in charge of snow removal before, so I needed to stock up on accoutrements. I then stopped at the grocery store to buy the items I forgot yesterday, and headed home to await the coming storm.

Light flurries began around 11:30, and continued to build, swirling with the increasing wind, and turning into a sleet, ice, and snow mixture, which continues as I write now.

To while away the stormy afternoon, I took refuge in the kitchen and welcomed my friend C. and her adorable, pink-loving, expert candy-cane smashing daughter T. Together we made chocolate sandwich cookies--two thin, delicious wafers filled with pink peppermint frosting and then rolled in the aforementioned smashed candies. And we attempted to make marshmallow fudge. I discovered that substituting regular milk for evaporated milk doesn't necessarily work so well, and my "fail safe fudge" turned into a fudge mousse. I'm thinking of rolling it into balls and calling it truffles...We had a lovely afternoon, chatting and baking, and it was just the holiday fun and friendly lift I needed on a day that otherwise would've seemed really long and rather lonely.

Tonight I had a long chat with my dear friend S. and worked on a Christmas gift for some friends...

If only every stormy day could be so peaceful and homebound:)

soup for a winter's night

Sometimes I please and surprise myself in the kitchen, when I try something new and it turns out fabulously. As the temperatures dip, and flurries fill the sky, I crave luscious, hot soups--the perfect balance of warmth and faux heartiness. I love that soup can be virtually fat-free and yet taste utterly voluptuous. I came home from work *early* (if 4pm is early after arriving at work at 7am...), set some frozen roasted butternut squash pieces out and went for a very short walk. I came home, enjoyed coffee and couch time, reading my new *Cooking Light* magazine, and then headed to the kitchen.

I sauteed diced carrots, celery, and onion in a little canola oil. I added chunks of the still frozen squash, water, a bay leaf, dried sage, black pepper, and salt. I cooked away until the squash was thawed and the other veggies had a little give. I used my stick blender to roughly mash the soup, preserving some rustic chunks. I ladled a bowl full, drizzled honey on top, and ate with a wedge of Zingy's Paesano bread with olive oil. Yumm. The veggies and spices give the soup a thanksgiving flavor, and the honey draws out the sweetness of the squash.

Christmas baking beckons...my cooking magazines are filled with delicious new recipes, like Chai shortbread, and chocolate sandwich cookies. Or how about a Chocolate Cake layered with homemade peppermint ice cream, enrobed in ganache? Any takers? What are your favorite holiday treats?

post for a winter's night

I'm cuddled up in my pink fleece blanket, the same one I take to movie club when we watch scary/violent movies like *Braveheart*, and skimming *The Dharma Bums* for class tomorrow. Yes, I said skimming...sadly, it's been long enough since I've last read the novel that even my copious marginalia seem new, or, reflect early beliefs/impressions I don't quite hold anymore.

The maple bourbon pecan pie turned out deliciously, its success hinging on my lackadaisical and imprecise and rather generous sprinkling of Maker's Mark (from a ginormous jug, the dregs of bourbon left over from my famous PhD graduation Pink Party) into the filling mixture. Boozy, caramelly, and nutty--a most lovely combination.

My weekend in Michigan hinged on relaxation--I went to a vigorous yoga class on Friday morning, visited the historica Cappon House with Mom and Grandma in honor of Grandma's birthday, drank a lemon martini in the happening New Holland Brewery with my family on Wednesday night, and shared a traditional Thanksgiving feast with my family.

The train trip seemed to stretch out into giant interminable swaths of time, the seats crowded with train *amateurs,* as my friend M once said about airports, and my wide-eyed reflection gazing back at me from the dark train windows.

Now, a flurry of holiday activity and an overwhelming mass of grading awaits...and then it's back to Michigan to *finally* see my dearest friends who I haven't seen in MONTHS, and to spend more time with my dear family.

I'm reading Amy Bloom's critically acclaimed novel *Away* and very much enjoying the story and her writing style--evocative but not effusive, stylish but not spare.

totoro

Tonight I watched my very first Japanese Anime film, *My Neighbor Totoro,* by Hayao Miyazaki, which was utterly delightful. The landscape animation radiates peace, calm, and beauty. The littlest girl in the film is simply adorable, and the expressiveness of all characters, their vivid imaginations, the presence of the spirit world (represented by the fluffy, bunny-esque Totoro), and family sadness is palpably expressed in deceptively simply characters/animations. We (the intrepid movie club) dined on cookies and milk, and all I needed was my pink fleece blanket to feel totally kid-like and comforted!

Tomorrow I make my way back to Michigan for Pie Day! Hoorah! I'm taking the Amtrak, my new favorite method of travel. I have four brand new magazines to keep me entertained on the long-ish journey around the lake.

Have a lovely feast and a delightful break, everyone!

pie-day preview

If my memory serves me correctly, last year I wrote about pie-day--what others call Thanksgiving, I like to call pie-day, named in honor of my favorite part of the feast (well, except for all the gorgeous vegetables, and the delectable mashed potatoes) and nicely shifting attention away from the problematic mythos of the holiday (about which I was just reading in preparation for my class tomorrow). Today I made a rustic apple tart that I'm taking to work with me tomorrow. I made the crust yesterday, a standard all-butter crust, and let it sit overnight in the refrigerator. It seemed a little "stretchy" today, but it baked up nicely flaky. I sauteed the apples in butter, brown sugar, and then added a touch of vanilla and cinnamon. I lined the apples on a rectangle of dough, folded the excess dough over the fruit, sprinkled the entire creation with large grained Turbinado sugar, and baked it until golden. A little preview of pie day, a little practice with pastry!

first snowfall

While flurries have danced throught the sky on several occasions this past week, last night they stuck. I stayed up LATE reading an old Jenny Crusie novel, *Tell Me Lies,* that I found at the library. Before finally falling asleep, I peeked outside and saw a thin blanket--make that a cotton sheet--of snow on my car top, rooftops, and even on the grass. It was pretty and magical and I remembered everything I love about winter--mainly, the sense of "hibernation" with a good book and hot chocolate. I carved out some time from work duties and student needs to do just that this weekend, and I feel refreshed. Now, the sun streams in the windows and quickly melts the snow into common moisture, and beckons me outside for a brisk, bracing walk before facing today's tasks: reading the Beats for class on Tuesday, planning a continuing ed course with my friend B, and baking cookies (for students) and an apple galette (for friends/colleagues).

fun times with the VP + the Beard

Last night my gang and I celebrated the end of another long week, jammed full of special presentations and observations, with a little trip to She-town for pizza and conviviality at Il Ritrovo. Once we had bread and water in our starved and parched bodies, conversation flowed, laughter reverberated, and fun reigned. I was pleased to make an appearance with friends rather than dining alone yet again. And I even garnered a flirtatious wink from the ever-amiable host.

This morning the rain turned into snow (which makes me think of that Dan Folgeberg song about meeting an old lover in the grocery store...that song breaks my heart every time I hear it). I've stayed warm inside, doing laundry and tidying my home. And--to my utter amazement--watching the downstairs neighbors pack their giant UHaul truck! They're moving!

My thoughts turn to Christmas, to gifts to make, and warm thoughts to share, to delicious treats to create. I think it will be a truffle year--hoorah! This, of course, necessitates an order from Chocosphere. With the snow and grey skies, it's also the time to stock up on SAD-staving-off chocolate bars. A little Cluizel, a handful of Pralus, and something new awaits me.

a funny thing happened on the way to the grocery store

An elderly gentleman, decked out in camo jacket and hat, stopped me in the Copps (where does the apostrophe go?!?) parking lot, and said, "You look nice. You look like a lady."

I was wearing my favorite Ann Taylor suit--a wool boucle suit with cream splotches randomly sprinkled across the fabric--black hose (which I didn't want to wear, but was having a Bridget Jones' -esque situation with tights and hose this morning), and my favorite classic black pumps (not nearly as swanky as the Cole Haans, but still nice), and--ugh--my puffy white down coat, because IT WAS SNOWING this morning. Little tiny pellets of snow. Cold, brisk wind. Layered grey skies.

Anyway, it was a sweet comment that warmed my heart on a depressingly winter day.

if the shoe fits and you can't buy it

Besides reflecting on place, home, and loss while walking around Lenox Square mall, I also engaged in retail pleasures. I spent several hours in Bloomingdales, trying on cashmere sweaters (and buying a classic black turtleneck, with slightly puffed sleeves at the shoulders), shoes, and boots. I tried to slip my foot in a size-too-small Cole Haan black patent pump with Nike Air cushioning just to see if these shoes would provide the comfort and springiness for which Nike is famous. It's hard to say since my whole foot was smooshed and losing sensation. The shoes are beautiful--with clean lines and a classic, more substantial heel than is often found.

And the boots, oh Lord, the boots. I've been on a boot mission for several years. Most boots are too wide in the calf for me (as one annoying salesman told me, I need to get bigger calves. Like it's me and not the boots that are problematic). I told the friendly Bloomie's salesman about my quandry and he brought out several different boots, ranging from a Franco Sarto with synthetic uppers, to an all leather zip-up Stuart Weitzman, to the stunningly gorgeous all leather stretch Cole Haan boot in a buttery, caramelly leather, that skimmed my calf and nicely scrunched but didn't slide down my leg as I walked around the shoe department. I wanted to live in these boots. But, even with the special promotion of 20% off, the boots would be a *major* investment that I just can't make now. I pretended I didn't like the pull-on feature of the boots, and the salesman told me that this was the most classic, beautiful boot on the market now, better than anything by the more upscale Gucci. I believed him. I gingerly packed the boots back in their large box, patted them goodbye, and headed toward the cosmetics department in search of more affordable luxury.

re-entry

The airplane glided over the twinkling lights of metropolitan Atlanta, and landed with a jolt and a jar to the system...I stepped out of the plane into an airport that reminded me of so many trips between my significant places, back when I called Alabama/Georgia and Michigan home. Light traffic on I-85 made the trip from the airport to Buckhead smooth and speedy, and within no time I was hopping in S’s car and we were making our way to Mellow Mushroom, an old favorite pizza joint from grad school days. The Buckhead location is more polished and less hippy-deadhead-chic than either the Auburn or Carrollton locations that I frequented “back in the day,” but the food tasted the same. As I sipped sweet tea from a red plastic Coke glass as big as my head, I listened to the strains of “Curtis Lowe” and “Honeysuckle Blue” welcoming me back home to the South. Since it was Thirsty Thursday, loud trivia and crowds of just-out-of-college grads surrounding us. I felt old.

Tucked away in a seemingly forgotten corner where old, flat industrial buildings mingle with new artistry, Floataway Cafe didn’t disappoint me in terms of warm ambience (a really wonderful blend of polished stainless industrial and cool, calming earth tones and natural fibers giving a wispy, cloud impression), impeccable (and flirtatious!) service, and seriously good food. I was disappointed with the vegetarian options--I could have sampled the unlisted vegetable plate, but it include such cult veggies like Beets (which I detest. Dirt, Soil, Earth: that’s what I taste when I deign to eat Beets). I selected a small dish of marinated Tuscan olives, a slippery, salty, and savory counterpoint to my Lemon Gingersnap Martini. Next came a simple arugula and parm salad dressed with lemon juice and olive oil. The long slivers of parm perfectly rounded out the peppery bite of the greens. Finally, I selected the pizza margherita, which would have been wonderful, all San Marzano tomatoes and fresh mozzarella topped with trendy microgreens, except that Il Ritrovo has spoiled me for any other artisan pizza.

And then we were off to the Chocolate Bar in Decatur. I ordered a San Pellagrino and coffee to accompany my Caramel Ganache dessert: one thin, small round of chocolate genoise, topped with a perfectly voluptuous egg of dark chocolate ganache, garnished with edible gold leaf and fleur de sel, next to a thin, crispy, nutty, spicy chocolate wafer topped with a smooth egg of medium chocolate sorbet. The contrasting textures and ingenious use of shapes, temperatures, and variations of chocolate delighted my discriminating chocoholic soul.

Saturday night S and I dined at Tamarind Seed Thai Bistro, my old favorite relocated, spiffed up, but still serving my favorite Thai Dishes of spring rolls and Mixed Vegetable Curry with Tofu. A glass of crisp Jewel Viognier nicely cut through the lush heat of the curry. My tummy was happy for awhile, but mystified by the presence of fried food (a real rarity in my diet).

On Saturday afternoon S went back to the hotel room to rest, and I wandered Lenox Square Mall on my own and remembered previous visits. The time I bought my Farewell to the South Dress. The time I talked to H. on my cell phone in the Ann Taylor dressing room. The time I had a Bobbie Brown makeover. Before I even left Wisconsin for Georgia I wondered what my emotional response might be. For my ‘Sconnie friends reading this blog, and my Michigan friends and family who are close by, you’ll be happy to know that I couldn’t see myself living in the ATL metro area. Despite the delicious food, the temperate climes, the fantabulous shopping, and the beautiful people everywhere, I just didn’t feel at ease. To live anywhere near there (which I would’ve been had I accepted a different job offer), I would have to be a different version of myself, and though I don’t doubt that she would be wonderful, I think the version of my self that my current small-town life demands is more true-to-form. M- may be small, and the men (and women) may have mullets, and the winter may be grueling and inescapably long, but I know we won’t run out of water, and I won’t be hemmed in by towering edifices of glass and steel. I can drive to She-town in the time it took me to drive 5 miles in ATL. I can walk out my apartment door and breathe clean, fresh air not polluted by so much car exhaust (though I may smell algae stink from Lake Michigan).

Maybe I really am a Midwestern Girl after all. Maybe I like Chicago better than Atlanta, in that it’s a true walking city...and a Lake front city, and a city that I’ve experienced not alone but with my family and friends. So many of my Atlanta memories seem to magnify the loneliness I often felt during those late grad school and early post-grad days. Upon returning to Wisconsin, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being alone in the world--here I was leaving a supposedly familiar place and returning to a place that’s just not home yet. My “re-entry”--a term I learned to apply when moving back and forth between two homes during grad school--startled me with its intensity and melancholy. I used to agree with writer Gretel Ehrlich that “home can be many places,” but I’m starting to think that home is a more complex intersection of geographical place, memory, mood, adjustment, people, and comfort. This *can* exist in many places, but those places change as one or more of those factors change. For now, M- isn’t home, and home is still rather abstractly and defiantly Michigan, and for that reason I can’t wait to go “home” next week...but I also can’t wait for the day that M-too is home. I know that day will come (though you’ll never see me sporting a mullet or dating anyone who has one:)

all my bags are packed, i'm ready to go...

I should be revising/proofreading my conference paper, but as my friend and fellow panelist S. says, "that's what plane rides are for!" One of our friends once infamously wrote her entire conference paper in the hotel the night before her presentation! As for me, well, I don't want to waste potential meal and shopping time, so I'll be writing changes in the airport and on the plane. Nevermind the mind-softening effects of Dramamine:)

As I sit here shivering in 2 layers of clothes, I'm practically giddy at the thought of sunshine and relative warmth. And the company of friends I haven't seen in nearly a year! And the culinary adventures I've waited years to have...

So far, our tentative eating spots:
Floataway Cafe (a definite, with reservations)
The Chocolate Bar (what's not to like with a name like that?)
Mellow Mushroom (a nostalgic fave)
Tamarind (Thai, though now it has a new name and a new location that I can't remember)

I was chatting with a senior colleague at work today and showing him the pile of google maps on my desk, printed out, highlighted, and ready to go, and my still-unfinished presentation draft on my computer screen. He assured me that my priorities are spot-on.

My suitcase is nearly packed, and can you believe I'm only taking two pairs of shoes? The ridiculously fashionable brown patent leather peep toe mary janes for professional activities, and my new favorite patent/suede/nike nylon cole haan mary janes for casual wear (think: shopping).

I can't wait to go into Sephora and smell the mingled scents of a hundred perfumes, and to see every possible shade and shine level of pink lip stick/gloss/stain/glass arrayed in front of me. To walk through the wide, white tiled hallways of bloomingdales, and try on dresses that have no rational place in my small-town life. To say hello to the Manolos and Jimmys and Kates at Neiman Marcus. To purchase new stationery at Crane's, and think of my dear friend M, who first told me about the store, and who I haven't talked to in ages as we both (and his wife B) started new jobs and made big moves this summer...ahh, the power of memory, and the thrill of creating new memories. Long chats with my friends about life, love, and babies (theirs, not mine:). A respite from my daily life, which is becoming increasingly cluttered with more and more piles of papers everywhere.

Look for a full report of the eats when I return--I promised B some post-prandial prose to tide us through til the VP makes a break out of this small town and hits a big city (an event that needs to happen sooner rather than later!).

sunday evening

I have now successfully smuggled chocolate ganache glazed chocolate cupcakes into our local Starbucks, to fortify the tummies of the VP gathered for a weekend session of gab. I know, I really live on the edge here! The highlight of our time there was a smiley, cute 6 month old baby, whose mother handily passed him over to my friend C. to hold so she, the tired mom, could drink her coffee.

Today I said "bon voyage" to my neighbor M., who's moving to California and leaving her apartment ready for ME to move into in the New Year! I can't wait to settle into the new space and take advantage of the amenities, which include a jacuzzi bathtub, a brand new dishwasher, a cute porch, and a real garage. Two particularly sunny rooms, with windows on three sides, have me convinced I can grow indoor plants. Well, that, and being friends with a plant biologist...

I've been reading and re-reading Wallace Stevens' poem "Sunday Morning," one of my all time favorites, in preparation for class on Tuesday. It will be a challenging read for my students, but I hope also illuminating. "Divinity must live within herself."

This week will bring the first snow flakes and also my return to Georgia for a conference. A week of contrasts, of present and past...of new friends and old.

fall back...

A glorious "extra" hour of sleep is a gift on these too-short weekends! Unfortunately, I awoke to ominous grey skies that hint at the winter to come...and the much cooler temperatures and flurries that will dance across the region in the next few days.

Here's a poem I'm working on (of course, the poem, and all content here is copyrighted, so please don't run off with my halting words and broken images:)

As of Yet Untitled

Just another Carrie Meeber
riding the rails, seeking adoration,
material comforts, and a pair of
snug blue jeans.

The train winds past Chicago warehouses
filled with so many hairless, naked
mannequins--rigid limbs askew,
preternaturally pert breasts pointing skyward.

Grandeur meets squalor meets expanses
of grain: corn and soy stretch from highway
to railway, eclipsing views of Lake Michigan,
as Illinois sighs into Wisconsin.

Vast expanses of emptiness between
sunglassed sadness and the gazes of passersby.
Eyes limned with tears, iPod buds in her ears,
a crumpled Vogue thrown on the vacant seat.

One bulging suitcase above, an overstuffed
shopping bag below, and a silent cell phone stuck
in her green purse. Miles to go before she’s home:
clutter, forgotten work, laundry,

and no rocking chair. Nowhere yet to dream
the happiness she hopes to know.

bye, bye birdie

When I was a freshman in high school I was a chorus girl in the musical *Bye Bye Birdie,* along with a gaggle of my friends. We wore pastel pedal pushers, cardigans, and chaste cirle skirts that our moms and grandmas sewed for us. We sang never-ending renditions of "we love you Conrad, oh yes we do" and danced jaunty box steps to the teen chorus number, the name of which escapes me right now. And, I even sang one solo line in "The Telephone Hour": "It won't last/not at all/He's too thin/She's too tall."

But that's not what my title refers to this evening. Rather, it's an allusion to my abysmal performance at the inaugural badminton match. I give my sincerest apoplogies to my friend B., who is the more talented half of our team, Vance Refrigeration. I floundered all over the court, suffering from the dreaded TR (twisty racket) of tennis fame, the blinding bright lights in the gym ceiling, and the shame of hitting my own self in the head with my racket not once but twice. And at least one of my students, several of my colleagues, and our very athletic Dean were all watching.

It's rather a good thing that my continued employment does not hinge on my athletic prowess. Academic prowess? Culinary prowess? Sartorial prowess? Silly prowess? Yes, these I can excel in. But team sports have never been my strong suit. Why can't we have running or yoga intramurals? Those are "sports" I could definitely participate in without looking like a jackarse. Or better yet, how about a battle of big words? (which we're actually doing in my comp 2 classes this Wednesday. I'm calling it a define-a-thon, after an article I clipped from the NYT last Spring). Or what about a CHOCOLATE competition? Any other suggestions for non-athletic intramurals?

ça va tres bien, merci!

I hope my French title is correctly spelled and grammar-ed. I left my lesson worksheet at work... I'm now learning French via podcast! Yesterday I sat in my office repeating French phrases and likely sounding a bit loony to all colleagues and students walking down the hall. The first lesson included such helpful phrases: yes, no, how are you? i am well, i am very well, i am not well, i am in good form, and you?

Why am I learning French in haste? I'm in the early stages of planning a mini-study abroad/continuing ed course that would focus on the American Ex-Pat writers in Paris, mainly in the Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Wharton years. I'm planning on applying for a grant to fund a brief site visit this summer and therefore need to have at least rudimentary language skills. If my summer trip comes to pass, I will most definitely need a travel companion or two or three...please feel free to volunteer yourself:)

Last night I had the most scrumptious pasta in recent history. The honors of best Italian restaurant are shared between Trattoria Stefano, Trattoria Stella, and Cafe Spiaggia as to which restaurant has my favorite pasta. For now, Stefano is pulling ahead because of their geographical proximity, the warm ambience, and their (still giant) half portions of pasta.

After work yesterday I drove to She-town for two hours of bliss (i.e. highlights and haircut), and then walked into crowded Il Ritrovo for pizza. Because it was so busy I would have to wait even to eat at the bar, the host suggested I walk across the street to Stefano, where I could also order pizza if I wanted. The warm atmosphere, small tables with flickering candle light, and hushed patrons created immediate intimacy. I settled down at a round high table beside the bar and ordered half a glass of red wine (my new trick so I can imbibe with my meal and still be able to drive home). My mista salad (described in previous entries, I'm sure) arrived almost instantly. The salad is evolving with the seasons...now it includes small slices of young pecorino, which I usually am not overly fond of, but this non-aged variety was mellow enough to offset the barnyard tang.

I abandoned my platonic ideal of pizza when I read the menu: instead, I settled on a half order of rigatoni con mozzarella. Simplicity: rigitoni, cooked perfectly al dente, with a san marzano sauce, thin slivers of garlioc, parm, basil, and fresh mozzarella. I don't know how they manage to produce such amazing foods that I nearly make a spectacle of myself. When the host from across the street walked in, he stopped by to see how I was enjoying my dinner. I'm almost ashamed to say that I did not at all disguise my utter culinary bliss.

Here's the magic of a fine meal: my imagination is fired, my idealism returns, hope triples, and my heart expands to include everyone and everything that had previously fallen aside with the daily grind of disillusionment. Eating well can be truly transformative, and I pledge myself to making everyday foods and moments so spiritually elevating.

Thinking of Amanda Hesser's dear Mr. Latte (who misguidely orders lattes after 11am), I ordered a decaf espresso, which was bracing and just the tonic to cut through the heady dreaminess of my meal and set me back in reality and ready to drive home, my hair stylishly coiffed, my tummy happily fed, and my soul expanded.

old fashioned autumn sunday

autumn leaves by John Everett Millais, 1856*painting held by manchester city art gallery, manchester*from wikipedia

Today has been just the kind of glorious, quiet, meandering day I needed to recharge for another busy week. I ate my breakfast and finished my grading and prepping for class tomorrow and went for a short run all before noon. The afternoon was mine alone, to fill at my leisure. I noticed a rake propped up outside my house and decided I would contribute to the yard work by raking the front yard and the small side that borders the neighbors' home (where I will be moving come January--more on that later). The sun poured down through the few remaining leaves, a warm antidote to a gusty wind that made raking seem like a ridiculous task. But I powered on, raking and scooping and flipping leaves into a giant pile on the edge of the street. Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, chunks of fresh pumpkin were steaming and roasting in the oven. I "rendered" the pumpking from the cute pie-sized orb I bought at the market last week.

Upon finishing the leaves, I tended to my pumpkin, pureeing the softened chunks with my stick blender. I felt no small degree of satisfaction for taking this extra step to make homemade pumpkin bread. Even the great Dorie admits in her cookbook that she uses canned pumpkin (which I always otherwise do, but this pumpkin was so darned cute and sweet looking). First, I set forth to make carrot spice muffins from the aforementioned Dorie while the pumpkin cooled. By the time I had popped the muffins in the oven and washed my dishes, the pumpkin was cool and I mixed up the pumpkin bread, which is almost done. The house is now redolent of freshly grated nutmeg, ginger, and ceylon cinnamon (the only cinnamon I have left! a trip to Penzey's is in order next weekend). I tested one of the muffins and they are deliciously moist and delightfully healthy, with canola oil, walnuts, only 1 egg, and my special addition: flax seed meal.

I found my 2 hours in the kitchen slipped away without one moment of anxiety or urgency or feeling of "i should be doing..." and I haven't reached that flow state in quite some time. I listened to old grad school tunes--better than ezra and shawn mullins. I thought of my former friend A. who was in love with the lead singer for better than ezra, and how overjoyed she was when he touched her hand at the concert on our campus. I hope life is treating her well.

Now I sip my french press coffee and stretch out on the couch with my american lit anthology, reading ahead for the week. We start the Harlem Renaissance this week, and begin our first novel, Zora Neale Hurston's exquisite *Their Eyes Were Watching God.*

return of hot chocolate season

Fall can be a lively time, a season of overt transitions, of showy leave-takings, and bountiful harvests. As trees display their bare limbs to the world, and the well-laden tables at the farmer's market showcase hardier goods like winter squashes, gourds, and maple syrup, my heart starts to fear the coming winter. The endless days of grey skies, the bone-rattling cold that seeps through three layers of clothes, and the gorgeous snow that turns from sparkling to tawdry with each footprint and passing car...alas, this is the price we northerners pay for our gloriously temperate summers.

So I look for the silver lining in those foreboding clouds. And I have only one word: CHOCOLATE.

My favorite fall/winter bedtime snack (because, let's face it, who can't help but love a pre-somnolent treat?) is hot chocolate. You can forget your swiss miss or carnation (though I lived on a ginormous canister of swiss miss during the winter in college). I don't go all out with fat laden milks and melting pure chocolate (well, on an extremely rare occasion...). It's as simple as 1 TBS best cocoa powder (I'm partial to the mahogany bliss of Valrhona, though you may have to search for/mail order the stuff, and it isn't inexpensive), 2 tsp sugar (I use raw or vanilla sugar), a splash of vanilla (I like Mexican), and 6-8 ounces of milk (I use skim or 1% organic valley). Place the first three ingredients in a small sauce pan, and add a splash of the milk. Stir with a small whisk until smooth, and then add the rest of the milk. Heat over low-ish heat until it reaches your desired warmth. Serve with or without marshmallows and/or liqueur (I'm fond of starbucks coffee, bailey's irish cream, or godiva chocolate). Eat a piece of lightly buttered toast on the side (I've been using Natural Ovens--a local sandwich bread bakery--organic whole wheat + flax seed bread).

This is how ritualized my hot chocolate moment is: I actually have a designated mug, a Holly Hobby mug my mom bought for me from my cousin N. for a school fundraiser. It's trademark blue and white, with a lovely blue interior, and a floral sprigged exterior that features Holly and the phrase "start each day in a happy way." I like to think that my late-night treat is setting me up for a peaceful morning:)

the problem with eating locally

So I've posted many a time about my food ethos--of eating locally, sustainably grown goods over conventional goods coming from god-knows-where. I like to support my local farmers and food artisans, my local food purveyors, and small businesses.

But what happens when eating locally leaves you feeling a consistent sense of lack?

I know that some very dedicated and talented individuals have conducted eating experiments where they stay inside their watershed for all foods except items like spices and maybe coffee. I have never pretended to be that dedicated. I must have my chocolate, my spices, my oils and vinegars, my wines, my italian tomatoes. But for veggies, and now, cheeses, I've stayed true to my region.

My downfall is bread. With my apologies to any 'sconnies reading this entry, there is no good bread to be had in our little corner of the state. Well, there's decent bread in She-town, but only one variety.

I needed a Zingerman's fix, and I needed it quickly, a need which they so graciously obliged to fill. I placed my order on Wednesday morning, and when I arrived home from work today I found a big box inside my foyer, stuffed with three loaves of bread. I cradled the loaves, sniffed deeply of the crust, and promptly sliced off a huge hunk to stick in the oven before slathering with Wisconsin butter and honey from Suttons Bay, Michigan.

The crisp crust, holey interior, and delicious crumb made my heart melt with happiness (remembered tastes) and sadness (that returning home-less-ness feeling). I laced up my tennis shoes and went for a long walk, following the sandy shores of the lake and allowing the waves to ease my sadness. I imagined life on the other side of the Lake. I thought about my life here. I came home and ate dinner whilst reading the Zingy's newsletter that was so thoughtfully included in my package. I smiled to read about how the Bakehouse bakers worked with Michael London, a man I had just read about a few nights ago in this bread book I'm reading. (I know, first pies, and now bread. I'm wondering when I'm going to stumble on the cake book!).

I hate spending my now dreaming of the future and revisiting the past more than enjoying the moment, but sometimes, my mind makes its own way through the meandering web of time. I started scheming about multiple Zingy's trips over holiday break...and I can't wait to walk through those doors and hit the chaos and the profusion of gastronomic goodness that I so love and think of as my culinary HOME.

throat tingling adventures...

Today fall asserted itself with a vengence--a taste of the blustery days to come, when swirling leaves transform to a breath of snow. Rain, wind, temps dipping into the 40s all drove me to the grocery store in search for chili makings.

I typically make chili with 2 varieties of beans, and tonight I chose black and pinto. Two colors of peppers, red and yellow, a carrot, a handful of frozen corn, and purple onion provide the veggie base, along with two cans of tomatoes--Muir Glen diced fire roasted tomatoes (I used one can with green chilis and they are throat-tingling hot!). I simmer the soup with cumin, chili pepper, a few cloves of garlic, and water as needed. I top the finished chili with chopped avocado, cheddar cheese, and sour cream; on the side, I serve piping hot homemade, Southern style cornbread with melted butter. And, a real treat, a Coronita Extra: a 7 ounce bottle of Corona that's just darling and a nice foil to the heat of the soup.

Now, I'm blasting Couperin (and the other gems Wisconsin Public Radio is playing tonight) to drown out the running of the bulls downstairs (i.e. untold numbers of small children who are ostensibly wild from being cooped up inside on a rainy day). Somehow this seems fitting for this evening's reading: Charlotte Perkins Gilman's short story "The Yellow Wallpaper."

longing for words and treats

I miss blogging! I miss baking! I miss thinking thoughts that are unrelated to motivating lazy, difficult, and ill-prepared students, and I miss conversations that don't revolve around those same students:)

To that end, I'm dedicating this weekend to writing/baking/deep thoughts, and I can't wait. I have a conference paper to create--a fun piece on the evolution of romance fiction in the digital age. I will bake pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. I will sketch out the mini-study abroad course I want to propose (American Ex-Pat Writers in...PARIS!). And I may follow the swirling, colorful leaves Northward to Door County to drink in the gorgeousness that is middle fall...

And I will share with you all some untold stories about Chicago. And lines from men in local bars. And my favorite fall moments.

mad-town to chi-town: a weekend adventure

The drive to Mad-town seems longer than it is, primarily because of the neverending expanses of farm land and the dearth of substantial towns along the way. I pulled into Madison as the sun gave one last fiery appearance before slipping over Lake Monona and gracefully allowing the moon to cut into the blue-black sky.

I dined at Eldorado Grill, a slightly gourmet-ey Tex-mex restaurant located in an old candy warehouse. I settled into my table, extracting my tenure-track notebook (green with white hearts on the cover) out of my purse, and instead of writing deep thoughts about large projects or lofty goals, wrote notes about the restaurant. I'm waiting for the day when someone mistakes me for a semi-famous regional critic, but alas, I'm merely a foodie blogger with a tendency to verbosity and a palate limited by my personal ethics of eating (in the words of Phoebe Buffay, "no food with a face." Unless, of course, it's a morsel of crispy bacon, or tender ham. I know, Pigs are the 6th smartest animal, which should potentially make my craving for all things porcine seem all the more deviant. What can I say? My inconsistencies are complicated. But I digress).

I ordered a mojito, chips and salsa, and a guacamola tostado. The mojito refreshed my road-weary nerves, though I don't like it when the mint is cut into small bits. These are easy to suck up in the straw and then tend to get stuck in my teeth or lodged in my throat. The chips and salsa were delightful, and the black beans that came with my tostado were simplicity. And wonderful for their utter pureness. The crispy corn tortilla base had that slightly off flavor that fried foods can acquire, but overall the meal was satisfying, and would be even more so with a raucous group of friends to keep me company.

And perhaps my slight harshness towards Eldorado can be attributed to the fact that my parents and I dined at Rick Bayless' legendary--and James Beard Foundation Award Winning--Frontera Grill the next night, and everything was fabulous. Hot, spicy, flavorful, simple. Yumm. We sat at the bar since the wait for a "real" table was 2 hours. We enjoyed drinks--various mojitos (watermelon, mexican, and traditional, all with nice large mint leaves that stayed put in the bottom of the glass), margaritas, and, for Dad, a tumbler of second-shelf tequila.

Several summers ago, S, H and I went to Frontera and loved the food and ambience, and I was eager to share the experience with my parents, especially since Dad adores Mexican food. There's always a moment when I hold my breath, afraid that the restaurant I've raved about will disappoint my fellow diners, but luckily, this weekend all grills and cafes satisfied everyone.

We struck up conversations with others at the bar, and passed drinks back to the crowds of people enjoying the nightlife. I was--sort of--hit on by a 70+ year old man wearing a tweed jacket (no, seriously!), who then proceeded to hit on my mom by telling her she's "the best looking mom he's seen in a long time." Meanwhile, Dad was learning about Tequila and sampling habenero sauce from the man sitting next to him...

We walked back to the hotel, enjoying the bright city lights, wrapping our coats around us to shut out the very slightest of chills in the air. We stopped at Intelligentsia for a decaf nightcap, and went back to the hotel to chat and sleep. Poor Dad had to spend his Saturday in meetings, but Mom and I ventured out on the town, wearing stylish but in-advised shoes, and dodging attacks by kamikaze pigeons, but those are stories for another day...

waiting for the fog to lift

This morning and afternoon, thick fog wrapped around town, enveloping everyone in a funky sluggishness. Days like this breed existential melancholy that makes me long for all that I don't know... in turn making me crave an empty afternoon to escape in an engrossing novel...or the guilty pleasure of a daydrean about an idealized future...someday...right now I'm simply trying to create semi-fun and pedagogically sound class sessions for my students. Tomorrow I'm pairing Melville's masterfully short story "Bartleby the Scrivener: A Tale of Wall Street" with an episode of *The Office.* Quelle horror?!?

Yesterday on the train from Chicago to Milwaukee I started thinking in poetry again...something about "just another Carrie Meeber..." and something about the stacks of mannequins I spotted through a factory window as the train curved out of Chi-town and headed towards expanses of dairy farms and endless sky...something about home/less/ness.

Too many ellipses even for me tonight:)