veggie one hundred

The Vegetarian Hundred from Barbara at Tigers and Strawberries

Bold any items you've eaten, and strike through any items you'd never eat (okay, the Safari version of blogger does not allow strike-throughs, so I shall italicize items I'll never eat).

Have fun!

1. Real macaroni and cheese, made from scratch and baked: the ultimate comfort food
2. Tabouleh: fresh and summery
3. Freshly baked bread, straight from the oven (preferably with homemade strawberry jam): i once made brioche, which takes 2 days, loads of butter, and a powerful kitchen aid mixer
4. Fresh figs
5. Fresh pomegranate
6. Indian dal of any sort: i really want to play around with indian food more this fall and winter
7. Imam bayildi
8. Pressed spiced Chinese tofu
9. Freshly made hummus: yummm. i make a white bean hummus.
10. Tahini
11. Kimchi
12. Miso
13. Falafel: i really wish that we had a falafel joint around here
14. Potato and pea filled samosas
15. Homemade yogurt
16. Muhammara
17. Brie en croute: a favorite of mine at Beggar's Banquet in East Lansing, Michigan
18. Spanikopita
19. Fresh, vine-ripened heirloom tomatoes: from my favorite farmers
20. Insalata caprese: pure summer
21. Stir-fried greens (gai lan, bok choi, pea shoots, kale, chard or collards): i love chard!
22. Freshly made salsa: i make an avocado and grape tomato salsa with a touch of red onion
23. Freshly made guacamole: one of the few non-local staples in my kitchen
24. Creme brulee: hahaha. my friends and i have an elaborate creme brulee joke:)
25. Fava beans
26. Chinese cold sesame peanut noodles: something i've always wanted to try
27. Fattoush
28. New potatoes
29. Coleslaw
30. Ratatouille
31. Baba ganoush
32. Winter squash: i love butternut squash soup and ravioli in late fall and winter
33. Roasted beets: but i don't like them
34. Baked sweet potatoes: with a little olive oil and sea salt
35. Plantains
36. Chocolate truffles: i make these for special occasions, and often for christmas gifts
37. Garlic mashed potatoes
38. Fresh water chestnuts
39. Steel cut oats
40. Quinoa
41. Grilled portabello mushroom: i don't really like them, though
42. Chipotle en adobo
43. Stone ground whole grain cornmeal: my friend M sends me a bag of fresh stone ground grits from georgia every fall
44. Freshly made corn or wheat tortillas
45. Frittata
46. Basil pesto
47. Roasted garlic
48. Raita of any type
49. Mango lassi
50. Jasmine rice (white or brown)
51. Thai vegetarian coconut milk curry: one of my favorite foods that i don't eat often enough
52. Pumpkin in any form other than pie: pumpkin soup, pumpkin lasagna
53. Fresh apple pear or plum gallette: and how about peach?
54. Quince in any form
55. Escarole, endive or arugula: arugula with parm slivers, salt, pepper, and lemony olive oil dressing
56. Sprouts other than mung bean
57. Naturally brewed soy sauce
58. Dried shiitake mushrooms
59. Unusually colored vegetables (purple cauliflower, blue potatoes, chocolate bell peppers…)
60. Fresh peach ice cream
61. Chevre
62. Medjool dates
63. Kheer
64. Flourless chocolate cake: i am a master of chocolate baking:)
65. Grilled corn on the cob
66. Black bean (or any other bean) vegetarian chili
67. Tempeh
68. Seitan or wheat gluten
69. Gorgonzola or any other blue veined cheese
70. Sweet potato fries
71. Homemade au gratin potatoes: number 2 comfort food
72. Cream of asparagus soup
73. Artichoke-Parmesan dip
74. Mushroom risotto
75. Fermented black beans
76. Garlic scapes
77. Fresh new baby peas
78. Kalamata olives
79. Preserved lemons
80. Fried green tomatoes: southern classic
81. Chinese scallion pancakes
82. Cheese souffle
83. Fried apples
84. Homemade frijoles refritos
85. Pasta fagiole: winter staple
86. Macadamia nuts in any form
87. Paw paw in any form
88. Grilled cheese sandwich of any kind
89. Paneer cheese
90. Ma Po Tofu (vegetarian style–no pork!)
91. Fresh pasta in any form
92. Grilled leeks, scallions or ramps
93. Green papaya salad
94. Baked grain and vegetable stuffed tomatoes
95. Pickled ginger
96. Methi greens
97. Aloo paratha
98. Kedgeree (the original Indian version without the smoked fish, not the British version with fish)
99. Okra: coated with corn meal and pan fried, yummm.
100. Roasted brussels sprouts

blueberry season

blueberries, courtesy of wikipedia


In late July through early August, the sky buzzes with the whine of perilously low flying crop dusters and the groan of irrigation pumps. Welcome to rural western Michigan blueberry country, nestled between sand dunes and flat land. The sun burns bright and warm, turning the fields dusty and dry. The air smells of harvest--berries, corn, a hint of Lake Michigan--taking me back to childhood and those summers shaped by berry picking...



This was no idyllic time, even through my genuinely idealistic, optimistic child's view of the world. I longed for cool, rainy days when I could read with abandon, draw dress designs, or go back-to-school shopping at Rogers Department Store in nearby Grand Rapids.

Instead, long summer mornings and afternoons of my childhood were filled with field time. In the early days, my family and I composed the work crew. I even remember one afternoon that only grandma and I were in the field, picking berries and telling stories. As the fields multiplied and grew--from our off season work potting and planting new blueberry bushes--our labor force also grew. Neighborhood kids not working at another farm, kids from the now defunct Port Sheldon Presbyterian Church, and friends from school strapped buckets to their waists, eager to earn $.22 per pound. With a group of peers joining me in the field, picking became less of a chore and more of a social occasion. As the farmer's daughter/granddaughter, I thought I had special immunity from grandpa's gruff warnings and rules. When he yelled at my cousins I realized it was because of my follow-the-rules-don't-make-waves personality and not my last name.

By the time I was in high school, I started hauling a boom box into the field, pumping popular music into the fields. Discussion of how we would spend our hard-earned wages volleyed between the bushes. One year, when I was still in elementary school, I saved all summer to buy a pair of Calvin Klein jeans. Another summer I contemplated saving for a Gunne Sak dress. Always, my mind turned to fashion, even as I was wearing my oldest, berry stained clothes.

We would break for lunch, and I would eat sandwiches and drink pop from grandma and grandpa's garage fridge. Then I would lead the other kids in elaborate gymnastics routines, flipping and twisting and leaping across the front yard before heading back out into the fields for a few more hours of work. At the end of a long, hot day, I was happy if I picked 8-10 pails full, which would add up 50-70 pounds. There were legends of people who could pick 100 pounds a day. I was well on my way to buying one lovely fashion piece for the year to come.

As the bushes grew taller and bent with ripe fruit, hand picking gave way to machine picking, and my job moved indoors to the packing shed. I would stand along the conveyor belt picking out green, red, soft, diseased berries; twigs and leaves; and the occasional slimy slug (which I would only scoop up with an errant blueberry leaf). The wages were higher, the work less grueling, though perhaps more tedious and a little grosser, and more grown-up in nature. My mom, aunt, grandparents, and neighbor lady B all had our favorite positions along the belt...



The vinegary, dusky smell still wafts through my memory, and late this summer I could smell that distinct fragrance as I drove along the familiar roads of my childhood. One night Mom and I were driving back from town behind a truck, out of which debris was flying. We conjectured at the contents, and when we rolled down the windows and smelled that familiar processed berry cocktail, we knew for certain that the truck contained the detritus of machine picked and cleaned berries--a sludge of waste, headed perhaps to a local pig or turkey farm to continue the food cycle.

As I headed out the field the next morning with my aunt and young cousins, I gave into the pleasure of recreational picking--scatter picking the bushes, seeking out the most luscious berries to make our favorite "double good blueberry pie." I was glad to be home, my fingers remembering one activity so intrinsic to my formative years that my pail filled faster than anyone else's. I walked slowly back up the pine needle strewn path back up to my parents' house, swinging my full pail ever so gently, headed for the sanctuary of my parents' porch, a glass of ice tea, a J-Crew catalogue, and a half-finished novel begging to be read.

s'more pie: an over the top treat for a lonely sunday

All day Saturday, visions of a pie from one of my cooking magazines danced through my head: S'mores Pie. Imagine the crunch of a graham cracker crust, the smooth creaminess of chocolate pudding, and the sticky sweetness of bruleed marshmallow topping.

When I was still thinking about the pie during my long walk on Sunday morning, I decided it was time to make the pie. I couldn't find the exact recipe, and the one I found on epicurious.com wasn't exactly what I had in mind. It was time to improvise.

While so much of baking is an intricate chemical reaction, pie begs for freestylin'. Just watch the fabulous film Waitress if you need a little inspiration.

I bought an Arrowhead Mills graham cracker crust; while the graham flavor is a little assertive, this crust contains NO high fructose corn syrup and NO trans fats. I also bought a jar of marshmallow fluff, which is almost 100% high fructose corn syrup. I figure they cancel one another out.

I searched epicurious.com and Cooking Light for chocolate pudding recipes, and decided to adapt an recipe from epicurious.

Heat the oven to 350 degrees and bake the crust until it is golden brown. Next, make the pudding.

Dark Chocolate Pudding
1/3 c sugar
1/3 c cocoa powder (I used Valrhona)
2 TBS cornstarch
1/8 tsp salt
2 c fat free organic milk
3.5 oz. bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped (I used 70% Lindt Excellence)
1 TBS espresso (I used espresso powder dissolved in hot water)
1 tsp vanilla

Whisk together first four ingredients in a medium saucepan. Add 1/3 cup milk to make a paste. Then add the remaining milk and whisk over medium heat. Cook until the mixture bubbles and thickens. Remove from heat and stir in the chocolate, espresso, and vanilla.

Pour the hot pudding into the crust and allow to cool for one hour at room temperature. Cover the pudding with a piece of plastic wrap or waxed paper, pressed down over the surface of the pudding. Then refrigerate the pie until chilled--overnight would be splendid if you can wait (I couldn't).

When the pie has chilled, and right before you're ready to serve, turn on the broiler. Spread a generous layer of marshmallow fluff over the pie (it will be sticky and tricky so be patient). Stick the pie under the broiler and brown the marshmallow topping. Your home will fill with the scent of toasting marshmallows, minus the campfire smoke.

You may want to very briefly chill the pie before serving so it has time to set and will hold together better when you cut it (although this is highly theoretical. I did chill my pie at this point but it still spilled out over the crust when I cut it).

Enjoy with a mug of strong coffee and conversation with friends.

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.

twd: chunky peanut butter and oatmeal chocolate chipsters

Hooray--cookies! I stocked up on the few ingredients I didn't already have: non-natural peanut butter (though it nearly killed me to buy such an adulterated product), light brown sugar (I'm almost out because I put a big spoonful on my oatmeal every morning), chocolate chips (ghiradelli 60%, not on hand because chocolate doesn't fare well without AC and I pledged not to use it unless absolutely necessary), and dry roasted unsalted peanuts.

I mixed the dough on Saturday afternoon in my trusty pink mixer. The dough was a little wet because my eggs are super powerful and larger than normal, from my friends at the farmers' market. I chilled the dough the requisite two hours and then baked one cookie sheet full to take to my friends' house, leaving the rest to chill overnight.

B and I ate (devoured?) the cookies whilst working our way through a bottle of Conundrum, one of my favorite wines--all floral, creamy, and well-bodied for a white without devolving into the flabby oakiness of a rich Chardonnay. Meanwhile, her two sons slept and her husband S declared a bottle of Pinot Noir to have a "pvc aftertaste." He settled on a Malbec instead, which prompted me to tell a story about how I once went out on a magical first date with a Malbec-quaffing Irish man on St. Patrick's Day! We gathered steam, discussing politics (family, national, feminist) and the ironic goodness of Neil Diamond. How wonderful to have friends to be at home with, who keep inviting me over even when our conversations extend past a reasonable bedtime for parents of an energetic three year old and a newborn.

Tonight, after I finished painting my bedroom sea glass green a la martha stewart, working on back-to-school prep, crafting a delicious farm market pizza, and biking eight miles, I baked the rest of the cookies. Their egginess translated into flatter, crispier, lacy cookies, studded with peanut and chocolate goodness. The peanut flavor is muted, despite the added nuts. The raw cookie dough is addictive. I trust the cookies will be a welcome addition to first day of school festivities; the H-Hall Hipsters are kicking off the year with a coffee ritual involving a big box of Starbucks to Go, milk stashed in a contraband mini fridge, and the aforementioned treats from my TWD ventures. What a lovely start to the school year, and a delicious tradition.

***p.s. for any non-H-Hall Hipsters reading this blog, you're welcome to join us:)

baking adventures: tuesdays with Dorie

cupcake tower for M and B's wedding

I really love Dorie Greenspan's baking sensibility--her cookbooks are wonderfully written, the recipes delicious and diverse, and her overall joie de vie infectious. I'm thrilled to announce that I've joined the group Tuesdays with Dorie, a group of bloggers/bakers, who all bake the same recipe from Dorie's masterpiece Baking: From My Home to Yours each week and then blog about it on Tuesdays. (note: I am aware that the name is a riff on the popular bestseller Tuesdays with Morrie, a book I've deliberately shunned). So, look for regular baking posts from yours truly, sans photos (still no digital camera), but with fabulous written commentary.

The inaugural recipe for September 2: Chunky Peanut Butter and Oatmeal Chocolate Chipsters on page 73.

This project will expand my baking repertoire, connect me to other baking bloggers, and further endear me to my colleagues and friends who will be sharing the treats of my labor.

book meme from B

So, my friend B has a lovely blog, and she writes such funny, witty stuff. I'd share a link to her blog but I need to ask her first if I can out her as a blogger:) Anywho, she recently posted two memes--an adventurous eating meme and a book meme. Of course, I immediately decided to ditch the list of entries in my queue in order to add this book meme. Now, I need to say that I have no idea who chose the books for this meme, and believe me, I'd have a few things to say to them about their choices: it's very Anglo-centric and not at all multi-cultural. But I'll try to leave the English PhD behind and have fun with this list.

Bolded books: I've read in their entirety; italicized books: I've read parts of; commentary is for your pleasure.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen a good choice to start the list
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien - never had any desire.
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte; this used to be my favorite novel. the moors...the passionately doomed love...heathcliff, the ultimate bad boy...
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens - to quote B, "oh god. miss havisham!"
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy; Hardy's a total downer
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare; undergrad, with Dr. O
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks; what?!? is this a book i should know?!?
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger -
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot; it took me MONTHS to read this, but i loved it
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald; one of THE best American novels. Who can resist that green light and the hope of an "orgastic future"?!?
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams -
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky; have read parts of The Brothers Karamazov. I have issues with the Russian Realists.
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy; see above for my issues with the Russian Realists
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma - Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen; okay, I adore Austen, but seriously, three Austen novels?!? Share the love...
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis; once again, I want to leave B's original comment: "Er, duh, this is one of the Chronicles of Narnia. Who's in charge of this list? Moron."
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery; the entire series, multiple times. i've also visited prince edward island...i'm a bit of an anne fanatic:)
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood; I've read other Atwood...
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan; I liked On Chesil Beach better
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen; OMG! Too much Austen! How about some Edith Wharton...
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac; The Dharma Bums is my favorite Kerouac. Ask me about Jack and the Beats...I wrote my dissertation on the Beats:)
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy; what's up with all the Hardy on this list?!? This is starting to look a little Anglo-centric...
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie; I saw him speak at Michigan State...
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville ; a surprisingly delightful and thought provoking novel
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce; are you kidding?!? I've read Joyce-lite--Stephen Hero, Portrait, Dubliners...
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert; Emma Bovary annoys me so much that I can't finish the novel
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery; my Aunt B gave me this when I was a young lady
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

total: 35 read in their entirety, 7 read in bits and pieces.
I swear I'm well read.
Really.
I'm not at all feeling inadequate in my profession.
I really don't sit around and only read Harlequins.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I'm just saying.

both sides now

I love Lake Michigan, that gleaming body of water rimmed with towering dunes, rocky beaches, rolling dairyland, and magical vistas. I suppose I'm lucky to say that I've lived on both sides now, and I never want to become accustomed to the sublimity of life by the Lake. But when it comes time to leave this side of the Lake for the other, my heart is heavy, my soul deflated, and my mind anxious.

Maybe if I think of the Lake itself as my home, the distance between two of my home places--my childhood home and my present home--will disappear, and home will again be one. Add my "third place" (a concept I promise to explore in some depth later) and the Lake seems even more my home (that is, forgetting my time south of the Mason-Dixon line, a time in which my Lake ties were stretched thin).

Gretel Ehrlich, an insightful nature writer, writes that home is many places. I believe Thomas Wolfe wrote that you can never go home. The mnemonic HOMES helps kids memorize the Great Lakes. Home is more of a state of mind, but cannot be entirely divorced from place--geographical, literal, on the map place.

Lake Michigan. Home. My Place. My primary residence amongst many HOMES. Whether here or there, then, I'm always already home.

sweet somethings: captain sundae

It's 9:45 p.m. on a balmy August night, the air sweet with flowering weeds, and tangy from Lake Michigan breezes. I'm craving gelato or ice cream, something cool, refreshing, and quintessentially summer.

Last week I lingered over a dish of Palazzolo's cafe mocha gelato at the Coral Gables Annex in Saugatuck, but that's too far of a drive tonight.

Visions of creamy, smooth, flavor-laden gelato dissipate and now I'm thinking of a Tommy Turtle sundae from Captain Sundae, just a ten minute drive from my parents' house. I look at the clock. I call. They're open until 11:00 p.m. Hooray!

Mom, Dad, and I climb into my G6, and drive under a golden moon to an assortment of tunes on my road trip mix CD, starting with Kid Rock's blend of Alabama and Michigan in "All Summer Long," followed by Brad Paisley's flirtatious banter in "Ticks."

The parking lot is full, and entire families crowd together on faded wooden benches next to the new Captain statue (chained down, since the old one was stolen). Cars whizz by on Douglas Avenue, the road that eventually becomes Ottawa Beach Road and leads to Holland State Park, home of Big Red Lighthouse and Mt. Pisky.


Big Red, Holland Harbor Lighthouse, photo by Bill Konrad, wikipedia commons, licensed by creative commons



Mom orders a chocolate cone, Dad holds out for the last piece of blueberry pie at home, and I order the aforementioned Tommy Turtle: vanilla soft serve draped with achingly sweet caramel, thick hot fudge, toasted buttered salted pecans, whipped topping, and a plump stemless maraschino cherry.

One bite and I'm back in High School, sitting on the bench closest to the road, hoping a car will honk, hoping someone will see me sitting here and be smitten.

The artificial sweetness is jolting me awake, and I wonder just how much high fructose corn syrup is in this plastic cup. I'm fairly certain I don't want to know.

"I can't believe you're eating that whipped cream," my Mom says, knowing all too well that this is no cream but topping, of sketchy moral turpitude. One time I argued the virtue--or lack thereof-of whipped topping with a friend. I rightfully asserted that there was no dairy to be found in a tub of whipped topping, and he believed there was. We reached an impasse. I avoided whipped topping, and I still do.

But tonight, the past pulls stronger than my desire for fresh, pure, whole foods, and I revel in the momentary bite of the past, the tug of the caramel on my teeth pulling me into memory, the brights illuminating the corn and blueberry fields keeping me grounded in the place where memory and present meet. Sugarland and friends sing "Life in a Northern Town," and my heart swells.

peninsula meditations: door county

beautiful flowers at door county peninsula state park

When I decided to take a new job in Wisconsin last year, several people pointed out that I would be relatively close to Door County. Suddenly, Door County references proliferated--articles in Midwest Living magazine, blurbs in the local Sunday paper, in conversation with friends. I was eager to investigate this shapely peninsula.

Studying the atlas, I noticed that the Door Peninsula almost mirrors my favorite stretch of land, the Leelanau Peninsula in Michigan. In my mind this geographical parallel certainly conveyed a deeper similarity. But, as Japhy Ryder tells Ray Smith in Jack Kerouac's novel The Dharma Bums, "comparisons are odious." I often forget this gem of wisdom. My first visit to Door County, when I was expected the undulating orchard land and breathtaking lake vistas, the charming towns with tasty treats, of my dear Leelanau, was an utter disappointment. Door County did not fit into the Leelanau model I so adored, and therefore I found the Peninsula lacking.

This summer I was determined to give Door County another try. After all, I was much closer to Door than Leelanau, and I had a year of living in the Dairyland State to my credit. It was time for me to challenge my first impressions and make some new memories. I wanted to love Door on its own merits, not as a substitute for a truly unique place.

So, one Sunday afternoon my friend B and I set out for Algoma, a small town towards the base of the Peninsula. Two places in Algoma enchant visitors. The Flying Pig art gallery and garden shop, features artworks by local, regional, and even national artists. The plants are arrayed in gorgeous gardens that are also sprinkled with art work, and the selection of terra cotta pots is phenomenal. I purchased a tall, narrow French style terra cotta pot, a round terra cotta bowl with three feet to set it on, and a gorgeous lavender plant.

Also in Algoma, Cafe Tlazo serves delightful fresh sandwiches, from wraps to paninis; salads; and a bevy of espresso drinks. I'm partial to the Honey Latte myself. Their lunch choices overwhelm--this is one of the most vegetarian friendly places I've encountered in Northeast Wisconsin, and each time I go it's hard to decide what to order. On that Sunday, I enjoyed a Mediterranean wrap with a side of kettle chips. Yumm!

B and I also stopped in an antique mall in Kewaunee on our way back down the Peninsula, where I was tempted by a pink and chrome dinette table, but left it behind for someone else to purchase.

Several weeks later, I decided to venture farther up the Peninsula on a sunny Sunday. I packed a picnic lunch in my cooler, packed my day pack with essentials for a short hike or two, and set out. Driving the Peninsula affords spectacular views of gently rolling dairy farm land that stretches right to the shore of Lake Michigan. I drove past my favorite Algoma stops and continued on to Egg Harbor, where I stopped at the grocery store for chips and a drink to round out my picnic lunch. I also wanted to peruse their wine selection, as I had remembered it fondly from the previous year's ill-fated trip. They have many nice bottles, but nothing I had to buy that day.

I drove the few remaining miles into Fish Creek, the most kitschy and overtly touristy of the towns on the Peninsula. I motored on by the crowds of confused tourists thronging the sidewalks and headed for Peninsula State Park.

This state park hugs Green Bay and offers a lovely interplay of densely wooded forests, rocky beaches, and towering stone cliffs. Bike trails and hiking paths lace the park, and features like a four story lookout tower, golf course, and campgrounds, appeal to many different ideas of recreation. I found a semi-sunny picnic spot along the beach and enjoyed my lunch. The clouds kept building, hiding the sun and threatening rain, but I bundled up in extra layers and made the best of my time. I then drove up to the aforementioned lookout tower, where several trails begin.


a perfect spot for a picnic

I selected the Sentinel trail first, thinking it would be decently busy, because less strenuous. The trail winds through varying landscapes--woods, meadows, tall grasses, and features interpretive signage along the way. I kept mosquitoes at bay by maintaining a brisk pace, stopping only to skim the signs and snap a few photos.



Invigorated by my time in the woods, I decided to tackle the Eagle Trail, rated the most difficult in the park because of rocky ledges, small boulderfields, and large hills. I expected this trail to be less traveled than the Sentinel, but it was actually filled with hikers--most of the amateur-not-so-polite and/or ginormous-extended-families-blocking-the-trail variety. The excellent views of rock walls and dense, varied foliage kept me company as I stepped off the trail to let others pass: good hiker etiquette.


eagle trail

My day ended as I wended my way back down the Peninsula, bypassing the myriad fruit stands since my fridge was well-stocked from the previous day's trip to the farmer's market. I stopped at Door County Coffee Company for a little latte caffeine infusion to fuel my drive home, and dreamed of my next trip--in the fall, with friends, camping overnight and enjoying the gorgeous color explosion of hardwoods in their autumnal finery.

Has Door County entered my soul like Leelanau? No. Leelanau still lays claim to bucolic farmlands, orchards, and lake views; their wineries produce nuanced, flavorful, not syrupy sweet local wines. Plus, I have a nearly fifteen year history of summer jaunts with friends. But Door stands on its own merits now, of breathtaking and accessible state parks and a closer geographic if not emotional distance, and I'm beginning to love it too.

leelanau + traverse city

rolling hills, orchards, lake swept vistas, wineries, lots of local food culture, film festivals, vintage clothing stores, old friends, relaxation: bliss.

food, friends, fellowship, and road trips

I love this time of year, when everyone is eager to soak up the sun when it's at the hottest, when gardens and farms are overflowing with fresh, local produce, and when summer school is over and before the hectic pace of fall semester is upon us. I have a whole list of blog entries in my head, begging to be written (along with a series of super short stories I want to play with), and in the coming weeks of freedom I shall.

Last night I enjoyed a delightful meal with my friends H and J. We reminisced about our great adventure in the Apostle Islands, shared photos, and ate delicious farm fresh foods: chocolate zucchini bread, toasted rolls, pan fried eggplant, cucumber salad, bibb and spinach salad with feta and olives, and the best beets I've ever tasted, roasted with maple syrup and spices (that said, I'm still not a beet fan, but these were tasty). We drank riesling and coffee and finished the evening al fresco, swatting mosquitoes and eating angel food cake with berries and whipped cream. My friends have a warm, welcoming home--they've put a lot of work into refinishing an old farmhouse, and it's gorgeous.

I've been packing my car: yoga mat, camping gear, fun reads, school reads, clothes for any occasion, shoes for any occasion, road snacks, my bike on my new Yakima bike rack, gifts, road trip CD's...

Tomorrow I'm heading out on my epic road trip (well, epic may be hyperbolic, but anyone who knows me well knows that I tend towards hyperbole when given the chance). I'll drive to the WI/MI border, where I'll stay at A and R's farm and share more food, fellowship, and friendship, before venturing across the wilds of DA YOO-P, EH. I'll follow the curves of Lake Michigan, cross the Mackinaw Bridge by myself for the very first time, and then continue my arc around the shore, through northern towns Petosky, Traverse City, before hitting the Peninsula and feeling like I'm back at my summer home, leaving M-22 behind and finding my way to the M's home on curvy, hilly back roads dotted with orchards and farm stands and wineries and all those quotidian pleasures that make my soul sigh and relax.

My journey will continue later in the week, as I follow the Lake through Manistee, Ludington, Grand Haven, and finally, pull in to my parents' long driveway where bright geraniums and Mom and Dad will greet me.

Ah, summer, Lake Michigan, friends, family, food, fiction, fun. HOME.

remembering berry bliss

Here's a photo of the delicious strawberry cream cake I made in June. If you missed the entry describing this marvel, you can read it here. Ahh, for one more slice of that luscious cake...I wonder if I can recreate it using raspberries, which are now in season.

paddling inward

"To sit on an island, then, is not a way of disconnecting ourselves but, rather, a way we can understand relatedness," Gretel Ehrlich, "Islands"

Months ago I signed up for a five day kayaking adventure in the Apostle Islands, a National Lakeshore in northern Wisconsin. When I signed up, I didn't know the others who would be joining me on this adventure--a group of students and colleagues--very well. New to Wisconsin, I had heard that the Apostles were stunning, secluded, and stuffed with wildlife--especially bears. Between relatively unknown tripmates and potential wildlife encounters, I had much to fear.

I had little kayaking experience, but a good bit of adventure experience, backpacking the Appalachian Trail and summiting Longs Peak. I missed my adventurous streak--something elemental to my survival, which had wilted as I became a creature of habit, of worries, of virtual and indoor worlds.


siskiwit lake

Out on Siskiwit Lake, seated in a bright red kayak, my heart skipped a beat as I prepared to tip myself over and execute the requisite wet exit that would be used in emergencies. tuck, tap, pull, and push, I chanted, as I flipped the boat and flailed out of the cockpit and bobbed to the surface, anxious but accomplished. do something everyday that scares you, said Elenor Roosevelt.


rafting up on Lake Superior

As we took to Lake Superior the next day, I found my balance as I wiggled in my seat, and tested out various paddle strokes and leans. We paddled to the mainland sea caves, huge outcroppings of sandstone that have been etched and carved by wind and wave. Angling my boat between towering sandstone cliffs, I worried about darkness, enclosure, and waited for the panic response to kick in. As my eyes traveled up the crack between the rocks, I saw white birch, abundant foliage, and azure sky above, contrasted to massive rock on each side, and gently undulating water below. My eyes filled with tears at the hushed holiness of the sublime space where beauty and fear mingle.


mainland sea caves

Cave after cave offered new vistas, striations of rock, ledges with hungry baby birds with wide open mouths, and green moss. The deep hollow thunk of water meeting rock intensified as the weather shift and the wind stirred up more, bigger waves. It was time to return.

Sleepy from heavy paddling, I laced up my dry shoes and headed out for a hike to lost falls, a play of dense foliage, falling stream, and slick rock that reminded me of twelve mile creek, on the outskirts on Great Smoky National Park, my favorite moment from the last real foray on the AT in 2004.

Sleep came swiftly and soundly that night, and the next morning we packed up for our three mile water crossing. We stopped in the quaint town of Cornucopia for lattes and fresh blueberry scones before heading to the launch point. Butterflies kept me company as I stole peeks at Sand Island in the distance--with so much cold, deep water in between where we were and where we needed to be. As we packed out boats with gear for two days on the Island, the waves grew and the wind shifted, and our paddle would take a bit more effort. In an hour and a half we reached the sandy beach of our campsite, and we set up camp.

A group of us set out for the Sand Island Lighthouse, where we played on slabs of sandstone and watched deer stalk the privy.


J, J, and H play on the rocks

After dinner we shared revelations around the campfire, until we were called away by a dramatic red moon rising over the distant horizon.

We ventured our in boats the morning to see the island sea caves, and played a game of chicken--tossing floppy rubber chickens at one another on our paddles. A lazy afternoon of beach yoga and gymnastics helped stretch my tight muscles and relax me for the six mile round trip paddle to York Island. The lake was gentle until we rounded the tip of the island and faced reflective waves. After an intense twenty minutes of strong paddling, we landed on a shore of coarse sand. We slurped large wedges of watermelon and noshed on ubiquitous granola bars before heading back into the western sun.

I was determined to catch one sunrise and so crawled out of my tent the last moment to absorb the changing colors and dramatic cloud formations of a sunrise to the East and an inexplicable rainbow to the West. Everyone was quiet and reflective as we tore down camp, shimmied into our wetsuits and spray skirts, and slid into our cockpits for the last time. Tranquil, glassy waters that reflected the puffy clouds accompanied us back to the mainland. I tried to stretch the moment as long as possible, but with each paddle stroke moments became memories and the island faded into the distance.

We cleaned, unpacked, and lingered over good-byes, knowing that this particular group would not be together again. The strong camaraderie, lighthearted teasing, in-jokes, pirate songs, shared moments were becoming a memory as well.

As we sat together one last time to share our moments from the trip, all I could think was how strong and alive and whole I felt. After a year of great challenges, I had shrunk to a tiny, scared version of myself, hovering indoors and afraid of life. The ever-changing Lake, the steadiness of rock carved by wind and wave, the power to propel and right myself with my upper body alone, filled me with a remembrance of strength, of perspective, of a natural rightness, and a renewed awareness of the constant impermanence of life.

I can soar like an eagle, undulate like a wave, arc like sandstone shaped by water, be pristine, remote, and at once accessible to those willing to make the arduous journey inward.


dharmagirl, ready for adventure

spectacular sunrise

sand island, apostle islands national lakeshore, 24 july 2008

haiku: old friends

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

door county afternoon

rocky eagle trail
picnic lunch on a windy beach
windy two lane roads

community

Today was one of those days--rare but becoming more common as the slower pace of summer allows--when I do feel connected to this place where I've lived for not quite a year.

My neighbor/friend B and I headed to the town just North of here to investigate their farmer's market, and to drink some tasty java and nosh delicious scones at S--my favorite local coffee shop. To back up, yesterday I rode my bike all the way to the S--(about 5.5 miles one way) only to discover that it was closed! Egads! My visions of scones and hot coffee after a long hot/cold ride (hot sun, cold lake breeze). But, M was there and we had a nice chat before I biked back. Well, today the owner of the S--wanted to make it up to me so he gave me some beans for home.

Then, we went to the farmer's market in our town, which was Krazy (tangent...I really dislike cutesy spellings like that) because of a big sidewalk sale fiesta. I talked to some of my favorite vendors and artists, ran into a few colleagues, and had an overall great time selecting my goodies for the week to come: spinach, lettuces, cherries (from my Michigan!), mozzarella balls. Add this to the broccoli I purchased at the strawberry farm yesterday and the peas from M's booth at the other market and I'm set for a week of good eating.

I then "helped" a new colleague move--more like visiting with said new colleague and spouse plus my colleague/friends because the truck was already unpacked!

After a delicious farmer's market lunch of roasted organic yukon gold's (from the Holland, MI market last week) with rosemary (chez dharmagirl); mixed lettuces with lemon, olive oil, salt and pepper; omelet with spinach, garlic, peppers (supermarket, I confess), chives and parsley (from B's portion of our shared garden space) AND mozzarella...I headed back downtown to investigate the sale.

The library book sale was winding down, so a bag of books cost $1 and a box $3. I bought a few faves to add to a raffle basket I'm putting together for a campus fundraiser, and then a stack of harlequins, some relatively recent and some from the early 90s. The latter are fascinating for their covers, which feature women in big shoulder-pad suit jackets. Hmmm.

I stopped by my favorite cafe for a big coffee and chatted with the owner, stopped by the Natural Foods store for some yummy greek yogurt, and then found some treasures at an Artique shop--full of vintage goodies and artistic creations. I bought a few gifts for my friend S's bday, and an adorable lamp for myself. I chatted with the owner, and then made my way home to deal with all these strawberries...

So, as much as I may rail against this town and this place where I now live, I am starting to make connections and starting, ever so slowly, to feel at home. The summer weather and the Lake, my Lake, my clearest connection to Michigan, helps ever-so-much.

And now, before I dig into one of those retro-romances, I'm off to eat chocolate strawberry shortcake, the perfect ending to a lovely day.

another berry post...

Yesterday I bought a flat of berries, containing approximately 10 lbs. of crimson gems. I felt blessed and wealthier than I have in a long time, driving away from the farm with a huge cardboard container of berries.

I've been using Russ Parson's recipe from How to Eat a Peach, and since several people have asked me about this recipe, I'll take the time to give you more details of the process than I did in my previous jam entry. First, you slice the berries into bite sized chunks. Then you place them in a big pan with half as much sugar (i.e. 8 cups of berries and 4 cups of sugar). Add some lemon or orange juice, which will help the berries maintain their ruby red hue. Bring the mixture to a boil and cook just until the juices are clear--this means the sugar has dissolved. Let the mixture sit in the fridge for a few hours or overnight.

On the second day, I fill my stock pot with water; place 4-5 half-pint jars, lids, and bands around the bottom; and boil for 5 minutes to sterilize the jars. At the same time, I start cooking small batches of jam. I boil 3-4 ladle-fuls of berries/juice at a time until the mixture is thick. You can tell when it's ready when the foamy bubbles start simmering down into a thick molten mix. I then transfer the hot jam into a big bowl and start over with another batch.

When your jars are sterilized and your jam is ready, fill the jars, leaving a scant 1/4 inch of head room, and then place the lids and bands on firmly. Lower the jars back into the water and boil for 10 minutes. Lift the jars out--I use a handy pair of tongs--and set on the counter to cool. If all has gone well, you'll hear little pings as the lids seal. What a lovely sounds!

What I love about making jam is the quiet and fragrant rhythm, the stirring and bubbling and boiling. I feel a deep sense of joy in the pleasures yet to come, as I wrote in my last jam entry.

I have another pot full of sliced berries in sugar ready for the final transformation for tomorrow...

haiku: beach yogini

sun salutation
folding towards the cool waves
enshrouded in mist

big ship, stormy night

rain. lightning. the sky cracking open in shades of violet, aubergine, and then back to sightless black. the woman with slightly matted fuzzy hair reading a magazine, her mother placidly working sudoku puzzles for hours. a small band of neo-hippies, fresh from rothbury, playing "banana pancakes" on acoustic travel guitars. the rhythmic shuffling of a deck of cards, the scrape of a plastic chair on faux-wood plank decks. rain dripping down the window panes in endless tears. the lingering scent of a half-smoked cigarette from the sole hippie chick in the bunch, who loudly claims innocence and proffers apologies when told this is a non-smoking section of the boat. twin indentations on my inner wrists from the sea bands pressing, pressing out the motion sickness that would otherwise wash over me in undulating waves. outside, the walkways filling with water. trying to keep gordon lightfoot's masterpiece "the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald" out of my mind. sticky from damp, humid air, wanting a hot shower, steaming tea, and an enormous hug before succumbing to sleep tonight, at home, in my plush bed.

jam (and) bands

I just made jam! I mean, I've made jam before--the quick kind that you store in the fridge because you're going to eat it soon, slathered on biscuits or with some koeze's peanut butter in a delicious sandwich. But this time I CANNED the jam. I have visions of gleaming berry jewels stored on my shelf to carry me through a long winter, and today was the first step in realizing that vision.

Yesterday I drove to the berry farm and bought 2 quarts, sliced and sugared them, cooked for 5 minutes until the sugar dissolve, hit with a splash of orange juice, and then refrigerated overnight, a la Russ Parson's advice in How to Eat a Peach (a delectable and useful book in its own right). I was rather cursing myself for buying the berries and starting the project amidst a hectic and stressful week, but Parson was right--it's not that hard. Today I cooked the berries and juice in small batches on the stove as the jars sterilized, and then ladled the hot molten jam into the jars and plunked them in a water bath for 10 minutes. Simple. And all to the jammin' rhythms of the Dave Matthews Band.

I bought pint jars--in retrospect I would buy smaller jars because after this whole process I only have 2 pint jars. But oh, they are lovely, an opaque ruby-crimson that promises sweetness to come. I'm thinking of how much our ancestors lives were filled with labor to provide for the future--all the canning and preserving of foods available now that wouldn't be available later. They knew the heady power of delayed gratification, as well as the treasure of the taste of sweetness when the snow whirls outdoors. It was a necessity and now, in many ways, it is a luxury to have the chunk of time to devote to preserving our own foods. Does this not seem somehow skewed, slant, wrong?

I just heard the first ping...

those summer days...

walks along lake michigan, the contrast of hot sun and cool breeze sending shivers across my skin...
afternoons on the deck, vintage tunes pouring out of the stereo inside, hot sun beaming down, a good read in hand...
laid back small classes, with time to ask those deep philosophical questions that make all our heads ache and explode...
dreams of adventures to come, new cities to explore, new tales to write, new people to meet...
cool summer showers, sending me indoors to practice Surya Namaskar (sun salutation)...
quiet moments to reflect, dream, analyze the past, present, and future...
travels to favorite places, to various "homes," with dear family and friends...
gloriously delicious and fresh foods to create creative experimental meals...
innovative experiments in daily living, trying to strike that ever-elusive balance...

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.

uncovering the process

photo of tank car full of corn syrup courtesy of wikipedia

Yesterday I watched the documentary King Corn, an interesting peek into the world of corn growing and corn ubiquity. Did you know that the typical American's carbon profile is largely corn based? As the movie illustrates, a great portion of the SAD (Standard American Diet) is corn based, from added starch, flour, meal, to the primarily corn fed meat in our food supply, and, most significantly, the heretofore cheap sweetener, HFCS (high fructose corn syrup). The problem is that in its processed forms, corn is not very nutritious, and so much of the food in the SAD is composed of poor to empty calories.

I've been on a "eat as few processed foods as possible" kick for the past several years, and I'm mostly pleased with my dietary choices, but I'm thinking about doing a little experiment and cutting out as much processed food as I can. Last night I started listing foods I eat on a daily basis, and trying to determine the degree of processing so I can figure out what I need to eat instead. The problem is deciding what level of processing is acceptable for the purposes of my experiment, since most of the foods I eat are at least minimally processed...for example...

No Processing
fresh fruits and veggies, in their whole, natural state
fresh herbs
eggs
water
dry beans
dry whole grains in their natural state

Minimal Processing
milk
orange juice, 100% pure, not from concentrate
coffee
spices
grains that have been processed, like rolled or steel cut oats, flours
raw sugar
honey
maple syrup
wine
nuts
canned beans
cheese
yogurt
tea

More Processing
Boxed cereals
breads
tortillas
crackers
corn chips
pasta, couscous
chocolate

And these are most of the foods that I eat on a daily basis. What I'm thinking of doing is making all items (except for chocolate) in the "More Processing" category from scratch. And, I'm thinking of switching to steel cut oats or another less processed grain than rolled oats for my breakfast, making my own yogurt, and cooking my own beans from the dried state to make a difference in the "Minimally Processing" category.

Any suggestions for me? Am I missing something here? Am I categorizing a certain food the wrong way? How long do you think I should run my experiement?

berry update

I bought a quart of berries today at a seasonal market next to a liquor store that is also, inexplicably, selling fireworks.

I washed and sliced and sugared the berries and set them to rest while I baked shortcake and whipped heavy cream with a sprinkle of sugar and a hint of vanilla. Warm cake, juicy berries, luscious cream...

delicious, but a little disappointing. Yesterday's berries from B. were better, and I'm glad I only bought one quart today. Saturday I'll stock up on the farmer's market berries that B. brought, and make my fave berry dessert, a French tart via the incomparable Dorie Greenspan, whose baking books are indispensable.

berry bliss

1890 watercolor painting from wikipedia, from the National Agricultural Library of the United States Department of Agriculture's Agricultural Research Service.

I've waxed poetic about strawberries before...and I've been waiting a very long time, about 11 months, to experience berry bliss yet again. I was worried that the torrential rainfall and flooding would drown the berries or turn them into a watery mess, but behold, the season's first fruit...

My friend B brought me a handful of berries from the farmer's market (which I missed because I was teaching Upward Bound students how to read a poem), and I waited until after dinner to taste the first one. The color--plush red. The fragrance--warm and floral. The texture--melting and soft. The flavor--delicate, nuanced, and sweet. Ahhh!

And so I tucked the remaining berries back in the fridge, and when I returned home from class (teaching college students the satiric pleasures of Candide), I spooned some plain cream top brown cow yogurt in a bowl, topped it with sliced berries, and a sprinkle of turbinado sugar. Oh holy bliss.

A few weeks ago I had a conversation with a colleague about why I only eat local strawberries. She was confused and I don't think my tentative explanations--of something I'm so passionate about--made a dent in her consciousness. How do I have food politics discussions without seeming pretentious or elitist? How can I communicate my passion for eating locally, seasonally, ecologically, and deliciously, without alienating people I care about in some capacity, and don't want to offend?

And I'm saddened that the berries don't speak for themselves. How many people have REALLY tasted a strawberry as it's meant to taste? Not bred for travel and color only, not communicated via "natural" or artificial flavors, but the berry itself, in its most berry-ness state of being.

I want, to quote Alice Waters, a delicious revolution for everyone. And berry bliss galore:)

soy delicious: smart dogs

So, today when I was in Mil-town with B. we went to Outpost Natural Foods to stock up on some hippie-groceries. While I threw a little fit that the only edamame were from China (c'mon, don't we grow enough soybeans here in the USA?) and refused to buy them, I scooped up a package of Smart Dogs. Now, I usually steer clear of soy-meat-fakery, but there's something about a warm summer day that begs for retro picnic fare.

Since I don't have a grill, I broiled the 'dog, toasted a Natural Ovens 100% Whole Grain bun, added sliced dill pickles and vidalia onions, with a side of Krunchers and vegetarian baked beans, and a glass of Crios Torrontes, and tasted SUMMER. I am constantly amazed at the power of foods to speak of season or place or memory.

the deluge continues...

Tornado warnings. Tornado shelters. Not being a comforting, responsible adult in front of my students (but, hey, they're adults too, right?). Discussing Candide as the skies rage.

I worry about the strawberries, that they'll be water logged and wasted and it will be another year before I experience berry bliss.

I worry about the people whose homes and businesses and livelihoods are damaged or destroyed.

I worry about the connection between extreme weather and climate change.

Thunder rumbling throughout my body. Lightening illuminating the sky. Rain pouring down.

I love curling up under a soft fleecy blanket or a crocheted throw, made by my grandmothers.

I love losing myself in an intricate novel.

I love the soothing comfort of a hot cup of tea and nowhere to go.

x-rated: pink passion

Here's a little summer fun:

1 shot of X-Rated (a lovely pink "fusion" of vodka, blood orange, mango, and passion fruit, colored with carmine--still not sure how I feel about that)
a nice pour of Simply Limeade
a splash of tonic water

Tart, refreshing, pink, and tasty. And with the name, a little naughty too.

soup primavera

from dharmagirl's kitchen:

Today I finally cooked a small package of flageolets that my mom purchased for me at Dean and Deluca. Flageolets, according to Mark Bittman, are very young kidney beans. Uncooked, they're pale green, narrow, with only a hint at a kidney shape. They have a light, delicate flavor. I followed Bittman's directions for soaked, quick-cooked beans which worked beautifully. I covered the beans with 2 inches of cold water; boiled for 2 minutes; let stand, covered, off the heat for two hours; then brought to a boil again; and finally, simmered until tender-ish, and only then added salt and pepper. I've recently learned that adding salt to beans too early in the cooking process makes for a tough bean.

Then, I had a giant pot of beans and I wasn't sure what to do. I decided to make a farmer's market soup. I heated olive oil in the bottom of my soup pot, added thin slices of garlic, chopped spring onion, and small rounds of asparagus, which I sauteed briefly. I then added water and brought the mixture to a boil. I threw in a handful of amish egg noodles and set the timer for 8 minutes. When the timer binged, I added a generous ladleful of flageolets, a splash of whole milk, salt, and copious amounts of black pepper. Just before I served the soup I added spinach and a dusting of parmesan. The soup was surprisingly good, and would've only been better with some herbal infusion or a splash of lemon juice, which I easily could've done, but didn't.

I toasted up my last cheddar scallion biscuit, made a simple green salad, and enjoyed my very GREEN, my very Spring soup, and my delicious, slow food meal.

Incidentally, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, a flageolet is also "small wind instrument, having a mouthpiece at one end, six principal holes, and sometimes keys."

fish stories

painting of Walleye, by Timothy Knepp, in the public domain

On my evening walk, I came upon a group of adolescent boys fishing from a small bridge over a sort of pond area. The water was rushing, roiling, running high after a weekend of seemingly endless rain. The boys' red flyer wagon was piled high with fish as long as the wagon bed, stacked on top of one another, their mouths forming perfect O's and--gasp--still moving. Right after I walked past, I heard a solid thud and turned around to see that one of the top fish had flopped out of the wagon--out of sheer will to live? desperation to return to the water? an involuntary convulsion?-- and landed on the sidewalk, much to the boys' consternation.

I think back to the series of goldfish I had as pets when I was in elementary school, and remember vividly the time I had two fish in a small glass bowl on top of my dresser. One morning I woke and started to feed the fish before school; quelle horror! only one active fish flipping around the bowl. I looked around the dresser for the missing fish, only to find a small crimson body on the floor near my feet.

More reasons I'm a vegetarian?

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.