movement

Yesterday at dusk, I was once again making the backroad run from Steve’s Liquor to Whole Foods and I noticed that I was moving along with a train, just a few feet to my left side. Pedaling in the opposite direction was a cyclist, in full cycling gear. There are so many of these guys in their tight black pants and with holey gloves around town, now that the frost has returned to Canada (or wherever it is that it goes to in spring).

It struck me that it somehow describes my weeks, this little scene. I’m moving in one direction, slowly and then wondering if I should be pedaling in the opposite direction, against the tide, then resisting the temptation to flip, pushing ahead again.

It was very poignant, this thought of moving forces with their various forms of locomotion. Really. You had to be there. Maybe you had to be me.

In a second, I reached for the camera and, still moving with the train, I took a photo. The lighting was as you see it. The blur? Come now, we were all moving, the camera is set on an average shutter speed and I'm trying not to kill myself, the cyclist and anyone else in sight. Of course it’s going to blur.

And still, I like the photo. Me moving with the train, then against it, then, finally, turning off (to Whole Foods) while the pattern of movement continued without me.

movement

Yesterday at dusk, I was once again making the backroad run from Steve’s Liquor to Whole Foods and I noticed that I was moving along with a train, just a few feet to my left side. Pedaling in the opposite direction was a cyclist, in full cycling gear. There are so many of these guys in their tight black pants and with holey gloves around town, now that the frost has returned to Canada (or wherever it is that it goes to in spring).

It struck me that it somehow describes my weeks, this little scene. I’m moving in one direction, slowly and then wondering if I should be pedaling in the opposite direction, against the tide, then resisting the temptation to flip, pushing ahead again.

It was very poignant, this thought of moving forces with their various forms of locomotion. Really. You had to be there. Maybe you had to be me.

In a second, I reached for the camera and, still moving with the train, I took a photo. The lighting was as you see it. The blur? Come now, we were all moving, the camera is set on an average shutter speed and I'm trying not to kill myself, the cyclist and anyone else in sight. Of course it’s going to blur.

And still, I like the photo. Me moving with the train, then against it, then, finally, turning off (to Whole Foods) while the pattern of movement continued without me.

on a roll

Oh food... By the end of the day, I am ready for it. And on Wednesday, when I teach late in the day, I am ready for someone else to prepare it for me.

Last night that someone was the chef/sushi roller at the Sushi Box.

People in Madison are so attached to Wasabi on State Street, that they will not set foot in a place that holds the enviable position of being far from pedestrian traffic, far from the campus and far from the suburbs. Basically, it’s in nobody’s way except for maybe sick people who inevitably will pass it en route to UW Hospitals. Though why do I think that sick types rarely pause to eat raw fish on their way to get their bones set or kidneys examined? People are funny that way.

So last night, I walked the unattractive blocks of Old University, entered the Sushi Box, pulled out a Sapporo and circled my sushi choices.

That would have been that, and the post may have been shorter and better for it, but for the fact that the chef/sushi roller had the smile of all smiles…





…and so I boldly asked if I could stand over his shoulder and watch (and take photos and basically be in the way, but I didn’t mention that part then). He smiled a “yes” right at me and got to work while I admired his hands. And his polka dotted hat. And the final product. Wonderful, all of it.

on a roll

Oh food... By the end of the day, I am ready for it. And on Wednesday, when I teach late in the day, I am ready for someone else to prepare it for me.

Last night that someone was the chef/sushi roller at the Sushi Box.

People in Madison are so attached to Wasabi on State Street, that they will not set foot in a place that holds the enviable position of being far from pedestrian traffic, far from the campus and far from the suburbs. Basically, it’s in nobody’s way except for maybe sick people who inevitably will pass it en route to UW Hospitals. Though why do I think that sick types rarely pause to eat raw fish on their way to get their bones set or kidneys examined? People are funny that way.

So last night, I walked the unattractive blocks of Old University, entered the Sushi Box, pulled out a Sapporo and circled my sushi choices.

That would have been that, and the post may have been shorter and better for it, but for the fact that the chef/sushi roller had the smile of all smiles…





…and so I boldly asked if I could stand over his shoulder and watch (and take photos and basically be in the way, but I didn’t mention that part then). He smiled a “yes” right at me and got to work while I admired his hands. And his polka dotted hat. And the final product. Wonderful, all of it.

did you know

…that if, on March 28th, you stand in the middle of State Street at 6 pm and face the UW campus, you can see a perfectly centered sun, receding over the horizon?

And isn’t it gratifying to realize that next week, that same view will be yours to admire at 7 pm, or even a few minutes after?

did you know

…that if, on March 28th, you stand in the middle of State Street at 6 pm and face the UW campus, you can see a perfectly centered sun, receding over the horizon?

And isn’t it gratifying to realize that next week, that same view will be yours to admire at 7 pm, or even a few minutes after?

northern sights

From a comment to the previous post, I learn that Bloomer, my week-end food stop on a trip up north, is not really regarded as northern Wisconsin.

Perhaps.

However, that was only a food stop. Indeed, it was some distance away from the overnight in Turtle Lake – an indication of how far I needed to go to eat decently (according to my b&b hosts).

Now, you may argue that Turtle Lake is also not “northern Wisconsin.” I would have issues with that. Barron County is north, damn it! While people were strolling on State Street on a sunny Sunday, with temps in Madison crossing the magic 50 degree mark, I was up north, doing this:



the only way to get around

And the lake was frozen, so that when I, in my borrowed snowshoes, traipsed out to the middle of it to take this photo:




…I did not go under. Nothing even cracked beneath me, in spite of the fact that I weighed a ton, having eaten this for breakfast:









So, compare the snowshoe stuff with photos taken on the way back, still north of Madison, north of the Dells, in fact, but still in central Wisconsin:



cranberry fields forever




…Compare that with the photos from Turtle Lake. I mean, come on! Turtle Lake is north.

northern sights

From a comment to the previous post, I learn that Bloomer, my week-end food stop on a trip up north, is not really regarded as northern Wisconsin.

Perhaps.

However, that was only a food stop. Indeed, it was some distance away from the overnight in Turtle Lake – an indication of how far I needed to go to eat decently (according to my b&b hosts).

Now, you may argue that Turtle Lake is also not “northern Wisconsin.” I would have issues with that. Barron County is north, damn it! While people were strolling on State Street on a sunny Sunday, with temps in Madison crossing the magic 50 degree mark, I was up north, doing this:



the only way to get around

And the lake was frozen, so that when I, in my borrowed snowshoes, traipsed out to the middle of it to take this photo:




…I did not go under. Nothing even cracked beneath me, in spite of the fact that I weighed a ton, having eaten this for breakfast:









So, compare the snowshoe stuff with photos taken on the way back, still north of Madison, north of the Dells, in fact, but still in central Wisconsin:



cranberry fields forever




…Compare that with the photos from Turtle Lake. I mean, come on! Turtle Lake is north.

road food

He’s lived more than thirty years in Madison and has never poked around the northern parts of Wisconsin. My travel companion (what did I call him several posts back? Ed?) is clearly blind to the splendid scenery of forests lakes and farmland. Time to fill in the gaps.

So long as we’re all the way up north to see the maple syrup operation, let’s poke around Turtle Lake some…
Turtle Lake is another three hours worth of driving… five hours, if you take the backroads!

Ed always takes the backroads.

So what. I want to see Turtle Lake. I want to experience a b&b that has won awards for its proximity to nature, wildlife and the Wisconsin way.

There is, however, the food situation. I call the Canyon Road Inn.
So… where can you get some decent local food for dinner?
There’s the steak house…
My travel companion doesn’t do steak.
Well, there’s the supper club some twenty miles north.

I google the supper club. More steaks. And an international menu of (meat) lasagna and chow mein. I haven’t seen chow mein on a menu since I was a little girl living in NYC and they had it as a regular feature in my school cafeteria.

Anything else?
How about the Main Street Café in Bloomer? People from the city go there to eat.

And what city is that? Bloomer is in the middle of nowhere. A few miles north of Chippewa Falls - Leinenkugel beer land. They come here from Chippewa Falls? Well then, it’s a must.

The MSCafe is on…Main Street. It has foods sold in baskets. You know, fried shrimp and fries in a basket. Grilled chicken sandwich in a basket. Cod in a basket. Grilled or fried.

How’s the grilled cod?
Don’t know. No one orders it that way. People take it fried.
And how’s your pizza?
Great! It’s our specialty!

So we order pizza.


pizza and a Linie

If you can forgive the canned pickled mushrooms and the gobs of Wisconsin cheese, and the canned tomato paste, it’s okay. Especially since it comes with a Linienkugel and offers views of the counter, where the old boys (and I mean old) are chewin the fat. Or the fried.

Dressed to kill (with low slung jeans, just like they’re wearing on State Street), sipping a beer with their baskets of food and their plates of pie, they appear to not mind the weather up here, the state of the world.



saturday dinner up north



just like the young folk


Pie, can I get you some pie?
What do you have?
Apple. (Fitting for a place that has every patriotic symbol in the world scattered about, including American flag paper napkins and framed dedications to the heroes of 9/11 at each booth.)

Apple it is. Not great apple, but regular old apple pie, just like you have eaten a million times before in every road-side dining place in America.



as american as

road food

He’s lived more than thirty years in Madison and has never poked around the northern parts of Wisconsin. My travel companion (what did I call him several posts back? Ed?) is clearly blind to the splendid scenery of forests lakes and farmland. Time to fill in the gaps.

So long as we’re all the way up north to see the maple syrup operation, let’s poke around Turtle Lake some…
Turtle Lake is another three hours worth of driving… five hours, if you take the backroads!

Ed always takes the backroads.

So what. I want to see Turtle Lake. I want to experience a b&b that has won awards for its proximity to nature, wildlife and the Wisconsin way.

There is, however, the food situation. I call the Canyon Road Inn.
So… where can you get some decent local food for dinner?
There’s the steak house…
My travel companion doesn’t do steak.
Well, there’s the supper club some twenty miles north.

I google the supper club. More steaks. And an international menu of (meat) lasagna and chow mein. I haven’t seen chow mein on a menu since I was a little girl living in NYC and they had it as a regular feature in my school cafeteria.

Anything else?
How about the Main Street Café in Bloomer? People from the city go there to eat.

And what city is that? Bloomer is in the middle of nowhere. A few miles north of Chippewa Falls - Leinenkugel beer land. They come here from Chippewa Falls? Well then, it’s a must.

The MSCafe is on…Main Street. It has foods sold in baskets. You know, fried shrimp and fries in a basket. Grilled chicken sandwich in a basket. Cod in a basket. Grilled or fried.

How’s the grilled cod?
Don’t know. No one orders it that way. People take it fried.
And how’s your pizza?
Great! It’s our specialty!

So we order pizza.


pizza and a Linie

If you can forgive the canned pickled mushrooms and the gobs of Wisconsin cheese, and the canned tomato paste, it’s okay. Especially since it comes with a Linienkugel and offers views of the counter, where the old boys (and I mean old) are chewin the fat. Or the fried.

Dressed to kill (with low slung jeans, just like they’re wearing on State Street), sipping a beer with their baskets of food and their plates of pie, they appear to not mind the weather up here, the state of the world.



saturday dinner up north



just like the young folk


Pie, can I get you some pie?
What do you have?
Apple. (Fitting for a place that has every patriotic symbol in the world scattered about, including American flag paper napkins and framed dedications to the heroes of 9/11 at each booth.)

Apple it is. Not great apple, but regular old apple pie, just like you have eaten a million times before in every road-side dining place in America.



as american as

sugar rush

Two thousand taps hammered each year into trees. Tubes connecting to thick hose, carrying the whole clear mess to a tub in a hut, deep in the northwoods of Wisconsin. Boil it all down and you’ve got some 500 gallons of syrup. There isn’t much time to get at the faintly sweet juice of the sugar maple. Maybe two weeks. Mid-March, that’s it. Tap it out, boil it, filter it, then sell it at the weekly Dane County Farmers’ Market. Mother King’s maple syrup.

So whatever happened to the tin buckets catching the drips?
Put an urban kid in the northwoods and there you have it: complete ignorance about maple syrup technology.

It’s all about tubes now, connected to trees then to each other, looking like someone had spun a web of blue around the maple forest (get it right, Ocean, it’s called a sugar bush).



sugar bush



tapping


Inside, the hut smells like you want it to smell: logs burning in the first stove, the syrup picking up a deep amber tone, filling the space with a warm aroma of waffles for breakfast.







feeding the fire



finishing tank


The tubes are so much cleaner than the bucket thing. Animals, bugs, shreds of forest life all made their way into the buckets.

A walk through the forest down to the river, following logging trails and deer tracks, over moist leaves (there are mushrooms here in the summer; you’re Polish… you like mushrooms, no? I like mushrooms) makes you kind of wistful for a grandmother’s house at the end of the run. The type of grandmother who lives in rustic places and does nothing but bake and cook for you all day long. (I had a grandmother like that, back in Poland; I picked mushrooms for her and she’d swim them in butter and chop them into pierogi.)



eau something or other

April 22nd. The first market day for Madison. I don’t use maple syrup much, ever since everybody in Dane County is pretending to be on one diet or other and big breakfasts and brunches belong to the days of buckets dangling from trees. But I’ll stock up. For the future. Liquid gold from up north.

sugar rush

Two thousand taps hammered each year into trees. Tubes connecting to thick hose, carrying the whole clear mess to a tub in a hut, deep in the northwoods of Wisconsin. Boil it all down and you’ve got some 500 gallons of syrup. There isn’t much time to get at the faintly sweet juice of the sugar maple. Maybe two weeks. Mid-March, that’s it. Tap it out, boil it, filter it, then sell it at the weekly Dane County Farmers’ Market. Mother King’s maple syrup.

So whatever happened to the tin buckets catching the drips?
Put an urban kid in the northwoods and there you have it: complete ignorance about maple syrup technology.

It’s all about tubes now, connected to trees then to each other, looking like someone had spun a web of blue around the maple forest (get it right, Ocean, it’s called a sugar bush).



sugar bush



tapping


Inside, the hut smells like you want it to smell: logs burning in the first stove, the syrup picking up a deep amber tone, filling the space with a warm aroma of waffles for breakfast.







feeding the fire



finishing tank


The tubes are so much cleaner than the bucket thing. Animals, bugs, shreds of forest life all made their way into the buckets.

A walk through the forest down to the river, following logging trails and deer tracks, over moist leaves (there are mushrooms here in the summer; you’re Polish… you like mushrooms, no? I like mushrooms) makes you kind of wistful for a grandmother’s house at the end of the run. The type of grandmother who lives in rustic places and does nothing but bake and cook for you all day long. (I had a grandmother like that, back in Poland; I picked mushrooms for her and she’d swim them in butter and chop them into pierogi.)



eau something or other

April 22nd. The first market day for Madison. I don’t use maple syrup much, ever since everybody in Dane County is pretending to be on one diet or other and big breakfasts and brunches belong to the days of buckets dangling from trees. But I’ll stock up. For the future. Liquid gold from up north.