deerly beloved

You have to feel warm about this town. How many of you, out there in distant lands (sniff!), can lay claim to this scene on your way to pick up a cup of espresso?

Two deer, necking, in a field of corn… (go on, click on it for a close up if you don't believe me)





And then another: a deer, looking at me from behind.





It was a beautiful day. (Even though the mosquitoes were way too bloodstarved and the drill that Ed rented for the shed still did not have the force to make, well, holes…)


We watch the farmers spin their webs for the stalks that would soon give them the crop they so need.





Beloved Madison. It’s a tough place for the grumps.

deerly beloved

You have to feel warm about this town. How many of you, out there in distant lands (sniff!), can lay claim to this scene on your way to pick up a cup of espresso?

Two deer, necking, in a field of corn… (go on, click on it for a close up if you don't believe me)





And then another: a deer, looking at me from behind.





It was a beautiful day. (Even though the mosquitoes were way too bloodstarved and the drill that Ed rented for the shed still did not have the force to make, well, holes…)


We watch the farmers spin their webs for the stalks that would soon give them the crop they so need.





Beloved Madison. It’s a tough place for the grumps.

disagreeable

What makes a day that? Not monstrously difficult, not high on anxiety, not any of that. But disagreeable.

I have a habit of eating a regular breakfast. So regular is it that I have been made fun of just on the issue of its never wavering content: granola, with berries and a café crème at the side. In good weather, I will eat this outside. In bad weather, I will eat it at the table, with all appended formality.

What can I say about a day where I wake up at sunrise, but do not get to this routine until well after noon?

Disagreeable.

There are good moments. I talk to all sorts of good people who are in less saucy states – including my dad (in Poland) whose birthday it is today. Happy birthday, tatek! (He doesn’t key in to the Internet; in this one way, my parents are alike: neither likes nor reads Ocean)

At dusk, I have no photo, no story, no mindset for a post. Ed comes over. We talk about dinner in between snarky comments about how difficult the other one is theoretically capable of being (you’re a handful gets tossed around for emphasis). Finally, we settle on an online recipe that promises health, fulfillment and cost effectiveness. We go to the grocery store. Still, no clue as to a post or photo.

On our way back, we turn toward the condo and to the right of the road, we come across … what, a Brittany sailor? A Normandy wind surfer? What? I am flooded with memories…





He’s clearly practicing. Ed, get closer, please, get closer!

I think we freak him out, spinning there, behind him, in the Department of Transportation parking lot in Ed’s old and rusty Geo… I try to convey greetings and good cheer, but any words shouted from the Geo tumble into nothingness.




We come back to the condo, Ed and I, and I fix the recipe for our simple meal. Ed watches the Last of the Samurai and I think how at one point I may have found it a fascinating movie.

disagreeable

What makes a day that? Not monstrously difficult, not high on anxiety, not any of that. But disagreeable.

I have a habit of eating a regular breakfast. So regular is it that I have been made fun of just on the issue of its never wavering content: granola, with berries and a café crème at the side. In good weather, I will eat this outside. In bad weather, I will eat it at the table, with all appended formality.

What can I say about a day where I wake up at sunrise, but do not get to this routine until well after noon?

Disagreeable.

There are good moments. I talk to all sorts of good people who are in less saucy states – including my dad (in Poland) whose birthday it is today. Happy birthday, tatek! (He doesn’t key in to the Internet; in this one way, my parents are alike: neither likes nor reads Ocean)

At dusk, I have no photo, no story, no mindset for a post. Ed comes over. We talk about dinner in between snarky comments about how difficult the other one is theoretically capable of being (you’re a handful gets tossed around for emphasis). Finally, we settle on an online recipe that promises health, fulfillment and cost effectiveness. We go to the grocery store. Still, no clue as to a post or photo.

On our way back, we turn toward the condo and to the right of the road, we come across … what, a Brittany sailor? A Normandy wind surfer? What? I am flooded with memories…





He’s clearly practicing. Ed, get closer, please, get closer!

I think we freak him out, spinning there, behind him, in the Department of Transportation parking lot in Ed’s old and rusty Geo… I try to convey greetings and good cheer, but any words shouted from the Geo tumble into nothingness.




We come back to the condo, Ed and I, and I fix the recipe for our simple meal. Ed watches the Last of the Samurai and I think how at one point I may have found it a fascinating movie.

brilliant, and not so much

A brilliant Saturday morning. Buoyant. Blazing with sunshine. The Westside Community Market is totally about summer foods and flowers. And the merchants? All grateful grins and wistful gazes.













It was a good morning.

After that? Well, there was the matter of the earth drill and it's incapacity (earth drills like only certain type of earth).

More. There was the matter of impending storms.





…that quickly passed.

Ed offered to buy me a cup of coffee and that was lovely. In an American parking lot sort of way.






Did I say basic? Our next stop was a discount store. Where you were supposed to be excited by the … leftovers.





I wasn’t. I sat in Ed’s pick up truck and tried not to pay attention to the (dented) scenery before me.






Back at the condo, people gathered on the roof to see if they could catch the biggest firework display in the Midwest, some miles north of us. Rhythm and Booms. I passed. But I did light my own stick of cold fire out on the balcony to see if it would remind me of childhood times. It didn’t.

brilliant, and not so much

A brilliant Saturday morning. Buoyant. Blazing with sunshine. The Westside Community Market is totally about summer foods and flowers. And the merchants? All grateful grins and wistful gazes.













It was a good morning.

After that? Well, there was the matter of the earth drill and it's incapacity (earth drills like only certain type of earth).

More. There was the matter of impending storms.





…that quickly passed.

Ed offered to buy me a cup of coffee and that was lovely. In an American parking lot sort of way.






Did I say basic? Our next stop was a discount store. Where you were supposed to be excited by the … leftovers.





I wasn’t. I sat in Ed’s pick up truck and tried not to pay attention to the (dented) scenery before me.






Back at the condo, people gathered on the roof to see if they could catch the biggest firework display in the Midwest, some miles north of us. Rhythm and Booms. I passed. But I did light my own stick of cold fire out on the balcony to see if it would remind me of childhood times. It didn’t.

waiting

Preoccupied. Ed is contemplating how to reinforce the retaining wall at the eastern edge of the writer’s shed. I try to follow his reasoning on this, but I confess to being only slightly capable of distinguishing between earth rods and anchors. If truth be told, I want only this much: that the project not become too difficult for Ed and that whatever we choose to do will be effective, so that the shed does not sink down into the ground, with me in it.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking about my summer class already, knowing that before it begins (in three weeks) a lot will happen, but the combination of events is yet undetermined.

And I’m starting work on a Fall art show which will include (gulp) some Ocean photos. Selecting proper ones is impossible. I visit one artist’s display and I read how her camera just flies into click mode and she is then astonished and pleasantly surprised at what comes out. Me, I am with hope when I click and profoundly disgusted thereafter.

And before I know it, it’s evening. I bike to the library to pick out some background noise (meaning bad DVDs) for the late night. I pass the Community Garden where a mom weeds and a little girl waits.




I can’t decide whether at the moment, I feel more like the mom, or the little girl.

waiting

Preoccupied. Ed is contemplating how to reinforce the retaining wall at the eastern edge of the writer’s shed. I try to follow his reasoning on this, but I confess to being only slightly capable of distinguishing between earth rods and anchors. If truth be told, I want only this much: that the project not become too difficult for Ed and that whatever we choose to do will be effective, so that the shed does not sink down into the ground, with me in it.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking about my summer class already, knowing that before it begins (in three weeks) a lot will happen, but the combination of events is yet undetermined.

And I’m starting work on a Fall art show which will include (gulp) some Ocean photos. Selecting proper ones is impossible. I visit one artist’s display and I read how her camera just flies into click mode and she is then astonished and pleasantly surprised at what comes out. Me, I am with hope when I click and profoundly disgusted thereafter.

And before I know it, it’s evening. I bike to the library to pick out some background noise (meaning bad DVDs) for the late night. I pass the Community Garden where a mom weeds and a little girl waits.




I can’t decide whether at the moment, I feel more like the mom, or the little girl.

looking for fresh and honest

Longtime readers may associate the phrase with my favorite eating places. Today, it has double meaning here, on Ocean.

I left my office to take a look at the Union Terrace by the lake. Rumor had it that the lake stank (from a build up of algae for all the known high water reasons). So much so, that biking along its shore (my route home) would be down there with driving through New Jersey.

Imagine my surprise then when I found the Terrace by the lake chock full of people. And they weren’t choking. They were eating and drinking – a lovely scene that puts the Terrace up there with your favorite café-brasserie. Outdoor tables, mildly alcoholic beverages, lunch foods, by the fairly fresh waters of Lake Mendota…




But the food! Chips? Buns with an unpleasant surprise? I’ll forgive the honey toned beverage – I know it to be yummy Wisconsin beer, with a hint of hop and touch of malt, etc. And I guess I understand the love of brats. It is an acquired taste and people do acquire it.








Sigh.

You could argue that brats in white buns (and they are very white, once you get past the paper thin outside "crust") are no more grossly fatty than a baguette with Brie de Mieux, butter, tomato and arugula.

Still, I crave the latter.

But hey, let’s get some can do spirit here! You want that sandwich, woman, go make it!

I try. No Brie Mieux at Whole Foods, but a nice goat milk cousin of it is equally pleasing. No shortage of tomatoes or arugula. Let’s skip the butter. And finally… oh! Where is the good bread??

I remind myself that Ed takes pleasure in such uninspired things as tortillas and powdered refried beans. With raw onion. And so we take my dream-wiches, such as they are, to our ever friendly and accommodating café and settle in.





A few steps away, we come across yet another Dane County market – this one in wild little Fitchburg. (Truthfully, Fitchburg is not wild. Fitchburg is a no-town. A satellite of Madison, it has no core, no center, no downtown, no personality. But is does have a market. And it is the postal address of Ed’s farmette.) Nice! Tomatoes, peas, berries...





Max, the owner of Stella’s Bakery is also there.





Stella’s is the winner of the best vendor award at Madison’s Captiol Square farmers market. Max grins when I congratulate him. If I am the number one vendor of the number one market in the US, that makes me the number one vendor in the US, right?
Oh! I see baguettes! They’re warm, too. And they look promising: crusty on the outside, not too rotund...

Too late. Still… Tomorrow, can I get these at your store?
I no longer operate a store. Just farmers market sales and some wholesale stuff.
Okay. You sell at my Westside Community Market. I’ve seen you. Can I get your baguette there next Saturday?
No, I don’t bring baguettes there. Too much demand for other stuff.
Fine, then at the downtown market?
No, not there either.
Okay. I’ll get them here in Fitchburg.
Can’t guarantee it. Sometimes.
Next week, please?
Alright. Next week.

Bottom line: lake’s okay, Terrace is business as usual, and good baguettes continue to be elusive on this side of the ocean.

looking for fresh and honest

Longtime readers may associate the phrase with my favorite eating places. Today, it has double meaning here, on Ocean.

I left my office to take a look at the Union Terrace by the lake. Rumor had it that the lake stank (from a build up of algae for all the known high water reasons). So much so, that biking along its shore (my route home) would be down there with driving through New Jersey.

Imagine my surprise then when I found the Terrace by the lake chock full of people. And they weren’t choking. They were eating and drinking – a lovely scene that puts the Terrace up there with your favorite café-brasserie. Outdoor tables, mildly alcoholic beverages, lunch foods, by the fairly fresh waters of Lake Mendota…




But the food! Chips? Buns with an unpleasant surprise? I’ll forgive the honey toned beverage – I know it to be yummy Wisconsin beer, with a hint of hop and touch of malt, etc. And I guess I understand the love of brats. It is an acquired taste and people do acquire it.








Sigh.

You could argue that brats in white buns (and they are very white, once you get past the paper thin outside "crust") are no more grossly fatty than a baguette with Brie de Mieux, butter, tomato and arugula.

Still, I crave the latter.

But hey, let’s get some can do spirit here! You want that sandwich, woman, go make it!

I try. No Brie Mieux at Whole Foods, but a nice goat milk cousin of it is equally pleasing. No shortage of tomatoes or arugula. Let’s skip the butter. And finally… oh! Where is the good bread??

I remind myself that Ed takes pleasure in such uninspired things as tortillas and powdered refried beans. With raw onion. And so we take my dream-wiches, such as they are, to our ever friendly and accommodating café and settle in.





A few steps away, we come across yet another Dane County market – this one in wild little Fitchburg. (Truthfully, Fitchburg is not wild. Fitchburg is a no-town. A satellite of Madison, it has no core, no center, no downtown, no personality. But is does have a market. And it is the postal address of Ed’s farmette.) Nice! Tomatoes, peas, berries...





Max, the owner of Stella’s Bakery is also there.





Stella’s is the winner of the best vendor award at Madison’s Captiol Square farmers market. Max grins when I congratulate him. If I am the number one vendor of the number one market in the US, that makes me the number one vendor in the US, right?
Oh! I see baguettes! They’re warm, too. And they look promising: crusty on the outside, not too rotund...

Too late. Still… Tomorrow, can I get these at your store?
I no longer operate a store. Just farmers market sales and some wholesale stuff.
Okay. You sell at my Westside Community Market. I’ve seen you. Can I get your baguette there next Saturday?
No, I don’t bring baguettes there. Too much demand for other stuff.
Fine, then at the downtown market?
No, not there either.
Okay. I’ll get them here in Fitchburg.
Can’t guarantee it. Sometimes.
Next week, please?
Alright. Next week.

Bottom line: lake’s okay, Terrace is business as usual, and good baguettes continue to be elusive on this side of the ocean.

guilt

I never had much use for it. Perhaps because I recognized its shortcomings. It doesn’t push you to be a better person, I’d tell myself. It pushes you to feeling putrid about yourself and there are enough other forces doing just that, so you may as well kick guilt to the wayside.

But these days, now that I’m less anxious about keeping things rolling, both for my family and my career, guilt is pushing its way into my everyday.

Consider this, for just a wee small example:

Ed gets going on the shed project at dawn. A forecast of severe storms, along with the imminent (you never know) arrival of Amos, make him nervous. He is almost done with constructing the frame for the fill dirt. At sunrise, he gets to it. By noon, the first truck load of dirt is set to arrive.

I’m busy with my own chores, back in condo-land, which include a very pleasant stroll down to the Hilldale market. (Madison has a bunch of markets during the week – you just have to know where to find them.)











By noon, I can’t stand the guilt. Ed is being ravaged by mosquitoes, he’s been working on MY writer’s shed since 6, surely I should help. And I do.













So sprightly is our effort, that within an hour or two, we are ready for truckload of dirt number two.

Unfortunately, the truck with the second load gets stuck in Ed’s driveway. The load is heavy, the wheels sink into the chips and soil. It’s a no go. We try everything, including digging great basins around the tires, putting boards down, you name it. The tires spin deeper and deeper into the now completely damaged driveway.

The driver calls his company for help. Me? I leave to continue with my own chores. But without the light heart. I am consumed by guilt at so many levels, I can’t begin to spell them out.

One chore is to pick up a replacement plant for one that died (long and boring story). And as usual, I pick up an extra plant, because it’s just so pretty. But I load it into the car with guilt. Didn’t I just spend my salary on travel? And now a plant?

I guess there is value in beating up on yourself. It’s sort of like beating on a carpet to get the dust out. Besides, after you’re done with the guilt, you have such gorgeous flowers to enjoy on your condo balcony. That has to count for something.

guilt

I never had much use for it. Perhaps because I recognized its shortcomings. It doesn’t push you to be a better person, I’d tell myself. It pushes you to feeling putrid about yourself and there are enough other forces doing just that, so you may as well kick guilt to the wayside.

But these days, now that I’m less anxious about keeping things rolling, both for my family and my career, guilt is pushing its way into my everyday.

Consider this, for just a wee small example:

Ed gets going on the shed project at dawn. A forecast of severe storms, along with the imminent (you never know) arrival of Amos, make him nervous. He is almost done with constructing the frame for the fill dirt. At sunrise, he gets to it. By noon, the first truck load of dirt is set to arrive.

I’m busy with my own chores, back in condo-land, which include a very pleasant stroll down to the Hilldale market. (Madison has a bunch of markets during the week – you just have to know where to find them.)











By noon, I can’t stand the guilt. Ed is being ravaged by mosquitoes, he’s been working on MY writer’s shed since 6, surely I should help. And I do.













So sprightly is our effort, that within an hour or two, we are ready for truckload of dirt number two.

Unfortunately, the truck with the second load gets stuck in Ed’s driveway. The load is heavy, the wheels sink into the chips and soil. It’s a no go. We try everything, including digging great basins around the tires, putting boards down, you name it. The tires spin deeper and deeper into the now completely damaged driveway.

The driver calls his company for help. Me? I leave to continue with my own chores. But without the light heart. I am consumed by guilt at so many levels, I can’t begin to spell them out.

One chore is to pick up a replacement plant for one that died (long and boring story). And as usual, I pick up an extra plant, because it’s just so pretty. But I load it into the car with guilt. Didn’t I just spend my salary on travel? And now a plant?

I guess there is value in beating up on yourself. It’s sort of like beating on a carpet to get the dust out. Besides, after you’re done with the guilt, you have such gorgeous flowers to enjoy on your condo balcony. That has to count for something.