roses and bubbles

I read with great interest yesterday’s NYT piece on champagne. It is my unfortunate lot in life that I am infinitely drawn to champagne and lobster – neither of which I can afford much, both being wedged in my mind as achieving the peak of perfection in taste and mental association (Brittany shores and Maine coastal waters, the chalky undulating fields of grapes in France).

I came to know champagne late in life (and lobster even later). Growing up in Poland, I knew no one who drank it or had access to it. Of course, in those days, you could call anything that fizzed champagne and occasionally someone would procure cheap Bulgarian fizzy wine with some champagne wording on it – the absolute alcoholic bottom, if you ask me. I had little interest.

As graduate students in the States, we purchased champagne in moments of great decadence, to celebrate the completion of a dissertation (not mine), or the offering of employment (again, not mine). I remember purchasing Taittinger and thinking, gulp, this is astronomically expensive, but hey, so what, we may all die tomorrow! Pop!

In the eighties and nineties, I was relieved that there were such substitutes as Italian Prosecco. It fizzed and had beautiful flavors. What more could you want.

But then I took on night work at the Restaurant l’Etoile and I allowed myself another look at the great varieties of Champagne. Such a small region, so many tastes! And perhaps the best of the best for me was the discovery of rosé champagne. The gods knew what they were after when they proclaimed – throw in some Pinot Noir skin, already! (A piece of wine trivia: did you know that the French drink overall more rosé than white wine?)





Soon I was basking in too much knowledge on champagne and too few opportunities to taste it. I set up Field to Table (it lasted a year) and took a group to France. We visited a champagne producer and my heart soared.

This summer, I returned to the region of Champagne and again visited a small, independent producer. I brought back six bottles and tucked them neatly into my fancy little wine cooler.

I don’t know many people who love champagne as much as I do and so I store my treasures for now. But, I would open them all in a snap if that would help celebrate my firstborn’s birthday, which happens to fall on this day. Ah, if she were only here…

Happy birthday, sweet little one! You’re as lovely as roses, inside and out and I love you more than you can imagine! May your day sparkle!



Purchase photos 1927

roses and bubbles

I read with great interest yesterday’s NYT piece on champagne. It is my unfortunate lot in life that I am infinitely drawn to champagne and lobster – neither of which I can afford much, both being wedged in my mind as achieving the peak of perfection in taste and mental association (Brittany shores and Maine coastal waters, the chalky undulating fields of grapes in France).

I came to know champagne late in life (and lobster even later). Growing up in Poland, I knew no one who drank it or had access to it. Of course, in those days, you could call anything that fizzed champagne and occasionally someone would procure cheap Bulgarian fizzy wine with some champagne wording on it – the absolute alcoholic bottom, if you ask me. I had little interest.

As graduate students in the States, we purchased champagne in moments of great decadence, to celebrate the completion of a dissertation (not mine), or the offering of employment (again, not mine). I remember purchasing Taittinger and thinking, gulp, this is astronomically expensive, but hey, so what, we may all die tomorrow! Pop!

In the eighties and nineties, I was relieved that there were such substitutes as Italian Prosecco. It fizzed and had beautiful flavors. What more could you want.

But then I took on night work at the Restaurant l’Etoile and I allowed myself another look at the great varieties of Champagne. Such a small region, so many tastes! And perhaps the best of the best for me was the discovery of rosé champagne. The gods knew what they were after when they proclaimed – throw in some Pinot Noir skin, already! (A piece of wine trivia: did you know that the French drink overall more rosé than white wine?)





Soon I was basking in too much knowledge on champagne and too few opportunities to taste it. I set up Field to Table (it lasted a year) and took a group to France. We visited a champagne producer and my heart soared.

This summer, I returned to the region of Champagne and again visited a small, independent producer. I brought back six bottles and tucked them neatly into my fancy little wine cooler.

I don’t know many people who love champagne as much as I do and so I store my treasures for now. But, I would open them all in a snap if that would help celebrate my firstborn’s birthday, which happens to fall on this day. Ah, if she were only here…

Happy birthday, sweet little one! You’re as lovely as roses, inside and out and I love you more than you can imagine! May your day sparkle!



Purchase photos 1927

pedaling

Thursdays are tough. By this day, my sleep time fluctuates and my do nothing time is near zero levels. It’s the last of the days where I lecture all morning and I’m near spent. I see my days as a string of circles, like bike chains that occasionally jump from one setting to another, but basically remain suspended around the same orbit.

I get up early, work until the last possible minute and, for the third day now, find my phone ringing just before I leave. It’s Amos, today telling us that unfortunately, for one reason or another, the roof has been cut too short.

I pass this problem on to Ed and pedal off to class. So what. Too short? There surely is a solution. My ideas on this are irrelevant. I know nothing about extending roofs or overhangs.

Past Lake Mendota I spin. By the time I see the boats on the very still waters, I am in a steady rhythm of pedal work and I concentrate on the class before me.



Purchase photo 1926


And now I am at the Union. One last look at the waters, a pause to admire the kayak lesson, and I turn inland, toward my own classroom.



Purchase photo 1925


It’s the end of the month. A mixed up month of warm air, happy reunions, camping misconceptions and artistic snafus. A month of mosquitoes and markets. Of adjustments. Including to the roof of the writer’s shed.

pedaling

Thursdays are tough. By this day, my sleep time fluctuates and my do nothing time is near zero levels. It’s the last of the days where I lecture all morning and I’m near spent. I see my days as a string of circles, like bike chains that occasionally jump from one setting to another, but basically remain suspended around the same orbit.

I get up early, work until the last possible minute and, for the third day now, find my phone ringing just before I leave. It’s Amos, today telling us that unfortunately, for one reason or another, the roof has been cut too short.

I pass this problem on to Ed and pedal off to class. So what. Too short? There surely is a solution. My ideas on this are irrelevant. I know nothing about extending roofs or overhangs.

Past Lake Mendota I spin. By the time I see the boats on the very still waters, I am in a steady rhythm of pedal work and I concentrate on the class before me.



Purchase photo 1926


And now I am at the Union. One last look at the waters, a pause to admire the kayak lesson, and I turn inland, toward my own classroom.



Purchase photo 1925


It’s the end of the month. A mixed up month of warm air, happy reunions, camping misconceptions and artistic snafus. A month of mosquitoes and markets. Of adjustments. Including to the roof of the writer’s shed.

the rush

A busy morning. Let me huff my way through it for you.

Up early. Finish lecture review. Market – that’s right, I need to go to the other other market (the Hilldale one, just 6 minutes walk from here). I promised my students treats. Cherry muffins maybe? Time to leave Ooops -- Amos, the shed builder, calls. It is a long conversation. Something about metal strips being cut to six feet instead of seven. Wait. The interior must not be less than six feet. Ed is more than six feet. Standing up straight has to be an option. Discussion ensues. Suddenly, time is tight

I rush to the market. I buy muffins. And corn for myself. And flowers. I forget to take pictures. I go back, take two photos of the places where I shopped. (No picture of cherry muffins. Sorry.)



Purchase photo 1924





Purchase photo 1923



If I pedal fast, I wont be late. I’ll be sweaty though; it’s damn hot outside. I pedal fast anyway.

The last stretch is a walk up Bascom Hill to the main Law School entrance. Dare I join these marketing students? They’re having some combination of bonding and competition exercise on the lawn.



Purchase photo 1922


It involves running through sprinklers. I am so tempted to take my class and insist that we all run through sprinklers. But it doesn’t fit into my lecture on the interplay of customary law and general (imported) law in Zimbabwe and Burundi.

I go inside. With muffins. And lecture notes. For once, I do not hate air conditioning.

the rush

A busy morning. Let me huff my way through it for you.

Up early. Finish lecture review. Market – that’s right, I need to go to the other other market (the Hilldale one, just 6 minutes walk from here). I promised my students treats. Cherry muffins maybe? Time to leave Ooops -- Amos, the shed builder, calls. It is a long conversation. Something about metal strips being cut to six feet instead of seven. Wait. The interior must not be less than six feet. Ed is more than six feet. Standing up straight has to be an option. Discussion ensues. Suddenly, time is tight

I rush to the market. I buy muffins. And corn for myself. And flowers. I forget to take pictures. I go back, take two photos of the places where I shopped. (No picture of cherry muffins. Sorry.)



Purchase photo 1924





Purchase photo 1923



If I pedal fast, I wont be late. I’ll be sweaty though; it’s damn hot outside. I pedal fast anyway.

The last stretch is a walk up Bascom Hill to the main Law School entrance. Dare I join these marketing students? They’re having some combination of bonding and competition exercise on the lawn.



Purchase photo 1922


It involves running through sprinklers. I am so tempted to take my class and insist that we all run through sprinklers. But it doesn’t fit into my lecture on the interplay of customary law and general (imported) law in Zimbabwe and Burundi.

I go inside. With muffins. And lecture notes. For once, I do not hate air conditioning.

bathing

The last time I remember taking a leisurely, soothing bath was in May, in Brittany, after braving the cold spray of the English Channel for three hours. In those days (was it only two months back?) I still appeared to have the need to demonstrate to Ed (my occasional traveling companion) that I have adventure locked firmly into my DNA.

Today, we dance ever so gingerly around the topic of travel. The play of words and ideas is all very delicate, very unserious. At the surface, we ignore the other, even as we surely are aware of what the other is saying.

For instance, Ed tells me – some weekend soon we should take the ferry across Lake Michigan, and bike for a while, and pitch a tent. Noting silence, he continues, in a conciliatory fashion, I suppose – and eat a nice dinner.

Minutes earlier, I had already put in my own comment. My colleague told me how beautiful his recent trip to California was. He stayed at a fantastic b&b near Carmel and you should hear him rave about the food! Silence.


In the meantime, I continue to shower. I put off thoughts of bathing. That indulgence is, in my mind, for those splendid times when you do challenge yourself and hike out or pedal out and get unlucky with the weather. You come back to your lovely warm room, turn on the hot water knob and exhale.

Still, as I bike to work, I note that others are bathing on a fairly regular basis. The ducks are doing their morning stuff in Lake Mendota, and on my return, I note the cars are getting a soaking, as the city flushes its water mains.



Purchase photo 1921







Purchase photo 1920

bathing

The last time I remember taking a leisurely, soothing bath was in May, in Brittany, after braving the cold spray of the English Channel for three hours. In those days (was it only two months back?) I still appeared to have the need to demonstrate to Ed (my occasional traveling companion) that I have adventure locked firmly into my DNA.

Today, we dance ever so gingerly around the topic of travel. The play of words and ideas is all very delicate, very unserious. At the surface, we ignore the other, even as we surely are aware of what the other is saying.

For instance, Ed tells me – some weekend soon we should take the ferry across Lake Michigan, and bike for a while, and pitch a tent. Noting silence, he continues, in a conciliatory fashion, I suppose – and eat a nice dinner.

Minutes earlier, I had already put in my own comment. My colleague told me how beautiful his recent trip to California was. He stayed at a fantastic b&b near Carmel and you should hear him rave about the food! Silence.


In the meantime, I continue to shower. I put off thoughts of bathing. That indulgence is, in my mind, for those splendid times when you do challenge yourself and hike out or pedal out and get unlucky with the weather. You come back to your lovely warm room, turn on the hot water knob and exhale.

Still, as I bike to work, I note that others are bathing on a fairly regular basis. The ducks are doing their morning stuff in Lake Mendota, and on my return, I note the cars are getting a soaking, as the city flushes its water mains.



Purchase photo 1921







Purchase photo 1920

bands of color

This afternoon, I watched a young woman exit Whole Foods. Two long braids of jet black hair fell magnificently on her bare back. The pleats were held together by many colorful rubber bands, twining up the length of the braid, all the way to her scalp.

I was itching to photograph her. But my itch worked its way more slowly than her footstep and by the time I told myself – oh for God's sake, just take it! -- she had turned the corner.

It is so often like that.

I leave you, instead, with the colors differently presented – in flower beds that I passed on my walk to Whole Foods. The two blues, and the prairie flames of gold and magenta. Beyond that, it was a hot and singularly discouraging walk. (And day.)



Purchase photo 1919





Purchase photo 1918

bands of color

This afternoon, I watched a young woman exit Whole Foods. Two long braids of jet black hair fell magnificently on her bare back. The pleats were held together by many colorful rubber bands, twining up the length of the braid, all the way to her scalp.

I was itching to photograph her. But my itch worked its way more slowly than her footstep and by the time I told myself – oh for God's sake, just take it! -- she had turned the corner.

It is so often like that.

I leave you, instead, with the colors differently presented – in flower beds that I passed on my walk to Whole Foods. The two blues, and the prairie flames of gold and magenta. Beyond that, it was a hot and singularly discouraging walk. (And day.)



Purchase photo 1919





Purchase photo 1918

caption

What would you guess about the two photos that I took today? I’d label them “inaccessible.”

The first is straightforward: we walk through a mall (of all things) for no reason except to get to the other side and we spot this girl looking inside. And dancing. And looking inside. Wishing that what? That’s her secret, not mine. But whatever she is dreaming about is inside. Not something she can touch or call her own.





The second is just the view across the road where Ed lives. So pretty! One of my favorite pastoral scenes in Dane County. But it is substantially inaccessible. Not because it’s private – you can beg permission to wander through the prairie grasses. But because of the mosquitoes. They stand guard and forbid any entrance.



Purchase photo 1917


Summer in Madison has not been generous to those who love the outdoors. Not here, anyway. We barricade ourselves inside and work wishing that each day would be the last of the great invasion.


In the evening, I watch the last day of the Tour de France. Ed talks about future biking and camping in France. I’m thinking – can I be a spectator in life? And watch others do the impossible, as I slide under a crisp, white quilt and close the windows on mosquitoes?

caption

What would you guess about the two photos that I took today? I’d label them “inaccessible.”

The first is straightforward: we walk through a mall (of all things) for no reason except to get to the other side and we spot this girl looking inside. And dancing. And looking inside. Wishing that what? That’s her secret, not mine. But whatever she is dreaming about is inside. Not something she can touch or call her own.





The second is just the view across the road where Ed lives. So pretty! One of my favorite pastoral scenes in Dane County. But it is substantially inaccessible. Not because it’s private – you can beg permission to wander through the prairie grasses. But because of the mosquitoes. They stand guard and forbid any entrance.



Purchase photo 1917


Summer in Madison has not been generous to those who love the outdoors. Not here, anyway. We barricade ourselves inside and work wishing that each day would be the last of the great invasion.


In the evening, I watch the last day of the Tour de France. Ed talks about future biking and camping in France. I’m thinking – can I be a spectator in life? And watch others do the impossible, as I slide under a crisp, white quilt and close the windows on mosquitoes?

the other one

With friends visiting from out of town… (mother and daughter)











I did the downtown market today. It’s not that I’m not proud of the Westside Community Market, it’s just that you don’t go there for a two hour stroll. You go with a purpose: to buy, say hi and return home.

And it was a beautiful day and a beautiful market on the Square. Colorful. From the vinegar bottles, to the sideshow.



Purchase photo 1916





Purchase photo 1915


And they do cut flowers so very well there!



Purchase photo 1914


Some items are identical to those at my local market. Same vendor even.



Purchase photo 1913


But, the crowds kept me from taking out the camera much. And I had a lot of “I should have” thoughts. I should have bought from that stand. Or waited til the other. Really, you cannot do the downtown market just once. You need to circumvent it at least twice. We did a one and a half compromise.

From there, I walked home. Only five miles. The lake was a notch smelly, so I took to the sidewalk. Initially, offering pretty views…



Purchase photo 1912





Purchase photo 1911


…then, uninspired. Couldn't even amuse myself with people watching.

I wish some of those people crowding the Square would hit the sidewalks occasionally. Once I left State Street, during the entire remaining (4 mile) walk up Observatory then University Avenue, I passed not a single walking human being.

the other one

With friends visiting from out of town… (mother and daughter)











I did the downtown market today. It’s not that I’m not proud of the Westside Community Market, it’s just that you don’t go there for a two hour stroll. You go with a purpose: to buy, say hi and return home.

And it was a beautiful day and a beautiful market on the Square. Colorful. From the vinegar bottles, to the sideshow.



Purchase photo 1916





Purchase photo 1915


And they do cut flowers so very well there!



Purchase photo 1914


Some items are identical to those at my local market. Same vendor even.



Purchase photo 1913


But, the crowds kept me from taking out the camera much. And I had a lot of “I should have” thoughts. I should have bought from that stand. Or waited til the other. Really, you cannot do the downtown market just once. You need to circumvent it at least twice. We did a one and a half compromise.

From there, I walked home. Only five miles. The lake was a notch smelly, so I took to the sidewalk. Initially, offering pretty views…



Purchase photo 1912





Purchase photo 1911


…then, uninspired. Couldn't even amuse myself with people watching.

I wish some of those people crowding the Square would hit the sidewalks occasionally. Once I left State Street, during the entire remaining (4 mile) walk up Observatory then University Avenue, I passed not a single walking human being.

peeking out

I’m learning, with the assistance of a highly skilled entrepreneur, on what not to do to launch a project (which has the goal of paying for itself – that’s how low my entrepreneurial goals reach). It’s tough going.

And so, I write this day off as too busy to toss around much in Ocean waters.

But, there’s always a smile-inducing moment, in every set of crowded hours. One came when I stepped outside and peeked down at the daylilies planted outside the condo building. And found this little guy peeking out at me.



Purchase photo 1910


As the bunny and I exchanged friendly stares, my project coach found great wealth among the flower leaves. There, lay a fine wine glass that some (condo) visitor must have tossed out. I expect now to be served wine in something other than a water mug when I next visit him. And here I offer you this lesson, one that I have learned by hanging around my coach: success comes from knowing every inch of your territory, and from plain old luck.

peeking out

I’m learning, with the assistance of a highly skilled entrepreneur, on what not to do to launch a project (which has the goal of paying for itself – that’s how low my entrepreneurial goals reach). It’s tough going.

And so, I write this day off as too busy to toss around much in Ocean waters.

But, there’s always a smile-inducing moment, in every set of crowded hours. One came when I stepped outside and peeked down at the daylilies planted outside the condo building. And found this little guy peeking out at me.



Purchase photo 1910


As the bunny and I exchanged friendly stares, my project coach found great wealth among the flower leaves. There, lay a fine wine glass that some (condo) visitor must have tossed out. I expect now to be served wine in something other than a water mug when I next visit him. And here I offer you this lesson, one that I have learned by hanging around my coach: success comes from knowing every inch of your territory, and from plain old luck.

outsider status

Biking home after a far west errand, I stopped at Owen Woods. It’s Madison’s underrated park. Besides those living within spittin’ distance of it, no one knows much about it and no one visits it. Which, I suppose, is a good thing. When you do go, it’s as quiet as the bottom of the Grand Canyon. (I’ve never been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, but imagine it’s pretty quite there.)

I took a photo and contemplated whether I should take a walk down this path.



Purchase photo 1909


I didn’t. I used to live close by and the path used to be a regular trek for me, but now I’m a neighborhood emigrant and I feel I don’t belong here.

It struck me that Owen Woods is just one small piece in a larger framework of not belonging. For instance, I’ve stopped going to a book club that was neighborhood based. In my mind, I don’t share the issues of the neighborhood anymore. It’s as if I were to crash a condo rooftop party here (there’s one tonight, for all you condo party crashers!) when I move on to a place in Florida, or a nursing home or something. (BTW, I’m not ever going to move to Florida.)

Of course, one could dig deeper and tell me this: you don’t belong because when you lived there, you were married and had children who went to school there. That’s then. Now you ride a bike to work and have not seen Jason the color genius for months and when you passed your kids’ high school just this afternoon, it seemed strangely foreign.

What surprises me is that when I go back to Poland, although I am not always happy there, I feel, for better or worse, that I do belong.

Strange, how childhood neighborhoods never leave your gut, but other places, ones where you happily planted perennials and lilacs and roses, seem so very far away. Even though they’re just three miles down the road from where you now live.

outsider status

Biking home after a far west errand, I stopped at Owen Woods. It’s Madison’s underrated park. Besides those living within spittin’ distance of it, no one knows much about it and no one visits it. Which, I suppose, is a good thing. When you do go, it’s as quiet as the bottom of the Grand Canyon. (I’ve never been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, but imagine it’s pretty quite there.)

I took a photo and contemplated whether I should take a walk down this path.



Purchase photo 1909


I didn’t. I used to live close by and the path used to be a regular trek for me, but now I’m a neighborhood emigrant and I feel I don’t belong here.

It struck me that Owen Woods is just one small piece in a larger framework of not belonging. For instance, I’ve stopped going to a book club that was neighborhood based. In my mind, I don’t share the issues of the neighborhood anymore. It’s as if I were to crash a condo rooftop party here (there’s one tonight, for all you condo party crashers!) when I move on to a place in Florida, or a nursing home or something. (BTW, I’m not ever going to move to Florida.)

Of course, one could dig deeper and tell me this: you don’t belong because when you lived there, you were married and had children who went to school there. That’s then. Now you ride a bike to work and have not seen Jason the color genius for months and when you passed your kids’ high school just this afternoon, it seemed strangely foreign.

What surprises me is that when I go back to Poland, although I am not always happy there, I feel, for better or worse, that I do belong.

Strange, how childhood neighborhoods never leave your gut, but other places, ones where you happily planted perennials and lilacs and roses, seem so very far away. Even though they’re just three miles down the road from where you now live.

japanese beetles and other matters of luck

Ed has a thriving population of Japanese beetles on his property. You know them perhaps? They’re too thick and crunchy to be attractive to the common insect-eating birds or reptiles. Kind of gross, too, if you squash them with your fingers. They eat up your plants at a healthy pace and so no one is happy with their presence.

Wanting to be helpful, I read up on them to offer some advice. (Also, I have found one or two on my balcony and though a balcony is a manageable environment, still, I wanted to know more on how to communicate to them that they’re trespassing.)

Well now, it appears that the only way to effectively control Japanese beetles is to plant things that they find less than tasty. An orchard such as the one on Ed’s property and the sprawling raspberries (want some canes? come, with a shovel and lots of deet!) -- these are like a party with an open bar for beetles.

Moreover, once you get a few beetles, you’re going to get more. They are attracted to each other and they go where their own scent makes them dizzy with happiness.

Traps, you say? Sure. Traps are so effective that they can entice beetles that had no intention of ever coming your way.

And so there you have it. Not only may you be so unlucky as to have a tree ruined by the pests, but that in itself may, in turn, lead you to have other plants munched up too. Bad luck begets bad luck.

I have a friend like that. Lots of bad things happen to her. Hello, friend, I’ll say. How are you? The answer is never good. Things keep spiraling, even though one has to imagine that she has had her share and the tide must surely shift now. Her bad luck follows her in much the same way the beetles follow each other. It’s all rather disheartening.

I thought about this as I biked to work the last couple of days. Because you cannot help but consider yourself incredibly lucky to be passing this every morning on the way to work. Makes you want to take out the old paint brush and paint. (Or, in my case, reach for the camera.)



Purchase photo 1908





Purchase photo 1907





Purchase photo 1906

japanese beetles and other matters of luck

Ed has a thriving population of Japanese beetles on his property. You know them perhaps? They’re too thick and crunchy to be attractive to the common insect-eating birds or reptiles. Kind of gross, too, if you squash them with your fingers. They eat up your plants at a healthy pace and so no one is happy with their presence.

Wanting to be helpful, I read up on them to offer some advice. (Also, I have found one or two on my balcony and though a balcony is a manageable environment, still, I wanted to know more on how to communicate to them that they’re trespassing.)

Well now, it appears that the only way to effectively control Japanese beetles is to plant things that they find less than tasty. An orchard such as the one on Ed’s property and the sprawling raspberries (want some canes? come, with a shovel and lots of deet!) -- these are like a party with an open bar for beetles.

Moreover, once you get a few beetles, you’re going to get more. They are attracted to each other and they go where their own scent makes them dizzy with happiness.

Traps, you say? Sure. Traps are so effective that they can entice beetles that had no intention of ever coming your way.

And so there you have it. Not only may you be so unlucky as to have a tree ruined by the pests, but that in itself may, in turn, lead you to have other plants munched up too. Bad luck begets bad luck.

I have a friend like that. Lots of bad things happen to her. Hello, friend, I’ll say. How are you? The answer is never good. Things keep spiraling, even though one has to imagine that she has had her share and the tide must surely shift now. Her bad luck follows her in much the same way the beetles follow each other. It’s all rather disheartening.

I thought about this as I biked to work the last couple of days. Because you cannot help but consider yourself incredibly lucky to be passing this every morning on the way to work. Makes you want to take out the old paint brush and paint. (Or, in my case, reach for the camera.)



Purchase photo 1908





Purchase photo 1907





Purchase photo 1906