A strange story, how Esposo and I ran into each other, and it all began with Lake Michigan's left bank.
Before we ever met, the stage was set when we were children.
Esposo is from a neighboring state, but his uncle also happened to marry a Milwaukee girl and the pair moved to Port Washington--a small city half an hour up the lakeshore from the big city. When Esposo was a child, his parents would bring him on family vacations from Iowa to play on the beaches adjacent to Port Washington.
My father has roots in Port Washington, and I was also taken on weekend trips to play on these beaches.
Esposo and I have pictures, playing as children with our respective families, on the exact same beaches--him a few years older than me and trailing his dad as they tight-roped the places where wave meets sand, me a 4 year old in a green and yellow swimsuit building a sand castle.
We played on the same beaches, 20 years before Esposo would be offered his choice of 2 job locations and choose Milwaukee based on his childhood memories of the place and his uncle's residence here, and we would meet and fall in love.
Sometimes I like to imagine that my 4 year old self looked a bit up the beach and asked the boy Esposo to build sandcastles with me.
Instead, I did 20 years later.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A Stretch of Shoreline
Walking on the Lake Michigan shoreline on a Sunday morning
I met a young man dressed in black
with a pale white face like a mask
a mime either pretending sorrow, or unable to pretend joy anymore.
He looked away, shrugged to the side, cast his glance downward.
Taking a piece of driftwood, he scratched words into the sand
And disappeared where forest met beach.
Approaching his words, I read
“No one cares about me” and
“I’m all alone.”
As the waves at my feet licked his words away
And swallowed them into quiet eternity,
I desperately scanned the edge of forest
But I was alone
and powerless to salvage his shipwrecked words.
I met a young man dressed in black
with a pale white face like a mask
a mime either pretending sorrow, or unable to pretend joy anymore.
He looked away, shrugged to the side, cast his glance downward.
Taking a piece of driftwood, he scratched words into the sand
And disappeared where forest met beach.
Approaching his words, I read
“No one cares about me” and
“I’m all alone.”
As the waves at my feet licked his words away
And swallowed them into quiet eternity,
I desperately scanned the edge of forest
But I was alone
and powerless to salvage his shipwrecked words.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Is Italian the Lingua Franca of Heaven?!
Aka random food diary post.
Every time I make risotto, I wonder how my Italian ancestors had the patience. Then I marvel at how I (most impatient person in the history of risotto makers) have the patience, and I chalk it up to the fact that there must be something indescribably comforting about standing over a hot stove and stirring.
Although I have other points of origin making up my heritage, I've always felt most connected, by far, to my Italian side. To begin with, they were the branch of my family that I grew up around, that I spent the most time with. I was my great-grandmother's unabashed favorite, and some of my earliest memories are of the aroma of her home-baked Italian cookies (the very same aroma that gives my brain a punch back in time when I walk into Sciortino's Bakery). Italian cuisine is among my favorite, if not my absolute favorite, and Italian language is the most beautiful human sound to my ears. I rent Italian movies just to hear the language--I turn off the subtitles and attempt to understand it as best as I can. Then there's what esposo refers to as my "Italian temperament," which I probably shouldn't say too much about, lest I fall into the realm of stereotypes. Suffice to say, unemotional, dispassionate, stoic type I am not...and I live for the finer things in life, like my loved ones, loads of olive oil, and the beauty of the natural world :)
And, of all the places I'd like to go, Italy has moved to the top of the list. I've always wanted to go there, but I feel the pull more and more. I've already been to the other places my family came from--Ireland and Poland. The closest I've been to Italy is Greece, where my fav cousin lives, which I also long to go back to for the great food and rocky beaches and clear blue water--this time with esposo!
To me, food is very wrapped up one's personal stories--and this is the wrapping Italian cooking has for me. In my last post, I mentioned getting 95% of my recipes (excluding the ones I've come up with on my own, of course) from Eating Well. Well, last night I tried one that falls into the 5% category: A Sanford D'Amato creation. According to my grandmother, our family and D'Amato's family were friends in past generations, both being of Milwaukee's east side/Riverwest Italian American community. However, those days are long gone--most likely due to the Americanization pressures placed on immigrants for most of the 20th century, and let's face it--white flight had something to do with it too.
Mr D'Amato is one of Milwaukee's premier chefs, and is renowned nationally as well. He has 2 very well-respected restaurants that I know of in the city. His recipes have been appearing lately in the Sunday edition of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, but they've been a little too involved for a parent of a 1-yr old toddler. A daring, toddling infant makes having several open pans on the hot stove, and knives of all sorts out on the counter, rather nerve-racking.
Not to mention,, I'm frankly a bit jealous of him--each of his recipes has appeared with a description of his travels in Italy--the bikes along the sun-kissed coast with his wife, the tiny roadside cafes filled with untold cullinary surprises--Mr D'Amato, you're killin' me!
It's obvious D'Amato, like yours truly, enjoys the good things life has to offer--like any good chef worth his salt (pun intended). That much is obvious from merely glancing at his recipes--not just by the ingredients (9 tablespoons olive oil!?!) and structure alone, but by the very technique, the very construction of each dish.
Yesterday, I set out to prove that I too can make one of his recipes. The one I chose was like nothing I'd ever heard of before: Adriatic Shrimp Soup with Chickpeas and Saffron. I mean, seriously--get a load of that recipe! I was so bedazzled by the sound of it that I paid little attention to what the grocery bill might cost...until I started shopping, that is. Quite the expensive pot of soup, but was it worth it? Oh, yes. And 1 bowl plus crusty bread is enough to fill me up--so really, we will be getting about 8 meals out of it.
I have to admit that I cheated a bit. I knew rapini would be hard to find this time of year, but I at least expected to find mustard greens to use as a substitute. No such luck--I ended up having to go with dandelion greens, which turned out to be a fine choice, adding the bitter contrast to the sweet shrimp and savory fennel bulb. I also bought a cheap knock-off of Sambuca, as esposo hates anise (though I love it)--I wasn't about to spend $28 on an entire bottle of the stuff when all we needed was a couple tablespoons. My budget also only allowed for cheaper powdered Spanish saffron as opposed to the golden threads, and to save time I bought canned chickpeas instead of soaking dry ones overnight. As for the dry white wine--it can be hard to find a white wine dry enough for some recipes (without settling for the same old buttery Chardonnays and citrusy Sauvignon Blancs), so I always go with a dry white bordeaux in these situations, and it hasn't disappointed me yet.
Then, what I really splurged on was the shrimp. Being a vegetarian, and only eating seafood once every couple weeks or so, I feel like I can really afford to spend the extra couple bucks on quality, sustainable meats and seafoods. I went to a local place that I know has exceptional seafood, and bought the fresh, shell-on jumbo shrimp (the recipe calling for peeling the shrimp and steeping the exoskeletons in chicken stock to make the broth).
The result was unbelievable.
The soup practically had me speaking Italian. In my heaven, Italian will be the lingua franca...or at least something as beautiful as Italian. I don't think I can spend eternity speaking English, having to say words like "park" and "eat" and "bake."
No, no...English is not the language of angels.
Every time I make risotto, I wonder how my Italian ancestors had the patience. Then I marvel at how I (most impatient person in the history of risotto makers) have the patience, and I chalk it up to the fact that there must be something indescribably comforting about standing over a hot stove and stirring.
Although I have other points of origin making up my heritage, I've always felt most connected, by far, to my Italian side. To begin with, they were the branch of my family that I grew up around, that I spent the most time with. I was my great-grandmother's unabashed favorite, and some of my earliest memories are of the aroma of her home-baked Italian cookies (the very same aroma that gives my brain a punch back in time when I walk into Sciortino's Bakery). Italian cuisine is among my favorite, if not my absolute favorite, and Italian language is the most beautiful human sound to my ears. I rent Italian movies just to hear the language--I turn off the subtitles and attempt to understand it as best as I can. Then there's what esposo refers to as my "Italian temperament," which I probably shouldn't say too much about, lest I fall into the realm of stereotypes. Suffice to say, unemotional, dispassionate, stoic type I am not...and I live for the finer things in life, like my loved ones, loads of olive oil, and the beauty of the natural world :)
And, of all the places I'd like to go, Italy has moved to the top of the list. I've always wanted to go there, but I feel the pull more and more. I've already been to the other places my family came from--Ireland and Poland. The closest I've been to Italy is Greece, where my fav cousin lives, which I also long to go back to for the great food and rocky beaches and clear blue water--this time with esposo!
To me, food is very wrapped up one's personal stories--and this is the wrapping Italian cooking has for me. In my last post, I mentioned getting 95% of my recipes (excluding the ones I've come up with on my own, of course) from Eating Well. Well, last night I tried one that falls into the 5% category: A Sanford D'Amato creation. According to my grandmother, our family and D'Amato's family were friends in past generations, both being of Milwaukee's east side/Riverwest Italian American community. However, those days are long gone--most likely due to the Americanization pressures placed on immigrants for most of the 20th century, and let's face it--white flight had something to do with it too.
Mr D'Amato is one of Milwaukee's premier chefs, and is renowned nationally as well. He has 2 very well-respected restaurants that I know of in the city. His recipes have been appearing lately in the Sunday edition of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, but they've been a little too involved for a parent of a 1-yr old toddler. A daring, toddling infant makes having several open pans on the hot stove, and knives of all sorts out on the counter, rather nerve-racking.
Not to mention,, I'm frankly a bit jealous of him--each of his recipes has appeared with a description of his travels in Italy--the bikes along the sun-kissed coast with his wife, the tiny roadside cafes filled with untold cullinary surprises--Mr D'Amato, you're killin' me!
It's obvious D'Amato, like yours truly, enjoys the good things life has to offer--like any good chef worth his salt (pun intended). That much is obvious from merely glancing at his recipes--not just by the ingredients (9 tablespoons olive oil!?!) and structure alone, but by the very technique, the very construction of each dish.
Yesterday, I set out to prove that I too can make one of his recipes. The one I chose was like nothing I'd ever heard of before: Adriatic Shrimp Soup with Chickpeas and Saffron. I mean, seriously--get a load of that recipe! I was so bedazzled by the sound of it that I paid little attention to what the grocery bill might cost...until I started shopping, that is. Quite the expensive pot of soup, but was it worth it? Oh, yes. And 1 bowl plus crusty bread is enough to fill me up--so really, we will be getting about 8 meals out of it.
I have to admit that I cheated a bit. I knew rapini would be hard to find this time of year, but I at least expected to find mustard greens to use as a substitute. No such luck--I ended up having to go with dandelion greens, which turned out to be a fine choice, adding the bitter contrast to the sweet shrimp and savory fennel bulb. I also bought a cheap knock-off of Sambuca, as esposo hates anise (though I love it)--I wasn't about to spend $28 on an entire bottle of the stuff when all we needed was a couple tablespoons. My budget also only allowed for cheaper powdered Spanish saffron as opposed to the golden threads, and to save time I bought canned chickpeas instead of soaking dry ones overnight. As for the dry white wine--it can be hard to find a white wine dry enough for some recipes (without settling for the same old buttery Chardonnays and citrusy Sauvignon Blancs), so I always go with a dry white bordeaux in these situations, and it hasn't disappointed me yet.
Then, what I really splurged on was the shrimp. Being a vegetarian, and only eating seafood once every couple weeks or so, I feel like I can really afford to spend the extra couple bucks on quality, sustainable meats and seafoods. I went to a local place that I know has exceptional seafood, and bought the fresh, shell-on jumbo shrimp (the recipe calling for peeling the shrimp and steeping the exoskeletons in chicken stock to make the broth).
The result was unbelievable.
The soup practically had me speaking Italian. In my heaven, Italian will be the lingua franca...or at least something as beautiful as Italian. I don't think I can spend eternity speaking English, having to say words like "park" and "eat" and "bake."
No, no...English is not the language of angels.
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