Nighttime Symphony

When I was about 17, I went with my dad to Kansas in order to help him build a Renaissance booth.

It was a miserable three weeks- sticky heat, hard work twelve to sixteen hours a day, and only my schizo dad for company. I learned how rice smells when you accidentally leave it, closed, out in the summer heat for three days (really, really bad). I learned how to put up a roof truss, and how it feels when one swings down and whacks you in the back all of a sudden (knocks the wind outta you for half an hour!) and I learned how concerts sound from the back of an amphitheater (pretty awful, especially Hootie & the Blowfish)

Construction work, while never my strong point, is incredibly satisfying. Watching a structure of our own design take shape and go up was incredible, and even though my dad and I fought a lot, we also bonded.

One night our wrists were in particularly bad shape after a day of stapling and air nailing. The heat prevented sleep, the tendons in our arms were tingling and buzzing all the way up to our shoulders, and a Pantera concert was raging away next door. I lay awake just trying to massage the pins and needles out of my right arm. My dad had outfitted the van (our 'camper' for the interim) with an ingenious velcro & screen system that enabled us the keep the creepy-crawlies out while letting air pass through. The bugs that night were particularly energetic, flinging themselves bodily at the fiberglass van with enough force to make actual clunks.

They were probably trying to escape Pantera as much as we were...

Nearly as suddenly as it began, the din from over the fence ceased. When abruptly left with an absence of noise, your ears sharpen for the tinier sounds around you. I heard cicadas in the distance start their song, then a pair nearer me answered back. A few trees over, a similar but different song rang out, with staccato answers from the trees near the shower house. Then the frogs in the creek started up...

Within ten minutes, the entire fairgrounds was enveloped in sound. Not just sound, but a cacophony of insect, bird, and animal noise. It soothed me, and I lay back on my sweaty little pillow, forgetting about my tingling arm for a moment. Then I realized something- it wasn't just a random pattern of chirps and croaks- it was a melody. I mean this in the most literal sense.
I know very little about music, but I know a rhythym when I hear one. This was a rhthym: click, chirp, bzz, click, echo. Repeat. The bugs in that area of the U.S. are massive- we found cicadas over two inches in length and a luna moth with a five-inch wingspan- and apparently talented!

The sound got to be nearly deafening when the roadies next door packed up and left. As human activity ceased, the creatures around us became bolder with their music. Tree answered tree, frogs called for and found their mates, and the forest resounded with a symphony. It was, by far, the most beautiful thing that I have ever heard. I slept well that night, despite the heat and extreme fatigue.

God had set His very own creatures in motion to sing for me a lullaby, and they were so joyous at the prospect that I received, instead, a concert.

Fun Kid's Citrus Shake-up Drink!

When the weather warms up and the kids clamor for lemonade, we have come up with a way of fixing lemonade that is fun for them!

Requirements:

• Mason jar with tight-fitting lid, quart size is good. If we run out of these, we use old pasta sauce jars, just so long as that lid fits well!!
  

• Citrus fruit, any kinds, cut into quarters. Our favorite mix is: one half of a lemon, one half of a lime, and one quarter of a tangerine. You can use whatever you have lying around, however.
• Sugar, appx 1/2 cup. Demerara or turbinado is excellent because of the larger crystals, they cut the fruit better and taste amazing!
• Ice
• Water!

Start by putting the citrus and the sugar, dry, into the Mason jar. Works best if you kinda squeeze the citrus just a little first, but you don't really have to. Screw the lid down tight and let your kids take turns shaking the heck outta that jar. The harder they shake, the better tasting the drink will be!



When the sugar looks saturated, run some warm water, about a cup's worth, into the jar and let the kids shake again. My three year-old can handle it even at this weight, I just have her stand on the kitchen sink rug in case it slips out of her grip.

When the sugar is dissolved, run some cold water in that jar, and shake it just a bit more. You now have somewhat concentrated citrus-ade! Pour it over ice and enjoy!!

Try adding interesting things, like mint, fresh lavendar, a sprig of thyme, or whatever you can think up.

This method makes the tastiest drink not only because it is fun (and fun always tastes better) but because the sharp edges of the sugar crystals gently pierce the actual rind of the citrus skin, adding a finite amount of citrus oil to your drink. We all know how lovely lemon zest tastes- adding that in tiny increments to your standard lemonade is utterly divine!

Summer in Northern Michigan

Lake Mitchell ~ Cadillac, MI

So, it's not officially summer yet, I know this. But until recently we hadn't seen the sun in nearly six months, and there is no snow on the ground, and you can no longer walk across the lake successfully, so- we're calling it summer.

Summer in Northern Michigan is nothing short of glorious. People from the Detroit area (downstaters, we call 'em) have been apprised of this information for years, and many summer or weekend up here regularly. We have people who live in Florida or Arizona during the winter months, coming home to green grass and twinkling lakes for the short hot season. We have people who just rent a 'cabin' for a week or two, and we have die-hards who set up camp the first weekend the parks open and stay until the snow flies.

For anyone remotely interested in visiting this area, here are a few little bits of local stuff:

Playing in one of Cadillac's many parks

If you plan your trip right, you'll be able to hit one of the many festivals that dot the Midwest throughout summer. We have the National Cherry Festival in July- with spectacular food and decent entertainment. There is also a Dulcimer festival, a Lilac festival, and plenty of others. These are all within a couple of hours of here, and Cadillac is a great and economical starting point to get to these events.

Of course, being the land of this many lakes, there is plenty of fishing, boating, waterskiing, and all of those other things that I have never bothered to do. Maybe it's time I got out there and claimed my Michigan heritage, huh!?

Sleeping Bear Dunes, Michigan

Cadillac is divided into two parts: Cadillac, and Cadillac West. To get to the main part of town, you can come in on Business 131, exit off of the 131 expressway, or come in from the east on M-55. The main part of town has modern chain lodging, shopping, dining, and entertainment venues, as well as a charming downtown district.

You can get to Cadillac West from M-115, or come in from the west on M-55. If you are already in the main part of Cadillac, you can drive around the lake to get to the westside, or take Sunnyside Dr, Division Rd, or Thirteenth St to M-115.

Cadillac West has more lodging, including the Sands which sits right on the water and has a little bar. There you will also find another bowling alley, a skating rink, more waterfront that you'll know what to do with!

Staying in or around the Cadillac, MI area is easy as there are plenty of places, from budget options like RV parks and cabins, to better lodging like Hermann's European Inn, with a wonderful restaurant and café below the rooms. There are numerous tiny rentals, a lovely State Park with hookups, and my couch. Kidding. Any of you show up here with your sleeping bag and... well, I really don't know what I'd do!

Food is abundant, as one of Michigan's official pastimes is eating. Just look at us. Ugh. Anyhow, since I'm one of the foodies, I may as well advise you on gastronomical entities. Dining on the westside tends to be a bit better. There is Lakeside Charlies, which sits on the water and serves a pretty broad menu of nicer foods and wine. The Marina sits on the other lake and has a nice boat theme inside, very comfortable dining. Italian food is their main fare. The Timbers is a little hike north out of town, but worth the drive for their most excellent prime rib and beer. A recent addition this year, Da Dawg House has an unfortunate name but decent coneys and grease-down breakfasts.

Travelling into the main part of town, avoiding at all costs the chains, we have Herradura's Mexican Restaurant on the south end of town. This is locally owned, with excellent Mexican food and great service. Further into town- you'll pass it if you're not looking- there is a little convenience store called G & D's. They make pizza there, and if you want to try it, I recommend buying it by the slice. Ofr some reason, the whole pizzas aren't nearly as good. I hear they put beer in their crust, but am not sure. Either way, their by-the-slice pizza is cheap, hot, and yummy!

Downtown has a few options, not the least of which is the newer Shay Station. Although the food is mediocre, the atmosphere is lively and pleasant. You can get a decent cup of tea there, read a book, listen to live music on the weekends, and shop for little gifty things that are often found in these kind of places.
The Sweet Shop is owned by a truly sweet family, and their local confections are pleasing, priced well, and fun to shop for.
The Blue Heron is absolutely one of our favorite places to eat in town. They have a wonderful breakfast, doughnuts, bread, cake, and homemade granola. I'd pass on the muffins, but their soups and sandwiches have never failed to please. Try a nutty donut- a local favorite! The Blue Heron uses higher quality flour, no preseratives, and ethics when they cook and serve. If you don't mind the clatches of old people that hang out all day, you will love this local favorite.

Of the three Chinese restaurants in town, House of Hunan seems to have the highest quality of food, and is a rather pleasant place to while away a lunch hour.

Of course, when you're all done playing, swimming, eating, and camping, you can always check out Cadillac's finest jewelry store! Not that we're biased or anything...

A Tale of First Loves- Culinary and Human

Gatlinburg, Tennessee, 1989. I was twelve, just beginning to take an interest in life outside of fairy tale books.

At that time my dad owned a little floundering jewelry store on the sixth floor of the Mountain Mall. I would come to work most days with him, doing my best to help wait on the few customers, occasionally puttering with the wax that has since become my life. I had friend next door whose dad owned both the fur and carpet shops on our floor. We would play together, catching crawfish in the river out back or burying ourselves beneath Oriental rugs in the storeroom. A couple of floors down was a magic shop, and if I stopped by long enough I was guaranteed a demonstration of the latest novelty trick. Escalators connected all six floors, and my sisters and I would take turns racing the wrong way, courting scoldings from some of the other store proprietors. At the time, Gatlinburg residents got into most of the tourist traps for free, and I’d spend long happy hours inside Ripley’s Believe It Or Not and Fannie Farkle’s.

I had a lot of freedom back then, my dad was too preoccupied with life to be overly concerned with me. He’d often give me three bucks to get a Wendy’s salad down on the ground floor. That was back in the day of the legendary Superbar. Don’t you wish they’d bring that back? My thirty-year old GI tract probably couldn’t handle it now.

My favorite thing to do that summer was hit the salad section of the Superbar, loading that plastic plate high with lettuce, peas, mushrooms, red onions and croutons. I’d pop a few cherry tomatoes on the side, scatter sunflower seeds all over the place (once I picked the raisins out and carefully put them back. Man, I was a nasty kid) and ladle a generous amount of their lovely ranch dressing all over. I can still taste that salad in all its vernal perfection.

One sticky summer day I walked downstairs as usual, clutching my paltry three dollars in the pocket of my hot pink jumpsuit. (Don’t you love the 80s? Bad fashion and food for less than ten dollars…) I rounded the corner, carefully stepping on the parquetry flooring that ran parallel to the street, and came up short in front of Wendy’s.

The Superbar was closed for cleaning.

Being a hungry adolescent, I wasn’t about to wait forty minutes for the thing to be restocked and reopened. I needed food, and soon. My eyes cast around for another idea. I knew that the restaurants up the street were fairly expensive, and didn’t want to venture outside of the mall that day. The only other choice that presented itself to me was the Irish pub next door to the tobacconist’s. I’d never set foot inside, but I’d seen people eating at the long laminated bar. I stepped inside,

“Bit early in the day to start drinking, eh?” The voice came from a handsome man, dark hair setting off eyes that crinkled at the corners. He sounded different from the natives I’d grown accustomed to, a Yankee accent, like mine. I smiled shyly at him and was rewarded with further eye-crinkling.
“I-I just need lunch.” I stammered, embarrassed to be in this den of adulthood.
He jerked his thumb at a dry-erase board, still almost a novelty back then. The board hung on the wall behind the bar, between signs for Guinness and Budweiser, elixirs which I would remain innocent of for another several years. Scrawled on the board were prices for the standard bar burger, some sort of chili dog with too many toppings, and something called an Irish Taco.

It was exactly $3.00.

“I’ll take that, please.” I pointed at the bottom line on the whiteboard and spread my bedraggled dollars on the bar. The handsome face grinned, told me to have a seat, and ducked under the bar for a carryout container.
I clambered up on the tall stool and sat watching his back. He moved with an easy grace, one that I’ve since come to know as congruous with that of an experienced bartender. He opened a foil packet of Fritos, dumped them into the black plastic dish, and tossed the bag in the trash without looking. In the little food prep station, there was a chafing dish on simmer. He flipped the lid open, winked at me in the mirror, and poured a heaping ladle of chili all over the Fritos.
“You like spicy stuff?” he asked. I nodded dumbly. I didn’t notice it particularly then, but now I remember that he never called me ‘kid’, ‘squirt’, or any of the other demeaning nicknames grownups often tag children with.

Maybe that’s why I fell in love with him.

Or maybe it was the beautiful way he handled things, like he gloried in the simple pure contact with everyday things. I had often watched my mom chop tomatoes- chop, chop chop! I had even done it myself, but never had I seen someone bend his head over the cutting board and carefully, almost tenderly, cut a razor-thin perfect round slice of the red fruit. To this day I cannot slice a tomato like that, it always has one edge thicker or angled off.

He threw a dollop of sour cream on top of the chili, then threw those perfect tomato slices all over, not caring in the least for his masterpiece of shaving.

I had never been interested in an older man until that point. Looking back now, in order to have worked in a liquor establishment, he must have been at least 21, but he seemed young to my twelve year old eyes. He had a solid and lovely chest under the ratty tee shirt, and his white apron draped easily on well-proportioned hips.
“Want a beer, too?” his light mocking caught me off-guard.
“No thank you.” I replied, blissfully unaware of the fact that I wouldn’t have even been able to order one.
“Then how about green onions, on top of the taco? It comes with it, but most people don’t want them.”
Green onions have always been a weakness of mine.
“Oh, of course!”
“Good!” he smiled, and his eyes crinkled again, “It’s the only way to eat it.” Whereupon he proceeded to sprinkle finely minced green all over my lunch.

With that same rapid grace, he flipped a lid onto the mess, slid it across the bar towards me, and punched keys on the register. It came to $3.12
“Oh!” I flushed, panic setting in, “I only have the three d-“
“Don’t worry about it!” he cut me off, waving away my protestations, “I’ve got it. Enjoy your lunch.”

I don’t remember getting back to the store, five flights of stairs with that hot dish in my hands. My heart was hammering as I scrambled onto the stool near my dad’s repair bench. Opening the box, I could almost feel myself salivating, and I can taste that first bite to this very day.

Every respectable bar has at least one dish that they cook well. For some, it’s a burger, others- wings. In South Bend, there’s an Irish pub that makes a divine stew, liberally seasoned with Guinness Stout. For this bar, whatever its name was, the dish was chili. Meaty, spicy, rich and warm, their chili was perfect. Coupled with the salty corn chips, cool sour cream, and the fresh tomato and green onion, it was a dish I would be happy to eat at any elegant restaurant.

Irish Tacos soon trumped Wendy’s Superbar for lunch. Not only did they taste better, but no one at Wendy’s flirted gently with me, or gave me free New York Seltzer Chocolate Seltzers, or cut their tomatoes with such a craftsman’s hand. I made sure to always bring four or five dollars after that, leaving the change in a little pile on the bar top for my Chili Knight. We moved away late that summer and I have never been back, not in all of these eighteen years since. I’ve encountered the same dish since, called anything from Walking Tacos to Chili Pie, but no one (not even me!) has ever made it taste quite as good.

So wherever you are, man that cuts tomatoes nicely and is friendly to shy children, thank you.