Minnesota

I spend a fair amount of time in places other than my Midwest Wisconsin home. Therefore, I need to lodge a complaint to the rest of America. I am not, repeat not, from Minnesota (or Minn-ah-soda, if pronounced with the regional accent). Nor do I have any desire to be a Golden Gopher.

People in New Mexico are amused that many Americans mistake their state for an entire country, Mexico. We Wisconsinites have no such luck. We are diminished to the status of a gigantic Minneapolis suburb.

My aunt's eye doctor (in New Mexico which I know is a state) is a prime example. He knows I fly in to accompany my aunt to her appointments. Yet every visit he says to me, "How are things in - um - Minnesota?" "Great, as far as I know," I reply. And then I tell him for the umpteenth time that I live in Wisconsin. I am seriously considering wearing a large cheesehead to my aunt's next appointment. A Green Bay Packer sweatshirt will probably be necessary, too.

Wisconsin is desperately in need of a serious branding campaign. Our license plates meekly say "America's Dairyland". I suggest we replace this with "Eat Cheese or Die". That will get us a bit of well-deserved attention. Residents of the Big Mitten, rise up! We've got nothing to lose - but Minnesota.

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Treasures

Japan wisely designates certain special citizens as living national treasures. If America ever becomes enlightened enough to emulate this practice, I know exactly who I would nominate. The apple lady would get my vote.

I met this amazing woman by default. Every fall I do a children's program, "All About Apples", which combines botany, folklore, nutrition and my own unabashed love for the fruit. I start the program by introducing the apple family - Mac, Milton, Jonathan, Paula Red, Granny Smith, Fuji, Ida Red and more choice specimens from the apple family tree.

In pursuit of as many apple varieties as possible, I head to the West Allis Farmers Market. One memorable year, I stopped at the sprawling stand of one of the biggest orchards and politely asked for one apple of each variety. The owner derisively replied, "Oh, you're one of those", meaning, of course, another grade school teacher wasting his time.

I left his display and found a small stand in a far corner of the market. A solitary older woman manned the stall, and her face looked exactly like that of an apple doll; browned, happy and weathered by many seasons in the sun.

She met my request with unparalleled enthusiasm and told me about her family's orchard which is devoted to saving antique apples. I learned that America loses hundreds of apple varieties each year. I already knew that most kids think an apple is a rock hard, utterly tasteless, corporately grown Red Delicious.

She introduced me to her apple family - apples grown since the time of Thomas Jefferson, apples perfect for pie making, an apple called Alexander which was first cultivated in Russia in the 1700's. And then she showed me an unassuming smallish Pink Pearl apple which wasn't very pink at all; that is, until it's cut open. The entire inside of the fruit is a delicate shade of pink. What kid, especially girls, can resist the charms of a pink apple?

"Come back next month," the apple lady always says. "Wolf River and Spy will be ready then." I'll take her up on that.

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Scoop

My father once bought a half gallon carton of Sealtest New York Cherry Vanilla Ice Cream every week for thirty-two weeks. When my father discovered something good, he saw no reason to change course. It took me about thirty-two years to be able to put a spoonful of that flavor in my mouth again.

We always ate out on Saturday night, and my dad's unbroken record in this department outlasted the cherry vanilla siege. My mother would ask, "Where would you like to go to eat?" Breaking into a huge smile, my dad would say, "How about a nice chop suey dinner?" Year after year we were faithful weekly patrons at La Choy Chinese Restaurant on North Avenue in Milwaukee. By the time I reached high school, I knew I would never willingly enter another Chinese restaurant for the rest of my life. The words "egg foo yung" still strike terror into my heart.

But genes are tricky things. After I bought my twentieth consecutive box of Trader Joe's Ginger Granola, my husband delicately suggested that there might be other flavors available. He chides me when I am unabashedly my father's daughter. I laugh at myself, too.

I know I'm being completely unadventurous when I discover a favorite dish at a restaurant and order that dish every time. But for me, a dependably great entree trumps the unknown one every time. So if The Flying Star Restaurants ever take Pasta Pomodoro off the menu, I know I'll stage a protest right on the spot. Life is too short to waste a meal and calories on anything else.

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Aliens

My husband came home one day last week and said, "You have to drive past the big cow when you go into town." Although prodded, he declined to elaborate.

A few hours later I drove past the gigantic fiberglass bovine which graces the front lawn of our local ice cream plant. She was wrapped in aluminum foil, shod in foil moon boots and had a green inflatable alien riding on her back.

A drive further into town revealed more aliens looking out of store windows and taking over the townfolks' lawns. Obviously, our closest town, Manitowoc, is giving Roswell, New Mexico, a challenge to their alien supremacy.

The occasion for the invasion was Sputnikfest, the brain child of the new head of our art museum. I applaud her; she apparently reasoned that if art won't get people in the doors of the museum, maybe aliens will.

Sputnikfest memorializes the night of September 5, 1962 when a 20 1/2 pound piece of metal from Russia's disintegrating Sputnik IV was found embedded in the street in front of the museum. A capsule account follows:

Two police officers on routine patrol spotted what they thought to be crumpled cardboard on the roadway at 5:45AM. Passing by again at 6:45AM, they noted the object was metal and stopped to move it. It was too hot to handle, so they shoved it to the curb with their feet. Cruising by once more at 8:00AM, they noted it was still warm. At noon the officers learned that the Milwaukee Astronomical Society was asking for reports from anyone finding pieces of the disintegrating Sputnik Satellite. The officers returned to the spot, loaded the suspicious, smoldering metal into their patrol car and brought it to police headquarters for questioning.

It is only logical that the anniversary of this event makes a perfect excuse to drink beer, listen to 60's music and view spacey art.

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Aliens

My husband came home one day last week and said, "You have to drive past the big cow when you go into town." Although prodded, he declined to elaborate.

A few hours later I drove past the gigantic fiberglass bovine which graces the front lawn of our local ice cream plant. She was wrapped in aluminum foil, shod in foil moon boots and had a green inflatable alien riding on her back.

A drive further into town revealed more aliens looking out of store windows and taking over the townfolks' lawns. Obviously, our closest town, Manitowoc, is giving Roswell, New Mexico, a challenge to their alien supremacy.

The occasion for the invasion was Sputnikfest, the brain child of the new head of our art museum. I applaud her; she apparently reasoned that if art won't get people in the doors of the museum, maybe aliens will.

Sputnikfest memorializes the night of September 5, 1962 when a 20 1/2 pound piece of metal from Russia's disintegrating Sputnik IV was found embedded in the street in front of the museum. A capsule account follows:

Two police officers on routine patrol spotted what they thought to be crumpled cardboard on the roadway at 5:45AM. Passing by again at 6:45AM, they noted the object was metal and stopped to move it. It was too hot to handle, so they shoved it to the curb with their feet. Cruising by once more at 8:00AM, they noted it was still warm. At noon the officers learned that the Milwaukee Astronomical Society was asking for reports from anyone finding pieces of the disintegrating Sputnik Satellite. The officers returned to the spot, loaded the suspicious, smoldering metal into their patrol car and brought it to police headquarters for questioning.

It is only logical that the anniversary of this event makes a perfect excuse to drink beer, listen to 60's music and view spacey art.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Endings

My husband has been increasingly more morose lately, and I know exactly what's wrong. He abhors fall. What I view as the glorious signs of late summer, he sees as the ominous portents of winter.

I have to use every feminine wile I possess to keep him from ripping out all our beautiful yellow plumes of goldenrod. He is unfazed when I point out that our local nursery sells a small pot of it for nine dollars. To him those glowing plants are sure signs that blizzards are on their way.

I love autumn and see it with different eyes. All the plants and animals have been working at peak speed all summer, growing and reproducing. Now is the time to ratchet down and relax for a while.

The prairie grasses have given up on pumping out their chlorophyll and are content to bask in shades of gold. The tree leaves forget about green as well and reveal the glorious colors they were hiding all summer long. The giant sea grass that lines our front drive are sporting white plumes. No more pushing to the sun for them. The cup plants are also at their full eight foot heights and have invited all the finches and butterflies over to drink and dine.

Meanwhile, the sun has noticeably given up its northern journey and is content to set much earlier. Monarchs and many of our birds begin following it in pursuit of never ending summer. Those of us who stay behind gather up the largesse from summer and cache it. I use my freezer; the squirrels and jays prefer holes in trees.

My husband will never believe this, but, if we are lucky, these lazy, generous days can last all the way to Halloween. It's not over until the last leaf falls.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Endings

My husband has been increasingly more morose lately, and I know exactly what's wrong. He abhors fall. What I view as the glorious signs of late summer, he sees as the ominous portents of winter.

I have to use every feminine wile I possess to keep him from ripping out all our beautiful yellow plumes of goldenrod. He is unfazed when I point out that our local nursery sells a small pot of it for nine dollars. To him those glowing plants are sure signs that blizzards are on their way.

I love autumn and see it with different eyes. All the plants and animals have been working at peak speed all summer, growing and reproducing. Now is the time to ratchet down and relax for a while.

The prairie grasses have given up on pumping out their chlorophyll and are content to bask in shades of gold. The tree leaves forget about green as well and reveal the glorious colors they were hiding all summer long. The giant sea grass that lines our front drive are sporting white plumes. No more pushing to the sun for them. The cup plants are also at their full eight foot heights and have invited all the finches and butterflies over to drink and dine.

Meanwhile, the sun has noticeably given up its northern journey and is content to set much earlier. Monarchs and many of our birds begin following it in pursuit of never ending summer. Those of us who stay behind gather up the largesse from summer and cache it. I use my freezer; the squirrels and jays prefer holes in trees.

My husband will never believe this, but, if we are lucky, these lazy, generous days can last all the way to Halloween. It's not over until the last leaf falls.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment