Sketches from Spain:
Croquetas de Trucha
y Jamon Iberico

"When I ordered the eel, Jose brought me a plate of these croquetas and then went out to the vivero to net the rest of my lunch." Jeff Koehler, from Spain














Don Quixote himself, we are sure, once rode Rocinante through the hillsides of San Facundo in the far northwest corner of Castilla y Leon.  He had hoped to find respite there at its cool waters from his adventures jousting windmills and courting the fine princesses of the day for the sake of their

rescue from some such daily terror.  It is said that he once sat in the very seat of an inn at the edge of town, now called Las Hoyas where the chef by name of Jose Arias serves three ancient dishes from the time of Quixote.  The innkeeper had approached, as the story goes, with a very short list of offerings from the kitchen, which was nothing more than a brick oven and open flame fire.  He asked what the traveler might have, perhaps Escalavida? Yes? To start with a Papasalinas? A small cup of

port to mull these options over?  Don Quixote, who had walked in with a leather riding bag had set it down on the ground near the table chair next to him.  Yet as it sat there, the innkeeper noticed that it still moved inside and wondered if this weary traveler kept a cat a companion.  There were certainly no cats allowed in this inn! Enough of horse play -- the cat would raid the stores of fresh meat and who knows what else.  "I have just been down to the Facundo waters and I wonder if you might use these?" the traveler appealed as he held up his bag.  "I have spent three nights now out on the open ground under the stars.  They are all eyes you know, as the ancients could only know, and they blink at us as women of the night.  I have spoken to them.  The whisper as the wind." The innkeeper had

seen the type many a time.  The witching hour turns the most substantial of men to shadows of themselves and behind the grand pines lay shadows who speak more often than we think.  "I believe these are trout.  I caught them with my lance with the help of my steed." The lance was five feet long and these trout had no holes to speak of.  "Oh yes, we make the most delectable croquetas de trucha on God's earth." Out of his side pocket Quixote held out a pink chunk of ham and as he asked to also include this, the name stayed and trout and ham this way has been enjoyed from the Facundo creek from that day forward.

"If we can somehow retain places where we can always sense the mystery of the unknown, our lives will be richer." Sigurd Olson, from "Mystery and the Unknown" Reflections from the North Country






There is no easier thing to do for the modern man than to lose touch with nature.  At no other time in the history of mankind has there been so many other things to keep us occupied, distracted, and thinking we're invisibly busy.  Many values associated with connection to nature, whatever that might mean for any given person, have in fact convoluted to the point that experiencing nature for its own sake is generally looked down upon as silly or not entertaining.  Those more modern ideas take hold and become, like virtually everything else, 'popular.' The question comes up: what is in nature for me?  What do I get from it? It's not that exciting. I don't really want to think about nothing, or certainly not that I am connected.  Many know that this is clearly a wrong perception, but how to fix it when there is no there 'there?'

This is quite possibly the very crux of the problem of the modern mind: we don't actually know earth, our place in it, or our connection to it. As exaggerated as this no doubt sounds, the evidence that it is verifiably true is constant and impossible to miss.  When asked what do you do? the modern person will provide a litany of details that cling to the multiple interfaces with a virtual and digital world.  How to navigate the circular bubbles that are apps on phones? Affirmative.  What it means as you walk along the creakily boarded trail of a lush rehabilitated woodland prairie swamp? Well, what for? There is nothing happening except for the brief chatter of a bird, bugs stirring under the weeds and the wind is not cooperating.

To enter into the mind of the woodland swamp takes much time and energy.  To conceive that the great filtering mass of green below and tree above is a collection of molecules nearly identical to those found in the human body is inconceivable, detestable.  And yet, as the walker moves along the sloshing edges of that trail and hears and hears the last of the croaking frogs wildly going about her business, the hawk hover and squeal, and the water seep through the minute filaments of each crooked shank of cattail reed, he is witnessing a pulsing health that he can only wish was as greenly

thriving inside the ventricles of his own heart, his bones, his body, his mind.  The Zen have been remarking for centuries that it is the quiet mind that knows the quiet tree, for they are, upon contact, the same thing.  I do wonder what has happened when the mind filled with the flapping lips of the sixth TV talk show host of the day or the squalid contours of empty chat rooms, dark, empty, non organic, can no longer see himself as the swampland willow tree? There is little mystery in mastering the game of visible digital chunks laced across the screen by nothing more than cathode ray tubes and artificial pixels.  The mystery lies inside the molecules of the roots which have no end, are meaning itself, and breath. One mind is shallow, but does not know it; the other deep and always has.

On the Yahara A-Z

T.

Tea at Ha Long Bay, Willy Street.  With a new penchant for household tea and a loyal interest in authentic Asian food, it was only a matter of time before we would walk the five blocks to get to the famed multi-Asian restaurant Ha Long Bay.  The location name is based on the Vietnamese legend "Bay of the Descending Dragon," in which it was a dragon defending her children that spit out the jewels that became the islands and islets of the world renown bay.

Once inside, you can come to both see and smell what attracted Andrew Zimmerman to this place for the sampling of the varied and native created menu who included, on his visit, egg rolls wrapped in

spring roll and the amazing pho soup.  We began our culinary journey with a nice kettle of loose leaf ginger tea and sipped its freshness while looking out from a corner seat the window overlooking Willy Street itself and other lunchgoers popping into Grampas Pizza or Lazy Jane's bakery across the

street.  The egg rolls here and dumplings are made with an expert's touch -- instead of the tendency of the homemade versions of these becoming dry or overcooked, these were fresh and delicate to the

touch, like a delicacy bordering on dessert.  My own Ga Kho Gurng (Ginger Chicken) was chosen at medium spicy and was one of the great prepared Asian meals I had had; seeped chicken, broccoli, carrots and asparagus over a wonderful broth was warming and memorable on a rainy sunday afternoon.

"This is the hour for strange effects in light and shade – enough to make a colorist go delirious – long spokes of molten silver sent horizontally through the trees (now in their brightest tenderest green), each leaf and branch of endless foliage a lit-up miracle..." Whitman, from Speciman Days






9/24


Porta Bella


All of the city at dawn and beyond but a play of light and shadow as the thousands of high climbing windows glow or conceal, the vestibules burn red along state street by diadems of blinking neon or the timber fixtures of new signs hanging in handmade patterns.  The colorist walks by and listens to all the shades and sees them as but a play orchestrated among edges and curves of what is singing.  As we walk into the courtyard of Porta Bella it is the folded up umbrellas of summer's last tables that now look cold and angered to the rain and wind.  I know of no other crabapple tree that so transforms a miniature landscape, its old root branches reaching out over the stone walk to dark door leading within.  The skyway is open to stars. The red berries sit like handheld lanterns which blink at every passing apparition.

"Fine, clear, dazzling morning, the sun an hour high, the air just tart enough." Whitman, from Specimen Days










9/4

Jenifer Street

Green of river willows lush yet in September along the Yahara and Jenifer street from the days' long rain, the morning dews, fogs, hails and menacing thunders of the late summer nights, deep in shade and dripping wet along the iron porch railings and spiral ivy. At any brief glance down the side streets of Baldwin and Patterson, Ingersoll and Brearly, those grand blotches of iron gray water off Lake Monona send out signals of hope for the day adventurer; mothers still zip their children into small raincoats and onto the large wheeled strollers for runs they go; the old gardeners stoop over the wet canopies of tiger lily and late bloom orchid where underneath in their own small worlds the chipmunks slink back under cracked porches to hide stores of sour nuts.  Quiet, quiet is the solemn rainy day, quiet is the emerald gloom which haunts the back alleys but that must hide somewhere under the back bushes for the coming of the golden queen of the skies soon.

Sketches from Spain

"Or, as the refrain goes, 'Con pan y vino se and el camino' (With bread and wine the trail can be walked). Shepherds know that one well." – from Spain by Jeff Koehler

















The Spanish barman of old found that if he slipped a crusty day-old piece of bread with olive on it over the rim of the wine glass, well, maybe the patron would be more likely to ask for a bit more of both.  What is commonly now called tapas used to be called 'lids,' and we might easily picture a more than friendly competition arriving among the seaside saloons just who might come up with the most creative topping for the lids.  The patrons, more than obliged to give a nod to each and sip, crawled from pub to pub to taste in what is called a tapear, or in essence a pub crawl.  Underneath the modern complexity, always harkening back to the ancient and the local, is the Spanish pan, or bread, ranging

from classic large, round country loaves to long, this barras de pan (barra means bar or rod). Bread in Spain is most often bought in a bakery and seldomly wasted, hence the natural origin of the tapas as a great usage for day old bar bread.  "Bueno es pan, y major, con also que agregar" – "Bread is good, but better with something to go with it." And so the simplest of any starter tapas the Pa Amb

Tomaquet, or country bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil.  Simply find a good likeness to the wide slices of pa de pages (crusty Catalan round-loaf), toast it, mark up the sides with the cut end of a garlic clove, then rub cut tomatoes firmly over the bread while squeezing some of the juices.  Place over the rim of a favorite beer and wine and it is tapas from the Mediterranean at home.

On the Yahara A-Z

S.

Sole Baja Tacos and Spinach Focaccia Turkey from the test kitchen at Riverside Drive.  Baja tacos are a fun way to use white fish instead of beef for the standard weeknight meal.  I've tried many

recipes for fish tacos over the year and most of the components remain the same -- a nice thin easy to cook white fish, usually cabbage, some diced tomatoes, maybe a hint of lime and some sort of sauce if desired.  The choice of white fish always seems to vary, depending on what is available in the meat counter and what looks vibrantly white on ice.  Cod, haddock, rockfish, halibut, even perch I have tried in the past, with varying degrees of success, mostly depending on how well the fish takes

seasoning and whether or not it has aged well frozen or over ice.  This last batch I tried sole for the first time, very thin stripped filets found in Madison's Festival store. At a medium to low heat, the filets took little more than seven minutes per side and seasoned with a lemon pepper spice, the sole held its shape well, browned well without sticking, and its inherent taste didn't conflict with the spice, making it a very successful meat to simple spatula right from the pan onto the soft shell taco.  Although this time I chose a small green cabbage to chop as the main compliment in the taco, I've had better luck with either red cabbage, or a sort of 2-1 ration red to green cabbage, dripped with lime and a pinch of salt, previously; this head was small and ended up far too chewy and dominated the fragile fish underneath.  I added black beans, hydroponic tomatoes and a few large drops of avocado ranch for the sauce.  Wrap these up, bite in, and it is still the great fish that comes through as the strongest flavor.

Test kitchen also revealed this past week that focaccia bread freshly baked from Festival is the most flavorful bread we've yet used for our sandwich and panini experiments ongoing for years now.  We have tried recipes for muffalettas and many other varieties of paninis over the years with great

success with country breads, ryes, and even homemade thick cut whites or wheats.  But the spinach feta focaccia bread, think, sour-tangy from the cheese, and seasoned over the top, is a great place to put thin sliced hogshead turkey, a backyard tomato slice and a slathering of pesto mayo concoction.  No need for the panini iron -- this bread is to moist to try to ruin by drying out with a browning.

Sketches from Spain: Buscando Setas
at Can Culleretes Barcelona

He had been thinking about what the great Catalan chef Santi Santaria once said of his beloved buscando setas (mushrooms), that they are the "muse of the forest...that free us from the temptation to forget that nature is the creator and, at the same time, the most colossal, seductive, and mysterious creation. Only nature surpasses nature," when he split away from the others along the Tapinera colonnade at the Barri Gotic. He had come all this way to walk in through the doors of the oldest restaurant in Barcelona, the Can Culleretes, located in old town at the Gothic Quarter since

1786.  The facade and spire of the great cathedral loomed up from the ground as if a city onto itself running into the sky with as many neighborhoods and open spaces along its jagged contours as any block in a city street.  He could smell the earthy perfume of the mushrooms, so popular among the

traditional Spanish chefs who often collect their own daily batches from the far reaches of the surrounding hills.  The mushroom gatherer, he had read, would cut the chanterelles or milk caps with a knife and bring them back in wicker baskets to be served as the finest of the seasonal Crema de Setas de Temporada (cream of mushroom).  This recipe would take chopped leeks, garlic and heavy

cream for the thick stew, to be served with a smattering of whole mushrooms served on top.  Can Culleretes was another world onto itself, like the cathedral, but where the seeking of spirit turned to quest for something of more reliable substance in soups and familiar traditional dishes of escudella, butifarra, cannelloni or even mushroom pies.  He snuck to the counter as only a few guests had yet

arrived and asked "cream de setas?"  The waiter, an old man, not much hearing, raised his chin upwards and ducked back to the kitchen for only a few moments then came back with a mere saucer of placid soup.  "Very fresh," he said as best he could in English. "Picked today, out there in the hinterlands." Through a window, only a brief crack between the ancient monuments revealed the azure of the Barcelonan sky.

Arboretum Diary

"The charm of a canoe trip is in the quiet as one drifts along the shores, being a part of rocks and trees and every living thing. How swiftly it changes if all natural sounds are replaced by the explosive violence of combustion engines and speed.  At times on quiet waters one does not speak aloud but only in whispers, for then all noise is sacrilege." Sigurd Olson, from "Silence" The Singing Wilderness







9/11


Unless you have the advantage of being a muskrat, a mink, a dragonfly or a nesting warbler, there are few ways to get inside the real silence of the woodland swamp.  Most green we see from the seat of our boats, or further out yet, traveling by car at 55 around city streets and highways that have made their way like concrete

rivers around so much native wildlife.  Trails here at the Arboretum, on the other hand, lead you in and around the beauty of the periphery of the Curtis Prairie where the Leopold Pines, off in the distance, serve as tall guards against the noise incoming.  A simple walk into the Gallistel Woods, out at the edge of the Longenecker Gardens, and one right turn leads to the wonder of a small patch of city silence which Olson describes above as that last remaining way

for people to pursue spirit.  The walking bridge is the dry version of the canoe trip and provides its curious walkers a frog's perspective of the true cattail foliage; the sounds of the quaking poplars and the croak of the prairie crickets fade like background music to yet another lower decibel as all four sides are surrounded and each step across the planks of old wood sink that much deeper into the dark water below no doubt housing who knows how many other species.  At the end of the walkway, a small

shelter, completely open this early in the morning -- before the time of usual curiosity by most visitors -- and sunk in against the center of a functioning marsh, wild, and where the silence is only disrupted by the turn of the owl's head or the slither of the water snake through a tuft of lily pads.  Here there is no way to know where you are and yet it is the most common and affirming place we could know.  As Olson says of the silence to be found in these rare pockets, "How often we speak of

the great silences of the wilderness and of the importance of preserving them and the wonder and the peace to be found there! .... They will always be there and their beauty may not change, but should their silences be broken, they will never be the same."

Arboretum Diary

"I know a painting so evanescent that it is seldom viewed at all, except by some wandering deer. It is a river who wields the brush, and it is the same river who, before I can bring my friends to view his work, erases it forever from human view. After that it exists only in my mind's eye. – Leopold from "August," Sand County Almanac








9/8

There are moments when the rain passes and is so quickly replaced on the stage of the prairie that it tends to look like two separate landscapes; in the dark and gloom the shade that forms under the hollows of the tall grass and brush become havens for swarms of mosquitos; puddles along the tire lanes that track the gravelly road swamp and become impassable by foot; the chickadees and

warblers scoot under the fallen alders as if hiding from their own chosen phantoms.  Blue sky, a brighter robin's egg than on average, quickly opens all the hidden spaces.  Some hours past noon and the yellow field flowers look like bobbing faces pushing cheeks or closed eyes toward the source of the sun angle in the sky.  Grasshoppers flit sideways down onto the main asphalt path leading to the

Curtis Prairie and play a little game whereby they jump three feet in front of the walkers shoes, then again, and again.  The crickets scaling their legs into tune mix and match pitch in the new found prickly heat.  These are the hours that all of the seekers of the song of the prairie watch for and know

they are no farther than a mile from the Arboretum when sky clears and will see the fresh diamonds of raindrops fall along the stalks of the milkweed while the great Monarchs dry their wings to make their launch a bit easier.  The sole red-tailed hawk zooms in and out of focus as it stares down the villaging field mice as the little chimney swifts play by bird baths that won't last another hour.

On the Yahara A-Z

R.

Recumbant to One Barrel for a Banjo Cat.  The new sleekest ride in town is the Catrike, a low-rider recumbant bike that sports three wheels, the main two of which does not, as most initially imagine,

ride in the back but is set ingeniously at the front of the hips near the seat of the rider.  Turning this sleek cat set up in such a way that all it takes is a slight twist of the wrists and the two steering wheels, virtually connected to the hand and brake grips, are very responsive because of the center of weight distribution.  And so, other than the fact that the Catrike sits so low to the ground you can see the ants crossing the street in front of you, the ride is safe, solid and sleek.  Deck out the Catrike with two grocery bags in back and you have a mobile shopper; put your flag up so that cars know you are down there and you have a town crosser; place a light in front and blinking tail light in back and you have a bar hopper.  It's not much more than a six block cruise to get to One Barrel Brewing Company

near Atwoood on Winnebago street, the small-scale brewer with big ideas, and what many might claim one of the more pure small brewers in Madison whose motto is a tongue and cheek commitment to good beer for everyone, "Veritas Per Crapula: One Barrel Brewing Company is rooted in historic brewing lore.  Founded during the 377th annual meeting of the Gentleman's

Brewing and Distilling Society, it was decreed that OBBC would showcase how approachable making and drinking all manner of beer can be." The lore part might be a bunch of baloney, but the Brewery definitely makes good beer approachable, as all of the means and machinery of production are right there at the end of the bar in vats awaiting their turn for consumption and many of the barley and malts are handpacked inside small twist jars that are tap handles to remind patrons of their of their current tastings.  We tried the Banjo Cat Black India Black Ale as well as a sour ale and a saison

infused, only slightly, with cherries.  The Banjo Cat won out, delivering a viable competitor to any stout or porter in the business.  The black ale is a difficult one to make great, often leaving a bitter residue on the back of the tongue or a sour twang in the belly, but the Banjo Cat includes what is called a dry hop addition that leaves it with a citrusy aroma and wet aftertaste, not a deep or dark linger.  Whatever it all is, the Black and the Penguin are fast becoming city favorites and can be found in beer departments around the state.  A growler just fits in the side bag of a well-lit Catrike at night.

On the Yahara A-Z

Q.

Quann Park.  It would be impossible to write about the new experience of living in Madison, WI – with a daughter on the Edgewood varsity tennis team – without mentioning Quann Park.

Quann is a fairly amazing plot of land, situated at the back end of the Alliant Energy Center off of John Nolen and Olin drives.  It includes a vast green space known as a pet park.  Here is where people from around the city arrive to get away from their more limited doggy spaces back in the neighborhood and let their pets run free to do what dogs do best – run, bark, poop and pee.  Here is also the location of an enormous tennis court complex that Edgewood varsity tennis calls home.  The problem is that it is several miles away from the school itself, so all players have to get a ride to these courts after school by 4, and then also need to find rides home.  Some parents of players live at the very outer edges of the Madison area, such as Sun Prairie, Oregon, or Verona; so that if the player is a sophomore or a freshman without transportation, the parent would have to pick up the player at Edgewood, take them to Quann, perhaps even drive back home for the practice then come back to get them at 6:00.  Quann tennis park, in this way, becomes one of the most familiar parts of the drivers' day, often crossing the infamous Madison crosstown traffic any number of times daily.  Luckily, for most, the oft travelled route runs along a route that is very scenic, past and underneath the beautiful

white contrast of the Monona Terrace rising up from Lake Monona and on past Brittingham Beach, where, on warm days, long lines of stand up paddlers cross the blue waters and up at a glance you might catch a glimpse of the tallest building in Madison, the capital dome itself.

On the Yahara A-Z

P.

Pleasant Ridge Reserve on the French Exit, Underground Butcher, Willy Street. As you walk in the doors of the authentic old blacksmith shop from the 1870's turned modern butcher, you are taken

back by the wide variety of custom cut meats and charcuterie displayed in the cases.  Up along one broadside of a hanging rafter are selections drawn out in chalk, including daily menu items of fresh cut sandwiches and an east Madison famous take out brisket meal that you can call for ahead.  And

then there is the simplest item of all, sitting in a basket pre-made on the front counter, what is called the French Exit sandwich.  Looking like nothing more than a standard French baguette cut in half and draped by sausage, this only tells a small part of the story; bite into the crisp, downright rigid, baguette and inside is the wonderful concoction of thinly sliced Underground Salami, a pinch of

slathered dijon, aioli and a knock out cheese by world famous Wisconsin dairy Upland Cheese called Plesant Ridge Reserve.  The farmers at Upland take their cheese very seriously and it has been rewarded for its care by becoming the most highly prized in America winning best of shows multiple years.  It's always hard to know just what the difference is between the standard grocery cheese and

the so called good stuff...until it goes on a sandwich alongside hand-crafted salami.  The two family cheese operation describes it like this, "In mid-summer, when the cows are the peak of their production, a batch of cheese may yield up to 78, 10lb wheels a day.  Because we're very particular about using milk from only the best pasture conditions, the weather largely determines how many batches we can make in a year.  When the pasture conditions aren't ideal, we sell the milk.  Some years we're able to make more cheese than other years.  This may seem like a luxury, but using only the ideal milk is the most important way we ensure the quality of our cheese." This commitment to the process of a slow made cheese fits in with grass fed, no additives, production of the meat sold at Underground.  When these two combine, one bite might send you back to the 1870's when food tasted like what it was.