Black River

"Along the sandbars flocks
Of white egrets roost,
Each one clenched like a fist.'
         – Du Fu, from "Brimming Water"








My paddle cuts through
the waning reflections of sun.
Two old floating houses
sit at the end of the bay
empty, cocked, sinking.
Near December first freeze
nothing is alive in the sky.
I pass under a bald eagle.
It is perched on the limb
of a black river oak lonely,
an old man in an overcoat.
I glide for a moment silent.

Tagine Tuesday

"I didn't grow up eating tagine, but after dining in restaurants in Morocco, and in Tunisian restaurants in Paris, Marbella and New York, I grew to love the mix of dried fruits, vegetables and chicken." – Rawia Bashara, from Olives, Lemons and Za'atar










The tagine has a long and storied history in middle eastern and north African cuisine – the origins of the dish dating back to Berbers of 7th century, evolving through the varying presences of Portugal, Spain, France, and now finding its way back to more and more cookbooks which both bemoan the loss of such slow cooking necessary for the proper tagine, but also celebrating its essential components of spices such as coriander, turmeric, cumin, saffron, cardamon, and fruits such as dates, figs or apricots, depending.  As all of the literature is sure to point out, the sort of symbol of Morroccon cuisine, the tagine, isn't necessarily the list of ingredients, but it is both the clay dish used to cook and the mode of heat, traditionally over hot coals. The tagine is a two part pot, a base that holds the various ingredients, and the top, shaped like a cone with an exhaust spout on top which allows the steam from the meat, fruit, nuts, and spices to recirculate back on itself, creating a kind of ragout of shredded meat and vegetables, aromatic, and bursting, no doubt with flavors that likely would transport the diner to the streets of Moroccan Casablanca.

I did not have a tagine, but most of everything else for the fig and ginger chicken tajine recipe out of the wonderful Mediterranean Paleo Cookbook. There is really nothing quite like one pots based on chicken thighs, and so I coated mine with a specialty rotisserie chicken spice then browned them on both sides in oil. I added a quarter of an onion – I don't like meals that are dominated by diced onions, but also wouldn't do without their contribution – then decided to add in a pinch of diced garlic, a pinch of cumin, coriander and salt, then diced in some cremona mushrooms for texture and aroma. I cut eight carrots lengthwise and then quartered them and tossed them for stark color and texture. The recipe at this point (not followed particularly closely to this point...but what are you to do without a tagine in the first place?) called for a full 4 cups of chicken stock but I left it a one cup, hoping for less time cooking over the stove top and for more potent flavor without the dilution of three extra cups of water. The liquid barely filled up alongside of the chicken thighs, I added around ten chopped dates, then let simmer until the liquid reduced to something like a heavy goo. The thighs came out as mini masterpieces of fusion, covered by a near gravy, with the carrots and the figs as nice counterpoints to the heaviness. On the side, a small batch of tabouleh, grainy, light, and sprinkled with a bit of mint.  What I came away with from this recipe was an understanding that the tagine might very well be something of an originally wonderful seasonal delight, in which the cook could take hands full of what was available, and that in the right portions you really end up with a slow cooker process that celebrates the smells and flavors of what is available.

Devil's Lake 

"How is Mountain Tai?
Its green is seen beyond State Qi and State Lu,
a distillation of creation's spirit and beauty.
It's slopes split day into yin and yang."
       – Du Fu, "Looking at Mount Tai"






Devil's Doorway
(Three Poems)

1.

We rise over narrow sunlit steps.
Chiseled flat and tilted backwards
the traveler does not mis-step.
The rocks become a stairway
up through a stationary palace.
Behind us, to our backs, we could
grow wings and dive like hawks
directly into the glacial lake.
Forward we might step into shadows.
Long ago devil's doorway glowed.


2.

Home is not waiting in the city.
Home is at the top on the quartzite
ridges which stand tall and fold
out like hard palms out over water.
Junipers break out from crevasses
like old men, withered, brittle,
silent, they see that you are coming
and your welcome is a gnarled
embrace, a small offering of berries.
From here, they say, you could
throw a berry and it would drop
to the bottom of the lake and grow.

3.

Along the East Bluff trail
we see the visitors come and go.
They have come from the backside
of the rim, under forest cover,
through the floating blanket of leaves.
We wonder where we would
plant a new home; near the creek?
We climb down a rock face
and slide through a thousand leaves
and land into an ancient rockfall.
Nothing scampers, there is no noise.
"It would take at least three weeks
to build a home before first snow."

The Making of Maftool

"Maftool is made with what seems like an absurd amount of pearl onions. Peeling them is one of the most time-consuming steps in making the dish. For my parents, though, it was the most charmed." – Rawia Bishara, from Olives, Lemons, & Za'atar










A mere two generations is not all that long ago. Bishara, in her wonderful middle eastern home cooking book, refers to these two generations throughout her book in describing the amount of time it has taken for her native culture at Nazareth to lose many of the slow food preparations which were taught her either by her grandmother or her parents. She says that there was much romance to the making of Maftool, "a pasta that is often incorrectly referred to as Israeli couscous here in America." As a young girl, she had looked forward to the ritual associated with the making of dish. In what came to be seen as a show of chivalry, her father used to enter into the kitchen so to help with the mountain of pearl onions, each one needing to be peeled in a long and laborious process that is often skipped when making the dish these days. "Because he hated to see her cry, my father always stepped in to tackle the mountain of onions on the kitchen counter. This may not seem especially gallant these days, but back then, men simply did not carry their weight in the kitchen. Watching my dad peel all those onions made me swoon." Maftool is made of an elaborate spice and onion combination – caraway, allspice, cumin, coriander, nutmeg, cardamon, pearl and yellow onions – and topped, in this case, by any available shredded leftover chicken, and served with a side of chickpeas. "It used to be that the whole family gathered to make homemade Maftool. These days, almost no one makes it by hand, which is not surprising, since the process is very involved."

Ode to Balanced Rock
Devil's Lake

"here I shall be again the movement
of the water, of
its wild heart,
here I shall be both lost and found–
here I shall be perhaps both stone and silence."
  – Neruda, from "I Will Come Back"









The ancients
had called the pine
the grand old man
who stood in the open,
perhaps sprouted
out from between
the narrowly
chiseled stones,
worn by ancient winds,
and understanding
rippled over the surfaces
flattened
by the thousands
of pelting raindrops.
Grand old man
of wisdom
taught the children
who would come
at the behest
of the parents
what it meant
to seek by eyes
that were roots
moisture and a firm
grip
gnarled in among
time itself
to release
sniffing upwards
for the smell
of the sun.
We come to see
him today
at Devil's Lake,
wisdom
alongside the rock
that looks to teeter
but too holds
to a forever
that we cannot
know among
our streets
among our cars
which roll
past all wisdom
of lakes and trees,
wisdom of the fallen
leaves,
of the last
parade of geese
who steer
over the blue
ether by the throb
of an ancient
skull tuned to another
turn of the earth.
The rock
and the pine
are where you go
to see yourself
in one thousand
years.
The faces
of all who climb
the quartzite boulders
are etched here
as monuments
along
with the wind,
old as the pine,
side by side
whose story
is rarely told.

Ode to the Upper Yahara

"Last night
she
came,
livid,
night-blue,
wine-red:
the tempest
with her
hair of water,
eyes of cold fire..."
                                  – Neruda, from "Ode to the Storm"

1.

Where will
you go
when the day
comes
where there
are no hindrances?
You are patience,
for that comes
with such a blue
vision,
through Cherokee
marsh
you spring
as an infant
from an unknown
womb
and perhaps
it is dirt
and rock
that you come
to wish home?
Eyeing
then the needle grass
loam
of the peat moss
you learn
the kernels
of soft earth
only until
that small river
breaks
and plunges to lake,
Mendota
another mother
shared by rain
and a thousand
others.

Ode the Blackriver Eagle

"Bird
most pure,
I knew you alive,
electric,
excited,
murmurous,
a fragrant
arrow
your body was."
                                      – Neruda, from "Ode to the Yellow Bird"



All the other wings
have left,
lifted over
the coming draft,
that pain
of ice,
eyes that thin,
for the southern
winds,
where they might
drift down
along ancient
soothing corridors
to land among
the warm
waters of the Caribbean.
Yet not
for the Blackriver
bald eagle,
her talons
still cling
to the leafless willow
her eyes creased,
stones of vision
cast out over
the windy chop
of the slowly
freezing bay
for fish who
wander, secure
in their blindness,
the surface
for the last
of the circling
insects.

We wander
together now.
The white ice will come.
Long crystals
will hide the fish.
The teetering
willow cannot
guard the cupped
sticks
of the feather
blanketed nest
and we wonder
all winter
what comes
of the skin
of your neck,
that thick scarf
of white?
Men will plunge
holes in the ice
but leave
little
of their catch.
In among the backwaters
mice might
scuttle through
cold tunnels
against the crisp
towers
of big bluestem
cringing
in the wind,
yet that is less.
What inside
the mind
knew there would
be open water
along
the Blackriver?
Mind and river
merge
to think nothing
but rocky
banks
where I've
seen you wait,
a slight
rising of wing,
hard as statue
taking time
the wind
up its winding column
then, an arrow,
silver light,
take an offering
under the February
water made
yellow by a faraway
sun.

Some Notes on Middle Eastern
Home Cooking

"From the north still came a faint snarl of hungry blond men gnashing at raw meat, and an occasional whiff of carrion, that sweet wild sickening smell. But all around the Mediterranean and to the east, a ring of good things was sprouting. Gradually fig trees were planted, and then grapes, and wheat grew because men made it."
           –MFK Fisher, from "Greek Honey and the Hon-Zo"









Rawia Bishara, author of Olives, Lemons & Za'atar says in her introduction that in her native Nazareth that the word Rawia means 'storyteller,' and that is what she is and does through cooking. She says she was born into a food loving family in souther Galilee in which the ideas, not the phrases specifically, of organic, locavore and sustainable were ones they lived by. "My grandmother always had several ceramic urns filled with fruity olive oil, pressed from the olives my aunts and uncles picked on her family's land. My mother, too, made her own olive oil, and used used the remaining 'crude' to make soap. She distilled her own vinegar, sun dried herbs and fruits, made fresh batches of goat cheese as well as fermented sweet wine, and jarred jewel-colored jams from the bounty of the local orchards. Pictures accompanying her introduction show sun soaked photographs of this Mediterranean climate, a landscape at the outskirts of the city markets, that are rocky scrub brush, fig trees sprouting in the background. "The drive from Nazareth was itself was a food lover's dream. A colorful mosaic of rooftops stretched into the horizon, each one laden with vegetables and herbs drying in the sun. There were plum tomatoes, eggplant, okra, wheat, sesame seeds, thyme, sumac, figs, apricots, and spearmint..."  Her journey from these 'food' roads to New York City, where she would eventually create the wildly popular middle eastern eatery Tanoreen, comes forward in recipes that she has translated from Galilee to America like falafel, Arabic bread, and Baba Ghanouj, a primarily eggplant-based recipe that becomes a beautiful spread. "My dad used to say that the key to making excellent baba is to begin with grilled eggplant made by setting the vegetable directly over hot coals or the flame of a gas stove, imparting a lovely smoky flavor."


Baba Ghanouj

Makes 6-8 Servings

3 medium eggplants
1 1/2 cups Thick Tahini Sauce
2 cloves garlic
Fresh lemon juice
1/4 c olive oil
2 tbsp fresh parsley
Arabic bread for serving

Sidenotes on Middle Eastern
Homecooking

"It is to Arabs what a hamburger is to Americans: Falafel is Middle Eastern fast food. In Nazareth, falafel stands are on what seems like every street corner. You order, add your own salads and pickles, and eat quickly." –Rawia Bishara, from Olives, Lemons & Za'atar










A recent surprise visit to the Olive Mediterranean Grill downtown Evanston, has us thumbing back through the wonderful recipes found in this unique, family-spun cookbook by Bishara who owns and operates Tanoreen in Brooklyn.  Falafel can be found more and more at local fresh restaurants and even pre-made in grocery stores – they are dense, filling, and very flavorful, merging flavors onion, garlic, cilantro, chickpeas and the seasonings of coriander, cumin and sea salt. Bishara says that her own favorite way to eat her falafel is "stuffed into Arabic bread and topped with fried eggplant, pickles, Tetbileh, fresh lemon juice, pickled purple eggplant, red cabbage salad, fresh tomatoes and various sauces. This mixing together is definitely the invitation that we found as well as the Olive Med. Grill, where dollops of hummus and Baba Ghanouj was set alongside couscous, spiced chicken and a large strip of pita bread: delicious finger food. Just as she mentions in previous pages, describing the important celebration of a Lebanese wedding, that in this culture less is not more and feasts are true priorities for events.

"The French are not normally sentimental about their food, but they do like whatever it is they are about to eat to look happy. (It is, as these fortunate creatures should realize, a great compliment that a Frenchman would consider them worthy of consumption.) Thus, in butcher's shops and market stands, on posters and wrapping paper, you will see anthropomorphic expressions applied to the most unlikely faces. Chickens smile, cows laugh, pigs beam, rabbits wink, and fish smirk. All of them seem to be thrilled that they will be making an important contribution to dinner." – Peter Mayle, from French Lessons






It takes no time at all to seek out a recipe for what used to be a simple dish in a more sophisticated cookbook. This is a common enough situation to find oneself in as the never ending daily wrestling match between time on hand and tastes in sight have to work themselves out to produce something that is invariable both good and relatively fast. I already had just such a simple but flavorful idea in mind for salmon burgers, consisting of bad dried and shredded salmon, a couple of eggs, spices of choice, and breadcrumbs – easy enough to mix until the consistency is such that they will hold up over heat in patties. The inherent strength of flavor of the salmon along with the spice of the breadcrumb turned a wonderful and easy match. But what to place along the side? Fingering through my least sophisticated French cookbook, I saw what looked to be the shortest ingredients list I've ever seen, only three entries! Although there was not picture, I imagined the enticing green color of pea soups of my youth, a very common canned soup which, with the right amount of water, was just fine for a K-5 eater. This one called for nothing more than two bags of bright green peas, 3 cups of water, and some cream! Add spice where needed. I was a small bit skeptical of its ease. Peas on their own are, of course, just fine, but do they add to easy and edible whole? I boiled the green peas and simply experimented with the amount of water I poured along with them into the blender to puree. Not too runny, not to thick, plus a cup of cream was to be added in.  A few pulses and a few tinkering with the  liquid level, then the cream for both thickening, richness and coloration, and I dipped a finger into the top of the pea puree. The simple pea came through beautifully. In fact, the simple pea had been transformed. Where the standard little pea is sometimes hard to get to its essence, even with a mouthful, the pea puree was a concoction of all of peas goodness, a sort rich and earthy warm comfort that was both recognizable but new. One bite of salmon burger, one spoonful of pea soup, and a wednesday night at 5:30 had just been turned to simple but gourmet, the best combination.

Scenes of Evanston

"The walls are covered with shining copper dishes, round and oval, deep and shallow. They have strong handles; some are made in the shape of pudding or a fish. There is a clock and stone jar with fresh parselely in it, lots of big and little knives, wooden spoons, beaters, mashers, cleaners, sieves and, on a shelf, long rows of jars that hold nutmeg, bay leaves, vanilla sticks, raisins, paprika, cinnamon and cloves." –Ludwig Bemelmans, from "The Kitchen of the Golden Basket"







There are some little restaurants out there in the world that reside on big city corners, all lit up in such and such away that it owns the block. The diner, seeking not merely a landing zone, but a place one could call home... if for only a couple of hours. At these city corners you might find a seat near the corner of the place and watch the traffic outside – cold outside, breath puffing up by the passers-by – but that very well adds to the fact that you are in a new seat overlooking the pristine bar, warm inside and out, and wonder what it would be like to turn this surriptisious little joint your own, as a regular. There is much of this at the Farmhouse in Evanston, attached as it is to a hopping hotel, its little turn-in for incoming guests abuzz with the plop of new luggage and valets so busy nothing more than a thin hotel jacket is necessary. Some hotel restaurants get it right, dead on, others become something of regretful connections. I remember very well the wonderful French Restaurant Brasserie Jo attached to the Colonnade in which the restaurant became the point of gravity, not the hotel lobby, as it too was set along Huntington Street where the long lights of taxis could be watched for hours in delight. The Farmhouse is the kind of loud of a city bar where locals might gather on a friday night for their local watering hole as well as well as the travelers. Here the ambience doesn't tend too far away from its storefront namesake, Farmhouse; all things that the imagination could wildly conceive, with a padded budget, has been done here, but not overdone. You are temporarily suspended inside a two story luxury barnhouse, all the accoutrements picked up with taste but not so exclusive as to dim the desires of the patrons to treat is a comfortable place to eat and blurt out. The food is nearly perfect in conception, offering local flavors from local farms that are named in the titles of the menu. The duck I ordered here the first time I tried was roasted as a confit with a berry glaze that was subtle and a perfect match to the rich and dense meat. At that hour, it was considerably earlier in the day, before the entree hour, and I sat nearly alone along the side of the bar and watched over the taps selection with special interest: you can find out a lot about any restaurant by where they're getting the beer from. A wonderful tap by Nectar carried a mead, what I found to be a wonderful concoction of ale, wine and honey. As they eyes closed and the duck lingered in among the soft palate of honey, I wondered if I might soon become a farmer.

Scenes of Evanston

"The cause of my promotion was a waiter's mutiny. On a rainy afternoon several of the waiters had suddenly thrown down their napkins and aprons and walked out. One had punched the chief busboy in the nose and another had upset a tray filled with Spode demitasse cups." Ludwig Behelmans, from "Art at the Hotel Splendide"








As we drove in the dark of the night to a hotel that we had only previously seen in pictures, the Margarita Old European Inn, tucked away from the more glossy downtown selection in Evanston, we saw a vision of light and of a facade that struck us the color of orange marmalade. The grounds out front were particularly white and striking, offering up the occasional bush and plant box. Wide open windows revealed the now modern familiar beams and rafters of the more up tempo brew pubs that mix and match iconic styles of perhaps the chateau on the outside and the iron warehouse of the inside – its eclecticism enticing and the hope built from that initial impression is that the beer inside just as much. And so as quickly as we could we found our little European room at the Margarita, up on the third floor, decked out in golden ovular mirror and baroque pillow, drove the necessary half of a block behind the alley to find our parking spot guarded by a hedge and an ancient oak, then walked along the dark slate streets of Evanston until the vision appeared again, Smylie's Brewpub. And what a fantastic labyrinth of little dining alleyways and seating pods it was. Cleared out at the main floor, next to the bar, and within sight of the cylindrical metal aging barrels that stand in the corner like high shouldered sentries themselves guarding over their most divine creations.  We sat in among the larger crowds so folded our hats over our hears so that that college hum of voices were muffled just enough leave it all bearable. "I will have the Baltic Porter, Belgian Ale Mussels, and the Roasted Apple Salad!" I believe asked in a louder voice, ears capped, then likely necessary. The staff here was in their hustling hour, to be sure – the late night dinner crowd is not the one that I belong to any more, but remember it well. For my own, the 20 some mussels and light salad topped off by a home tumbler of rich porter was just the touch to relive, even if briefly, the wonderful new world of the high octane, and well appointed brewpub. Not a detail out of place; the food handled by well trained chefs; the beer carrying the kind of richness and complexity that is a mark of brewmaster who knows his stuff, which he does, Smylie himself. What better name to write across the front of this wildly glowing modern chateau of steel and mussels?

November Notes

November 10


Cold, first frost of the month


A bright white layer
of ice crystals line
the narrow space between
the concrete tiles of the front steps,
like a long and splayed
string laid out by the hands
of green maple leaves
that trail and overlap
one another from the lawn
up the walkway as if pulling
toward what must feel
like the breath of a fire
glowing under our door.

Days of the Gristmill

"So he spake on; and Federigo heard
As from afar each softly uttered word,
And drifted onward through the golden gleams
And shadows of the misty seas of dreams...
   –Longfellow, Tales from a Wayside Inn







5.

We know from many testaments,
of traveling mailmen, agents,
itinerant showmen and teamsters,
that the Old Bar Room at the Inn
was a clandestine jolly place,
where, even if it did not show,
a weary rider would no doubt know
that the umbrella of shadowy
breadth of the Matacomet range
drew its breath and would often
blow the foothills at a mighty pace.
By the berth of the Bar Room fire
in the bowels of the Wayside Inn,
under the oak beams overhead
stood the mantelpiece which hung
an old and trusty musket and sword
and a "curious little wooden canteen."
We can just about hear the hum
of tipsy conversation from chairs,
where Adeline Lunt by mid 1880's,
what does she say but that the Squire
"was much afraid of Lightening."
So much so her story goes that he
had the habit of securing the safest
place by positioning his chair
"in the centre of the room."
Outside we must see the romantic
gloom lit by torchlight as usual,
but this night flickered in violence
against the grog sipping inside.
Aunt Margey herself uneasy
from the violence of the storm
in wandering from her kitchen corner
found the squire in his retreat.
Putting up the finger, she ejaculated
"Ha, you can't get away from
the wrath of God" and herself fled.

Cooking with the Seasons
A French Winter

"In the fall we often think of using cabbage or late spinach as the basis of a soup and forget the other greens during this time. Endive is here, along with turnips and mustard greens...I have developed this recipe [Carmalized Pear and Endive Soup] with those throwaways in mind." – Monique Jamet Hooker, from Cooking with the Seasons










Now at its 20th anniversary, Cooking with the Seasons, published in 1997, is what we could estimate as a generally under the radar classic in seasonal, farm to table cooking. Although cookbooks shelves now abound with wonderful and earthy compilations celebrating ideas of natural ingredients, all the way down to the current trend of foraging, fresh farm markets, and certainly slow food, it is very compelling to read of the authentic beginnings of Hooker who grew up on a 'seventeenth century chateau-farm in France. Our daily life and many celebrations may seem to speak with the voice of another era, but it is only the echo of joy I continue to find a table with my family and friends." Monique's masterpiece, then, is a personalized testament to not only local, familial and farm fresh recipes, but they are traditionally French made American. "They are inspired by the dishes and techniques I grew up with in Europe, but they are uniquely American because I've adapted the recipes

to the range and ingredients available to us here." The cookbook not only moves through the seasons, each month including a sort of homage to her homeland, but to the great matriarch of the family, maman, who dedicated her life to cultivation of the farm table. Pictures of family going back to her father's father are scattered throughout the recipes as well as black and white photos of her home and chateaux grounds, creating a kind of winding path of vision from her current table, to yours, the reader, down through the ages into Brittany, France last century.  If there is one thing that is missing in the surplus of farm fresh cookbooks today, it is that they virtually all lack culinary history. The contemporary cookbook showcases new, and very often, vital new workings of old cooking concepts, but rarely are those adaptations recognized fully in terms of their roots. Some make mention of significant others, many do indeed acknowledge to some degree the mother cook of the household, but it is the rare assemblage that steeps us in the nostalgia – interestingly, the very seed beginnings to often read modern cookbooks.

Into Restoration:
Governor Nelson State Park

"Long before the light of the first day of fall had broken, I had climbed to a place on top of the Mounds near the former home of the novelist Frederick Manfred. There ran one of the mysteries of my world, a stone fence extending 1,250 feet to the eastern edge of the Mounds, and so placed that it pointed exactly to the spot on the horizon at which the sun always rises on the spring and fall equinoxes."
                                              – Gruchow, Journal of a Prairie Year




It seems that as the sunless days of November string along so too the narratives of the landscapes diminish, become bare bones and maybe a bit more real. To walk to the top of the old prairie knoll at Governor Nelson State Park off the north shore of Lake Mendota in the middle of the flowering season, every burning color under the blanket of sunlight seems to hold a story up in their leaves, punctuated by wisp of the Prairie Smoke or umbrellaed flop of the Black-eyed Susan. The sky is still telling stories, a mix and match of the airwaves, as songbirds scuttle in among the prairie brush for seeds or insects as the hawk lays on his final seance swirling over entirety of the prairie geography. By offseason november though – the slate of the sky having sunk into lakeside ether seemingly and permanently – its the structures that now take hold of what imagination is left.  The woodland path leads up and through slight galleys, filled to either side by the striving invasive of buckthorn and have grown to a height, here by the near end of autumn, closing in mid tree of the oaks behind.  I now call this a restoration moment. It happens now as you walk along any park path, the moment when you realize that most of the foliage you are looking at doesn't belong, so to speak, in that spot, where once the ground cover would have lived in closer harmony to the revolving protection of oaks, and this would have been savanna. The invasives don't offer much of a story either, a simpler kind of fast-track seeding, edge out the grasses and the prairie clovers, and wave wide leaves around to collect the remaining sunshine.  The trail continues along to Panther Mound, one of hundreds that are still available to see in the Madison area, from the Mound Builders native to these sites and ancestors Ho-Chunk and Winnebagos.  Signs describe the importance of these burial sights, for the deceased to be bound in an afterlife with earth itself. Other buildings, of much more current time, stand at spots along the trail and tell of past usage – an unusual five-walled stop off building with long overhangs and doors set deep into the structure, maybe an old bathroom or small nature center, but clearly no longer in use.  To the front of this building, a short park easement that transitions to lakeside houses benefitting from a particularly wonderful view.  I notice here, as I look out onto quiet but more busy streets of the neighborhood, that, as usual, I am along on this back trail meandering through dark leaves and Indian Mounds and wonder how often the Ho-Chunk themselves found their own trails lining these woods and decided to walk for no reason other scouting nature for leads or even beauty. As the trail climbs up what must be something of a knoll over even drumlin, it crests and and then moves backwards through a much better kept grass prairie with rolling hills, mowed to a lush green  and loops around the outer edges of the park grounds looking out at Mendota. On more dreary days like these, when the full joy of sun and color are not in offering, there is always the panorama that tells story, of the four lakes chain, the marshland just east where the Yahara flows out and gives this part of world its wonderful water. It's at this moment when you can picture a moment of choosing this sight for living, a high ground, full of protection and grasses for usage, the routes for transportation and trade, the sky still wide and quiet, and the savanna, then, a welcome home.

Governor Nelson 

"Among clouds I suddenly meet the new head priest;
on the rocks I spy inscriptions from earlier visits.
Idly I sit peering at a ruined pond where lotuses bloomed..."
    – Ch'i-Chi, "After the Rebellion, Visiting Mountains"








The Woodland Path leads to Panther Mound.
They have created a small brown fence
and a fine plaque to recognize the death
of the ancestors of the Ho-Chunk natives.
You picture the number of men it took
to push and pull such large cargoes of earth
to build over the grave of some known chieftain.
Today I am alone along the underbrush.
Embedded way back in the hollow the oaks
who stand alone, determined, surrounded
by the non natives of buckthorn
or the creeping and girdling bittersweet.
There are a few benches that stand
up at the top of the hollow like lazy old men.

Days of the Gristmill

"Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain,
To this small farm, the last of his domain,
His only comfort and his only care
To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear..."
    –Longfellow, from Tales of A Wayside Inn







4.

We far too often speak of settlers
who had trained choice lots at Sudbury,
the Howes along with the Rutter,
the Bent, the Noyes, came to the coast
in search of a thinking solace
and purpose to tame the chestnut,
the pine and oak to a timber village,
"water resources were available,
wild game and fish plentiful."
But of the Musketaquid Indian,
who wandered the hard foothills
of Mount Nobscot from the time
of continental ancients up through
their tangled decline of the 1630's,
we also must today try to speak,
for we only know the footpaths
that would become Old Post Road.
A single tribe I can only document.
One that started from a strange
journey that covered the Great Lake
of the Huron a meditative water.
We imagine not merely the chief,
all too much has been said of these,
but we will think of a lost daughter,
her name, as far as we can tell,
Shonahzhee, word for wisdom
in a culture bound by known earth.
They say she had been born alone,
along the traces of a village fire,
the mother lended by a local bear,
the father descended from the stars
and both they made a fierce light,
that held their tribe along what
they called the Matacomet range.

Into Restoration:
Some Notes on the Dustbowl

"But it was the May 1934 blow that swept in a new dark age. On 9 May, brown earth from Montana and Wyoming swirled up from the ground, was captured by extremely high-level winds, and was blown eastward toward the Dakotas. More dirt was sucked into the airstream, until 350 million tons were riding toward urban America. By late afternoon the storm had reached Dubuque and Madison, and by evening 12 million pounds of dust were falling like snow over Chicago – 4 pounds for each person in the city." – Worster, from "The Black Blizzards Roll In," Dust Bowl







When thinking about those three location points of context in restoration – what happened, what is happening, and what will happen here – it's usually at the farthest point, into the future, where we visualize difficult things to come as climate change seems to serve up conditions that are more radical and unpredictable. But really we don't need a crystal ball to look ahead; photographs of the great hulking masses of black dust which rolled over small plains towns with the bizarre admixture sometimes of lightening and thunder, was as bad as any man-made disaster has ever been documents. In fact, the Dust Bowl of the "dirty thirties" is considered by many scientists as one of the three worst in known history, the other two the deforestation of China's upland region in 3,000 BC. and the destruction of the Mediterranean by livestock. "Unlike either of those events, however, the Dust Bowl took only 50 years to accomplish." Although of course bizarre and ominous, the black blizzards that rolled in and across America, sometimes (as noted above) all the way from Montana to the east coast at Buffalo, NY, it has to be remembered that the culture at the time would have been working through some very heavy moral and practical set backs already. One – and this might have been far too abstract to consider for many observers at the time who were merely trying to survive – was that the very people of the plains who suffered most from the dust bowl conditions were the very agents of those conditions in the first place.  The backyard gardener, considered in such a smaller scale, is able to quickly see that he or she has not properly attended to weeds, applying nutrients, creating proper spacing, laying down ground cover, etc., and can make the proper adjustments. It would have been unbelievable in the case of the Oklahoman or Kansan of the time visualize the destructive fruits of their labor not merely flash by them here and there, but as was the documented case of Guymon, Oklahoma, for example in the year 1937 550 hours of passing dust. "In Amarillo the worst year was

1935, with a total of 908 hours." Storms could rage for an hour or three and a half days. "Most of the winds came from the southwest, but they also came from the west, north, and northeast, and they could slam against windows and walls with 60 miles per hour force." The dirt they left behind might vary in color and could very well stink or sting nose, eyes, and throat.  These routinely unpredictable flare-up would have been terrifying enough, but it has to be remembered that previous to the dust bowl, there had already been draught across most of the continental U.S., including such extreme heat that states like Iowa registered at 111 degrees and one day in Illinois shot up to 118. The advent of the economic depression had already taken hold as well, leaving people both penniless and in addition houseless against the waves of black storms.

In education, we often pick and choose from a handful of events to teach the more mammoth blunders or tragedies of the past, so that we can recognize their seeds in our times, and hopefully be capable of working through them in a more manageable way.  Just as we continuously look back to the lessons of WWII, it might be of just as important consequences to hold on tight to the conditions of the Dust Bowl. To this day, we know that agriculture in this country is the cause not only of virtually half of all climate change emissions (or lack of carbon sequestration), and that we are losing the black gold of the earth (topsoil) at a rate that is unprecedented. Much of this can go unnoticed because of the surplus of corn stocks and because few farms are merely vacant and ungrown, therefore they look productive. But if productivity means continual tillage, mono crop, pesticides, and lack of agro forestry, we have to understand that underneath the seeming productive layer of green is a disappearing layer of topsoil. A time will come when this too turns closer to dust.

Into Restoration:
The Dust Bowl

"There was nothing in the plains society to check the progress of commercial farming, nothing to prevent it from taking the risks it was willing to take for profit. That is how and why the Dust Bowl came about." – Donald Worster, from Introduction to the Dust Bowl, The Southern Plains in the 1930's










When initiating into the practice of restoration, there comes a moment when it dawns on you that virtually all natural resources are in some way or another a part of the sequence of a restoration process.  In order to get a more accurate assessment of nature as restoration, it seems 'natural' then to always hold a few markers of mind in place – one being the question 'what happened here previously,' 'what is happening now,' and 'how can we attempt a restoration?' The second two questions are good fodder for scientist restorationists, because they have to be able to come to understand the disturbance from which resource sprouted (or died out). To see forward, although aesthetics and future land usage can certainly contribute, is another great mode for the scientist, as she decides on what native regime might take hold now and thrive in a future of changing climate conditions.  There has to be some experiment in this and some hope and maybe a dash of acceptance that plans, when encountered by the first of nature itself, might not produce anticipated results.

The first question, however, 'what happened here before,' is good material for anybody to take a look at.  History is the great platform for all and of all. Even though we are often lead down the path of the warrior, the famous, or the pioneer, the closer truth is that history is movement of everybody in time during a particular period.  To name the cause of the Dustbowl – what Worster points out as one of the three worst ecological tragedies created by man in known history – as just one thing is not likely because it calls into question not just the machine on the farm, or just the greedy capitalist, or just the westward expansion of peoples across the continent, but all of these, plus more. If we think about any period of human history in which there is mass movement from one place to another, without the intricacy of regulations and safeguards, we can assume there will be trouble for both people and for land.  As masses of people came to the plains to stake claims on formerly pristine and productive land, those plots would have looked like a eureka, the potential for gold of a kind that would provide profits and sustenance of cared for properly.

Was it then the very idea of expansion and desire for the eureka of the plains land that was the cause of the dustbowl consequence? "Every society has within it, of course, contradictory values, and America has been no exception. The white pioneers who first came to the southern plains did bring with them religious ideas, family institutions, and other social traditions that opposed or moderated (or reinforced) this economic ethos. But in their behavior toward the land, capitalism was the major defining influence." The pioneer came as a seeker, then as a finder, and, as Worster says, eventually businessman.  This natural motion towards gain, profit, and land as commodity, not only led to the dustbowl, but very much has led then to a modern need for a restoration ethos. As the expansion has died out in some ways because of sheer lack of land to grab, so too have the processes of big ag shown that soil, although obviously resilient, is too organic, living, and must be tended to in ways other than perpetual tillage, hauling, and laid with chemicals.  Unlike the rush toward the Dust Bowl, the rush toward its restoration doesn't have the same numbers, or the same enthusiastic response in undertaking. As the scientist stands in the middle of the restored prairie, the question has to arise how to turn the gleam of gain onto restoration? One can see the hopeful seeds of restoration as business, to get to stakeholders into the market, so that labor is available. To provide some secure incentive and loan apparatus to farmers of concerns that are far larger than they would even choose, to transition small without the fear of total loss, seems a very interesting potential business model. The scaling back seems a vital and interesting way to engage in restoration not only with land but the economic system itself. Natural Capitalism is itself a restoration project.

Days of the Gristmill

"October ends with a delicious Indian-summer day. Drive with Fields to the old Howe Tavern in Sudbury,–alas, no longer an inn! A lovely valley; the winding road shaded by grand old oaks before the house. A rambling, tumble-down old building..."
   – Longfellow, Journal from Oct. 31, 1852







3.


At present time of data and speed
we might ask of the Romantic,
what of these candlelit memories,
of times gone by of the stagecoach
rider carrying its suited passengers
from Cambridge down Old Post Road
the poet of the American century,
to Howe's rambling, tumble-down,
the Wayside Inn near Mt. Holyoke.
The poet's verse so steady and slow,
taking down the silver maker Revere's
presumed ride from Lexington
"A cry of defiance and not of fear"'
the coming of the marching Redcoat.
To a letter composed 1863,
"The Wayside Inn had more foundation
in fact than you may suppose.
The musician is Ole Bull;
the Spanish Jews, Israel Edrehi."

"And when he played, the atmosphere
Was filled with magic, and the ear
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold...
    – Longfellow, Tales of a Wayside Inn







2.

With night of the yearly harvest
now past and the leaves of the forest
blown down onto the rich
green grass jewels of yellows,
coins of golden ochres, color
the old Middle Post Road to Boston.
By way of the Bowery New York
north to the Wayside Sudbury
is the story of the post mail riders
as they rode, we're sure, in earnest,
through the hundreds of colonial
towns, over the torchlit bridges
and through the fog bottom hollows.
At first, then, you must imagine
the sight of the road, gravel and torn.
To the traveller by hoof or foot,
in some places, it had started
no wider than than broad hips
by that venerable tribe Pequot.

Some Notes on Dining
with the Washingtons
A Culinary History

"The domain of soup-making is one which comes in for more than its fair share of attention from the 'creative' cook, a saucepan of innocent-looking soup being a natural magnet to the inventive, and to those who pride themselves on their gifts for inspired improvisations." – Elizabeth David, from French Provincial Cooking









In her wonderful adventure in all things French Provincial cooking, David goes on to the talk about the difference between the soup that has been followed closely by a long-standing recipe and one that has been tinkered with by the license of the inspired cook. For her own preference, anyway, she regretfully has to say that "it may be more fun for the cook, but is seldom so diverting for the people who have to eat his products, because those people who have a sure enough touch to invent successfully in the kitchen without years of experience behind them are very rare indeed." The cookbook as we know it then, and all those recipes that either make it in its table of contents, or the ones that are collected loosely by hand and tucked into its cover, show us the history of trying to introduce uniformity in both production and production of tried and true dishes.  By the late 18th century, there were only a small sampling cookbooks available to either the common cook of a householder or the kitchen supervisor of an estate. Hannah Glass's book The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy, is an exact example, written in almost abruptly common language and often quite vague in step by step instruction, but in its structure, sequence, and index, very much resembles the beginnings of today's standard cookbook assembly.  No doubt inspired by the idea of putting together recipes inside one cover, Martha Washington, along with family and friends, became regular exchangers of recipes, some of them finding their way "through a branch of the Jefferson family...contains twenty-five recipes attributed to Mrs. Washington or the kitchen at Mount Vernon." With Glass as pioneer in the new field of cookbook creation – and the likes of the Washingtons and Jeffersons as famous spreaders of its popularity – other books of its kind came along, and the women creators pushing more of its creative rights. The Experienced English House-keeper, by Elizabeth Raffald (1773-1781), was able to use her name and image "finally selling copyright to her publisher for 1400 lbs." And the Virginia Housewife, written by Mary Randolph (1762-1828) quickly became a southern household name and reprinted in many editions well into the 1860's. Although we can now see the cookbook culture as a long overdue step, at the time they would have been very important steps in the progression of those representing the craft, trade, and work of the cook and kitchen worker. As men might have been out in the field, or the case of the Revolutionary War, soldiering and gaining credit and news, a quite revolution was happening on the domestic front, where food had finally become codified, so to speak, and used as a sort of currency of value and eventually legacy.