Making it in Toledo

I have always been fascinated by magic.  Not sleight-of-hand, not the kind of magic that manipulates objects, even if the objects are very big or even human.  That doesn’t interest me.  I like magic that transforms and creates. The kind of magic that can produce The Night Circus.

 It is simply there, when yesterday it was not… Erin Morgenstern

The kind of old magic that could save England.

I reached out my hand, England’s rivers turned and flowed the other way…
I reached out my hand, my enemies’s blood stopt in their veins…
I reached out my hand; thought and memory flew out of my enemies’ heads like a flock of starlings;
My enemies crumpled like empty sacks.
I came to them out of mists and rain;
I came to them in dreams at midnight;
I came to them in a flock of ravens that filled a northern sky at dawn;
When they thought themselves safe I came to them in a cry that broke the silence of a winter wood…  Susannah Clarke

In real life, the closest I come to that kind of magic is baking bread.  Michael Pollan, in his wonderful book Cooked,  describes the cook as an intermediary between nature and nurture.  In his chapter “Air” which focuses on bread, he argues that unlike grilling or pot-cooking, where the ingredients are more or less recognizable in the final product, bread is different.  The end is so much more than the sum of its parts; something entirely new has been created.

I don’t know whether to be proud of myself or sheepish about this, but over the last two days I made bean bread.  I had made a pot of beans and used them in a recipe for which they had to be drained.  I could not bring myself to throw out that bean water, and after an hour or so of reading Pollan on Tuesday evening it struck me that I could use it as the liquid in a batch of bread.  It turns out I’m not the only one to have had that idea, and I adapted a promising recipe from The Fresh Loaf  .  I mixed the dough last night, retarded it in the refrigerator until morning, and have just taken three loaves out of the oven.  They are not my usual free-form loaf, and this was not my usual purist flour-water-salt-and-yeast approach, but hopefully they will make good sandwiches.  Wish me luck.

I suppose you could say I love outlaw American culture.  Jamaica Kincaid

What is it about outlaws?  I’ve always been drawn to the romance of Robin Hood, Zorro, even Bonnie and Clyde. While I’m in Chicago, since I’m not attending conference sessions with John, I have time to indulge this weakness. On the recommendation of my sister, I’m reading Backlands, the story of Maria Bonita and her bandit husband Lampiao, based on a real gang who terrorized the rich and powerful in a large part of Brazil for several decades early in the 20th century.

Here’s one of my favorite passages so far, describing an incident in 1926: “NOVEMBER 25: Lampiao takes hostage American representatives from Standard Oil, demanding ransom.  When they explain they have to type the demand in triplicate, he smashes their typewriter, burns their car, and takes them hostage. NOVEMBER 26: Violent skirmish outside of Morada, with Pernambuco troops, attempting to rescue the hostages. The fight lasts all day and all night, until Lampiao, with a hundred and twenty men, puts the troops to flight. Ransom is then paid, and the hostages set free.”

The author, Victoria Shorr, manage to combine a love story with a philosophical examination of the remote geography of the barren scrublands, which supported indigenous Indians for centuries, combined with the arrival of the Portugese and the subsequent creation of large ranches which were doomed to fail, led inevitably to the society which produced Lampiao, a victim who decided to strike back.

Recommended reading, if you love outlaw culture too.

 

Jennifer Rockwood and I were never close friends.  I first met her almost forty years ago, and I’ve been an admirer ever since.  Our circles overlapped and our lives have intersected periodically. When I became the first woman to serve as executive director of the county D party, Jennifer, after viewing the local media coverage, intervened.  She called me with advice (NEVER wear shiny dangly earrings on television) and referrals – for new glasses, a haircut, and a makeup lesson.  I think her motivation was not just to help me succeed but to make sure that my image inspired other women.Those who know me know that I would have resented that advice from almost anyone else, but from Jennifer it was a gift.  I still buy my glasses from Georgeanne, and Carmen still cuts my hair.  While I was a party leader, I occasionally turned to Jennifer to help tune up a candidate’s public persona.  Her analysis was always insightful and often surprising. While I worked at UT, I watched how she inspired students and inspired their growth.

I’ll miss her.

I have never lived on a farm, and I probably never will.  I’m okay with that.  The house where I grew up was on two acres completely surrounded by dairy farms, and I’ve worked with enough farmers to know that they work harder than I do or want to.  I’m delighted to be a member of a CSA and a regular shopper at the Toledo Farmers Market.  But this weekend I jumped at the chance to visit the farm that produces the eggs, chickens, and the pork I’ve purchased this season.  The drive out to Weber Ranch was about 40 minutes, much of it alongside fields of undoubtedly-GMO corn.  I passed several men on riding mowers, diligently maintaining lawns guaranteed to be hostile to all wildlife, including birds and pollinators.  I saw a lot of sprawl.  But then I arrived at the ranch.  We loaded my chickens (15, for the winter) into my coolers, and then I had a tour!

 

Tony and Michelle Weber are first-generation farmers, and they purchased the farm just a couple of years ago. It’s an old farm which has had only a few owners, and they’ve been able to learn a little bit about its history.  Although it’s not the one pictured, the farm did have a windmill, as well as a water tower and a smoke house.

 

 

 

Like all the Weber’s animals, the chickens spend most of their time outside, but this, the farm’s original homestead, is where the chickens brood.  Not, of course, in the Shakespearean sense, but where they lay their eggs and raise their chicks.

 

 

 

The pigs were enjoying corn cobs and looking forward to pumpkins but will soon be turned out to forage in the woods where they will get acorns as well. They’re Berkshires, and I can vouch for their deliciousness. Honestly, I can no longer enjoy grocery-store meat, and without the Webers and other local farmers I’d probably be a vegetarian.

 

 

Next door is a field of beans, and even after 40+ years in Ohio I was struck by its flatness.  I buy beans from Rancho Gordo in California, and, judging from the wide choice of heirloom varieties offered there, I don’t think their growers are mono-culturing like most Northwest Ohio farmers.

 

 

 

The grapes on our vines at home have never survived the deer, but at Weber Ranch the dogs scare off the deer and the chickens take care of the insect grubs, so Michelle’s harvest was enough for her to make grape juice and jam.  I made grape jam this year too, from seedless grapes I found at the store, but only 3 jars and I’ve already given away two!

 

Apparently deer don’t like most herbs, so when I got home I made Chicken Provencal with chicken from Weber Ranch and herbs from my garden.  I’m grateful for both.

“There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.”
― Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac

 

 

 

I was county party chair, and we were in the midst of a divisive mayoral race between longtime Lucas County Treasurer and Ohio  House Minority Leader Jack Ford, whose campaign was being run from party headquarters.  It was primary day and, after dawn patrol,  I’d come home to nap.  The phone woke me up, and that’s how I learned that the twin towers were under attack.  Although what was happening in New York was overwhelming, the craziness in Toledo claimed my attention for most of the rest of the day.  I was on the county board of elections, and I went to that office  where, believe it or not, a secretary had just announced to the media that the election was cancelled.  It was chaos. The rest of the day was spent reassuring people that an attack on Toledo was unlikely, urging them to vote,  and trying to figure out how, under these circumstances, the vote would turn out.

Fourteen years later, another divisive mayoral election is ongoing.  My involvement is limited to writing a couple of checks.  The Middle East is still turbulent. I have  visited two countries in the region since 9-11.   I  visited three of the four quarters of  Jerusalem’s old city in one short and exhausting day at the end of a week of greenhouse visits.   I walked the Via Dolorosa on Palm Sunday.  Just a year after 9-11, I travled to Lebanon as part of a US State Department-sponsored trip focused on the role of women in politics.  Each day we traveled out from our hotel in Beirut to visit a different project and a different NGO, accompanied by the women who had created these NGO’s to provide crucial services during the war, when the government was virtually non-existent.  One day we  were panelists at a workshop, followed by a traditional lunch, at a community center in the Bekaa Valley, which I particularly remember. The breads were amazing, and I was introduced to ouzo.  The building was open to the air, and Syrian tanks were in the background, just across the border.

We also visited Ba’albeck, where Joan Baez, Ella Fitzgerald and Miles Davis have performed amid Roman ruins, which are built upon Greek ruins, which were built on a thriving Phoenician town.  The cell phone reception was terrific, which was certainly not the case in Toledo at that time.

 

If I had not learned it before, these trips taught me that our history helps to shape our future, and that history, especially in the Middle East, is complex.   Thinking about history puts 9-11 in a whole different perspective.  Thinking about the Middle East puts Toledo politics in perspective too.

The only thing that is constant is change.  Heraclitus

“Theatres are curious places, magician’s trick-boxes where the golden memories of dramatic triumphs linger like nostalgic ghosts, and where the unexplainable, the fantastic, the tragic, the comic and the absurd are routine occurences on and off the stage. Murders, mayhem, politcal intrigue, lucrative business, secret assignations, and of course, dinner.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

Last weekend we made a hastily planned trip to the Stratford Festival.  For a while this was an annual event for us, and I hope it will be again.  In addition to being home to the Festival’s three theaters, Stratford is a charming and affordable small walkable city with wonderful food  only four hours from home.  I had no problem booking tickets, probably because we were more than open to matinee performances, which allow us to indulge in leisurely dinners. Since it was a holiday weekend, it took a little bit of work to find a place to stay, and for the first time I chose a motel out of town over a bed and breakfast.  One advantage was that  this afforded us the chance to have breakfast/brunch out instead of sharing the traditional good-but-unexciting B&B offering with strangers.  John always strikes up an interesting (at least to him) conversation with our fellow B&B guests, but I generally just want to be somewhere else.

We arrived in time for dinner on Friday, without reservations.  As soon as we had checked in, 8:00 came, the evening performances began, and we had plenty of choices for where to eat.  We picked a small place with good service, an interesting menu, and even some local wines.  The restaurant was on Wellington near City Hall, which seems to be the hot new area of town.

 Our seats at a window table made for great people-watching, which is always fun in Stratford.  We saw adorable children, elegant (and not so elegant) women of all ages, and an interesting young couple one of whom had a spiked collar and backpack while the other was incredibly beautiful and seemingly genderless, dressed all in black of course.  Saturday’s brunch was at Monforte on Wellington, the osteria associated with a local dairy.  We sat outside in a small patio completely “roofed” with umbrellas at every table, and, in addition to our fellow diners, several bees kept us company and shared our meal.  Next  year I want to visit the home farm too.

Our only planned-in-advance meal was Saturday evening at Bijou, which we stumbled across last year and vowed to return.  I had a Sauvignon Blanc from Niagara with dinner and an ice cider after.

For Sunday brunch before the play we chose Mercer Hall on Ontario Street, Stratford’s main drag, and we were lucky enough to arrive and order before the arrival of some huge parties filled up the front rooms. They served the prettiest smoked salmon platter I’ve ever seen, followed by housemade ramen in pork broth with pork, smoked salmon, and a poached egg. .      

And the plays!  I thought I remembered seeing Taming of the Shrew before, but if so I don’t remember being so frustrated with such a disagreeable message being delivered in such an amusing way. The promotional materials boast that Deborah Hay’s performance as Kate is one we’ll talk about having seen, and, having seen it, I can believe that.  Liner notes suggested that perhaps Katerina’s taming was all an act, just one more instance of role-playing within the play-within-a-play.  I think I will choose to look at it that way.  The entertainment started even before the play began, with music and wardrobe-fussing and pratfalls on stage.

Similar mental ajustment was required to appreciate The Sound of Music.  My later research suggests that few who knew Maria Von Trapp would have described her as  a moonbeam.  But for 3 hours on Sunday I admired the children, despised the Nazi officers, and rooted for Maria and her family. There were tears in my eyes at least once.

It was a good visit.

 

I feel there’s a power in theatre, but it’s an indirect power. It’s like the relationship of the sleeper to the unconscious. You discover things you can’t afford to countenance in waking life. You can forget them, remember them a day later or not have any idea what they are about.  Tony Kushner

Yesterday we went to a block party.  What a lot of memories that inspires.  The same block where we met our new neighbors at a party 35 years ago, just a couple of weeks after we moved in and just a couple of days after Olivia was born.  Some of the same neighbors, too.  I didn’t take any pictures, although there was much that was picture-worthy.  Most things were a lot like 1980. Lovely food, that goes without saying.  Frozen daiquiris in pretty glasses. Expectant mothers.  Proud fathers. And children, the youngest of whom, Jaaz, was just a couple of weeks older than my granddaughter Aloisa.  Women in colorful saris. (One difference from 1980).  There was a stroller/bike parade.  Just before we arrived, there was a fox sighting in the yard of the house on the corner. (That’s new too, along with the deer menace.)

So many things have happened in those 35 years, and I have changed so much, that it was almost surreal how much the same the party was.  Comforting, in a way, and, in other ways, challenging.  Certainly I feel that I’m “making it” in Toledo, as are all my neighbors.  That’s never been enough for me, but I’m not sure quite what else I’m working toward right now.

I’ve just finished reading two books by Jo Walton, The Just City and The Philosopher Kings.  At least the characters in these books know what they are seeking. If you enjoy philosophy, and if you want to be thought-provoked, I recommend them.

The heaviest penalty for declining to rule is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself.”  Plato, The Republic

 

I love the garden in the morning.

I have three terra cotta toppers, a bonus I found at Rancho Gordo in Napa.  I’ve been buying dried beans from Steve Sando by mail ever since I discovered them at the Ferry Market on a visit to San Francisco.   When we were in the area (but not really close), John indulged my need to visit the store, and I was not disappointed.  Probably not too many people travel to Napa for the Mexican pottery.

Every spring I build bamboo pole teepees, and usually I grow my own beans on them. I tried that with one this year, but it’s completely bare, thanks to the deer.  This one did better, with “Blushing Susie” Thunbergia from Bench Farms.  The foliage is rough and smells vaguely bad, but isn’t it pretty in the morning sun?

A few years ago on an impulse I bought three Berggarten Sage plants at Mulberry Creek Herb Farm.  Much to my delight, they are not only hardy, beautiful, and fragrant, but they seem to be deer-proof.  They’re perfect for fried sage leaves . When I make those, I feel almost Italian.  Just thinking about that is enough to convince me that I need to buy one more bottle of Campari before the season ends.

 

 

 

My daughter Olivia spent her junior year in South Africa, at the University of Durban.  During the winter holidays, which of course are summer there, she traveled and explored the region.  I don’t know where she bought this chair, or its larger companion, but she shipped them both home, wrapped in brown paper and string, and they have finally found a home in my garden.   The construction is ingenious, and Olivia assures me that they are sturdy enough even for the men who make and sell them.

 

 

Speaking of sturdy, several years ago I planted bronze fennel.  It was glorious, about six feet tall, and it attracted more butterflies than I have ever had before.  There were so many caterpillars on the leaves that it also attracted birds.  I collected fennel seeds by the pint jar.  At the end of the season we realized that the roots were almost as deep as the plants were tall, and since we try to rotate crops in our small raised beds that was not a good thing.  Bronze fennel still appears throughout the garden, but it’s under control this year, and, yes, it is deer-proof.

Maybe this will be the year I refresh the fennel seeds in my pantry.

 

 

 

 

 

I ahould have known better than to read the Ta-Nehisi Coates book right after reading the Rolling Stone article on climate change.  How do you cope in a situation where you feel powerless ?  I don’t cope well.

Today I had three surprises that, somehow, have helped.  When I fed the pond goldfish, as I do every day, the first surprise was perched on the pond rim: a small toad, about half an inch long. At first I thought it was an insect.  Before it darted under the rocks that line the pond, I wanted to document this, so I grabbed my i-pad.  When I came back a second, smaller yet, was waiting for me.

Next to the pond, after I weeded out the stray grasses and clover and violets, this lovely fern has come out of nowhere.  Although I used to try to be in control of my gardens, I’ve come to appreciate the volunteers, and this one is promising.

 

Finally, this pink flower, which was promised to attract hummingbirds to the pond but has not yet drawn them away from the feeder, is in glorious bloom. I can see it from my kitchen, and from the screened porch.

There is little I can do about climate change, but I try.  There is nothing I can do to change the truths that Coates describes so eloquently.  I take some comfort and joy in the life that is flourishing in our backyard after 35 years of  sporadic and mostly toxic-free growing.

What else can I do?

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector’s passion borders on the chaos of memories.    Walter Benjamin

I read posts about minimalism, and I admire those who practice it.  Not me.  I like things.  I like making things, and I like collecting things, especially when they have a story.

I brought this glass home from Venezuela, purchased on a day-trip from an Aruba vacation in 1990.  After a quick flight, we risked our lives on a terrifying bus ride, brave tourists transported to a factory in the mountains where Murano-style glass was (is?) made in the Venetian style, under the direction of a Venetian immigrant.  The glass was one of four, and the only one still intact.  One was broken and two are cracked, but I keep them anyway and will happily drink wine from them, ignoring the danger and continuing the adventure.

I don’t know who made this glass, but I do know who gave it to me.  My friend Polly noticed my collection of carnival glass tumblers and added several, including this one which immediately became my favorite.  The design around the rim is called fruit of plenty, and I like to drink cold tea from it when I am home alone.

This small bowl probably came from an estate sale years ago, or maybe from one of the local antique shops.  I have three, and I fill them with salt for dinner parties, usually with a small wooden spoon but sometimes I just let people use their fingers.  I love dinner parties.  Sometimes it’s nice to go out and be waited on, but there’s something special about dinners with friends at home.

Every week during the season we pick up our CSA share.  Our farmers grow the vegetables, but most of the fruit is from other local farms.  This week we got peaches, and I bought nectarines from the store.  This jam is a mixture of the two fruits, infused with just a bit of lemon verbena.  I’ve shared one jar with Polly, and I’ll take some when I visit my daughter in Chicago later this month.  Sometime this winter, when it’s cold and snowy, the jars we keep will help us to remember summer.