The Friday Night Fish Fry - Eating Vicariously

With many folks returning to indoor dining now that the weather is turning cooler, one of my pandemic projects – eating vicariously at memorable venues of the past and writing about them here – has taken a backseat to other projects.  But I still enjoy armchair recollections of favorite eating experiences that remain beyond my reach for any number of reasons.  Most recently I waxed poetic about the iconic Chicago-style hotdog which is difficult to find beyond the environs of Chicagoland.  This autumn I returned to favorite family haunts in southwestern Michigan where I enjoyed a traditional Midwestern Friday night fish fry at Clementine’s, in South Haven on the shores of Lake Michigan, where I was served a “mess of perch” just the way God always meant them to be.  Oh my, were those perch tasty, served with tartar sauce and lemon wedges (more please!), and baked potato, and a thick slice of warm garlic bread.  Oh, finestkind! So, this got me to thinking about all those wonderful Friday fish fries growing up in Midwest America . . . and in Wisconsin to be specific.  Having lived on the Mid Atlantic for the past 46 years, I have missed the tradition of the Friday night fish fries.  
 

One thing that can be said about a Wisconsin Friday night fish fry . . . it’s all about community.  It’s as if the entire state, regardless of where one might reside, or which political or religious beliefs one adheres to, is sitting down to the same meal.  One often goes to the same place and see the same people; something uniquely convivial.  The Germans have a wonderful, almost undefinable word to describe it all . . . die Gemütlichkeit . . . a sense of geniality and friendliness.   Everyone is out doing the same things.  There is no reason to sit home alone.  A Friday night fish fry bring everyone together. 

This Wisconsin tradition can be traced back to the early 19th century when American pioneers and European immigrants – many of them Germans and Poles – settled along the western shoreline of Lake Michigan and its abundant lake and river fisheries.  And it was religion which gave rise to the Friday night fish fry in the first place.  A great many of the early arrivals were Catholic and the Church played a major role in the development of the state’s cultural and religious traditions.   As far back as the mid-13th century canon law forbade Catholics to consume meat on Fridays as a way of commemorating the crucifixion of Jesus Christ on Good Friday.  Many European Catholics brought this practice with them when they settled in America.  By the mid-1960s, the Catholic church changed the rules concerning abstention from meat every Friday of the year and required parishioners to do so only on Fridays during the Lenten season.  By then, however, the Friday night fish fry, which had begun as communal church dinner, had become an integral part of Wisconsin life.

The traditional Friday night fish fry received another boost to its popularity in 1920 with the arrival of Prohibition.  Unable to legally sell alcohol, Wisconsin taverns began to take a lead from the Church and offer fish fries to stimulate business however they could in order to stay open.  Freshwater fish like 

bluegill, perch, and walleye were plentiful, cheap, and easy to prepare.   And the aroma of all you can eat fried fish made it possible to mask the possibility that illegal bootlegged hooch was being served clandestinely.  When Prohibition was finally repealed in 1933, fish fries and the serving of libations of choice became inextricably linked. 

When I speak of a traditional fish fry, I am not talking about an offering of fish and chips – usually deep-fried cod or haddock served with a side of “chips” (the old sod term for French fries) and malt vinegar – served every day of the week.  Wisconsin Friday night fish fries traditionally offer local freshwater fish such as bluegill, lake perch, and walleye which appear on the menu only on Friday evening.  In my mind bluegill is arguably the tastiest fish around followed by lake, or yellow perch.  Walleye, a larger and more substantial fish, is often offered at fish fries, but it's not just reserved for Fridays.  Many restaurants (especially supper clubs) have it on their daily menu all year long.  Areas of the state bordering the Mississippi River (the border with Minnesota and Iowa) will often offer catfish.  Scandinavian settled communities in northern and eastern Wisconsin (especially in Door County, the little finger of land extending into Lake Michigan), favor the fish boil, a variant on the fish fry, which involves heating potatoes, white fish, and salt in a large cauldron.

During the spring smelt run, special "Smelt Fries" pop up around the state.  Smelt are netted in rivers in the early spring and rarely appear on menus any other time of the year. They are small, similar to a sardine, and are served whole with only 

the head, tail, and guts removed.  I introduced my then Florida born and raised fiancée to the joys of fish and smelt fries when she visited me in Milwaukee.  After we were married, we treated some of our Tucson friends to fried smelt in our humble graduate student apartment near campus (it was cheap and easy to fix).  Regardless of which fish is served, beer, another Wisconsin staple, is normally used instead of water or milk to create the frying batter.  It makes it lighter while adding flavor and sometimes color to the mix and very nicely seals in the flavor of the fish.

"When I go to a fish fry, I feel like I'm dining with the whole state," writes Terese Allen, coauthor of The Flavor of Wisconsin (2012) published by the Wisconsin Historical Society.  "I get a very strong sense of connection with my past and my Wisconsin culture. There aren't many food traditions, except for the ones in the home, that are that way anymore. It just feels like something we all get to do together."  It is an “end-of-the-work-week rite . . . that brings people together to celebrate everyday life. It’s not a holiday, but it is a regular special occasion.”  And part of the allure of the fish fry is the ambiance of the establishment where it is enjoyed for whatever reason.   I could not have said it better myself.  

When I was growing up one of the important questions come Friday was where we were going to eat fish tonight.   We would occasionally have it at home, but we very often joined our fellow Wisconsinites at a favorite restaurant – usually near our homes in Madison, Lake Mills, and suburban Milwaukee -- diner, supper club, church community hall, American Legion post depending on what fish was served, the type of batter and seasoning used, and the quality of the various offered side dishes, including potato and macaroni salad, cole slaw, potato pancakes with either apple sauce or maple syrup (or hash browns, fried potatoes or mashed baby reds), rye bread, etc.  And who could forget the lemon wedges, tartar and hot sauces, and malt vinegar.  A serving of baked beans was not uncommon.  Even school cafeterias offered fried fish on Friday – usually fish sticks – served with tater tots or French fries.

Living as close as we do to the Atlantic and the offerings of the Chesapeake Bay, we are in no short supply of some of the best available seafood.   And over the years I have preferred mine broiled, baked, grilled, blackened, poached . . . you name it.  I tend to believe that frying a good piece of fish detracts from its natural tenderness and flavors.  A Wisconsin Friday night fish fry is another matter.   Enjoy your Chilean sea bass, your sushi and sashimi, your sesame encrusted medium rare ahi tuna, your grouper and rockfish fillets and steaks.   But when it comes to Friday evening in Wisconsin, there is nothing better than local bluegills, perch and walleye.   And how do we like it?   Fried of course.

Holiday Cheese Dreams

The holidays are certainly upon us, and with them comes a mail box stuffed full of end of the year pleas for charitable contributions and mail order catalogs of every size and description full of special holiday sales.  I give what I can, and in the era of COVID-19, I am shopping online more frequently.  Never having been a big shopper, I find this alternative more relaxing and satisfying.  Unfortunately, a great deal of this mail ends up in the recycling bin.  That said, I have always looked forward to the annual arrival of two catalogs in particular – The Swiss Colony and Wisconsin Cheeseman, two companies based in Monroe, Wisconsin whose products I have enjoyed for many years, especially during the holidays. 

The Swiss Colony was established in 1926 by Ray Kubly to market mail-order local cheeses.  He later added sausages and various baked goods.  The company changed its name to Colony Brands, Inc. in 2010 to reflect its new position as a parent company for an extensive portfolio of food and non-food subsidiaries and catalogs.  The Wisconsin Cheeseman, a privately held mail-order food gift company established in 1946, publishes several catalogs annually, also featuring Wisconsin cheeses, sausages, chocolates, baked goods and other assorted food gifts.  The company was more recently purchased by Colony Brands, and today the two catalogs are roughly similar in their content.  I still like to peruse each and dream of their mouth-watering offerings.

Back in the day, it was more than just a dream.  When I was returning home to Wisconsin during my holiday breaks from college in the early 1970s, The Swiss Colony still operated brick and mortar stores offering it many products individually and in the various gift boxes still offered through its catalogs.  What a treat it was to wander the aisles enjoying the aromas of fresh cut cheeses and sausages offered as samples to customers.  My favorite was a store located in the nearby Brookfield Mall which also had a small Swiss café in the back . . . a favorite place for soups and sandwiches to fortify one for holiday shopping. 

Those days are far in the past, but I still reflect fondly on them during the holiday season as I peruse this year’s catalogs.  And there is always a possibility that one of those lovely and tasty gift boxes will end up under the tree.

Still Looking Toward Portugal -- Has It Really Been 14 Years??

The past beats inside me like a second heart.

      – John Banville, The Sea (2005)

It was late November 2008 and I was sitting in my in-law's study in Gainesville, Florida where we had assembled for an extended family Thanksgiving celebration in Tallahassee the day before.  I was working on some project notes and it struck me that it might be time to start my own blog.

It was something I had been considering for quite some time.  I had been reading those of others, and I decided I had thoughts and observations I might want to share.  I was not sure how it would play out, if at all, but I decided I was going to take a shot.  One can never tell what might happen.

A few days later, on December 1, 2008, my wife and I decided to spend our last day in Florida roaming the back roads around Gainesville – over by Cross Creek, Micanopy, Island Pond, and Hawthorne.  This trip became the subject of my first blog essay which I posted that evening.

Steve and SallyAnn Rogers.  Cross Creek, Florida. December 1, 2008

The narrow country roads passed under canopies of live oak festooned with long gray beards of Spanish moss. There was water in Cross Creek and in the River Styx (not always the case), and we observed white herons and egrets wading the sedgy marsh shallows looking for their next meals while an alligator rested on a nearby bank minding his own business.  We wandered around Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ farm at Cross Creek and the surrounding pine hammock, and we were lucky to have the entire place to ourselves.  I was reminded why I liked coming back to this special part of Florida.  Perhaps Miss Rawlings said it best. “It is necessary to leave the impersonal highway, to step inside the rusty gate and close it behind. One is now inside the orange grove, out of one world and in the mysterious heart of another. And after long years of spiritual homelessness, of nostalgia, here is that mystic loveliness of childhood again. Here is home.”  It was not my home, but I certainly felt at home there.  I do every time I return . . . , something I hope to do early in the approaching new year.   

So why am I "Looking Toward Portugal"?  I suppose this is a legitimate question and there is no big secret mystery.  For the past three decades I have been gravitating to the coast of Maine.  At first, it was only during our annual summer hiatus, but in more recent years I have returned every chance I get regardless of the season.  And each time I go back, I find myself standing on that rocky shoreline looking out to sea and pondering what lies beyond the farthest horizon.  Gazing in a general easterly direction from the Maine coast, you will see nothing but the rolling expanse of the Gulf of Maine stretching toward the southernmost extension of Nova Scotia.  Yet, if you continue across the Atlantic you will eventually arrive on the northern shores of Portugal somewhere near Oporto.

Doing this I was constantly reminded of Jack Kerouac’s observations when he stared out across the Atlantic from the shores of Long Island (he naturally gravitated to America’s two coasts) – “this last lip of American land.”  Writing in On the Road (1957):  “Here I was at the end of America . . . no more land . . ., and now there was nowhere to go but back.”  Doing this I guess we are reminded of our limitations, but we are also offered a hint of what might be if we only choose to look beyond those far horizons while at the same time considering what lies at our back.

I could have been satisfied with “Looking Toward Nova Scotia,” but I liked to think there was far more to consider beyond.  Looking out to sea from "the Portugal side" of my own life and pondering what lies beyond that meeting of water and sky, I know that my grand search will never be over. Certainly not in my lifetime. I will always return to that "last lip of American land."  It, too, is home.

For the past 14 years I have been drawing on past memories and present-day concerns to try and understand better how I might want to navigate what the future might hold.  

“The past is never dead,” William Faulkner writes in Requiem for a Nun. “It's not even past.”   Writing in Moon for the Misbegotten, Eugene O-Neill tells us “There is no present or future – only the past, happening over and over again – now.”  There is certainly something to this.  Perhaps Søren Kierkegaard said it best.  “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

This is what I hope to continue doing with this blog . . . looking to the past to help me understand where I am now and where I hope to be in the future.  The key to it all is hope. As the Buddha instructed . . . staying hopeful you will never know what tomorrow will bring.

Namasté.

There is Nothing Like a Chicago Hot Dog

I find it rather strange that cities, towns, and regions have over time become associated with various types of food.   Philadelphia has its eponymous cheese steak and Chicago its deep-dish pizza, the “Chicago Dog,” and its recently repopularized Italian beef sandwiches.  St. Louis, Memphis, and Kansas City are famous for their barbeque.  Montréal has its smoked meats and poutine and Halifax its donair kebabs (regular readers of this blog may recall my prior posting about these).  There is New Orleans po’ boys and etoufe, Baltimore and its crab cakes and blue crabs, DC’s half-smokes, and Maine its lobsters, oysters and chowders.  Don’t forget Boston’s baked beans and brown bread, New York’s deli sandwiches and bagels, Buffalo wings, Cincinnati chili, San Francisco’s ciopino and Tampa’s Cuban sandwiches (I have written about these, too).  There is Seattle’s Pacific salmon and Dungeness crab, and Nashville’s hot chicken.   I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea.  Many places offer their own versions of pizza, steak, tacos . . . you name it . . . and there are certain local standards as to what constitutes a genuine cheese steak, a deep-dish pizza, or even something as American and ubiquitous as the hot dog (wiener, weenie, frankfurter, or frank).

Hot dogs in their many local variations have been served throughout the United States since the late 19th century, and now they have adapted to the tastes of other countries, as well.  Just about every region of the US has its own particular hot dog style; some are more interesting than others.  Here in the DC area the so-called half-smoke is the local version popularized by the iconic Ben’s Chli Bowl in the U Street Corridor.  Similar to the standard hot dog, but usually larger, spicier, and with more coarsely-ground meat – often half-pork and half-beef – they are served with herbs, onions, and chili sauce.  Just up the road Baltimore-style hot dogs consist of a kosher beef sausage that is fried with bologna slices and served on a split-bread bun with a dill pickle spear.  California-style hot dogs have long offered a different twist on the hot dog, and I can’t help but recall the dogs served up by Tail of the Pup when I was a young lad in LA.  There are hot dogs with bacon, or dogs with jalapenos and sauerkraut, as well as veggie dogs.  On one of my first visits to the Pacific Northwest I was introduced to the “Seattle Dog,” a relatively recent offering consisting of a Polish sausage nestled in a hoagie roll and topped with cream cheese and sauteed onions.  Peppers and sauerkraut are often added along with yellow mustard.   A bit farther to the north, Vancouver, in Canada, has its “Japadog,” a chain of street food stands serving Japanese-style hot dogs, including variations on traditional Japanese foods like tonkatsu, teriyaki or yakisoba.  Anyone who watched MASH on TV will recall Corporal Klinger (Jamie Farr) praising Tony Packo’s famous Hungarian Dog in his and Farr’s hometown of Toledo, Ohio. It is a blend of beef, pork and garlic that is quartered and then fried and served with mustard, onions and a special chili sauce.

How can I write about hot dogs without mentioning the New England “red hot?”  It has been said that you know you have crossed into Maine when you go to the local market and the hot dogs on display are a bright, almost neon red.  They are not called hot dogs here.  They are red snappers, pure and simple.  Oh, you can get the regular hot dogs at grocery stores, but why when you can enjoy a red snapper instead?  Red because of their obvious hue, and snapper because of the sharp snap they make when you bite into one. 

And then there is New York.  The Big Apple seems to cast a large shadow on everything that happens in this country whether you like it or not.  The simple hot dog reigns supreme, traditionally topped with a spicy brown mustard and either sauerkraut or onions sauteed with tomato paste.   Then there is the Coney Island hot dog, perhaps the first hot dog served in the US having been introduced in 1867.  It is a beef frank in a natural casing and served on a soft, steamed bun and topped with all meat chili, onions, and a healthy squirt of yellow mustard.  

This past summer I read food writer and editor Helen Rosner’s “The Unbreakable Rules of the Chicago Dog—and When to Bend Them” in The New Yorker (July 3).  Recounting the now familiar story of how the hot dog came to the Windy City in the late 19th century, Rosner writes that “this food of convenience evolved into a holy cultural object, until the act of building a proper Chicago dog demanded a degree of attention and care that verged on the liturgical . . . Among the devout, none of the dog’s nine individual elements is unimportant, and any deviation amounts to sacrilege.”  I should be clear on one important point.  Although Rosner grew up in South Side Chicago, she moved east for college, resettling in New York City where she continues to live and write.  She understands what a true Chicago Dog is and should be, yet she has learned to bend the rules to approximate it with unauthentic ingredients.  “Work with what you have, adhere to the blueprint as best you can, and you will build something beautiful: a hot dog dragged through a garden of earthly delights. And then, five bites later, it’ll be gone, and you can make yourself another one.”  That’s fine.  Just don’t call what it’s not.  Being a native Chicagoan myself, however, I stand by the rules for a true Chicago Dog.  

Hot dogs made their first recorded appearance in Chicago at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, but the true Chicago-style dog was invented several decades later during the Great Depression when street cart vendors at the Maxwell Street Market came up with a way to offer a delicious hot meal served on a bun for only a nickel.   Perhaps the best known of these purveyors was Abe “Fluky” Drexler who first opened his street cart at Maxwell and Halsted Streets just west of the Loop in 1929, offering the so-called "Depression Sandwich" - a hot dog with yellow mustard and “dragged through the garden” . . . relish, onion, pickle spears, sport peppers, lettuce, tomatoes wedges, with a dash of celery salt and a side of French fries     A cosmopolitan meal.  Skip the meat and it only cost two cents.  Fluky added several more carts and business was good until World War II and the rationing of meat forced three of his four locations to close. The remaining stand closed in 1955 and did not reopen again until early 1964 as a brick-and-mortar establishment on North Western Avenue.  It quickly became the largest hot dog joint in the city.  There are still joints in and around Chicago that feature the so-called Depression Dog topped with crispy fries with mustard, onion and peppers.  Not a true Chicago Dog by any standard but still a good meal, especially served with a cold beer.  

So, what make a Chicago Dog unique and why?  In the Windy City the expression “the Chicago 7" * have a special meaning.  It refers to the key ingredients added to a boiled or steamed dog (never grilled) nestled in a steamed (never toasted) poppy seed bun: yellow mustard, “electric” green sweet relish, chopped white onion, dill pickle spear, hot sports peppers (there is no other acceptable variety), two slices of fresh tomato, and the pièce de réistance, a dash of celery salt to bring it all together.  “Finesse matters,” Rosner writes.  “A Chicago-style hot dog is an aesthetic creation as much as a culinary one.”  More important than anything else, there is one unspeakable and unbreakable rule of a true Chicago-style hot dog.  You should never, ever, ever put ketchup on it.   If you do, you might as well pack up and leave town.

Putting ketchup on a hot dog is referred to in some local quarters as an occasional “affliction” of young people who do not know any better.  Put ketchup on it and a kid will swallow anything. It has also been said that the only people who put ketchup on hot dogs are mental patients, and Texans.  Any sane adult should understand that ketchup is the quickest way to ruin an otherwise perfectly good Chicago Dog . . . or any hot dog for that matter.  There is no alternative.   There is no compromise.  When it comes to a hot dog, ketchup is streng verboten.  Why do you need it when you have slices of fresh tomato lining the edges of the poppy-seed bun?   Even Anthony Bourdain, the late chef, food reencounter, and dye in the wool New Yorker, agreed that the Chicago Dog is “the finest hot dog on the planet. There, I said it, and I meant it. Now f**k off.”  High praise, adding "I think there is a time and a place for ketchup, and I don’t think the hot dog is one of them.” What more needs to be said on this score?

In a city where the local hot dog is king, Chicagoans have their favorite place that prepares it just right to their particular tastes.  Some are loyal to Portillo’s which now has a number of outlets across the city and scattered about northern Illinois.  My favorite was just a half an hour from my family home in suburban Park Ridge.  Wolfy’s, at 2734 West Peterson Avenue, was relatively new when I first discovered it in 1968, and in the years since it has become an iconic landmark on the Far North Side.  What a treat to drive down Peterson and see that large frank skewered on a giant fork (even more impressive at night when illuminated in neon).  It offers all of the proper ingredients and it just seemed to taste better than any of the others offered throughout the city.  The kosher all beef Vienna brand franks (established in Chicago in 1893 introducing its hickory-smoked hot dog at the Columbian Exposition) are served either steamed or charred.  Your choice!   The Chicago Tribune “Sunday Magazine” ranked for perhaps the first time in 1974 the city’s top hot dog emporia. Wolfy’s was number one and so it remains in this native Chicagoan’s heart.

More recently in Condé Nast Traveler (November 2022), Rosner touches on something that rings true for me.  “Whenever I go home – no matter how long I live elsewhere, Chicago will always be home,” Rosner admits.  “Chicago has its own rhythms and moods, its own hierarchies and customs . . . it took leaving Chicago for me to truly love it, to really understand its grit and beauty.”   It has been a while since I was last in my hometown, and it has been ever so long since I enjoyed a true Chicago Dog.  I have eaten many wonderful hot dogs before and since, and each one is worthy of praise for one reason or another.   But they were not Chicago-style hot dogs without the “Chicago Seven” . . . accept no substitutes!  And regardless of where I might order a hot dog, I remain true to the gospel . . . no ketchup!!   Ever!!  

[[ * Since the late 1960s, the “Chicago Seven” has normally referred to the defendants charged with conspiracy to incite a riot, and other charges related to anti-Vietnam War and counterculture protests in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic National Convention.  Certainly not Chicago’s finest hour . . . this from one who still recall’s the sting of tear gas along Michigan Avenue.   Thankfully it now refers to something that continues to bring culinary favor to the “City of the Big Shoulders.”]]  

The Much-Maligned Carp

I recently read an interesting essay in Jerry Dennis’ Up North in Michigan: A Portrait of Place in Four Seasons (2021) which dredged up an old memory of my youthful obsession with fishing.

I still love to fish although I find so little time or opportunity for it these days.  One thing I have recognized over the years, however, has been a more mature and conservation-oriented ethic.  As a young boy I wanted to catch as many fish as I could and to keep the ones I caught.  Only then could I prove my angling prowess.  It was not a successful outing unless I came home with a stringer or a cooler full of fish.  It did not seem wasteful at the time as my family ate what I caught.  But as I grew older, I realized what I liked most about fishing was the time spent on a favorite piece of water . . . alone with my thoughts in a nature filled with water sounds, a breeze shifting through trees saturated with birdsong.  This is not to say I no longer kept the fish I caught.  I did, but only one or two which very soon found their way to the dinner table.   Otherwise, I was satisfied with the thrill of the hunt in beautiful surroundings.  I became a firm believer in catch and release and the fish I did not intend to eat were returned safely to the water.

When I was in junior high school and living on the shores of Madison, Wisconsin’s Lake Mendota, I snuck off every chance I had to ride my bike down to the Tenney Park lock and breakwater to fish for bluegills, perch and sheepshead although I would occasionally score a larger northern pike.  I took fishing seriously and I fished worms, minnows, and crankbaits, and I targeted fish I knew tasted good.  Not all of my piscatorial comrades shared my discriminating tastes, however.  I would often find a group of kids – some of them my classmates – sitting on a wall next to the lighthouse and locks fishing for carp that seemed to congregate near the boathouse.  Some of these anglers had bamboo pole and others spinning rods and all of them were supplied with bags of white sandwich bread from which they crafted dough balls for bait fished under a bobber.  Hot dog pieces were also a very effective bait for carp.  Most carp anglers fish their bait on the bottom but will often use a bobber to detect subtle takes.  Carp are constantly moving and feeding during the warmer seasons, so it can take them a while to find an offered bait.  They also have relatively small mouths and will often toy with a bait before consuming it.  So, it is important to use the right size hook.

Unlike me, these kids were not interested in catching food for the table; they were keen only in the sport of catching a large fish that would put up a good fight when hooked.  They had no interested in keeping their catch.  "The Carp is the queen of rivers and lakes; a stately, a good, and a very subtle fish,” wrote Izaak Walton in The Compleat Angler (1653), yet in this country carp are often classified as an invasive rough fish potentially disrupting entire ecosystems by out-competing more desirable local game fish and variable in terms of angling value.  Instead of releasing their catch these kids threw them into a pile next to the wall where they quickly died.  There was an older fellow whom I often saw fishing on 

the breakwater, and he would occasionally gather up a few to take home.  I don’t know if he ate them or used them to fertilize his garden, but at least they did not go to waste.  The rest would become a stinking mess until someone from the park came along to dispose of them properly.

It seemed such a waste to me.  I could certainly understand the thrill of catching such a fish.  I would occasionally hook a carp, and I enjoyed the fight it offered, but I usually returned it to the water.  I guess the catch and release ethic caught on earlier than I thought.  Sometimes I would take it home and give it to our elderly Norwegian neighbors who very much enjoyed them.  They also taught me the proper way to fillet a fish, a talent that has served me well in the many years since.  And hell, if they eat lutefisk, why not take a chance on carp? [https://lookingtowardportugal.blogspot.com/2012/06/when-lutefisk-is-outlawed-only-outlaws.html]

Carp remains a popular holiday dish in Central Europe dating back to the Middle Ages, particularly as a traditional Christmas Eve dinner in the Czech Republic, Slovakia and Poland.  It is also frequently found on holiday tables in Hungary, Austria, Germany and Croatia. 

Today, many states are beginning to view the carp as a game fish instead of a maligned pest.  If you enjoy fishing, what are you obliged to do if you catch a carp?   You can certainly keep them for the table as they are purported to be quite tasty when properly prepared.  Although frequently served throughout Asia, many in the United States and Europe do not favor it claiming its flesh has an oily, or “muddy” flavor, or it’s too 'bony.  Nevertheless, if taken from clean waters, carp can have a subtle and delicious flavor.  It is also a great source of lean proteins and omega-3 fatty acids that promote healthy cardiac functions while exhibiting only trace amounts of mercury or lead.

Had those young boys understood what they were catching more than the simple act of catching, perhaps more of their catch would have been put to better use or returned to the water. 

That Pretty Lady

My first memory of the late Queen Elizabeth II goes back to 1955 when an uncle who had just returned from Canada gave me a Canadian two-dollar bill bearing her likeness.  “Who is that pretty lady?” I asked.  I was told that she was the new Queen of England.  Of course, that did not make any sense to a four year old American boy.  Yet over the years I have become more familiar with her and what would become her historic 70 year reign, the longest of any British monarch in history.  

The Queen had only been on the British throne for three years at that point and the world was still getting to know the young woman who was suddenly thrust into the limelight when her father, King George VI, who reluctantly came to the throne in late 1936 with the abdication of his brother Edward VIII, died in early 1952.  This past summer she celebrated her Platinum Jubilee, and on September 8, she passed away quietly at Balmoral Castle, in Scotland, at the age of 96.  Her eldest son, Prince Charles of Wales, ascended the throne as Charles III.

Scattered throughout our home are a number of items brought

back from our travels in the United Kingdom, several of which are connected to the Queen’s long reign and evidence of the high esteem in which she was held throughout the realm, but also here in the United States, the history of which dates back to the late 18th century when the former British colonies along the Eastern Seaboard of North America declared their independence in Philadelphia on July 4, 1776.  This was followed by a protracted war lasting until September 1783.  The newly established United States fought another war with it former colonial master and its allies in British North America, with limited participation by Spain in Florida, between 1812 and 1815.  Both major adversaries eventually grew tired of war and sought an armistice.   The subsequent Treaty of Ghent led to a general status quo ante bellum.  Since then, the US and Great Britain have enjoyed and maintained a peaceful coexistence which eventually led to a close and affectionate alliance during the two world wars in the 20th century, and as NATO partners after the war.  The same can be said for the former British North America, which became the independent Canadian state in 1887.

Over the past several decades I have traveled many times to Canada and have developed a very close affection for that country and its people.  I have traveled personally and professionally across the country from Nova Scotia to British Columbia, and I have always been greeted with Her Majesty’s portrait on Canadian coins and currency although there is no Canadian law that requires that the current British sovereign appear on the country’s monetary instruments, or that the design of the money be changed when one dies.  Nevertheless, the Royal Canadian Mint has included the likeness of the current reigning monarch on its coins and bank notes when it started production in 1908.  Since then, four monarchs have been featured: Edward VII, George V, George VI, and Elizabeth II.  The Royal Canadian Mint has kept open the possibility that future currency may look different.  “We are working on a plan to issue a variety of coins commemorating Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s lifetime of service as Queen of Canada,” the Royal Canadian Mint has announced.  “The Mint will also support the Government of Canada as it works to determine a new design for future Canadian coins.”

Canada did update its bank notes in 1937 after George VI became king, but the update was prompted by a new law to make all of Canada’s paper currency bilingual. The Bank of Canada took the opportunity to also add George VI’s likeness on all but two denominations of bills.  Canada is unusual among Commonwealth nations in featuring the child Princess Elizabeth on a bank note. She was eight when photographed, and in retrospect, it looks as though someone at the Bank of Canada had a crystal ball. Nobody could have known that she would become first in line to the throne a year later.  In 1935, she was just one among a half-dozen of King George V’s family members to appear on the Bank’s first series of notes.  Canadian bank notes are unique in having featured both the child princess and the 90-year-old monarch – plus four other portraits of the Queen in between.  We have watched her grow up and age gracefully.  

Canada introduced the “Landscape Series” currency in 1954, a couple of years after Queen Elizabeth II ascended to the throne. She replaced her father on the country’s bank notes, and since then she has appeared on various denominations.  The two dollar bill my uncle gave to me was part of this series.  This is the first official portrait of the reigning Queen Elizabeth to appear on a Canadian bank note.  This portrait became known as the famous “Devil’s Head” portrait when some claimed to see a devil’s face in the hair above the Queen’s ear.   This created quite an outrage among diehard monarchists and the portrait was quietly altered.  The Queen appeared on every denomination of this series—the last time this would happen. 

It would be two decades before the “Scene of Canada Series” was introduced in 1974.    As in the previous series, the Queen was intended to appear on all denominations of this series.  It was decided, however, that Canadian notes should also recognize certain former Canadian prime ministers, and in the end the Queen appeared only on the $1, $2 and $20 notes.  The new portrait was based on a photograph taken by a “court photographer.”  Like the 1954 series, the Queen is not wearing a royal tiara as the Bank of Canada preferred it this way.

The “Birds of Canada Series” was first circulated in 1986.  Also based on a court photograph.  The portrait is larger than on previous series.  The Queen wore a string of pearls given to her by her grandfather, King George V.  This series was the first to delete the $1 note, replacing it with a coin popularly known as the “Loonie” as it bears the engraving of a Common Loon.  The $2 note was subsequently withdrawn in 1996 and replaced by the $2 coin now referred to as the “Toonie.”  The Queen only appears on the $20 note.   

The “Canadian Journey Series” began circulation in early 2001 and was the first series to be conceived and designed on a computer although the portrait of the Queen on the $20 note was still created by hand as a steel engraving and has been described as “probably the finest portrait of the mature monarch to appear on any bank note.”  Even the Queen seemed particularly pleased with it.

The most recent series, the “Frontier Series,” was released in November 2012.  Once again, the $20 note features a portrait of Elizabeth II based on a photograph commissioned by the Bank of Canada in the 2000s and receiving the Queen’s approval for use on the banknote.  In September 2015, the Bank of Canada released a modified version of the banknote to commemorate Elizabeth II surpassing her great-great-

grandmother Victoria as the longest-reigning sovereign in British and Canadian history. becoming the longest-reigning monarch of the United Kingdom and Canada.  It features the royal cipher of Elizabeth II and her portrait dating from 1951, the first Canadian banknote to depict Elizabeth II wearing a tiara. 

The Queen’s image is represented on the currency of dozens of countries of the Commonwealth which she ushered in during her long reign.  The most populous of these being Canada, Australia and New Zealand.  Tradition suggests that King Charles III will eventually replace the Queen on these countries’ currencies, although such changes have yet to be announced.  “The passing of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II marks the end of an era for our country,” the Royal Canadian Mint announced.  It is currently working with the Government of Canada on any future changes.  Regardless, Canadian currency bearing the late Queen’s likeness will remain in circulation indefinitely.

So, this is my own small, and perhaps unique, tribute to the passing of Queen Elizabeth II who ascended the British throne a month prior to my first birthday.   Far from being a monarchist, I have long looked upon her as a symbol of continuity in a fast-changing world.  And now she is gone. 

A Return From Hiatus

Monhegan Island - Harbor and Village

I have not posted anything here since mid April.  It had been a long, cold and wet winter and spring arrived later than usual.  The cherry blossoms came and went, yet the feel of spring was never in the air.  We had a few days of more seasonable weather, but then it turned cool again, as if spring was never quite sure of itself. There was even some light snow around DC in early April.  

The Washington Nationals, our local Boys of Summer, returned with a new season of baseball only to quickly drop into the divisional cellar.  There was early hope their bats would warm with the arrival of some seasonal spring weather, but they never emerged from those nether rankings, always seeming to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.  They certainly looked nothing like the 2019 World Series champions.   Bad went to worse, and they ended the season with a miserable record of 55-107 and 46 games out of first place and 16 games behind the next worst team . . . the worst record in all of Major League Baseball.   There was certainly no reason to head off to Nationals Park to witness such an atrocity.  

Since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic in March 2020, we had not undertaken our regular escape to the lake cottage in New Gloucester, Maine which had been our summer holiday destination since 1988, and where we have spent June-October since my retirement in March 2010.  Given the restrictions on travel and mandatory quarantines when entering the state, and with bans on travel to many of our local haunts, we chose not to travel during the summer of 2020.   We did plan to return in 2021, and again this past summer, but due to circumstances beyond our control, our access to our little piece of heaven on Sabbathday Lake was taken from us.  We remain heartbroken given our 32-year association with the lake cottage, but we are attempting to move on. 

This year brought with it opportunities to travel more than we have since the beginning of the pandemic.  In early June we traveled to Columbus, Ohio where I had the first opportunity in two years to visit with my 97 year old mother and my only sister (who turned 65 while we were there) and her family, including my four year old great-nephew. We had a COVID scare on our way home, but it turned out to be nothing and to date we have not been impacted by the pandemic as we remain fully vaccinated and boosted.

We headed to Maine in early August, spending a couple of nights in Newport, Rhode Island with dear lifetime friends and their two delightful children which we look upon as our ersatz grandkids.  It was the first visit to the area for both of us and we thoroughly enjoyed our time there.  Then it was on to Maine and a return to Monhegan Island which we have been visiting annually since 1999.  We have now decided that it will be our default summer Maine address from here on out.

There is something magical about this small one square mile island situated a dozen miles off Mid-Coast Maine.  Captain John Smith was the first European to land on the island in 1614 although there is some evidence Viking explorers were there long before that.  We have enjoyed being a part of this island community each summer and reveling in its rich history and it place in the evolution of American art over the past century.  It is a place where we can take each day as it comes and we have found it an ideal place to relax, to write and paint while enjoying the fresh sea breezes off the Gulf of Maine and some stunning sunsets.

Returning to the mainland several days later we traveled to the far northern reaches of New Hampshire which we had also not visited for three years.  It was nice to see some old friends and to explore the Great North Wood, just a little piece of heaven on earth.  I have been regularly traveling there for years having stumbled upon this area quite by accident.  I don’t know what I expected to find, but what I discovered was a country of beautiful landscapes and friendly people.  It is a nearly pristine wilderness with far more trees, streams and lakes than people, and I have come to think of it as my “panic hole,” as Jim Harrison might have called it - a place where I can go to escape the stress and anxieties associated with my everyday existence.  It is a place of solitude, of peace and quiet.  The locals call it “God’s Country” and after spending a great deal of time there I have come to agree with them.  Twelve years ago, on one such winter trip to the area, I trekked into the snowy back country above the Connecticut Lakes to consider retirement after a 32 year career with the Department of Justice, in Washington, DC.  What would the rest of my life hold for me?  The mind cleansed itself with each inhalation of the crisp, cold mountain air.  When asked why he liked the Middle Eastern deserts, T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) supposedly replied: “Because it’s clean.”  The same can be said for the Great North Woods of New Hampshire in any season.  Trek into the woods and you will not find anything so pristine . . . so quiet . . . so clean. 

Our next stop was Knowlton [Lac-Brome], in Québec’s Eastern Townships.  It is the home of Brome Lake Books, made famous as the exemplar for the small bookstore in Three Pines, the fictional Townships village in the crime novels by Louise Penney.  It has become a mecca for Ms. Penny’s many devotees and fans, and she currently resides nearby.  Then it 

was on to Frelighsburg situated on the banks of the meandering Rivière Aux Brochets in the rolling orchard and vineyard country less than three miles above the US border and Vermont.  The village has long been one of my favorite spots in the Eastern Townships which I visit as often as I can.  Even though it is not among the locales frequently cited as a

possible model for the fictional Three Pines, I have always pictured Frelighsburg in my mind’s eye when envisioning the layout of and the action taking place there in the novels.  And there are three pines standing in front of the village hall.  We enjoyed a relaxing lunch on a river-side terrace.  

We returned to Maine for a few days to visit friends and to take care of some local business while returning to some of our favorite haunts from so many past summers.  Our return was met with some trepidation given the feeling that we had been cast out of Eden for no reason under our control.  Still, it was good to be back although I could not bring myself to visit the lake that had been a place of so many pleasant dreams.  Just as in years past, it was difficult to leave but we did so in the knowledge that we will be returning to coastal Maine and Monhegan Island again next summer.

A few short weeks later we found ourselves returning to Ohio for another family visit.  After a week there we continued to southwestern Michigan where my parents both grew up and where many of my kinfolk continue to live.  Growing up, my family’s frequent visits to my grandparent’s small farmstead provided an opportunity to become familiar with an environment and lifestyle much different from the one I knew in Chicago, Detroit, Los Angeles, Milwaukee, and the other cities and towns from my youth.  Edward Abbey, pondering his adopted home in the Arizona desert, once remarked that "every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary."  Like Abbey's desert solitaire, I still carry in my heart and mind those childhood images of the rural landscape of southwestern Michigan. Though I have continued to live in an urban environment, I still think fondly of the Michigan farmstead of my youth. "This Midwest. A

Me and my buddy Knight circa 1955

dissonance of parts and people, we are a consonance of towns," writes William Gass in Heart of the Heart of the Country.  "Our outlook never really urban, never rural either, we enlarge and linger at the same time, as Alice both changed and remained in her story."   Today my escapes to the countryside are an attempt to grasp these fleeting images.  Perhaps someday I will find them and hold them tightly until those bright city lights, that abiding hum, fades away. And I will linger there forever.  

Returning to the old farmstead I was saddened to see how much it had fallen into disrepair over the years.  The barn has collapsed, and trees are emerging from its skeletal remains.  Gone, too, is the small one room schoolhouse where I began my formal education when I went to live with my grandparents while my folks were traveling on business.  This recent visit was also a chance to visit the family graves and to remember 

all of those who had gone before.  We also had lunch with several of my cousins who have remained in the area; some of them I had not seen for many years.  My mom’s two surviving siblings also joined us.  I find the older I get the more important it has become to stay in touch with what family I still have.  This is not always easy to do, but I take a certain degree of comfort in doing what I can to keep the channels open.  

The Michigan visit was also an opportunity to spend some time along the Lake Michigan shoreline.  The Great Lakes very much figured into my younger days, and it was nice to see one of them again.  My wife searched for sea glass at several spots, and I enjoyed the view across lake’s broad expanse to 

Lake Michigan at South Haven

the horizon while dreaming of local seafood.  One evening we had dinner at Clementine’s, in South Haven, where I was treated to a “mess of perch” and recollections of the many Friday evening fish fries I attended when I was young and still had my feet firmly planted in America’s upper Midwest.  

Of course, no visit to the area would be complete without a visit to St. Julian’s winery and distillery in Paw Paw which recently celebrated its centennial, and which has had a close connection with my family, several of whom have worked there over the years.  Paw Paw, between Kalamazoo and Lake Michigan, is the center of a well-established, but less well-known wine producing area.  There are two family-owned wineries in town where grapes and fruit grown in vineyards and orchards throughout the surrounding countryside are transformed into wines and sherries which are then distributed throughout the Midwest.  When President Gerald Ford, from nearby Grand Rapids, moved into the White House in the summer of 1974, he brought with him some local Michigan wines.  I tasted several and eventually returned home with a case of selected wines.   

There was a moment of nostalgia on the return home.  Passing through Toledo, Ohio we took a short detour to Garrison Road in the DeVeaux neighborhood on the city’s northwest side.  My family lived there for a time in 1958-1959 when my dad was working on a project for the Otis Elevator Company.  Although in the years since I have passed through Toledo on occasion on my way to someplace else, I had never been back to the old neighborhood.  It was surprising now unchanged it was, looking very much like I remembered it.  

Our block of Garrison Road is still a quiet, tree-lined residential street.  The backyard of our old house now has an in-ground swimming pool where I used to practice skating on a makeshift ice rink.  The creek at the end of the street where we used to ice skate has been routed underground and the original Elmhurst Elementary a couple blocks away has been replaced by a newer and larger building.  Although we did not live there very long, I still have very strong memories.   It was along our block of Garrison Road where I first learned to ride my bike without training wheels, and it was there the neighborhood kids were introduced to the new Hula Hoop craze.  

We returned to Maine for a week in October to take care of some unfinished business and to visits some spots we had missed in August.  Once again, we stopped over in Newport Rhode Island on our way north.  The autumn weather was absolutely gorgeous to match the fabulous fall foliage.  We spent most of our time along the coast watching the waves 

Monhegan Island in the distance

break along the shoreline and enjoying the local seafood.  We spent a day at the Farnesworth Art Museum to enjoy the current Wyeth exhibits.  I always enjoy revisiting many favorites paintings while being introduced to others I had never seen before.  One gallery included Andrew Wyeth’s studies and completed early egg tempera paintings dating from the 1930s, while another gallery focused on a selection of his various island paintings across the years, including “Good-Bye,” his very last painting completed in 2008.  We visited friends, enjoyed the local seafood, and I had perhaps one of the best ribeye steaks ever placed before me.  The trip was far too brief, but we always enjoy any time we get to spend in Maine, and we look forward to our return next summer.  It can’t come soon enough.

When we were not traveling, I was focusing as much attention as I could revising the text of my first novel.   I have been pleased with the outcome although it has been taking me longer than I had intended.  So, staying up-to-date with my planned blog entries has paid the price.  There are just so many hours in a day.  

I hope I am back on track.  Finger crossed.