Devil's Lake on a Spectacular October Day

 I'm sitting by the beach on the north shore of Devils Lake. I think you said you've been here before and I hope you have. It is a gorgeous day to be in the beautiful park. The hills surrounding the lake are dotted with the yellow, orange and red early fall colors of maple, oak and ash trees  But mostly there are green pine and conifer trees rising from the rocky granite cliffs surrounding the sparkling, flat water stretched out in front of me. There are a few kayaks and canoeists paddling gently offshore. Gas-powered boats aren't allowed so it's strangely wonderful to not have the sound of high powered speed boats pulling water skiers or inner tubers filling the air. There is a train whistle in the distance. A freight train rumbles into view with two dozen cars trailing behind. I can heard the families picnicking behind me scrambling to get an up close view of it as in slowly groans toward us, snaking it's way along the water's edge. It's as if a common freight train is the attraction, not the beautiful fall foliage on an unseasonably warm October afternoon in Wisconsin. As the conductor approaches the small gathering of onlookers, he sounds the whistle again causing some of the children to cover the ears while other clap and cheer loudly. The conductor waves from an open window as the lead engine chugs past us and slowly the train begins to disappear into the thick forest. Within minutes, everything returns to normal with only the occasional
sound of barking dog or boys playfully skipping stones into the lake filling the air. Those stones spent an untold amount of time migrating through countless changes of seasons to finally reach the  shoreline only to be flung back into the lake by and 8 or 9 year old boy, to begin the journey all over again. Perhaps, with incalculable chance, the boy will return to that same spot on the water's edge as an old man, this time with his young grandson who will pluck the same rock again and toss it back into the lack as his grandfather had done decades prior.

I got bored sitting on the asphalt parking lot, trapped by the fine sand that lay in front of me. My wheels sink quickly in sand and I don't dare to drive across it for fear of getting stuck. I noticed a
few visitors packing up their cars and the parking lot begins to thin out. To my right, the beach slowly changes from fine yellow sand into
firmly packed gravel that looks dense enough to support my weight without sinking to the axle. I closed my book and drove across the parking lot in search of an accessible path in a gap between the concrete parking slabs at the front of each parking spot. There is a gap just wide enough that my tires are just able to squeeze through, gently rubbing as I pass through and onto the granite gravel just beyond the smooth asphalt parking area. It has been years since I have been able to get close to water on a beach and the gravel crunches loudly beneath me as I roll toward the water's edge. A gentle breeze pushes dark, opaque waves ashore where they rhythmically break over the rocks, one after another, seemingly never ending.

If I close my eyes, it feels like I am just drifting off to sleep at my grandparents on a hot summer night. My brother Jonna and I would sleep in my Aunt Betsy's old room, one of us in her white, four-poster bed and the other in the trundle bed that was hidden below during the daytime. We would fight to sleep in the trundle bed not only because it didn't have a head or foot board so our long legs could hang off the the end of the bed unimpeded, but also because it was positioned closest to the open windows where we would be the first to catch a cool breeze that might blow in off Lake Winnebago. No matter which bed we ended up sleeping in, we would both fall asleep and awaken the next morning to the sounds of the waves gently licking the sandy beach below us, with nothing but a taut bed sheet held tent-like over our bodies. My gramma always took extra care to iron the bedsheets with a heavy dose of starch and if you've never slept in crispy sheets in the summer, it's the best.

Happy Birthday Babe!

  It's as if there's a puzzle called "Life & Love" and the two pieces missing were you and me. Somewhere out in the world some old grandmother loved to work jigsaw puzzles and  she kept you & me in a jar with the other leftover pieces. Sometimes she would finish her puzzle using all the pieces in the box only to notice a few open spots. She would shuffle over to the shelf where we sat in that jar. A couple of times over the years, she thought she found a puzzle we fit in. She would turn one of this way and that, even forcing us into a few spots that almost seemed like a fit. When she stood back and looked at the waterfall or covered wagon or whatever picture was in her puzzle, it was easy to see that we didn't belong. So it was back to the jar we'd go, to spend our time chatting, wondering if we'd ever find the place where we fit. Neither one of us ever imagining the turn our fate would take one day. Then one day last winter, she came up short on a candy heart puzzle. You know the one that is made up of dozens of those Valentine's Day candy hearts with sayings like "Too Hot" or "Woo Me.". They taste like chalk but somehow they have made it into candy dishes everywhere for years and years. Over to the shelf she went and took you out of that jar. This time when her wrinkled fingers slid you into the empty spot, your sides aligned and clicked snugly into place. A bright smile flashed across your face when you realized you had found your home. From my place in the jar, I rejoiced at the sight of my friend finally finding where she belonged only to realize that you had found your home and not me. All that time we spent together as friends talking in that jar was over now that you were gone. I saw the old woman reach back toward the jar and couldn't  bear to watch. I looked the other way and waited for the all too familiar sound of metal clanking against glass as she tightened the lid, sealing our fate apart from each other forever. Instead, I felt the old woman's bony fingers clasp ahold of me and pull me from the jar. In my confusion I looked down on the puzzle and saw another open spot right next to my friend. Could it be true? Could this be MY puzzle as well! I held my breath as she spun me this way and that, hoping against hope that this was my destiny. After one final turn, the old woman pressed down on me and I felt a warm embrace on all of my edges as I snapped into place. When I opened my eyes, your beautiful face was smiling back at me, our shared edges interlocked tightly together. All that time together in that jar and we never knew we fit together so perfectly. All that time wondering who our perfect fit was in the world and we were right there next to each other the whole time. The old woman stood up and looked down on the now completed puzzle of candy hearts. "Perfect," she replied as she ran her open hand over the smooth, interlocked pieces. We were just two of a thousand pieces, but without us the puzzle would be incomplete. She turned to walk away and we were silenced by our joy, to go through forever our parts melding into one. Just me and my friend, who was there all along.

I feel like I've known you my whole life, like we grew up next door to each other. I love how when we're together or we talk on the phone all my worries disappear. I hope we're locked in tight next to each other until one of us dies. If that's me, don't be sad. I'm having the time of my life right now and I won't go into the great beyond still looking for my puzzle mate I'll just be waiting for my friend and lover to join me for all of eternity. I think we both finally got it right this time around.

Lutefisk & Lefse

One of our favorite things is food, whether it's making a meal at home or dining out. From time to time we'll post pictures from an experience we've had eating together. On October 16 of this year we attended our first Lutefisk Dinner at the Vermont Lutheran Church in western Dane County. Lutefisk doesn't have a very good reputation and we thought we'd find out for ourselves!

Vermont Lutheran Church is located in the rolling hills of the area known as the Driftless Area between the towns of Mt. Horeb to the south and Black Earth to the north. We arrive early and decide to take in the beautiful foliage on this seasonably warm October afternoon. As we drive through the winding backroads, it's easy to notice the many farms that dot the landscape. Many still bear the names of their long dead ancestors, having been passed down through the generations. The warm sunshine feels wonderful on our faces and we know days like this will soon be replaced by winter's chill. But today those frigid days seem far away and we head for the church as our reservation time draws near. 

We are ushered into the bustling basement of the 97 year old church and we pick out two seats at the end of an open table. Formed in 1861 by Norwegian immigrants, this is only the second building used by the congregation and lies about a quarter mile to the west of the original church that was erected in 1864.

Cooked and served by members of the congregation, this traditional Norwegian meal is served every year in mid-October and the room is packed with diners of all ages. It is served family-style with heaping bowls of boiled potatoes, french-cut green beans, cranberries, Norwegian meatballs and of course lutefisk. Also on the table is a short stack of lefse, butter and brown & white sugar (the sugar is for the babies who think that simple buttered lefse is too bland!). The dinner rolls and relish bowl are hardly touched at the end of the meal in favor of the other tasty treats.

As our server brings each item fresh and piping hot from the kitchen, we quickly serve ourselves and pass each dish to the right. When our plates are full, we dig in! The lutefisk, at first glance, appears like baked cod and is served with melted butter. The problem, we quickly find, isn't with it's appearance but with it's taste and texture. It has a fishy flavor and has an odd consistency, almost gelatinous. There are also several small bones in nearly every bite. I guess that's why they say "The Great Chefs of Norway" would be a pretty thin book. We quickly directed our attention to the rest of the meal.

We've had potatoes, green beans and cranberries before and these didn't disappoint. The favorites of the evening are the meatballs and the lefse. The dark brown meatballs are good, but lack the nutmeg and allspice used in the version made by my mother and grandmother every Christmas Eve. The homemade lefse doesn't compare in texture and taste to the store bought version we're stuck with on those occasional times that we crave it. After being buttered and rolled, it disappears quickly in two or three bites. We are soon stuffed after seconds of everything (except the lutefisk).

The server returns with a bowl of a thick, white substance that is almost cream of wheat-like in consistency. A stack of styrofoam bowls has made it to our end of the table and we serve ourselves a small sample. As I'm about to try a small spoonful, once glance at my date makes me reconsider. The look on her face is as if she's just been forced to eat wallpaper paste and as I sample mine, I can see that's an accurate description. Some of the other diners are adding sugar, which we try, but it doesn't make it much more appealing. A large tray of Norwegian cookies makes it's way to us and the rosettes, sandbakkels and lemon bars soon erase any lingering taste from whatever it is we just ate.

On the way back to the car, we decide to take a drive to catch the last remaining sunlight in this beautiful country setting. We find an what looks like an abandoned driveway and turn the van in, making our way down the grassy road. On either side, the bright orange setting sun streams through the trees and bushes lining the road. When we reach the end, there are several piles of wood, the collapsed remains of the buildings of what was once another busy farm. A lonely concrete silo rises skyward, soon to be the only reminder of the work that took place here many years ago. You come out of the driver's seat and reach into the overhead storage in the back of the van. There is a box of truffles that I had hidden the day before. We open the box and share one, a nightcap to the end of a wonderful day together. In the setting sun, you sit on my lap and we kiss deeply and passionately. The taste of your chocolate is distinctly different than mine and as our tongues intertwine, the creaminess blends into one flavor, unique only to you and I.....I love you.