Dinner With My Late Grandma

Some of my alone days during quarantine have been nearly perfect, as was yesterday. It began as I rolled out of bed and over to the local farmer's market for a socially distanced pick-up of pork sausage for an exquisite dinner I had planned for myself that evening. Afterward, virtual yoga with a vibrant new instructor. A tangy smoothie further soothed my post-yoga zen, with backyard blackcaps and extra peaches I froze from a recent flat, after I exhausted my creativity with canned and baked delights. Then, another masked pick-up of a summers-worth of bottles from the emerging American Wine Project winery, a company name I had mocked but then swooned over the labels and regional wine descriptions of. I'm a sucker for good art and prose. Next was a ritual trip to Governor Dodge State Park...in the middle of a heat advisory.

I've perfected the loading of my hand-me-down, inflatable Sea Eagle kayak to hold myself, sandals, a beach towel, life jacket and back-pack full of stuff. Today I added two fishing poles (one for live bait and one for my trusty rubber worm), tackle box, and small Land's End baby bottle bag-turned-live bait bag with a frozen ice pack. In it, I also stored an egg salad with dill relish on rosemary sourdough bread sandwich and some celery sticks, which I managed to avoid.

Cox Hollow Lake, another mockable name, has been an essential refuge for me during this weird time. After two years of letting the kayak sit in my closet without a pump [sidenote - I often get stalled with simple tasks. A foreign stock manager I dated years ago interpreted these moments as "you see a beeg mountain and deeganddeeganddeeganddeeg and there is only a LEETEL mouse"], I finally bought an electric one that plugs into my car outlet and have since been mourning the last two kayak-free years.

Cox Hollow Lake is U-shaped, with a boat landing on the upper-right corner of the U. Feeling slight germ panic in close proximity to others at the moment, I've discovered my preferred solitary routine. It begins with a swift journey to the upper left-hand corner of the U, a remote-feeling reedy, ducky area without roads or paths, that I can pretend is Livingston, Montana. Then, down along the left-hand side, under shady pines and the sandstone cliffs that are my favorite hiking destination, where looking down on the water makes it appear to be a blue/green glacial pool at certain times of the year. Then into a tiny calm green lagoon, a sort of blemish on the lower left-hand corner of the U, where Friday I spied a mama and baby deer sipping cool water and saw a little boy pull out a big fish with excited, surprised pride, to cheers of his parents in Italian.

Next, I prefer to cut back across to the top of the U-curve to avoid the dam and the overcrowded beach and listen to the teenagers across the water exclaim at each other in mock exasperation, which will someday turn to more subtle, confident flirtation and actual heartbreak. Finally, around the cool lake-edge boulders, which were my own teenage cross-lake swimming destination. I would ignore my mom's cries of "don't you dare go over there, it's time to go," from the beach after several 10 minute warnings. Friday night there were some teens gathered there and I got a contact high from the skunky, skanky, gallon of weed they had on fire.


Around the corner from the boulders is a secret rock I've found that makes a perfect inlet moor for my kayak, where there are also secret wild blueberries and a secret giant clam in the sand and where I can jump in and swim, float under the fragrant cottonwood, watch pretty songbirds I can't always identify, peer up into the steep pine needle-blanketed hills and listen to my heart beat under water. I also did this in the ocean when I lived in Santa Barbara and could hear dolphins call to one another. I love the surprise of the cold water when I straighten out my body and dip down, feeling like a beautiful mermaid, getting looks from flustered old fishermen and smiles from other mermaids on paddleboards and kayaks. Sometimes I then float over to a little birch or maple overhanging the water and dry off with a snack and book in the leaf cave. My favorite time to leave the lake is after dusk, when a little adrenaline kicks in about how I might get in trouble for being on it after sunset. I then secretly enter a competition with the dudes who remain on the water to be the second to last one out. Mermaids should get to stay in the water as long as they want.

Yesterday though, I caught a great big bass at the start of my journey around the U, a first-time adventurous conundrum. I somehow navigated the balancing act of twists and turns to get my tackle box tweezers to remove the hook, grab my metal fishing basket, get to the bottom of the backpack for some rope that I then had to cut, guide the big fish into the basket, tie it off, then navigate moving forward in a now lopsided inflatable vessel in a seaweed-y lake. Due to the heat and awkward navigation, I decided to stop at my rock and swim earlier than normal to cool off. The water has turned stinkier and weedier as summer has progressed. Yesterday's perfume was Eau d' Eggy Fishy Oil Funk. But the cold water far down refreshed me. After swimming, I saw my buddy Jim on his paddleboard with his sweet dog Casey. Jim and I had a pipe dream to start a band together, after one night years ago in my brother's wine bar he commandeered the musician's guitar at the end of the night and played while I sang Neil Young's "Old Man" with tipsy passion. We had lots of songs picked out, like Jack White's "Love Interruption." I was pleased to run into him on the lake since we can't b.s. in the local like in olden times.

After I conversed with a few strangers about my catch and the kayak (Sea Eagle should pay me for the number of inquiries I've answered about their product), I realized late afternoon was on the horizon and I needed to get my dinner in the oven at 5 p.m. to make it a civilizedly-timed meal. I had sent a last-second invite to an inner circle friend to share my exquisite dinner (after I realized I had possibly tortured them with descriptions of all the fixings), and their uncertain response gave me enough drive to try to remain on time. I packed up the car and drove home eating salty tortilla chips and listening to a country station with feeling, blinking as my dried out contact lenses struggled to adjust to the new light and unfamiliar body position.

My ex-husband bought me Mastering the Art of French Cooking, after we enjoyed Julie and Julia in 2009, a popular movie about a struggling young blogger around the time of 9/11, who decides to write about her experience cooking all the hundreds of recipes in Julia Child's book (with Child's heart-wrenching story woven throughout). My dream recipe inspired by this story is boeuf bourguignon, which I still have not achieved, but this week I was tempted by the local poultry farm's announcement that they would have fresh whole duck. I decided to treat myself and on Friday got a day-before butchered 5 lb duck delivered to my doorstep with my eggs. In the cookbook I found Caneton Rôti à l'Alsacienne (Roast Duck with Sausage and Apple Stuffing). I revel in the book's use of full fats, lack of careful temperature guidance and slightly vague measurements. My heart flutters with descriptions like "Apples and duck are a fine combination, and sausages make it an even better one. The platter may be garnished with more apples and sausages if you wish, braised onions, and sautéed potatoes or potato crêpes. A chilled Alsatian Traminer would go well with it, or a hard cider."

After a few readings of the recipe and the late hour ensuring my pal wasn't free after all, I felt comfy as I extra slow-cooked the meal in my own time. I substituted ingredients with what I had in my garden and pantry; walking onions for a small white onion, a sacrilegious concoction of red wine and homemade violet simple syrup instead of port, rye for cognac, toothpicks and aluminum foil for trussing twine. The duck went into the oven around 6:30 p.m. for it's initial browning. It was delightful to take time to wash all the dishes from the prep phase during the several hours of roasting. I decided to make a peach blueberry dessert cobbler out of more of the aforementioned peaches and held out on any wine in favor of not under-doing the duck out of lightweight hunger as I had done with a roast chicken earlier in the summer (but I took a little sip in honor of Julia's famous sampling).

I had time to go dig into one of the potato mounds in my quarantine garden (another blissful retreat) to see if there were enough baby spuds for duck fat-fried newbies or possible over-extension into the suggested potato crêpes (not yet). Instead, I gathered kale and colorful chard, all a good, fresh, fat-balancer. Golden cobbler bubbled delightfully on the stovetop around 9:30 p.m. and I removed the extra apple and sausage stuffing from the oven, to which I had added the chopped up sautéed liver and heart and nibbled on it at the counter-top as an appetizer. When I wandered upstairs I glanced out the window and saw the forgotten kayak, set out to dry in the yard and starting to dew up in the cooler evening air. I toweled it off and packed it in the trunk of the car, ready for the next adventure.

Throughout the evening I thought of my pal, who is worried for their grandma's health. When I met her, I noticed an eye twinkle and quick wit and longed to have my own late paternal grandma Jean still able to walk into my house for a spontaneous dinner. My kitchen and dining room are filled with reminders of Jean. She died while I lived in London in 2000 or 2001. I was utterly devastated at her loss, partially because I was young and hadn't yet gone through the process of losing a close family member or acknowledging mortality in general, but also because I considered her one of my best friends.

As I've grown older, I've been even more in wonder of her story. She was born in 1912 in Winnipeg, raised in a wealthy household in Racine, the daughter of an executive with J.I. Case & Co. Her childhood pictures are identical to my own daughter Lilly and her college portraits are those of an untouchable glam girl. She studied landscape architecture at UW-Madison in the early 1930's (had classes with Frank Lloyd Wright at Taliesin) and lived in Barnard Hall, a women's dormitory where I also lived in 1996-97. I was desperate to somehow become her contemporary during that time, as I knew I belonged to an earlier age. I often escaped down to the musty, key-access reading room with the grand piano and floor-to-ceiling windows to search through the old yearbooks in order to find her and her mysterious sister Gwen, who was her best friend and died under mysterious circumstances shortly after their double wedding.

My grandma was dazzled by my eternally charming, intelligent (but sometimes controlling and grumpy) grandpa Parmley who was also a UW student. I think there was a story about how he climbed up the ivied wall to her window with a rose. I like to think of them as 1930's hipsters, who opted to escape the urban environment to take over the family farm, immersing themselves in small town culture and friendships with local underdogs. Photographs show them in floppy hats with now-revered local artists having a gas, or hooking each other with farm tools in floppy overalls. It all feels much like myself in this time of life, just up the road from their farm where my brother and sister-in-law now reside with their two little ones.

At 10:15 p.m., I turned up the heat on the duck after I salted it per the recipe, for the dangerous last minutes of browning but not burning. I talked to my soul sister Leslie with my phone on my shoulder after I sent her a picture of my bass (I usually feel immediately guilty about killing fish and solemnly bury the post-filet remains in favorite places in my yard. Leslie loves pesang isda and last time I had a big catch I  had just finished burying the heads when she requested them, so this time I knew to keep it for her). The only "platter" I could find that was mechanically suitable for a roast duck was a tin boiler pan and it wouldn't do for my fancy dinner for myself. Then I spied a beautiful, ornately hand-painted plate of my grandma Jean's on a high shelf. It's the kind with a simple artist's mark on the back and I've never used it.

After I caught up with Leslie I felt full of love and anticipation for life's excitements. I carefully un-trussed the duck, scooped out the stuffing, sauteed the greens, uncorked the peachy, dry, chilled white wine, prepared a little cheese plate and au jus and set out my glorious meal in the formal dining room. The dining room is in the basement level of my 1840's cottage and houses a crumbly old butcher block, early 20th century theater seats from the local opera house and an unfinished art project. Behind me, the art project was my grandparents' old metal kitchen prep side-tabletop, on which I'm hand-drawing an abstract interpretation of my favorite photograph of them on Two Sisters Lake in Northern Wisconsin. Across from me was a wax rubbing artwork I had done from my grandma's wooden breadboard and wrought-iron trivets. As I thought of her and listened to early 1930's jazz, amidst all these kitchen and dining room reminders, I felt her presence at the dinner table with me, not as she left this world, post-stroke and atrophied with the crumbling effects of inactivity and old age, but as that untouchable, sprightly glam girl.

My daughter Viola recently blew her own little mind when she remarked to me how crazy it was to think about what she would sound like as an adult. I told her that I had realized as an adult how much I sound like my mom and that maybe she would sound like me. Now I wondered in reverse if I sound like my young grandma. I wondered if she had giggled with an impish grin and flit her eyes to the wall when nervous like me, whether the tone of her young voice was low like mine, whether she had the same curves and occasional self-consciousness. I could feel her across from me in my heart, and at the end of the feast, I danced in the kitchen with her to a Dixieland jazz song in the hot summer July night, as fireflies flicked on and off outside the window and cicadas hummed along.

Near midnight, as I cleared away the dishes, I felt unbridled joy from the day. I knew that quarantine despair could be right around the corner again, but reminded myself that this joy was real, and eternally available. I turned off the lights and said "thank you" to the room, the night, the lake, abundance, the heavens and my grandma. They all whispered back "sweet dreams," and reminded me that I had plenty of time to share it all with everyone else, tomorrow.