Yesterday I intentionally skipped in the inauguration, as many other Americans did. I’m still in disbelief that the Obamas aren’t our first family and that Trump indeed won the election. Nobody’s jumped out from around a corner yelling, “You’ve been punked, HAHAHA!” like I’ve been hoping for over the past two and half months. But today I jumped out of bed--rushing down the stairs to clear our dining room table, spreading out the images I had collected from one of my favorite street artists, Shepard Fairey, shuffling laundry upstairs, and then texting friends to drop by for an impromptu sign making party before the Women’s March began a block down from my house. When I first heard mention of our local march I wondered what it’d be like? Five or so ladies standing around in the circle thrusting signs into the air until they got wet and cold and then I would invite them over for tea and cookies? With further thought, conversations, and a look at a nationwide map of the sister marches happening across our country in solidarity with the march on Washington my “why” rapidly shifted. Emily decided to skip her breastfeeding class in favor of marching with her growing babe as a more meaningful feminist move. We giggled and used school supplies as we thought of sassy slogans and discussed how cool it is going to be for her to be able to tell her daughter that she too was part of the biggest protest in U.S. history. My neighbor dropped by for pink construction paper and Oscar showed up in his bee costume with mamma Mag ready to attach a sign to his backpack carrier. Lizzy and Jesse walked up to the door just in time to join us on our way to the march. My mom had already arrived and was sending inquiring texts. Over 500 area residents showed up in a town of 487 people. More than once I heard myself saying out loud, “this is why I live here” and it must have passed through my thoughts a million more times. Everywhere I looked I saw my favorite people or someone that I wished I saw more of. Someone that I needed to hug. Solidarity. Community. Love. This was it. Full heart. Marching through town to our lake, traditional songs sung by tribal women on the ice as we hummed along to their Ojibwe eloquence, brunch, and giggles with my crew and suddenly I was tucked in back home watching movies the rest of the drizzly January day thinking about how proud I am of where I call home. How important and easy it is to be a participant in this community. The people here are hungry for collaboration and participation. I couldn’t feel a stronger sense of belonging. Thankful for my mamma showing me how to be a feminist, proud of my step dad for marching, and grateful to be linked in arms with my best friends beCAUSE. The future of this country and the world is surely unstable, but today, even just for a moment I couldn’t have felt more stable.
And that makes me think we, the people, will figure this all out together.
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I hate those people who post pictures of their trees with all the presents under them. I hate it when all kids at school can talk about is what they want for Christmas, what they are getting for Christmas, what they got. I’m thinking about that kid looking down and probably feeling bad and wonder if they’ll get anything? Will they at least, hopefully, feel loved or be warm? I’m thinking about the tragedy in Aleppo. I’m thinking about people that are sick or lonely or of the guy I saw a few weeks ago sleeping in a blue sleeping bag in a park in sub-zero temps. When I was little I loved the anticipation of Christmas--the decorating, the baking and preparing--but Christmas has alway felt kind of sad to me, even when I loved it. Mostly my dad wasn’t around, but one year we were all home, Mom, and Dad and I. I remember crying because I got so many presents and my mom didn’t get that many. I felt bad for her. She deserved presents. She was the best. Another year I was in a church Christmas program. (I went to church school for the cookies, how did I end up here?) I remember my mom being sick to her stomach because my aunt was battling breast cancer and all this “joy” didn’t make that much sense at that time to her. I didn’t quite get it, but my mom was hurting so I was hurting. I remember waiting, kind of always...for this to be fun, the actual Christmas part. There was this one really awful Christmas. My mom made us go to my grandparents even though I just wanted to stay home. We fought each other and the weather the whole drive down. Mom and I, my uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents, enjoyed dinner, and exchanged gifts. There were some drinks the adults had, and then all of a sudden a few people had had too much to drink. My uncle was crying, my mom was crying, and all of a sudden it seemed like everyone was crying and I’m not really sure why. My grandma and grandpa were mad because the kids had drank too much. She told everyone to leave and go to bed. The evening fractured and I woke up the next morning after our “merry” evening to hear my mom telling my Grandma we were leaving. Yessss, I thought! Let’s get out of this place, bad vibes. “No, you’re going to stay here and be miserable with all of us.” Then, there was the year I wanted to break up with my boyfriend, but my mom wouldn’t let me do it on Christmas. She was right, it wasn’t the time, it would have been horrible. Nevertheless, I had a god damn melt down in the middle of Trader Joe’s feeling sick about it all. People were staring, tears were streaming down my face, I was struggling to catch my breath, I was sobbing and was tasked with pulling it together by the time we got back to our shared apartment. I remember lying in bed next to him that night feeling stiff as a board and awful. There was the time my mom and I got the creepiest pedicure in a basement establishment. We were working the “treat-yo self” angle. We walked into this nondescript, despite the neon blinking nail sign, salon and accidentally woke up the Hmong guy who was peacefully sleeping to Bonanza blaring on a black and white television at the bottom of the stairs. Shit. Once we got down there and assessed the situation we were ready to bolt, but he was stirring and to leave would have be incredibly rude, especially in the holiday spirit despite our desperate urge. It was strange, the whole experience. Laughably, beyond uncomfortably strange, and definitely memorable. For a long time my mom and I have muscled our way through. Always relieved when the 26th rolled around, when we got to shake off the commitments and pretenses of Christmas and go hiking or sledding or ice skating with my cousins and aunt and uncle. That was the highlight and finally we were able to exhale. My aunt told my mom to create new traditions and memories so we wouldn’t hate it as much. Instead of decorating for Christmas my mom and I learned to decorate for and celebrate, winter--twinkle lights galore, and a touch here or there of holiday, pulling out my aunt's beautiful holiday quilts, not too much. We have some special family traditions that still mean a lot to me. I’ve never had a cut Christmas tree or artificial one. We’ve always had a potted norfolk pine in our living room that my mom leaves lights on year round, we just plug them in when tis the season. There’s the wooden heart ornaments my grandfather made for our tree since the delicate branches can’t handle heavy ones. And although we're not much for Christmas, we celebrate New Years with an epic family ski party brimming with ski wax talk, specialty beer, wine, cheese and crackers, saunas, salmon and an over stuffed kitchen of winter enthusiasts.
So this year, I’m not feeling so bad about things. My mom is remarried and John doesn’t push the Christmas thing on us. I don’t think it's really his thing either, thank god. They have bright, shiny giggly two year old grandaughters to make Christmas fun for them. They take a weekend earlier in the month and holiday it up in southern Wisconsin. I stay home because I hate that long drive and I’m just not Christmasy and it’s okay. But I am happy for them and my step-siblings that they have that time and fun celebrating. There’s a lot of icky going on in the world, but my students have been doing this service learning project in the community and I’m really proud of them and the differences they’ve been making and the things they’ve realized about themselves and helping others through the process. Josh and I are all settled in our cute little house with a just barely Christmas tree (potted of course) and we’ve got plans to join my mom and John for Christmas Eve dinner and then go snowboarding in the U.P. on Christmas. It’s sounding pretty bright to me and I’m already hoping the New China Restaurant will be open so we can pick up Chinese food and my favorite ever egg rolls on our way home. I’m trying not to get too optimistic, or specific about how it all plays out although it sounds like I haven’t done a very good job of that specific part really, hello egg rolls. Mostly I’m just hoping for a cheerful day. For me. For my loved ones. For my students. For as many people as possible. One of my goals this year has been to let go of things that I have been holding onto for a long time that are unhealthy. Overall I am not sure how well I did on this, but as far as how I am feeling about Christmas? I’m thinking I’m doing okay. There’s still a hovering sadness, but it’s whatever I want it to be and if I’m with people I love I’d call that a win. Even if we don’t end up snowboarding and just hang out at home that’d be okay too I think. It all starts with a cause. In this case an everlasting love of Fleetwood Mac and adoration of the gypsy woman Stevie Nicks. We’d been drinking too much, jamming up the jukebox at The Creamery with Fleetwood to the point people'd groan when they see Hayley walk in that direction, even if she’s just going to the bathroom, and cheering “Stevie for President” all summer long in an intoxicated late night haze. As soon as Hayley mentioned she had scored four front row tickets back in September, it was on. Crucial in an epic trip is the whip and sweet matching shirts. It just so happened to work out perfectly that I have this shiny new (to me) 4Runner named after the one and only Stevie. And for Hayley's 29th (again :) birthday we'd had "Stevie for President" shirts made by our awesomely talented friend Becky at Bizy Does It. First stop, Surly Brewery to catch up with Deni and enjoy some frothy treats. Naturally we over-ordered, chatted, and laughed our way through shenanigans. We could have stayed long into the evening and migrated upstairs to check out the Brewers Table that has come highly recommended to us, but we had a schedule to stick to. Let the Stevie prep begin. Get the girls out of the Bayf and into the city and you can count on a few things: delish food, specialty beverages, belly laughs, high heels, a little extra make up, because city and we can. I mean getting ready is half the fun. The show was great. More than great. Magic. One of those hard to articulate kind of experiences. Stevie sang, told stories, insights, and reminded us that "we could be whatever we wanted to be." To love freely, love deeply, and hang on. It’s a simple message but somehow the experience made if feel so much more like a pilgrimage…
It’s a funny thing, thinking about how an artist, an experience, or even the loss of an artist can mean so much to you even though you hardly know them. But what I’m realizing as we navigate a year of artistic loss, its that you connect with these people, their messages because they give voice to your emotions. They help you learn about and express yourself in a way that otherwise leaves you lost. I got excited when I got to the grocery today knowing there'd be one there waiting for me. It's been two weeks since I've had one and honestly, I can't tell you why it's been so long since I've enjoyed my favorite food. Probably because I’m at the point that I consciously cook other proteins just because I like chicken so much that I don’t ever want to get sick of it.
I think back to the first time I had a real craving for it. I was in graduate school in River Falls working on my teaching degree and was headed to the U.P. to meet my mom and Ambos for a yoga retreat to celebrate my birthday weekend and I was hung the fuck over. Like had puked up red wine (gross!) and I am so not a puker. I was green leaving my friend's house that morning and my boyfriend at the time knew something was up when he heard me dry heaving over the toilet once I got home. Yup, it was bad, but I couldn't miss the weekend with my girls. I muscled through the four hour drive and by the time I rolled into Ironwood the only thing I could think of was stopping at the store to pick up a chicken. I pulled up to the cabin, greeted my boos and dove in on that chicken. Hangover cure. I don’t think they even knew what was happening at first. Hangover details explained it all. We didn't make it to the first night of the yoga workshop opting for chicken, wine, and dinner. But that's where it began. One day, early in Josh and I's relationship he came home with a rotisserie chicken and the first thing out of my mouth was, "do you know I LOVE rotisserie chicken?" It was one of the numerous seemingly miniscule big deals that sealed the relationship. These days if I manage to walk past the chickens without throwing one in the cart, it doesn’t go without a surprised look of acknowledgement and small nod or comment that I just walked past my kryptonite. Wanna get romantic? Start with a chicken... Mention rotisserie chicken and I guarantee I’ll launch into my love of it. Close friends are familiar with the schpeal: “You can make soup….” I feel like it’s a fundamental kitchen staple and my secret weapon when cooking. I always get complements when one of the base ingredients is rotisserie chicken. Not long after the yoga workshop my mom was doing some research on rotisserie chicken, as happens in my family when new obsessions develop. And because it tastes so damn good, we needed to find out just how bad or good this new obsession was. Turns out rotisserie chicken is health food. YESSSS, insert fist pump (If you take the skin off). Game on. It makes the BEST, and I’m talking next level soup. Eat that damn thing right off the carcass. Take it to the beach, bring it home when you are fried after a long day, picnic that shit. Take it off the carcass, pull it apart, and save it in tupperware to eat all week. Throw it on salads. Making Mexican food? Add chicken. Pizza? Yes. You can even pick all the meat off the carcass, eat it up in all the good ways, and then throw the carcass, an onion, some carrots, celery and herbs in the crockpot and make stock. All chicken parts are usable, except the bones. Our go-to rotisserie chicken recipe though is “The Dip” We love Mexican. We’s the snacky people. And Josh moonlights as my sous chef (my favorite part ;) 1-2 cans of beans (white, pinto or black) 1/3-1/2 cup of sour cream 1 1/2 -2 cups of cheese 2 cups of rotisserie chicken 1/2 cup salsa verde 1 tsp cumin 1 tsp -ish of chili powder 1/2 lime juiced 1/2 red pepper pickled jalapenos sliced cherry tomatoes black olives Olive oil to grease cast iron skillet Chips or veggies for vessel Preheat oven to 400 Mix sour cream, 2/3 can of beans or 1 whole can of beans (save other can if using two cans), lime juice, cumin, chili powder in a blender. In a large bowl mix the blender concoction, diced chicken, 1 cup cheese, left over beans. Pour into greased skillet. Top with sliced cherry tomatoes, salsa verde, jalapenos, olives, you could also sneak in extra veggies like spinach. Finish with remaining cheese. Bake for about 30 minutes till bubbly and brown. This can be made as a white chicken chili dip (use white beans, red pepper, tomato) or as deconstructed nachos (pinto beans, jalapenos, black beans). At this point, I've become a connoisseur. Not just any rotisserie chicken will do. Washburn IGA is where it's at. Roasted fresh twice daily, amish-raised, tended and saved only till their prime. Can we talk about how it’s only $8.00, or $9.00? It doesn’t even really matter. It’s a deal, and even if it weren’t, l’d still be buying that shit. They're ready for pick up daily between 11:30-1 and 4:00-5:30 (if they last that long). You can even reserve a bird by calling 373-5566, extension 1. We were all from the same place, raised with similar values, ideals, and perspectives, knew who each other were, not generations apart, but just far enough. We walked down the same school hallways and played on the same sports teams, just never at the same time. Grew together as the babysitter and babysat, but now sit together dividing tips to be spent on our after work drinks. It all started a little something like this: “Kaite, are you gonna work at Big Top this summer? I am. I think you should. Come on just do it,” said Magdalen at one of our far too infrequent meet ups to hang out/chase Oscar around the park/drink beer. “I love bartending!" I respond. "It’ll help keep me out of trouble, I’ll get to listen to great live music, whilst getting paid to hang out in one of my most favorite Bayfield spots...” “Plus I’ll be there!” said mastermind Mag. “Oh yeah…and it’s like we’ll have scheduled hangouts and we’ll even get paid!” So I called up Carol at Mt. Ashwabay and got myself on the bartending list. “Not a ton, just the big shows, just enough to generate some play money, keep myself out of trouble, and help you guys out,” I told Carol. “Oh yeah, did I mention I only want to work when Mag is?” Martia was cute, and looked fun to work with so I saddled up to be her pouring bitch since Mag left me hanging on the very first night of the season. Martia and I just kind of jived. I have a feeling she’d jive with most people pretty easily though since she’s the real easy going type and I made a complimentary match because I can call out the beer orders louder. Yep, I’m loud and direct. It worked. The next time we worked, the team worked again. I basically just kinda wanted to work with Mag, or Marita. The summer continued, the shifts were fun and passed relatively quickly and then August hit. If you’ve ever been in the tourism industry you know what I’m talking about when I refer to the 100 days of August when everyone is overworked, ready to cut the customers, and just really wanting to hit the beach, while your co-workers are dropping like flies as they head back to school. One night, I show up to work a show (mind you I’m not around all the time at the tent so my timeline could be a little off) and Martia had brought her best bud Sophie to help out since they were so understaffed at the concessions and in the bar. I teamed up with Martia again, while Sophie worked the beer till and kept the jokes a coming. I didn’t know this young buck, but she was funny and I was always grateful for a full staff at a big show. More shows, more laughs, beers at the bar downtown after work and friendly waves in passing through town led to planning an adventure. One night Sophie had her overalls on at work. Marita had dressed her like good best friends do. I had just worn my overalls on a recent adventure outing. What, Martia had overalls too and they’re super cute? Of course they are! We all knew Mag and Jen had some overalls, and clearly Oscar had overalls. It was settled we were gonna hang out in our overalls. And drink.
Wait, Jen should take us all sailing! An overall sailing adventure! It was everything I was hoping for: the entire crew was outfitted in overalls (minus cousin Jenny, who really tried to secure a pair in time, even texting boss Carol to no avail, and even overall-less joined in the laughs and did a stellar job documenting), the food ( rotisserie chicken, fresh bread, goat cheese, garden basil and tomatoes), the drinks (popping pressco from Bayfield Wine & Spirits and Martia contributing her brothers warm, dog hair clad beers left over from fishing earlier that day), the lake. We sailed around the bay with no real direction in mind appreciating, laughing, celebrating nothing and everything all at once without even necessarily realizing it. It was magic in the way that you don’t really realize just how magical it was. And to think, without this summer job I may have kept walking past Sophie and Marita offering a shy smile at best, appreciating from afar. Probably before this, but definitely after, Magdalen and I migrated to the porch of the Creamery for a drink after work, chatting, appreciating, and remembering what it was like to be Martia and Sophie’s age. Neither of us really felt the pull to return to the days of 21, but nonetheless loved the opportunity to hang with Marita and Sophie, share in their twenty-young-ness and also reflect on our time at that age. It all just reminded us of ourselves in many ways, nostaligic about our past days and excited for whats to come, for them, and us. I basically want to make whatever you're making lately, its nice to have some inspo. I feel like I get stuck making the same few things, but here's a successful new recipe: Sheet Pan Dinner (new easy to throw together, easy clean up, way to clean out fridge/pantry) 1 Package of Sausage, I used Apple Brats (chicken, pork, brats, your personal fav) 3 Red Potatoes 1/4 Onion hanging in the fridge 2ish cups of brussel sprouts 1 container of mushrooms 1 Apple (Basically any combo of veggies lingering around the house options/combos are endless!) Olive Oil to drizzle over veggies Season: I used salt, pepper, smoked paprika, garlic powder, oregano Preheat oven to 375 Cover sheet pan with parchment paper Slice veggies, toss in olive oil, sprinkle with seasoning Spread out over pan evenly then nestle in the sausages Bake for about 45 minutes, at the end turn the broiler on and move the pan up under it to brown the sausages a little. Boom-dinner! I had dinner with my mom this past week and she had made her own version using chicken sausage, sweet potatoes and portabella mushrooms. Great minds think alike (and she taught me how to cook :P ) |
AuthorsMagdalen Dale and Kaite Sweval grew up a layer apart, overlapping and paralleling. Belonging to the shores of Lake Superior and yet not quite belonging. Laughing and dreaming on the bench outside the ferry booth as Mag passed the time and Kaite chose her time. Left to explore as soon as they could. And then as adults returned home, perhaps to their surprise. But glad to have each other... ‘cause we know there is strength in the differences between us and comfort where we overlap. Archives
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