Cool Stuff in Chicago, Part 1

It’s only fitting that Ceres, the Roman goddess of agriculture, stands on top of the Chicago Board of Trade Building, the world’s largest grain exchange.  Our modern word “cereal” originates from Ceres.

As the myth goes, Ceres’ beautiful daughter, Proserpine, was kidnapped by Pluto and taken to the underworld to be his wife.  Ceres was frantic and didn’t want to lose her daughter forever, so she struck a deal with Pluto that Proserpine would return to earth six months a year. 

Every spring, Ceres welcomes her daughter back with blooming flowers, and each fall when Proserpine returns to Pluto, Ceres cries and lets all the crops die.

The cycle continues to this day.  Here we are at Ceres’ Table in Chicago, honoring Ceres and all her bounty.

Dad and the Greek

My dad wrote down a lot of his army stories and they are definitely worth sharing.  This one involves a friend and the road not taken:

                   I first met Leonitias in 1938 when we arrived at Fort Williams, Maine, as raw recruits in the US Army.  I was 19.  His name was so hard to pronounce that everyone called him "the Greek.” He was like a caricature, about 5’ 5” inches and weighing about 150 lbs. His feet were so wide that the Army had to order special shoes for him. The Greek’s home was out on Cape Cod where his father owned and operated a restaurant. We became the best of friends and served our entire time together in the 5^th Infantry. He always wanted me to meet his sister, who he claimed was a Greek Goddess.

                   In late 1940, the entire 5^th Infantry was moved to do guard duty on the Panama Canal and the jungle area around the canal. After two years of this hot miserable assignment, the Greek and I were due for discharge, and we made an agreement to re-enlist for the Philippine Islands. The Greek came back to the States on a boat ahead of me and we were supposed to meet at Brooklyn Army Base, where we would re-enlist. When I arrived in Brooklyn, there was no Greek. I waited five days, called his home several times but could not contact him, so I decided to take my discharge and head for home. As it turned out, I know that I was so lucky that I lost the Greek, because had we re-enlisted for the Philippine Islands, there’s a good possibly that we would have become prisoners of Japan, and who knows what. As for the Greek, I never saw or heard from him again.

In Praise of the Back Ways

Never mind the jammed up Expressway leading to the crowded Parkway.  Forget about the $4.75 savings in tolls.  Those aren’t my primary motivators for taking the back ways.  I just love exploring.  Discovering.  Experiencing something that may one day be lost. 

It’s not every day that you pass a peaceful brown barn.

Or feel the serenity oozing out of a little white church.

And, can’t you just picture a sweet couple sitting around a red-checkered tablecloth when there’s a knock on the door from someone wanting to buy a dozen eggs….

I wish I knew the Farmer’s Daughter when she was in her prime.  This is kind of sad and beautiful at the same time…

In the long run, I may not save all that much time or money, but I feel a sense of duty to give a nod to the Wilson boys, who were lost at sea in 1882 and buried at the Union Cemetery (yes, a cemetery originally built for the union soldiers after the civil war).

I love exploring the back ways so much, that now my back ways have back ways. 

That’s how I found Makepeace Lake.  I’m not sure if it’s named after a person, but I like to think there was a historic peace treaty on that spot.  It would be the perfect place to meet if you ever need to extend an olive branch.

Like the Rodney Atkins song says,  “put a little gravel in my travel, unwind, and unravel…get lost and get right with my soul.”

Thinking of Thoira

The storm toppled my squirrel.  Thoira, my next-door neighbor, gave me the little statue before she moved away 14 years ago.  It loyally guarded her back step and I was proud to carry on the tradition.  It almost feels like a piece of her is still here and my soul is warmed when I think of her.   Of us.  Of what once was.

I was a new mom and Thoira was well into retirement.  We were an unlikely pair.  She was a depression baby and I was an idealistic hippy.  She lectured me on how often to feed my newborn; I chided her for smoking too much. Yet, we always found laughter and common ground as we sat around her orange Formica kitchen table.   Thoira would be thrilled that her 60’s chic style is all the rage these days. 

Seeing the fallen squirrel made me wonder if it was a little message that she was thinking of me, too, and snippets of the past came back to me.  Like the time she proclaimed my daughter, Gianna, would always be Gigi to her.  And how she would hop onto my husband’s motorcycle for a lift down the driveway.  My memories of Thoira are no less concrete than that crazy squirrel on my back step.

FSH Bucket List of Best Bar #12 Standard Tap

I know it seems we fell off the face of the earth, but we managed to climb back on the wagon Friday night to resume our pursuit of the Top 50 pubs in Philly.  #12 was Standard Tap.  We readily agreed when Kevin said he’d pick us up.  Thank goodness he’s always prepared and savvy, as opposed to our “where are we exactly?” street sense. 

Northern Liberties is a lovely little neighborhood north of downtown filled with artists, boutiques, pubs, and restaurants with an emphasis on environmentally friendly construction.  We managed to snag a good parking spot and were relieved to find that there wasn’t a wait for a table for six. 

Our waiter was a little snarky at first, but we warmed up to his sense of humor.  The guys enjoyed the beers on tap and the girls went for an evening of wine.  All fabulous and much needed.  We started with a plate of plain fries and one Poutine.  I admit I’d never heard of Poutine and was a little scared of “cheese curds,” but this may have been the highlight of the evening.  It’s basically a comfort food, originating in Quebec, Canada, featuring French fries smothered in brown gravy and cheese curds.  If world leaders shared Poutine over draft beers, I have no doubt that there would be world peace in no time.  We could easily have eaten several plates and skipped dinner.  But, we didn’t.

Chalkboard menus are in place because the menu changes frequently.  Lisa went for the chicken potpie, and everyone else opted for burgers.  All really great quality, fresh, and delicious. 

Overall, grade A.  Maybe if we were seated upstairs outside with a less snide waiter, it would get an A+, but we can’t complain really.

Hopefully, we’re back on track with Operation Top 50. 

41 to go!

FSH Bucket List of Best Bars, #9 The Good King Tavern

Finally, a return to our quest.  After weeks of vacations, obligations, and commitments, it was time to resume our noble cause.  It was a perfect, clear day for brunch, so we sought out a place on the list that fit the bill.  #9 was The Good King Tavern in Bella Vista, and we only strayed out of order a little bit.  We’ll go back to # 8, A. Bar, next time. 

What a beautiful, quaint setting to watch the snow fall.  I took a sneak peek at the menu and planned to order eggs Benedict with a bloody Mary (my idea of heaven), but the specials board enticed me with braised short ribs and fried eggs over pomme frites.  That description also lured the lumberjack appetites of Todd and Rich.

Vibe:  Cozy, warm, charming.  Quintessential neighborhood pub. 

Server:  Adorable, friendly.

Drinks:  I forgot to take note of the ipa beers and the other drinks because I was so enthralled with my bloody Mary.

Food: A+ from us lumberjacks.  A thumbs up on Jeanne’s lobster omelet, Kevin’s strawberry French toast and Lisa’s scrambled egg and mushroom toast.

The best part of the day, though, was going back to our hometown and hanging out as the snow fell around us.  Our kids actually had to track us down.  Booyah.

42 to go!

My Dad Loved a Good Story

About 3 years ago, I shared one of my dad’s WWII stories on my blog.  One particular place he cherished was a little town in Sicily called Caltanissetta.  There in the burned out remains of the town were two Italian children, Maria and Geno, who would come out every evening and sing to the soldiers in exchange for a little piece of candy.  My dad recalled their voices echoing off the walls and he marveled at how they could sing so beautifully when their world was literally crumbing around them.

Soon after I released that story and his many others, he passed away. He had made plans to give his body to medical science so that researchers could learn something from him, even in death.  Fast forward 3 years, and his ashes are returned to the family. We decided to scatter his remains in his childhood home of Tuckahoe and planned a big family brunch at the Tuckahoe Inn before going to the river to say our final goodbyes.

My dad, never one to let anyone else have the last word, made himself known in a few ways.  First, on my way down to the brunch, I got an email.  From the town historian of Caltanissetta.  He found my blog from 2011 and said he translated it into Italian, hoping someone would know Geno and Maria. He called my dad a “noble soul” and hoped he was still alive.  Then, my in-laws were walking on the boardwalk the day of the brunch and were approached by an old man who just wanted to chat. He used to own the Tuckahoe Inn. Before parting, he said, “oh, and my name is Harp, like the angel.”

My dad was always a storyteller. Still is, apparently.