A Fine Day in Chicago

There’s a vacation. And then there’s a staycation. I think we took a daycation yesterday. Scott and I drove into Chicago for the day. Just a little outing, but I’m always energized by a visit. We headed to the Art Institute, one of my favorite spots in the whole of Chicagoland.

I’ve driven enough in Chicago to no longer be too anxious, and I accept that paying $25 to park the car comes with the territory. So, once we parked in the Millennium garage, headed over to our destination, and plopped down 30 more bucks, we were ready to see some art.

We had in mind what we wanted to see and focused on that without being distracted by all manner of “art.” The quotes are because for the life of me I can’t appreciate some contemporary art. Maybe if someone could explain it to me, I’d say, “Yes, I see.” But I don’t. And I’m fine with liking what I like.

We spent the most time viewing the museum’s Impressionism and Post-Impressionism collection. Monet, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec — whose famous paintings I never tire of visiting. The contemporary section held less interest, and I readily agreed with Scott that an immense canvas with charcoal and crayon doodling looked suspiciously like the artist might have been a preschooler. Picasso and a quick walk through the ancient Greek and Roman section of the Institute made up for our disappointment. An hour and a half in all. Just enough culture for the day.

With the Blackhawks in the Stanley Cup playoffs, this day the whole city seemed awash with Blackhawk banners and t-shirts. Even the stately Art Institute lions proclaimed their support with giant black hockey helmets.



As Scott and I exited the Art Institute, a wedding party scurried across the street in front of us.

German Dutch Baby Pancakes

This morning is a quiet one. After a week with mom, College Boy returned last evening via Greyhound bus to Drury University. I do not recommend travel by bus, at least not Greyhound. When I was a college student myself eons ago, I once made the 90-mile-trip home from the University of Alabama to Prattville on a rickety old Trailways bus. Let’s say the trip motivated me to find another way home. I think I can safely say the same for CB, who definitely picked up a couple of stories to write about. Some things never change.

CB is good company though, and I do miss him already. We watched a couple of movies, Crazy Heart (recommended with a caveat or two: It reminds me of Robert Duvall’s 1983 Tender Mercies — whose plot summary according to IMDb is: “Alcoholic former country singer Mac Sledge makes friends with a young widow and her son. The friendship enables him to find inspiration to resume his career.” Well, Duvall won an Oscar in 1984, and so did Jeff Bridges this year, and who I am to question reusing plot lines if it works. But I did ask myself what the heck moved a young thing like Maggie Gyllenhaal to shack up with a broken-down man like Bad Blake?). CB and I also watched Blind Side, and being from the South and loving football, how could we not like this one?

One night, elder son made us homemade pasta and sauce (Bolognese with pappardelle), and another night, I barbecued (a.k.a. burned up) some chicken slathered with the remaining Montgomery Inn barbecue sauce I was saving for a special occasion. The chicken was accompanied by my potato salad, which CB had requested.

On my morning off, CB and I went over to our favorite Batavia breakfast spot, Lume’s, and indulged in a Dutch Baby German pancake. If you have never had one, I recommend you try them. In these parts they are rather expensive, and I thought I’d give making them at home a try. And thus, I discovered, they are amazingly easy to make and right tasty too.

• Here’s my version with slight modifications to the recipe found at How to Make German Pancakes—Dutch Babies. I used the smaller version, which the author says serves 2 to 4. First revision: I ate the whole thing but would say it would serve 2 non-gluttonous individuals quite well.
• The eggs and milk were just out of the refrigerator. I am an impatient sort.
• Forget the business about bread flour as opposed to all-purpose flour. I can’t imagine my Dutch Baby any higher.
• I used more vanilla and skipped the cinnamon and added about a quarter cup of sugar and 2 tablespoons of butter instead of 7 teaspoons, which might be the equivalent but I didn’t want to calculate differences in tablespoons and teaspoons.
• I used a well-seasoned 8-inch cast-iron skillet and would recommend a 10-inch instead simply for the reason that instead of a quarter-inch bottom, I ended up with a half-inch depth. Not bad—just might have been a tad better if it had been thinner. Be sure to follow the recipe as to getting your oven and skillet hot before adding the butter (probably ought to melt it) and then the batter. My Baby cooked in approximately 15 minutes. So, I would suggest you check on your pancake prior to 20 minutes just to be on the safe side.

Well, you can see from the photos the Baby turned out pretty pouffy. After sifting confectioner’s sugar over the Baby, I served it with lemon slices and syrup. Somehow I felt the Baby deserved an upgrade from Hungry Jack Lite syrup, but that was all I had in the house.

Happy Saturday!

Camping Renewal

Last weekend was too perfect for these parts. The cornfields stretched for miles, but with some roll to the countryside, it wasn’t a boring drive to Oregon. No, not THAT Oregon. Illinois has a little town called Oregon and that’s where my drive took me.

Past rustic red barns and horse farms, past a make-shift sign pointing to a blessing of the harvest, past so many road kill raccoons I have to make mention. Solitary but not alone, a two-lane road with so many motorcyclists you’d think they were all going to some big convention. I think, however, they just knew this weekend was one of the few left for their passion until spring.

As each cyclist passed another, they extended their left arms downward. Not being clued in to motorcycle culture, I imagine this some kind of “secret handshake,” akin to the cub scout or boy scout handshake.

On hindsight, this is an appropriate segue since scouts camp a lot and that’s where I was heading. Years ago when my son Jeff was a cub scout, I somehow got snookered into becoming a den mother. Of course trying to wrangle eight elementary-age boys into after-school crafts projects is like herding cats. Bless my friend Molly’s heart, she knew better and passed on the opportunity to lead. Her son Christian, my son, and the co-leader’s son, ring-led the other boys into all kinds of harmless mischief. I had fun but not at the time. Does that make sense at all?

Eventually, Jeff graduated cub scouts and moved onto boy scouts and his dad took over as a leader. At least on my watch, the boys didn’t try to burn down the forest on a camping trip. The boy who a attempted that was, as they say, “troubled.”

So, when Jeff felt it was time to introduce camping to Natalie and little Nicolas, I was at first reluctant. Fifty-seven year old bones don’t like sleeping on the ground in a tent. Ever the boy scout, Jeff offered up an AeroBed, clinching the trip for me. The other appeal, besides being outside on a lovely fall weekend with people I love, was Jeff’s cooking.

By the time I pulled into the crowded campground at Lowden State Park, one former Governor Rod Blagojevich closed last year due to budget troubles, Jeff and Natalie had already set up camp. Sweet! Minor items forgotten and a burnt apple cobbler in a new Lodge Dutch oven were our biggest issues. Small price to pay for stars over our heads, a roaring campfire, S’mores, great steaks, campers’ breakfast, and being with people I love.

Missing Montana

I have never been to Montana. I have it in my head to go to Montana. This longing is nothing new as it goes back several years, fueled perhaps by too many years living in towns and cities.

As a young girl, I grew up living in the country—rural Alabama to be precise. My dad bought 20 acres and built a house on the land after he got out of the Air Force. From the age of five until 18 when I went away to college, I lived there, roaming the woods unto my self for the most part. I was an only child, close to my grandpa and grandma, who took care of me while my mom went off to her breadwinner job at Maxwell Air Force Base in nearby Montgomery. My dad never seemed to be able to make a go at much we judge success by—the War left him wounded without the visible signs. He never was the same says an aunt.

So, with rose-colored glasses, I look back on a sometimes lonely childhood. But it is what molded me and I appreciate quiet, nature, and time for reflection. Maybe that is what draws me to Montana. I think if Montana is anywhere as pretty as the pictures, I might find what I seek.

For a while I fell off the face of the earth

I landed in Batavia, Illinois, a far-far western suburb of Chicago. Long-time readers might be curious about this journey, but for now, I intend to be discrete and mysterious about my detour along life’s pathways.

My new home, a quaint little town clustered along the Fox River, captured my eye immediately when I first drove into the downtown central business district. Yes, there is still a thriving downtown here, not yet lost to the strip-shopping centers which populate west Batavia along Randal Road where every manner of chain store or restaurant is at your beck and call. The mayor wrote this about his town, “Batavia in some ways looks like a town that time has left alone.” This part of the Fox River Valley is lovely, and I am no stranger to the river having once lived in a Craftsman-style house overlooking the Fox for a short time in Appleton, Wisconsin.

While Batavia is doing a fine job of straddling old and new, I found her charm immediately apparent with tree-lined streets of homes ranging from Victorian painted ladies to one classic Frank Lloyd Wright home. I can walk to my insurance agent, bank, pharmacy, coffee shop, and library.

The library features a mural of the art accompanying this post--John Philip Falter's "Fox River Ice-Skating," which was the Saturday Evening Post cover for Jan. 11, 1958. In the upper right corner, you can see the Challenge Windmill Factory, another Batavia landmark. Batavia dubs itself “The City of Energy,” a right fine tagline since it served as home to five windmill factories during its early years, and it has been the home of Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory (Fermilab) for more than 40 years.

Well, that’s a short introduction to my new hometown. More later but don't expect me to write about ice-skating on the Fox River or anywhere for that matter.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

It’s amazing to see the changes since I’ve been away from home. Suddenly, over the course of two weeks spring waved her magic wand and splashed away winter’s drab with yellow.

Daffodils punctuated the landscape as far north as St. Louis on the return drive along Interstates 55 and 44. And Forsythia shrubs drew my tired eyes away from the boring task of interstate driving. As I pulled in the driveway at home, I noticed the neighbor’s apple tree awash in beautiful blossoms too. Stepping out of the car was a bit of a treat too for you see spring is a little slower coming to more northern climes like Chicagoland.

So, you might wonder, am I happy to be home? I suppose so, but I must acclimate myself again to different rhythms and routines as well as prepare for a new challenge next week. And I miss one certain new member of the family much more than I thought possible. Such is life these days.

May the Luck of the Irish Be With You

College Boy just returned to Hendrix College yesterday after a week at home for spring break. Mostly we caught up on how he's been doing, what he does with friends, what college students watch on TV (House & Project Runway)--that kind of stuff. He applied for some summer jobs, made his dad a birthday cake and definitely caught up on his sleep. Remember how I worried he wouldn't be able to wake himself up for classes? I didn't even ask if the Sonic Boom Alarm Clock was still in use, but rest assured, his hearing-impaired roommate isn't bothered by it. Funny how things work out sometimes.

And today I post this as I head back to Chicagoland to visit. It's about an eight hour drive and I'm throwing my Chiefton's CD in the front seat for the trip. It is St. Patrick's Day after all and I feel lucky.

Hillary on Top

We drove down to Conway, Arkansas, to return son to Hendrix College for the second semester. Classes start today. He switched a couple of classes to get different professors, got out of the semester-long temporary dorm room, bought over $400 worth of books and is happy to be back fresh from a month of sleeping.

I’ve written about this three to four-hour drive through the beautiful Ozarks before, and I absolutely love the wide expanses of trees, mountains and farmland. It is what renews my spirit. And husband and I even talked about returning in a few weeks when the weather warms for a canoe trip on the Buffalo River. I’ll have to get over my fear though. The last time I went canoeing in Missouri was over 20 years ago when we hit a submerged log and capsized. I still remember the murky light above my head as I headed toward it.

Sorry for the digression, but as many bloggers do, I carried the camera along and stopped just outside of Conway for this topical photo. See, my mind is so politically focused that I can’t forget about the 2008 presidential race even if I want. This particular business has concrete statues ranging from Greek gods to chickens. Need a lawn jockey or gnome? They have them. But the Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama jackasses immediately captured my attention and I thought the resulting photo was blog-worthy. Only later did I notice the fallen “Proud to be an American” sign.


© 2008 by Sheila Noblitt

Borat’s Back

Did you hear? Borat, the lovable and highly offensive faux Kazakh reporter, has come out with a guidebook about Kazakhstan and the US and A.

So far, comedian Sasha Baron Cohen has been talking up the book via e-mail interviews, during which Borat said when asked about the U. S. presidential election by Celebrity News Service, “I cannot believe that it possible a woman can become Premier of US and A—in Kazakhstan, we say that to give a woman power, is like to give a monkey a gun—very dangerous. We do not give monkeys guns any more in Kazakhstan ever since the Astana Zoo massacre of 2003 when Torkin the orang-utan shoot 17 schoolchildrens. I personal would like the basketball player, Barak Obamas to be Premier.”

Carnival of Cities

Check out the Carnival of Cities for a quick trip around the world from the Show Me State (me) to Bologna, Italy, and beyond all without leaving your chair.

Ozarks Road Trip

Last weekend was Parents Weekend at Hendrix College, which regular readers may recall is where College Boy is right now. I’m never one to turn down a road trip, especially one through the Ozarks. We passed lots of cows and horses, and I suspect deer, but they weren’t out. It’s a good thing too, because deer and cars don’t mix very well. Ditto for elk, which this part of Arkansas also has.

Conway is about a three to four hour drive depending on how much stopping you do. We do a lot. I have already found a good lunch spot, Neighbor’s Mill Café in Harrison, Arkansas. On the return trip, we stopped off and took a peek at the Buffalo River, a National River, and one of the few rivers in the Lower 48 without dams along its 135-mile course, which makes for remarkably fine canoeing.

College Boy himself seemed to be happy to see us and let us treat him to dinner Friday night before he was off to spend time with friends. However, he gave his whole Saturday to us—minus time for sleeping late and a nap. While he slept, we hit the breakfast spread put on to meet faculty where we met one of CB’s professors. She and the rest of the faculty seemed pretty neat. The campus is small, compact and lovely but getting bigger. Former Sen. Bill Bradley had just visited earlier in the week to dedicate the new Wellness Center. Complete with a rock climbing wall, wood-paneled hallways and shiny marble floors, this place is a tremendous asset, and CB has a wonderful place to work out. Oh, and CB got to meet Sen. Bradley and ask him a question when the former senator spoke to CB's class, Issues in Politics: Terrorism.


CB showed us some of his world—the library, the tiny radio station where he has a weekly show—and Dad saw his room (I decided it was better that I skip this part of the tour and trusted husband’s report, which is classified). We lunched on lasagna and met the cafeteria ladies who CB says remember to ask how he did on tests and notice when he looks tired. Thank you dear ladies.

It seems for CB now the rather small enclave of the campus is his world. And yet, I feel as if he has had thrown open wide the doors to the whole world.

Somewhere Lovely

I need to be somewhere lovely today.

In my mind it’s about time for a trip to Italy. But as wise readers know, parents of college boys don’t go casually jetting off to the Amalfi Coast like a couple of Hiltons.

So, just for today, I’m wrapping myself in memories stored up from a couple of summers ago when I took this photo on a beautiful, cloudless day in Ravello. High above cliffs overlooking the sea, the Villa Cimbrone is famous for its “Terrace of the Infinite.” Writer Gore Vidal called it the most beautiful panorama in the world and since my travels have been limited, I give him this.

May you find a special and beautiful place to restore your spirit today, if only in your memories.

Yes, You Can Go Home Again. Sort Of.

Interstate highways mostly obscure historic Route 66 these days although you can pick up sections of the old road as you travel from Chicago westward. One particularly delightful stop along the way is in St. Louis, Missouri. We hadn’t been to Ted Drewes in several years and despite the rampant overgrowth of the town, I navigated the family Camry right there to our Mecca on Chippewa just as if time had stopped. Surprisingly, I was the one so intent on stopping. The guys were anxious to get home to television and a soft sofa to rest on after a long day in the car.

Maybe Ted Drewes is foreign to you. If so, I must implore you to seek out Ted Drewes if you are ever in the vicinity of St. Louis. And what dear gentle and curious readers is this Ted Drewes I speak so highly of? Some of the best frozen custard--a. k. a. ice cream--my friends. Okay, time has robbed my memory of what sundae I used to routinely get once a week. But I think Cardinal Sin with gooey hot fudge and tart cherries was awfully close.

And while time had moved on like a drop of Mississippi River water, Ted Drewes’ frozen custard was as good as I remembered.

Road Trip to the City of Broad Shoulders

Montgomery, my old hometown, called itself the Cradle of the Confederacy and the Birthplace of the Civil Rights Movement—how far apart is that?

Chicago goes by several names like this too. Of course, everybody knows it’s the Windy City, although my mother always swore Oklahoma City was windier. The City of Broad Shoulders is a good one. Thank poet Carl Sandburg for that one. Second City is another nickname for Chi-Town you might have heard.

Philly is the City of Brotherly Love. I like that one. There's far too little of that and oh to be in a city of peace and love of fellow humankind. Does anyone know if they have much crime there? Wouldn't think so with a nickname like that, would ya?

Although, I’ve never been to the Big Apple, everyone knows where it is without me saying so.

Several cities like the Queen City moniker. Cincinnati does. My new hometown, Springfield, Missouri, is known by some as the Queen City of the Ozarks. I’d like to propose that the city’s fathers and mothers make the official nickname, Home of Cashew Chicken. There’s a cashew chicken joint on every corner. But please don’t make the mistake I did and think that this is a typical Asian-style cashew chicken. This is a uniquely Springfieldian way to serve what are in essence fried chicken nuggets in brown gravy.

More later about the road trip along parts of Route 66.

Travels Along the Interstate of Life

I wish I had one of those hand-held recorders so that when driving I could just dictate my thoughts, because now that I’m back home after a mini-road trip I can’t remember what I thought was so profound at the time. Maybe it will come to me.

It was along the lines of getting off the beaten path. The advent of the U. S. Interstate Highway System was in many ways a wonderful transportation milestone. I’m sure the trucking industry is happy to get its drivers where they need to be faster.

However, this same advancement in one sense has separated us more from our surroundings. Could you seriously distinguish one interstate highway from another? Well, maybe you could by terrain, but they all tend to blend together to me.

But I think back to when my mom took U. S. Hwy 82 west from Alabama to Texarkana in the summers and then continued on even more rural roads to Haworth, Oklahoma, to visit Granny. We started out after my mom got off from work on Friday and often found ourselves in that soft twilight time right before the sun goes down with a hint of honeysuckle, kudzu and pines as we whizzed by ram shackled barns and forgotten gas stations along the route. Big 18-wheelers, which nearly blew us off the road when we passed them on the narrow two-lane rolling highway, were scary to a six-year-old sitting in the back seat with the windows rolled down. Mom drove until after 10 p.m. when we’d start looking for some cheap motel. Some times it would be so late that it was one-after-another bad choice. But, the ride the next day was shorter.

Once we crossed the Mississippi River, I began to dread the trip through Arkansas. Normally I’d say much of Arkansas is beautiful, but the part around Crossett, which we were forced to drive through, was about the smelliest place in the South. Paper mills. If you’ve lived near one, I needn’t say more. Back then in the days before the Environmental Protection Agency and air pollution control, the giants of the timber industry pretty much spewed whatever they wanted to spew into the air and water, and it was tolerated. Small as it was, I could never hold my breath all the way through Crossett.

As we neared Texarkana, I began to look forward to our traditional stop at the gift shop where I could straddle the Texas-Arkansas state line, one foot in each state. I guess only kids think that kind of gimmick is clever. These days there is a post office on the state line and tourists can still pose with one foot in Texas and the other in Arkansas, but back then we always left Pecan Joe’s (or whatever the shop was named) with a pecan log and some sort of tacky souvenir I couldn’t live without. At this point, Granny’s place was less than a couple of hours away where we could count on her fried chicken, fresh from her garden corn and green beans and a strawberry shortcake if we timed the arrival just right.

There’d be cousins and aunts and uncles who, while not close in distance, were family just the same. After dark the kids ran around and around the house and garden playing chase and catching lightning bugs, too tired afterwards to even wash the dirt-bead necklaces from our tanned and sweaty bodies. Soon, we’d all be piled onto pallets (is this uniquely Southern or do y'all know that I mean a temporary bed on the floor?) of Granny’s quilts. The next day it was off to the river to swim or fish, and Mr. Martin, Granny’s second husband, would let us ride there in the back of his dilapidated old pickup Chevy truck, rusted and dust-covered but a fine four-wheeled country chariot to a gaggle of pre-teens who’d scrambled into the back with no thought to safety; this was before seat belts after all. Or we’d run down the road to visit Hett and Emmett’s earthen storm shelter with its cool darkness, an oasis from unbearable Oklahoma heat. Never in our wildest thoughts did we imagine that our dear Granny would one day wish she'd been in that bunker that night a tornado blew her and her little home away. She was tough enough to survive that but not the stroke that struck her down several years later.

These are the memories of my childhood. Life in the 50s and 60s was different of course. Was it better? I suppose every generation favors its own times over those that follow. I can’t imagine our children and grandchildren talking about a trip to visit granny in quite the same way. The interstate means faster car rides--the kids in the back with a DVD player, iPod, GameBoy or PlayStation to entertain. Sure families are together in one sense. And in another, they are very much individuals only sharing a space each in a world of his own.

“More than any single action by the government since the end of the war, this one would change the face of America.” The impacts of the Interstate System remain controversial, but it did, as President Eisenhower predicted, change the face of America—not simply by altering the landscape during construction, but by supporting changes that transformed our society in the second half of the 20th century.”

from Celebrating 50 Years: The Eisenhower Interstate Highway System

“When we get these thruways across the whole country, as we will and must, it will be possible to drive from New York to California without seeing a single thing.” John Steinbeck

In A Life on the Road, CBS’s Charles Kuralt explained why he preferred the back roads:

“If the traveler expects the highway to be safe and well graded, he may as well stay home. The little roads without numbers are the ones I have liked the best, the bumpy ones that lead over the hills toward vicinities unknown . . . I keep thinking I will find something wonderful just around the next bend.”

This summer will you find something unexpected “around the next bend” or will time squeeze the spontaneity from your life yet again?