Just when I vow to step back, take a deep breath, for a few hours view politics from afar, knowing (and not exactly forgetting) the horrors of so many lives: the refugees and other homeless humans, those mired in death and starvation in countless deadly military/gang/thug actions around the world—it gets personal in various ways. For starters, personally terrifying in the way fascism, communism, capitalism, all creep up and into, if not my life directly right now, it’s in the next field or village or city or country over.
I do try sometimes to pull away from the words and pictures, just a ways, not completely. Can’t think about the UK or EU or NATO; Iran or India, and please god, let me not see an image of joker-in-charge on page or screen for a day or two.
But then I conduct my quick morning scan just to make sure New Mexico is not in a shooting war with Texas (that’s meant to be a joke! Still today…a joke). And while the world-danger is not as close as Texico, it feels ever more personal to me. It’s guns ablaze in places I’ve lived and visited…and loved and enjoyed. Seriously…if there’s one tool that literally cries out for use it is guns. And if you have too many unemployed and, in many cases, otherwise unemployable men (mostly men) and you give them a gun, things will go bang in the night.
For a moment of enjoyment: “From Ghoulies and Ghoosties, long-leggety Beasties, and Things that go bump in the Night, Good Lord, deliver us.” (source may be a British prayer, quoted by Alfred Noyes in a 1909 anthology, The Magic Casement—origin of ‘bang in the night’ possibly).
Here’s what I want to say before continuing: I am terrified and heart-broken about what’s taking place in the U.S. and in much of the rest of the world. But like most of us, not directly in the line of fire, my days are a mixture of despair and going to the grocery store; of loathing of ‘my’ president and his minions and watering the plants; of a deep and visceral anger and of watching a Britbox murder mystery. When there’s a big march against our ruling fascist, I march. I subscribe to a few trustworthy news sources (even though I try to avoid reading anything from time to time, if journalism leaves the room, we are truly goners). I do read ever more history—gives me perspective I say. I rant and rave to myself, to friends…and then I even remove myself from the source of the furious rants for a few days. No media, I say. Take a breath. Smell the roses! Which is what I intended for this week.
But now it’s become personal: Minnesota. Not the next state over. But home. Where I grew up and still consider myself a citizen thereof. Minneapolis. Where I lived and worked. ‘My’ government has sent, and is paying, masked and armed thugs to patrol and murder on the streets of Minneapolis! Seriously. Oh yeah, that’s right. Minnesota is a blue state. Well-off blue state. The Minnesota state governor, during the campaign dared call dt and minions “just plain creepy and weird as hell.” The truth’s a bitch, isn’t it? And, Minnesota’s biggest urban area has a lot of brown people. Good looking, smart, relatively well-off, recently-foreign, Muslim, brown people—the worst kind.
And, yes indeed, there are probably some crooks among them. Likely nothing to compare to the crook-in-chief and his happy grifters. And have you noticed how hard it is to find a race, ethnicity, culture, religion, gender, occupation without a crook of two? Give it a think, I dare you. Name one. Not saying that’s all fine, but I’ll guarantee if you look into the facts of the Somali fraud scandal, you’ll find both truth and lies about the extent of it…and I’ll also guarantee you’ll never find anything to match the level of corruption rife in the administration currently occupying Washington DC.
Since I’m not physically traveling so much anymore, please bear with me as I revisit places dear to me—being trampled all over by MAGA goons. I’d use the R-word, but every now and then a Republican has a lucid and oh-so-brave half-minute and makes a stumbling little move in the right direction. So rare though, let me just go ahead and say Republican Goons. Any emergence by any one of them above sewer-level has been so brief as to be hardly noticeable.
Eating lots of Walleye makes for good politics.
Well, I was going to move on to Greenland and Colombia and Canada from the morning’s ‘quick’ news scan, but I’m already exhausted and it’s only 9am.
And the last things I plan to say or show about that benighted year follows…and it’s almost all pictures. Holidays with family. Period.
I’ve already talked about Thanksgiving in Austin and the brand-new family addition: AT as I like to refer to her/him (short for AsborgTorgus which is how I’m forced to refer to The Kid since parents refuse to divulge any hints whatsoever of potential names).
In addition to meeting AT, the pure pleasure to me of hanging around my brilliant and beautiful grandchildren…all six in one place and even on their best behavior, at least until I retired for the evening after which they laughed really loudly at words and actions I probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
Steven and I made it to a favorite cultural highlight of any trip on the first day–IKEA.
They actually are a lovely bunch…of whom I am ever so proud…one and all.
There’s a bonus to visiting Austin: it’s travel-buddy Celia’s home. And as my blog-readers know, granddaughters Teresa and Sara have been on Greenland and African journeys with Celia also. So here we are, happily remembering our adventures.
I did have just the smallest of pangs when remembering that for a few Thanksgivings I’ve had the combination of Teresa and travel all to myself and that’s now a thing of the past. But we ended that so perfectly in 2024 by combining the two for a week in Paris for a sort of grand finale of Adventures with Lace. Just the right time for me too, I suppose, since I’ve noticed myself scanning world maps with a touch less enthusiasm!
Can’t imagine any future Thanksgivings topping this this all-grandchildren-to-myself one. Thanks, nice humans.
Which leads me to Christmas. Which I’m really bad at. I’ve never gotten it even close to just right since my sons left home…and even before that I wasn’t so great at it. You know, the food all delicious, the gifts just what everyone wanted, the loving spirit of the holidays intact throughout. And Snow on The Ground…
Actually, Christmas 2025 was just fine. Steve made excellent biscuits and gravy for breakfast and gave me a fancy knife set. I’m now able to slice those big rustic loaves from Costco without having to rest between slices. There were plentiful photo ops with the three main gift recipients barking and mangling their presents with great abandon. We enjoyed each other’s pleasant company, and I happily declared my three hours of joyous winter holidays over.
You did the best you could, 2025 and I’m too old to regret times past. So, thanks and au revoir. Let’s don’t stay in touch. Well, wait. At this point, I don’t really want to remove any years from my projected lifespan. Maybe a postcard now and then would suffice to keep you in my life?
Be gone with you 2025. You oversaw the inauguration of a fascist clown—bad idea. And allowed him to harass the entire planet all year long. You should be ashamed.
Not only that, but you forced me to come to terms with the fact that I am old-old and will exit said planet in the next few years. What else…or is that enough to hold against you for now?
To do the final final-wrap then (so I can hurry on to the pleasures of 2026; let’s see…celebrating Mamdani=pleasure/invading another country=feels a little like pain).
Anyway, in my world, the year, 2025, began with me being puny at a glorious wedding on tropical island. But I licked my physical and psychological wounds, so to speak, while traveling about SE Asia with a son—during which, most nights, I read The Dark Valley, an almost too-thorough history of our world during the decade when worldwide fascism took hold and World War 2 began. I obsessively journaled my fear night after night.
Then I returned home and cozily pondered world affairs and my ever-more rapidly approaching demise from my very own couch! Our friendly psychologist at UNM’s Senior Health soon hinted that I was perhaps reaching acceptance…the final stage of grief, right? Grief that the country I thought I knew was disappearing and the universal grief experienced as death approaches.
It turns out the year was passing in a relatively non-threatening way though, at least in my world. Not so true for non-white persons of ‘difference’ in the US, or if one is trying to stay alive in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Congo-Kinshasa, Yemen, Afghanistan, and so many more places.
Me. I was safe. I am safe. Almost ashamedly so.
Autumn 2025. Good times. As already announced, Teresa and Jon will be parents in a couple of months, making me a great-great-grandmother (and I hope, however briefly, to actually be great at the position). Although since I am afraid of babies, this is challenging. Since I have too many pictures of all these good things to share…because that’s what I do, “Last Year,” the post will be divided into two: first friends and family and a lovely cluster of late fall visits. Then, Thanksgiving and end of year holidays.
Although by tomorrow we’ll probably have invaded Greenland and Panama…aren’t they next on the list? At war with Denmark. Doesn’t that sound silly? Well…? Not totally. Not even a good joke is it?
Let my good times roll. During early days at VSA/North Fourth Art Center, I had the good fortune to have three smart and accomplished young women show up for a years’ AmeriCorps service: there were many such young people over the years but these three would become among my most treasured friends. Now, close to 20 years later, they still are. Here in Albuquerque, May (mental health counselor, also married to AmeriCorps staff guy Nils, a physical therapist); there, in Colombia at the moment, Val (consultant, married to a nice guy in the diplomatic service); and elsewhere in Pennsylvania, Jess (theater artist/manager/instructor). I am truly excited when we can visit. They’re still among the smartest, kindest, and funniest people I know.
Val dropped in this fall for a few days which gave us an excuse to talk profound stuff and nonsense with May and Nils. We missed Jess mightily, but made plans to hang out with her sometime in 2026.
More good times with the early October Balloon Fiesta, everyone’s favorite time to visit Albuquerque…even if sometimes the weather turns bad and those magical creations never leave the ground! Like this year for example. Grandchildren, Steven and Ashley were here, hardly noticing the grounded balloons for the pleasure of hanging out with family.
To double the pleasure of no-balloons with plenty of fascinating people (!), two friends from Minnesota came rolling by in their ever-so-slightly unusual camper, sleeping in the driveway but joining us inside for various and sundry pleasures like the fancy bread and butter I serve and showers.
Mary, the mistress of camping and kayaking has written a charming book, The Kayak Lady, a best possible glimpse of life on and around a thousand or so of Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes.
A No Kings march gave us a chance to join our fellow radical-left wing-scum in a show of displeasure with the horror-in-chief.
At the sad end of things, one of my favorite people in the world and a friend of 50 plus year moved away. How is that possible? Friends of that duration should not be allowed to leave the city limits for more than a few weeks at a time, should they?
The good news is it seems we have enough stamina left for a trip or two…oh yeah, and I did inherit some great bookcases. Me and Pollyanna…always looking at the bright side.
Finally, on Last Year #1. A very special event for me. During my years traveling to and in South Africa to see, meet, and invite African artists to North Fourth Art Center, I met a theater artist at the Harare International Festival in Zimbabwe, originally from there, but at the time residing in Cape Town, named Jonathan K. His friend, support, guide, agent, and tour manager, a South African theater artist named Bo, was with him. I found his piece to be well written/acted and presented and we met briefly to talk about the possibility of Jonathan coming to New Mexico. We planned to meet later that year in Cape Town which we did. I had the chance to get to know them both and hear their separate and absolutely fascinating stories. First fast forward, they were part of Global DanceFest in 2010. And Bo was just here in Albuquerque to present her piece…at the famous theater of Teresa & Laurie.
Fast forward again, because the rest of the story will be told in a separate post. While a small part of that will be Jonathan’s, it is Bo’s story I want to dwell on. It’s a tale of South African life, families, politics, and race that could only happen there. Not because it’s worse than everyplace else, but it is story in layers and levels that perhaps are unique to South Africa.
And since South Africa is one of my three favorite countries on the planet, I cannot resist the chance to say more about it.
‘Last Year’ is winding down. When I return tomorrow, I’ll describe holiday time 2025 and then … Fini!
Sorry, can’t resist a few more words about the current state of American politics. Wish us luck during another night in the land of trump. As the slime ball and his military wreak havoc on the world, and congress cowers in its warren of dank cellars, and the supremes giggle all the way to whatever retreats keep them overfed, drunk, and/or fondling their pretties, we rest secure in the knowledge that the tech-bro world has even more grisly plans for our futures. Gotta love our fine leaders…right? I feel so much better that we’ve moved on to 2026. Ugh…
But to hell with faux-leaders. Here’s Scott and Sandra at the end of 2025 on a boat on the Mekong River (or a tributary thereof) going from Laos to Thailand. They’re doing what we all should be doing. Being out there in the world where and when we can. It’s a spectacular planet along with some of the built environment and some of the people.
New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day. Best holiday of the year coming up. A chance to thoughtfully ponder one passage of time and eagerly anticipate the next with all of the possibilities therein. A time to recognize one’s fears of bad actors all across the planet and repent of personal failures, both big and small; a time to fashion a future to the best of one’s ability that looks with hope and determination and even joy at a year ahead.
I acknowledge that a substantial portion of my personal pleasure is that New Year’s Eve and Day are when I make endless lists (a top-five favorite activity for me) and open brand-new journals/diaries/calendar books and enter first words with new pens, sometimes on an also brand-new or newly-placed desk or table. A far better time than can be had with firecrackers, balloons, turkey, or gift-giving (unless including journals or pens). Most people do not agree.
November and December 2025 have been eventful with family, friends, small travel, and even a few home improvements.
I even have plans for next year to share so this “wrap” may take a few episodes to conclude. It is now December 24rd.
First up…the biggest event of the year. A new kid in the family. “Kid” is my loving but ever so slightly annoyed label for Teresa and Jon’s soon (February) to appear baby. Since no one is allowed to know the gender or potential girl/boy name for the new human and since ‘baby’ doesn’t come with much personality attached, I’m choosing Kid…Kid S. Has a nice ring. And leaves all sorts of imagery open: 8-yr-old genius graduates college; 11-yr-old successor to Greta Thunberg saves the world; 14-yr-old reform school inhabitant, but only because the kid stole Bezos’ biggest yacht and donated it to Doctors Without Borders; 16-yr-old cyclist makes it all the way around the globe—grandpa is so proud; Great grandma’s favorite gg-kid, age 18, owns a flat in Paris where ggma’s ghost happily haunts forever and ever. Is this a great kid or what!
Here’s an interesting thing. When this big event was announced, I was happy for the excited parents since this was exactly how the plan was supposed to work, but it didn’t feel very personal to me. I know, first great-grandchild and all that, but babies are a little scary to me, a lot scary actually, and I didn’t envision getting to know her/him very well since our lives will overlap somewhat briefly. Which is sad for many reasons, one of which is we might have become great travel buddies.
Also, it was hard to grasp that my slim and graceful young granddaughter was planning to grow another human being in her body.
On a lovely Thanksgiving visit, it all became real. Teresa is indeed fitting that kid in her belly. Amazing. She is rounder, and even seems taller, although I know that’s not true. Although Jon hasn’t changed size, they both seem somehow magically prepared for their biggest roles in life—parenthood.
OR NOT?
The big revelation to me is about how this baby/kid/person/human/individual suddenly became real to me. It’s quite astounding how an unidentified small human has become real and special and how I am anxious to know her/him.
There is a downside though—I’m worried at a whole new level about the survival of our fine and fragile planet on this new kid’s behalf. It was feeling like the adults I know, including my children and grandchildren, were in this messy dangerous world with me and we’d either survive together, resembling who we are, or in the form of one exotic monster or the other, or not at all. We adults talk about the demise of our world…watch shows about it, read books about it…perhaps laughing weakly or dreaming badly. But poor Kid S…didn’t have one thing to say about any of this. How to work harder and give the kid a chance should be our big question, shouldn’t it?
Well anyway, I’m excited. A great grandchild. I guess, for now, I’ll call her ‘her’ sometimes and him ‘him’ sometimes. Or Asborg or Torgus after her/his great great great grandparents? After all, this kid is 1/8 Viking.
We won’t know each other well probably. Born almost 87 years apart. But perhaps I can make sure Asborg or Torgus knows about forests and snow and lefse and trolls. I was thinking about the expression ‘ships passing in the night’, but then, given my theater management years, one ‘enters stage left’ while the other ‘exits stage right’ seemed more appropriate. That made me a bit sad though because I’m hoping we’ll have at least a few scenes together!
Leaving you with possibly the best description ever of a lived life. So here we are Kid S. and me, entering and leaving. (Be nice to have the girl’s version, yes?)
All the world’s a stage
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
“All the World’s a Stage” By William Shakespeare
Merriest and Happiest of all holidays now and in the future. (Except Presidents’ Day…I’ve cancelled that)
It is so hard to write about regular stuff anymore. I want to, most of my life is still comprised of that regular stuff. But if my country is increasingly unrecognizable, shouldn’t I be screaming danger over and over and over, until someone listens, instead of blathering on about everyday life? But, you know what? The majority of human beings through all human time have experienced great changes, just as, or even more, dire than our own somewhat dramatic descent into fascism. I imagine they’ve experienced the same emotions—despair, resolve, fear, hope, disgust, pleasure—that we are going through on a daily basis (until one day, it’s all bad…?).
In the meantime, let me share a pleasant-enough story about a road trip my friend, Marge, and I just made to Taos, New Mexico. First photo up, my ear backgrounded by the glorious big blue skies of the high desert!
Marge, also known as Minnesota Marge, since I am New Mexico Marj, loves New Mexico (she once lived here) and usually visits every year. She has a timeshare so books into Santa Fe and/or another picturesque location, visits friends, and gorges on New Mexican food. This time, we agreed I would meet her in Santa Fe, we’d go up to Taos together and tourist for a few days.
Marge wanted to visit a few of her favorite sites, and wallow in the charms of art and enchiladas and personal history. I wanted to see if I still loved road trips and was as adaptable to different beds and food and simply hanging out as in the past.
For me, it turns out the road part was pretty much as pleasurable as ever. Except for being lost in Santa Fe for nearly an hour. But even google maps footnotes Santa Fe with a disclaimer about their information being correct! For Marge, the food was as fine as ever. Those giant plates of corn and meat and chiles called one thing or the other, including chili with an i.
Our first treat was a drive out to Rio Grande Gorge, probably more special for me than for Marge—because I remember twelve years ago visiting that grand site and sight with the Stifani Brothers, artistic twins originally from Italy, visiting us to perform the most charming of dance/theater pieces, Twin Pleasures, choreographed by Philippe Blanchard and appearing at Global DanceFest. I missed them and dance and North Fourth Art Center a lot this time, but I took the above brilliant selfie of my ear in the great blue sky of northern New Mexico in remembrance of that day. And there’s a picture of the art crew 12 years ago (see granddaughter Teresa, the traveling art girl, on the left) and just the tiniest of shots of ‘old me’ below for comparison sake.
We managed a few perfect Taos hours. The small but impressive Taos Art Museum and Fechin House, the latter fascinating at several levels: The artist, Russian Nicolai Fechin is, in my always humble art opinion, a brilliant painter of portraits; his story of life in Russia and the U.S. is the stuff of world history: and the house itself worth a long imagination-filled wander, thinking of me back there and then and what might different lives have been like.
Not to be diminished as an experience was lunch at La Luna in the old La Fonda Hotel. I was so happy…not being a fan of the Great New Mexican Dining Experience in its usual heavy, greasy (and in my opinion, boring) version. I wasn’t expecting much since Taos Plaza is slightly run-down appearing and the sidewalk in front of the hotel had that unsurprising, but always disappointing, pee perfumery. Marge ignored me mumbling ‘let’s go someplace else.’ And good for her. The food was honestly as good as anything I’ve eaten anywhere. The owner/manager/chief chef/inventor has labeled the style Indigenous World Cuisine: At La Luna at La Fonda, we proudly present an indigenous World Cuisine that honors the ancestral foodways of North, Central and South America. Our menu is rooted in the traditions of the land, highlighting ingredients that have sustained Indigenous peoples for millennia – from heirloom corn, wild game, and native beans to seasonal fruits, herbs, and spices.
I had Albondigas Vegan: Mushroom and pine nut meatballs served with zoodle squash and butternut sauce, topped with pumpkin seeds. And for dessert: Sweet Corn Crème Brulee: Fresh corn modified with sugarcane, served with dairy-free custard. May I just say…OMG, it was perfect.
End of story…almost.
Turns out Marge really cannot breathe at high altitudes anymore. And I no longer can sleep well on murphy beds. A bit of a struggle was had by both of us. Marge at some point said sadly, “I guess I won’t be coming to New Mexico anymore.” I said, at various points, also sadly, “I may be mostly through traveling anywhere for the sheer pleasure of traveling.” Yes, I said that. And meant it. And still do, a week later.I have imagined this moment, with its sense of something so big in my life being over, for a while now. And here it is. All good things and all that… After all I’ve been traveling since what you see below was what hotel rooms offered in the way of cleansing and grooming.
Since the beginning, I have been labeled as finicky, picky, a bad eater, the antithesis of a foodie. Although, I love bread and even-more-so butter. With coffee, with dessert, with a vegetable if one must; morning, noon, and night love. Good bread, good butter. I’m of Norwegian ancestry (with a dash of Swede) and Norwegians make the world’s best butter (Setesdalmor Extra Salta) made in the Setesdal Valley where one-half of my people originate. And I grew up on my mom’s homemade, fresh from the oven bread and Land O’Lakes butter back when it still resembled actual butter. I was doomed from the beginning—only ever able to fully acknowledge two worthwhile food categories.
This morning, in my early ruminations about reading and writing, I suddenly realized that I am in the process of completing a listen at the gym to Crying in H Mart (Michelle Zauner); and have just finished reading in bed, The Paris Novel (Ruth Reichl, editor-in-chief of Gourmet and author of Save Me the Plums and Tender at the Bone). And, yesterday, in a quick B&N drop-by on the way to lunch, I acquired Butter (Asako Yuzuki), offering “the transgressive pleasures of food in Japan” with a tasty helping of murder.
My present reads, H Mart and Paris, are chock-full of mouthwatering descriptions of Korean and French food, however no recipes. The first has me to begging my California grandchildren to take me to Korean restaurants anytime they’re available serve as my guides. The second…well there’s that trip Tom, Celia, and I talk about: Paris, September 2026. And me, this time with a happier stomach.
Enthusiastic about this morning’s discovery of a one of those unexpected caches of common themes in my life, I puzzled about why some of my favorite books have been about food. At the absolute top of that list is Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking: A Memoir of Food and Longing (Anya Von Bremzen). It’s been awhile since I read it but, in my memory, it’s the best of all kind of book: history, geography, culture, and a life focused on the everyday (in this case, food) amidst all of those big topics. Additionally, there are recipes, in fact a most complicated borscht recipe that I talked my son into making a few years ago. It was delicious and our hands and counter tops remained a vibrant red for days to come. I understand that including recipes does raise the question of whether a book is a proper novel or memoir… or a cookbook. Soviet Cooking manages to be all those things to readers like me.
Another set of books, most enjoyably within the cozy mysteries’ genre (and made into a television series), are the Tannie Maria mysteries (Sally Andrew) from South Africa. I own two: Recipes for Love and Murder and, Tannie Maria & the Satanic Mechanic. Of course, I would enjoy this series; there’s a bit of history, a lot of geography, enough murder, and, to me, fascinating discussions of food and recipes. The food descriptions and the recipes are less formidable than Korean and French—South Africa not known for its amazing cuisine (it’s a little more like Scandinavian/Minnesota food perhaps… simpler, not scary!
And Then There’s…
NOMA: Time and Place in Nordic Cuisine. If you are interested in food and the world’s northlands, this book is a beauty. Food photography as art. Northlands culture and its geography. Recipes that people have paid hundreds (thousands!) of dollars to taste. NOMA, voted best restaurant in the world a few times. And, point of pride: I have actually stood in front of it on a Copenhagen street, gazing in awe at the front of a non-descript building, Rene Redzepi lurking somewhere inside…before my companions and I adjourned to an ordinary restaurant a street or few over. Son Scott and I actually discussed, half-seriously, making a NOMA reservation and flying specifically to Denmark to eat there! Me, for the book and interesting author and fantastic geography, and Scott, who is much more of a foodie (although I’m not sure oldish people can be appropriately called ‘foodies.’ Michelle Zauner in H Mart says they cannot!) actually wanted to eat the food. However as, according to our bank accounts, such a trip wasn’t practical, we never made it to NOMA. Now, it’s become a sort of experimental kitchen. Too late for another possible adventure.
Last but obviously certainly definitively, not least. Kitchen Confidential by the ever-amazing Mr. Anthony Bourdain. I have not read it for years. So many books, TV shows, public appearances, food/places/travel by the much-loved Tony since. And then death. I, like many of Bourdain’s fans, have not quite forgiven him. Selfish of us. Childish. But, Bourdain’s food never ever came without context and humanity…from Kitchen Confidential on. That and his caustic, but still somehow compassionate, persona is why he is still missed. My copy of Kitchen Confidential is long loaned and lost. It’s one of those books I’ll replace from Thriftbooks for a few dollars; not really because I’m going to read it again…but just because….
I also have a fine meatball cookbook, several cake recipe tomes (remember, I am Scandinavian), and of course the famous Sundays at the Moosewood Restaurant (which I think everyone with even a toe in hippydom was required to possess). I’m including a photo of the latter because it represents the phase in my life when I believed in cruelty-free food, free love, and honest politicians.
Now for my tomato sandwich lunch. Heavy white bread (Costco Rustic Italian better than most bakeries); a big fat very ripe vine-ripened tomato, medium-sliced; butter (European or New Zealand brand); and regular grocery store mayo, not-freed of any bad ingredients. Toast bread semi-darkly, spread with a whole bunch of butter (sitting out on counter, not brick hard from the frig), blob on some mayo, top with fat-enough tomato slice sprinkled with quite a lot of salt and pepper. A fine lunch it was but I ate it before I remembered to take a picture.
…south from Northome on Highway 71 about six miles, turn right on a gravel road, every year feeling a tingle of anticipation, another mile and a half and there it is, lane up to the house grown over, house collapsing into the earth, young spruce growing out of and into the old log kitchen. The Old Place.
The time when it was everything recedes further and further in the distance. My mind’s eye holds in reserve clear pictures of me the child and my small family on the farm in the northern woods, but I must remove myself from all distractions to see them. Now and then a smell or sound or touch also takes me back to the Old Place: vividly, sharply, poignantly. Oddly, or not, although the sense of ever greater distance is present for everything that went before in my life, I somehow experience the imagery, when present, more intimately. What does that even mean? I’m not sure…but it is true. In the last years of my mother’s life, she had powerful memories of childhood experiences on the Sioux River Valley farm where she grew up.
Robert, Marsha, Scott, Steve, and I went out home together once this summer and then I returned alone. It’s buggy this time of year so simply sitting somewhere in the grass or woods and listening for mom dad brother voices, Laddie or Pal or Buster woofs, sheep and cows commenting on their days, isn’t very comfortable. Besides it’s sentimental and more than a little silly, isn’t it? Yet I always do it.
This year, I sat in the car, all windows down, feet on the dash, closing my eyes and trying to beam myself back. I couldn’t. I love it up there, and it feels happily familiar and connected but I cannot see hear smell feel the past simply because I will it to be so. It’ll happen when I’m falling asleep or lonely back in New Mexico.
Around the house
Out on the land
The name of this blog is Time and Place because my life preoccupations are history and geography. History was my field of study as an undergraduate and geography at the heart of all my travels. In the case of my old home in northern Minnesota, those interests have become personal passions: my history on 80 acres of woods, swamp and fields.
The Old Place belongs to my sons now, and I think their intentions are to pass it on to their children. I had wished for a time with my grandchildren and their partners to spend there with Robert and me. I imagined us telling them tales of our free-range childhood and going with them to say hello to their great-grandparents at the Forest Hill Cemetery. For a while I was fixated on such a visit, but, although it is a most special place to me and, to a lesser degree my sons, that sort of attachment cannot be passed on. What I can pass forward are my writings about and pictures of one life growing up among the lakes and forests of one small green spot on the planet. They can be shared when grandchildren are older and curiosity strikes now and then, perhaps from their kids’ questions about the who, where, and when of their ancestry.
All that being said, I am going to hang out up there in that buggy north woods for a while in my 87th year. Perhaps I’ll make stories of a few more memories and take a thousand more pictures that look much like the ones from last year and the year before…and before. The idea that sentimentality is an unworthy emotion be damned.
Heading from home up the Big Hill (well, it was steeper when we were kids?)
Time for the grand summer blog post…or two. True, summer’s not officially over, but the temperature has dropped two, three degrees and I’m hopeful. Summer of 2025. Highlights. Scott visits. Steve and his dog hang out with us a lot. We visit Minnesota, Robert and friends and the Old Place. End of story. Unless something of great consequence happens between now and September 1st. No matter what anyone tells you, that is the day fall begins. Every morning after that when it’s hot and sunny and there’s not a turning leaf in sight, it’s appropriate to complain about climate change. (In New Mexico the first day of fall is officially October 1st because then it’s the balloon fiesta and there’s hope for some gray rainy days! Balloon festival aficionados pray for good weather but you know how god is, sometimes distracted and forgets to answer prayers and keep people alive and fed and safe and enjoying festivals.)
The Black Sheep: That would be son Scott. Actually, he’s quite a good guy, however he lives part of the year in the Philippines, far from his ancient mother. Therefore…black sheep, right? He really should be here all the time—painting walls, preparing salads so I eat an occasional vegetable, doing stuff for no no, I mean with me. Truth be told, he does well in that realm for a wandering-the-world dude.
Scott was here in July and will return for a short time in in the fall (…there are always more walls to paint…). He’s my biker son; I guess I mean cyclist son, since Hell’s Angels isn’t exactly his style. So, before we leave for Minnesota, here are a few heartwarming photos of a boy and his bicycle.
Minnesota: My outsize photographic obsession with Minnesota being what it is, I’ll divide Minnesota into two parts. The first will include everything except a visit out to the Old Place, which as you all know, is how Robert and I refer to the place we grew up—Home, in other words. That visit, about which I always wax most sentimental and take too many photos of the same places every year, just a little more bedraggled or overgrown each time (although always lovely to me), will be the next post.
Scott, Steven, and I flew into Minneapolis and rented a car for the roughly three-hour drive to Grand Rapids, the pleasant town where Robert and Marsha have lived or at least been based for much of their adult lives. It is famous for being the birthplace of Judy Garland…that’s it. Grand Rapids is probably as close to ideal as medium size (around 11,000) towns go: attractive and prosperous-looking, big grocers, restaurants, a good book store, an excellent clothing shop, several small breweries, coffee house or two (I think? Robert has plentiful coffee on hand so I’m not sure). Next time I’ll take town pictures. Good place to visit for a taste of life in the north woods. Best of all it’s on the Mississippi River and has a green and inviting forest trail for great year-round walking (unless you’re a southern sissy, terrified of the least bit of bad weather).
The photo album starts here:
Often, our first morning in up north, we take a walk along the Mississippi.
Hanging out at R & M’s. Friends visit. It’s as life and Minnesota and family should be.
Scott, Steve, and I took a overnight trip up to Roseau on the Canadian border so they could hang out after many years with a favorite cousin, Terri, the daughter of my much-loved cousin Audrey. Terri is one of the last of the aunts, uncles, cousins with whom I feel truly connected. This year was perhaps just a little sad since Terri is dealing with some uncomfortable health issue and Audrey is fading out of her and our lives. Nevertheless it was so fine to see Audrey, although not sure she knew me this time, and to get some Terri and Brian (best walleye fryer in the US and maybe Canada) time and a visit with her kids and some grandkids. I’m sad not to have captured pictures of a couple of her nearly grown-up grandkids with whom I had a fine conversation about their plans for life. I’m always so thrilled when people under 70 seem to enjoy even a few minutes of conversation with me!
Then it was back to Grand Rapids through the golden fields of canola and the Red Lake reservation where my sons felt compelled to stop for t-shirts and other stuff.
Finally, we had what was kind of a special treat for all of us. On our way out to the Old Place the first time, we stopped for a visit at Jack and Karen’s (Jack was Robert’s old school friends whom I’ve posted pictures of before). This time Jack had a trip planned throughout the fields and pastures of his land which is next to or almost next to our land. There were ATVs for all and we bounced over hill and dale. Jack has become a serious historian of the area and had stories of everything that’s transpired on this land in what is called Bridgie Township. A spectacular Minnesota afternoon.
Finally we stopped by to say hello to my mom and dad.
As you all know, I am not a fan of New Mexico weather, being a pluviophile, one who loves rain and feels at their best on rainy days. But it’s not just the peace or drama that rain provides, depending on its mood. It’s that rain, too much rain, all-day rainstorms, stay-inside-and-read rain are normal expected parts of life in a temperate climate, i.e., climate with four distinct seasons.
Here’s the thing. Growing up in a temperate climate renders many of us unfit for boring weather at whatever comfort level. We get no satisfaction from any environment that doesn’t make the journey from winter (real winter with blizzards and icy roads and endless complaints)—to spring—to summer—to autumn (with that morning thrill of the chill, foretelling an end to overheating; forests all crimson, orange, gold; important things like school and the best holidays and sentimental autumnal tunes filling our lives)—back to winter.
There’s also the communication boost that comes from living in a climate where change is the constant. What on earth besides the weather is safe to chat about when running into acquaintances at the grocers when you can’t remember their kids’ names or whether their mom’s in a nursing home or for certain what their politics are…? What can replace: “Geez, Jim, can’t remember it ever being this darn hot in June before, gonna kill the alfalfa if this keeps up.” “Yeah, ya betcha, Frank, never like this when I was a kid.” Or “Ya know, we haven’t had a snowstorm like that in years, lotta people going in the ditch, can’t remember how to drive on a little ice anymore!” “For sure, but if it keeps up there’s gonna be some spring flooding in Grand Forks.” Or ‘This is the latest spring or earliest fall in years…think there’ll be any wild blueberries, raspberries, deer flies, forest fires, good hunting/fishing next spring/summer/fall/winter?
If that sounds like I’m making fun of the way we talked back in olden times, that’s still the way we talk in the rural north. When we’re not complaining about “crap” on TV, damn crooked politicians (pretty bipartisan that one…), or the price of beer.
Okay, I am a northerner. Upper Midwesterner. And we had rain, quite a bit most years. Cold earth-awakening rain in the spring, dramatic thundery rain in the summer, long gray days of rain in the fall (a proper foil to those golden autumn days inspiring too much poetry…). We did not have winter rains when I was a kid, the moisture fell as god intended…as snow…back then.
I intended to get started blogging again with a catch-up of summer family goings-on. However, it is yet one more sunny day in New Mexico, temp to hover just below 100°. My doors are open now, inviting in the morning coolishness; shortly after noon, I’ll shut them, turn the AC on about 78°, half-close the shades, perhaps add a YouTube video of soft jazz in the rain on a device or two. Survival.
Honestly, I miss being a worker (or a student) when I was at my office or classroom or art center for most of these dreary sunny days.
Windows in the rain from a Norwegian train ride in the past.
About not being pathetic. Stay busy…a little too busy. Here’s where I am with that. In a discussion with myself about what causes/activities arouse my slumbering do-gooder passions enough to actually incorporate them into this lackadaisical lifestyle, I came up with the following: 1) the plight of refugees/displaced/homeless persons, 2) a brand-new political involvement, and 3) a more active writing presence that incorporates Window Seat. My life-long obsessions with books and travel still exist but they aren’t keeping me quite busy enough—pathos could creep in.
The unhoused people of the world. They are, to me, the most tragic of all vulnerable populations. Whether refugees fleeing their homeland or internally displaced, or the localized homeless of the planet…imagine…do it…close your eyes and imagine not having a single safe spot for yourself anywhere. Imagine, your small children with you, your elderly mom…no place to keep them safe. No warmth, no privacy, no rest, no help. Imagine.
For starters, I printed out the 2024 Global Report from UNHCR (United Nations High Commission on Refugees) and started scanning it. At least 129.9 million forcibly displaced and stateless people globally. Another 150 million or so homeless in their own regions around the world. A total 1.6 billion may be without adequate housing. Although most of these figures come from the United Nations, just driving around Albuquerque, New Mexico USA suggests they are probably low.
I next attended a zoom forum from UNHCR. The three people leading that discussion were, to me, worth any ten or twenty millionaire/billionaires or politicians. One point made was that in the last decade refugee numbers have doubled while the budget has remained the same. (So, let me not think about the 1%, the wedding in Venice, the Mar-a -Lago snake-pit, the profits from the maiming, killing, destroying weapons creating ever more members of the bloodsucking class as well as ever more refugees… or I will go mad.)
Meantime, I’ve made my initial proactive move of pulling every book, fiction or non-fiction from my shelves, making a tidy pile, and declaring I will read each and every one for a full understanding of the urgency of the actual situation. The problem is—I am very good at making study plans but often less purposeful about follow-through. Therefore, I’m committing right now to reading while doing. This week’s assignment: to make sufficient contacts to find a place where my small service offerings might make a difference. In other words: ‘put up or shut up.’
***
I’ll describe my other two “passion projects” next blog because here I want to be sarcastically disgusted as the US proves once again that our ability to bluster and bomb and bare super boobs all at pretty much the same time is unsurpassed.
You may have noticed we bombed another country last week. True it was another country with a leadership as dysfunctional and corrupt as our present regime. I mean it’s not like we bombed Canada or New Zealand, right? The question of whether the rest of us have the right to kill off bad regimes or even damage their killing potential may never be fully-resolvable—and at the present time in the good old USA, it’s probably best not to dwell on it—hypocrisy might rear its smirking head.
The week also brought us a press full of Jeff and the Boob-bride, and an excellent take on how that particular bride-of-oligarch look has emerged, courtesy Emma Brockes/Guardian/June 25, ’25. People with money can make poor choices about cosmetic surgery too, of course, but the uniformity of this particular look – so heavy on the filler, silicone and Botox as to make its wearers seem not younger, but weirder, and in a state of constant discomfort – suggests something closer to design. If you were the type of person to make liberal references to The Handmaid’s Tale, you might even speculate that this aesthetic has been tailored by the world’s richest men to symbolise just how completely – almost derisively – they can control the bodies of the women around them.
It seemed a disjointed week from the dangerous to the ridiculous—with stern talks to myself about life and meaning in between. I do believe it continues the theme of the unsettling dichotomy of our days. Death raining down here and there, while I’m pondering how to stay useful-while-old and also queasily chuckling over the tawdry insipidness of the new gilded age.
P.S.
Melissa Hortman, Minnesota state legislator, and her husband Mark were buried last week too. I’ve written about this a little before, but can hardly stand to contemplate the whole tragedy, because it’s a murder as close to actually being committed by Donald Trump and his minions as possible without one of them directly pulling the trigger. Who did it? The fascists and god did it.
My inability to even read much about it at this time is due to the fact so many of my neighbors, my fellow citizens, also had their fingers curled around that trigger. If I think too much about that right now, I must go live in a cave with only a cat who doesn’t like humans that much for company.
Melissa Hortman, her husband Mark Hortman, and their dog Gilbert, were killed in their home, on 27 June 2025. Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images