A Visit Home to Connecticut

My mom thinks that I don't think of her home in Connecticut as my home because I didn't grow up there, and in fact, I've never really lived there, outside of a couple of weeks of college vacation. I don't think of Wallingford as my hometown but I do feel like I am at home when I am at my mom's. She's wrong because I think she confuses the idea of a hometown with truly being at home. It's home because I sleep well there and because I wake up to coffee made for me. It's home because my old toys and books are there, carted lovingly over the years from home to home. But of course, most importantly, my mom's house is Wallingford is home because my mom is there.

My mom and I have routines when I visit, which I think are part of her routine when she's alone, too. We scope out yard sales and consignment shops for bargains; we head to Macy's but skip the rest of the mall. We make coffee and sit outside and look at her garden. We walk around her neighborhood to look for what houses are for sale or we walk the trail at a nearby park. We drive to Wesleyan to check out the changes since I graduated. We visit my grandmother for more coffee. It's routine, possibly bordering on ritual or tradition, and I look forward to each one because my normal routine in Minnesota is hectic and filled with people and kids and work and noise and meetings.

As I get older, I find myself building my own rituals that mirror my mother's. After I found my mom watching Sunday Morning on CBS at the unheard of hour at 8:00 am, I got hooked. I started waking up a little earlier every Sunday and watching it as I read my newspaper and drank coffee. I've tried to carve out more summer time vacation at my own house, planting flowers and tomatoes and enjoying just being home. I scope out the yard sales here, wake up early almost every day to have a little time to myself before the day slips away, and, most obviously, make coffee with milk (not nearly as much as my mom and my sister) every chance I can get.

Cortadito Update

Last Sunday, my friend Isabel gave me the most wonderful thank you gift. She bought me a can of Cafe Bustelo and a simple moka pot and taught me how to make cortaditos. All along, I had a Mukka Express to make cappuccinos, but I never realized how close I was to making cortaditos at home.

Isabel started by putting a whole lot of white sugar in a mug. I mean, I knew there was sugar in a cortadito, but it turns out that there is a LOT of sugar in one. When the percolator bubbled up the first bit of coffee, she poured just that first tiny bit into the sugar to make a frosting-like mixture. She said that this step creates the foamy surface of the coffee, and that the Cubans say it has to be the first drips of coffee that you use. On the side, she boiled some milk on the stove. When the coffee was done, she poured it into the sugar and mixed it vigorously to create that foamy surface. She poured a touch of milk into the coffee, leaving that perfect little milk stain on top.

And that was it. So simple. When Isabel was done, she handed me a cortadito; I hadn't had one since last summer in Miami, and hers was perfect. When Isa tasted it, however, she said, "Oh! not sweet enough for me."

And so, every morning since then, I have been trying on my own, and yesterday, I did it! My cortadito tasted perfect, but it didn't look perfect. I still haven't mastered getting that little macchia on top, as you can see below. In fact, my version looks kind of pathetic. But I won't give up. I may need to get a little hand steamer for the milk. And, I may need to go back for some extra help from Mrs. Rodriguez...

Cortadito, Little Havana, Miami

Today is one of those magical days when I have a coffee that reminds me exactly why I love coffee as much as I do. Today I had my first cortadito. These days are few and far between: that coffee at the Smithsonian ten years ago, Iceland, Gibb's Farm at Ngorongoro Crater, Kopplin's Coffee... and now I have Miami.

As we finished our meal at Versailles (a popular Cuban restaurant and bakery worth its own post) in Miami, Matt told me that he heard that you can't leave this place without having a cortadito. Not that I would have, but I didn't know what I was in for.

This little drink is a pull of Cuban espresso, brewed into a decanter with sugar, and finished with steamed milk - mine was about half and half. The espresso was that perfect kind of strong - not bitter, not overwhelming. I'm not good at describing the notes and bouquet and finish of wine and coffee, so you'll just have to trust me that it was perfect.

We'll be going back before we leave Miami!

not my image.... my cortaditos were in little styr0foam cups, but I wanted to whet your appetite.... image found at: http://offthebroiler.wordpress.com/2006/11/30/florida-dining-latin-american-cafeteria-restaurant/

If you want to learn more about some of my other favorite cups of coffee, check out Kopplin’s Coffee in St. Paul and Gibbs Farm in Tanzania! Or, if it’s easier, you could check them out at these links, but you can’t drink any coffee that way:

http://www.gibbsfarm.net/

http://www.kopplinscoffee.com/

Another day, I’ll write about them!

Husavik, Iceland

Somehow I knew I would love Husavik before I even got there but writing about it has been difficult. I partially blame this post for my stalled blog. I loved Husavik; it is like Moab and Terlingua - those perfect little towns where you could sit happily with a journal and a cup of coffee for days. You know what I mean -- you plan one or two days to visit these little places, and then you don't want to leave. So I can't figure out why I couldn't write about it back in April when I started this post. Everything I wrote seemed lifeless and didn't do justice to Husavik, but it is time to finish and move on.
This small, northern Iceland town sits on a harbor filled with small fishing boats, whale watching vessels, and dinghies. A lovely turn of the century wooden church with a distinctive blue and green roof sits up above the harbor. Whale watching is a major attraction in Husavik, and The Whale Centre is located in a former slaughterhouse adorned with a bright but simple whale mural; it’s a lovely museum but it is overshadowed by another museum in town… Next to whale watching, Husavik is probably most famous to tourists as the new home of the Icelandic Phallogical Museum, a slightly disturbing collection of male genitalia. I think I’ll leave that there. No more needs to be said, but you can discover for yourself at www.phallus.is.

The truth is I think I love Husavik because I loved the cafe in town, the Skuld Cafe. I spent most of my time here, where a kind red-haired woman poured delightfully strong coffee in white tea cups and entertained my questions about Icelandic culture and history. The café had plenty of outdoor seating and bleacher like seats built into the hillside that looked out over the harbor. Matt and I read and drank... here, coffee came served with chocolate and a free refill.

I adore whales, and the cafe was perched perfectly over the whale watch boats. The whale watch Matt and I joined WAS amazing, and with our fancy new camera in tow, we have proof. There was a chill in the air and more than a chill in the water that splashed over the sides, so we bundled up in insulated, waterproof jumpsuits and wool mittens & hats. I saw more humpbacks breach that evening that I have seen in my entire life, and you all know how about me and whale watches. Give me some Earl Grey tea or coffee and I am ready to go whether is is 6 am or 9 pm (which you can do in the summer in Iceland!) I love them all: big boats in Boston or Hyannis, little boats in Nova Scotia, or sail boats in Iceland. The Husavik trip didn't disappoint, and I would have happily gone several more times.

Iceland is chock full of idiosyncrasies & fairy tales. It's a hard place to write about, and it is difficult for me to find words that capture it at all. Go there, but skip, or at least don't stay too long in, Reykjavik. Drive the Ring Road instead and search out the coves & geysers, icebergs & elves, waterfalls & lava flows, and herding dogs & lounging sheep. Drink coffee and sit and be content.

More Photos From Iceland

Glaciers!







Skaftafell National Park, where I got electrocuted (briefly).

Latte from Heaven, Reykjavik







Whale Mural, Husavik







Puffin, Papey







Waterfalls!

Reindeer on the road to Seythisfjorder

Reliving the Sagas

Stones by the sea shore

More glaciers!
Matt diving into boiling hot mudpots at Krafla

Northfield, Minnesota

Over the hills and through the woods (through one really evil speed trap, past one haunted house adorned with an abandoned school bus, and beyond the home with clydesdales), there is a town that has helped ease our transition from Cambridge to Faribault.

Northfield has two cool colleges (Carleton and St. Olaf), a Taco Bell (Matt's ambrosia), a Target (as Jennifer used to say, Tar-jay) and a Caribou, which already makes it a wee bit more cosmopolitan than Faribault. But that isn't really what makes it great. This is the home of Malt-O-Meal, an industry that innocently makes the entire town smell of cookies. This is the town whose motto is "Cows, Colleges, and Contentment."

Here's what makes it great:

Chapati's... especially Chicken Korma. Having Indian food so close when you live in what feels like the middle of nowhere is pretty special. It's not the same as Cafe of India, but that's okay. Chapati's is located in this old, red & white, historic hotel, The Archer House, with a huge white porch, where I can just see a Henry James novel happening if only this wasn't Minnesota.

Jesse James... Do you know that Jesse James tore through Northfield, hoping to get rich off the First National Bank in 1876? Too bad for him that the tough local Minnesotans stopped the raid! In honor of Jesse James (hmm, or maybe those brave locals), we celebrate Jesse James Days each September. I ran my first 5K to celebrate.

Paul Wellstone... Wellstone taught here in Northfield at Carleton College for over twenty years before he became senator and later died in a plane crash. Minnesota is the strangest state in terms of politics (e.g., lots of pro-life billboards, a wrestler for governor once, a comedian running for Senate) but the work done in Wellstone's memory is pretty nice to have going on here. Wellstone!

Window shopping, or not... Northfield has everything I need. The Rare Pair, where I can stock up on Merrells and Privos. Digs, my favorite (oh, and Matt's too), where you can buy fabric and yarn and buttons and dish towels and eco-friendly cleaning products, where I found my Stitchin' Vixen shirt that I adore, where I can buy sushi themed stationary, and where I found a very special Dracula for a very important person. Of course there's antiques on every block - perfect for my mom to spend an afternoon.

Books... There's an independent bookstore, River City Books, whose owner loves David Brent as much as I do, and there's a used bookstore, Monkey See Monkey Read, where I recently found a 1937 Collier's World Atlas and Gazetteer for only 10 dollars!

Coffee & Cookies... How can a place called Quality Bakery and Coffee Shop not be great? I recommend the cookies. For coffee (and rice crispy treats reminiscent of the cafe at Wesleyan), it's Goodbye Blue Monday. I don't know if they are referencing Vonnegut or New Order or the simple fact that Mondays suck and would be even worse without coffee. Who cares. My favorite thing about Goodbye Blue Monday is that even when I am 30 seconds away from being late to my therapist's office, I can still order a latte and be on time for my appointment across the street. I think there is simply a difference between my car's clock and the office clock, but I like to think of it as a little Northfield magic realism.

Dog Park... need I say more? When is the rest of the world going to catch on to this?

So, even when I complain, even as I look out on 5 fresh inches of snow, even when my skin hurts from the cold, even when I miss my family and my friends, even when I long to walk the streets of Cambridge or eat sushi in JP, even when I want to swim in the ocean, it isn't that bad here after all.

Maybe next time I'll tell you why Faribault itself isn't that bad....