Stephanie March

Outside Minnesota, the month of August has nary a holiday. Many people just let the hot, humid month hang there, lazily dipping its toes off the dock. But here, we know August shimmers like the last few grains of sand falling through the hourglass, telling us our time in the sun is waning. So we … Read more

He’s so vanilla, she said. She meant he was plain and simple, an accountant type with no spark, not an artist. She meant he was boring and uninventive, without passion and not worth my time. But when food is your language, definitions begin to skew. I understood her to mean he was delicious and seductive … Read more

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda’s food poetry is some of the most beautiful ever written. He transformed tomatoes into heavenly beings. His ode to wine should be every serious vintner’s mantra. Even ordinary and unpoetic subjects—the artichoke or conger chowder—receive his divine dressings. But as far as my searches have revealed, Neruda seems to have skipped … Read more

There’s nothing quite like a Door County Fish Boil to kick off the summer. Up on the sandy Wisconsin peninsula that’s known as the Martha’s Vineyard of the Midwest, a warm Friday night is nothing without a cold can of beer and a steaming kettle of fish. It’s a steadfast tradition and comforting and safe. … Read more

What a funny quirk of verbiage that a bum car is called a “lemon.” There’s even a “Lemon Law” to protect us from people selling used vehicles with hidden flaws. This assumes the worst about people and, I think, slanders lemons. Calling a car a lemon should be a great compliment, akin to linking its … Read more

She’s bumpy and oddly shaped, often times covered with a film of dirt. She prefers the dark, the underground areas. She’s like the slightly stinky kid in class who keeps to herself but gets all her work done on time. You think you know her—she’s simple and hard working, maybe a little bland. And then … Read more

My inner Mothra would be so proud. I had no fears that the gorgeous Icelandic woman sitting next to my husband at a dinner party was any competition for me, but that didn’t stop me from engaging the table with jokes told in rapid-fire English that I was sure she couldn’t get. It’s not bad … Read more

It was a very snowy January when I ran away to Prague. The family I stayed with lived in one of a cluster of monolithic stone apartment buildings on the outskirts of the city. The grey air outside the buildings smelled of coal and smog, and the air inside smelled of tea and cabbage. Each … Read more

As a blond, long-braided German girl, my mother was in charge of going to the bakery for the family. During Christmas, the most magical time, some German traditions hold that the world itself is transformed, that angels dance all around, and heavenly music accompanies the softly falling snow. Yet only the true of heart witness … Read more

Is there such thing as “harvest time” anymore? You can buy apples in June, tomatoes in January, and there are bananas year-round at our local Farmer’s Markets. Nature’s bounty is but an email away to Simon Delivers. The harvest used to be a glorious time of celebration after the hard work of bringing in the … Read more