Category: Article

  • It's Not The Size of Your Skyscraper…

    Has Minneapolis gone crazy for cantilevers? We humbly submit proposals for other buildings that could benefit from this glamorous architectural amenity.

    1. Keep an eye on rising gas prices while enjoying your double-dip cone—inside the new Loon grocery/gas station/ice cream parlor at 28th and Lyndale.

    2. In 1967, the Yippies wanted to levitate the Pentagon. If they’d only had an engineer and a cantilever!

    3. Safety solutions at Ground Zero. Why not turn the Freedom Tower on its side? Voila—the Freedom Walkway to New Jersey.

    4. Putting a stop to needless, hurtful speculation.

    5. The next phase of Cedar Lake’s Flatpak House eliminates double-decker bikes from the gene pool—or at least from Kenilworth Bike Path.

    6. Sex World’s “West Schwing” arouses envy. It is not allowed, however, to actually touch Choice Gentleman’s Club, across the street.

  • Shimmering Surfaces

    The three best reasons for being an academic, as is well known, are June, July, and August. Especially on the occasions when the University of Minnesota conspires with the McKnight Foundation to allow one to spend those months reading and writing about a really genial poet for instance, a character from the Later Roman Empire called Ausonius.

    There is a serious side to this enterprise, of course. Ausonius is a wonderful case study of an intelligent Roman who went Christian at around the time most Romans were going Christian, during the fourth century A.D. Watching him integrate ancient science (astrology, for instance) into Christian cosmology is as interesting as considering the relationships between religion and Darwinism. (Am I alone in wanting one of each kind of fish symbol to stick on the back of my car?)
    But there is also a fun side to old Ausonius, something agreeably fin de sircle. Sometimes I fancy I can hear him calling to posterity in the way that James Elroy Flecker appealed to a poet a thousand years hence:

    But have you wine and music still,
    And statues and a bright-eyed love,
    And foolish thoughts of good and ill
    And prayers to them that sit above?

    On one level, then, a poet who promises a summer of roses and wine. Which is as it should be. Roman emperors in those late days lived not at Rome, but on the frontiers of Empire, where they could face down their Germanic neighbors, folk who spoke limited amounts of Latin and smeared butter in their hair instead of scented olive oil (a little dab will do ya). Ausonius was tutor to the son of one such emperor and so spent much of his adult life at Trier on the Moselle, then as now famous for its vineyards. His roots, however, were in Bordeaux, and to this day a well-known wine chateau in Saint-Emilion on the right bank of the Gironde is named Chateau Ausone in his honor (but you know what they say about the wines of Bordeaux—if you have heard of a claret, you can’t afford it).

    For a poet so associated with wine, Ausonius was singularly fascinated with water. Icarus falls into it and Christ walks on it. Ausonius enjoyed looking through and across its shifting, shimmering surfaces since, like many a poet, he was interested in fishing; he was amazed, too, at the speed and ease with which a boat could carry him back and forth between his country villa and the city of Bordeaux. In fact, his longest poem is a dreamy description of the Moselle: The river cuts a canyon through the landscape, barges pass up and down, the bargees exchange badinage with men cultivating the hillsides. And in a contemplative passage, the poet wonders at the way fish cannot breathe out of water, while fishermen cannot breathe in it. I have a theory that Ausonius’ interest in water has to do with his shifting sense of himself, and so with the sort of Christian prayer that formed in his heart as he stood before the Most High God of the philosophers.

    But that is another story. More immediate is the fact that he would certainly recognize the modern Moselle, its vertiginous hillsides still planted with lines of vines and crowned with country mansions. And I feel sure he would enjoy, as I did the other night, a white wine made from the Riesling grape, available locally in the characteristic slim green Moselle bottles at around twelve dollars. (I do not know the exchange rate for denarii, but I do know a good story about a long-haired barbarian chieftain exchanging his daughter for an amphora of Roman wine.)

    This Riesling is the 2001 vintage of Robert Eymael’s Mönchhof estate. The name Mönchhof (monk court) comes from the Cistercians who owned this vineyard from the twelfth till the beginning of the nineteenth century, when Napoleon annexed all of this border region for France and the Eymael family acquired the vineyard. The result of this long history of cultivation is a wine that is on the sweet side, but would be pleasant with many sorts of cheese, fish, or poultry. The color is a consistent pale yellow, but each sip recalled a fresh sort of fruit. I thought I had it down as reminding me of pineapple juice when the next mouthful recalled apples.

    Plus ça change, shimmering surfaces indeed. There is also a clear, uncloying aftertaste. What is it about this grape that makes it so infinitely various in its flavors? There’s a question to talk over with Ausonius on an August afternoon.

  • The Sweet Taste of Liberty

    Until June 14, Camp Gitmo, the U.S. military detention center at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, was a controversial prison—to some, a necessary response to the war on terror; to others, a Bermuda Triangle of legal rights where suspected terrorists serve indeterminate sentences—but still, in pretty much everyone’s mind, a prison. Then, Senator Dick Durbin, a Democrat from Illinois, likened the interrogation techniques that Guantanamo’s proprietors sometimes employ to those used “by Nazis, Soviets in their gulags, or some mad regime.” Critics of this assessment responded quickly, emphatically, and with a surprising degree of culinary discernment. Not only was Guantanamo not a gulag, they insisted, it was actually a world-class vacation resort and a great place to eat.

    Rush Limbaugh dubbed it Club Gitmo, “a one-of-a-kind resort on the west coast of Cuba overlooking the bay” that served as a “tropical retreat from the stress of Jihad.” Dick Cheney took his cues from Limbaugh, claiming that the prison’s detainees were “living in the tropics” with “everything they could possibly want.” Duncan Hunter, a Republican congressman from California, lauded Gitmo’s spa-caliber cuisine and the kitchen staff’s free hand with portions. Detainees get “double vegetables and two types of fruit,” he boasted. “The inmates in Guantanamo have never eaten better, they’ve never been treated better, and they’ve never been more comfortable in their lives than in this situation.”

    Throw in two fifteen-minute showers a week, spacious eight-foot-by-eight-foot detention suites, and some relaxing enforced solitude, and, well, you can see why the editors at Condé Nast Traveler are kicking themselves for ranking this suicide-optional luxury hideaway so low on their 2005 Hot List. If anything, though, even Gitmo’s most avid boosters have been selling the place short. Why? Because along with the sumptuous chow and the breezy island ambiance, there’s also enough booze at Gitmo to drown the French Quarter. “On average, people will increase their alcohol consumption by three hundred percent when they come here,” explained combat stress control specialist Sgt. Michelle Olson in an article recently published by the American Forces Press Service.

    The prisoners’ favorite drink? The Gitmojito, of course. A refreshing twist on one of Cuba’s signature cocktails, it’s made with fresh spearmint leaves, limes, sugar, rum, and a generous splash of urine. Okay, just kidding there. Guantanamo detainees are sometimes rewarded with candy and ice cream, but alcohol is strictly reserved for U.S. military personnel. Why are the guards so thirsty? Not because of stress, that’s for sure. Instead, as Rush Limbaugh or Dick Cheney could tell you, it’s because this parched, semi-arid paradise, with its lush bowers of razor wire and acres of pristine land mines, is even more fun when you’re not chained to the floor and forced to crap on yourself. Still, an important question remains: Are Gitmo’s bartenders using premium rum, like Bambu or 10 Cane? If not, then somebody call Amnesty International! Plain old Bacardi Superior is torture.

    —Greg Beato

  • Back Against the Wall Street

    These days at the complicated intersection of Washington and Broadway, the downtrodden God-Bless-You gang works in shifts along the stoplight medians. There’s a steady stream of traffic, and the location offers proximity to plenty of bars, fast food, and, perhaps most conveniently, the Jug liquor store across the street. There’s a guy with a cardboard sign on every island and corner at the intersection, some days six guys holding down every possible point of access to motorists. There’s also a gaggle of characters waiting on the sidelines, so to speak, sitting along the concrete freeway barrier and on the bus stop benches. It’s like pick-up basketball.

    You tend to see the same panhandlers every day. They appear to use each other’s signs. “Stranded,” one says, and nothing else. There’s the standard, “Homeless. Please Help. God Bless.” And “Homeless Veteran. God Bless America.” I also saw this virtuous variant recently: “I’m Trying to Get Back on My Feet.”

    “Three Children in Texas” seemed to strike an odd note, and I was uncertain whether the appropriate reaction was sympathy or scorn. I do feel sympathy, or rather compassion, for all of them, especially now that there seem to be more of them every day. My guiding principle is that if I encounter one of them at a red light, I give him some spare change or a buck, and each one has been unfailingly polite.

    These characters have become a fixture at street corners all over the city in recent years, of course, and some local authorities aren’t terribly happy about the situation. In April, Minneapolis Police Chief William McManus, in an effort to curb and manage aggressive begging, floated the idea of licensing panhandlers. The idea, which has already been enacted in such cities as Cincinnati and Dayton in Ohio, would require panhandlers to apply for a license at the government center and wear a photo ID at all times when working the sidewalks and intersections of the city.

    The regulars at Washington and Broadway didn’t seem terribly concerned when informed about McManus’ proposal. Most of them are veterans of the streets and downtown homeless shelters, and they’re inured to all manner of hassles and inconveniences. Scrutinizing the nuts and bolts of city code isn’t much of a priority to them. Finding a place to crash and rustling up enough cash to maintain their nomadic existence is challenging enough.

    I walked down there one sweltering afternoon. As usual, a handful of sign-wielding men was spread out at various corners of the intersection. A stocky, middle-aged guy was holding down the prime piece of real estate on the stoplight median at northbound Washington. He was wearing a heavy U.S. Army camouflage jacket with the sleeves cut off and a matching hat, and it was clear from his attitude and the apparent deference with which he was treated by the other regulars that he occupied a position of seniority. His name, “John,” was tattooed prominently on one of his forearms.

    “What the hell am I going to do with a damn license?” John asked. “They’re just looking for another way to waste taxpayers’ money. I already got a green book downtown that’s thicker than the Bible. I’ve been out here since ’96, and I don’t care if it’s raining or its twenty below, I’m out here every day monkeying around. This is how I live. I’m not gonna lie to you; I get drunk and eat, eat and get drunk, and then I look for someplace to pass out for the night. Sometimes it’s comfortable, sometimes it’s miserable, but I don’t have any use anymore for the bullshit shelters.”

    There is, apparently, a sort of unspoken code among the panhandlers at Broadway and Washington. A guy is given an opportunity to hold down a spot and make some cash, but everybody seems to have a clear concept of when enough is enough; when somebody’s obviously wearing out his welcome, the others who are waiting around won’t hesitate to let him know. I heard one guy haranguing a panhandler who was slumped against a light pole with an attitude of supreme indifference. “Come on, man,” the guy said with obvious exasperation. “You’re not even working it.”

    There’s also a weird sort of camaraderie among the panhandlers. Many of them have known each for years. “I can’t stand most of these assholes,” John told me. “But we eat and drink and get drunk together, and a lot of us will pool our money when we get low.” On the day I stopped by to talk, he had a modest goal. “Maybe some of these people come out here thinking they’re gonna get rich,” he said. “Plenty of them don’t have any damn sense. If I get $6.50, that’s enough to get me through the day. Some days I do a lot better than others. People aren’t all bad, I can tell you that. There are lots of good ones out there.”

    One day in July, in the rain, I saw a motorist hand one familiar member of the God-Bless-You gang a pizza box through a car window, and a few days later, as I waited at the stoplight, there was a guy who was holding an entirely blank piece of cardboard. “What’s your sign say?” I asked. “You know what it says,” he said, without the slightest hint of hostility. He was, of course, absolutely right.—Brad Zellar

  • Coming Up Fast

    On a recent Friday afternoon, a silver Porsche 993 Turbo emerged from the maw of the IDS Center parking ramp into the sun. The driver was Peter Kitchak. “Look,” he said to his passenger as he maneuvered the nimble two-seater through downtown Minneapolis, “the last thing anyone needs is for you to write about how we went one hundred miles per hour in my Porsche.”

    “Of course,” I said. “I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble.”

    “The truth is,” he said as we headed toward I-94, “I do all my fast driving on the race track.” I nodded.
    Kitchak is an intense, compact, silver-haired sixty-four-year-old whom you’ve never heard of. But that’s only because you aren’t an insider in the national real-estate scene or the international world of auto racing.
    In 1983, Duluth-born Kitchak founded Keewaydin Real Estate Advisors. He has brokered and managed real estate deals in New York City and many other U.S. cities, though most of his work is in Minnesota. He and his wife, Patricia, have lived in the same house in Excelsior, on Lake Minnetonka, for thirty years. Right now, he is orchestrating what he calls one of the most important projects ever in Minneapolis—the construction of the new Guthrie Theater. Kitchak and Keewaydin have managed the Guthrie project from the start, including the selection of French architect Jean Nouvel.

    Kitchak also races cars—in particular, Porsches that are a lot like his everyday ride. Back in the early 1970s, Kitchak raced on the club-car circuit—what he refers to as “parking lot Grand Prix racing.” But then he gave it up to concentrate on other things, like work and family. In 1990, though, Kitchak bought a high-performance, limited-production, historic Porsche. “I was thinking about racing,” he told me, “but I was suspicious that at almost fifty, I wouldn’t have the reactions and so forth to be able to race a car effectively.” He needn’t have worried.

    In 1992, he formed his own race team, Toad Hall Motor Racing. He started improving at the club-car level and by 1996 was driving well enough to enter his first professional race—the Minneapolis Grand Prix. His top-ten finish got him noticed. The following year he won the Minneapolis race and was invited to race in the Twenty-Four Hours of LeMans, the most famous endurance road race in the world. Only forty-eight cars are allowed to compete, each with three drivers. Driving on a French team, with Keewaydin as a minor sponsor, Kitchak, was the second oldest driver there—Mario Andretti was the oldest. (Andretti crashed that year at LeMans; Kitchak didn’t.)

    In 1998, as part of a five-man team driving for a team sponsored by Germany’s Konrad Motorsport, Kitchak hit the high point of his racing career. Driving a Porsche 911 Turbo, his team won the GT2 division of the Twenty-four Hours of Daytona, and placed fourth overall. In 1999, Toad Hall and Kitchak competed in the Speedvision World Challenge GT, a pro series. He came in second place, losing the championship by a single point. Today, Kitchak and Toad Hall aren’t in the big pro races anymore, but they still dominate in the smaller historic race-car events.
    Naturally, Kitchak knows what he’s doing behind the wheel, even when the wheel’s attached to a four-hundred-horsepower Porsche 993 Turbo capable of accelerating from 0 to 60 in 3.8 seconds and hitting two hundred miles per hour.

    Of our drive together, I can only say that for about thirty seconds, Kitchak drove very, very fast, that he accelerated with such swift and stunning power that I was forced back into my seat, ripples of adrenaline and something like euphoria coursing through my blood. I couldn’t move my head very effectively, but when I did manage to glance over at the driver, he wore a broad grin.
    —Bill Clements

  • Random Blackouts

    One Sunday evening in June, three regular guys are settled into a
    corner of the bar at Figlio in Uptown, within spitting distance of one
    of the room’s three flat-screen televisions. On the tube: men’s beach
    volleyball on Fox Sports.

    My friend and I plant ourselves across from them, armed with a stealthy
    little device that hangs from my keychain and looks vaguely like a
    Batman toy or a keyless entry fob. Invented by a forty-eight-year-old
    guy named Mitch Altman, TV-B-Gone can turn off almost any television,
    anywhere. However, it doesn’t seem to be working today on the TV
    hanging from the ceiling just ten feet away—or on any of the bar’s
    other large, looming monitors. As a result, TV-Was-Still-Here, and I
    gave the gadget to the guys to try. It didn’t work for them, either,
    but their curiosity was piqued.

    “Who would come up with something like this?” asked one, incredulous.

    Perhaps, I suggested, an antisocial person who doesn’t approve of
    television. “Well, that person shouldn’t be allowed in public,” he
    replied.

    I asked the guys if they would have been upset if the device had
    actually blacked out the beach volleyball game. Even though they’d been
    devoting only occasional glances to the game, they agreed that its
    sudden absence would have been irksome. “I don’t have this channel at
    home,” one of them said.

    In another corner of the bar, there was one remaining TV I hadn’t tried
    to zap. It was an older model on which a 60 Minutes broadcast had just
    started. I walked across the bar casually, keeping TV-B-Gone out of
    sight at waist level (shooting from the hip, as it were). I hit the
    button, and the TV went dark. No one seemed to notice.
    Back in our corner of the bar, the guys cheered. When I sat down again,
    they confessed they were beginning to think I’d made up the whole thing
    about TV-B-Gone and was just using the gadget to pick up men—a
    corollary activity for which it actually seems to work moderately well.
    (Though wouldn’t that make it—ahem—a turn-on?)

    Rachel, a young woman seated next to me, said, “My ex-boyfriend used to
    watch TV in public all the time. Whenever we went out. It’d be just the
    two of us and he’d be staring at the TV. I go out to socialize. It
    drove me crazy.” She gestured at her Argentine boyfriend, Ozzy. “That’s
    why you have to date someone from another country. He doesn’t care,”
    she said. Ozzy said he would care if it were a soccer game. “If you
    went to a bar in Argentina during a soccer game and shut off the TV,”
    he said, “people would go crazy.”

    Angering sports fans seems to be one of TV-B-Gone’s easiest and most
    cruel amusements. The day before, at Billy’s on Grand in St. Paul, my
    friend and I had walked onto the patio, where the bartender and several
    of the waitstaff were engrossed in the second game of a Twins-Yankees
    series, their backs to the restaurant. I aimed from the hip and one of
    the bar’s two outdoor televisions went out. The bartender’s head
    snapped around as if someone had fired a shot from the grassy knoll. I
    had never seen fury erupt so quickly. He scanned the patio patrons and
    the peripheral bushes for snipers (no one ever suspects the blond) and
    finally turned the set back on warily.

    Seated inside, I turned off the big-screen TV above our table. And
    though there were three other televisions still on, a twenty-something
    dude nearby screeched, “What the—? Shit!” as his wafer-thin girlfriend
    continued nibbling at her salad and baked potato. The waiter scratched
    his head and went looking for the remote control.

    Inciting public riots, as it turns out, is not the inventor’s
    intention. A self-described former television addict, Altman invented
    TV-B-Gone in the first place “so I’d have one for me.” For the record,
    he never turns off a TV that people are actually watching. Instead, he
    says he takes aim at those televisions tucked in the corners of
    laundromats and hovering over bar stools, those boob tubes that are
    adding only noise or silent yet distracting images to the atmosphere.
    “Even people who love television don’t like to have toothpaste sold to
    them during dinner,” Altman told me. His original inspiration came
    about twelve years ago when he was out with some friends and noticed
    that they all, at various times, were distracted from conversation by a
    nearby television. Altman admitted that if he’s out in public and a
    television is on, “There’s no way I can stop looking at it. We’re all
    helpless in the face of it.” He laughed.

    TV-B-Gone’s arrival on the market was greeted with a frenzy of media
    coverage, and the initial inventory sold out in two days. After almost
    a year, people have purchased nearly fifty thousand of the
    feather-light zappers. “You could easily go to an electronics store and
    buy a universal remote,” said Altman when I asked about any legal
    issues regarding “tampering” with private property. “This is just a
    little more stealthy.”

    Back at Figlio, a very tall man who’d joined our conversation decided
    to take matters into his own hands. He got up and turned off the
    flat-screen TV the old-fashioned way: by pushing the power button. No
    one seemed to notice or care. And though 60 Minutes’ hour was up long
    ago, that TV was still dark, too. Something even Andy Rooney might find
    amusing.—Shannon Olson

  • You Are What You Meat

    The little tag on a tray of Smart Chicken brand breasts at the Byerly’s
    meat counter said, “One hundred percent vegetarian-fed chicken.” Does
    this mean the Bush administration has finally found a use for all those
    pesky, liberal vegetarians? Or does it mean I might somehow obtain by
    proxy some vegetarian virtue from the animal that will sustain my
    carnivorous vice?

    Fortunately, the people at Smart Chicken are eager to say what value is
    added to poultry when animal products are subtracted from their diets.
    Yes, there is much waxing sentimental about “land stewardship” and
    “birds raised free range with access to fresh air and sunlight.” But
    vegetarian feed for the animals is mostly promoted as part of the
    basket of consumer health benefits, along with antibiotic- and
    hormone-free organic production methods. These claims include lower
    rates of salmonella and camphelobacter contamination in addition to
    preservation of “natural flavors.”

    And, of course, there’s the issue of those little brain-eating proteins
    called prions.The most notorious prion is the one that causes bovine
    spongiform encephalopathy, mad cow disease. BSE was introduced to the
    human food chain via cows that had been raised on feed enriched with
    sheep brains infected with a prion. British cattle acquired BSE,
    passing it along to about two hundred beef consumers in the form of
    variant Cruetz-feld-Jakob disease.

    Statistically, prions are a very rare encounter, not much more
    dangerous to the general public than standing between a TV camera and
    Michael Osterholm. But prion expert Will Houston admits they “stimulate
    the imagination.” Houston also pointed out that “risk” is tricky to
    assess; likelihood of infection can be very low, while outcome if
    infected can be catastrophic. Houston went to Great Britain to
    investigate BSE in 1991 for the U.S. Agriculture Department and is now
    the director of the Center for Animal Health and Food Safety at the
    University of Minnesota. He generously supplied a number of prion facts
    that justify their unusual grip on our attention. “They aren’t sexy,”
    he confessed when asked what they look like. “They look kind of like a
    twist tie.” But they can’t be destroyed with cooking the way most
    pathogens can. One reason is that they are not alive in the first
    place; they are just protein. They can also withstand temperatures of
    up to one thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

    Of course, the real attention-getter is what the prions actually do to
    their unwilling host. They don’t make copies of themselves, like
    viruses, Houston explained. “A prion is more like a domino effect. We
    all have normal prion proteins in our brains. When that abnormal-shaped
    protein encounters a normal-shaped protein, it converts it. The body
    can’t recycle the abnormal-shaped proteins and they accumulate into
    amyloid plaques.” The plaques then make holes in the brain. Centers for
    Disease Control descriptions of symptoms include “seizure, depression,
    appetite loss, ataxia, aphasia, combative behavior, memory loss, and
    coma.” Prion disease is untreatable and fatal.

    Producers of vegetarian-raised meats do not currently promote claims of
    prion safety with their products. But Mark Haskins, founder and chief
    executive of MBA/Smart Chicken, believes that especially in the case of
    poultry products, demand is partly driven by BSE fears. “I believe the
    consumer has become very discerning in the marketplace,” Haskins told
    me. “They know that the BSE challenge has come from animal proteins.”
    This sentiment was echoed by Ed, a meat-counter staffer working at the
    Wedge Co-op when I stopped by. “We have a very well-educated
    clientele,” he said, and other staff confirmed that “mad cow” is much
    on the minds of meat shoppers there.

    But prions appear to be getting educated, too. Deer and elk now appear
    to exchange the chronic wasting disease prion without the intermediary
    step of eating each other, leading to concerns about potential contact
    with farm animals. “If such transmissions were to occur,” states a 2004
    CDC study, “passage of the agent through a secondary host could alter
    its infectious properties, increasing its potential for becoming more
    pathogenic to humans.” Hopefully, smart, free-range chickens will read
    the memo: Don’t hang around the elk.—Joe Pastoor

  • Pickled Tink

    How is it that so many of us draw no association between the salty, crunchy tidbits from Granny’s relish tray and fresh cucumbers that came from the earth? Is it possible to get so far away from a once-common practice that we no longer even recognize the result? Pickling used to be a seasonal activity that families undertook to ensure a decent food supply once the growing season was over. Generations gathered around a harvest and, using age-old recipes, created a tradition. Balancing salt levels, choosing spices, painstakingly cleaning and processing jar after jar—all of this was simply assumed to be necessary for survival. Now there’s no need to pickle; when it gets cold, we go to Arizona. So it is that another domestic art falls by the wayside, while companies who can do it faster and cheaper—if not necessarily better—take on production.

    So stands our relationship with pickles, whether you have a lonesome jar lurking in the back of your Frigidaire, with one or two thick greenies bobbing in their murky water ever since who knows when, or whether you excitedly grab a jar at the market and bring it home to three other jars that you were once equally excited about. Nevertheless, there is a level of pickle passion that runs deep in this country, even in our own state. For proof, one need only visit the Creative Activities building at the State Fair to see that the pickle-packing process has been passed on to a new generation. What drives someone to willingly spend hours up to their elbows in brine, cramming jars with cucumbers and closely guarded spice mixtures and briny liquids? They must share something with the alchemists of legend, turning what is plain and ordinary into gustatory gold. Moreover, this passion for pickles is not limited to state and country fairgrounds. Boutique brands and innovative pickling practices are surfacing in the food world, on stylish shelves and restaurant kitchens around the country. For as long as pickling has been going on, there is no other renaissance more deserved.

    Cleopatra believed that pickles contributed to her legendary health and beauty, while Julius Caesar found them invigorating, if you know what I mean. The men who built the Great Wall of China sustained energy for their long workdays by snacking on pickled cabbage. Pickles found their way to the New World with Columbus, as they were known to last for long journeys and, like the more commonly known but also far more perishable citrus fruits, to help prevent scurvy. (By the way, the businessman who stocked Columbus’ ship with said pickles dreamed of becoming an explorer himself and leaving his pickle-packing days behind. Amerigo Vespucci would eventually realize his dream and be the first pickle man to have a continent named in his honor.)

    When we say “pickles” in the United States, we most often are referring to pickled cucumbers, whereas for the Brits, it’s pickled onions. Gherkins, or cornichons as the French call them, are simply immature, midget cukes that have been pickled. But there’s a vast world of pickles beyond cucumbers and onions. Koreans pickle cabbage to make kimchi; you’ll find pickled duck eggs in China and herring (sil) in Scandinavia. Japan’s astounding array of misos are basically pickled soybeans. Peter Piper had nothing on the Italians when it came to pickling peppers, and American colonists had a grand old time pickling everything from beans to mushrooms and asparagus to get them through the winters.

    While the choice of food to be pickled is nearly unlimited, it is the process that calls for exactitude. Pickling may be one of the trickiest forms of canning. The journey from raw food to skillfully flavored and preserved delicacy is seldom recognized as the art form that it is. At its most basic, pickling a vegetable (or some other food—pigs’ feet, say, or salmon) in an acidic, biting liquid—either brine or vinegar—kills off the “bad” bacteria that makes food rot. This may sound simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to do. Those who decide to join the elite order of picklers must be prepared for a long journey to perfection. The type of solution, the addition of herbs and spices, the amount of soaking time, and even the temperature of the room will all have an effect on the final product. These variable elements impact the process of curing, during which colors and flavors will change as acidity increases. Not all pickles go through a rigid fermentation process, however. Fresh-pack or quick-process pickles (as in the recipe here) use an initially high-acidity vinegar or brine solution to preserve the food.

    Maybe that dual nature of the process is the thrill that is driving the food-obsessed to rediscover pickles. In one sense, pickling poses a challenge for would-be kitchen masters, and yet Granny did just fine, so it can’t be too hard, can it? Another factor to consider is how the pickle, with its longstanding reputation as a plain-Jane food, is just ripe for glamorization, like a sweet Norma Jean Baker waiting for someone to unleash her inner Marilyn.

    Sure enough, chefs and artisans have responded with jalapeno-lemon pickles, red-hot cinnamon cukes, saffron-infused pickled asparagus, and pickled beets in rosemary brine. Rick’s Picks, one of the new faces in the pickle game, has concocted what it calls Windy City Wasabeans—green beans in a soy-wasabi brine. The Indiana-based Sechler’s is raising eyebrows with sweet pickled orange and lemon peels, and Mad Pat’s Hot Fire & Ice Pickles start out with a hint of sweetness but end with a habanero-worthy burn. Locally, the 112 Eatery and Tryg’s both offer zesty house-made pickles on their charcuterie plates, a natural setting for pickles (as a snappy starter, pickles aid in the digestion of other foods). Stella’s Fish Café has overnight pickles as a side dish, a prime opportunity to shun the carbohydrates and grease of fries and crunch into some salty freshness instead.

    Since future grannies will be more likely to teach their progeny about spreadsheets and conference-calling than pickling and canning, the practice will be left to enthusiasts of all types who seek it out and make it their own. Be they chefs, small-batch artisans, or gardeners overwhelmed by a bumper crop of snaky cucumbers, those who excel at the art of pickling will most likely find it addictive.

    112 Eatery 112 Third St. N., Minneapolis;
    612-343-7696; www.112eatery.com
    Tryg’s 3118 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-920-7777; www.trygs.com
    Stella’s Fish Cafe & Prestige Oyster Bar 1400 W. Lake St., Minneapolis, 612-824-8862; www.stellasfishcafe.com
    Rick’s Picks 212-358-0428; www.rickspicksnyc.com
    Sechler’s www.gourmetpickles.com
    Mad Pat’s Hot Stuff www.madpatshotstuff.com

    Zippy Refrigerator Pickles

    12 pickling cucumbers
    2 cups water
    13/4 cups cider vinegar (at least 5% acidity)
    11/2 cups packed coarsely chopped fresh dill
    8 garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
    1 cup finely chopped red onion
    11/2 T coarse salt
    1 tsp. mustard seed
    1 tsp. crushed bay leaves
    1/2 tsp. turmeric
    11/2 tsp. fennel seeds
    1 tsp. dried crushed red pepper

    Combine all ingredients in large bowl. Stir, let stand at room temperature two hours until salt dissolves. Transfer four cucumbers to each of three sterilized 11/2-pint wide-mouth jars. Pour pickling mixture over to cover. You may wish to place a few dill sprigs in each jar. Cover jars with lids and close tightly. Refrigerate for a minimum of seven days; go ten days for real zippiness. Pickles will stay crispy-fresh for about two months. Keep refrigerated. Makes three 11/2-pint jars.

  • Pinot Noir for Picnics

    How I hate modern motor roads. Come let me count the ways. First there is the intimate shame of personal inadequateness. I know my reactions while driving are not swift enough to be safe at fifty-five miles per hour—in fact, they are unsafe at any speed, as my family says. All too often I will barrel up Highway 100 (Highway 100 is the worst), having missed my turn, heading unwillingly for Manitoba, and knowing that the only solution to my plight is to barrel right on down it again. Heraclitus knew a thing or two; the way up and the way down are one and the same, and they are equally terrifying.

    Then there are the other idiots, whose reactions are surely no swifter, but who lack the self-knowledge to admit it. These are the ones who drive as though the rapture has already occurred, or at least as though they have lost all fear of death. (In case of rapture, can I have your car?) Other folk suffer from what the amiable Augustine termed superbia and the late and somewhat less amiable Andrea Dworkin called phallocentricity (sed de mortuis nil nisi binkum).

    These include the sort of tow-truck operator, from what is so aptly named a wrecker service, who can blithely remove your car from its appointed parking space without cause in the middle of the night (and in serious contravention of the Fourth Amendment protection against search and seizure), and heave it down the highway to a fastness on the far side of Lyndale, whence it is released after a whole day spent on the telephone, with the barest minimum of apology.

    I suppose I should be thankful that American drivers are at least predictable. If the other idiots are British, things are twice as bad; the way that my fellow countrymen demonstrate their wit and originality by tailgating on the M4 at seventy-plus miles per hour is enough (in the expression of my father, a medical man) to cause a rush of cold faeces to the left ventricle.

    But worse than the horrors of driving on them are the effects of freeways on the countryside that they carve up, the way they turn the ups and downs of a real journey into a blind swoosh of naked concrete. Imagine, then, my joy to find recently, returning from delivering a lecture in the deep south (that is, halfway to Iowa), that it is possible to pick one’s way across the landscape on one of the original roads of Minnesota. This particular road has its origins in an Indian trail stabilized in 1853 by navigators under a militia officer called Dodd. Little is known about Captain Dodd, but he liked a drink and lies buried in the churchyard of the Episcopal Church in St. Peter (where three or four are gathered together, so Episcopalians say, you will always find a fifth).

    It took the gallant captain and his crew a whole Minnesota road-building season (the time of year elsewhere known as summer) to build the Dodd Road. In some places, alas, the fruit of their labors has been turned into six-lane highway; elsewhere, in some southern suburbs, it is pleasingly bordered by McMansions and the sort of lawns that seem to imitate Astroturf. (When will this happy landscape find its Betjeman?) Yet there are stretches where Dodd Road is a real country lane with grit, ditches, and dandelions. I look forward to teasing further reaches of this thoroughfare out of the Minnesota terrain—it will be quite like looking for Roman roads at home.

    Not least among the joys of the jolly film Sideways were its roadside vistas, particularly those with vines marching up and down the California hills. More so than any of its human characters, this film’s truly Big Star, as far as the wine trade is concerned, is the Pinot Noir grape. All of the ambient publicity ensured that this variety, the grape from which the famous red wines of burgundy have been made since the Middle Ages, became the next grape that everyone wants to drink, following in the wake of White Zinfandel, Chardonnay, and Merlot.

    There is a snag. Pinot Noir is hard to grow; not all of it turns into wine as grand as the great vintages of Burgundy. It may well be as mellow as Merlot (and a lot mellower than Cabernet Sauvignon), but it can sometimes lack body. Allow me, then, to recommend a real pleasure, Mark West Central Coast Pinot Noir 2003, a pellucid red made by people who have long specialized in this variety. Costing just around ten dollars locally, it has a fruity flavor leading to a taste of black pepper and then to a rising aroma of elderflowers (the fresh ones you smell by the roadside, not the more sugary sensations of elderflower cordial). It gave tomato and basil soup an added mileage ingredient. And the following morning, the little that was left over had a noble structure, even after the more evanescent scents had evaporated. Take some along on a summer picnic.

  • Flower Power

    Max didn’t mean to kill those toads. Still, years later, their demise remains one of my son’s most painful childhood memories. Max was three years old, and the morning was cool and dewy, but toasting up as the sun climbed. In capturing the toads, Max was dexterous, but also humane. He understood that they needed more than the hot tin floor of a Folgers can. He pulled up fistfuls of grass and gathered sticks and leaves to carpet the metal. He also filled a mayonnaise lid with water to make a tiny toad swimming pool. Things would have worked out fine had he not chosen the unprotected south side of the house as the place to forget his two captives for several hours. By the time Max opened the can, the toads were half baked by the beating sun.

    Max was devastated, crying disconsolately over his carelessness. But agony can be instructive. I think it did him more good than harm to experience, early on, such an intimate and solitary exchange with the raw and sometimes cruel forces of nature. To glimpse the stubborn machinations of life and death. Every child should be so lucky.
    Unfortunately, every child is not. Long afternoons in the great outdoors, sometimes strung out to sundown, have grown alarmingly uncommon for modern kids. With TV, Nintendo, and an ever-expanding array of “structured activities,” children are spending less time in unsupervised outdoor play than ever before—with potentially disastrous results.

    Scheduled bursts of physical activity, it turns out, are no substitute for direct and ongoing experience in nature. The childhood obesity epidemic has peaked right alongside an unprecedented surge in children’s participation in organized sports. Clearly, playing freely outside affords both physical and mental benefits that Little League does not: prolonged exposure to the sun and its feel-good vitamins, and to bacteria, which experts now say is necessary for a healthy immune system. Child advocacy experts are even beginning to wonder how simple interactions with nature—climbing trees, wading through creeks, making mud pies, building forts—might foster overall health and happiness.

    In his new book, Last Child in the Woods, Richard Louv calls the waning connection between children and nature a crisis in the making. Louv points out that time outdoors can provide a respite from the everyday pressures that lead to childhood depression. And in The Human Relationship with Nature, author Peter Kahn recounts the findings of more than one hundred studies confirming nature’s stress-reducing benefits. Moreover, these benefits, unlike so many of life’s other perks, bestow themselves most generously on those with the greatest need. “The protective impact of nearby nature is strongest for the most vulnerable children—those experiencing the highest levels of stressful life events,” says one environmental analysis researcher from Cornell, cited by Louv in his book. In other words, nature offers a potent balm to kids struggling with divorce, relocation, poverty, illness, or loss. One alternative is drugs: Twice as many American children take antidepressants today as five years ago.

    So kids need to play outside. What simple and welcome news this should be to harried parents everywhere. Why, then, is it not happening? Seventy percent of today’s American mothers played outdoors every day during their childhoods, one recent study found, but just thirty-one percent of their children do. And while more than half of the moms stayed outside for three or more hours at a time when they were children, only twenty-two percent of their own children spend that kind of time out under the sun.

    The reasons for the decline, it seems, are complex. Among the forces that have eroded our children’s time for outside play are homework (up twenty percent between 1981 and 1997), organized sports (up twenty-seven percent during that same period), and a flood of enticing indoor entertainments. Many books have been devoted to the deleterious effects of overprogramming our kids, but it turns out that another, less tangible force is a far more stubborn roadblock between kids and nature: fear.
    “Fear of traffic, of crime, of stranger-danger—and of nature itself,” writes Louv, separates developing children from an unstructured exposure to nature and its life-giving benefits. The radius of space around the home in which children are allowed to roam on their own has shrunk to about a ninth of what it was in 1970. And while increased automobile traffic has undoubtedly restricted children’s range, Louv’s unscientific hunch (and my own) is that in the past twenty-five years, a “generalized, unfocused fear” has come to outrank traffic as the primary reason for penning kids in. This diffuse fear, which Louv calls the Bogeyman Syndrome, is fueled by the media, especially the nightly news, which creates a powerful “crime script” in the public’s mind.

    Louv devotes an entire chapter to excessive fear and its consequences—which include, frighteningly enough, the permanent transformation of a person and modification of her behavior. Fear can change the very structure of the brain. But with all the best intentions, we bequeath this sense of fear—of strangers, germs, insects, physical pain—to our children. So instead of buying bicycles and badminton sets, we build indoor fortresses. We outfit our homes with year-round climate control and a tempting stash of electronic goodies. As one fourth-grader in Louv’s book explains, “I like to play indoors ’cause that’s where all the electrical outlets are.”

    In Last Child in the Woods, Louv urges parents to set aside their fears and send kids back into the woods—or the yard or an empty lot, whatever’s realistic. The benefits far outweigh the dangers. As it stands, the average eight-year-old can more readily identify fast-food mascots and Pikachu, Metapod, and Jigglypuff (characters from the Japanese game Pokemon) than he can several quite common inhabitants of the natural world, such as otters, beetles, and oak trees.

    Sending kids out to play does mean forfeiting a measure of control. But unsupervised play in wild places, no matter how small or ordinary, may be as fundamental to children’s health as food, water, and love. What they need most could be as simple as more time outside, with all its smells, tastes, splinters, and even accidents. More places to roughhouse and catch toads, without being told what they can and can’t touch. More opportunities to hone their characters, to discover possibilities and limitations. Just kids and nature. Nothing fancy.

    Part of what makes Louv’s book so engaging is his skillful use of profiles and anecdotes. In one chapter, he refers to D.H. Lawrence, who once wrote of his own “awakening to nature’s sensory gift” in Taos, New Mexico. For Lawrence, this gift was an antidote to the “know-it-all” state of mind he recognized in himself and the culture at large, a mentality fostered by a globe that people now “trot round … as easily as they trot round … Central Park.” Lawrence wisely observed that our grandfathers, who never went anywhere, had more actual experience of the natural world than we have. He described our jaded affect this way: “We, bowling along in a rickshaw in Ceylon, say to ourselves: ‘It’s very much what you’d expect.’”
    Direct experience in nature, on the other hand, should fill us with genuine wonder and awe, and make us feel appropriately small, thus placing us in a much-needed context with the larger world. To reap the benefits of nature, Lawrence wrote that one must get beneath the “transparent mucous-paper in which the world like a bon-bon is wrapped so carefully that we can never get at it.” Underneath that wrapping is everything we don’t know and are afraid of knowing.

    Grand excursions to science museums, botanical gardens, and zoos, or even campgrounds and scenic wilderness areas, do help kids experience the breadth and depth of the natural world. But they don’t automatically invite the daily communion with nature that feeds the body and soul. Louv and Kellert both maintain that the kid-nature connection occurs most readily via mundane, up-close explorations of whatever patches of land are at hand. That’s because these interactions are spontaneous and unplanned and tend to occur in casual settings described by ecologist Robert Pyle as “places where kids … [are] free to climb trees, muck about, catch things, and get wet.”
    It’s difficult to know the long-term implications of kids watching endless hours of TV, rather than ant hills and blades of grass. Hard information is so scant, in fact, that Stephen Kellert, author of the forthcoming book Building for Life: Designing and Understanding the Human Nature Connection, felt compelled to disclaim his chapter on nature and childhood development. “Given the relative lack of available research,” he wrote, “this chapter’s conclusions will be preliminary and tentative.”

    One problem is a lack of money available to study the way children use woods, fields, vacant lots, and other unstructured natural sites. There is more financial incentive and commercial interest in having our children spellbound by cartoon characters and computer games. Yet even in the absence of statistics, the issue seems fairly clear-cut. Common sense tells us that kids need the outdoors.

    What will happen if we produce a generation of adults afflicted with what Richard Louv has cleverly diagnosed “Nature Deficit Disorder”? Americans born between 1946 and 1964, says Louv, may constitute the last generation to share an intimate, familial bond with nature. That shift, Louv says, portends more than a threat to our future ability to appreciate or protect nature. It threatens our very humanity.
    Mucking about is not just good old-fashioned fun. As Kellert eloquently points out in Building for Life, “… a child’s experience in nature can elicit far less pleasant feelings, such as uncertainty, anxiety, pain, and fear.” And all of it, even the stomach-turning shock of two dead toads in a coffee can, contributes to maturity, morality, and self-development. The naturalist Franklin Burroughs nailed it when he said—to a group of conservationists, interestingly enough—“better to let kids be a hazard to nature, and let nature be a hazard to them.”