Road Trip--Up North, Wisconsin

Due to spotty internet access, a few pics will have to serve as a sneak preview of the posts that will surely bubble up as a result of my recent trip to the North Woods.

Kids, Wisconsin, Summer, fishing, swimming, and eating. Lots of good stuff to write about. Over the next couple weeks I'll document my experience with an old fashioned shore dinner, the North Woods phenomenon known as the supper club, and some real-deal contender burger places.

For now, enjoy!

Very good (but not the world's best) burgers at Fred's in Burlington.

Enjoying the clean sands of Crystal Lake.

Shore dinner

Alber's Ice Cream/Union Dairy; Freeport, IL

I took my four year old son, Henry camping a couple weekends ago. Ever been camping with a four-year old?

Anyway, he loved it and we more or less accomplished my goal, which was to give him his first real overnight camping experience so when we start doing longer trips, he'll be used to it. After doing a few backyard campouts, this was our first real foray out into the wild world.

We ventured out about an hour from the city, to nearby Rock Cut State Park, which is a very nice little state park that I've visited and camped at before. They have two lakes--one that's used for fishing, another with a sandy beach, and the campground where the tent campers (as opposed to RV campers) set up is situated nicely between the two lakes. Henry, however, in his typical assertive-for-no-apparent-reason-about-things-he-doesn't-even-have-the-faintest-clue-what-he's-talking-about way, told me early and often that he did "NOT want to ride in a paddle boat. NO. WAY. DAD."

I've learned not to try and convince him that paddle boats are fun, or to even ask what he's got against them, anyway, since he's never been on one. No point to it. Mmm hm. No paddleboat. No way, no how. Check.

After getting an early start, setting up camp, and loading up on firewood and worms for fishing, we were ready to get something to eat, and I was determined to avoid the campground hot dog stand and the endless highway exit fast food options.

We cast about for a while, then found ourselves in the nice little old town of Freeport, Illinois, which just happens to be one of the sites where Abraham Lincoln debated Stephen Douglas in 1858, as the two stumped around Illinois in their respective campaigns to become the state's next US senator. The debates all centered around the issue of the day--slavery, and are said to be where Lincoln's mettle was proven and his chops were honed for his presidential run just two years later.

More importantly, though, directly behind Debate Square, where the historic event is commemorated, there's a really cool old ice cream parlor.


I saw the art deco facade when I turned a blind corner and knew that my aimless wandering had paid off. Sometimes when you're hungry it's tempting to give in and just hit the Denny's or the Culver's off the exit ramp, but then you find a sleeper like this place just loaded with old time character and charm.

I was hoping for a patty melt or something similarly diner-minded, but we found out that the "grill" portion of this establishment is closed on Sundays, so we had no choice but to eat massive ice cream sundaes for our lunch. Here they are:

Mine was the turtle sundae, that's it on the left, and Henry is all about the mint ice cream, so he got what they were calling a mint meltaway sundae, which had mint chip ice cream, hot fudge, a ton of whipped cream, and a bunch of crushed Andee's mints all over the top and sides.

The ice cream in this place was good (it's Cedar Crest), and they appear to be doing a nice job jazzing it up with their sauces, toppings, and all the fixin's, but the reason this place is worth an hour drive (or at least a detour if you're heading west) is its perfectly preserved condition. It's beautiful. Pristine. It could (and probably should) be in a museum, but it's not; it's still functioning as this town's little local restaurant and ice cream parlor, the counters are staffed by local high school girls, and honestly, most of the people in there looked at me like I was nuts for taking pictures of the shiny chrome and Formica, the amazing soda fountain set-up that runs down the center of the long oval of counter seating, and their sweet old jade green Hamilton Beach spindle milkshake mixer.

But I'm NOT crazy. THEY'RE the ones who are crazy for not recognizing beauty and art when it's right under their noses! Look at that setup!

The ice cream dipping cabinets are still working, they're using those pumps for their syrups and flavorings, the hot well holds the hot fudge and caramel at just the right temperature, and there's not a speck of dirt or a bent piece of stainless to be found. Do people realize how rare that piece is? How incredible it is that no one ripped it out during all these years?!

Remember what I said about camping with a four year old. I'll just say this; no matter how many times they tell you they want to "help", they really don't. Oh, and we now know that four is not old enough to apply Deep Woods Off. But if you let'em get really hungry and then promise them a big ice cream sundae, they're putty in your hands.

Henry doesn't understand why they would prepare and bring the dad's ice cream sundae a full ten minutes before they prepare and bring the kid's. I didn't get it either.

Anyway, after a couple of big ice cream sundaes, our stomachs were cooled down and full, our faith was restored in the world, and we headed back to the campground for some short-attention-span fishing and a few good hours of playing with the pump (endless fun, apparently).

We did our campfire dinner, had the obligatory s'more or two, strummed the guitar a bit, and then settled down in our sleeping bags for some flashlight play and, eventually, sleep. I'm fairly sure I slept at least a little.

Whoa! Camping with a four year old! No one ever said it was restful. Remember what I said earlier about training Henry for longer camping trips? Maybe I'm the one who actually needs a warm-up outing or two.

I won't say the ice cream sundaes at Alber's/Union Dairy were the highlight of the trip...but let me just put it this way; I'm glad I know it's there in such close proximity to the campground for next time.

Healthy Kids Cook-Off

There's a great event this weekend that I was invited to attend and unfortunately won't be able to get to (Henry and I are going camping!) but it's not too late for you to plan on attending and bringing your kids.

It's an Iron-Chef style cook-off where kids will team up with Kendall College students as well as local well-known chefs like Michael Kornick, to see who can whip together a tasty and nutritious snack using "secret ingredients".

The finalists will compete in what the press release calls a "fast paced" cook off in front of a live studio audience "just like on TV". Snacks and prizes are provided, and the whole thing is also done in conjunction with something called the Healthy Living Fair which features demos, free samples, and lots of other cool stuff. You'll also get the opportunity to check out Kendall College's amazing new facility on Goose Island.

The whole thing promises to be plenty of fun, but it's also pretty important; when school lets out, 8 out of 10 kids who receive free school lunches during the year don't get any assistance over the summer. This event is geared towards raising awareness about child hunger and also teaching adults and kids alike how to prepare simple and nutritious meals and snacks.

It takes place this Sunday, June 7th from 12:00 noon to 5pm at Kendall College--900 North Branch Street (on Goose Island near Chicago Avenue and Halsted) in Chicago.

So, go! Bring your kids. Cook, watch, feast, and have a good time.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Today's my 40th birthday!

I'm not one for big blow-out type birthday celebrations; I usually just work on my birthday and don't make a big deal of it. Today I'm packing up the family and going out for breakfast at an old-fashioned diner I've been meaning to try, and then heading over to the Kane Country Flea Market. My wife hates going to antique stores and flea markets so I try and drag her to one on my birthday, when she can't protest or complain about it.

Later, we'll all go out for dinner with my parents and the plan is to follow it up with a visit to Margie's Candies for some of their amazing ice cream, which, for me, is far superior to cake.

On days like this, I'm just happy to spend time with family, appreciate the fact that we're all healthy, relatively happy, and in a position where we can spend quality time together.

Thanks to everyone for the kind birthday wishes. And, since forty is "the new thirty" (or so I'm told), I'm not at all worried about being old. (Yeah, right!)

Easter with da Frittats

People all over Italy have widely varied accents and often speak regional dialect from back in the days before Italy was a unified country (which didn't happen until about 1870 or so). So when you travel around, not only will you hear unrecognizable dialect in places like San Gimignano and Siracusa, but you'll also hear Italian spoken with vastly different pronunciations.

Sicily is a prime example. They often change the 'o' sound on the end of a word to a 'u' sound--so lo Siciliano, which is the proper Italian for "the Sicilian language" becomes lu Sicilianu. To make it even harder on those of us with a passing knowledge of guidebook Italian, locals will often switch back and forth mid-sentence between dialect and "proper" (read; Florentine) Italian.

Local dialects are an incredibly insightful window into the history of a region. Siclian dialect is peppered with words derived from Arabic, Greek, Spanish, French, and even a little German thrown in, reflecting the many inhabitants the island has known over the years. Up north, in Trentino-Alto Adige, for instance, the influences are primarily from Austria, and along the northeastern border of Italy, in Friuli-Venezia Giulia, you start hearing Eastern European and Slavic influences in the dialect.

Here in Chicago, however, we have an Italian dialect all our own, which I sometimes refer to as Caputiano, in reference to Caputo's, the well-known Italian produce market and deli on Harlem Ave. in Elmwood Park where any real Chicago Italian worth their salt goes to do their shopping.

An informational aside: There are now many grocery establishments calling themselves Caputo's. The original Caputo's are now known as Angelo Caputo's Fresh Markets. The other chain--Joe Caputo and Sons--is decent, but it's not as good as the original, and then there's Caputo Cheese Market in Melrose Park, which is noted to be "Owned & Operated by Wiscon Corporation. Not affiliated with any other Caputo".

Anyway, Caputiano is a unique dialect of Chicago area American-Italians in which the last letter of words (and it's usually limited to names of foodstuffs) is dropped entirely. O's also change to U's, reflective of the Sicilian heritage of many Chicago-area Italians.

So mozzarella becomes mootzarel, scamorza become scamorz sometimes even smooshed down into skmorz, and sopressata, puzzlingly, becomes supersott.

The more you listen, the stranger it gets. Hard 'C' sounds are softened, to the point that they start to sound more like a 'G'. So capicolla sounds like gavigool. Throw in all the nicknames, hand gestures, and typical Italian non-verbal sign language, and you've got something really fun to be a part of.

Which brings us (finally) to the topic of this post. My family is blessed enough to know an Italian-American family who generously includes us in the annual Easter blowout they hold at their home. In typical fashion, they go all out for this party; bunny and chick-shaped candies are everywhere, there's a lamb-shaped cake, big Easter baskets and stuffed animals for the kids, a mad-dash Easter egg hunt out back promises plastic eggs filled with half-dollar and dollar coins (along with the occasional one filled with dirt!), and, of course, a massive spread of great food.

The main event and centerpiece of the Easter blowout, though, is Big Mikey's frittat.

A frittat is, basically, a frittata, of course. But it's oh so much more than that. It's the frittata to end all frittate. It's the frittata that ate Melrose Park.

Big Mikey (in typical Italian-American fashion, "Mikey" is about 6'7" and 280 lbs.) is a pro at this by now. He's got a special pan he uses just for the frittats, which is the biggest, deepest sauté pan I've ever seen in my life. The day before, he loads up on imported salseech and salumi--soopersatt, gavigool, mortadell--cheeses like fontina, scamorza, and ricotta, which gets drained through cheesecloth, and a case of eggs, and then on Easter morning, he gets down to work.

Big Mikey occupies his corner of the kitchen all morning, cranking out one frittat after another while talking, greeting guests, playing with the kids, eating, and yanking people's chains a little. He likes to play up the fact that I'm a chef and ask me if he's "doing it right", confident that he's in his element and, in his kitchen, I'm the novice. Of course, I give him his respect and bow down to his frittat skills.

This shows just how big the frittat pan is. Look how it dwarfs the burner.

It's a great, raucous affair. There are always tons of kids running around stuffing themselves on candy, there's a really interesting mix of old-school Chicago Italian-Americans, Polish and other more newly-arrived Eastern European immigrants, and a Jewish contingent as well, so the buffet runs the gamut from lox and bagels to cannoli to hot, garlicky borscht. The guys usually have a few TV's on, tuned to the Hawks game or the Masters, talk business, and will step out side to smoke cigars at some point. The women dote over the kids, catch up on gossip and push everyone to eat more, and a good time is generally had by all.

Our family is truly honored to be included every year, and it's really great to see how thrilled our hosts are with our kids. They shower them with gifts and Easter candy, but, even more meaningfully, with attention and genuine affection. Italians, in general, have a really deep appreciation for young children. As a parent who sometimes gets fed up with the day-to-day drudgery of raising two kids, it's a refreshing reminder of where my priorities and focus should be.

It's one thing to prowl the neighborhoods of the Chicago area, eating in restaurants, shopping in ethnic markets, and doing the legwork to discover unknown delicacies and food traditions, but it's another thing entirely to be invited into someone's home to share in their family's personal culinary culture. Every family, regardless of region and cultural history, is different, and does things their specific way; a substitution grandma made along the way due to her personal preference, or adjustments made due to limitations of a specific kitchen, equipment, or what's available at the time often become codified and manage to stick for generations.

So it's a rare honor to be included in a family's Easter feast. It's become a tradition for us; we go every year now and, although we don't usually see Big Mikey, Grace, and their family much during the rest of the year, they treat us as if we'd just seen them yesterday and there's never a hint of that awkwardness that sometimes goes along with seeing people only occasionally, for the big holidays.

Once the kids' faces start showing a flush from running around after having eaten too many Peeps, we know it's time to head home. We say our goodbyes, give and receive kissses on the cheek and hugs, and Mikey packs three or four massive slabs of frittat onto a foil-covered paper plate for us to take home. Usually we're so loaded down with gifts, Easter loot, and leftovers, have to make two trips to the car, and then the hugs and goodbyes start all over again.

So, humorous Italo-American Chicago-style slang (aka paisanics) aside, Easter, for us, is wonderful opportunity to be a part of another family's traditions and enjoy friends, family, and Big Mikey's frittat!