Summer Road Trip 2015: the Midwest
Do you remember, back in the autumn, when the Kickstarter campaign ruled my life?
When all I could think of was bringing our cookbook project out of the recesses of Word files, graphic design plans and publishing contracts?
No one in the world could have been more supportive than my mother, and my mother-in-law. They listened, cajoled me out of my blue moods, reminded me how much I really love to cook, to feed people, to tell our stories. They convinced me that however tired I was of the project at any given moment, it would be worth all the trouble to bring the book to fruition.
And together, we did!
Fast-forward to this summer, with John deeply occupied in building plans and Avery happily all over Europe for a fun-filled adventure. I decided to go on an adventure of my own, to thank as many of the people as I could who had come together to make my book a reality.
And frankly, to go home again.
Because as much as we’ve moved around in the last 30 years or so, the wonderful years we’ve spent in New York and London, the Midwest will always feel like home to me.
I began in Indiana, in my childhood home, cooking a celebration lunch for Mom and her closest inner circle, the long-awaited, exclusive Kickstarter luncheon! A day travelling from London, through Detroit, I rang Mom from the lounge. “My flight’s due in at 9 o’clock,” I said breathlessly, cocktail in hand. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said sadly. “We are having near-tornado storms here.” Sure enough, I ran to the gate to find that the flight before mine, mine, and the flight after had all been cancelled. “Don’t DO this to me!” I shrieked inwardly. “I can’t be late for tomorrow.” And five LONG hours later, I arrived in Indianapolis after midnight, to look at the clock in Mom’s kitchen and realise that I had twelve hours in which to shop for, cook and present a three-course meal for eight! I had planned to spend some of those hours sleeping, to be sure.
It all worked out. I’d come armed with gifts, of course.
The guests arrived, among them an early bird, one of my oldest friends in the world, my dearest Amy. Partner in many a childhood caper.
We talked fast and furiously as I raced about, preparing creamy red pepper soup, slow-braised chicken thighs with olives and bay leaves, tomato and mozzarella salad with fresh pesto, steamed rice, all to be served on Mom’s highly-prized brown and white china.
The guests arrived! Janet, my mother’s dear friend for over 50 years. Oh the years our families shared a duplex, a little plastic swimming pool, a swingset.
And their great chum Dallene, the best piano teacher a girl ever had.
Janet’s beautiful sister Judy, and my mother’s newest friend Julie.
And Julie’s mother Nancy. She and her daughter have added so much fun to my mother’s life!
We settled down to our lunch, and a rather frenzied attempt to relate all the important things that had happened to us all since we last saw each other — and in Nancy and Julie’s case, since it was our first meeting, proper introductions. “Julie reminds me so much of you!” my mother said, which is always an intriguing suggestion. And indeed, super-extroverts we both are, always happiest when surrounded by lots of people. I knew she and Amy would find each other kindred spirits, since my mother loves us all.
We ate and ate, with second helpings, and finally cake. A towering Victoria sponge with a layer of lemon curd I had brought all the way from Barnes, from our Christmas Fair.
Our guests departed one by one, Amy with an extra “Tonight at 7.30” apron over her arm, to try a spot of tie-dyeing on it! “That way, the places where you wipe your foodie hands don’t have to try to stay white!”
I raced to a nearby bar to make my next rendez-vous, drinks with a little group of high school friends, plus my dear friend Kristin. We talked over and over each other, trying to explain to Kristin via a sort of Venn diagram on the tablecloth, how intricately we are all involved in each other’s pasts: who dated whom, who married whom, whose brother was married to whose sister, whose law firm represents whose business. A tangled web, stretching back 35 years or more.
I drove away in the intensely humid Indiana heat, reflecting on the extraordinary luck that gave me such friends, still such fun after such a long time.
And as I settled into a nice talk with my mother, the doorbell rang and up popped Todd, who was to be the only man at our drinks party but missed me, and trailed me home!
It was a happy accident, really, to miss each other at the bar, because we got an uninterrupted evening of catching-up, hearing of his brilliant children’s activities, telling him about Avery’s adventures. Someday our families will meet.
I awoke again very early next morning, on London time, and decided that I would go on a little voyage of reminiscence around my childhood neighborhood. Everything always feels slightly askew, when I return. The church where my madrigal group sang its Christmas concerts, for my dear old friend Mrs. Young, looks tiny, insignificant and rather awful, compared with the glowing image in my memory.
The tiny, dollhouse-like house where I had my first baby-sitting jobs, watching “The Newlywed Game” and doing my homework, seems also much smaller than in my memory. It’s now on the Historic Register.
I parked the car and wandered, ducking under the hanging branches of oaks and maples, down to the creek where as a little girl with my friends I clambered among the rocks, swung from a very dangerous rope swing. No one must play there anymore; the path is entirely covered in ivy.
Where, in fact, were the children, any children? In the whole of my Midwestern trip this summer, I saw no children just out and about playing. Perhaps they were all indoors looking at one kind of screen or another, but I chose to think they were in summer camp somewhere. Not that my childhood was spent at camp; most of it was spent trespassing across this lovely golf course, whether disturbing angry golfing dads in summer, or sledding down snowy hills in winter.
I meandered in a fog combined of Midwestern humidity and nostalgia, thinking of the innocent hours I spent on my bicycle in these neighborhood haunts, dreaming of what would become of me when I grew up. I picked up a souvenir for Avery, whose childhood — spent in the urban purviews of New York and London — has probably never admitted such an exotic object.
I like to imagine another kind of life I might have had, one where I stayed “home,” close to my parents and my friends, a continuous sort of life rather than one I’ve had, with a series of curtains coming down between its acts — childhood in Indiana, the first scary decision to live on the East Coast, early married life in London, my teaching years and Avery’s babyhood in New York, our European adventures since then. Oh, it’s been wonderful, but how wonderful, too, it would have been to remain where I began, ties unbroken.
Underlying my nostalgia, of course, is the massive missing of my father. So sick now, in faraway Connecticut, no longer himself, I feel his presence along every path when I go “home.” I spent many happy early evenings as a little girl down by the creek, waiting for his car to pull into the alley on his way home from work. Everything has changed now, from the driveway that some professional now tars (how I remember the intense smell and the beating heat of those weekend projects with him each summer), to his tomato garden now filled with my mother’s daisies, to the garage once so filled with uncontrolled piles of his tools, small motor parts, collections of Miracle Whip jars containing this or that handful of nails. Now all that remains in the garage is a small huddle of the Squirt bottles, his favorite tipple.
It was just as well that another luncheon party beckoned, to put an end to my sad reflections and focus again on the present, where I am lucky to be able to go home again.
I drove to the nearby grocery store, with its shelves of unabashed American bounty.
What fun to whizz along the wide American streets in the early morning sunshine, singing happily to “The Greatest Hits from the 80s and 90s” on the radio. Nothing beats the B52s, and “Roam If You Want to,” and Glass Tiger’s “Don’t Forget Me When I’m Gone.” My teen years, on the FM dial.
Home to prepare lunch for my beloved Wedeking family all the way from Kentucky, on an impromptu whirlwind visit to celebrate my uncle’s 70th birthday! My Uncle Kenny, fondly known as Uncle Whiskey for the single-malt devotion we share (he tried the amazing peaty sample I brought from Duty Free!), my beautiful Aunt Mary Wayne, and their daughter, childhood partner in crime Amy, with her gorgeous son Ryan. How the years have flown!
We laughed and ate, ate and laughed. I am always so glad to know that my Kentucky family are on the other end of a telephone line, and there for my mother and brother at the Thanksgivings and the Christmases when we are not together. They have such fun, always.
We repaired to the living room for lemon bars and more family gossip.
Far too soon, with shouted goodbyes in the late afternoon sun, they departed. What fun we had had, remembering their trip to London, our family reunions, bringing my father into the room with favorite stories.
I spent the evening looking through old photos of our shared ancestor, our darling Mamoo. We all thought we saw a distinct family resemblance to Avery, though Avery can’t see it herself. Maybe we never can, see ourselves, that is.
Mom and I sat on the porch late into the night, the air filled with lightning bugs and the sound of two wonderfully evocative Indiana institutions: the railroad, and the race track. Wooh-wooh, went the train whistle, and vroom-vroom, the cars around the Brickyard. Those two sounds, like the smell of freshly cut grass, bring back my childhood in an instant.
The next day found us back on the porch, sharing a lovely chat with Mom’s friend Pam, provider of beautiful manicures as well as warm friendship. And then I concocted a big pot of Tom Yum soup and left it on the stove, wandering out to the lovely, ferny front porch to catch up with our next-door neighbors, hearing of their grandchildren’s exploits, wondering together “where are all the children?” I marvelled at the profusion of daisies that Amy’s garden firm have provided for Mom, adding so much to the beauty of our little street.
I managed to capture my brother Andy in a contemplative mood. It is always so lovely, on my visits, to have a chance to find out what he’s been up to, to thank him for being in Mom’s corner, for keeping her company.
And our next guests arrived! Our old friend Kevin, and his startlingly grownup daughter, Colleen. Happy to share a bowl of spicy Thai soup with us.
Absolutely nothing brings the passage of time to the forefront like sharing a meal with a young person you have firmly age 5 or 6, and to hear her describe her professional accomplishments, her travels, her undeniably adult life. It was a total joy to see her with her dad, such a staunch friend to our family over the years.
It was so hard to say goodbye to my mother and brother, to leave a place where I’m loved for just being me. What a perfect visit, far too short, but filled with all the things I long for when we’re separated: a long-awaited luncheon, mother-daughter gossip, a chance to give and receive a tight hug whenever I want.
In the morning, Andy brought me to the airport for the next phase of my Midwestern jaunt: Iowa!
It’s been 31 years to the month since I packed up my little Honda Civic, my hands full of maps given me by my anxious father, sure I’d get lost (I did), and crossed Indiana, Illinois and half of Iowa to arrive in Waterloo, at the beautiful home of my then-boyfriend, and this dear lady, my mother-in-law Rosemary, friend now for my whole adult life.
She greeted me in the best possible way: with a lunch of BLTs and fresh-picked corn!
As much as I love my adopted home of England, and superior as its ingredients are in many instances, nothing, NOTHING beats the Midwest of America for its ultimate summer treat of corn on the cob. The crispness! The sweetness. Oh, it can’t be rivalled anywhere in the world, I feel sure. The lunch was a perfect throwback to the old days of my Iowa visits, when his dad would turn up for lunch in the middle of his workday in a crisp, gorgeous suit. BLTs with the bread cut in half, so you could eat two or even three quite easily. What happy days those were.
Because much as with my Indiana visits, there is something now missing from my Iowa trips. How I miss John’s dad, with his tight hug and insistence on carrying suitcases, driving us home from the airport past waving cornfields, his fatherly demeanor placing us firmly in the position of “the kids,” not in charge, not yet adult, not responsible. What a forever arm-around-your-shoulders sense of protection he conveyed, always.
Even with the empty space, there is so much to love about a visit to Waterloo. Not the least attraction of which is the beautiful screened-in upstairs porch. “Gosh, I sure wish we’d made this porch a foot wider,” John’s parents were wont to say, as soon as it was built. No matter, it is a haven of serenity on a July afternoon, and I lay back on the sofa cushions, listening to the birds in the pine trees, to the air conditioner humming off and on, to the sound of a faraway lawnmower.
I roused myself to join John’s mom at Sunnyside, the perfect country club where I spent so many hours and hours, first as a girlfriend on the diving board at the shimmering pool, then as a young mother chasing after my little girl on the immaculate green.
What IS it with me and golf courses? I think it’s the unchanging quietude that attracts me, year after year.
It was lovely to be reunited with Dennis and Camille, best friends of John’s parents for so many years.
We reminisced over perfect, crunchy fried shrimp, my special treat at Sunnyside, harkening back to my first visits there. “Where, do you think, is the playground, with a merry-go-round where John and I had our first picnic?” I wondered. We had ‘Hay and straw salad,’ made by you, Nonna. Do you have any idea?”
“That will be at Lookout Park,” Camille said immediately, and it was but the work of a moment the following morning to find it, and its attendant memories of a summer 31 years in the past.
On this wave of nostalgia, we drove to nearby Cedar Falls, home of the world’s greatest coffee shop, Cup o’Joe, presided over by the beautiful Dawn, who remembered me and asked after Avery. What makes their coffee so delicious, so inimitable? Dawn’s passion, I think.
We wandered down the charming American village street, like something out of a picture book.
I’d forgotten all about RAGBRAI, the Iowa “Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa,” a completely nuts thing that some 20,000 bike riders take part in every July in Iowa, riding across the entire state, in any and all kinds of weather. John and his family took part, many times — his first kiss occurred with one Elizabeth, somewhere in a cornfield! The ride just happened to be passing through Cedar Falls the very day I was there.
Cedar Falls is a perfect example of Americana gone terribly right: small independent shops selling beautiful things, cheerful people. None lovelier than Anne, who used to own Cup o’Joe, now proud proprietor of a charming vintage shop.
I could easily have bought a suitcase full of her things. Perhaps an apron for Avery, pursuing her first adventures in cooking, in London.
We drank our coffee in the warm sunshine, texting photographs and messages to John and Avery, in one of those wonderful moments when technology really does add to one’s life. We stopped in our mercantile adventures for quite a perfect Reuben, without which a trip to America is not worthwhile.
We dashed, then, to the grocery store to finish off the shopping that would be needed for our long-anticipated dinner party the next night, to celebrate a number of things: Rosemary’s new kitchen, my cookbook, my visit. What fun to plan every detail.
For our evening’s adventure that night, though, we journeyed back to Cedar Falls to observe RAGBRAI in all its glory: the tents…
The t‑shirts!
The sponsors. What a sight!
And a sight that would have astonished little John, back in the day. How can so much change in so short a time? “This would have made my meeting up with Elizabeth a bit easier!” John laughed, when I sent him this photograph.
We repaired to a local sports bar to achieve one other culinary wish for my Iowa visit: the perfect pork tenderloin. And for conversation with Dennis, Camille and Rosemary’s cycling friend Randy, all of us happy to bask in the easy familiarity of such an American evening.
The next day was given over to party preparations. Thank goodness we had a decent cookbook.
There is no happier way to spend a day, to my mind. Chopping, chopping, chopping, together with Rosemary. How many times we have done this! But never together at her house. It was a treat.
She happily pulled out the best china cups for my red pepper soup. How beautiful the table looked, when we were ready.
Everyone arrived, feeling festive. Camille and Dennis, of course, and old friends Ric and Mary, and new friends to me — I have heard about them all these many years — David and Lyn.
“Where’s Suave Duck?” Ric immediately asked, taking me back three decades to his old, perfect nickname for John! Who was incredibly Suave, to be fair, at age 20 or so.
How wonderful it would have been to have John there, especially to explain the plans for Potters Fields! I did my best.
John’s lovely sister Cathy drove all the way from Minneapolis to have dinner with us, and to spend the night. A few precious hours together to catch up.
What a wonderful evening. The food was delicious, though I say it myself, especially the curried chickpeas with spinach and feta, and the star of the evening: Rosemary’s plate of lemon bars, since she is the queen of delicate desserts.
A day to remember, full of reminiscent laughter, warm memories of many summer visits, anticipated times together in London in the coming years. Not many people are as lucky to gain such a mother-in-law as I have, an endlessly supportive listening ear, making me always feel much more interesting than I really am. And such fun in the many kitchens we’ve chopped in, over the years.
The next morning dawned dark and gloomy, with a promised rain storm that sent Cathy scurrying away back to her real life in Minnesota. And we turned our minds to driving about, finding the perfect, iconic Iowa barn for me to take home in my mind. There is something magical about the white against the cornfields, so different from our red Connecticut barns.
The cornfields themselves swayed with their tassels in the wind.
That was my Midwestern extravaganza of Summer 2015. A trip planned in the chilly, damp spring of London, come to fruition in the hot, steamy world of Indiana and Iowa. So many meals shared, so many cookbooks inscribed to dear people, without whom it would never have come about. Long, luxurious conversations with people I see far too infrequently, but who are always ready to pick up where we left off, to maintain the ties.
I was up in the air again, to land on the East Coast for a week of adventures in New York City, Connecticut, and points in between. Watch this space…
Two things:
Come back!
I should have gotten a haircut!
As always, love you to pieces,
John’s Mom
You know, you could have rented a car and driven from DTW to Indianapolis — it’s only about 4 hours. (Now THAT is a truly American way of thinking… )
You guys are bumming me out! A whole lovely post and I get comments about hair and rental cars? You’re slipping! :)
:-) I thought you would forgive me since you know it goes without saying how much I admire your writing. Any thought of turning this one into a magazine piece?
I feel so honored and blessed to have been given time during your trip. Please come back soon!
Thanks for sharing this…loved every minute of it. So would love another invite to red gate farm!
Work, I don’t know. I can’t imagine a magazine angle, but I’m glad you enjoyed it! Sheri, it was a total delight — if too short — and a joy to see you in Indy. Clare, we were just talking about your lovely visit last summer, so happy. I miss it there already but London is pretty interesting.
If I have to share her, thrilled that it is with our moms. What a rewarding trip for all!
You were greatly missed, my husband!