ethni-city, milwaukee

Clover heads? Ok. Locust seeds? Better not...

2011-09-08T04:58:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, Mike and I decided to go on another foraging adventure. We decided to try another spot in the area, so we set out for Port Washington. Bike trails are great for urban foraging because usually it's like cutting a path straight through the woods, but it's paved. The Interurban trail is one of the most extensive paved trails in the state, stretching from Mequon to Belgium. Along this path I have observed wild asparagus, wild grapes, wood sorrel, high-bush cranberry, raspberries, rose hips,and many other great edibles. And in the morning, further north on the trail, not too many people are out, giving you the impression that you are all alone, a welcome feeling when you live smack in the middle of the densest neighborhood in the city.

When we arrived in Port (as the natives say), we parked right next to the start of the trail, adjacent to the old light tower. We were once again armed with plastic bags and scissors. AS we started off along the trail, we began to look for plants to harvest. It being close to autumn, most of the fruits were gone, except for the cranberry, which aren't ready yet, and the wild grape, of which we had had our fill. about 15 minutes in, single berries dotted the raspberry bushes, and we nibbled on the them, so long as a bird hadn't stolen half of the berry before us. We walked and walked. This had once been our favorite biking spot; somehow our memories of the distance from point A to point B were coming up in bike miles. Walking took much longer than we would have thought. At a certain point, I started to feel hungry. Hunger then gave way to desperation as the coffee I had had that morning turned into low blood sugar. I was about ready to pass out. I needed to eat something.

All around me were light purple clover flowers. I realized that I should probably eat some, since I felt light-headed; at this point we had crossed the over pass of the highway, and were about 2 miles from where we started. I grabbed about 6 plump, spiky purple clover flowers and started eating. They can be quite good, with a texture that is not my favorite, sort of grainy and grassy and the same time. The flavor though is worth it. A kind of perfumy, honey flavor, with a hint of sweetness. In about 3 minutes, I felt much better, and we decided to head back to the car. We had not really found anything to harvest.

About 1/2 mile before the car, I looked to my left and saw white and purple pods hanging down from a tree with pinnate leaves. I thought it looked like a black locust tree. I had never really noticed these before, so I got out my field guides. These were definitely black locust pods. In Sam Thayer's book The Forager's Harvest he explains that many people say these are poisonous to humans. He goes on to say, however that Euell Gibbons claimed that he and his family used to harvest the green seeds and cook and eat them without any consequences. He also says that he has eaten them and that he never had a problem. So Mike and I did something that we should never have done. We opened up a couple and ate some seeds. They were delicious! They were a cross between raw sugar snap peas and green beans. Upon further inspection, I realized that the book made a difference between raw and cooked. The cooking process took care of the toxins.

Now we had really done it! As we walked back to the car, Mike told me he felt strange. I asked him what he felt like. He told me that he was spacy and sweaty and that he felt shaky and was extremely hungry. Of course these were the very symptoms I had experienced a half hour before. He had the coffee jitters, but of course our mental state was all about being poisoned by the seeds.

He began to eat wood sorrel and started to feel much better. We then headed into town to eat at some family restaurant. I was pretty worried, especially since I had only eaten three seeds and Mike had eaten like three pods. I was afraid I had killed my friend!

That night, I called him to see if he was still alive. Then, for good measure, the next morning, I sent this text: still alive? He never answered back. Luckily he called me later that day. We had survived, but we will never again eat anything where there are conflicting stories. I looked up black locust seeds, and apparently if we had been horses, it might have been a different ending...

Wild grapes, cont'd.

2011-09-07T18:45:00.000-07:00

The last time I posted something on wild grapes, I had found some growing along the chain-link fence that separates the bike path from Miller parkway, just near the stadium. I tasted one, but did not attempt to harvest any, since they were most likely covered with car exhaust and other noxious substances coming from the the road. This year, however, I found that there were many other vines growing within a mile from the place where I first laid eyes on this plant I remember from my childhood.

I finally decided that I would actually challenge myself to do the thing I didn't believe I could do: make grape jelly. For some reason, I hd always been intimidated by the thought of the effort it took to make jelly. Perhaps it was the mysterious pectin, or perhaps the thought that I would have to learn canning methods that prevented any bacteria from killing me. In any case, it was kismet that I read the chapter on wild grapes in Euell Gibbons' Stalking the Wild Asparagus; there, he gives a recipe that just seems manageable. I also discovered that the only reason to can something is if it won't be put in the fridge and consumed within a month. These two bits of information allowed me to conquer my fear of jellies and jams.

In order to stalk some great vines and fruit, I biked almost every day near the place I had first seen the many vines growing over a 3 mile stretch on a bike trail near my house. When I had finally figured out which stretch had the nicest and ripest fruit, I called my foraging partner, Mike, and we made a date to harvest that next weekend.

Starbucks, 8 am. We caffeinated ourselves with admittedly very un-local beans, and set out to the harvesting spot. Each of us armed with plastic bags and a pair of scissors, we walked about a one and a half-mile stretch. From vine to vine we filled our bags with mostly ripened, but a some green, grapes. (Most recipes say to use a mixture since the unripe ones have more pectin in them.) When finished, we each had about 1.5 to 2 quarts of bunches of mostly dark purple, pea-sized, surprisingly insect-free grapes. We could not of course stop ourselves from eating a few, although eating is not really the right word. You mostly suck the juice and spit out the relatively large seeds and tough skin.

When I got home, I put the grapes in a big pot of water to wash them, then I drained the water and put them back in the pot. The question now was whether to boil or not to boil...Gibbons says yes and Sam Thayer, a more recent foraging expert says no. I went with Euell (No offense Sam, but Euell has been a hero of mine for a long time.)
I put enough water in the pot to almost cover the grapes but not quite. I then used a plastic potato masher, being careful not to crush the seeds, and mashed the fruit until it seemed as though all of the juice that could be crushed out, was crushed out. I then put the fruit on a medium high flame for about 15 minutes, after which I drained it in a jelly bag. I read somewhere not to squeeze the bag, but I did anyway, since there was so much more juice in the fruit left over after I drained it. I threw away the pulp and the bowl of juice was covered and placed in the refrigerator for two days, in order to let the tartrates in the grapes sink to the bottom of the bowl. This substance is not wanted and will make the jelly gritty.

After two days in the fridge, I carefully poured the juice into a pot, making sure not to get any of the silt that had settled on the bottom in the juice. I then followed Euell's recipe, which calls for a cup of sugar per cup of juice. I dissolved the sugar in the juice and cooked it until it boiled, then I dissolved some pectin (Euell's recipe does not call for pectin, but I was afraid that this grape variety did not have enough in it to really make a jelly) in a little water and put that into the juice. Once it was boiling hard for about three minutes, I took it off the stove and poured it into a sterilized pickle jar and put the lid on. As soon as it was cool enough to touch, into the refrigerator it went. The next day, it had set; the flavor is much more intense than the stuff you buy. It has a tartness reminiscent of currants. Imagine a fruit growing everywhere, but no one but the birds enjoying it! It's well worth the time to notice these little purple berries. If you're into local food, what could be more local?

Life is ephemeral

2010-12-19T13:44:00.000-08:00

Whenever I go to an antique store, I look for the postcard section. It has always fascinated me that when people die, often their memory is erased from the general consciousness. When my grandfather passed on, my father handed me some WWII-era dogtags. On the tarnished, flat, metallic labels was engraved my grandfather's mother's name, as well as their address in Philadelphia. I had never asked him where he lived; of course I had to do a google search. The streetview app showed a vacant lot, and listed the address as approximate. A heavy sadness filled me, as I thought about all of the times, good and bad, that happened in that house. Of course, no one will ever know about those because the house has long been torn down and anyone who lived there has passed. My great aunt is still alive, and at 92 years old, is still fairly active. I should probably interview her, so I can capture the history of my family.

On a recent trip to yet another antique store, I purchased some postcards sent from or to people in my area of the city (the South Side, between National and Lincoln Aves.). Why would I spend money on a relic that sort of chronicles someone else's family history? It is obvious that no other person wanted them, since I found them at an antique store. Probably bought cheap from some estate sale. There is something almost magical about touching an object as personal as a postcard. They are the "thought that counts". No monetary value but priceless, coming almost certainly from loved ones. Especially in a year like 1909, when it was probably easier and cheaper to send a card than to make a phone call.

As I read the cards, I thought about the fact that these people are long gone and wondered why someone would sell or give away proof of their existence. Not only do these prove that they lived, but they are like recorded snapshots of personal relationships. There is a certain melancholy that takes over when one realizes how fleeting life can be. Gladys and Mildred, Miss Kurtz and F. & R., Gini Krawczyk and Dorothy and Bill Gruel... All of these people are gone, and all of the things they said and did in their lives all but forgotten, except for these postcards.

I have set out to find the houses that received these documents. The only one so far that still exists is 1747 S. 32nd St. A bungalow not unlike the one in which I live. Still well maintained. It's absolutely mind-blowing to think that in 1935-1940, Bill and Dorothy ate dinner every night and talked to their friends Gini and Aug. Maybe they had children. Their house is right behind the public par and pool. What a great location for kids!

We can imagine that they went to church every Sunday. Maybe they drove, maybe they took the street car. Did they play cards every Friday? Did they go dancing to the sounds of the local big bands? Did they know someone who was killed in the war?

What about Miss M. Kurtz? What was her first name? How old was she when she received the card? Who were F. and R.? Why were they "going to Stevens Point this afternoon"? These are questions that will never be answered, yet beg to be.

Reunión anual

2010-11-12T10:52:00.000-08:00

The Layton Boulevard West Neighbors annual meeting took place on Thursday, November 4 at the St. Joseph center on the corner of Greenfield and Layton Blvd. It's pretty interesting to go to these events, since you never really know who lives in your neighborhood. We arrived a bit late, but just in time to take part in the ice breaker activity that Ricky Castillo and I had made. Typical activity: people bingo. I'm sure you've all played it at some point. You get a sheet with a grid on it, and you have to find people who have done the things in the various squares. These people then sign their names. The first person to fill up the whole sheet wins. There were some nice prizes, too.

In my humble opinion, it is extremely important to participate in events such as this, since it's one way of showing a sense of community, a concept we see often lately, but in small doses. The goal should be overwhelming participation by the whole neighborhood. This encourages social interaction, which can be a catalyst toward stable and safe areas in which we can spend our time.

Milwaukee was just in the paper again as one of the most segregated cities in the nation- although two researchers took issue with the way the word segregation is defined and counted. It seems to me that true desegregation, that is the absolute mixing of people of all colors and economic and social backgrounds is nearly impossible. It also seems that we are trying to force the issue. People naturally gravitate toward people who are like them. They take comfort in this, and feel safe. Of course, this does not mean that they are right in continuing this sort of behavior, but how can we force people to integrate when we are dealing with intense linguistic and socio-cultural barriers? An even bigger question is: how can we do this when most of the families that we may think about as not integrating are so busy trying to eke out a living that they do not have the luxury to think about such things?

What needs to happen is a serious educational campaign. One that awakens everyone's intellectual curiosity, so that we are all compelled to seek out what others do and how others think. so that we cannot resist looking at each other as receptacles of knowledge that we cannot help wanting to learn. I am not suggesting a solution, but I am creating more critical questions.

The fact that I speak some Spanish has really helped me in my communications with my neighbors, as has their English, no matter what the level. there is a real reticence, at least in my immediate vicinity, to speak to neighbors. Since I took the initiative to go and meet some of them, though, the tension has been going away.
How does this relate to Silver City? Just like the Bingo game, which was conceived to force people (in a gentle way) to interact, we need to create more situations, mini situations, block by block, where we incite communication that, otherwise, would never take place. Once all of the blocks are solidly connected, then the neighborhood as a whole will be on the path to becoming more of a community. We need one or two block captains per block that are willing to take the initiative to connect their neighbors. Then, we need block captain meetings, so that the information can be disseminated. So back to the question of desegregation: how DO we erase these barriers? Maybe you have some ideas...

Return to productivity

2010-07-30T09:36:00.000-07:00

After a rather long hiatus, ethni-city, Milwaukee is back with a vengeance! The mission of this blog, so to speak, is to inform people and further incite them to experience things in their own city that they may not necessarily think would be interesting, but finally, are. The next few posts will be on businesses in the Silver City neighborhood, namely the area on National Ave. between 31st and 39th streets in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

The neighborhood is under the jurisdiction of the Layton Boulevard West Neighbors Association, who is doing some really great work. To read about their projects, please go to http://www.lbwn.org.

Enjoy the next few posts and please feel free to comment on things you find interesting, odd, normal, intelligent, dumb, insulting, complimentary or any other adjective you should think of whilst perusing these pages.

Happy reading!

-Brett

Wild foods in urbania? Wild Grapes and Chicory

2010-01-03T12:34:00.000-08:00

Just adjacent to my current neighborhood, Silver City, I have come upon small portions of vine, which I know to be wild grapes. The leaves cannot be mistaken, with their three separate points, the middle one higher than the two flanking it on either side. The deep purple, almost black berries grow in small bunches, and like the domesticated larger concords, often hide under a layer of leaves, so that, in order to find them, one must poke and prod. It’s really a shame, however, that I am extremely loath to eat these, since the part of the city in which I live has been an industrial wasteland for so long. Many are the chemicals that have probably leached into the groundwater and thus polluted any of the plants that have come to depend on this water. One has to wonder how many families could be fed just by wild plants alone, were the city not so polluted.

The very fact that so many dandelions and plantain plants have been poisoned by weed killer and that so much car exhaust settles on the leaves seems to make this a moot point. Too, bad, though, because these greens are extremely rich in vitamin A and protein, much like spinach. The grapes are rich in vitamin C.

There are two herbs known to dwell in urban areas that make wonderful tea: gill-over-the-ground and yarrow. In addition to these is the ubiquitous chicory. With its pale-blue flower, there is so much of it that this could constitute an industry in itself in the Menomonee Valley.

One day this summer, on my way back from biking, as I rode along the almost abandoned industrial throughway from 6th St. to the Pick and Save on 19th and National, I decided to stop and pick some of this root, well-known especially in Louisiana. The road workers may have thought I looked pretty strange, but I didn't mind.

It took some work, but I finally pulled up enough of the stubborn taproots to make one tiny cup of chicory. Home I went with the roots peeking out of my tan shoulder bag. I washed them and cut off the endings. I roasted them in the oven at 350° until they were a rich dark brown. I cooled them off and then ground them in a standard hand-held coffee grinder. I decided to make the chicory in my one-cup Italian stove-top espresso maker. I mixed it with some soy milk. It was delicious! It has a smoky flavor that does bare some resemblance to coffee. Of course, it is the roasting that creates the taste. Dandelion roots can be put through the same process.

The fact that this drink seems to bring to the mind and palate the flavor of Americas’ favorite upper has to do with the fact that we are extremely overzealous with the roasting of our beans. Anything liquid burnt tastes like coffee. In fact, the coffee known as Ethiopian Sidamo contains a very brazen blueberry note, when the bean is not roasted for so long and at so high a temperature that the subtleties of the bean are lost. Many coffee beans from Central America are known for their citrus notes and an espresso I drink regularly (The National Café on 9th and National) is supposed to evoke not only Merlot, but chocolate and fruit. Now, not everyone will smell these with their “pif”- the French word for a nose that knows-, but we can all appreciate taste and smell if we concentrate on these senses that, along with listening, are very often lacking nuanced distinctions in our society. We’re all too quick to assume that we should just wolf down our food and drink to achieve the result (satiety and quenched thirst). Unfortunately, but for a growing minority, we are all product and no process.

Wild foods

2010-01-03T12:23:00.000-08:00

At one time, we lived in a government-subsidized townhouse on the edge of the city of East Moline, Illinois. Because it was a new development, there were woods directly behind almost every outer row of homes. This was a boon for children who spent much time outdoors, as we all did for lack of anything else to do. I was one of these.

I spent many hours in the summertime traipsing through fallen tree trunks and small streams, giving way to yet another outlet for my culinary curiosity. At the tender age of ten, I clearly and distinctly remember the moment when my mother brought me to the bookstore to buy a copy of the Audubon Guide to Wild Edible Plants. The rich photos in the middle of the book had grabbed my attention, and I had to have it. Anyway, I had already seen some of the plants in the book, and wanted to know more.

From an adult perspective, it really seems unsafe at the very least that my mother allowed me to cavort in the woods alone, knowing fully that I was in search of edibles, and that some could be poison. I survived, very obviously, since this is not being written posthumously. I soon after acquired a copy of Stalking the Wild Asparagus, by the famous and much revered wild foods expert Ewell Gibbons. (I just recently read a short biography of this man, and it appears that part of his fascination with wild edible plants came from his own stint under the same watchful eye of poverty that kept watch over me when I was young.)

In the winter time there was a sledding hill that every child had descended at one time or another (against the warnings of all adults). At the bottom of this hill was a chain-link fence, and beyond was a stream. In the summer, the stream was full of cattails. I had read in the books that cattails were the wild equivalent to corn on the cob. Since I adored this vegetable, how could I not taste this plant growing so abundantly in such close proximity to our home?

I slowly climbed down the steep incline, slipping and sliding on the bare patches of dirt between what I had thought were groundnut plants, but in actuality were rue. Finally arrived at the bottom, straining to reach over the chain-link, I snipped a good ten cattails, still green and tender. I climbed back up the hill and crossed the street to our abode. I do not remember my mother objecting, so she may have been upstairs. I carefully followed the directions in the book, and snipping off the extra stem, I washed and boiled the spikes. When they were tender, I lifted them out of the pot, and dowsing them with salt and slathering them butter, bit into one. It was delicious. Everything in my mind wants me to remember a nutty overtone, with a texture quite unlike anything I had eaten previous. I cannot be certain of the accuracy of my souvenir. I should like to try them again some time.

Rural coffee shops? More than just for cows...

2009-12-21T08:30:00.000-08:00

I am aware that the title of this blog implies exclusivity given to the region of Milwaukee, but I just had to write about the thriving coffee shops of the area where I sort of, well, grew up (cognitively that is, since I only lived there for 4 years).

Yesterday, I decided to get into the car and make the 3-hour drive to Lancaster, WI. You may be curious to know how a Jew ends up in Lancaster. Well, this is for another time and another place; I will just say that my mother ended up there, and that is where I go to visit her, shaking off my urban (is Milwaukee so urban?) coat and donning an eerie rural exterior that brings back memories long ago stored in the lower pyramidial tracts of my gray matter. In other words, I haven’t thought about this stuff for quite a while. It’s extremely Proustian to be here.

In any case, every city dweller knows that there is access to coffee at almost any moment, holiday or not. This has not always been the case for the denizen of the small town. My memories of coffee as a high school student in Platteville, WI, boil down (nice pun...) to a black plastic pitcher with free refills of dirty, brownish water, sometimes only made stronger tasting by the injection of carbon caused by some negligent person who didn’t think to take the carafe off the burner. This was coffee. The highly caffeinated robusta beans charged us with some sort of wonderful euphoria, then the cramps set in.
These days, there ARE coffee shops in small towns. The words coffee an shop, when put together, used to evoke danishes and coffee cake in metal and plastic containers on the counter and 5-cent lunches. To those in Amsterdam, it is code for another establishment type... Today, I can happily relate that there is actual espresso being served in these places. It may not be ideal, but it tastes stronger than the coffee anywhere else. There is even Wi-Fi as an added bonus.

At the very moment I am writing this, I am comfortably anchored to a chair at the Badger Brothers Coffee, on Main Street in Platteville, WI. It's a very relaxed place, with music from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" playing softly in the background and one or two customers busily typing on their laptops. The interior has been painted a light chocolate-caramel color and the tables and chairs,as well as the floor, are wood. There are "antique" computers on shelves, used only as decor (one happens to be an Apple IIe, I think). Every time a customer enters, the owner calls out their name, making it known that this is a community that invests time in each other. It's quite a place. Now, of course, I don't get the impression that being in a hurry would go over very well, but then again, that's not the pace of life around here.
Badger Brothers Coffee, LLC

Baby Bok Choy and Unicorn Meat

2009-12-16T13:56:00.000-08:00

My favorite meal to make when my other is not in the house is one of the simplest concoctions I have the good fortune to eat.

I go to the Asian International Market on 34th St. and National Ave. in Milwaukee’s Silver City neighborhood. The couple who own it are from Laos and have taken it over from the current owner of Thai Barbecue, a restaurant right next door.

This small, intimate grocery has quite the selection of comestibles from Thailand, Laos and Vietnam, reflecting the cultures of the people who shop there. At the very front of the store, across from the cashier, are pre-made dishes in plastic containers, perfect for a quick lunch on the go, or for taking home to heat up in the microwave. There are also sweets, like the steamed sweet coconut rice wrapped in banana leaves and deep-fried sesame balls. Near these treats is a large assortment of candy from various Asian countries, including Japan.

Behind the cashier you can find beauty and health products from Thailand, and on the same wall, toward the back of the store, is a refrigerated section containing drinks (various cans of iced coffee, coconut juices and others to tantalize your palate). In this section you can also find tofu, and at a reasonable price.

As you forge ahead, you find fish sauce, soy sauce, hot sauce (of course the famous sriracha and its generic equivalents) and other bottled goods. There are canned exotic fruits and in the very back of the first part of the store are frozen fish, seafood, and even giant water bugs, favorites in parts of Thailand, deep fried and served with sauce. Right in front of this second refrigerated unit, you will find tea and coffee.

If you are looking for fresh produce, you can go to the second room of the store. There you will not only find aromatics like mint, galangal and cilantro, but green mangoes, all kinds of greens and even congealed pork blood. Incidentally, this is the section of the store to find rice products such as spring roll skins and different kinds of rice (jasmine, etc.).

Once you have explored this place, you can stroll in confidently and buy the things you need.

As I wrote above, my favorite dish to make is extremely simple and you may find all of the ingredients at the Asian International Market.

Tofu and baby bok choy stir fry
Serves 1-2 people

Ingredients:
- 3 Thai chilis, fresh or frozen, chopped (I find that buying a full package of them and freezing it after using what I need works very well. You can keep them in the freezer for a long time and just use two or three every so often)
- a scant ¼ cup of soy sauce
- a scant ¼ cup of seasoned rice vinegar
- ½ tsp brown sugar
- 1 tbsp very thin ginger batons (more if you love ginger)
- 4 or 5 bunches baby bok choy, end cut off and chopped
- extra firm tofu cut into strips 2 inches long, one inch wide and ½ inch deep (about 10 strips)
- 1 tsp sesame or peanut oil for frying
- one cup jasmine long grain rice
- 1 and ¾ cups water

1. Start rice in rice cooker. Pour rice in with water and turn on cooker.

2. Make the sauce:
Put the chilis, soy sauce, rice vinegar, brown sugar and ginger together in a medium glass bowl and whisk well. Taste to make sure the sauce fits your palate. Some people like it saltier and some more with a vinegar taste. Still others like more sugar and less chili, etc.

3. Prep the baby bok choy and soak in water in a big bowl.

4. Heat non-stick deep rim frying pan with the oil on medium-high heat. Make sure that the oil is hot before putting in the tofu.

5. While the pan is heating, dry the tofu with paper towel to make sure that all of the moisture is gone, otherwise it the oil will splatter.

6. Fry the tofu, making sure to brown both sides (about 3 minutes or so on each side).
.
7. Drain the bok choy and use salad spinner to take away remaining moisture.

8. When tofu is ready, pour in bok choy and shake pan a bit to mix around the tofu and the bok choy.

9. Pour in sauce and mix thoroughly. Fry for another 3 minutes on the same medium high heat.

10. Transfer tofu and greens immediately to medium bowl and leave sauce in the pan.

11. When rice is done, let sit for 3 minutes so that it becomes a bit sticky, then serve tofu and bok choy over rice. Season with hot sauce if desired.

This is a very versatile recipe. I have used collard greens, Chinese broccoli, carrots, and cabbage. I have served it over rice vermicelli, as well. Try it and see what you can come up with.

For dessert, I will sometimes buy a tricolor (coconut milk, various jellied shapes made of agar-agar, and taro). You can find this in the refrigerator at the front of the first room at the Asian International Market.

Milwaukee's Asian Markets

2009-12-16T13:53:00.001-08:00

The next few posts on this new blog will be descriptions of certain of my favorite Asian markets in Milwaukee. Always good for an experience that will make you forget you're in the US, these markets also provide great value for foodstuffs that are available at places like Whole Foods, Metro Market and Sendiks for at least half the price. You may argue that it takes more gas to get there, depending on where you live... That may be true, but if you stock up, you'll save and get to know your city!
-B

Paht Chee and the jamboree

2009-06-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

Once we were past the border, it was time for the exploration we had been so eager to experience. The first vendor we encountered was a Mexican juice stand. Now, we were just not thirsty, but the thought of returning some time during our tenure here was not out of the range of possibility. We marched apprehensively on.

The festive qualities of this place reminded me of an open air market in any of the number of countries I had been to in my travels, but with a complete air of American 'flair', if one can use this word to describe what I was experiencing. Americans know how to take something completely universal and make it into something that only smacks of fried food and baseball caps. This place was truly the most melted pot I had been to in a long time, with the exception of maybe NYC.

Walking in and out of the jam-packed aisles of what some would call junk (of course not me), it occurred to us that interviewing the people that make this place magic might be of some interest. After all, the merchandise was really not what made the atmosphere; it was the people selling it. We met a woman that sold perfume, who told us with some kind of irony that she only did this when she wasn't on duty as a health inspector for the city of Chicago: we weren't quite sure what to make of that. In addition to this hawker of cheap scents, we met two people who would then become the subject of this posting: Gina Alenas and her husband, Alex DeJesus.

Gina and Alex came to the US separately from the Philippines and met in Chicago in the 80s. After marrying, they embarked on the adventure that one might call the American dream: they began selling Asian merchandise at the Fair. Gina was the more verbose one, telling us that on top of selling statues and bamboo, she is also an expert in Paht Chee and Feng Shui, and that if we knew of any way to help her business, she would appreciate it. She also recounted with enthusiasm her plans to open a Feng Shui consulting business in Milwaukee on Vliet St., around the corner from the Times Theater. If you're in the neighborhood, you may want to check it out to see if she's there yet. We could all use a bit of advice when it comes to arranging our living quarters. If interested, her booth number at the Fair is #776 and her phone number for Feng Shui consulting is 224- 650-0513. You can see more of her wares at http://stores.shop.ebay.com/Feng-Shui-by-Alena__W0QQ_armrsZ1.

After our in-depth conversation with Gina, we did indeed return to the Mexican Juice stand and have a jamaica.
This drink made from the hibiscus flower is extremely refreshing and can be made easily at home. The flowers can be bought at El Rey markets everywhere in Milwaukee. Indeed, this was a great end to a great day!

Shopping: a culture all its own

2009-05-06T06:05:00.000-07:00

From malls to thrift shops, from boutiques to stalls, shopping can be a bane or a boon. Depending on the state of mind of the shopper and the reasons for taking the jaunt, the experience of going somewhere to exchange money for goods or services can take you to another world. On a recent trip down south (of Milwaukee, that is), we realized just that.

In the car, we talked about times in other countries when haggling became imperative and quality depended on the relationship between the seller and the buyer. We discussed differences between shopping in the US and shopping elsewhere. As the conversation became its own entity, so fascinated and engrossed became passenger and driver, we nearly missed it. But there it was, larger than life:

Yes, indeed! The famed 7 Mile Fair.

It 's always been very interesting to me that any mention of this marketplace to anyone native of Milwaukee that I know has always ended with either a snide remark or a dismissal of anything of value that the place could offer. I for one could never understand it, since places like this for a people watcher and amateur window shopper have been my constant companions since just about birth (my mother's favorite infinitive was to garage sale: I garage sale, you garage sale, s/he garage sales,etc.; although she always used the gerund: garage saling. As in, "Let's go garage saling today!")

When a friend and colleague of mine (we both call the Alliance Francaise de Milwaukee home) told me she had never been to 7 Mile Fair, I jumped at the chance to go again. It's not often that I meet someone who is willing to jump in the car and go to a sprawling indoor market that at some points resembles the world's largest Dollar Store.

Pulling off of the freeway and onto the off ramp, the excitement grew. At the stop sign before turning into the parking lot- now this is probably the largest parking lot you could ever see-we looked at each other one last time. As we turned our heads away from each other and toward the gravel-coated car storage area, I stepped on the gas and 30 seconds later we had entered the lot. Still early enough to find a fairly close parking space, I pulled into one a few hundred feet from the grand entrance. We got out of the car and started the short walk to the mouth of the building. As we were walking we noticed-you couldn't help it, really - a large banner:

We both thought it was at once poignant and ironic, since all of the signs in the parking lot were in Spanish and English. That was our kind of America. In our minds, though, the only America we could evoke was the one that wanted everyone to speak English and go back to where they cam from if they weren't interested in our 'official language' (in fact, English is not the official language of the US; we have none.) As we walked into the lobby to pay our $1.50 each to enter the bazaar, the American souk, the marché aux puces that is 7 Mile Fair, I told Beth that she would be feeling like she was leaving the US the minute she entered 7 Mile Fair soil. We had to wonder: was the "God Bless America" a way of telling us that we were leaving the US and were about to cross the border? We felt like taking out our passports...

Stay tuned for part two of "Shopping: A culture all its own".