The third post on visiting my roots comes upon the completion of a recent trip to my hometown in Wisconsin. YES, I did purchase a cheesehead hat and matching accessories as seen in the picture. However, as many last minute souvenir choices, it wouldn’t fit in my suitcase. So, my solution was like many that have purchased a sombrero in Mexico.   YOU BETCHA, I wore my cheesehead hat on the plane.  I might add that if you are looking to turn heads, wear a cheesehead hat. The only exception to this may be at Lambeau field for a Packer game where this is very common.

As promised, I did eat cheese curds with Wisconsin Salsa (aka ketchup) and I did share. As you can see from the picture, I expertly paired the melty, stringy cheese explosions with a local New Glarus concoction called appropriately Spotted Cow.

In typical Ms Traveling Pants style, I didn’t let the grass grow. I certainly crisscrossed the state. Fueled by cheese, brats, and beer, I witnessed truly epic vistas that made me understand why many people call this particular area, God’s country.

Click here to view my short picture montage showing Wisconsin’s beauty as seen through Ms Traveling Pants’ eyes.

With that said, I must admit I have a very abnormal affinity for something Wisconsin is famous for, CHEESE. Okay, maybe it would be better said that I have a minor cheese addiction. That’s right! I love cheese in all shapes, sizes, and flavors.

As a continuation from my last post on Gettting back to my roots, I wanted  to add a post on one of my favorite cheese snacks that are common in Wisconsin, but not so common to come across elsewhere….CHEESE CURDS.

My grandfather, a cheesemaker in Mindoro, Wisconsin, would be proud that I hold the cheese curd to such a high pedestal.  Many are not familiar with cheese curds, which are bite size morsels of cheese, typically yellow or orange like American cheddar.  They have been separated from the liquid whey, but have not been formed into the large rectangular blocks nor aged like what most associate with cheddar cheese. The flavor is mild, but they have a very squeaky, rubbery texture. I’m not sure if that would typically be a good texture for an edible item, but for cheese curds, it’s a sign of good curd.

Now, my favorite way to eat cheese curds is actually fried. Yes, you guessed it, frying just about anything makes it better and so it goes with cheese curds too.  The squeaky mild curds turn into a melty, stringy cheese explosion. One can eat cheese curds plain once fried, but the tried and true still dip them in Wisconsin salsa (aka ketchup). I’ll be visiting my dairy state roots and saluting to my genetic cheesemaker background by ordering a plate full of cheese curds with a bottle of ketchup.

I will share, but you better be fast. And, might I add that no plate of cheese curds would be complete without a chaser of local beer. My favorites come from Heileman’s, but that doesn’t’ rule out some of the others like Spotted Cow, Leinenkugels, etc.

Please share your cheese stories and other cheesehead fun facts with the Ms Traveling Pants’ (aka Miss Fish) audience with your comments.

**Photo of cheesehead hat courtesy of click here

**Photo of cheese curds from click here

With the vast majority of Wisconsinites either of German or Norwegian decent, there is seldom a special occasion, festival, or holiday that doesn’t honor delicacies from those mother cultures. Thus, my family took me on an adventure to the basement of a community church in our neighboring town, where the local Norwegian women were in charge of cooking and serving a lutefisk (looooooot-a-fisk) and lefse (lef-sa) dinner. (My accent comes back quickly.)

Lutefisk is a traditional Nordic fish dish made of dried stockfish then soaked in lye.  Yes, you read that correctly, fish soaked in lye, the same stuff that you use to make soap.  I can only rationalize that the process has been passed along since the time before modern day refrigerators or ice boxes existed. However, the traditional taste, texture (jelly-like), and smell of the dish have continued; be forewarned, lutefisk is somewhat notorious for its intense offensive odor. Uffda!

Lutefisk is usually served with, but not limited to potatoes, gravy, melted butter, meatballs, and of course lefse. Unlike lutefisk, lefse is really easy to understand. Basically, it is the Norwegian version of a flour or corn tortilla; however, it is made from potatoes.  It is most commonly served with butter, but many prefer lefse with a sprinkle of sugar. As an addition, lefse is easy to eat and has been a staple in special shipments from Wisconsin for years to wherever I hang my hat.

Now, little did I know that this adventure would be my first appearance in the press. Yes, the local newspaper caught me in the act. Young with a skeptical palate and the overly fishy smell wafting through the hall, I was caught with an ear to ear grin of enjoyment of my lumberjack’s plateful of mashed potatoes and gravy. (Even to this day, I cannot pass up a plate of good mashed potatoes.)

So, on this trip back to my roots, will I be diving into a lutefisk and lefse dinner? Uffda!

**Photo from Official Lutefisk Chef Site

Always being a lover of the ocean from a very young age, in my first year of college at the University of Wisconsin at Madison (Go Badgers!), I took an elective course for Open Water Certification to be able to SCUBA during Spring Break in Cozumel, Mexico.  It was a five week long course with classroom work explaining of the severity of decompression sickness, the importance of signing, and the names and functions of the components of the SCUBA gear (regulator, BCDs, fins, masks, tank, etc.)  We then advanced into a couple of classes in the pools, indoors luckily, because it was mid-Fall.

The last step for completion of the course, each learning diver was to do an open water dive with a master diver.  The check out dive was scheduled towards the end of October. Despite the typical Midwest weather, there wasn’t a trip planned to the Caribbean or the Great Barrier Reef, but a trip to a local freshwater lake in Watertown called Clyde Quarry.  Yes, as you can guess from the name, it was once a quarry and not a lake.  There are many of these quarries transformed to deep lakes in Wisconsin that are very clear, allow for dive training, and even have wildlife.  On that October morning, it just turns out that I saw flurries. At that moment, I had to question my reasoning behind my desire to go through with it. Was getting this cold worth it?

With the weather, wetsuits were needed for all students.  I skillfully or with as much skill as necessary crammed my body into something that said it was for a small to medium sized body but was more suited for a small child.  With my body into the wetsuit and feeling like a human sausage, it was time to go two by two with the master divers into the cold water. Let I remind you that it was now up to forty degrees.  Earlier I had seen snowflakes so it was “balmy” by comparison.

Although wetsuits were helpful, the instructors knew better and had to spend all day in the water; thus, they wore drysuits which do not allow any of the cold water to have access to the skin.  These are the suits that divers use in ice diving. However, my only option was to get into the water and warm the wetsuit up with my own, scarce body heat. Fun!

The only way that I can explain the cold of the water was of sheer pain and shock followed by the complete lack there of.  It was amazing how the initial cold was taken away by the numbing effects of the temperature.  I guess it was a survival tactic.  Despite this, both myself and my partner were determined to find fun or at least a PADI certification out of the event.  We kept active until at least our suits had been warmed sufficiently to go down.

The descent and ascent of diving is crucial as you must release pressure from your ears on the way down and slowly ascend on the way up to prevent decompression sickness commonly called the Benz. At the shallow part of the lake, maybe thirty feet down, we went through buoyancy tests, removal and clearing of the mask, and removal of the regulator (air source). Once completed, we were able to surface.

Upon completion, I was no longer cold, I was a comfortable temperature having survived and almost masterfully completed the test. However, there remained one more feat, the removal of the wetsuit.  I can attest that getting into a wetsuit was difficult, but so was removing a wetsuit.  I would suggest the couple approach where one tries to peel oneself independently like a banana from the suit and then when necessary the partner helps the other by pulling the partner’s suit off.

Was the experience worth it?   Yes.

I say so because I was able within months to dive three times in Cozumel.  There I was able to see the impressive coral reef walls at depths around 60+ feet.  The colors were vibrant and so majestic that I don’t remember colors like them or even hues similar that exist outside of the depths of the ocean. Then just one trip later, I did similar diving in Zihautanejo, Mexico, a Pacific Ocean dive, which is much darker, deeper, and pretty chilly. This dive taught me more above the tides and current.  One must gage this and use it to one’s dive advantage to ride the current. Since, I have not dived as much as snorkeled where in Key West I swam amongst huge grouper and a sea of jellyfish. After, I witnessed the underwater beauty of Punta Cana, Dominican Republic and swam around an underwater zoo of large hammerheads sharks and sting rays.

If you have any doubts about learning to SCUBA, go ahead, just do it! It has been too long since I have. I miss the adventure.  So, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to get back into it!!

It was the summer of 1995 in a small, Mississippi River town in Wisconsin calledTrempealeau. I had recently graduated from high school and was working the summer at the Historic Trempealeau Hotel as a server until the start of the Fall Semester at the University of Wisconsin at Madison. The summer was nearly half over with the most important weekend of the year upon us, Catfish Days. Always held the first weekend after the Fourth of July, it was the social gathering of the year with family members coming from a far, students returning home, and sightings of old friends from high school.

As most festivals in the area, the weekend included a parade, amusement rides, bike and fun run, golf tournament, fishing tournament, and a pageant. So, on that Thursday night in July 1995, after the interview, fashion show, evening gown, and talent portion, I, Ms. Traveling Pants, was announced and crowned as Miss Trempealeau 1995 or in slang Miss Fish as the celebration is Catfish Days (see picture of Ms. Traveling Pants on bench and court).

As Miss Fish, my duties were limited to a couple of radio shows, MC for the talent show, and riding the Catfish Days’ float that Sunday in the parade as well as for nearly every other Sunday throughout that summer and fall exploring all of the Western part of Wisconsin. You can only imagine some of these events: Sunfish Days in Onalaska, Kornfest in Holmen, Applefest in La Crescent, Syttende Mai in Westby, and Octoberfest in La Crosse. Regardless of the size, they all paled in comparison to Catfish Days.

For the weekend, Trempealeau (French for mountain with its feet in the water) and its 1,000 inhabitants close down a few streets by the River for amusement rides, food stands selling fried cheese curds, grilled chicken, and catfish burgers, all with the mandatory beer tent. The town would come down to this area enjoy the rides, eat, and then drinking and dancing to a live band that had plenty of Alabama, Brooks and Dunn, and Garth Brooks to satisfy the crowd.

Although the nightlife was fun, Catfish Days has other activities: the infamous egg toss on 1st Street, bed races, arm wrestling, pancake breakfast, volleyball tournament, motorcycle poker run, and fireworks.

Needless to say, at the end of 1995, I did need to bid farewell and wish another young woman well in her reign as Miss Fish 1996. However, I still have the royal flare….elbow elbow wrist wrist.

Sincerely,

Ms. Traveling Pants

(formerly known as Miss Fish 1995)

Now returned from my journey over the pond to England, I now smell an apple pie cooking in the oven for one of my favorite traditions, Thanksgiving. I am not traveling this year, but staying where I “hang my hat”, Fort Lauderdale, Florida. As I tell most people, I didn’t want to wait until retirement to escape the cold winters of the Mid-West, New England or Spain. So four years ago, my then fiancé, now husband, and I packed up a not yet mature household near Boston and moved to sunny South Florida.

Many of you have heard that you can take the girl out of the country, but you can never take the country out of the girl. Well, I consider that to be true. A component of where you come from and each place you live stays with you to make the rich, mixture of personality and tradition that makes us all unique. I must say that my verbage and slight accent can show that I haven’t forgotten my Mid-Western roots (Wis-CON-sin), but I must say that I attribute much of how I view the world to the place where I really grew up, Spain.

At the age of twenty, I moved to Madrid and stayed for two years. I typically equate this time of my life to being an infant or toddler. I was a sponge just as kids are. Everything was different. The sounds and language were strange as well as the holidays, music, food, when you eat it, when shops are open, and even scents. It was a sensory overload and probably the two years of my life that I learned the most. Who would think that I could attribute a valuable lesson to going out to a local bar to have “tapas” (small snacks), meet up with friends for the “marcha” (nightlife), and end the event with a cup of thick, hot chocolate and fried donuts at no earlier than 3 or 4 am?

Yes, those years gave me the appreciation for things other than traditional classes, memorizing information and formulas, and staying cooped up with my college books to be a straight “A” student. I began to understand that a day in the Prado or hopping a bus to Sevilla or Granada to see local festivals to be the true learnings of life. I might add that there is something to be said about a culture that has what seems to be hundreds of three day weekends somehow based on religion. I saw these festivities as three days of eating, dancing, drinking, and sometimes dressing up in costume. I have now come to realize that they were a way to meet hundreds of new people, who were my teachers or what I refer to as encyclopedias of life.

I arrived in Spain intending to stay a year and return to the Mid-West to start medical school. I did not leave after a year, but stayed to get another dose of Spanish lifestyle. Who would have thought that I would trade in my peanut butter snack for olives and ever say that there is a cheese better than cheddar…..by the way, it is called manchego. During those two years, I traveled throughout not only Spain but almost all of Europe and some parts of Africa…many of which I will write about in future posts to tell my stories of Christmas Eve in a Turkish brothel, New Year’s in Napoli, camel rides in Morocco, traditional Roman baths, and like adventures.

As you know, I did eventually leave Spain only to return occasionally to visit familiar traditions, food, and small tapas bars. The time had come to return to the U.S. and take that country girl mixed with cosmopolitan Spanish flare back to the States.

With that, I leave you to take out my pie and enjoy a Thanksgiving feast with my husband and my dad. By the way, I still like my apple pie with cheddar cheese…..you can’t use manchego! (It is a Wisconsin tradition.)

How fitting that I introduce my Ms Traveling Pants blog and myself as I sit on my way to London with laptop on the tray table with hopes of a bearable in-flight movie on yet another journey in my adventures of both near and far. So that you have further insight into who I am and why I write the way I do, please let me tell you a little story about my beginning…….where everything started?

Believe it or not, I am from a small, unincorporated town in Wisconsin called Centerville. Located on the Mississippi side of Wisconsin, I grew up in very rural setting on a hobby farm. You may say, what is a hobby farm? Well, amongst various neighbors that made their living by raising cattle or milking dairy cows, my family had a farm as a hobby. When I think of it, I don’t believe that would rank high on my chosen pastimes, but my parents did. My father a college professor and my mother at that time an antique dealer and inspired Shepherd, decided that a 20 acre farm with sheep, a couple of dogs, and cats nestled in a quaint valley surrounded by apple orchards, corn fields, and wild pastures would be an ideal place to raise a child. That is where I come in. I might say that it was a great place, safe place, and my place to grow up OR at least until I grew out of that stage.

My parents did not know whether I would be a boy or a girl so they thought Heath Claude if I were to be a boy or Heidi after the novel if I were I girl. Knowing how kids and teenagers can be ruthless with names, I am very happy that luck was with me that day, as I am Heidi. How fitting that my parents would have a herd of sheep and a little girl named Heidi.

As an only child, you tend to explore your world with imaginary friends, pets, and in a fantasy world. My stories and playtimes always were in fantastic far off places. It only seems fit that I too would be going places far far away to explore other cultures, music, food, fun, and most importantly people.

Around the age of 9 or 10, I took my first trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. It was for my father’s Spring break vacation from the university, but this was just one of many seasonal getaways that have shaped me into who I am today and who I will become. There I was a kid from Wisconsin seeing the powerful ocean and experiencing warm weather in the middle of winter, both unfamiliar surroundings.  On top of those items, it was in another language! However, I loved it and I was sold. It was there that I began my thirst of language with simple flashcards in Spanish and later expanded through school with pen pals, telenovelas/soap operas, and further exploration of Mexico…that is until I went to college and was encouraged to study abroad…Ok no one needed to encourage this young traveling bug to explore her horizons.

At the age of 20, I packed two large duffle bags with peanut butter, enough tampons for a year, and all the things I thought I could not live without as I shipped out for Madrid, Spain. It is crazy to think I packed such things….there are many better things to eat than peanut butter in Spain AND they did and continue to sell tampons there.

So sorry to interrupt, but the laptop battery is saying save or lose everything; plus, I am beginning to smell the oh so familiar chicken or beef lasagna dinner cart coming my way…..mmmmmmmmmmm buen provecho Heidi!