Christkindlmarket

We have A Situation with our hens. They have discovered the bird seed, and they like it a lot. It started when one of the Australorps flew over the fence and wandered over to the seeds scattered beneath the feeder. I saw her go over the fence with my own eyes. We didn’t know which of the Australorps it was, so we clipped all their wings. We also put on different colored leg bands, which sort of gave them names: Blue, Violet, and Poppy (orange). “When you see a hen out,” I instructed my family, “check the leg band so we will know if it’s the same one or different ones.”

And every time Hilda or Terry put a black hen in, they said, “I didn’t see her leg band.”

Then there were two hens out. Then four. “I found one clear down by the mailbox,” Terry reported, which answered the question I had about what would happen if we just left the fence open. If they didn’t play by the road, maybe we could just let them roam. Guess not.

I’m sure they are getting out under the fence. Friday after I let the girls out, I put a block in front of a gap between the fence and the ground. One of the Australorps was soon out, and she had knocked over the block on her way. Evidence. I caught her by the coop and tossed her back into the run. I didn’t see her leg band. Dang it!

I put the block on top of the netting and made a note to come back in the afternoon to clean out the PVC pipes that hold the stakes of the end post. It’s been wet; water pooled in the pipes and froze. We couldn’t get the post all the way into the ground.

But by the time I got back from my morning errands, Terry had done it! Hooray!

Except it didn’t work. They were out again on Saturday and Sunday. More evidence that they were getting out under the fence was when I saw all the Australorps lined up at the bottom of the netting with their heads stuck through, eating the grass that was greener on the other side. It would be as easy for them to get their heads under the net as through it. Hopefully it will thaw some next week, and we can put earth staples though the net between the posts. Always something.

Earlier in the week, Terry and I went to Chicago on Wednesday. We drove through a few flurries on our way to the train station. By the time we got to the city, the sky was blue, but it was still quite cold and windy. Terry had brought along some handwarmers, which we tucked in our gloves.

We had lunch at Christkindlmarket. I’d seen on Facebook that they had a place selling raclette this year. I hadn’t had raclette since I was in Switzerland in 1980. The stand was right on the corner as we got to the market, and it seemed mobbed with people. It wasn’t really. It was just that a busload of teenagers was entering the market right at the moment. They soon moved on, and I put in my order for a “traditional.” The other choices were with jambon (ham) or salami. Raclette is made by putting cheese under a heating element. When the surface of the cheese gets bubbly and starts to brown, the melted cheese is whisked off with a knife and, in this case, smeared on a baguette. 

Half wheels of cheese under a heating element at the raclette stand

I thought it was pricey at $13, but that was before I knew that the baguette measured a good 18”.

“You want that with everything?” the young man asked.

“Sure,” I said, without asking what that meant. I wanted to have the traditional experience.

The young man scraped off the cheese and schmeared it on the baguette. While the cheese melted more, he drew of wavy line of Dijon mustard on the baguette, sprinkled on sliced scallion greens, and embedded several cornichons in the cheese. He closed the baguette, wrapped the bottom six inches neatly in waxed paper, and put another schmear of cheese on the top and down the outside.

When I found Terry, he was just getting two beers at the beer tent. We went inside where it was warm, but there was no place to sit. We found a place to sit outside, but it was cold. Still, I wanted to sit down and put my beer on a table while I wrangled my half-yard of raclette. It was good at first. If I had it to do over, I would not get the mustard. I ate and ate and ate. I contemplated not eating all of it and wrapping the leftovers in the waxed paper. I hadn’t brought a purse or backpack, and all my pockets were full of essential things I had taken out of my purse (phone, wallet, driver’s license…).  I ate it all. It sat in my stomach like a brick for the rest of the afternoon. Even now, I can’t think of it without getting nauseated.

Terry put his beer on the table and went off to get weisswurst and a pretzel. He wanted his sausage on a bun but his only choices were potato salad or a pretzel. It was a good pretzel, he said. I was disappointed with a pretzel I got a few years ago. It was so dry as to be nearly inedible. Terry’s pretzel was still soft. He ate all of his sausage and half the pretzel. He wrapped his leftovers in waxed paper and stuck it in one of his coat pockets.

We walked up to the store formerly known as Marshall Field. We admired the Tiffany ceiling in the perfume department, wishing that it was located in a less odoriferous area. We rode the escalators to the seventh floor to see the Christmas tree in the Walnut Room. There used to be a viewing area on the 8^th floor, but a couple years ago, they moved the furniture department from 8 to 7 and closed access to 8. Terry thought they were using the space for offices, but it looked dark from the Walnut Room.

The tree in the Walnut Room

The seventh floor had a wall of pictures commemorating the history of Marshall Field. I was touched by what we would now call their mission statement. It starts with, “To do the right thing” and includes “to act by reason rather than rule.” 

The Marshall Field mission statement

I grew nostalgic for a time a century ago when a retail business would not only put “the right thing” ahead of profits but also empower its employees to break rules if it made sense to do so. It also suggests that there was a consensus on what the right thing was. That does not seem to be true anymore. It feels like all people do is throw viscous anonymous tweets at each other. And the fact that I am so convinced that I’m right and others are wrong that I won’t even engage in the conversation suggests that I am part of the problem. Sad times. At least I don’t tweet. Enough with politics.

Terry bought a pair of dress gloves that were on sale. He lost a glove at the Rotary Gardens in Janesville last Christmas and has been pining for it. Now he has two gloves that match for the few fancy events that we attend.

We continued our trek eastward to Millenium Park. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Bean in more glorious weather.

Blue sky reflected in the Bean

We went down to the skating rink, getting there just in time for the Zamboni break. Skaters hung around outside the rink while the Zamboni went around and around, spreading a thin layer of water over the scratches and divots. I was surprised that some of the deeper divots remained. I thought that the water would naturally fill in all the low spots. Apparently, there wasn’t that much water.

The Zamboni grooming the ice

After two times around, four rink staff (as identified by their yellow coats) opened a gate.

Opening the Zamboni gate

The Zamboni driver lifted the grooming equipment and drove through…

The Zamboni leaving the rink

And parked the Zamboni in the Zamboni garage. We’d never seen inside the garage before.

The Zamboni in its garage

The skaters took the ice. There was a group of teenagers that we assumed were on a field trip. It was easy to see who knew how to skate and who didn’t. Beginning skaters tip the skates toward the outside, bending their ankles, and push off with only one foot. The better skaters did their best to avoid collisions. Two rink staff members skated slowly around. We didn’t see them do anything else, so I don’t know if they were there to keep a lid on rowdies or to help fallen skaters get up. Maybe both.

I was cold and tired, so we headed back to the train station. Arriving an hour before our train left, I sat down with a latte from Starbucks while Terry went back out to explore a sculpture of a giant baseball bat that was one block west of the station.

The train was more crowded that I anticipated for the 3:45, but we found seats together upstairs. I nodded off soon after the train started moving. Two hours later, we were home again. It was a fun day.