July 4 2009
Since this summer’s zenith is upon us with the suddenness of a menopausal hot flash, now is a good time to celebrate not only our independence as a country, but also the freedom of place that is our lives, regional identification within the framework of national sovereignty.
Yes, America is great place, but it’s made more so by the unique richness of our regionality, our local terroir, if you will.
I live in Indiana, a flyover state by most accounts, the Crossroads of America, our state motto.
Many people think of Indiana the way I think of Kentucky, even if both perspectives (theirs and mine) are based on incorrect archetypes.
Speaking of incorrect archetypes, people from St. Louis refer to being a “Hoosier” with smirking snark normally reserved for white table cloth restaurant guests that are seated near the kitchen, out of sight of the main dining room and the front window that doubles as human zoo exhibit for the beautifully bespoke animals with colorful plumage.
I live here by choice.
Some estimates indicate that Indiana has access to perhaps 5% of the available wine in America, and direct shipping largely occurs sotto voce or not at all.
I still live here even if I’ve had opportunities to move away.
In large part, I’ve reconciled the yearning for wandering that marks the freshness of youth when the world is still our oyster, not yet the subject of life’s circumstance.
I’m no graybeard, but as I get older I find myself appreciating the nouns in sentences more so than the verbs – it’s the nuance of time, people and place that I appreciate, the fine details that mark something as special, not necessarily its active movement in the grand scheme of things.
Most people call this perspective, I think; it feels mature, as mature as you can get without having gone through the life changing alteration of bringing a fresh set of wondering eyes into the world.
On my way up to our family’s cottage for this holiday weekend, sugar cream pie stowed in the cooler, a Traminette and Valvin Muscat from local winery Oliver tucked in next to it, the Chardonel left for another day, we pulled out of the driveway, peonies in bloom, two red Cardinals kerfuffling airborne pirouettes in the backyard, and headed up state road 13 for a meandering trip through small town America before turning into our cottage, a long gravel drive addressed with no street name, rather an emergency medical lane number.
Along the way, we passed a Penguin Point (a poor man’s In-N-Out Burger) advertising pork tenderloin sandwiches, something of a state delicacy, fried to deliciousness, adorned just right with mayonnaise and pickles, while breezing by a couple of Port-a-Pit barbecue fundraisers, not just uniquely Indiana, but uniquely Northern Indiana. Dashing past road side stands with hand painted letter boards calling out fresh corn, our largest agricultural crop, we arrived.
A week or three back I read an article from a woman who visited the Midwest from her home perch in California only to go on and on in a narrative that can only be described as akin to a mouth agape stranger in a strange land.
She might as well have been a Baptist seeing her first Shaman in a urine-soaked alley in India.
Within the context of infrequent travel, the author wondered aloud about the cultural peccadillos of shopping for produce in, horrors, a regular grocery store.
Yes, in fact, they still grow iceberg lettuce, a good many people still prefer it to the arugula micro greens, in fact.
We’ve all been in conversations with strangers, those that indicate they are from California, Florida, New York, or other parts deemed more glamorous in our minds eye.
We’ve all given glancing short shrift to our place of origin.
But, in this day and age of being a locavore, and the glory that is our backyard, I’ve come to peace with Indiana.
Yet, there is much work to be done to foster this regional acceptance in the domestic wine world.
Saveur magazine has had it right for years – the glory in our lives is in our regional traditions and foodstuffs (including wine).
It’s our local terroir, if you will, translated beyond just mere a sense of place for wine.
So, on this 4th of July, a transformational time of great progress marked by wild instability, join me in celebrating what is good not about Indiana, but what is good about YOUR backyard – the independence that you enjoy as an American, a freedom to choose in a free land, and the local things that make it special in our world of abundant choice.
Recipe for Port-a-Pit Chicken (Fantastic if unconventional marinade for grilled chicken and mighty tasty with a local wine, I drank Traminette, a hybrid).
• 1 lb (.5 kg). butter
• 1 cup (225 ml) water
• 1 cup (225 ml) vinegar
• 4 tbsp (60 ml) salt
• 1 tbsp (15 ml) pepper
• 4 tbsp (60 ml) Worcestershire Sauce
• 1 oz (28 grm). Accent
Boil marinade and let cool. Marinate chicken for 24 hours. Grill over medium heat.
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Home can be made anywhere we make ourselves open to it. If we welcome in all that a place has to offer, we find ourselves hosting more positive feelings than ever imagined. It is so easy to short change the experience of a place—to write it off as “flyover zone” or “a state that you drive through to get somewhere else.” And, while we may find ourselves locked in an effort to list what we deem as Home higher than anywhere else, we mustn’t compare. Rather let the experience live in and of itself. Let it be Home to the original moments and memories created there. In that way, we can have more than one Home and our heart can reside where we take it as much as where we settled it.