fireplace at the Watershed Cafe
Photo by J. Harrington
Last night the Better Half [BH] and I tried a local, locally sourced, restaurant new to us, the Watershed Cafe in Osceola, WI. (If you follow the link, you can see the table we sat at, near the doors across from the fireplace.) The food was great. I had the pan fried walleye and the BH - steak salad. Based on last night's dinner, we'll add the Watershed to our round of destinations for local coffee, food, ambiance etc., unless it reaches the status of Yogi Berra's infamous "nobody goes there any more, it's gotten too popular." All in the interest of supporting the local economy, of course.
Valentine's chocolates from St. Croix Chocolate Co.
Photo by J. Harrington
Today it was off to the St. Croix Chocolate Co. in Marine on St. Croix to take care of Valentine's Day treats and decorations. (I wonder if there are any chocolatiers on the Iron Range.) They've added wood fired pizza days to their offerings so I suspect that'll end up on our agenda one of these days. It's interesting that many of the local shops try to avoid, or at least minimize, competition with each other. Christopher Alexander has some interesting thoughts along those lines in The Web of Shopping section of his book Pattern Language.
The Origin of Order
Stellar dust has settled.It is green underwater now in the leavesOf the yellow crowfoot. Its vacancies are gathered togetherUnder pine litter as emerging flower of the pink arbutus.It has gained the power to make itself againIn the bone-filled egg of osprey and teal.
One could say this toothpick grasshopperIs a cloud of decayed nebula congealed and perchingOn his female mating. The tortoise beetle,Leaving the stripped veins of morning glory vinesLike licked bones, is a straw-colored swirlOf clever gases.
At this moment there are dead stars seeingThemselves as marsh and forest in the eyesOf muskrat and shrew, disintegrated sunsMaking songs all night long in the throatsOf crawfish frogs, in the rubbings and gratingsOf the red-legged locust. There are spirits of orbitingRock in the shells of pointed winklesAnd apple snails, ghosts of extinct comets caughtIn the leap of darting hare and bobcat, revolutionsOf rushing stone contained in the sound of these words.
The paths of the Pleiades and Coma clustersHave been compelled to mathematics by the mindContemplating the nature of itselfIn the motions of stars. The patternsOf any starry summer night might be identicalTo the summer heavens circling inside the skull.I can feel time speeding now in all directionsDeeper and deeper into the black oblivionOf the electrons directly behind my eyes.
Flesh of the sky, child of the sky, the mindHas been obligated from the beginningTo create an ordered universeAs the only possible proof of its own inheritance.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.