Tom grew up in Milwaukee, bartended in Wauwatosa in the '70s and moved here in 1984.
Commentary, observations and musings about the outdoors, life in general and maybe Tosa politics and personalities will be the order of the day. He savors a lively debate as much as terrific cooking.
I'm living a brief bachelor existence.
Jill is in Tosa along with Girlfriend and I am up north with a list of chores as long as my arm.
Most of the chores have something to do with the garden and the farm.
Last night I processed, vacuum-sealed and flash-froze something on the order of twenty bags of green beans.
Today I made sixteen pints of Polish dill pickles. And I still have an entire sink full of cukes.
In between weeding, picking and trussing-up tomato plants I was answering the phone, tapping-away at my laptop and doing the day job. I have raised the bar on multi-tasking.
Somewhere around 5'ish I figured I better run to town and pick-up another jug of vinegar as more pickles are in my future. Having completed that errand I figured I earned a fish fry.
So I drove a bit to one of my favorite haunts. A small tavern at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere.
I know the owner well and he does a good job with the fish fry. Perch from a commercial fisherman out of Green Bay, brined slightly, dredged in flour followed by an egg wash and dipped in Panko bread crumbs. Five nice-sized pieces served with fries, slaw and buttered bakery rye with raw onion.
$11 dollars worth of pure heaven.
Jill and my deer hunting crew know of where I speak.
Of note is that this bar, situated at a rural crossroads, was packed and the smoking ban was universally being ignored.
I have to wonder how often this is being repeated across Wisconsin tonight?
Back to my pickles.