It was another dry winter in the Napa Valley. One by one, a dozen old fir trees on our rental property died. This portend of another inferno finally c
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It was another dry winter in the Napa Valley. One by one, a dozen old fir trees on our rental property died. This portend of another inferno finally convinced me, after nearly fifty years, to leave the once-soggy and verdant coast of northern California behind.
In an arduous leap I’ve landed back in my native Wisconsin, where I’ve bought my first house at last. |
To those who say, “What about the cold?” I say, “I’d rather freeze than burn!” Operations have been shut down for weeks in the turmoil of the move, but I’m here, I’m back in business, and if this isn’t heaven, I am very fortunate indeed. |
 East Twin River |
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The three-acre property is set in open farmland near Lake Michigan and south of Door County, the thumb of our mitten-shaped state. A rambling clapboard house nestled in old hemlocks and sugar maples, now hung with woodland majolica. |
 Hugo Lonitz nest wall pockets, 1880 | | | | |
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Lush landscaping fades into forest; a stream meanders through, strewing wildflowers on its way to East Twin River. Just in time for spring - every day brings something new! |
A separate shop building houses my new production kitchen just steps from my back door. My brother at the family farm is now 2 hours away, not 2,000 miles, with access to crab apples, currants. There will be cherries and other local fare, but I need not forsake exotic citrus - contacts have shipped fruit for fresh batches of superb Calamondin and Finger Lime Marmalades, available now! |
There were painful losses last year; in September, my Mom passing at 99, then, sadly, my sister just 4 months later--so terribly fast, and far too soon. The countless times Sue read to her little brothers until her voice gave out--of all the things she gave me, I am best served by my love of words, though her departure leaves me without them. Learn of her life here. |
A survivor inhabits that phantom world where echoes of what was lost still linger. Though they never saw it, I think of how these two who bore and taught me would have loved this place, and what I would have cooked if they came. For Mom, the young rhubarb; Sue, the morels to come; for both, the broad swaths of silken ramps. Yet food can’t help but start a new story. This year’s leaves unfurl daily. Beauty is everywhere. All I can say, after all the years of searching, is Robert Lambert, welcome home at last. |
My best to you and all your loved ones—
Robert Lambert
Kewaunee, Wisconsin
May, 2021 |
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