The Persistent Michigan Winter of Firsts

Matt and I ran a 5k yesterday.  I'd signed us up for it in the midst of yet another weekend of altered Bucket List plans due to an downpour of another eight inches of light fluffy flakes and dropping temperatures.  It was an unprecedented warm winter, with average highs 30% above "normal," but the temperamental MI Winter Powers made up for it with 23% more precipitation.  Which it divied up with torturous teasing.  We went from sunny sixties to highs in the teens and ten inches expected over less than 36 hours and back again four different times over the course of six weeks or so.  (The bulk of it in March.  Also known as the beginning of spring in most reasonable places.) So, at the time, I'd just gotten home from seeing my life flash before my eyes a half dozen times as I creeped down a treacherous M-20 in yet another snow storm, and I thought, "I'll sign us up for a run on a beautiful, warm, spring day. That'll give us something to look forward to!"

It was thirty-seven degrees when we left the house at 7:40am yesterday to head toward the race.  On the last day in April.

Why.

Do people.

Live here?

Now, you guys should know something.  I love snow. I've loved snow my whole life.  I grew up with a dad who is obsessed with the stuff.  I've been snow skiing since I was three.  I'm no stranger to snow...  For a Southerner.  So in December, it was all "this is really not so bad. Ya'll gotta suck it up up here." How cocky I was. How sweet and innocently Southern of me. The MI Winter Powers That Be looked down on my sweet, ignorant, sunny and warm Southern perspective and smiled maliciously.  And then dumped a whole heap of wintery firsts on me.

It's kind of intense out there right now. Hard to believe everything was bare four hours ago. #MIwinter #snowstorm

A video posted by HC (@h_cortright) on Feb 24, 2016 at 1:19pm PST

One was driving the aforementioned 30 miles home from work in a snow storm.  By the time I arrived to our neighborhood, there was about four inches of heavy, wet snow on our street (which is heavily populated with stop signs, I might add).  As well as an impatient teenager driving uncomfortably close behind me.  His impatience was not deterred by the alarming amount of sliding my little Toyota was doing at every stop.

If the snow were not coming down in such heavy flurries, I probably would have rolled down my window to scream at him "YOUNG SIR, DO YOU NOT SEE MY GEORGIA TAGS?"

Evidently he does not quite grasp the ineptitude of Southern drivers in inclement weather.  Bless his little heart.

Although, I could easily argue he's from Central Michigan. And doesn't quite grasp much behind the wheel anyway.  But that's another topic for another time.

Another first was shoveling snow off of our driveway.

My first ever snow-shovel-the-driveway experience took just under an hour. Another ✔️ on my #mibucketlist for this #SCGirl s #1stMIWinter!

A photo posted by HC (@h_cortright) on Dec 29, 2015 at 1:55pm PST

And, to be honest, I didn't know what everyone was complaining about.  Granted, our driveway is only about fifteen feet long, so it's not a whole lot, but between the two of us, it only takes about forty minutes, and it's a great workout.  And our neighborhood rarely gets plowed by the city, (the 1st snowfall was one of those rarities) so no worries about shoveling the drifts from that.  Until one of the two times they did.

Directly after an overnight snow storm that didn't stop until the wee hours of the morning, I had no issues driving home from work - the city had kindly plowed the whole highway and I got home in a respectable 45 minutes.  Or, rather, I got to our street in a respectable 45 minutes.

Pause for effect.

The tracks you see are from my husband leaving a couple hours earlier.  

Yea. I'm THAT person, that gets stuck on the drift from the neighborhood snowplow and blocks the whole street.

Luckily, I experienced a rare moment of Central Michigander neighborliness, and some gentlemen who had gone home for lunch helped teach me how to get out of a jam like that.  Which was touching, and it was a moment I really needed at the time.

Right now, my hometown in the Carolinas is hitting highs of 80+ on a regular basis.  It's been Spring since early March down there.  Summer is about three weeks away.  The lakes and beaches are crowded, families are biking, church groups are hiking, and neighborhoods are firing up the grill.

Up here, it just finished snowing, and hasn't quite figured out that it's not supposed to be winter anymore. And I still haven't been able to wear flip-flops.  I know you Yankees don't quite get that, but it's MAY AND I HAVE NOT WORN FLIP FLOPS YET. I cannot explain to you how frustrating that is!!

Michigan is a beautiful state.  But it's very cold.  And I suppose the point to this particular post through these Michigan Winter firsts, is that although I'm still glad that I get to experience the wintry culture of my husband's upbringing, I am also quite homesick for the South.  And very impatient for winter to be over.

I hear thats the mark of a true Michigander... Maybe it's time to take on those biscuits...

Are there some other Michigan winter firsts I should experience for next year? Comment and tell me!

A Night at the Fox Theater in Detroit

What is the first image that pops into your head when you think of 1920's America? Black and white stop motion of flappers in pearls and feather headbands, sharp-suited New Yorker Italians with fat cigars sticking out of their "Yea, see" grins, Leonardo DiCaprio drinking the night away with Tobey Maguire amidst a night-time fanfare of sparkling fireworks?

Me too.  And I haven't even seen Gatsby yet.

Or at least, that is what I used to think of.

Now, I will probably think of the Fox Theater in Detroit.

A few weeks ago, my husband's parents presented him with an early birthday gift - tickets to see his favorite musicians, the 2Cellos, at the Fox Theater in Detroit.  We decided to make a night of it, driving down to the Motor City a couple hours early for a double-dinner of a Detroit dining rivalry legend - Coneys at Lafayette and American.  Thinking back on the historical significance, we may have been reliving a common 1920's - 1930's double date night.  Sans the electric cello, anyway.

After determining the prime resource for fatty animal byproduct in a steamed bun, we zipped Uptown, through Grand Circus Park, past the tiny downtown ice skating rink, pointing out the Detroit Opera House, and quickly finding prime parking in the lot of Comerica Park, home of the Detroit Tigers.

The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon as we stepped out of my Father-In-Law's VW at 6:30pm, but we were already surrounded by the bright hues of downtown city night life, the fluorescent hues of the baseball stadium on one side, and the towering, 10-story marquee of the Fox dazzling the sunset skyline on the other.

The Fox Theater was a pioneer in entertainment when it opened it's doors in September 1928 as the flagship in a chain of movie theaters, the 2nd largest theater in the world, and the first to be equipped with "MovieTone," a patented built-into-the-film sound function for the "talking picture." The maiden voyage premiered with a live action history of Detroit titled "The Evolution of Transportation," along with an audio-partnered news reel to show off the new-fangled equipment, and a series of other shows.  The Fox served as Detroit's top-dollar movie palace until it's 12 million dollar restoration in the 1980's, but has continued to be the go-to venue for live entertainment and presidential debates for the state of Michigan to this day.

And it hasn't lost a touch of that regal, ostentatious 1920's styling.  After getting through security, guests enter a multiple-story lobby, walls decorated with ornate stain-glass windows and columns sculpted with eagles.  Strategically placed lights bathe every facet of the theater in a golden haze. A sweeping marble staircase leading to club-levels splits the lobby, and leads the eye to a stunning hand-painted blue and gold ceiling.  After passing through the glass-ceilinged hallway, we were shown to our seats by a tuxedoed attendant, in the left-hand quadrant of the auditorium, a sloped, U-shaped set-up that unfortunately is still fashioned for the average 5'6" height of the 1920's patronage, and the average of height of an imaginary coach flyer of your average airline. (Your knees are the perfect headrest, after all.) But if you can't see the stage, there is still plenty to keep the eye occupied.  The lobby's carefully structure columns continue into the auditorium, each column proudly portraying a posed predatory feline of some variety, reds and golds covering every inch of the walls, target-framed ceiling, and even the club-level balcony, each section sporting a pair of sculpted phoenix.

Each detail easily fools the eye into believing it's larger than it really is - seating only 5,000.  The view, however, is huge.

Even the restroom area is hand-crafted and stunning.

Quite frankly, they just don't make theaters like this anymore.  I'm afraid my phone photos of the interior don't do it a bit of justice.  (Alas! Photographers ARE still relevant! Mystery solved!)

Michiganders seem to commonly believe they are a forgotten state, with stock drops and recent scandals painting a less-than portrait of the Lake State and its residents.  But with historical landmarks like the glamorous Fox Theater, Detroit is anything but irrelevant. I highly recommend a visit.

The 2Cellos, by the way, were spectacular, as always!

What are your favorite Michigan historical landmarks?  Should I check them out?

Next in MI Bucket List: A Faygo Taste Test.

The Legendary Michigan Coney Dog Rivalry

In the past few months, I've come to the conclusion that Michigan may be the one state of the fifty that could successfully secede and nothing would change.

These guys have everything. They grow everything, raise everything, manufacture everything, and are so obstinently loyal to their own state and its products that they pretty much buy everything locally anyway. 

This includes their own Coney Dog.  If you ask a Michigander, they'll say their own Greek roots had the Coney first, then took it to Coney Island in New York.  And they'll tell you that it started on the corner of Lafayette Blvd and Michigan Ave in Detroit.  And then they'll tell you which one is "the true original Coney."  Which really just means which one they think tastes better.

Historically, no one really knows for sure where the Coney originated.  Most research pinpoint the hot dog was born in Detroit, concocted by Greeks who immigrated there via New York City's Ellis Island and Coney Island.  According the lovely pre-gaming ladies we consulted outside, it was the same Greek family that opened Lafayette.

Lafayette Coney Island still inhabits its original location on Lafayette and Michigan.

They weren't completely wrong, but given our information, we went into Lafayette first.

The menu at Lafayette is simple, and pretty dern cheap.

A hole-in-the-wall diner barely touches on what Lafayette Coney Island is (yet another establishment with no website. Get with the program, Michigan!).  By all accounts I can gather, the narrow, tightly packed diner hasn't changed since it's establishment in 1918.  The walls are painted a faded mint-green, the tables and chairs are places about two inches apart from its neighbor, and the place stinks of chili and cleaner.  The cooks and wait staff scream at each other over the patrons, yelling out orders in a Greek-English blend of mostly vowels.  We squeezed our way in, past the kitchen, around the corner, and seated ourselves right under a collection of autographed photos from an alumni team of Red Wings.  The waiter wandered up and we placed our order - four Coney's, one chili cheese fry, one regular fry.  He yelled the order back to the kitchen.  "Fo'ConeyEvrthingChleeFryRegFry!" About two and a half minutes later (literally), our orders slid down the table to us.

The Red Wings are on Team Lafayette.

It looked disgusting.

Lafayette Coney

Traditionally, a Coney is an all-beef hot dog on a bun, a line of yellow mustard, a spoonful of chili, and a heavy layer of fresh diced onion.  And that's what lay before me.  Here we go again, that Bucket List making me brave.  I picked up a fork (because we were going to the Fox later, and I'm a mess when it comes to food), and ate.

This was also my in-law's first trip to Lafayette and American.

I was non-plussed. It wasn't terrible.  But I don't think I'll be going back.  The chili was runny, a gross-creamy-brown color and on the sweet side (which seems to be par for the course for Midwestern chili), the hot dog was mediocre, there were far too many onions for my taste, and the bun was pretty chewy.  But this stuff is legend.  For some reason.  We ate, paid, and went next door.

American moved into a larger location on the opposite side
of Lafayette a few years ago, now on the corner of the building.

Yep. You heard me. Next door.  To American Coney Island, Lafayette's rival. (Who's website was "not found" at the time that I wrote this blog. REALLY, guys?!) 

As it turns out, there are a couple versions of how these two restaurants came to be.  The more popular is, of course, more dramatic, and involves a blow out argument between two Greek immigrant brothers over a chili recipe.  To get back at the elder, the younger opened American next door with a differing chili recipe, and said "let the customer's decide who's better!"  But if you ask the current owner of American, this version is a tall tale.  The truth, she says, as a direct descendant of the founder of American Coney, is that American was established in 1917 by her great grandfather, and that he invited his brother to join him in America.  When his brother arrived, he opened Lafayette next door with an alternative approach to both the chili as well as the hot dog.  No sibling rivalry to mention (yeah, right). Lafayette has changed hands since opening, and the two joints are no longer owned by relations, but continue to butt heads in the battle for the "Best Coney."

American has obviously been recently renovated, but in the style of a mid-century diner - like something out of Grease.  Checkered floors, red tables and chairs, swirly fluorescent signs with chrome-lined counters.  The place was pretty empty, which was surprising since its neighbor was crawling with people.  But it was a Friday, so perhaps everyone was in search of a Fish Fry.

Our waiter was pleasant, and spoke clear English (so he never had to repeat himself - but one could argue that's not nearly as much fun).  We placed the same order, this time with chili and cheese on both orders of fries.  He quietly walked back to the open kitchen, and brought our food back within five minutes.  My sensitive tummy and I breathed a sigh of relief.  

American Coney

The menu at American had a few more options.

The chili was pretty good!

The difference was obvious.  The chili was thicker, had a deeper, more chestnut tone to it, and wasn't nearly as sweet.  Still too many onions, but the char on the hot dog made it juicy and tender, and the bun seemed like it perhaps came out of a fresh bag recently.  Much better.  The four of us agreed that American won the taste test, be it "The Original Coney" or not.  We were not alone in this conclusion, joining the ranks of the experts from The Food Network on team American, but Travel Channel seems to side with Lafayette for the age-old environment (which has it's entertaining "no ketchup on my coney" charms).

At Lafayette, the waiter told my MIL "No Ketchup!"
She did it anyway. At both locations.

Team American right here, folks!

So if you're looking to test out the rivalry yourself, Lafayette has the environment - loud, Greek, and old, but American has the tastier dog - grilled, fresh, and meaty.  

What Michigan food should I try next?!

A Michigan Friday Fish Fry

You guys know that song "Always On My Mind?"  The one that was originally a country song that has been re-recorded by Elvis Presley, Willie Nelson, and the Pet Shop Boys?

Well, I'm at least 98% certain it's the song that exemplifies my husband's relationship with fried fish over the past twelve years.

Every restaurant we grace with our presence gets scrutinized by his hungry Michigander eyes, in hunt for the glorious "fish and chips" on the menu.  And if it's there, he then begins the incessant debate - chance it, in the hopes of finally discovering someone who knows how to adequately fry a fish filet? Or go the safe build-your-own fiery taste of hell cheeseburger?  More often than not, the cheeseburger won.  Nothing could compare to Michigan's fish.

Needless to say, the past several years of our growing relationship has been an incessant chorus of "Just wait 'til you try it - you'll see.  Michigan has the best fried fish."

"Yea yea, yadda yadda.  Fried fish is fried fish is fried fish - it all tastes the same."

Oh how sweetly ignorant I was.

When we visited Michigan last August to find a house, Matt sampled some central Michigan fried perch.  I took a bite, and my expectations were not met.  In fact, the stuff was gross.  Significantly worse than most fried fish I've had before.  Limp, rubbery, and tasteless. He heaved a sad sigh, hanging his head in disappointment as he picked at his soggy fries, and I contemplated his sanity and the credibility of his tastes (surprisingly, generally pretty good).  After we moved, we tried again at a well-rated sports bar near our house. Again, limp. Rubbery. Tasteless.  I'm a foodie.  I thrive on sampling a wide variety of flavors and techniques - it makes me all warm and bubbly.  We were but a couple months into this crazy cross-country move, and literally everything I had eaten in Michigan outside of my mother-in-law's house was awful. How am I ever going to survive up here when they fail at even their own specialty?!

Then Lent arrived, and Matt mentioned visiting his childhood favorite place for fried fish.  With the last two experiences still fresh on my starving tastebuds, I was skeptical.  Alas, the Michigan Bucket List gives me courage and a sense of adventure, so I agreed to make the two-hour trek to Adair Bar in Casco, Michigan.

Adair is located on St. Clair in Casco, Michigan, a small town on the southeast side of the Lower Peninsula.
(Kinda near the bottom of the thumb.)

My in-laws insisted we get there early, since it was Friday and it's Lent.  (For those unfamiliar with the Catholic tradition, this is why Michigan is allegedly the master of frying fish - they have a lot to fry, thanks to the lakes, and it's all they could eat on the "Fish Fridays" of Lent - no meat allowed.)  It was still light out as my Father-In-Law dropped us off at the door to go search for a parking spot, but their concern quickly proved valid - the bar was already packed.  Thankfully, we beat the major crowd by about ten minutes and were seated just as the masses flooded the entry way.

Diners come for the fish, and remember it for the fish, and talk about the fish... But Adair is known for it's larger-than-life-size wooden statue of fish diners.

Placing our orders almost immediately, my mother-in-law filled me in on the history of Adair's famous fish-feasting wood carving, evidently dating back to the 1800's.  I'd link you to the website so you can read about it, but they don't have one. (Another observation of Michigan - this is the second wildly popular restaurant I've encountered today that has no website - the madness! You can, however, find them on Facebook.) She also explained why our previous attempts had failed - the fish wasn't fresh.  Here, we were so close to the lake, the fish we'd be feasting on was probably caught last night.

The waiter overheard us talking about the history of the statue,
and was kind enough to bring us this old menu to read about it.

Or, perhaps, after we ordered.  It took forever.

By the time those golden nuggets arrived to our table, we were starving.  Some small, snobby voice in my head pondered at why mobs of hungry patrons were willing to wait an hour to be seated, and then an additional 45 minutes to be served.

This is the "large" Perch plate.  It was far too much.

And then I took a bite.  And the world made sense again.

An exterior salty, crispy crust yielded to tender, buttery, flaky Perch - the most common of the fresh water fish to fry.  It was heaven.  And it came with sides of a creamy, but still crunchy cole slaw (not too much sugar, not too much vinegar), and hot, crisp steak fries.

This is a Southerner thing - cole slaw is a side dish as well as a condiment.

It was heaven in a poorly lit, crowded hole-in-the-wall, no website fish fry bar.

Guys, my husband was right.  So right, I'm willing to put it in writing and disperse it across the whole internet.  I have seen the light.  The gorgeous, golden-brown, battered light. There is nothing like fried freshwater fish in the thumb of Michigan.

If and when we move again, that song is going to be a chorus for the both of us.

But for now, Adair bar and lower Michigan fried fish has another evangelist.


Read about my only other positive Michigan food experience so far here.

(Puhn-Chkee): P-A-C-Z-K-I

Most people don't know that my husband is one-quarter Japanese.  His mom's mom was born and raised in Japan, and taught her daughter all kinds of delicious Japanese recipes.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my mother-in-law's cooking is the only food I've really enjoyed up here thus far.  To be fair, she's a spectacular cook, and puts an enormous amount of effort and love into each of her elaborate, multi-faceted meals, so reaching the caliber of her cooking is kind of a tall order (I'm sincerely not trying to suck up, it just happens to be a plus that it's true and may or may not flatter my MIL). But as of this moment in time, Michigan food outside of my in-law's home has consisted of a lot of salt and sour cream (bleh), without much else as far as seasonings and condiments go (aside from the time I was served mozzarella sticks with Ranch dressing - that was weird). There has yet been but one exception to my culinary adventures in the past few months, and that lies in a seasonal pastry.

And this is where the other almost three-quarters of my husband's heritage comes in - Polish.  As it turns out, a significant portion of Michigan is made up of Polish-American ancestry.  It becomes evident at a certain time of year, when the smell of confections hits every bakery in the state, and the Meijers are flooded with stacks of little red and white boxes, with a myriad of letters on the side that may have been picked at random through a game of the official unofficial sport of Michigan, and don't seem to actually make up a full, sensible word - Paczkis. P-A with a squiggly underneath- C-Z-K-I.

Say it with me now - Puhn. Chkee.

No, I'm not trying to set you up to sound like an idiot next time you have a conversation with a Michigander about Polish pastries, which is obviously a common topic at the water cooler.  That's really how you say it.  Somewhere in between Poo and Punch, with a Key on the end.  Purse those lips like you're kissing Aunt Gerta.  Puhn-Chkee.  There ya go.


And guys, Paczkis are a really big deal.

Chi Chi, get the #Pączki. pic.twitter.com/8eRMFSM2DD

— Nicole Szymczak (@nicsimzak) February 9, 2016

Like, Clemson vs. Carolina big.  Summer is here big.  Oh my god they're forecasting an inch of snow and Publix is out of bread big.  Making enemies because you described it to "foreigners" as a jelly-filled doughnut big.  So I'm not saying it's a doughnut.  Instead, I will say that it is "a small, fried cake of dough, generally formed in a flattened sphere-like fashion, filled with a fruit-flavored gelatin or custard."  There. Now I won't get strung up and beaten with egg noodles.

It's like Christmas with cholesterol! #paczki #paczkiday pic.twitter.com/PzENreoQf3

— Jake Neher (@GJNeher) February 9, 2016

Michigander legend has it that the Paczki originated when bakeries in Poland were trying to get rid of their perishable, too-rich-for-lent ingredients before Lent, because, traditionally, they were devout Catholics, and gave up sweets (and meat, hence the popularity of fish frys) until Easter.  So, they just dump all of their leftover eggs, sugar, flour, yeast, fat, and milk into a mix and fry it, and the result is a super rich, super heavy, slightly chewy, insanely delicious pastry.  It's then poked and filled with a sugar-drenched jam or custard, and distributed to the masses to get in one last sugar fix bender before fasting for six weeks.  And they are only available one time a year - the day (or week) before Ash Wednesday. Thus, in Michigan, "Paczki Day" and "Fat Tuesday" are one in the same, interchangeable phrases. (Although in Poland, it is actually "Fat Thursday." See the purist debate on Twitter.)

When I told Matt we had to go get Paczkis (because eating them will obviously help me remember how to spell them), he initially said we had to "get there early."  I, of course, am thinking, "ok, so, like, 8?"

Getting Paczkis on Fat Tuesday is an early morning event.  For us, it was 5am.  And it was snowing.

Nope.

Apparently, on Paczki Day, some bakeries open as early as 3am.  Some close their doors to the public and will only let you in if you've placed an order ahead of time.  The majority are out of pastries by 8am.  Matt's dad used to leave their house at 4am and sometimes stand in line for almost an hour to get their two dozen and be home in time for breakfast.  Like I said, these Paczkis are a serious business.

Thankfully, my husband is merciful (and sleeps like the dead), so we awoke at a leisurely 5am to heavily falling snow (our yard has been bare for weeks) and drove the 30 mins to Krzysiak's (I have no idea how to pronounce it - it took four attempts just to spell it correctly), where we stood in line for about 20 minutes to get our assorted dozen.  Other people in line were commenting on how tame it was this year, and grumbling that people could come in "first come, first serve." ("I thought you had to order ahead of time!")

Krzysiak's paczkis at 5:45am.  According to their Facebook page, these were full when they opened this morning only 45 minutes before our arrival, in addition to the hundred something boxes ready for pre-placed orders.

Guys, they had already almost run out.  Serious. Business.

Additional Polish goodies they offer, like egg noodles and pierogies, heavy potato-filled pasta shells.

That poor bakery was so busy the boxes were spotted with powdered sugar and jelly.
Which I in turn got all over my lap.

We drove back, the Paczkis happily awaiting consumption on my powdered sugar drenched lap, and discussing how glad we are that we got there in time.  Then, once arriving back home, sat down to coffee and a box of assorted Paczkis and began the guessing game of which pastry enveloped which sweet, gooey filling.

They may all be covered in strawberry jelly, but don't let that fool you. You have to inspect the hole they use to inject the jelly to get a pretty solid (but not certain) idea of what's inside. We got lemon, custard, strawberry, blueberry, and cherry.

I'm slowly learning that, much like the weather, and when the next snow plow will come by, not really knowing what's coming is all a part of the fun of living in Michigan.  It's a constant adventure.

Matt says this happens in almost every batch. Bakeries are in such a hurry to meet demand that a pastry just slips through the cracks and gets no filling.  He calls them "duds." But they're still awesome.

Now, is this sucker Strawberry, Cherry, or is that jam from another Paczki?

Double-check me - did I spell Paczki right every time??

What Michigander food should I try next?

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