And the night shall be filled with music

Dr. Tim Winch used to herald the New Year in our neighborhood by taking a midnight lap around the block playing Auld Lang Syne on his trombone.

Behind him trailed lucky invitees to the Winch New Year's Eve party, whose happy revelry loudly laid claim to one of the coolest holiday gatherings in town.
Sadly, Dr. Winch died in 2005 but he left a legacy of music that, thanks to the wonders of cyberspace, reaches well beyond the corners of our lucky street. All three Winch children are accomplished musicians and two of them released albums this year.
The oldest Winch and only daughter, Tanya, has been singing professionally most of her adult life. She just released her most recent album, Dirty Mercy. Based in Austin, Texas Tanya performs all over and teaches songwriting within a group called Girl Guitar.
Sam Winch released the Lullabadeer in 2005 and created a whole new genre of coffee house/circus music. On that album Sam performs with a 10-piece band including a trombone. He's released a second album called Senator Sam since then and has been featured on various television shows including Grey's Anatomy.
An accomplished pianist, Adam Winch also writes contemporary music and performs both with his siblings and solo.
Along with the Winches, our neighborhood has produced other outstanding musicians including Cory Chisel, Ethan Cook (American Fiction) and Hillary Reynolds (the Hillary Reynolds Band).
Born in this neighborhood and swaddled by the quality sounds of our friends, Molly has developed an appreciation for great tunes and lovely lyrics. We've been spoiled by the sounds we can here right from our front porch and, in the case of Ethan, on our roof.
So, even though we'll miss Dr. Winch and his trusty trombone when we ring in 2012, we won't be without excellent music and we hope you're not either. Read on for links to some of our favorite Appleton musicians.

Molly and I tried to upload music from this wonderful album
every way we could think, but this blog is not suited for audio
files. Trust us, though, it is worth a listen. Check here for more
of Tanya's music: http://tanyawinch.com/. The album can be
purchased here: https://www.cdbaby.com/cd/tanyawinch

Here is Hillary Reynolds singing one of our favorites. Here

is a link to more HRB music: http://www.hillaryreynoldsband.com/

Get your own version of Auld Lang Syne right here:

http://americanfiction.bandcamp.com/album/angels-amongst-men

Here is a link to more American Fiction tunes: http://americanfiction.bandcamp.com/

A toast to my big brother George. The richest man in town.

Until my mother brought a beautiful bouquet (and, inexplicably, a loaf of challah) to our house, I had not considered that this would be the silver anniversary for my husband and me. I often still feel like the college kid who worked long hours on the student newspaper and flirted with a handsome goofball named Vince.

The quarter of a century since then has been busy for us and passed so quickly we hardly ever paused to reflect. Four of our proudest accomplishments from all those years stepped in and, last Friday, they allowed us to do just that.
We celebrated with a four-course meal orchestrated by my oldest daughter Katherine. Rich in so many ways, the meal hardened our arteries and softened our hearts. Each of our children prepared something and, as we ate our way through stuffed mushrooms, salad, braised short ribs, creamy mashed potatoes and chocolate cake, we felt our gratitude (and our waistlines) growing.
Our wedding took place on a frigid Saturday on January 3, 1987. Vince's brother Jimmy, who was just 13-years old then, gave a toast that quoted one of the Biskupic family's favorite movies.
"A toast to my big brother Vince," he said. "The richest man in town."
Our lives since that toast have been richly blessed by kind children, loyal family and special friends.
And, while it still does not seem possible that 25 -- twenty five -- years have gone by, I only need look at our four sweet chefs, all of whom have grown taller than me, to know that they have.
We raised our glasses at the anniversary dinner too, grateful for the years and keenly aware of how quickly they pass.

Our four chefs take a quick break from the kitchen chaos for this pose.

Vinnie handled the first course and produced these delicious stuffed mushrooms.

Katherine plated a lovely salad with balsamic herb vinaigrette

Charlie hand mashed the potatoes.

My mom and John brought flowers for us and bread for Chanukah.

Charlie's braised short ribs. So delicious. We had never had them
before. We had never had a Dutch Oven before either. Well worth
the purchase.

Molly's double chocolate cake capped the feast.

A perfect season of friendship lasts nearly 50 years

Among the many enduring friendships built during the Lombardi era, perhaps the most unusual was that of tight end Marv Fleming and my mother, Peggy Kostelnik.

Fleming, who stood 6-4, grew up poor in South Los Angeles. Boosted by her sixties bouffant, Mom barely reached 5-2 and led a charmed life as a Cincinnati co-ed.
Despite such disparate childhoods, the two formed a bond based on an appreciation for classic literature and good health, and a keen eye on a future beyond the football field.
Their friendship developed on the team bus. Back then the Packers split their season home games between Lambeau Field in Green Bay and County Stadium in Milwaukee. The wives rode the team bus back to Green Bay after Milwaukee games and, while most of the gang dozed, Marv and Mom chatted.
He came to our little house on South Fisk Street for Polish meals my grandmother whipped up when she visited.
In 1968 my dad had to get to the stadium early to rehab an injury, so Marvin drove me to nursery school and let me stand on the passenger seat of his car as we cruised through the Green Bay streets.
The next year, when my Dad was traded to the Baltimore Colts and our family moved to an apartment there, my Mom asked Marvin to house-sit. Another characteristic they shared was extreme tidiness. Later that season, when the Colts played the Packers in Green Bay, my mom asked my dad to check on the house. She was thrilled to hear Marvin had made Dad remove his shoes before entering.
Last year, Marvin was inducted into the Packer Hall of Fame. He invited my mom to sit at his table and mentioned her in his gracious speech. Extremely successful throughout a 13 year football career, Marvin played for two legendary teams, the Green Bay Packers and the Miami Dophins. He played in five Super Bowls, earned four rings and was a member of the only NFL team to complete a perfect season, the 1972 Dolphins.
He has thrived off the field as well and his lifelong commitment to good health has paid off. He and my mom still chat periodically, in person, on the phone and via email.
Marvin lives well, invests wisely and supports several charities, with his favorite being the Herbie Fund at the Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto.
Molly has met Marvin a few times, including a summer afternoon two years ago. As I took their picture, Marvin urged me to fill the frame. He reviewed the digital picture and shook his head. "No, you have to fill the frame," he said. "Focus in."
I believe this phrase accurately describes Marvin, a poor kid from Compton who works hard to fill the frame of a very big life.

Here they are at the Packer Alumni brunch earlier this season.

He used to drive me to nursery school.

Molly and my sister Kathy pose with Marv as he urges me to fill the frame.

Friends for 47 years.

Merry Christmas from Molly and Me

Four times I've had the sad task of explaining the reality of Santa Claus.

My breath caught for just a moment when my oldest son asked the question as our car stopped at a light on the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and Richmond Street nearly 20 years ago. He blindsided me with his innocent question and my eyes welled up when I stammered out the truth as I saw it then. Those few moments stand as some of the most vivid of his colorful childhood, maybe because, in a way, they were the harbinger of its end.

Many years later I gently initiated the conversation with my younger son. A sweet soul with an imaginative father, Vinnie believed in Santa for a very long time. One year, Vince stuck cotton on the rim of the empty milk glass from a tray of treats left out on Christmas Eve. "Hey look," he said the next morning. 'Santa's whiskers got stuck on the milk glass." Hard evidence like that is tough to refute.

Molly's friend had a spectacular retort to the little ones who quoted their parents when they tried to convince her that Santa Claus was a fraud.

"Your mom and dad just feel sorry for you because you're on the naughty list," she used to say.

Our elaborate lives call for faith in so many ways and two of the most important, our faith in God and our faith in ourselves, really have nothing to do with Santa Claus.

But I still support the big guy. I love the innocence he represents and the excitement he inspires in little people all over the world.

And, like I told each child in the four conversations I had, I see a change come over the world at Christmas time. People smile more and give generously; they complain less and care genuinely.

It's been an especially hard year, this year of the protestor. Money is tight and people are scared. Santa can't solve any of those problems. Not really. But, for a little while, he can bring peace, a brief refuge from an imperfect world.

We believe in Santa and we hope you do too.

Merry Christmas from Molly and me.

Santa made a pre-Christmas house call and
scared the Charles Dickens out of three-year old Katherine.

He and the misses took time out of their busy schedule to pop into Winch Financial.

Lefse pretend we're Norwegian

For the longest time we assumed our friends were Norwegian. Little clues like the hearty sweaters they wore, the krumkaake they sent to our house and the way they yelled Skål! when making a toast (I might be making that last one up), led us to this conclusion.

Imagine our surprise when we attended their Lefse making party and discovered they had not one drop of Nordic blood. It turns out Elizabeth's maiden name is Ryan, for Pete's sake.
No matter. You don't need Norwegian blood to make Lefse.
If you want to host a Lefse Party like we attended (and I highly recommend that you do), you will need just a few other things:

1) You'll need the proper equipment. For non-Norwegians, our hosts owned a suspicious amount of Nordic cooking gear. A Lefse grill might not be necessary, but you probably will need the Lefse stick for flipping, a potato ricer and the Lefse rolling pin with a stretchy cotton cover.

2) Choose your attendees carefully. Our group included a Heisman-like winner, but you can include any manner of -like guests. In my experience, -like people tell the best stories, which is critical to the Lefse experience. Laughter makes Lefses lighter.

3) Never underestimate the importance of the condiment. True Lefses are served with butter and a cinnamon/sugar mixture. This gathering's guests provided Italian salami, homemade goat cheese, smoked salmon and artichoke dip. I think you could stuff just about anything into a Lefse and it would taste delicious.

4) Remember that the best part of making the Lefse is the time you get to spend with your friends, even if they aren't Norwegian.

And here is Elizabeth's recipe:

Lefse

5 lb russet potatoes (boil in jackets, don't overcook, peel and rice)
Add
3 T butter
1/2 C half and half
1 T salt

Mash together with riced potatoes then add
2 slightly beaten eggs
Mash again.
Refrigerate overnight.
To every 2 cups of potato mixture add 1 C flour.
Roll until thin. Use Lefse stick to transfer to griddle. Cook on both sides until just starting to brown.

Serve with butter and cinnamon sugar.

Add the flour to the mashed potato mixture, form the dough
into a ball and roll it out. 

Wendy rolled enviably thin Lefses.

Flip the Lefse with the Lefse stick.

Then add it to the Lefse Cozy. (Who knew?)

Everyone should flip a Lefse at least once in their life.

Really, the laughter is what we were after.

Quick quiz: Which one of these fellows won the Heisman?

This Starr quarterback is a gentleman

Like Molly, I've wanted to be a writer since I first learned to read. I've been lucky to receive encouragement along the way from an unlikely source, Bart Starr.

As a fourth grader at St. Therese elementary school, I wrote a story about Mr. Starr. Amused, my mom forwarded it to him. That he responded at all says enough about the man, who one year later became head coach of the Green Bay Packers.
My story took place just after the Packers retired Mr. Starr's number and three years before he was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
At that point, he had just ended a 16-year career as an NFL player (all with Green Bay) and was working as the quarterbacks coach for the team. Additionally, he and his wife Cherry were actively involved in Rawhide Boys' Ranch, a residential care facility for troubled boys. He was a very busy man. That he took the time to review an odd little story written by a nine-year old girl touched my family and me more than it surprised us. The man has class.
A decade later I left a message for him, asking if I could interview him for a story I was writing. At that time, I was a journalism student at Marquette University and I called him from a college apartment I shared with six other girls.
The next day, a roommate knocked on my door.
"Um, Laura," she said with wide eyes. "Bart Starr is on the phone for you."
Bart Starr had called back just to help me out with a class assignment!
I'm just a minor character in a life story that spans nearly 78 years and involves countless stories of sweet gestures and strong support. Publicly, he has mentored the Packer quarterbacks who followed him. When Zeke Bratkowski, who played back-up quarterback to Starr during the Glory Years, entered the Packer Hall of Fame in 1989, he asked Starr to induct him. This ability to share the spotlight says a tremendous amount about both athletes.
I saw a poll recently asking football fans to vote on the greatest quarterback to play the game. Statistically, Bart Starr certainly ranks among them, though I think it's tough to pick a single player based solely on numbers.
Transcending the numbers are the qualities that really define a legacy -- things like integrity, kindness and dignity.
Bart Starr may or may not be the greatest quarterback to play the game, but he is for sure the greatest man to play quarterback.

O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree! Much pleasure thou can'st give me

Sometimes in the middle of this hectic season we love so well, Molly and I like to find a quiet spot near our Christmas tree listen to the stories our ornaments tell.

Our ornaments range wildly, from construction paper to crystal. With generous godparents who jumped in early, Molly has amassed the classiest collection in the family. Each year she scores another collectible and we will negotiate fiercely before she takes the ornaments away for her own tree.
St. Nick also brings all four kids an ornament each year commemorating special moments, proud achievements and various sports.
Our Charlie angel is one of my favorites. Made of paper, he's old now and a little tired. His tiny head has to be propped up by the trunk of the tree and his wings don't always stay outstretched. I love this angel because it reminds me of the little fellow who made it some 20 years ago.
We aren't so great with the visual arts in my family, but Charlie always managed to put together eye-catching work. When he was in second grade his teacher called me to school. It seems his poinsettia offended her. "May I see it?" I asked. "You can see it from here," she said and she nodded sharply at a display out the door and down the hallway. Against the wall obediently lay 22 beautiful flowers. Smack in the middle an enormous red plant jutted out from the wall. It had roots with a worm crawling through and jagged edged petals on which rested a bee. To the naked eye, it did look hideous. I really loved that poinsettia, though, and the circle of life it portrayed.
Molly and I decorated the tree ourselves this year but we didn't feel alone. The stories of all those ornaments and the people who inspired them joined us and each year the party grows.

I hope to keep this angel, by far the largest ornament
on our tree,  forever to remind me of a clever little
artist and his unconventional work.

Hmmm. Not sure whose ornament this could be.
St. Nick does have a sense of humor though.

When she got this ornament in 1993, it was because
four-year old Katherine loved to walk around our house
with a basket on her arm singing the opening number from
Beauty and the Beast. She's a nutty little ball of fun as well.

 

This is our oldest ornament, an heirloom from my grandparent's
tree. The Little Drummer Boy always gets the place of honor, just
under the angel.

Our leg lamp ornament has inspired bitter debate
between Molly and me because one of us intends
to give a genuine leg lamp to someone on her
Christmas list and the other can't seem to talk her
out of it.

We're really hoping to add another one of these
to the tree next year. Go Pack Go!

St. Nick brought Molly this Anne of Green Gables ornament.
A few summers ago, Molly's Uncle Steve challenged her to read
the entire Anne of Green Gables series. I joined her in this project
and we both spent a pleasant summer on Prince Edward Island.

St. Nick brought Charlie this ugly ornament to
commemorate his first year as a resident of
Illinois. I went to a cute little store that sold only
Christmas ornaments in order to find an Illinois ornament.
The shop owner told me she didn't have one. "But,"
she said brightly, "Illinois means onion in Indian and I
do have an onion ornament." Awkward. Thankfully, I saw this
 Abe Lincoln ornament out of the corner of my eye, bought it,
and the shop owner and I parted friends.

We have an ornament from the North Pole, thanks
to a travel-loving Grandma who went there to pick
it out.

Notice anything missing from this picture?
Someone needs to stop admiring her tree and
get shopping. There's not a single present under it.

Underneath all of those ornaments is a Christmas tree skirt my
Aunt Doris made 43 years ago. And on top is an angel she gave
me 25 years ago. Serenity sandwiches all the chaos in between.

Tailgate inspires warm memories of toasty spuds

My dad grew up on the side of a mountain in a self-described coal mining town called Colver, Pennsylvania.

He spoke of an enviable upbringing on 20 Row, a road that wound from Colver at the top of the hill down to the mine at the base. On that single street lived both of his grandmas, several aunts and uncles and a handful of cousins. Imagine a childhood during which a single sled ride took all morning and a backyard stretched for miles.
We admire many things about our Pennsylvania relatives, their ingenuity most of all. My grandmother tucked baked potatoes into the woolen mittens of her three children. The spuds kept their fingers warm on the way to school, and served as lunch at noon.
Molly and I channeled that bit of clever family history Sunday as we prepared for our own family tradition -- the tailgate party.
Because the first rule of proper tailgating, from our perspective, is to find someone else to fire up the grill, our own contribution was the twice baked potato. Our host, Gregg Graycarek, supplied delicious tenderloin from a grill that is stored on site for the season. Genius, right?
Read on for our twice baked potato recipe. If you really want to enjoy the game, though, we suggest you simply tuck a couple of baked potatoes in your mittens before you head into the stadium. Think how warm your hands will stay and how good those taters will taste at halftime.

Tailgate Twice Baked Potatoes

12 medium potatoes, scrubbed, pricked and baked

Two cups shredded cheese
Four tablespoons butter
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup milk
1/2 large onion chopped
salt and pepper to taste

Baked the potatoes in a 375 degree oven for one hour. Slice lengthwise and scoop out the inside. Be sure to leave the skin intact. Put the scooped potato in a large mixing bowl and add 1 cup cheese, butter, cream, onion, salt and pepper. Mix with electric beater, while slowly adding milk. Line pans with potato skins. Scoop mashed potato mixture back into the skins. Sprinkle with the rest of the shredded cheese. Put the potatoes back into the oven until cheese melts, about 15 minutes.

Cover the hot pans with tin foil and place them in a cooler, which has been lined with a bath towel. Fold the towel over the pans and close the cooler. Potatoes will stay hot for a couple of hours.

Katherine and her boyfriend Santiago enjoy the tailgate party.

Here are our 12 baked potatoes waiting to be embellished.

Chopped the onions extra small because they won't cook very long.

Scoop out the potato while it's so hot it turns your fingernails red. 

The guts go in the bowl and the skins go on the pan. 

Basically, you're just whipping up some mashed potatoes.

Add the butter.

Mash the potatoes. You can do this by hand.

Here's how it looks before it's all mashed.

Scoop it all back into the shells.

Sprinkle the cheese on top.

They look good enough to eat, but you still have to bake them.

Cover the pans with foil and put them in your cooler.

And here they are. Still nice and hot and ready to serve.

Happy birthday to a legendary Packer fan

One of the greatest Packer fans and kindest people we know turns 82-years old tomorrow.

John Spalding officially joined our family in 1971 when he and his wife Pat stood as godparents to my youngest sister. He legally became a member of our family 24 years later when, following the deaths of their respective spouses, he and my mother married.
Through all of those years, he has treated our family with love and respect.
Each year at Christmas John gives my siblings and me a special gift honoring the memory of our father. One year he commissioned an artist to create a beautiful scrapbook with copies of the photos and mementos my mom had collected through the years. Another year, he gave each of us a framed picture of our dad, Ron Kostelnik, tackling former Chicago Bear great Gale Sayers, autographed by Mr. Sayers.
A successful businessman, John spent his Sundays from 1960 through 1988 on the sidelines during Packers games working as a pencil and paper statistician. He tracked player minutes for the Packers under coaches Lombardi, Devine, Gregg and Starr.
His devotion to Green Bay only grew once he retired from the team.
Last year, against all advice, John flew from sunny Florida to Chicago for the NFC Championship game and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, despite the 17 degree temperature and 26 below wind chill. He has attended every Packer Super Bowl since 1967.
Yesterday, John once again spent his Sunday afternoon at Lambeau Field, cheering the Packers on to a 13-0 record and 19th consecutive win.
Unlike his beloved team so far this season, John is not perfect. Due to a raging chocolate addiction, his go-to meal when my mother is not around consists of a chocolate shake and a handful of chocolate chip cookies.  
And he drives large cars with blissful ignorance of the road rage he inspires. I once sat in the passenger seat on a drive from Tampa to Long Boat Key and lost count of the angry gestures from passing motorists I ducked.
But he's an intelligent man with an inspiring faith both in his team and in his God and we're hoping 2012 brings him nothing but joy.

Here are the hearty members of our family who sat through the
bitter cold 2010 NFC Championship Game in Chicago. Left
to right are Katherine, Charlie, John and my youngest sister
Jenny, whose hair is the same color as her hat.

Another sister, Kathy, joined John and his son Dan Spalding for
a sunnier game in Denver. They flew out, caught the game and
flew home the same day.

More than 100,000 people attended the Super Bowl in Dallas
this year, and Kathy and I ran smack into John and his son Terry.
Go Pack Go!