Minnesota Prairie Roots

RATS POOPING in a rural Fergus Falls mailbox, an unidentified animal pooping on a rug in a Vesta garage…

What’s with these Minnesota animals? Have they, like most Minnesotans, been pushed to near insanity by this eternally long winter? That would be my explanation.

But you decide as you consider these two stories:

The first comes from rural Fergus Falls where, on Monday afternoon, a woman discovers two domesticated rats inside her mailbox. They have chewed on, pooped on and peed on her mail.

And, no, she claims, she did not order the rats.

The second story comes from my hometown of Vesta, where an unidentified animal deposits a pile of poop on a door mat inside a garage. This would be my mom’s garage.

As Mom tells the story, she discovers the poop pile of unknown origin, cleans up the mess and later finds another pile of s**t on the same exact spot. This leaves her mystified and a bit frightened of the possibly dangerous creature lurking in the dark corners of her single car garage.

Fearing others may think her crazy, my mom leaves the second poop pile untouched. She wants/needs/desires confirmation of its existence, and my ex-sister-in-law, who stops by to pick up a cake pan, walks right into the mess. Well, not literally.

As the two ponder whether an opossum might be holed up inside, their anxiety level rises. But they manage to clean up the scat and lay down newspaper. Or maybe my mom places newspaper down after the first accident. I don’t recall the exact sequence of the garage-tidying.

Whatever, the pair decides to leave any animal hunt until daybreak since they really don’t want to face a petulant possum in the darkness of night.

The next day, my mom calls in the reinforcements, meaning she phones her brother-in-law and sister-in-law, who live a block away. Milan arrives armed with a baseball bat. Jeanette just walks right into the garage and starts poking around. I’m not certain where my mom is stationed at this point. But I will assume away from dark corners.

In short order, brave, brave Jeanette scares an animal out of a corner. A small cat streaks across the garage and through the open overhead garage door, quick as a flash of lightning. Both Jeanette and my mom note that the cat has a short tail and is, clearly, not an opossum.

Now, I’m wondering, has anyone seen a small short-tailed cat zipping northwest towards Fergus Falls?

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

WHO NEEDS PARIS Hilton with her fashionable purse-size, crook-of-the-arm accessorizing dogs when you have the people of Florida?

I mean, look at this fashionable couple pushing their fashionable, and I assume spoiled, dogs in strollers at an outlet center between Naples and Fort Myers.

They caught the attention of passersby and the paparazzi, aka my oldest daughter and her friend, Laura, who snapped this image. The vacationing Minnesotans, who would have preferred warm weather (they got 60 degrees) and the beach to people and dog-watching at the mall, found the quartet rather amusing.

Maybe I should tell them to stake out The Fashion Bug in Dundas, next to Kmart. Several years ago I was perusing the racks of women’s clothing there when a woman walked in with a purse-size dog snuggled in her arms.

And, no, she looked nothing like Paris Hilton.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Photo courtesy of Laura, from Minnesota

TEMPTING...

WHAT IRRESPONSIBLE MOTHER allows her son to eat chocolate cake for breakfast?

Me, apparently.

Monday morning, after my 16-year-old leaves for school, I discover cake crumbs on a plate.

Since my husband does not eat breakfast and since I had not yet plated a piece of cake, I determine the obvious offender to be my teen. “Some breakfast,” I think, lifting the cake pan lid to reveal only four remaining pieces. And I just baked this cake Saturday afternoon.

I am tempted, like my boy, to eat a piece for breakfast. But I quickly slam down the lid, grab a bowl and a bag and consume a serving of sugar-laden cereal.

Later, I wonder, “What’s the difference?” A piece of chocolate Crazy Cake would have tasted so much better than that colorful, crunchy cereal. And I figure the amount of sugar consumed would have been a toss-up.

Cake. Cereal. Cake. Cereal. Cake. Cereal. Cake!

MORE TEMPTING...

Yes, next time I’ll choose the chocolate cake for breakfast.

I feel obligated to explain how a chocolate cake that I baked on Saturday could have all but disappeared by Monday morning. Well, I baked the cake for Sunday lunch at my oldest daughter’s place in Minneapolis. Nice mom that I am, I left about half the cake with Amber.

Whether she ate a slice of cake for breakfast, like her brother, is none of my concern. But I would hope, truly hope, that I was a more responsible mom while raising her.

IRRESISTIBLE CHOCOLATE CRAZY CAKE!

Here’s the recipe for my all-time favorite, decadent chocolate cake:

Crazy Cake

3 cups flour

2 cups sugar

½ cup cocoa

1 tsp. salt

2 tsp. soda

¾ cup vegetable oil

2 cups cold water

2 Tbsp. vinegar

1 tsp. vanilla

Mix the dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Then dump in vegetable oil, water, vinegar and vanilla and mix. Pour the batter into a 9 x 13-inch cake pan and bake 30 – 40 minutes at 350 degrees.

Source: The Cook’s Special 1973, St. John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church, Vesta, Minnesota

When cool, frost the cake with this equally decadent chocolate frosting:

Buttercream Chocolate Frosting

6 Tbsp. butter

½ cup cocoa

2 2/3 cups powdered sugar

1/3 cup milk

1 tsp. vanilla

Cream butter in a small mixing bowl. Add cocoa and powdered sugar alternately with milk, beating to a creamy consistency. Add another tablespoon of milk if necessary. Blend in vanilla. Frost the cake.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Fluke's latest book releases Feb. 23.

FANS OF MINNESOTA NATIVE Joanne Fluke’s culinary cozy mysteries, listen up. Apple Turnover Murder, the 13^th book in the Hannah Swensen murder mystery series, releases February 23.

This time Hannah, the 30-something owner of The Cookie Jar, a coffee shop and bakery in fictional Lake Eden, Minnesota, discovers a body at a charity fund-raising event. So as not to spoil the plot, I’m not revealing the victim. But if you read Fluke’s last book, Plum Pudding Murder, that’s a clue.

As in her previous books, the title ties to the crime with a half-eaten apple turnover found near the victim. Food is an important ingredient in Fluke’s mysteries as her characters are always eating (mostly cookies) and drinking coffee. In Apple Turnover, you’ll find 21 recipes, including numerous cookie recipes, sprinkled between chapters.

Fluke’s recipes possess a distinctly Midwestern flavor that appeals to me. She grew up near Swanville in central Minnesota and now lives in California. These foods are uncomplicated, comforting and sometimes, oh, so familiar. Take “Too Easy Hotdish,” which, in our northern lingo, translates to “Tator Tot Hotdish.”

I am especially delighted with Fluke’s inclusion of “Wacky Cake,” my favorite homemade chocolate cake and the cake which my mom baked every year for my childhood birthdays.

As a Minnesotan, I appreciate this New York Times bestselling author’s intimate knowledge of her home state. You’ll read about the Kensington Runestone, donkey baseball, mosquitoes and “Minnesota Nice” in Apple Turnover Murder.

But most of all, Fluke understands the conservative nature of most rural Minnesotans and the importance of family and community. That’s reflected in her characters’ relationships. And although her stories include romance—Hannah is torn between two men—you won’t find any steamy love scenes.

Ditto goes for the murder cases. Fluke reveals murders, with few gory details, and then focuses on crime-solving, led by the always forge-ahead, sleuthing Hannah.

In Apple Turnover, Fluke presents two additional mini-mysteries, one involving an out-of-state job opportunity for Hannah’s deputy sheriff brother-in-law and the other involving Norman, one of Hannah’s love interests. The dangling ending of Fluke’s newest mystery leaves readers like me awaiting the next Hannah Swensen book, Devil’s Food Cake Murder, due out in March 2011.

Fluke is also writing the title novella in a Christmas collection that includes stories by Laura Levine and Leslie Meier. Gingerbread Cookie Murder releases in October 2010.

Joanne Fluke loves to bake as much as she loves to write.

MINNESOTANS, YOU HAVE an opportunity to meet Jo Fluke in her home state. She has scheduled discussions and book signings for 7 p.m. Monday, March 8, at Barnes & Noble, 3940 Division Street, St. Cloud, and for 7 p.m. Tuesday, March 9, at Barnes & Noble, 3225 W. 69^th Street, Edina.

For those snowbirds who’ve flown to warmer climates, you can see Fluke during signings in California, Arizona, Texas and Florida. Go to her website at http://murdershebaked.com for more information.

A t-shirt advertises Brownlow's Red Owl in tiny LeRoy.

I’D LIKE TO SUGGEST one other locale for a Fluke book signing: tiny LeRoy near the Minnesota-Iowa border. This town of 900 is home to Brownlow’s Red Owl Grocery Store, a family-owned business since 1933 and the only Red Owl store still remaining in Minnesota. Red Owl groceries were once the norm in our state. Fluke’s fictional businesses include Lake Eden’s Red Owl Grocery Store. I expect Fluke would get a warm welcome from the folks at the Red Owl in LeRoy. You betcha.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

Book cover and Fluke images courtesy of Kensington Books

WHENEVER MY HUSBAND picks up a movie at the local library, he usually chooses an old war or car-chasing film that doesn’t interest me. In other words, he selects a “guy” movie.

So, when I see Clint Eastwood, and a car, on the cover of his latest selection, Gran Torino, I figure I won’t be interested.

An aging Clint Eastwood stars in Gran Torino.

Wrong.

Friday evening I’m snuggled into the reclining couch reading Whiskey Heart by Minnesotan Rachel L. Coyne when Randy starts watching Gran Torino. I inform him that at 8 p.m., I want to watch Kitchen Nightmares.

This, of course, reminds me that I need to whip whipping cream to serve later atop hot fudge pudding cake. So I head to the kitchen, pour the cream into a narrow bowl and switch on the hand-mixer. This, of course, means my husband cannot hear Clint. So he waits until I am done whipping the cream to restart Gran Torino.

I fully expect to delve back into my book as I settle onto the sofa. But then I am drawn to Clint. “How old is this movie?” I ask, noticing that Clint looks, well, old.

“A few years old,” Randy replies.

OK, then, this might be worth watching, I think, asking my husband what I’ve missed.

From then on in, Gran Tornino has my full attention. The film, written by Fridley, Minnesota, native Nick Schenk, tells the story of Korean War veteran Walt Kowalski whose dying wife’s final wish is for him to go to confession. Walt, played by Clint, is a man unable to face the demons of war, a man estranged from his family and a man determined to live out the rest of his life bitter, alone and drinking beer.

But Walt’s life changes when Thao Lor, the Hmong teen next door (played by Minnesotan Bee Vang), attempts to steal his neighbor’s 1972 Gran Torino. Thus begins the unlikeliest of friendships.

The depth of this movie surprises me as topics of gang violence, prejudice, cultural differences, family relationships, faith and the life-time affects of war interweave into a compelling drama.

Several times through-out the film, I find myself thinking of my dad, who fought on the front lines during the Korean War. He, like Walt in the movie, was emotionally-scarred by war. He, like Walt, had no choice but to kill, or be killed.

In one particular scene, when Walt pins a war medal onto the chest of young Thao, I am nearly in tears for thinking of my dad and the Purple Heart medal he received more than 50 years after serving in Korea.

Gran Torino is not at all what I expect. If you have not seen this 2008 film, which garnered a best original screenplay award for Schenk and a best actor award for the aging Eastwood, then check it out.

Listen beyond the excessive profanity (necessary to the character roles). Listen carefully, because Clint, in his trademark gravelly voice, imparts much wisdom through the character of Walt Kowalski.

Text © Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

(P.S. Next time I promise not to judge a movie by its cover. And, yes, my husband allowed me to watch Kitchen Nightmares, after which we finished viewing Gran Torino. And, yes, we missed most of the 10 o’clock news.)

MY TEENAGE SON, while generally uncommunicative with “the parents,” can be incredibly funny if he chooses to engage in conversation.

Take the other night. Not liking the chili I prepared for supper, my 16-year-old opts to make a bratwurst. I should clarify that, in this house, if you don’t like what mom or dad cooks, then you MYO (make your own).

So there my son stands, before the microwave, pondering exactly how long to zap a brat just pulled from the freezer.

“Oh, brat guru,” Caleb says, turning toward his dad. “Impart on me the wisdom of the ages.”

And so the guru, A.K.A. my brat-loving husband, guides his son through the process of microwaving a brat while I chortle over my bowl of chili.

It is a rare moment when our teen respects such wisdom. Mostly, he considers us completely lacking in knowledge.

But we persevere.

That leads to my second story. Last week I asked and then cajoled/ordered/pleaded/ begged/demanded that my son write “thank you” notes for monetary birthday gifts he recently received.

He’s not ungrateful, but getting my boy to write anything presents a nearly insurmountable challenge. He claims to detest writing and English, mostly because I love writing and English.

“I’ll do it later,” he whines. “Not now. Why do I have to? Can’t I just send an e-mail?”

“Now,” I say, pulling out the thank you cards, address book and stamps.

He tries one more time. “It’s (letter writing) a dying art, like Latin.”

Well, he’s right there, I think, trying hard not to laugh.

But his tactic fails. I refuse to accept his argument, instead imparting the wisdom of the ages that, even in this day of instant communication, people still appreciate a handwritten expression of gratitude.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

WHICH MINNESOTA COUNTIES are the healthiest?

Intrigued by a radio report I heard Wednesday morning about a nation-wide study that ranks counties on health issues, I decided to check out my county, Rice County, Minnesota.

So I logged on to countyhealthrankings.org for results of this study from The Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and the University of Wisconsin Population Health Institute.

Of the 85 out of 87 Minnesota counties that were ranked (Cook and Traverse counties were omitted because of low populations), Rice County is the 23rd healthiest. In true Minnesota fashion, I will respond, “Not too bad.”

Jackson County, which lies in extreme southwestern Minnesota along the Iowa border, rates as our state’s healthiest county. Now, if you’re from Iowa and are already inferring that Jackson County’s location next to Iowa impacted the high ranking, you likely would be wrong. Four of the nine Minnesota counties bordering the Hawkeye state are in the lower tier healthwise. So there goes that possible theory.

According to the study, Lake County, on the exact opposite corner of the state in northeastern Minnesota, is the unhealthiest.

Now, rather than attempt to explain the reasons behind the rankings, I suggest you go straight to the source and check out the information for yourself. Draw your own conclusions. And remember, as you consider results, no research is perfect and is open to interpretation.

This Minnesota map zeroes in on Rice County, my county of residence, and neighboring counties south of the Twin Cities metropolitan area.

HERE, HOWEVER, ARE a few interesting summaries I pulled from this study regarding Rice County:

• Less access to healthy foods than the average Minnesotan. Rice County rated at 22 percent access compared to 40 percent state-wide. To reach this conclusion, researchers determined the number of zip codes within a county with a healthy food outlet (grocery stores and produce stands/farmers’ markets).
• A higher motor vehicle crash death rate—20 per 100,000 population in Rice County compared to 13 per 100,000 state-wide. This comes as no surprise to me given Rice County ranks among Minnesota’s deadliest counties for impaired driving. According to recent information from the Minnesota Department of Public Safety, Rice ranked as the 8^th deadliest county.
• A lower teen birth rate, at 20 births per 1,000 female population, ages 15 – 19, in Rice County compared to the state value of 28.

How did your county fare? Read for yourself. This study is packed with some interesting information.

And, by the way, I have nothing against Iowa. I grew up three counties away from the borders of Iowa and South Dakota.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

VALENTINE’S DAY came and went this year without a single valentine for me. Well, I suppose I should count the small bag of peanut M & Ms my husband handed me on Sunday and the caramel rolls and apple-walnut cinnamon bread he bought for me at The Brick Oven in Northfield on Saturday. Thank you, Randy. All are delicious.

But, I never got a valentine card, from anyone. That is, until yesterday.

Two cards arrived in the mail, one postmarked “St. Cloud, MN.” and the other postmarked “Vesta, MN.” However, they bore similar return addresses, if you could call these addresses: “AM, Morgan.” and “A.M. 56292.” It appears to me as though A.M. is attempting to conceal her true identity and whereabouts.

I, of course, suspect immediately that this mail has come from the ghost of Annie Mary Twente, a 6-year-old who fell into a coma and was buried alive near Hanska in 1886. She has taunted me for decades by sending an annual Halloween card. However, just recently, her haunting has become more frequent. At Christmas, I received a gift from Annie. And now the two valentines with handwriting and postmarks that clearly indicate two senders.

Let me explain. In one valentine, A.M. writes this message, “I still miss you!” with her signature in capital letters, “ANNIE MARY.”

In the other, she simply signs, “Love, Annie Mary.” But, she also drew a quick sketch of an old-fashioned wooden swing hung from a tree. That freaks me a bit because of a tale I heard once of Annie’s ghost swaying in just such a swing.

Valentine greetings from the ghost of Annie Mary Twente. Which is authentic?

And then, to taunt me even more, the valentine features a mouse on the cover. Little Annie sent me a plastic mouse at Christmas. I presume that somehow she uncovered information about my extreme dislike of rodents.

She also includes stickers that plead: “Be Mine!” As if I’m going to be the valentine of a little ghost girl.

Obviously, I have a Nancy Drew style mystery on my hands. Annie doesn’t know this, but I love mysteries, always have. I’m comparing the handwriting and messages in past cards to these valentines. I think I have solved the mystery.

One of these “Annie Marys” is certainly an impostor. And I think I know which one. But I’ll hold my accusations for now and hope for a confession.

In the meantime, I need to warn my Aunt Marilyn, who lives in Vesta, that Annie Mary has been in my hometown. Likewise, I’ll warn my cousin Dawn, who lives in Morgan, that Annie Mary has also been in her community.

I’ll get to the bottom of this mystery. And if I need to call in a handwriting expert to prove my case, I will.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

(Be sure to read my previous posts about Annie Mary Twente, published on November 4, 2009, and December 23, 2009.)

Marlene (Schmidt) Gulden, senior class yearbook photo, Wabasso High School Class of 1974.

WHEN I HEARD of a house fire in New Ulm that claimed two lives Valentine’s Day evening, I considered for a fleeting moment that the victims might be known to me. My mom has lots of cousins living in the area. But, New Ulm is a fair-sized community, so what were the chances?

That all changed Monday evening, when I opened an e-mail from my Wabasso High School classmate, Sue. She delivered the news that our classmate, Marlene (Schmidt) Gulden, and Marlene’s husband, David, perished in the fire.

Although I have not kept in touch with or seen Marlene in some three decades, the news still hit me hard. I expect that classmates will die perhaps of a heart attack, cancer or motor vehicle accident. But a fire? No.

According to information published in The New Ulm Journal, the Guldens were pulled from their smoke-filled home and given CPR, but later died at the New Ulm hospital. The news story continues to explain how firefighters were hampered in their efforts when a second fire truck, and then snowplows, became stuck in the couple’s long, narrow, snow-filled driveway.

Truly, the deaths of Marlene and David are a tragic loss not only to their families and friends, but to the New Ulm community.

And within the community of Wabasso High School, Class of 1974, Marlene’s death, especially, has left us with aching hearts. In a class of 89 students, you know each other pretty well.

While Marlene wasn’t in my circle of closest high school friends, I certainly considered her a friend. Really, we were all friends.

When I think about Marlene, I remember her physical beauty—she had lovely straight hair that framed a beautiful face. She always looked nice.

But mostly, I remember her quiet inner beauty. And her kindness, yes, her kindness.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

My husband's NAPA automotive machine shop toolbox.

Randy grinds a flywheel.

TAKE YOUR WIFE to Work Day begins with good intentions.

My husband has been hinting for a week that he can use some extra hands in the Parts Department, Inc., Northfield (NAPA), automotive machine shop. So I, rather foolishly, volunteer to help and he, rather foolishly, accepts.

So Saturday morning I remove my wedding band and Black Hills Gold ring, borrow two of his work shirts, grab my most ragged jeans from the closet and pull on tennis shoes. I know I am about to get greasy, dirty and stinky.

During the 25-minute drive to Northfield, we admire the frost that creates a magically- beautiful landscape. Turns out this will be the best part of my morning.

Soon we pull into the NAPA parking lot and step into a world that smells of chocolate cereal. Memories of cold winter mornings on the farm and steaming bowls of Malt-O-Meal cereal, made in Northfield, flit through my mind as we walk across the icy pavement.

Once inside, Randy punches in. I don’t. This is, after all, a trial run, volunteer work, an unpaid internship. I doubt I’m ready for the payroll. But I am anxious to get started.

As I wait for my spouse to organize tools and choose a project for me, I survey his machine shop. I understand now why he has asked for assistance. I’m overwhelmed simply viewing the piles of heads and blocks and other engine “stuff” grouped on the cement floor.

Just one example of all the work that awaits my husband in the NAPA automotive machine shop.

And I am impressed by all of the equipment—the cylinder re-boring machine, honing machine, valve guide and seat machine, brake drum and rotor lathe, flywheel grinder, airless shot blaster, baking oven and more—that Randy operates. This is one smart man, I remind myself.

Me, well, I’m not so smart about automotive work, I quickly learn. I do OK removing expansion plugs and oil gallery plugs from 302 Ford engine and 292 Ford engine blocks. But removing camshaft bearings proves too challenging as I struggle to slam a rod with a huge hammer.

“I thought you could swing a hammer better than that,” Randy says.

Uh, no. It’s a swing and a miss.

I'm not good, not good at all, with camshaft bearing drivers because I can't accurately swing a hammer.

Frustration begins to set in as I sense I am not doing well.

But, hey, once I overcome my desire to save and reuse parts, I’m pretty good at tossing old parts into the scrap metal barrel.

Soon I’m standing around, wondering what to do. “This is getting to be a really long morning,” I say, glancing at the shop clock, which tells me I’ve only been here 1 ½ hours.

When Randy begins sweeping the floor, I seize the opportunity. “Let me sweep. I’m good at cleaning,” I say, practically grabbing the broom from his hands. He instructs me to keep down the dust level. Apparently I’m good at sweeping as he never criticizes.

But I feel like this is simply busy work. “Give me some meaningful work,” I say.

So he locks a 1960s vintage 327 Chevy cylinder head into a machine and shows me how to drill out worn valve guides. But I fear I will wreck the head, even though he claims I can’t. He stands watch as I try. I tentatively float the machine, line the drill with a guide and flick the switch. I did it. But when he steps away, I place my hand on the machine to steady it and knock off a part. I panic. He finishes the job.

At this point, I know with absolute certainty that I am more of a hindrance than a help to Randy. So I voluntarily take a break, glancing one last time at NAPA race car drivers Ron Capps and Martin Truex Jr. Their near life-size photo cut-outs, which I can see through the shop window on the NAPA retail floor, proved a welcome distraction during my moments of insecurity.

NAPA race car drivers Ron Capps and Martin Truex Jr. keep a watchful eye on me in the NAPA machine shop.

I head to the car and grab a bag of work that I’ve brought with me, just in case I didn’t pan out as an automotive machinist’s assistant. For the next 1 ¾ hours, I proof the spring issue of Minnesota Moments magazine.

Later, when I ask Randy to make a list of the work I did that morning, he writes:

• Removed expansion plugs and oil gallery plugs.
• Attempted to remove camshaft bearings.
• Drilled out worn valve guides.
• Swept the floor.
• Edited magazine.
• Distracted fellow employees.

© Copyright 2010 Audrey Kletscher Helbling

(Check back later this week for more images from the NAPA automotive machine shop.)

Oh, yeah, and I'm not good either at using the lifting hook.