I have long contended that your job in life is to make yourself happy by doing the thing you most enjoy, that others most want from you. This can take years to sort out. There are still those saddened I never took my singing voice to Juilliard, but to this day I can’t tell a C-minor from A flat for rent. A childhood spent drawing houses suggested architect, but trigonometry put an end to that. A revolutionary, a food stylist, a landscaper, a furniture designer, even a physique model, nothing took or lasted. What the world would most want from me was fruitcake.

Puzzle chair with ottoman, knock-down slide joint construction, Robert Lambert, 1996

Here we come to the stoneware crock in the cellarway at the farm, and my good Grandma’s fruitcakes. The Norwegian Christmas cookies, Saandbuckles and Berlinerkranse, I would plunder as soon as I could, but not until I was allowed to drink tea did the cakes click—frost kill, wood smoke, rich nuts and piquant pineapple, citron with the hot milky brew. Years later in San Francisco I began making citrus syrups, candied peels the byproduct. Why couldn’t those go into a fruitcake? I sent home for the recipe, and redeemed it.

In time my efforts caught the attention of Dean and DeLuca at the peak of their reputation, and buyer Gina Hull presented them for a holiday product. At one pound but twice the price of the 5 pound they’d sold before, the panel balked; then Gina said, “If we claim to be about quality, we can’t in good conscience turn these down.” They took them, and sold out. I had found a calling.

With up to 32 ingredients, preparations begin in December with the start of citrus season. At first it was oranges from a therapist in San Francisco, Rangpurs from a famed woman wood turner in San Rafael, grapefruit from a Chinese chef in Napa, pomelos from the Lester Collection in Watsonville. Now that I’m in Wisconsin my citrus is ordered through brokers in Los Angeles, but rare strains still come from old connections. There is pleasure in this candying process, the colors, the scent, the glossy translucent finish. These I seal in glass jars in their own syrup, and wait.

Buddha’s Hand Citron; below, candied

That done, the hazelnuts, walnuts and blanched almonds get toasted. Brazil nuts are each cut to proper size, as are the glaceed cherries and apricots, the prunes, dates and pineapple. Black mission figs are cut and soaked in kirsch, the dried pear in Poire William Brandy. Peels are drained and sliced to size according to their texture. Weeks of work, hours of fun, just eyes and hands, my mind free to wander.

Only then can I get the sugar, butter, flour and eggs that bring all this together. I make 4 batches of 26 in a 10 hour baking day, 104 cakes. Were I to measure ingredients for each batch as it happens it would take the rest of my life, so I do that days ahead, dry ingredients first, then the wet ingredients, fruit and peels. I measure the baking powder ahead, the spices, orange juice, butter, the eggs counted onto flats. All I measure day-of is the flour.

Baking day is just going through the physical construction of the final product—mix the fruit and nuts, make the batter, fold it in, scoop into pans and bake. When the year’s work finally comes together in my hands, nothing I do is so effortless, so pleasing as filling and weighing those pans. Complete happiness, in a sand box, 70 years ago, before the world intruded.

Once all the carefully prepared fruits, nuts and peels are together in the bowl, a good deal of effort is required to mix them thoroughly so there are no sticky clumps, and every cake will have a full spectrum of ingredients. So beautiful, so satisfying.

Flour that doesn’t go into the batter is used to dust and separate all the ingredients so everything is evenly suspended in the batter when it’s added, and needs to be rubbed into every nut, piece of fruit and strand of peel, by hand.

Below: batter is added and folded in by hand. There is no other way to do it. Then, much poking and prodding in the pan to remove voids before smoothing the tops, and baking.

Robert Lambert, October 2026

Great-Grandparents Johan and Maren, left; far right, my Grandfather John; 1896

It was July 4th 130 years ago when Great Uncle Anton set up his box camera to record his family’s heaping pails of strawberries. A hard road had led to this harvest, and here was proof he had arrived. This 4th of July the Historical Society in his small Wisconsin town of Elcho will officially open their restored Grange Hall, featuring Anton’s photos and other family artifacts.

Still Life with Strawberries, Anton Follstad, 1896, colorized by Sandra Ezer

None of it would have survived without my discovery in Grandparent’s barn when I was 12. From deep under dusty straw two steamer trunks emerged, like treasure chests, unopened for half a century. Grandpa John, Anton’s youngest brother, had lived here for years before he married at 41. I imagine it was when Grandma Florrie arrived that the trunks were banished and forgotten.

Family picnic, early 1900’s

What a curious jumble they held—starched shirt collars, Native American bead work, pewter mugs, letters, books, journals, photos in long ago costume, and dozens of glass plate negatives—what I would come to learn were the only survivors of the hundreds Anton took. As my Nancy Drew moment, I couldn’t have asked for more. Grandfather would have been horrified at the kids poking through all this, but advancing dementia left him increasingly unable to intervene when we decided to head to the barn.

Grandfather John, far left, at his logging camp, 1915

‘Up North’ to Wisconsinites is generally agreed to be the upper third of the state—vast wetlands and trackless forests, harsh and remote, even now largely uninhabited. In 1895 the state published Northern Wisconsin: A Handbook for the Home Seeker to lure homesteaders, with testimonials from those who had successfully wrangled a perch here. I wondered why there were multiple copies until I saw that Uncle Anton was one of those subjects.

Beautiful Otter Lake, 1900

“I came to Elcho in the fall of 1885 to visit cousins, and as the fine hardwood timber, rich soil and beautiful Otter Lake took my eye I concluded to buy two 40 acre plots next to my cousin’s and alongside the lake. I went back to the sawmill in Rhinelander where I had been working some years, but in the spring of 1887 I returned to Elcho to start farming. I had little knowledge of tilling the soil and not very good health, but a strong will, and a mind made up to stick to it.

The cabin Anton built in 1887, with the rest of his family, 1889; my grandfather, front center

“I cleared off a spot where I put up a log house and then cleared 2 acres more. On one I planted potatoes with a grub hoe; had a good yield and sold all I could spare to families connected to the veneer factory. In the fall I bought an ox team, cut and hauled 80,000 feet of hardwood logs to mill that winter at $5 per thousand. This gave me a start and I have cleared some land each spring.

Clearing land

“Four acres I planted to potatoes this year; I have just completed digging and have 1,460 bushels. I now have twenty acres of land cleared and part of it stumped. My house, built 2 years ago, cost me $800. I have always sold my produce to the lumber camps and to families at good prices.”

Anton’s Lakeside Farm, Highway 45 at Sunset Road, about 1900

Potatoes long remained my family’s life. Ambitious and intellectually curious, Anton consumed farming journals and bulletins, founded and became president of the Guernsey Breeders Association, helped found the Wisconsin Potato Growers Association. He hybridized flowers, fruits and vegetables, and shared discoveries with the US Department of Agriculture. When I was young there was still a tree near the lake, grafted by him, that bore 4 kinds of apples.

My grandfather John continued to grow potatoes until we helped harvest the last crop in 1957. Even the dog ate fried potatoes, though her coat had the texture of a whisk broom. My Mom was in her late 80’s when a surgery prevented her from cooking for a week; others brought them meals and for that she was grateful, but, she whispered to me in confidence, “We haven’t had a potato in four days.”

Ice cream at the Follstad camp, 1902

Mom’s memory of her favorite feast was the 4th of July of her childhood: young roosters in cream gravy, the first new potatoes, fresh shelled peas, home churned ice cream with strawberries. Another was Uncle Anton’s wife Anna’s schaum tortes—airy meringues dried in a slow wood stove oven, heaped with fresh strawberries and topped with whipped cream. By those standards, for her, only berry farm fruit would do. Until Mom died at 99 we would find some pick-your-own place every spring for her stash of freezer jam.

Everyone loves a good strawberry jam. Last year I was fortunate to have someone pick the fruit for me, but was resigned to picking them myself this year and had found a nearby source when my property manager came by and brought a box of berries.

“I was just making plans to go pick some strawberries for jam,” I said, “By all accounts it looks like Wilfert’s is the best place to go.”

“That’s my daughter—” he said, “ that’s where these came from.”

A call was made, and two days later the flats were delivered to my door. That I could smell them as soon as the hatchback was opened confirmed my luck, and the pleasures of a small town. There was a bag of fresh peas to shuck too; butter, salt, pepper, and done. The strawberries, served on ice cream. Dinner that night—Mom would have loved it.

Cooling off at the Follstad camp, 1902

For Anton’s generation the opportunity to own land was worth any struggle, but the triumph didn’t last. Drought and depression ended it, their better-educated children lured away by easier jobs in the cities, the weather in the West. All Anton’s siblings once owned nearby farms, a tight community of shared labor and celebrations. Where my brother lives is the last in original hands. Though the physical residue of their experiment has faded, the spirit lives on in how I choose to spend my days—the rewards of high standards, the pleasures of hard work and of being outside, in the garden.

Robert Lambert

July 3rd, 2026

Over 60 years ago I was accepted by a metro-wide high school chorus in Milwaukee. This flipped the mockery of my working class suburb to respect for talents that had never brought me anything but grief. The director was Margaret Hawkins, at the time still a high school chorus teacher, who was somehow getting her ragged charges to love performing Bach oratorios and Renaissance madrigals, and well. Heavy, with fine dark red hair, a formidable presence. In time she would lead the Milwaukee Symphony Chorus, and still be nationally the most underrated music director of her time.

For now, Margaret just gave me the world, and became, across the chasm of age and roles, a fast friend. Another singer I met there was a mutual click, a pale blond girl, one of Margaret’s students, with a wicked sense of humor we three shared. On Halloween we invented Pumpkin Caroling, rewriting lyrics to Christmas classics, and sung in 8 parts—at the bus station, the train depot, downtown. The following decades would draw Pat and me together but keep us strictly apart. It was 50 years before I moved back to Wisconsin, but we have taken up where we left off. All this is to say that I would not have this photograph without these women, or this story.

From Pat Downing last Friday:

“Here’s a photo of the sunset Wednesday night. It was overcast almost all day when suddenly everything was cast in a golden glow. I walked outside to catch the sunset and saw this at the end of my driveway. It lasted about 3 minutes before the sky turned grey again.”

Robert Lambert

May 2026

It’s nearly over now, I expect. The obituary arrived from Northern California at the end of March, a time when, for many years, I’d be visiting the Lester farm. On that hill above Watsonville were fragrant citrus varieties in the hundreds for me to harvest—pomelos the size of soccer balls to finger limes like pinkies. From the orchard the view spilled off to the town below, out to the Pacific and on to distant Monterey. At the end of the day I would climb back into my truck filled with rare fruit, dirty, exhausted, ripped and bloodied by cruel thorns, knowing my working life could never get better than this.

The road to the Lester’s began with the candied citrus that launched my business, then my search for more exotic strains. At an event in the Napa Valley I met David Karp, a citrus specialist and reporter for the Los Angeles Times. Studious in dark-rimed glasses, he was there to exhibit rarities culled from the arboretum at U-C Riverside, a citrus studies center since 1907. “My friend Toots Bier is department head, I’ll introduce you” he said. Soon Toots was sending me boxes of exciting curiosities, but for my production needs she suggested I try the California Rare Fruit Growers Association. The president quickly named Gene Lester as the man to see. “No one knows more about citrus than Gene” he said. A meeting was soon arranged.

The 3 hour drive from Marin County runs south to Gilroy and west over the coastal mountains. Remote Hazel Dell Road passes nurseries and hobby farms, entering a forest before the turnoff to Gene’s—a steep, deeply rutted single lane road that feels like you’ve reached the ends of the earth. Gene, his brother Charlie and their Mom—tiny, plucky, nearly 90—were there to greet me that first day. Gene dressed in auto mechanic’s uniform, dark grey pants and work shirt. Intelligent and unpretentious, with a wide tanned face, he was clearly gleeful as we tore off to tour the collection, in an open cart jouncing over rough terrain.

Below—clusters of white cocktail grapefruit

Above, my favorite of all the Mandarins—Oroval; if you ever find it, don’t pass it up.

Mandarins were his favorite: “An orange is always an orange, but every Mandarin is different.” He had 80 kinds, and though in time he had nearly 700 varieties of citrus, there was also the collection of avocado trees, the 30 types of pink-fleshed apples—in a tight row to stunt their growth; he just wanted samples. Much of his time was spent in a vast barn, however, restoring antique vehicles from rusted hulks, service vans and trucks to gleaming vintage sedans. Charlie, an expert in the arcane art of auto upholstery, restored the interiors.

Gene had been a mathematician at IBM before retiring to indulge his pleasures. Passionate, but not emotional, nothing could irritate him more than being probed for the source of his obsessions. “You like steak? Why?” he’d say. No further questions. So I’ll offer my take: his family’s move from Arkansas to Southern California in the mid 1940’s, with its then still endless orange groves. The service station his parents operated in Alhambra, teenage Gene and brother Charlie running custom hot rods on the salt flats of El Mirage.

We agreed I could take what I wanted if I left the most accessible fruit for visitors, researchers, tasting events. This meant reaching into the thorns, but you do what you have to. Gene presented me with my own serrated orchard jack knife to cut samples. What fun to devise the limited editions of rare marmalades I did back then, Marrakesh Limetta, Mandalo Tangelo, Swingle Citrumelo. It was hard to believe I had these riches largely to myself, and I did my best to spread the word. In turn Gene requested either a White Fruitcake or a jar of Calamondin Marmalade—a discriminating palate.

Gigantic ten-inch pomelos

A rare marmalade trio—Sampson Tangelo, Marrakesh Limetta, Kinkoji Pomelo

Renown food scientist Harold McGee, author of the classic On Food & Cooking: The Science & Lore of the Kitchen was a colleague, and a Finn updating an official citrus taxonomy moved in and spent months documenting the collection. Three Michelin star chef and friend David Kinch of Manresa restaurant Los Gatos planned an annual dinner around Gene’s fruit. Most impressive was that he simply learned what he wanted to know, without formal study or training.

Another favorite—the Sampson Tangelo

None of this amassing was for posterity—he was unconcerned with the eventual fate of his obsessions. As the years passed, I witnessed the inevitable decline. Mom died at 100, then Parkinson’s began its grim creep. When Gene died in 2020 it was one more reason for me to leave California. The wells could no longer supply enough water for full-grown trees; the Rare Fruit Growers came for cuttings. The obituary I just got marked Charlie’s death, at 92.

One of 15 pages of citrus varieties in Gene’s collection, those of special interest marked. Citrus is highly susceptible to pathogens, and there are now strict laws against propagation, moving plants, even cuttings, from place to place. Currently the entire Florida citrus industry is in collapse. This collection could never be assembled again.

Buddha’s hand citron

It will all go back into circulation, as these things do—the land, the cars, the Belter rosewood settee from the Arkansas homestead. A wife who lived in Switzerland, an estranged step-daughter, we never spoke of those things, but likely by now all gone as well. Will a tech billionaire score those precious acres? Will new owners notice the row of stunted apple trees, or cut those prickly trees with strange fruit now grown to block the view? Still, the stunning beauty of the place will endure. That’s out of our hands.

Robert Lambert

APRIL 2026

In landscaping, walnut trees are a nightmare. They are highly alkaline and poison all the ground around them, a killing field where nothing else will grow. Then there’s the nuts. Dropping from 80 feet up they can really bonk you on the head, but the ones on the ground are worse, guaranteed to twist an ankle if not break a leg. They also attract a party crowd of critters who then move on to the roses, and anything just about to bloom. It had to go.

Of course my first thought was what might lie at the heart of that impressive trunk, at least 2 feet thick and a good 50 feet up before there were any branches—black walnut lumber.

I am told it is crucial to get the logs to mill quickly or the sap bleeds and ruins the color of the wood. With the help of my contractor, the thick damp planks came back from the sawyer within a week, ready to rack and dry.

Next was a three-year wait before they were ready to use. Meanwhile, I reconfigured the kitchen to a galley that needed a center table. A work bench had been left behind in the basement, rusty steel base topped with rough weathered planks. Size-wise, height and length, it was perfect. My crack team of carpenter, woodworker, finisher and painter got to work.

Old planks removed, frame sanded and painted, stronger braces installed, rubber feet. The four best walnut planks were book-matched to their neighbors and trimmed down to solid heartwood, attached for top and bottom shelf.

The rippled depths of grain, color glints from gold to purple—it is a magnificent workhorse. I now prep all my meals there, assemble ingredients, plate servings.

The hope is it will always stay in this house, close to the place it grew, close to the craftsmen who made it. If nothing else, it is now a thing of beauty that will always find a welcoming home.

Robert Lambert

March 2026

Our first Spring Break road trip involved finding the place closest to Milwaukee that was both warmer and historic; New Orleans was straight south. The architecture drew me, but all of us were piqued by the food, taking quickly to grits with our eggs, chicory in our coffee, crawfish gumbo, turtle soup. I met and spent some days with a contractor who restored houses in the French Quarter and offered to take me to Galatoire’s, that bastion of local culture and cuisine. There at last I feasted on snails clutched in silver clamps, and a delicious moment of triumph—young, desired, and indulged.

The old French Market restaurant before demolition, French Quarter, New Orleans, 1968

Memorial at above ground cemetery, New Orleans, 1968

Decades later, north of San Francisco, I found a house I could make my home. In the hills of San Anselmo at the end of a quiet road, a stone-terraced garden, a view across the valley to the full profile of Mount Tamalpais. I took it without seeing the inside. Later as I bushwhacked up through rampant privet and acacia, it was clear this had once been someone’s eden, as it now would be mine. Succulents had survived the drought, striped agave, quince, fragrant lemons, Cecile Breuer rose, Japanese maples old and ripe for shaping.

View and gardens at Hilldale Drive, San Anselmo

An odd citrus tree at the front door stumped me, though. The gorgeous fruit looked like a mandarin, but sour, inedible. Why plant such a thing? I was then working for a San Francisco catering company where, for the holidays, I candied citrus peels. This left the juice and candying syrup behind—why not combine them, and make a full flavored syrup? Here I came back to that strange citrus—sour enough to stand up to sugar, while heat would free the peel’s exotic scent. Still I knew nothing more until I befriended a neighbor in her 90’s.

Alice had been young when these homes were built, they all were, exchanging plants and gossip through friendship gates, now long disused, cut into the tall fences. The builder of my house was renown for entertaining, and she was often invited. Keen on food, Asian arts and horticulture, his guests might include embassy officials from San Francisco. According to Alice the fruit in question was called a Rangpur lime, and as you arrived, one was clipped from the tree. Once inside your host squeezed the brilliant juice over ice in a glass and made you what was unquestionably the best gin and tonic in the world.

Rangpur limes

In later years neighbors would recall the old man crippled with arthritis, struggling up and down the hill until he no longer could. As the house changed hands and the garden lapsed, his legacy of hospitality slipped into local lore. He was born to it, they said. Italian, from an old family in the South, they had a famous restaurant. His name was Galatoire.

When I would at last start my own business, in the spirit of hospitality, Rangpur Lime Syrup would be my first product. At a local Farmer’s Market a customer noted that Rangpur means ‘bright or shining place’ in north Indian dialect, and that this fruit is native to the foothills of the Himalayas, in what is now Bangladesh.

Early display at the Marin County Farmer’s Market

You can’t buy Rangpur limes, you need a tree. It took a lot of explaining to move this stuff, and many lean months passed before I added things that would actually sell. Still one Sunday morning I did get the attention of a man, thin, grey, avuncular, when I mentioned gin and tonic. He sampled it and cocked his head. “Well, I’m on my way to the annual stockholder’s meeting of Tanqueray tomorrow. I’ll take it along,” he said as he handed me the cash. This kind of thing happens in Marin County. I remembered him a couple years later as I scanned a liquor store shelf and saw: New: Tanqueray Rangpur Lime Gin.

What could I say, but “Cheers!”

https://www.robertlambert.com/store/rangpur-lime-syrup.html

Robert Lambert

February 2026

The first time you come through the door and a loud strummmm sounds above your head, you look up, see a guitar, then the pic on the door frame that strums the strings again as it closes behind you. Barbershops have always been fraught territory for me, as if crossing enemy lines and wondering if I’ll blow my cover. Here though, a single chair, an affable elder hippie and former musician, once I have dissembled that no, actually I don’t follow the Packers—that met with a shrug—other avenues open.

Lynn is the third generation to ply his trade, and in the same space. One of those proud and hopeful brick storefronts from the 1910’s that line every American Main St., walls lined with team photos, concert posters, civic announcements that span the last hundred years. Not one for chatting from the chair, I’d rather let the man do his job, but the guitar, the pony tail, the posters, pose some questions.

Lynn had been in bands over the years but now spends his time on vintage guitars, classical ones, doing what he can to repair them. This is the world of lutherie, or the construction and repair of string instruments. A classical model from a legendary workshop came up online, and Lynn hoped he might restore it. Once he got it he saw the neck had problems, however, so he sought the advice of a local master. It is surprising how often one finds them here—perhaps the isolation draws contemplative spirits, those who like to work with their hands, and alone.

Federico Sheppard was born in Mexico City, at 2 moved to Pittsburgh. A scholarship brought him to Green Bay at 16; he became a sod cutter, a cab driver, then a geologist, then a chiropractor. A band leader uncle spawned an interest in music that paralleled these professions, from lead guitar for a Polynesian dance band to consultant on historic instruments for the National Museums of Paraguay and El Salvador. He also rode a bike around the world, and tried to join a “Mexican midget circus in France” but failed the height requirement; these barely hint at his resume.

Enthralled with classical guitar from the 17th through the 20th century, Federico immersed himself in the South American masters. He came to revere an indigenous player from Paraguay, Agustin Barrios, who wrote and performed worldwide through the early 20th century, and whose guitars are among the finest ever made. He was the first classical guitarist to be recorded, and his performance on German National Radio in 1935 was the last by a non-Aryan before such music was banned by the Nazis. Federico makes copies of his guitars, and they are in high demand.

Lynn met Federico at his home and workshop in Green Bay, and brought the guitar in question. What was wrong? Could anything be done?

The problem piece had been installed backwards, Federico concluded, and couldn’t be fixed; “Must have been an off-day at the shop.”

“Well what can I do with it?” Lynn asked.

“Do you have a porch?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

At this point in the story, in my mind, I cue a chorus of bird song.

“Look up.”

Nailed to the porch ceiling were a dozen old guitars, flighty blurs darting in and out of the sound holes.

“Makes a great bird house.”

The complete works of Agustin Barrios, played on twin Sheppard guitars; I’ve never heard anything like it.

Interview with Federico Sheppard:

https://www.guitarsalon.com/luthier/federico-sheppard?srsltid=AfmBOop6kmmRn582qq1KZ8GilsAGNcYrkAX278F7K8LXah9iW-zVyW4E

Robert Lambert

November 2025

1 Design, print and cut labels

First thing to do, last thing to use. Small runs and frequent changes mean I have never been able to have these printed. I design, print and hand cut them; I have earned a Master’s in exacto-blade.

2 Cut lengths of linen string

Quivers: A Love Story. These will tie the cheesecloth to the cake. I measure and cut them, then roll them into bundles in tin foil; later I can easily pull out one at a time.

3 Cut cheesecloth

The most punishing task. I need to cut 800 yards of cheesecloth into 1 ft. lengths, and the only way is one at a time. It snags easily, the weave needs to be straightened the length of the run or it will twist and won’t fit the cake. My one pound cake takes exactly 1 foot of cheesecloth, and exactly 1 yard of string.

4 Cut star garnish

It is time-consuming but not unpleasant to cut the thousands of citrus peel stars and flowers that top the cakes. This is the first step in cake production, as the peel left behind will go into the cakes. I move on to cutting all the peels for the year, then order the nuts and fruits, and prepare all to bake.

Once the cakes are baked they rest for about 8 weeks before I wrap them.

5 Harvest cedar sprigs for garnish

I cut branches along the stream, pinch ends into stacks that match the number of cakes I will assemble.

6 Peel parchment from cakes

Cutting these parchment cake pan liners I designed takes days, but they work so well it’s worth it. Done in early spring, soon as I know how many I’ll need. The cakes keep these jackets until they’re ready to wrap—sometimes years later.

7 Liquor for cakes and cloth

The liquors have been decanted into 5 gallon buckets and infused with herbs and spices weeks before. 2 1/2 cups soaks 16 cakes, half on the cakes and half on the cloth.

8 Wrap cake in cheesecloth

9 Tie with linen string

10 Tuck cedar under string, lay star on top

11 Slip cake into bag, tape to seal

12 Apply labels

Ready to go!

Happy Holidays!

Robert Lambert

Maren and Johan in Wisconsin, about 1895

When both parents died in 1900, the youngest son John, my Grandfather, bought an adjoining 160 acres. Brothers helped him clear the land; he would build a barn and small house, and plant an orchard.

Grandfather and brothers clearing land

The apple trees were well-established by the time he married my Grandmother Florrie 18 years later. Of the original 30 or so varieties, a good ten of them are still alive today. They had languished for decades, the fruit small, wizened and wormy, but worms winter in fruit on the ground, so cutting the grass, removing ground apples in fall and thinning the fruit as it forms in spring has restored their health and productivity.

Some we can identify—the Duchess of Alba, the earliest cooking apples in mid-August; the Whitney crabs for my Spiced Crab Apples, and a Macintosh, down to a single branch but still bearing fruit.

Mystery tree

Unfortunately we have no idea what variety the most favored cooking apple is, the one Grandma preferred for pies and sauce. They remain the best I’ve ever had—a uniquely intense apple scent and flavor. The tree lost a large limb this year, but 5 years ago my brother had stock grafted for a new tree. For the first time this year it was loaded, so the line continues.

Mystery apples

The first recipe card my Mother wrote out for me 60 years ago was for pie crust.

It goes like this:

3 cups flour

1 tsp. salt

1 cup (1/2 lb.) lard, cold and cut in chunks (don’t even think of using anything else)

cut these together—my Mom here heartily embraced the Cuisinart!

Add—

1/2 cup cold water

Process until the dough comes together in a ball.

Form into a thick cylinder and cut into 4 discs—enough for top and bottom of two 9” pies. Freeze until ready to use.

For the filling—7 cups of peeled, cored and thinly sliced apples (of commercial apples, Macintosh are the best choice here), 1 tsp. cinnamon, 1 cup sugar

Macintosh apples from the last branch

There are 2 schools of apple pie—one, reared on the dreaded Granny Smith apples or commercial pie filling, think the slices should stay hard and chewy, impervious to baking. The other thinks the fruit should cook down. Our family was of the later school, and these apples soften beautifully, perfect for pie or sauce. This year I was able to visit the farm in time to harvest this apple, and so make Heritage Apple Sauce. Should you not make a pie, warm this to top ice cream, and you’re almost there. It’s not just apple sauce, it’s the best you’ve ever had.

https://www.robertlambert.com/store/heritage-apple-sauce.html

Robert Lambert

October 2015

Been admiring this lamp at the farm for years when my brother recently found one he liked more, and sold it to me. This Handel lamp features the finest overlay filigree work they ever did, bamboo leaves—and, even rarer, its original cast bronze bamboo base, from around 1904. As with most old things, there was a flaw—the panels had come away from the top ring on one side, and I wanted to have that repaired in case it got worse.

Few people do this work, even fewer in my neck of the woods, but with diligence I got a contact, and brought him the lamp. Turned out the gap wasn’t because the soldering had slipped down, but because the entire shade had somehow been damaged, was now distorted, and the only way for it to appear level when on the lamp was to create that gap—so it was intentional.

Spent 2 1/2 hours with Peter the stained glass master in Green Bay yesterday, assisting him in a more acceptable repair. He had considered opening all the tiny flanges holding the glass in place to straighten the entire skeleton, but knew the shade was too fragile, and too fine a piece to risk more damage.

A very interesting guy, early 70’s, long white pony tail and goatee, been some kind of artisan all his life, has done many Tiffany lamp reproductions from the original molds, and many of his own creation. That has now been forsaken for fine woodworking with exotic woods, intricately layered boxes and woodwork throughout his home. No TV, no computer.

Before I returned he had cut the ring loose and cleaned away the old solder, but needed help getting the ring level and securing it until it had been re-attached, then with holding the shade at various angles while he filled in the gap, inside and out. Whenever I said it was “good enough,” he scoffed.

What looks a little lumpy was in fact extremely difficult to achieve, as anyone who has ever done this work will know, and as I do after having watched him. He then patinated the new work. No light now comes through the gap, and that part will in any case be turned to the back, but overall and excellent job with what I gave him.

This is just another of the fine artisans I’ve discovered here who do exceptional work purely for the joy it gives them. He has sold his pieces, he has given things way—once a Tiffany he had worked on for a year to a woman who had lost a prized heirloom in a fire.

“I can’t let it be ugly” he said.

He refused to charge me.

My Best,

Robert Lambert

Then there’s teenage slang, which changes annually, I suspect. I had an older cousin who used expressions like “cool,” or “peachy-keen.” “Cool” has had remarkable staying power, however, as well as “peach.” One would never say, “She’s a real orange,” or apple, or nectarine. Is it the vaguely sexual nature of the fruit, that it blushes—or that it has a heart of stone? The Allman Brothers admonished us to “Eat A Peach“ and we all knew what they meant.

I thought about this as the local peaches arrived the same time my cousin came to see my new home. Young cousin Freddie was once arrested for refusing to mount Wisconsin license plates on his customized hod rod, my Mother noted in the paper. The explanation he gave the judge was that the color of the plates clashed with his paint job. To stand before a court of law over a color match—here was a role model by whom I was and remain remain deeply impressed. Before retiring, he had become the top used car broker in the state.

In any case, these peaches are both cool and peachy-keen. Friend Liz’ mother-in-law picks them as I need them and they arrive on flats of about 20 pounds. Ripened under newsprint until they no longer resist my thumb, they then get blanched, cut and cooked. I stopped trying to get a decent peach from a store years ago. You need a tree to reach perfection, and these are. Whether a peachy-keen paint job or a jar of jam, a good life demands that one have standards, and stick to them.

The red pigment under the skin turns the jam a glorious orange.

Peach Jam is back in stock!

My best to you all—Robert Lambert

My home here on the coast of Lake Michigan lies in a clearing in a small patch of old growth forest. A bad storm last summer brought down a huge maple that in turn wiped out a dozen healthy trees. Been watching this other old tree since I moved here, a dying maple that this spring was down to one living branch, 100 feet up. My arborist pushed a stick into a knothole in the trunk, and it went all the way in—not a good sign!

If another storm hit and brought this one down it could damage many more trees, so I decided on a proactive approach, and fell it into a narrow slot where it wouldn’t touch anything else. These guys are good—if a bit reckless; no gloves, no hat, no problem—and you may note the cigarette smoke wafting throughout the process. It was, as suspected, completely rotten, and shattered when it fell. It harmed nothing, and has all been hauled away. A half-dozen juveniles are poised to take its spot in the sun, and life goes on…

Robert Lambert