“The difference between the hotdish and the casserole is: the hotdish comes in a square or retangular dish. The casserole comes in a round dish. It’s the same recipe. The potato hotdish, rectangular dish. The potato casserole, round dish.”
The snow that fell overnight yesterday prompted a walk. Since the buses in Duluth don’t circle around, which I was not-so-kindly informed about by my line 11 driver, I took to the streets and hit downtown to break in my boots and awaken my senses. The brisk air kept me walking and the promise of food a few blocks from the bus stop put even more of a pep in my step. There’s nothing more refreshing than burning cold Midwestern winter air to remove the sting of an angry DTA driver and the rumbling that had already commenced in my stomach by noon.
Bookstores, thrift shops and a casino with frosted windows lit Superior Street on the grey winter afternoon. With the exception of old car engines and mumbling street dwellers there wasn’t much to take in. It’s quiet in downtown Duluth and I like it because that means I’m not distracted from walking. My boots were dragging through the streets despite my hurry towards food. My dad, bless his soul, showed up in the form of two giant snow boots on my front porch, accompanying my mom, bless her’s as well, in the form of a forest green down jacket. If there’s one thing they won’t let me do, it’s freeze. Move across the country. Go for it, just don’t lose a limb. Thanks to you two, I made it to lunch without losing so much as a fingertip to the frosty air.
I walked a few blocks through town, dragging those boots, paying attention to the patches of ice that had yet to melt, and every so often popped into shops when I couldn’t stand my fingertips pulsing. John is with me in the form of fingerless hobo mittens, and even though the attachment is there to keep my hands safe I find myself struggling to take pictures with them up so I find it reasonable to risk my nails until they turn somewhere between pale and electric blue.
The sky, a dull grey with the promise, every so often, of blue patches to brighten the scene. The streets more or less empty with bus stops barren and taxi cabs that seem to have been loitering since the dawn of time.Their lights still on but the drivers seated in a position, legs on the dash-paper spread across the whell, that says they’re not prepared to go anywhere anytime soon.
Eventually my stomach was causing heads to turn and my own was spinning so I swung open the heavy door to the Fitgers Brewery and felt my muscles sigh with relief as the sensation of heat wrapped around me.
Everyone here has a response to “So what are you doing in Duluth?” “Oh I’m here studying the hotdish…” Whether it’s a laugh, a contorted face or a combination of both, everyone has got something to say. My bartender/potter/small time chef graced me with his opinion on hotdishes after recovering from random spurts of laughter and repeated inquiry about what I was doing in the North Star State.
“Do you know the difference between the casserole and the hotdish yet?”
I have yet to answer this question confidently because apparently those who live here are still torn. I’ve been going with something along the lines of: the name? the ingredients? the time spent preparing it?
Wrong again, according to this one. “It’s not about what’s in it, it’s about the shape it’s in.” He’s somewhat confident that the only difference between the casserole and the hotdish is the shape. He’s committed much of his time to firing earthenware while simultaneously trying out recipes for a cookbook that he’s collaborating on with his mother. Although the hotdish isn’t the most exciting thing hes’ got going in his growing repetoire (pancakes cooked in sriracha spiked bacon grease and homemade maple syrup) he plans on serving some one day in his handmade creations.
I spent a few hours loading my body full of soup and beer and trying to plan a good way to tackle a cheese factory tour of Wisconsin (his home state) I learned about the adoption of English Pasties in the Midwest and the Illinoise Raccoon Festival (Not to worship them, unless you could roasting a form of worship)
Notes from my bartender:
1. Try the cheddar instead of the ice cream.
2. Greek yogurt and almond milk make a good substitute for milk in pancakes.
3. Change the dish and you’ve changed the name.
minnesotalica 