Down The Road

Down the Road

Just down the road and to the left you’ll come upon a tree with a smallish house in it, very large for a tree house but smallish for a house house. The tree bears it well. The whole scene is as tidy as can be. A smallish house at the end of a twisty ladder with a shingle out front that says “Welcome”. And, while it all seems a bit fairytailish, I assure you that the people inside are quite real.

The Katzenkinders have lived in the house for thirty-five years now. They came to the Driftless from Holland in the Seventies and brought the tree house with them. They dismantled it on their side of the Atlantic put it on board a steamer and set sail for New York. From there on a flat bed to the forests of Western Pennsylvania where they intended to set up house keeping next to their cousins, also named Katzenkinder.

As luck would have it the forest they were destined for had long since become a suburb of Pittsburgh replete with strip malls, fast food eateries and all those commuters. This was not at all what the couple had in mind so they set about the task of finding another forest wherein to install their home.

They found the Driftless in an issue of Mother Jones and knew immediately that our fair land was the land for them. What could be finer than for the Katzenkinders than to live near the Kickapoo? Anything with two K’s in it had to be good. So they did it; they repacked the cottage and drove west, made a right turn on 14 and found us.

They settled on a nine and three quarter acre parcel of land near La Farge that had an enormous oak situated exactly in the middle of the property. Now this was no ordinary oak for its massive trunk separated into three main tributaries which then headed upward. Imagine a tree in the shape of a red wine glass except, of course, much much larger.

So, with remarkably little trouble, the Katzenkinders hoisted their home into the center of that noble tree and set it down just where the massive limbs divided, about fifteen feet above the forest floor. It was perfect. They had a sturdy base, an inspiring view and the remaining seventy feet of that lovely oak stretched high above them. Shelter, shade and serenity; a finer home there could never be, not anywhere.

It’s easy to find the Katzenkinders. You go to the end of the road on the east side of the Kickapoo Reserve and look for a gate. There’s no fence but there is a gate, standing just as proud as you please and on that gate hangs a sign that says “Come in, we have the soup on”. That’s when you’ll notice the aroma surrounding your senses, filling the air, an invitation through your nose. What good sense it makes to cook a pot of soup…for everyone. What a good life this leads to. What a fine thing to do.

I have talked to so many folks who have had soup in the cottage and each is more enthralled than the other. They say they have never tasted finer, anywhere, and each of them will tell you without a doubt that it is the best mushroom soup imaginable. Except for those who describe it as potato soup or those who know it to be chicken soup or the woman last week who spoke rapturously of the vegetable barley she had just enjoyed in the woods. Indeed the Katzenkinders are so skillful in the art that each new diner tastes their soup in a different way. I used to think it was magic but now I know it’s not. It’s simply what’s to be expected wherever love is served, every day.

I invite you to go to the gate and into the woods and climb the twisted ladder up to the smallish house in the giant oak and say hello to the Katzenkinders. Just so you know, they like a piece of crusty bread with their soup, so bring some along.

Enjoy your soup and remember that there’s no need to ask for the recipe; you already have it in your heart.