Ice Shanty Village

A cold, bright day. Easy enough to stay indoors, but we’d made a plan to run a few errands and then pay a visit to the Ice Shanty Village out on Lake Harriet. Our first stop was a warehouse across town in the Seward neighborhood called Free Geek, where we dropped off two old computer screens. One was so heavy that I began to wonder if it was an old television set.

Once we’d dropped off the screens in the lobby and paid our $10 disposal fee we continued on into the warehouse where the shelves were filled with used computers, DVD players, stereos, and speakers, many of them slightly scuffed and dusty, all of them reasonably priced. Another set of shelves held rows of small plastic laundry tubs full of VGA, HDMI, and other sundry cables and adapters at very low prices or free. It all reminded me of the much smaller but also much less well organized collection of cables, devices, speakers, and gadgets we have in the basement at home.

As we left the parking lot Hilary convinced me to cut across South Minneapolis on Lake Street by reminding me that we were only a few blocks from Ingebretson’s Scandinavian Gifts and Food. It’s been a long time since we stopped in, and I, for one, had a sudden hankering for a chunk of their chopped liver pate. 

We entered through the gift shop, which was amply stocked with textiles, pots and pans, gadgets, textiles, and a larger selection of books than I’d remembered. Maybe they’ve rearranged. I was drawn to one or two of the kitchy ceramic coffee mugs (made in China)--one with an aurora borealis theme and another that was covered with an array of small, colorful coffee pots in silhouette.

At Christmas times long lines form at Ingebretson’s, and the Star Tribune almost invariably carries a story about it, but today the butcher shop was deserted–not even a butcher or a bell to ring. We wandered back and forth for a few minutes, peering into the glass-fronted display cases, until Hilary noticed a small block of that caramel-colored Ski Queen goat cheese that we knew we had to buy. I wasn’t so sure about the pricey Swedish flatbread, but you have to figure in the old-country-nostalgia surcharge.

The drive west across town takes quite a while under any circumstances, but several stoplights were on the fritz, and the stop signs that had been put up to replace them hampered the flow. As we stutter-stepped along it occurred to me that there must be at least forty Mexican restaurants on Lake Street. How do they all stay in business?

Before heading south around the lakes we stopped briefly at Whole Foods to drop off a computer cable I was returning to Amazon. They’ve got that down to a science; a couple of Q-code scans and we were done. We ventured out on the floor and found ourselves in a bewildering world of off-brands with pastel labels and absurd prices. What happened to General Mills, Dole, Heintz, and Del Monte? The Whole Food chain prides itself on its selection of quality organic and New Age products, I’m sure, but they didn’t have the one thing we were looking for: Aunt Nelly’s Sweet and Sour Red Cabbage, the essential accompaniment to chopped liver. Yet the store was busy and no one seemed dismayed by the inventory. Yet another alternative universe.

By the time we reached Lake Harriet the temperature had risen to 11 degrees. We parked a few blocks from the lake next to Berry Woods, where Henry David Thoreau liked to stroll during his convalescent visit to Minnesota in 1861. From the rise a block away we could see lots of activity in the distance out past the bandstand. As we headed out from shore into the blinding sunlight we passed an odd but attractive pool of bright blue water that had collected on the ice. A small diamond-shaped sign on a three-foot pole said “Danger: Thin Ice.” It seemed inadequate. Then again, who in their right mind would walk over to examine a big pool of water on an otherwise snow-covered lake?

At the first shanty we passed, maybe eight or ten people were singing a song around a smoking campfire. I didn’t recognize the song, and there was no chance of getting close to the fire, so we moved on, passing one goofy or whimsical shanty after another, stopping to read the descriptive signs but entering inside only once or twice. Lines had formed in front of several of the structures. We crowded into one to find that it was already packed with people, many of them, I presume, trying to escape the wind for a minute or two, like us.

But half the fun is just wandering the ice on a brilliant day, mingling with other adventurous people inspired by the same spirit of creativity and good-natured irreverence. I almost wonder whether the appeal lies in connections to a long-forgotten ancestral past when life was nomadic and family connections were reinforced by ad hoc seasonal get-togethers?

Several people were flying kites in the distance, a bare-legged man wearing dreadlocks was setting a few mattes out on the ice for an upcoming yoga class, and a group of enthusiasts nearby were learning how to play ice lacrosse.

At the far end of the village a small stage had been set up on which visitors could lip-sync to their favorite songs. I asked the heavily bearded man running the sound system what was behind the shimmering curtain at the back of the stage. “Costumes,” he said with a grin. “Lots of costumes.”

I didn’t recognize the song the woman was singing, and I couldn’t see her lips, either, due to the glare of the sun, but I enjoyed watching four or five dancers on the ice just beyond the stage doing a highly choreographed routine consisting largely of jumping jacks.

As we made our way down the other side of the village we passed one structure sheathed in clear plastic with a large loom hanging from the ceiling. Another shanty consisted of a cozy open-air fireplace and a couch where visitors could read a selection of banned books. One shack had been designed so that you could make music by pounding on the wooden planks hanging from the walls.

The last structure we passed was a mirror/memory shack where, among other things, a blackboard had been installed so visitors could share an experience they’d like to relive, either because they’d screwed it up the first time, or more likely, because they loved it so much. One person had written, “This morning’s coffee.” Another had scrawled “Yesterday.” And a third: “My wedding, times three!”

Back on dry land, I stuck a bill into the plexiglas donation box and we wandered over to higher ground and the shelter of the food trucks. After one last look out toward the village, we made our way back to the car, well aware that we hadn’t explored the scene fully, but happy we’d made the effort. It was fun.

Our dinner that night was fabulous: Ingebretson's pate and red cabbage on flatbread, with a side of green beans cooked with lemon zest, ginger, and garlic.

Recipe to follow.