JULY 14, 2026 – Today at Grindstone Lake was hotter than a pistol at the storming of the Bastille on this day in 1789. Chaotic incident was the spark that lit the beginning of the end of the Bourbon Monarchy in France. If there were a few French fur traders and missionaries in this neck of the woods back then, I’m guessing they were grousing more about the mosquitoes than they were complaining of the heat—or the royalty and aristocracy back in France. Before long, they’d be trying to survive another cold, deep winter. The native people, of course, took it all—hot or cold—in stride.
By 7:30 this morning the temperature was already 80F. By the time I finished some pressing legal work, I felt like a frog in the proverbial stove-top pot of water over a burner turned to “High.” Before the pot boiled over, I needed to engage in some long-neglected forestry work. Given the task at hand—cutting an eight-inch-diameter log into manageable lengths—the most efficient tool would be the chainsaw. My rule, however, to which there are no exceptions, is to wear appropriate gear and proceed very methodically and cautiously. I knew two guys, each of whom was done in by a chainsaw. Each of them was a lawyer. On such a blistering hot day as we experienced today, the steel-toe boots, the heavy jeans, the heavy sweatshirt, the heavy gloves, and, of course, the safety glasses increased the sweat factor significantly. But as I said, no exceptions to my safety rule.
After completing the task and drinking nearly 24 ounces of H20 in one long intake, I returned to my ongoing project—the fleet of model sailboats. The temperature—90F—was too high for painting. Plus, I noticed that yesterday’s second coat, applied between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m., remained tacky even at noon today. I therefore turned to other work: rigging, marking and drilling multiple precision holes in each of the wooden masts and drilling holes for the traveler across the stern of each vessel—and installing the traveler on two of the boats.
After my Golden Hour hike, conducted at a substantially slower pace than usual, I cooked up some couscous, as I often do when I’m cooking on my own. “Couscous.” As is commonly known, it’s an ancient staple of North Africa. In fact, six years ago, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisa and Mauritania collaborated to establish couscous (which mimics “skss, skss,” the sound of sifting semolina (from which couscous is derived), through a sieve) as an “Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity” by UNESO. I kid you not.
Couscous is as easy to make as a bowl of oatmeal, which is my other staple, whether I’m on my own or not. You pour a cup and a quarter of water into a stove-top pot, add about a tablespoon of olive oil, then turn the burner to “boil, baby, boil” (talk about frogs!). Once the water rumbles, you remove the pot from the burner, pour in the contents of a box of couscous, stir, and wait five minutes. After fluffing up the cooked couscous, you dish a bunch into a large cereal bowl, mix in some fresh green vegetables, your choice of protein, two liberal splashes of lemon juice, eight leaves off your basil plant, two choices of condiments (I add mustard and Italian dressing) and “You’ve got dinner!”
Every time I hear or see the word, “couscous,” I’m reminded of Boutros Boutros . . . Boutros Boutros-Ghali, that is, the sixth general secretary of the UN. And when I think of “BoutrosBoutros,” I’m reminded of Egypt, which was his home country. And when Egypt comes to mind, especially on a sizzling day like today here in northwest Wisconsin, I remember my sojourn in that country some 45 years ago.
In Luxor, I’d met a couple from New Zealand on their “OE”—“overseas experience”—which back in those days was a common right of passage for 20-something New Zealanders. I have no idea what we were thinking, but we decided to rent bicycles and bike several miles across the burning desert east of the Nile to Tutankhamun’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings. The tomb was cool, but everything else about the trip was hotter than Hades. We drank as much water as we could find and carry, but it was never enough.
Two weeks earlier, I’d been in another hotbox of the world: India. Such a hotbox, in fact, that I spent most of my time up in the Himalayas of Kashmir. After a month in pleasant conditions, I caught a flight from the Kashmiri capital, Srinigar, back down to New Delhi (and from there to the Middle East). I’ll never forget the frontal attack of extreme heat and humidity as I deplaned. It was the same sensation that you experience when opening an oven door to check on the pizza after the buzzer goes off. A blast of unnatural heat knocks you in the face and takes your breath away. Your eyes feel as if they’ll melt unless you slam the door immediately. If the pizza’s going to burn, let it burn. Burnt dinner is better than melted eyeballs.
Conditions weren’t that hot here today, but they came close. And the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, otherwise known as “couscous”? It tasted great and was in keeping with the “North African” weather theme.
Subscribe to this blog and received notifications of new posts by email.
© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
