My wife Lori and I are big readers.
     I’d like you to think that we sit around, I in my smoking jacket and Lori in her evening gown, discussing literature with a capital “L,” but the reality is that we have short attention spans and mostly stick to magazines. My stable is a revolving one, but I currently receive Field and Stream, Trout, Ducks Unlimited, American Rifleman and Shooting Times. Lori subscribes to Garden Gate, Cuisine at Home, Dance Teacher and Better Homes and Gardens.
     Sometimes I pick up Better Homes and Gardens when I’m bored. Would I feel more manly if I told you it was Soldier of Fortune? Sure. But I occasionally get the barest glimpse of a boob in a bath-products advertisement. Hey, in these uncertain times, it’s best to take your pleasures where you can find them.
     Anyway, a staple of BH and G is the “home makeover,” where readers follow along as the subjects—in our case, Serge and Janet Ianelli of East Burnwich-upon-Bromley, Connecticut—do things like transform their tired 100-year-old Cape Cod into a vibrant abode for themselves and their three adorable children.
     In a representative photo, Janet smiles lovingly at Serge as he tends to an exotic cheese plate for their whimsical garden party. By her smile, you can just tell that Serge has never left an impromptu spittoon in the spot where Janet normally places her mug of cappuccino.
     Through a large bay window the photo reveals a knot of happy guests, and thanks to the Ianellis’ inspired lighting choices, the reader is able to see that one of the females is, um, rather fetching. You can bet that, in this perfect little world, when Janet asks, “Honey, do you think Roger’s wife is attractive?” Serge has the good sense to say, “No.”
     At first, friends, I would read articles like that and think, “Hey, I can do that.” I am, after all, sort of a Renaissance man. In 1989, I drank half of a Zima, and I can still play most of the right notes to “Cockles and Mussels” on the piano.
     Well, some of them.
     O.K., a few.
     But it quickly became apparent to me that while a man reads these types of articles and sees a year’s worth of DIY weekends, a woman reads them and gets, “Confine your man, and his stuff, to ever-smaller spaces.”
     It was while living on top of a pallet in the basement that I came to the realization that if my architectural dreams were to come true, I would have to take them outside: specifically, to the world of extreme ice-shack makeovers.
     I have been in this business for a number of years now. It’s difficult to think “outside of the box” when you are, in fact, in a box, but I use the elements of design—space, line, color, shape, texture, form, value and type—to create for you the shanty of your dreams.
     Where others see decay, I see opportunity. If, for example, you have a chunk of dry rot which you would be inclined to rip out and fill with insulation cadged from the attic, I might knock out a whole wall and construct you an airy three-season porch.
     We all know that the common materials of ice-shanty construction are wood, tarpaper and tin, with maybe a little aluminum thrown in. But just because there’s not a lot of ice-fishing in Tuscany doesn’t mean I can’t be inspired by that region and utilize stucco, or perhaps terra cotta.
     Following is a testimonial from a satisfied customer, Norb Heckendorf, of Hayward, Wisconsin:
     “My shanty was an abomination, filled with mouse nests and a persistent musty smell. And there was no organic flow-through, until Mr. Helker painted a wall azure to create the illusion of space. The only downside is that sometimes I miss flags on tip-ups because I’m too busy admiring the Roman mural, and a potpourri-induced reverie once caused me to be cited for unattended lines.”
     I was inspired to expand my repertoire to the culinary arts while watching an episode of “Everyday Italian,” with Giada de Laurentiis. If you haven’t seen the program, Ms. de Laurentiis is a stunningly beautiful woman.
Lori: “What’s she cooking?
Me: “Damn right she’s cookin.’”
Lori: “No, I said WHAT is she cooking?”
Me: “Is she cooking something?”
     My first stabs at cooking on ice were not well-received. Zagat’s Fine Dining had this to say:
     “Amidst a sea of similar establishments on Monona Bay, we had the extreme misfortune of happening upon Mr. Helker’s. Sanitary conditions are, quite frankly, appalling.
     The menu is a short one.
     Upon asking what was available, we were offered a single piece of pickled herring speared with what appeared to be a dipstick from a 1973 International Harvester Scout. The herring was mushy and lacked zip, and when we asked for condiments Mr. Helker simply scattered a handful of black flecks upon the fish. These flecks only made the herring taste worse, if that is in fact possible.
     The proprietor was a sullen host. During our entire visit he stared into a hole in the ice, mumbling dejectedly about a particularly deflating Green Bay Packers loss. The only times he brightened were when a bobber dipped and he brought a bluegill flopping up from the depths, and at the end of our visit, when we indicated that we were about to leave.”
     Well, my friends, that review stung. Stung! But first, in my defense, it did not “appear” to be a dipstick from a 1973 International Harvester Scout. It was a dipstick from a 1973 International Harvester Scout. Second, when it comes to condiments, differentiating between fine Hungarian peppercorns and mouse turds can be difficult indeed, particularly if you’ve had a few.
     But I learned from my mistakes, and a later edition of Zagat’s offered this:
     “To say Mr. Helker has made great strides is a huge understatement. He is now the unparalleled leader in fish-house cuisine. If you’re on the way back to your truck for a tin of waxworms, you simply must pop in.”
     Inspired by my successes in ice-shack makeovers and the culinary arts, I decided to try to create a multimedia empire, like Martha Stewart or Rachael Ray. To that end, I created a television pilot showcasing my shanty cooking skills. In retrospect, it would have been good to have had an aspiring starlet show a little leg every now and then, in order to have better secured our coveted demographic, but Bemidji Bob was available and reasonably observant in matters of personal hygiene.
Director: “And we are…rolling. And three, and two, and one…”
Me, yelling: “Bob, are those mushrooms? Get ‘em out of the shanty right now!”
     You see, mushrooms are bad luck in an ice shanty, just as bananas are bad luck on a charter boat. Plus, they’re disgusting (morels excepted, but only because they don’t taste like mushrooms.)
     Mycologists (sound it out, John Filardo of Windsor, Wisconsin) classify a number of types of deadly fungi, and some which are hallucinogenic. Therefore, a good day of mushroom hunting may include you careening through the woods, bouncing off of trees, with a damaged frontal lobe and heart arhythmia and plagued by enormous chipmunks.
     I have some entities of unknown appellation, but unquestionably biological in origin, behind the washer and dryer and in the corner of the basement where water pools, and I have never once come upstairs and exclaimed to my wife, Lori, “Hey! Look what I just scraped off of the basement floor! Whaddaya say we pitch it on top of a couple of steaks?”
Producer: “O.K., Kurt? O.K.? Mushrooms gone. Mushrooms gone. Man, I hate these self-centered celebrities. This pilot is going to stink. Sure wish we had a starlet to show a little leg.”
Bemidji Bob, misunderstanding, shows a little leg. Much retching ensues amongst cast and crew.
Director: “Cut! Cut! Cut!”
     O.K., so my foray into multimedia failed.
     That’s alright.
     I’ve still got my career in extreme ice-shack makeovers and fish-house cuisine to fall back on.
     Maybe I’ll see you on the ice sometime. Mine is the elegant Tudor shanty. Feel free to rap on the French double doors and maybe come in for a bite to eat. If you do, don’t worry about the vintage of the herring.
     I mean, how bad can it be?
     It’s pickled, right?