I'm here. I know it seems like I've disappeared. But as soon as the weather gets warmer and the sun stays out longer, I'm walking, running, planting, weeding, or doing something outdoors! My meals have been very basic lately - meat and vegetables with some rice or instant couscous (Mark's favorite!) Our latest meals have been baked scallops with garlic sage foccacia, sauteed green beans in garlic with brown rice and seared ahi tuna; chicken stir fry with fresh sugar snap peas and a grape tomato chutney; and spinach kiku! We traveled last weekend, and have eaten out several times too, thanks to my brother's girlfriend, who hooks us up with the best pizza on the planet. I've been working on a sprouted wheat chocolate chip cookie recipe, though!
I'm also finishing up the school year, which means oodles of grading, and have been working on some writing pieces as well. To boot, Mark and I are flying to Barcelona on June 14, and then doing some travel through Spain and Italy until July 2nd. After that, I'm hoping to spend some time on an organic farm in Wisconsin, working on my first novel. So, cooking experiments are taking a bit of a backseat for awhile. I will definitely keep posting, but it just may be a bit longer between posts!
Showing posts with label percolating thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label percolating thoughts. Show all posts
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Pollen Preaches
I begin this article in full disclosure: I had no intention of hearing Michael Pollen speak last Tuesday. My Gmail calendar had one lone appointment on Tuesday, May 12th, and it involved me and the television. That appointment was going to be my last drink before AA, the last cigarette before inhaling a pack of Nicorette, the "closure" phone call to the jerk I broke up with six months ago. That appointment was The Biggest Loser finale. My obsession with the NBC reality show began innocently enough. Mark had class on Tuesday nights and I couldn't stand the silence of an empty apartment. I tuned in to the Biggest Loser in January, and found myself blocking off an entire night in May to celebrate the end of the season, and my subsequent freedom on Tuesday evenings.
But one day before the finale my aunt emailed me, adding as an afterthought, "Have you ever heard of Michael Pollen? I'm going to hear him speak at the West Roxbury library tomorrow night." Have I ever heard of Michael Pollen? Pollen, the author of several books including The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defense of Food, is the Michael Jackson of food writing. I considered my date with Tara, Mike, and Helen for about two seconds, and quickly changed the Gmail event to "MICHAEL POLLEN!" If only a sugar addiction were as easy to kick as The Biggest Loser.
The atmosphere in the auditorium of the Lyndon Elementary School was thick with sweat and anticipation in a space not designed for so many adult bodies. It felt like a strange mix between rock concert and church service, featuring Michael Pollen as the lead-singing preacher. And yes, he delivered. Pollen was Bono-esque, complete with trendy glasses and exuding confidence. His voice traveled through the audience with such an intimate cadence, I think we each felt as though he was talking only to us, over a locally grown green salad.
Pollen opened by addressing the eager crowd with praise for their civic involvement, and a quick but respectful reference to West Roxbury’s Brook Farm, a nineteenth century Utopian experiment based on the popular views of Transcendentalism. He quipped about this speaking engagement, quoting several people who questioned his stop to West Roxbury, Massachusetts, but his tone turned solemn when reminding us that the six-week West Roxbury Reads program that culminated in his visit was incredibly important to the health and future of our society.
Pollen began by sharing four common ideologies around food, which he collectively calls "nutritionism." They include the ideas that nutrients are more important than food; if what matters about food is invisible, we must need experts to tell us how to eat; there are good nutrients and foods and bad ones; and the whole point of eating is for health.
He also offered his thoughts on the proliferation of nutritionism at all levels of society. This ideology has crept into our society unnoticed, in the form of the low-fat campaign and products such as Snackwells brand snacks. You'd think we'd be getting healthier now that we've cut out fat, right? But between 1920 and 1960, the butter consumption of the average person fell from eighteen pounds, to four. And during that same span, heart disease skyrocketed to become the nation's number one killer.
Pollen asserted that our nutritionism demands that we compartmentalize eating, but the sum of the parts is left far behind the sum of the whole. We're following a science that began in the 1830s. To put that in perspective, nutritional science today is where surgery was in 1650 - promising, but not there yet. I don't think anyone in the audience would sign up to go under the knife of a doctor with seventeenth century medical knowledge.
We know the Western diet leads to chronic diseases; forty percent of cancers are linked to diet; and $1.5 of the $2 trillion spent on health care goes to treating food related chronic illnesses.
So where do we go if we throw out the tenets of nutritionism?
First, we must get off the SAD - the standard American diet. That means we need to start eating food, not food products. Pollen suggests eating foods that don't need to carry health claims on their packaging - in fact, most real food doesn't even have packaging. You'll find this real food around the perimeter of the supermarket, at farmer's markets, and in your backyard garden.
Pollen also advocates following cultural wisdom regarding food. He's currently compiling a list of food rules that include the smirk-inducing, "It’s not food if it comes to you through the window of a car," and the more thought-provoking, "The only food you should eat grows out of the ground or had a mother." Yet, the food industry doesn't agree with Grandma. They don't want us to see public service announcements about real food; ninety-four percent of food marketing goes to processed foods.
After the thirty-minute boot-camp session, which was based on the premise of his book, "In Defense of Food," Pollen answered questions handed to him via little notecards we'd all furiously scribbled on while waiting for him to take center stage. The first question asked Pollen to share what he would say if he had five minutes with President Obama. With a disarming smile, Pollen looked down at his notes, took a sip of water, and answered as if he'd been thinking about this question all week.
"We have a highly centralized food supply, and that provides greater risk for contamination - both accidental and intentional," Pollen started. He went on to suggest that the government could begin to practically implement this by mandating a 5% local food procurement for all nationally and state run facilities, from schools to jails. This would bring farmers back into business and decrease our risk for potential contaminants. We applauded furiously, as if he had just nailed the final point of his sermon.
There were questions about preserving soil and water, to which Pollen directed us to Wendell Berry's Op-Ed piece, “A 50-year Farm Bill.” Others wanted to know if Pollen ever felt threatened by the industry he's exposing. He assured us he does not fear for his safety, but told us about the campaign to take down investigative journalist Eric Schlosser, author of Fast Food Nation, when he attempted to visit schools to speak about the industry-threatening ideas in his book. The crowd was quiet with the understanding that fighting food giants is not just a euphemism for sporadically buying organic food at Whole Foods. If it's done with conviction, it can put careers, reputations, and personal security in jeopardy.
The final question was perfectly placed by the librarian in charge of filtering the over zealous (and verbose) questions. "What will your next book be about?"
That smile again.
"Well, I'm doing something a bit different," and you could tell he was excited about it. The answer to this question outlasted all the others, but it seemed appropriate, almost like an encore. "We've lost the culture of cooking." Considering half of our food dollars are spent outside the home, he may be right. So Michael Pollen will be writing a book about cooking, not to be confused with a cookbook.
In addition to his upcoming book, Pollen and Schlosser will be featured in the movie “Food, Inc.” They're hoping to reach a wide audience with the film, and educate the public about where our food really comes from. I want the endeavor to be a success, but I wonder at what cost? Pollen the preacher may need to get on his knees to pray for protection, because he has too much momentum to stay under the food industry's radar for long.
But one day before the finale my aunt emailed me, adding as an afterthought, "Have you ever heard of Michael Pollen? I'm going to hear him speak at the West Roxbury library tomorrow night." Have I ever heard of Michael Pollen? Pollen, the author of several books including The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defense of Food, is the Michael Jackson of food writing. I considered my date with Tara, Mike, and Helen for about two seconds, and quickly changed the Gmail event to "MICHAEL POLLEN!" If only a sugar addiction were as easy to kick as The Biggest Loser.
The atmosphere in the auditorium of the Lyndon Elementary School was thick with sweat and anticipation in a space not designed for so many adult bodies. It felt like a strange mix between rock concert and church service, featuring Michael Pollen as the lead-singing preacher. And yes, he delivered. Pollen was Bono-esque, complete with trendy glasses and exuding confidence. His voice traveled through the audience with such an intimate cadence, I think we each felt as though he was talking only to us, over a locally grown green salad.
Pollen opened by addressing the eager crowd with praise for their civic involvement, and a quick but respectful reference to West Roxbury’s Brook Farm, a nineteenth century Utopian experiment based on the popular views of Transcendentalism. He quipped about this speaking engagement, quoting several people who questioned his stop to West Roxbury, Massachusetts, but his tone turned solemn when reminding us that the six-week West Roxbury Reads program that culminated in his visit was incredibly important to the health and future of our society.
Pollen began by sharing four common ideologies around food, which he collectively calls "nutritionism." They include the ideas that nutrients are more important than food; if what matters about food is invisible, we must need experts to tell us how to eat; there are good nutrients and foods and bad ones; and the whole point of eating is for health.
He also offered his thoughts on the proliferation of nutritionism at all levels of society. This ideology has crept into our society unnoticed, in the form of the low-fat campaign and products such as Snackwells brand snacks. You'd think we'd be getting healthier now that we've cut out fat, right? But between 1920 and 1960, the butter consumption of the average person fell from eighteen pounds, to four. And during that same span, heart disease skyrocketed to become the nation's number one killer.
Pollen asserted that our nutritionism demands that we compartmentalize eating, but the sum of the parts is left far behind the sum of the whole. We're following a science that began in the 1830s. To put that in perspective, nutritional science today is where surgery was in 1650 - promising, but not there yet. I don't think anyone in the audience would sign up to go under the knife of a doctor with seventeenth century medical knowledge.
We know the Western diet leads to chronic diseases; forty percent of cancers are linked to diet; and $1.5 of the $2 trillion spent on health care goes to treating food related chronic illnesses.
So where do we go if we throw out the tenets of nutritionism?
First, we must get off the SAD - the standard American diet. That means we need to start eating food, not food products. Pollen suggests eating foods that don't need to carry health claims on their packaging - in fact, most real food doesn't even have packaging. You'll find this real food around the perimeter of the supermarket, at farmer's markets, and in your backyard garden.
Pollen also advocates following cultural wisdom regarding food. He's currently compiling a list of food rules that include the smirk-inducing, "It’s not food if it comes to you through the window of a car," and the more thought-provoking, "The only food you should eat grows out of the ground or had a mother." Yet, the food industry doesn't agree with Grandma. They don't want us to see public service announcements about real food; ninety-four percent of food marketing goes to processed foods.
After the thirty-minute boot-camp session, which was based on the premise of his book, "In Defense of Food," Pollen answered questions handed to him via little notecards we'd all furiously scribbled on while waiting for him to take center stage. The first question asked Pollen to share what he would say if he had five minutes with President Obama. With a disarming smile, Pollen looked down at his notes, took a sip of water, and answered as if he'd been thinking about this question all week.
"We have a highly centralized food supply, and that provides greater risk for contamination - both accidental and intentional," Pollen started. He went on to suggest that the government could begin to practically implement this by mandating a 5% local food procurement for all nationally and state run facilities, from schools to jails. This would bring farmers back into business and decrease our risk for potential contaminants. We applauded furiously, as if he had just nailed the final point of his sermon.
There were questions about preserving soil and water, to which Pollen directed us to Wendell Berry's Op-Ed piece, “A 50-year Farm Bill.” Others wanted to know if Pollen ever felt threatened by the industry he's exposing. He assured us he does not fear for his safety, but told us about the campaign to take down investigative journalist Eric Schlosser, author of Fast Food Nation, when he attempted to visit schools to speak about the industry-threatening ideas in his book. The crowd was quiet with the understanding that fighting food giants is not just a euphemism for sporadically buying organic food at Whole Foods. If it's done with conviction, it can put careers, reputations, and personal security in jeopardy.
The final question was perfectly placed by the librarian in charge of filtering the over zealous (and verbose) questions. "What will your next book be about?"
That smile again.
"Well, I'm doing something a bit different," and you could tell he was excited about it. The answer to this question outlasted all the others, but it seemed appropriate, almost like an encore. "We've lost the culture of cooking." Considering half of our food dollars are spent outside the home, he may be right. So Michael Pollen will be writing a book about cooking, not to be confused with a cookbook.
In addition to his upcoming book, Pollen and Schlosser will be featured in the movie “Food, Inc.” They're hoping to reach a wide audience with the film, and educate the public about where our food really comes from. I want the endeavor to be a success, but I wonder at what cost? Pollen the preacher may need to get on his knees to pray for protection, because he has too much momentum to stay under the food industry's radar for long.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Michael Pollen
I'm going to need some time for this post. But suffice it to say, I saw Michael Pollen speak tonight and he preached. I think he's my hero. Seriously. More later. Now, it's Biggest Loser time!! GO TARA!!
Birthday Blues
My students brought me in a beautiful cake this morning, to celebrate my 28th birthday last Monday. We're having a little party this afternoon apparently. I was so touched with their planning and organizing, but there is one problem. The cake. The first ingredient is sugar. The second, partially hydrogenated soybean oil. The third, bleached enriched flour. Need I go on? I've talked to the kids about real foods, and especially sugar, but they're still processing some of what I said. =) To them, a birthday isn't a birthday without cake! To me, it's a hormonal imbalance on a plate. It's that boulder in the belly feeling. It's like putting glue in my intestines for 3 days, hoping something will clear it out. I can practically feel my body going haywire as the cake sits seven feet away from me, waiting for the upcoming party. How do I manage to express my gratitude without compromising my health?
I face the same problem in different clothes, almost daily. How do we stand for real food without being either self-righteous or self-induced outcasts? Sunday night, Mark and I went to a funky little place called Redbones Barbecue in Davis Square. I passed on the carcinogens and hormones with a side of beef, and found some delicious wood grilled chicken and dirty rice with chicken livers. Last night, I had dinner with my English language learners, Dong Hee and Nadwa. Dong Hee took us to a Korean barbecue, where I did not pass on the beef, but thoroughly enjoyed it with the many fermented side dishes and vegetable options. I want to be able to enjoy food in a social setting, without being wound up about the varying degree of toxicity of what I'm eating. And considering we don't normally eat away from home more than once a week, I think it IS possible to worry less about that one meal, and focus more on the healing powers of the other 20 meals. Plus, maybe the psychological benefit of fellowshipping with friends is enough to counteract a small dose of *trash*.
That said, I will not be having my cake and eating it too.
I face the same problem in different clothes, almost daily. How do we stand for real food without being either self-righteous or self-induced outcasts? Sunday night, Mark and I went to a funky little place called Redbones Barbecue in Davis Square. I passed on the carcinogens and hormones with a side of beef, and found some delicious wood grilled chicken and dirty rice with chicken livers. Last night, I had dinner with my English language learners, Dong Hee and Nadwa. Dong Hee took us to a Korean barbecue, where I did not pass on the beef, but thoroughly enjoyed it with the many fermented side dishes and vegetable options. I want to be able to enjoy food in a social setting, without being wound up about the varying degree of toxicity of what I'm eating. And considering we don't normally eat away from home more than once a week, I think it IS possible to worry less about that one meal, and focus more on the healing powers of the other 20 meals. Plus, maybe the psychological benefit of fellowshipping with friends is enough to counteract a small dose of *trash*.
That said, I will not be having my cake and eating it too.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Today in Numbers
Sunday, May 3rd: Walk for Hunger, Boston
Hours of sleep last night: 7.5
Minutes I waited for a train to downtown Boston: 21
Money I paid to park at Newton Center: $0
Ounces of water I've drank: 80
Pairs of socks I've gone through: 2
Number of friends and family that donated to Project Bread: 29
Amount they donated: $430
Additional dollars I need to reach my goal: $70
Minutes I listened to my iPod: 185
Port-a-Potties I held my breath in: 6
Miles I walked: 21
Hours it took: 5.75
I'm done. I didn't think I was going to make it all 20 miles because of my knees, but I finished! I'm about to run a hot bath, grab a good book and a glass of white wine and relax. Before I go, let me leave you with a few more numbers:
Massachusetts residents that experienced hunger during 2008: 522,000
Percent of hungry residents that were children: 30
Project Bread's mission to alleviate, prevent, and ultimately end hunger in Massachusetts. They do great work, and I strongly encourage you to read more about them if you haven't. Hunger affects people in cities, suburbs, and rural areas.
"Project Bread funds over 400 food pantries, soup kitchens, and food banks all over Massachusetts. We run the only statewide hunger hotline that answers 37,000 calls a year from families in need. We work with schools to offer breakfast programs, and fund summer programs so that kids get a nutritious meal when school's out. The first Sunday in May each year, we run the oldest continual pledge walk in the country, Project Bread's Walk for Hunger." (Project Bread's website)
It's still not too late to donate. It takes about one minute, and you can do it online. Every little bit helps!!
Friday, April 17, 2009
April Vacation Goals
I'm slightly embarrassed to tell you what I'm having for dinner. Before going to the gym, I housed pita chips and hummus, so I can't really justify more beans and bread. Plus, Mark is at a concert tonight and I'm just not feeling like cooking much. So I got back from the gym and scavenged up this lovely three course meal...
Appetizer
coconut oil popped popcorn with flax oil and sea salt
Main Course - served in one bowl
Kale sauteed in butter, but clearly not for long enough, so it's reallllly chewy
walnuts
sauerkraut
Dessert
Coconut Pudding
After meal snacks because I was still hungry
homemade corn tortillas
black bean chipotle dip
2 prunes
3 coconut candies
It's not quite as lame as I thought it would be, but it's definitely not something I'd recommend. And so it goes.
Remember those February vacation goals? Yeah, we're still working on some of those, including...
1. Making Ketchup
2. Two batches of mayonnaise (one for a friend!)
3. Nut butter
4. Some serious meal planning, because I've been slacking
5. Watch 1 good movie
6. Volunteer at Grub Street, a community of Boston writers
7. Gym at least 5 days
8. Read "Write is a Verb" which should be arriving from Amazon shortly!
9. Figure out our summer plans: St. Maarten or Europe!
10. Thoroughly clean each and every room of the house. Seriously. For real this time.
11. And meet with those book club girlies!
I'd love to try new recipes and cook all week, but I don't think that's going to happen. Maybe one new recipe. Or two. Maybe the maple oat breakfast pie, and...ummmm...I don't know. Too much pressure to choose just one. Any suggestions?!
Another major development in my life is that I've decided to start writing seriously. I'm going to go for it. In a list of things I wanted to do before I turned 40 (because at age 12, when I wrote the list, 40 seemed wayyyy old), right after marry a hot drummer with a 6 pack, was write a book. I've been toying with the idea for about a year. I applied to 9 MFA programs, to get an advanced degree in writing, but after only one acceptance to the University of San Francisco and two waitlists, we decided to decline the San Fran offer and do whatever it would take for me to focus on my writing here in Boston. That way Mark has a good network to find a job that could support both of us, since he'll be graduating with his MBA in May. My novel is a historical fiction work, which means it'll take about 3 times as long as the average fiction novel, but I'm OK with that. I'm hoping to start seriously researching with some of my free time this week. Anyway, I tell you all this, dear readers, because if it seems like I'm neglecting my cooking life a bit, it's because I am. (Thank the Lord for fermented food stashes and raw veggie salads!) Right now I'm teaching, and writing, and thinking, and blogging, and cooking, and exercising, and more, sometimes a few of those tasks fall by the wayside. Doesn't mean I love you any less. I did want to keep you updated though. I hope everyone enjoys the lovely warm weekend!
Appetizer
coconut oil popped popcorn with flax oil and sea salt
Main Course - served in one bowl
Kale sauteed in butter, but clearly not for long enough, so it's reallllly chewy
walnuts
sauerkraut
Dessert
Coconut Pudding
After meal snacks because I was still hungry
homemade corn tortillas
black bean chipotle dip
2 prunes
3 coconut candies
It's not quite as lame as I thought it would be, but it's definitely not something I'd recommend. And so it goes.
Remember those February vacation goals? Yeah, we're still working on some of those, including...
1. Making Ketchup
2. Two batches of mayonnaise (one for a friend!)
3. Nut butter
4. Some serious meal planning, because I've been slacking
5. Watch 1 good movie
6. Volunteer at Grub Street, a community of Boston writers
7. Gym at least 5 days
8. Read "Write is a Verb" which should be arriving from Amazon shortly!
9. Figure out our summer plans: St. Maarten or Europe!
10. Thoroughly clean each and every room of the house. Seriously. For real this time.
11. And meet with those book club girlies!
I'd love to try new recipes and cook all week, but I don't think that's going to happen. Maybe one new recipe. Or two. Maybe the maple oat breakfast pie, and...ummmm...I don't know. Too much pressure to choose just one. Any suggestions?!
Another major development in my life is that I've decided to start writing seriously. I'm going to go for it. In a list of things I wanted to do before I turned 40 (because at age 12, when I wrote the list, 40 seemed wayyyy old), right after marry a hot drummer with a 6 pack, was write a book. I've been toying with the idea for about a year. I applied to 9 MFA programs, to get an advanced degree in writing, but after only one acceptance to the University of San Francisco and two waitlists, we decided to decline the San Fran offer and do whatever it would take for me to focus on my writing here in Boston. That way Mark has a good network to find a job that could support both of us, since he'll be graduating with his MBA in May. My novel is a historical fiction work, which means it'll take about 3 times as long as the average fiction novel, but I'm OK with that. I'm hoping to start seriously researching with some of my free time this week. Anyway, I tell you all this, dear readers, because if it seems like I'm neglecting my cooking life a bit, it's because I am. (Thank the Lord for fermented food stashes and raw veggie salads!) Right now I'm teaching, and writing, and thinking, and blogging, and cooking, and exercising, and more, sometimes a few of those tasks fall by the wayside. Doesn't mean I love you any less. I did want to keep you updated though. I hope everyone enjoys the lovely warm weekend!
Sunday, November 16, 2008
I'm Easy Like Sunday Morning...
I love the crooning of Lionel Richie, "That's why I'm eaaaaaassssyyyy, easy like Sunday morning..." Perhaps I'm so attracted to this song because 1. I don't feel very "easy", and 2. My Sunday mornings have never been the kind of kick back, enjoy breakfast, chill times that Lionel must have been thinking of when he wrote the song. There's something so appealing to me about relaxing one morning a week.
In my preteen years, Sunday mornings consisted of sleeping until my mother's fists, pounding on the walls adjoining her bathroom and my bedroom, roused me. Though no longer sleeping, I showed no signs of cooperating with her agenda. I would pretend to have not heard her dire warnings that we were going to be late and walk in like "rejects", nor did I respond to empty threats of her revoking Nintendo-playing privileges. Eventually, she would come into my room, her voice at a similar decibel level as the neighbor's lawnmower, and insist that I get dressed that instant! I usually mumbled a final lame attempt to avoid the inevitable: my head hurt; I had a sore throat; I thought I was getting my period; I had too much homework. I had enough tricks in the bag to rotate them on a monthly cycle. However, much to my chagrin, not only was I forced to go to church, but we consistently arrived 15-30 minutes late, and walked in, like rejects, with sour faces and spoiled attitudes.
Needless to say, Sunday mornings during those years were less than easy. As I charged full speed into the thick of adolescence, the hold my mother had over me diminished considerably, I was able to evade the Sunday morning service at least half of the time. But even then, there was nothing remarkably relaxing about my mornings. In fact, they may have been even more stressful. Thomas and Mollie, who were still at the age where waking up around 7am was the norm, were often left home with me, which meant that any peace that resulted from my mother's resignation to go to church without her children, was erased with the first blood curdling screech of the morning. The cause of the screams could be any number of possibilities: Thomas chasing Mollie around the house with a knife; Mollie locking Thomas in the bathroom and then hunkering down in the living room to watch My Little Ponies; Thomas, late for a "trip," putting the cat in a suitcase and running down the stairs to catch his train on time. No, Sunday mornings were not easy growing up.
During my early college years, Sunday mornings were non existent. I generally woke up around 1pm, hungover and uninterested in anything except bagels from the dining commons. As my attitude about God and church shifted, I found myself looking forward to Sunday mornings as a source of peace and strength and community, a place where I could recharge from the week, and fuel up for the coming one. But still, it involved a frenzy of tasks, none of which lent themselves to low blood pressure or relaxation. Mark, never an early riser, was my biggest task. During the year we dated at UMass, I would drive Mark, and several of our friends to church. However, my ironic fate would be to relive my mother's frustration, as I spent from 5 to 30 minutes weekly, alternately pounding on Mark's dorm room door, and slumped against it, calling him over and over. I often listened helplessly as his alarm clock and phone ringing seemed to harmonize in a tune that eerily resembled my mother's voice telling me that one day I would have kids of my own...
Now that we've been married for over five years, I'm finally at a point where I don't care quite as much as I used to about getting everywhere five minutes early. Mark has made admirable concessions in his sleeping (and I suppose waking) habits, and is usually willing to get up about thirty minutes before the service starts. Still, we're not exactly kicking back with the Sunday Globe, sipping Chai and nibbling on freshly baked muffins. So one might wonder, what would possess me to undertake culinary tasks at 9am on a Sunday, knowing all of this? Habit, I suppose. Perhaps I'm uncomfortable when we actually do have time before church. Maybe I just don't know how to have an easy Sunday morning. Today was no exception. I started cooking rice around 8:30am, and then decided it would be fun to find rice pudding recipes. So, at 9:40am, twenty minutes before I was to head to church, I embarked on a rice pudding making experiment. I may not be easy, but I'm sure not boring...
In my preteen years, Sunday mornings consisted of sleeping until my mother's fists, pounding on the walls adjoining her bathroom and my bedroom, roused me. Though no longer sleeping, I showed no signs of cooperating with her agenda. I would pretend to have not heard her dire warnings that we were going to be late and walk in like "rejects", nor did I respond to empty threats of her revoking Nintendo-playing privileges. Eventually, she would come into my room, her voice at a similar decibel level as the neighbor's lawnmower, and insist that I get dressed that instant! I usually mumbled a final lame attempt to avoid the inevitable: my head hurt; I had a sore throat; I thought I was getting my period; I had too much homework. I had enough tricks in the bag to rotate them on a monthly cycle. However, much to my chagrin, not only was I forced to go to church, but we consistently arrived 15-30 minutes late, and walked in, like rejects, with sour faces and spoiled attitudes.
Needless to say, Sunday mornings during those years were less than easy. As I charged full speed into the thick of adolescence, the hold my mother had over me diminished considerably, I was able to evade the Sunday morning service at least half of the time. But even then, there was nothing remarkably relaxing about my mornings. In fact, they may have been even more stressful. Thomas and Mollie, who were still at the age where waking up around 7am was the norm, were often left home with me, which meant that any peace that resulted from my mother's resignation to go to church without her children, was erased with the first blood curdling screech of the morning. The cause of the screams could be any number of possibilities: Thomas chasing Mollie around the house with a knife; Mollie locking Thomas in the bathroom and then hunkering down in the living room to watch My Little Ponies; Thomas, late for a "trip," putting the cat in a suitcase and running down the stairs to catch his train on time. No, Sunday mornings were not easy growing up.
During my early college years, Sunday mornings were non existent. I generally woke up around 1pm, hungover and uninterested in anything except bagels from the dining commons. As my attitude about God and church shifted, I found myself looking forward to Sunday mornings as a source of peace and strength and community, a place where I could recharge from the week, and fuel up for the coming one. But still, it involved a frenzy of tasks, none of which lent themselves to low blood pressure or relaxation. Mark, never an early riser, was my biggest task. During the year we dated at UMass, I would drive Mark, and several of our friends to church. However, my ironic fate would be to relive my mother's frustration, as I spent from 5 to 30 minutes weekly, alternately pounding on Mark's dorm room door, and slumped against it, calling him over and over. I often listened helplessly as his alarm clock and phone ringing seemed to harmonize in a tune that eerily resembled my mother's voice telling me that one day I would have kids of my own...
Now that we've been married for over five years, I'm finally at a point where I don't care quite as much as I used to about getting everywhere five minutes early. Mark has made admirable concessions in his sleeping (and I suppose waking) habits, and is usually willing to get up about thirty minutes before the service starts. Still, we're not exactly kicking back with the Sunday Globe, sipping Chai and nibbling on freshly baked muffins. So one might wonder, what would possess me to undertake culinary tasks at 9am on a Sunday, knowing all of this? Habit, I suppose. Perhaps I'm uncomfortable when we actually do have time before church. Maybe I just don't know how to have an easy Sunday morning. Today was no exception. I started cooking rice around 8:30am, and then decided it would be fun to find rice pudding recipes. So, at 9:40am, twenty minutes before I was to head to church, I embarked on a rice pudding making experiment. I may not be easy, but I'm sure not boring...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Going Green in a...Cat's World
There are some casualties when a woman makes up her mind to change, whether it be last season's bag, that needling friend who couldn't keep her mouth shut, shampoo, donuts, or in my case, a cat. Yes, poor Buddy, who looks like he's Royalty in his portrait above, was victim to one of my "get green quick" schemes. I'll get to that, but first, a brief history in cats...
In the winter of 2005, I started to sneak Jake, the neighborhood stray, into our condo. Mark would sneeze and drip and swear, "I know that damn thing is in the house!" and I would scoot Jake out the back door, into the basement, so that I could honestly say, "No, hon, he's not in here..." Eventually, the allergies went away and Jake stayed in the condo for good. He brought us laughter (like the time he got into the catnip bag and we found him passed out in the bedroom), fleas, and many tears when he unexpectedly contracted a bladder infection and had to be put down immediately.
To get over his loss, our neighbor Ann, friend and protector of feral cats, offered us a "temp-to-perm" situation with a timid kitty that lived with two hostile, and arguably dangerous, Basset Hounds. Her public name was Precious, but we called her Moonu Minuski. We joked that she was a Polish Princess. Really, she was just a bag of bones with a bowel disease. After 16 months of intravenous fluids, steroids, explosive diarrhea on gym bags, rugs, walls, etc, her back legs eventually gave out, and we put her down. After Moonie, I swore I wouldn't get another cat. Then along came Buddy...
Sister Mollie's ex-boyfriend (to her, Casanova; to me, Cheeseball extraordinaire) bought her a cat to solidify their relationship. Instead, Mollie broke up with him, moved to Georgia for a year, and as happens with so many pets of similar roots, the cat was dumped on Mother. So Mollie's "Buddy" lived in our childhood home for a few peaceful years, barring an 8 month stint in Amherst. When Mark and I moved back home with Mom last year, we brought Moonie, and Buddy's spirits soared. He just wanted a friend. He was desperate for camaraderie; all he had ever known were dogs. But sadly, Moonie often hissed and swatted, and Buddy was no better than when we started. However, after Moonie's passing, Buddy earned a friend in an unlikely person - Mark. The two became inseparable, and Mark often remarked that Mollie was "neglecting" her cat, and he threatened to "call PETA", citing that Mollie "didn't know what was good for the cat." Unfortunately, I had to concur. Still, Buddy was Mollie's cat, and when we moved to Newton, we left a home with three animals, to live in a lonely little apartment, fur-free. I was ecstatic. No more vet bills, cat food purchases, litter dust, or lint brushes!
But after two weeks, Mark was languishing. He couldn't eat, or sleep, and he even called a baseball watching strike (which ironically coincided with my canceling cable). So we made a deal. If he agreed to clean the litter box every day ("Every single day?" "Yes, and twice if it smells..."), then I would agree to make room for Buddy in heart and home. I was skeptical, as Mark often has good intentions but sometimes exhibits poor follow through. Plus, he cleaned out Moonie's box twice in 16 months, and I think it was during the twelve hours that I was retching with the flu. As soon as that stopped, he handed the scooper to my feverish, delirious self without hesitation.
For the first few days, I watched in disbelief as Mark cleaned out the litter box, but I quickly realized that it was deleterious to my health. I'd get heart palpitations as I observed large amounts of clay being thrown into plastic bags (where did they come from?!) and then tied carelessly at the top, so that air and litter commingled, taking up a quarter of the kitchen trash can, which has since found a permanent home on the back porch. I decided to choose my battles, and I figured that Mark cleaning the litter box was a huge feat in and of itself, so perhaps introducing new ways of doing things at this point was a bit premature. But now, three months into Buddy's stay at Chez Massaro, I can't take it. I offered flushable litter. Mark is afraid we might clog the drain. I wondered aloud if the cat might like to play outside a bit, but was quickly reprimanded and reminded of the terrors that stalk innocent cats - like cars, coyotes, and fleas.
Then, I took matters into my own hands. I spent thirty minutes at Petco, weighing the litter options. Does it really matter if it's biodegradable if Mark is going to put it into a Shaw's bag? Maybe I could empty the bags when he's not home and sprinkle it on the garden. But no. I need low maintenance. So I eventually decided on a rolled, recycled paper pellet litter. It was $19 for the bag, so I wondered if there was any gold in there. Nineteen dollars?! For a bathroom that is going to take up space in a landfill?? I had flashes of inspiration, believing I could toilet train Buddy, but I guess I should wait until I'm home more. So, a 30 pound bag of paper pellets in tow, I trudged home, hoping to at least eliminate the clay in our home and in Buddy's lungs.
The Prince did not respond well to my experiment. He pooped in the tub after two days of trying to navigate a litter box that more closely resembled the ball pit at Chuckie Cheese. I saw it in the morning and laughed, thinking, what a smart cat! Mark removed the tootsie rolls promptly. A few days passed, and it seemed Buddy was getting used to the new product. I started feeling smug. But this morning, instead of bacon, my nose detected some fresh number two. I pushed open the shower curtain to find what seemed like a design in feces. Perhaps Buddy was trying to spell, "Help!" He's that smart, really. I laughed again, wrote Mark a honey-do list which included poop removal, and the art nouveau was gone this afternoon. I came home tonight after a killer cardio class at the gym, desperate for a shower. Picasso had left another masterpiece in the bathtub for me. Needless to say, I returned the litter and we're back to clay. I guess that's what I get for trying to green the cat...
Friday, November 7, 2008
Gratitude Journal - Gym Edition
I haven't been to a gym in about three months. I think that's the longest I've gone since my first membership at HealthTrax when I was 14 years old. It was intentional, as my knees and elbows were hurting over the summer, and I thought walking and doing yoga in our bedroom was the most feasible and economic solution, considering our current one salary lifestyle. The only gym near us is Gold's Gym and it costs (::gasp::) $49 a month! I was determined, throughout all of September and October to walk every day and practice yoga through YogAmazing podcasts. That lasted until daylight savings time began...and until my pants didn't quite fit the way they used to.
I can't say that I totally abhorred the softer body, nor did I have trouble filling the 15 hours a week I normally spent working out. But slowly, and surely, I started going a little cuckoo. My bouts of rage and stress have been creeping up on me like bootie shorts on fat thighs. Last night, after another "baby fever" meltdown, I decided that I need an outlet. It's dark by the time I get home most nights, so walking is out of the question, and downward dogs just aren't enough. So I took the plunge.
This afternoon, I walked into Gold's Gym in Needham without any expectations, and left on an emotional and physical high. Upon entrance, the average person probably sees rows upon rows of mediocre, late '90s cardio equipment. Not me. It was like entering Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory (and you must know how much I love chocolate!). I didn't know which one to sample first. Should I try out the old Stairmaster? How about the Lifecycle? Maybe I should take a trip over to the Precor elliptical. Choices, choices. I finally settled on a corner elliptical, flanked by a middle aged man with bulging trapezoid muscles and bleached blond hair, and a petite woman donning sports bra, spandex pants, and a pancake butt. I was in heaven.
The first drip of sweat came from my elbow. I love elbow sweat. It's like the first snowflake. You may not always see it, but when you feel it, you know you're in for a big treat. Next came the knee drip. My long pants were making me very hot, but I figured I hadn't sweat in so many months that maybe it was a good thing. Like a mini sauna. I burned 364 calories, read and disagreed with an entire edition of Women's Health magazine, and stumbled off the machine with legs as tight as the 2000 presidential race. I don't think I've been this happy in a long, long time.
Tomorrow: Zumba class at 10am!
I can't say that I totally abhorred the softer body, nor did I have trouble filling the 15 hours a week I normally spent working out. But slowly, and surely, I started going a little cuckoo. My bouts of rage and stress have been creeping up on me like bootie shorts on fat thighs. Last night, after another "baby fever" meltdown, I decided that I need an outlet. It's dark by the time I get home most nights, so walking is out of the question, and downward dogs just aren't enough. So I took the plunge.
This afternoon, I walked into Gold's Gym in Needham without any expectations, and left on an emotional and physical high. Upon entrance, the average person probably sees rows upon rows of mediocre, late '90s cardio equipment. Not me. It was like entering Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory (and you must know how much I love chocolate!). I didn't know which one to sample first. Should I try out the old Stairmaster? How about the Lifecycle? Maybe I should take a trip over to the Precor elliptical. Choices, choices. I finally settled on a corner elliptical, flanked by a middle aged man with bulging trapezoid muscles and bleached blond hair, and a petite woman donning sports bra, spandex pants, and a pancake butt. I was in heaven.
The first drip of sweat came from my elbow. I love elbow sweat. It's like the first snowflake. You may not always see it, but when you feel it, you know you're in for a big treat. Next came the knee drip. My long pants were making me very hot, but I figured I hadn't sweat in so many months that maybe it was a good thing. Like a mini sauna. I burned 364 calories, read and disagreed with an entire edition of Women's Health magazine, and stumbled off the machine with legs as tight as the 2000 presidential race. I don't think I've been this happy in a long, long time.
Tomorrow: Zumba class at 10am!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Gratitude Journal
I'm thankful for a healthy cat/America's hope/Indian style rice/hilarious co-workers/a forgiving husband who sweeps the outside porch instead of cleaning the bathroom/dreams (like the ones at night)/Jane Austen.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Gratitude Journal
I'm having my fifth and sixth graders keep a gratitude journal for the month of November, and I'm pretty excited to get in on the action myself. We're just taking 3-5 minutes a day to spend some time reflecting on what we're thankful for!
I'm thankful for...
God's faithfulness/red leaves/smiling, forgiving children/fresh food/cozy slippers/funny friends/sweet husband/crazy cat/beautiful bella/lovable lucy/money to travel/the gift of writing/the passionate voters who stand outside on bridges at 7am waving to cars zooming by below, in hopes that they might vote for their candidate/democracy/freedom of speech/a black presidential candidate/flannel sheets/dishwashers/poetry/art/paths through the woods/the scratching of pencils in a classroom
I'm thankful for...
God's faithfulness/red leaves/smiling, forgiving children/fresh food/cozy slippers/funny friends/sweet husband/crazy cat/beautiful bella/lovable lucy/money to travel/the gift of writing/the passionate voters who stand outside on bridges at 7am waving to cars zooming by below, in hopes that they might vote for their candidate/democracy/freedom of speech/a black presidential candidate/flannel sheets/dishwashers/poetry/art/paths through the woods/the scratching of pencils in a classroom
Sunday, November 2, 2008
What Daylight Savings Time means to me...
The top 10 reasons I love it:
10. Duh. Who doesn't need an extra hour of sleep?!
9. 24/7 Christmas carols!
8. Mark no longer asks, "Why are you wearing that bathrobe around the house?"
7. Family and holidays
6. Craft projects galore
5. The baking season resumes
4. Wearing sweaters = less laundry
3. I no longer have to try to lose those stubborn five pounds
2. Snow days
and
1. Put the razor away til May!
10. Duh. Who doesn't need an extra hour of sleep?!
9. 24/7 Christmas carols!
8. Mark no longer asks, "Why are you wearing that bathrobe around the house?"
7. Family and holidays
6. Craft projects galore
5. The baking season resumes
4. Wearing sweaters = less laundry
3. I no longer have to try to lose those stubborn five pounds
2. Snow days
and
1. Put the razor away til May!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
No, Mother, I do not want your flashlights
Yes, I have about 20 new recipes, and 5 book reviews, and 10 strange habits that I've adopted with the intention of saving the planet. But for now, enter my world--
I teach writing to children ages 7 to 15, that is, grades 2 through 8. I ascribe to the philosophy that writers write, and students who write much and often will eventually come to see themselves as writers. This year has been quite amazing in terms of the buy-in time. It's the third week of school, and already the kids are producing great works of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. I attribute the success to tighter classroom management, a better grasp on the content skills, and brilliant children. =) However, teaching a writing workshop, despite the fact that the children are always writing, is not without careful preparation on my part. Not only am I working on daily specific, targeted mini-lessons based on what I observe as I conference with the kids, but I struggle to consistently live a life of writing myself, so that I have fresh examples to share with my students. After I read the eighth graders my latest "writers notebook" entry, they gushed, and encouraged me to publish my writing - "You know, in a book, or on the internet or whatever." So, this time, I took them up on their suggestion. Here is the entry i wrote sitting in the threshold of our apartment, darkness behind me, hall light flooding the stairway in front of me, my laptop plugged into the common outlet outside our door...
No, Mother, I do not want your flashlights…and other poor decisions
Oh, how lovely,! I thought to myself when I saw the fluorescent orange tag sticking out of our mailbox, someone must be sending us a package. I was giddy with anticipation after an evening of family, film, and thoughts about my future. This “package” must be another fun surprise. Only when I got closer to the flaming cardstock in my mailbox, I realized it might not be the “fun” surprise I had been expecting. Instead, it was a message from NStar Electric, letting us know that they shut off our electricity since “no one was living at the residence.” Funny, because I live here. And Mark lives here. And Buddy the cat owns claims to living here for the greatest percentage of time.
None of this residency information mattered as I tried to politely plead my case with the “emergency” operator at NStar. The “emergency” part of her title seemed like a farce. There wasn’t even a national or local disaster to contend with, and yet she still couldn’t help me. I would have to call back at 8:30am, she informed me, at which time I will likely be surrounded by 37 children under the age of twelve. That phone call occurring is highly unlikely.
“OK, well do you at least know when they might be able to turn it back on?”
“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow. If we have someone free.”
You had someone free enough to turn off my electricity, I thought to myself, but thankfully not aloud. With a heaving sigh, I made a last pitiful attempt to evoke some shred of compassion from this woman who seemingly had no sympathy for my minor crisis (if only because of the food that we bought and prepared over the weekend).
“So, um, I guess this means you can’t help me. And my food will stay in the fridge, and hopefully not rot--” I trailed off. This was her cue to come to my rescue with a serviceman who she suddenly remembered was working, or perhaps she just spotted a supervisor who was available and interested in helping out a distraught customer.
Silence.
“OK, well I guess I’ll call back tomorrow and hope for the best.”
“Yes, goodbye.” Click.
Plan B. I lit eight candles in all, and observed, frustrated, while three refused my match.
The apartment had a strange apple cider-y, plumeria Christmas tree scent to it. Undaunted, I settled into the comfy white leather recliner to steal some internet from the “3 cheney” network, and started dialing family to console me during this tragic time.
The first phone call I made was to my mother. As usual, she was quick to remind me (with a debatable degree of truth in her statement), that she had somehow predicted this debacle, as with every other moment of disappointment, disaster, or celebration I have or would eventually face. She loves a share in the credit for what happens to her kids. Once she established her prophetic role in the situation, she moved into advice-giving mode.
“Take out the flashlights I gave you when you were moving out! Just put those around the house and you’ll be fine. Make sure you have enough batter…”
I began tuning out. Somehow, her sharp memory forgot that I had said, while looking at her shelf of eighteen flashlights in an array of shapes and sizes,
No, Mother, I do not want your flashlights.
My mind’s eye wanders to the flickering candles in the kitchen. I don’t have enough for every room. I have to pick up Mark from the train station, but if I blow out the candles, we’ll have no light when we get back, because, in keeping with Murphy’s law, we ran out of matches. If only I had taken the flashlights.
I teach writing to children ages 7 to 15, that is, grades 2 through 8. I ascribe to the philosophy that writers write, and students who write much and often will eventually come to see themselves as writers. This year has been quite amazing in terms of the buy-in time. It's the third week of school, and already the kids are producing great works of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. I attribute the success to tighter classroom management, a better grasp on the content skills, and brilliant children. =) However, teaching a writing workshop, despite the fact that the children are always writing, is not without careful preparation on my part. Not only am I working on daily specific, targeted mini-lessons based on what I observe as I conference with the kids, but I struggle to consistently live a life of writing myself, so that I have fresh examples to share with my students. After I read the eighth graders my latest "writers notebook" entry, they gushed, and encouraged me to publish my writing - "You know, in a book, or on the internet or whatever." So, this time, I took them up on their suggestion. Here is the entry i wrote sitting in the threshold of our apartment, darkness behind me, hall light flooding the stairway in front of me, my laptop plugged into the common outlet outside our door...
No, Mother, I do not want your flashlights…and other poor decisions
Oh, how lovely,! I thought to myself when I saw the fluorescent orange tag sticking out of our mailbox, someone must be sending us a package. I was giddy with anticipation after an evening of family, film, and thoughts about my future. This “package” must be another fun surprise. Only when I got closer to the flaming cardstock in my mailbox, I realized it might not be the “fun” surprise I had been expecting. Instead, it was a message from NStar Electric, letting us know that they shut off our electricity since “no one was living at the residence.” Funny, because I live here. And Mark lives here. And Buddy the cat owns claims to living here for the greatest percentage of time.
None of this residency information mattered as I tried to politely plead my case with the “emergency” operator at NStar. The “emergency” part of her title seemed like a farce. There wasn’t even a national or local disaster to contend with, and yet she still couldn’t help me. I would have to call back at 8:30am, she informed me, at which time I will likely be surrounded by 37 children under the age of twelve. That phone call occurring is highly unlikely.
“OK, well do you at least know when they might be able to turn it back on?”
“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow. If we have someone free.”
You had someone free enough to turn off my electricity, I thought to myself, but thankfully not aloud. With a heaving sigh, I made a last pitiful attempt to evoke some shred of compassion from this woman who seemingly had no sympathy for my minor crisis (if only because of the food that we bought and prepared over the weekend).
“So, um, I guess this means you can’t help me. And my food will stay in the fridge, and hopefully not rot--” I trailed off. This was her cue to come to my rescue with a serviceman who she suddenly remembered was working, or perhaps she just spotted a supervisor who was available and interested in helping out a distraught customer.
Silence.
“OK, well I guess I’ll call back tomorrow and hope for the best.”
“Yes, goodbye.” Click.
Plan B. I lit eight candles in all, and observed, frustrated, while three refused my match.
The apartment had a strange apple cider-y, plumeria Christmas tree scent to it. Undaunted, I settled into the comfy white leather recliner to steal some internet from the “3 cheney” network, and started dialing family to console me during this tragic time.
The first phone call I made was to my mother. As usual, she was quick to remind me (with a debatable degree of truth in her statement), that she had somehow predicted this debacle, as with every other moment of disappointment, disaster, or celebration I have or would eventually face. She loves a share in the credit for what happens to her kids. Once she established her prophetic role in the situation, she moved into advice-giving mode.
“Take out the flashlights I gave you when you were moving out! Just put those around the house and you’ll be fine. Make sure you have enough batter…”
I began tuning out. Somehow, her sharp memory forgot that I had said, while looking at her shelf of eighteen flashlights in an array of shapes and sizes,
No, Mother, I do not want your flashlights.
My mind’s eye wanders to the flickering candles in the kitchen. I don’t have enough for every room. I have to pick up Mark from the train station, but if I blow out the candles, we’ll have no light when we get back, because, in keeping with Murphy’s law, we ran out of matches. If only I had taken the flashlights.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Happy Happy
I've been walking quite a bit, gardening, reading The Agony and the Ecstasy, and trying to learn Italian, so I haven't been keeping up with my posts very well. However, here's a brief bite...
It's the little things that make me happy. And the big things too. Here are some big things:
1. I'm going to Italy in 12 days.
2. I booked a trip to Aruba last night (free airfare - yay for Miles!)
3. I decided to work at Parkside Christian Academy next year!!
And some smaller things:
1. I had delicious bison for dinner.
2. I saw my friend Kristina today, met her sweet baby Mia for the first time, and made a new friend Sarah, all in an afternoon!
3. I got a compost bin. This is a small step for man, a huge step for the garden. =)
I must add too, that the Diva Cup is serving her purpose well this week. I hardly know she's around.
It's the little things that make me happy. And the big things too. Here are some big things:
1. I'm going to Italy in 12 days.
2. I booked a trip to Aruba last night (free airfare - yay for Miles!)
3. I decided to work at Parkside Christian Academy next year!!
And some smaller things:
1. I had delicious bison for dinner.
2. I saw my friend Kristina today, met her sweet baby Mia for the first time, and made a new friend Sarah, all in an afternoon!
3. I got a compost bin. This is a small step for man, a huge step for the garden. =)
I must add too, that the Diva Cup is serving her purpose well this week. I hardly know she's around.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Join the Revolution
My students have often called me a hippie, though I think true hippies would scoff at that label. My husband uses the term when my unconventional behavior befuddles him. My sister flings around the 'h' word when she's embarrassed to be seen with me. And yet even though I know 'hippie' might not be entirely appropriate for me, I am honored to be ranked among pretty radical people.
So what would ever prompt someone to label me as such? It probably starts with my birkenstocks and that long, white flowy skirt I live in come summertime (clothing), Ben Harper and Bob Marley obsession (great music), patchouli scent (so not mainstream), save-the-planet attitude (gotta have a cause), and perhaps my green thumb (yay to local and organic)? Though the issues of the 70s were different from today, the fact remains that to question what the majority takes for granted, and to espouse countercultural values, still evokes the term. There are worse names to be called...
All that said, I am excited to embark on a new growing season journey. I've been really considering the use of space, land, and resources in our culture, and what has jumped out at me is the enormous waste on perfectly manicured lawns. Check out Cascadia's food not lawns website. Also, I really wanted to have read Food, Not Lawns by HC Flores by now, but all my time is consumed with reading about, learning about, and talking about Italy. Still, tomorrow, I hope to plant my spinach, kale, salad greens, carrots, and many medicinal and culinary herbs. Once the seedlings from my local nursery are big enough, I plan to plant to buy some tomato, eggplant, pepper, and squash plants. It's work, yes. But what is life about? Bringing my food from my backyard to my table is one of the most appealing concepts I've ever considered. More on the meaning of life to follow, but for now, please check out a Homegrown Revolution - a Youtube short about how one family has fought the system and grows at least 50% of their produce in their yard.
So what would ever prompt someone to label me as such? It probably starts with my birkenstocks and that long, white flowy skirt I live in come summertime (clothing), Ben Harper and Bob Marley obsession (great music), patchouli scent (so not mainstream), save-the-planet attitude (gotta have a cause), and perhaps my green thumb (yay to local and organic)? Though the issues of the 70s were different from today, the fact remains that to question what the majority takes for granted, and to espouse countercultural values, still evokes the term. There are worse names to be called...
All that said, I am excited to embark on a new growing season journey. I've been really considering the use of space, land, and resources in our culture, and what has jumped out at me is the enormous waste on perfectly manicured lawns. Check out Cascadia's food not lawns website. Also, I really wanted to have read Food, Not Lawns by HC Flores by now, but all my time is consumed with reading about, learning about, and talking about Italy. Still, tomorrow, I hope to plant my spinach, kale, salad greens, carrots, and many medicinal and culinary herbs. Once the seedlings from my local nursery are big enough, I plan to plant to buy some tomato, eggplant, pepper, and squash plants. It's work, yes. But what is life about? Bringing my food from my backyard to my table is one of the most appealing concepts I've ever considered. More on the meaning of life to follow, but for now, please check out a Homegrown Revolution - a Youtube short about how one family has fought the system and grows at least 50% of their produce in their yard.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The simplest medicine
I finished yet another "long-term" sub position today, and although I wasn't necessarily heart-broken to leave the kids this time, the closure represented yet another transition. I was feeling muddled after school, coupled with the anxiety brought on by the orthodontist informing me that my face is asymmetrical and not only it worsen with time, but my only option is to surgi ally reconstruct my jaw. So I felt I had no choice in my plans for the afternoon: a walk in the woods. I charged my iPod, added the Third Day and Karl Digress playlist, and started off around 3:30pm. Just feeling un-artificially warm for the first time in months was a treat in and of itself. But the biggest surprise, and biggest blessing, was my discovery of another woodsy trail. Some people, like Mark, live for the beach. Although I agree there is a cadence and almost hypnotic quality about the ocean, I much prefer the woods, lovely, dark, and deep. The air is so clean and fresh; i can practically feel the heartbeat of a forest rife with living. I love the mystery, and yet stability of a familiar wood. My anxiety melts as I meditate on God, His beautiful creation, and the simplest "medicine" of all. Forget Merck, try nature.
What if we all had a place--secret or shared--where we could go when life became too difficult to handle? Instead of taking out our stress, anger, and confusion on others, what if everyone had coping strategies that included self-nourishing behaviors, like contemplation, forgiveness (of others and self), creativity, and innovation. What if we had more green spaces and less parking spaces? What if every teacher hugged their students as they walked in the door, looked them in the eye, and told them they're a gem? What if every father lived with his children, tucked them into bed, and kissed them on the forehead, telling them, "I am proud of you. I love you."? What if the simple mantra "Love God. Love People." was taken seriously by those who profess to be Christians? Could we affect a change in the culture? What if we didn't see fat/skinny, black/white, tall/short, but instead saw through masks and layers of protection to the real person? What if were gentler on ourselves and more accepting of others? What would the world look like if we weren't too ________ to be who we were created to be?
What if?
What if we all had a place--secret or shared--where we could go when life became too difficult to handle? Instead of taking out our stress, anger, and confusion on others, what if everyone had coping strategies that included self-nourishing behaviors, like contemplation, forgiveness (of others and self), creativity, and innovation. What if we had more green spaces and less parking spaces? What if every teacher hugged their students as they walked in the door, looked them in the eye, and told them they're a gem? What if every father lived with his children, tucked them into bed, and kissed them on the forehead, telling them, "I am proud of you. I love you."? What if the simple mantra "Love God. Love People." was taken seriously by those who profess to be Christians? Could we affect a change in the culture? What if we didn't see fat/skinny, black/white, tall/short, but instead saw through masks and layers of protection to the real person? What if were gentler on ourselves and more accepting of others? What would the world look like if we weren't too ________ to be who we were created to be?
What if?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Which comes first: the chickens or...the house?
I'm looking into starting a chicken coop. I have a bazillion books on my "to-read" list, but I want to add some on raising organic chickens. We eat about a dozen eggs every two or three days, which translates to almost 3 dozen eggs a week. If we had children, I imagine that number would increase. So instead of buying dozens of eggs all the time, why not just start a little hen house in the back? It's a win-win situation: the lawn will be organically fertilized and maintained, and the chickens will be eating a nutrient-rich diet that I can monitor.
Maybe I should work on the job first. Then the house. Then the kids. Then the chickens.
I'm interested in goats too...
Maybe I should work on the job first. Then the house. Then the kids. Then the chickens.
I'm interested in goats too...
Saturday, March 22, 2008
It's the little things...
...that make me happy. This morning, the cashier at Whole Foods asked me if I wanted to trade my Trader Joe's reusable bag for a Whole Foods bag. Thinking this was akin to trading in the purple Mercury Sable for our Honda, I wondered what the cost would be but asked, "Straight up?" The cashier nodded. She probably didn't understand me, so I asked again, "For free?" And it was. Clearly, I understand the marketing ploy, but still! I gave up a smaller, ratty bag, for a beautiful new WF bag.
It's the little things. =)
It's the little things. =)
Sunday, March 16, 2008
How I Went from Amaranth Pink to Emerald Green
I thought it would be a good idea, perhaps more for me than for any potential audience, that I start this blog. I've started them before, but they were purposeless and, IMAO, uninteresting. So, I finally have a vision, a reason to write, and I hope, a reason to be read. My goal for this blog is that it would be a place where I could post what's been working for me, health-wise, in a clear, simple, and easily imitable way.
Let me start by saying that I recognize that it's now "cool" to be green. Great. Only, I'm not trying to be cool. If I was, I'd stop with buying organic fruit when it was on sale, and attending the occasional yoga class. If I was really daring, I might even own a hybrid, recycle my wine bottles, or use all energy efficient bulbs (in the rooms where lighting doesn't matter, of course). But for me, this green thing isn't really a luxury. It's a deep-seated moral belief, and it's a passion. It's a lifestyle, and it's a discovery of who I really am. I once was pink, but now I'm found...
Pink is pretty. It's feminine, it's cute, it's sexy even. It's not always practical, but it says, "I'm fun" and usually that's good enough. Pink may require sacrifices, but in the end, it looks good. Environmentally, and in terms of lifestyles, pink is the hip coffee shop that sells organic coffee in styrofoam cups. It's the yogi who uses a mat made with PCV. It's the suburbanite driving a suburban to recycle a week's worth of plastic. Pink makes an effort, and that is to be applauded. Most of the time, pink doesn't even know that there's another way.
As I said, I once was pink. And then my elbows started bothering me. And then my knees went. This happened at the ripe old age of 25. I went to the doctor; I had my blood drawn; I saw a chiropractor, a physical therapist, an orthopedic specialist; neighbors, friends, colleagues, family - they all had advice for me, but no one had any answers, so I decided to ask some different questions. I didn't want to know what the best pain medication was. I didn't want to hear that it would go away on its own. I wanted to know WHY it came in the first place. And it was that debilitating summer that led me to thinking differently about my health.
I began researching alternative ways of healing, and starting seeing an acupuncturist and practicing yoga. That helped me greatly, as did regular prayer. However, my biggest discovery was native nutrition or traditional diet. It turned my pink world, filled with low-fat ice cream and whole wheat bread, on its head. From there (and I hope to elaborate on the diet aspect in great detail in subsequent entries) a whole new world was opened up to me. Suddenly, it wasn't about staying thin and suppressing illnesses and recycling a few newspapers. It was about redefining health and wellness, community, and sustainability. This whole journey has been a process, and I know I'll never arrive. But I've learned a lot, and asked more questions than I can find answers for. So if you're interested in the journey, read on...
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