tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31549884666255862932024-03-12T22:04:53.683-04:00small house, big pictureblogosophies of family, food & dare I say it? feminismdwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.comBlogger140125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-83412469444539860032014-10-03T21:08:00.000-04:002014-10-03T21:17:57.792-04:00the applesauce is in the pot--but where are the strawberries?The applesauce is in the pot cooking down. I'll can it later, and then, I just might put the canner up for the season. But you never know.<br />
<br />
It's getting to be that time of year - when the fall crops come in and the frenzy of canning and freezing food goes out. You gotta love winter squash and root vegetables. All you have to do to preserve them is put them in a cupboard! <br />
<br />
Up until now, we have been busy. My food dryer whirs through the night full of peppers, garlic and onions. My canner bubbles, processing all kinds of stuff: salsa, tomatoes, peaches, pears and now applesauce. My freezer is filling up with chard, collards, carrots and chickens.<br />
<br />
But something is missing.<br />
<br />
Every year I am lucky to get organic strawberries from a local farmer. I wrote more about that, and why I insist on eating organic strawberries <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/05/strawberry-strawberry.html">here</a> several years ago, but the gist of it is: strawberries suck the pesticides up inside of themselves. You can't wash or peel the nastiness off. While strawberries are one of the worst fruits to eat if they aren't organic, the organic ones can be nearly impossible to find locally. <br />
<br />
I knew I was lucky to have an organic strawberry connection. I even protected it--wary of sharing the information with too many people. Every year, I bought them in bulk in May. For 2-3 weeks we'd binge on berries. I'd make shortcake every night, put up jam for the year, and stuff bags of whole ones into the freezer for winter shakes. Then we'd wait for them to return the next year. By the end of those weeks, I felt I couldn't look at another berry.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine that feeling now.<br />
<br />
This year, a hailstorm destroyed "my" strawberry crop just days before the harvest. All of those beautiful berries: gone.<br />
<br />
At first I felt so bad for the farmer, I didn't think about what this meant for me. But soon, the reality sunk in. No strawerries!<br />
<br />
I asked around at markets and couldn't find anyone with organic berries. No surprise. Then a new vendor appeared at one of my markets. He said he'd have organic berries all summer. Woohoo!<br />
<br />
Except he didn't. Not really, anyway. He had berries: raspberries, blueberries, lots of elderberries (I have no idea what to do with those!), and pints of blackberries. Occasionally he showed up with a pint or two of strawberries. <br />
<br />
To get them, you had to wait like a cat outside a mouse hole and pounce on them the minute the market bell rang. It was embarrassing.<br />
<br />
Once I got enough to make jam. <br />
<br />
After that, I got nothing. <br />
<br />
Just a few booths down , my regular fruit vendor offered mountains of strawberries. They looked beautiful. I like these farmers and buy all of my other fruit from them (none of it organic). But strawberries are something I've committed to eating without pesticides. I don't want to contribute to the seepage of methyl bromide into our environment. <br />
<br />
Still, each week those berries tempted me. Denial is such an easy thing. It's so easy to stick your head in the sand and go with the crowd. Everyone else is eating strawberries. Why shouldn't we? It can't be that bad, right? Or better, just pretend you don't know anything about it. Hope the farmer didn't use THAT stuff on THESE berries. Right?<br />
<br />
I walked through the market each week never sure if this would be the day when I'd give in.<br />
<br />
I suppose it's easy to commit to a principle when the committing only asks you to buy in bulk. It's another thing when it means going without. As the summer has progressed, I think I believed my organic berry vendor would come through with some magical last-minute strawberriness. <br />
<br />
But he did not. <br />
<br />
Now, the season is over. The freezer is full (of other stuff), and we are committed. It will be the year without a strawberry. <br />
<br />
Sigh.dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-91128937027523020512014-09-25T15:49:00.000-04:002014-09-25T15:49:16.532-04:00in the weeds
Do you know this phrase? My manager used it at a waitressing
job I had in college. Just when you needed to get drinks to table 3, bring extra
salad dressing to 5, take orders at 10, and garnish the Manhattan at the bar,
the kid you just brought a straw to at 4 spills his milk all over his mother’s
lap. <br />
<br />
The dad looks at you as if you personally dumped the offending beverage.
The people who haven’t ordered slurp their sodas out of the bottom of their glasses
with a loudness that disturbs their neighbors. The person at 5 rolls his eyes
and starts eating the naked salad while calculating the miniscule tip he will give
you later. You want to drink instead of garnish that Manhattan on the bar, but
instead, you fly through the kitchen with a tray over your head yelling, “I’m
in the weeds!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It’s such a great phrase. It can mean you’re overwhelmed at
work. It can mean you’re bogged down at home. It can mean you’ve stepped off
the path and gotten lost. It can mean you’re fishing and you’ve floated into a particularly
vegetated area. In the singular, being “in the weed” could even mean you’re the
dude with the good connections. Of course, it most often means you haven’t
gardened in a while. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But who knew it could mean you haven’t blogged in a while?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In the spring, when the oregano in my garden is bright green
and the spaces gape between new plantings of basil and cilantro, I am attentive.
Everything has so much potential and needs so much care. It seems I can’t walk
past my little plot (which is right next to my driveway) without stopping to
pull out this or that individual green intruder. As the summer progresses, however,
and the herbs turn woody, I grow complacent. Now, not only do I walk past the
weeds, I even dismiss the strawberries I can see hanging like red exclamation
points in this otherwise indiscriminate sea of green. The garden isn’t dead,
but it has the harried look of a thing unkempt, unused. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And so it is with blogs. I didn’t know that leaving my blog
to the internet would be like leaving my garden to nature. In the days when I was
attentive, posting here twice a week, 50 hits in a day felt like the big time
baby. Though this was never a big time blog, posts were plentiful, hits were
real, comments made sense. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But now that I’ve left the premises to the elements, I get over
2,000 hits per day. All weeds. Thankfully, these “readers” only manage to leave
the occasional comment. Things like: “You can as well mechanical phenomenon
from one taxonomic group of treatment are numerous and studies rack up been fit
to put in the freezer.” It seems the bots have been into some weed of their own.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I now see my blog as this miniscule and irrelevant bit
floating in the flotsam of an internet that too seems choked with extraneous
and suffocating things like pop-ups and click bait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
How to reclaim my space? I thought by posting—intruding—I could
take it back. Will the bots scatter like sparrows interrupted? I doubt it. In
fact, now that I’m at the end of this writing, I’m wondering if the repetition
of the word “weed” in this post will only draw a whole new hoard of spammers,
these coming perhaps from the dark internet, looking for a person <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with weed</i> instead of just a person <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in the weeds</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
How disappointing for everybody.<o:p></o:p></div>
dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-73313137335834576762014-07-18T15:27:00.001-04:002014-07-18T15:27:24.506-04:00plant killer in the gardenYou may remember my sister and I <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/09/a-plant-killer-and-primadonna-go.html">rented a community gardenplot together</a>. I worried and wondered if she knew what she was getting into,
partnering up with a <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/03/plant-killers-anonymous.html">plant-killer</a> like myself.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It turns out a plant killer has a purpose in the garden
after all. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Weeds! </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
They cower when they see me coming. I mean it. I'm better than
any herbicide. In fact, someone should put my face on the bottle of how-the-heck-can-I-control-weeds-without-chemicals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Last week, I went to the garden with my sister. While she
watered (life giving), I weeded (plant killing).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After she finished, she said to me, “the garden
looks great. Look at all the tomatoes we have coming!”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Tomatoes? I’d been there an hour and hadn’t looked at a
single vegetable. It’s as if I only see the photographic negative of the
garden. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It sounds terrible, but it’s rather validating. I’ve always
slunk about in the shadow of my sister’s plant growing success. But it turns out
the green thumb in the family has no aptitude for a hoe. <o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Seriously. She’s always all about how the ground is too
hard, or the weeds are too thick. It’s never about how the hoer is too
helpless.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Since I can flat out turn over a row, it turns out she needs
me! <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
AND, I even managed to grow these!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDbtGofaOYbfVZ-1ctV3Qy-u7hqJ_3xHO1JW8uKubKE2ydBeZ_iq1uAFZwRLNcyDT04ImHUud89-96z6WNZJ166nVygJbEh9RxyxB9gWoNaKfgqW8PDwbvRtc3LCgjt677hHgKpBDADM/s1600/carrots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuDbtGofaOYbfVZ-1ctV3Qy-u7hqJ_3xHO1JW8uKubKE2ydBeZ_iq1uAFZwRLNcyDT04ImHUud89-96z6WNZJ166nVygJbEh9RxyxB9gWoNaKfgqW8PDwbvRtc3LCgjt677hHgKpBDADM/s1600/carrots.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Imagine my surprise when the first one came out of the
ground--like magic! </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It turns out everyone has their place in a garden.<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where’s yours?<o:p></o:p></div>
dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-48718316624354694132014-04-21T14:36:00.000-04:002014-04-21T14:36:01.286-04:00family traditions: bond or burden?I took Gareth to look at colleges last week. While we considered a variety of obvious things like academics, cost and location, one thing that stood out for me about the different schools was the presence of school traditions: things like secret societies, painted rocks, tailgate parties, and annual ceremonies/rituals (that ranged from marching incoming freshman under a school archway to paint fights with the school president) . The schools that had traditions felt more bonded than the others, and the tour guides spoke with more pride about their school (after all, it's more fun to describe an annual mud volleyball tournament than it is to describe the smart classrooms just installed in the business building).<br />
<br />
Or perhaps it was just my bias. I love traditions, mainly because I think they do bond a community together. By looking forward and backward, they give a shared sense of both purpose and history. In those things, I think we find security.<br />
<br />
For this reason, I value the traditions in our family life. Most of them involve food, like baking my grandmother's recipes over the holidays or eating cake for breakfast the day after a birthday. I never thought we were tradition crazy or anything, but one holiday season a friend told me, "your traditions stress me out!" Her comment surprised me and, I admit, hurt my feelings a little. <br />
<br />
Why would traditions stress her out? After thinking about it, I realized there is a tipping point between having fun traditions and being bound to burdensome routines that create more work around already busy times of the year like birthdays and holidays. <br />
<br />
I think the key to the former is to let your family traditions evolve with your family life. Almost all of our traditions come from a thing we did one year that we repeated the next year because it was fun. For example, on the morning of your birthday in our house, we will wake you up with a blaring version of Cracker's "Happy Birthday" and dance around your room until we get tired of it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/2Fz9jKjiFq0" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
Steve and I started doing this to each other before the kids were born. We like the line, "I'm feeling grateful for the small things today." Also, we thought it was funny to wake up to loud music, so we kept at it. We had no idea it was something we would still do with our children sixteen years later.<br />
<br />
Other traditions come from long-time family rituals. For at least three generations, we have put butter on the birthday person's nose for good luck. So the morning of your birthday around here is particularly unpleasant because we will wake you up with loud music <em>and</em> give you a greasy nose. <br />
<br />
The above two traditions have probably lasted as long as they have because they're simple. They don't cost money or require any extra planning, both of which can create pressure. <br />
<br />
I learned to keep it simple years ago, after I had the brilliant idea to have my kids color a wooden egg every Easter. This "tradition" did not evolve from a fun activity we wanted to repeat. I imposed it because I imagined 10-15 years of egg painting would create this beautiful huge bowl of eggs that my kids would color with increasingly skilled hands as they grew. <br />
<br />
The problem: this tradition involved a <em>craft</em>. The idea of doing crafts sends chills down my spine. My kids aren't fans either. At the time, however, I thought this was a craft we could handle: wooden egg, markers, child. Done. <br />
<br />
Except not only did I have to go to the craft store to buy the eggs (I hate errands), but I had to do it in a timely fashion. It turns out, if you go to the craft store for wooden eggs on the day before (or after) Easter, the eggs will be sold out. <br />
<br />
I had this idea for two years before I ever managed to purchase an egg. Then, after I purchased them, it took me a year to get the kids seated for the event. By this time, Olivia was 5 and Gareth was 8. Gareth, who didn't like coloring, thought it sounded more like a chore than a fun ritual, so I had to make him do it. To make it worse, we enacted this fun celebration of Easter a week after the holiday because I was too busy to make it happen earlier.<br />
<br />
That was 2005. Apparently, we never got back to it for 6 years, because the next eggs I have are dated 2011! By then, Gareth was 15 years old. Again I made him color an egg because, "look, we started this "tradition" and I don't have any eggs! Someday, when you're 30, we'll think the egg you painted when you were 15 is sooo cute!!'" In that year, I changed things up and painted an egg myself, and made Steve do one too. That way I could put them out for display because it gave me enough to cover the bottom of a small cereal bowl.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, the tradition that I planned didn't come to fruition. But another one did. Now, the "tradition" is something more along the lines of how Steve and the kids color an egg for me each year because they feel sorry for me because my tradition didn't work. The kids look at their eggs and say, "Remember when you <em>made</em> me do this one!?" and we all laugh with nostalgia.<br />
<br />
So, after all that, I still ended up with this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0Wn4AB7fx1liqYccGzdLknGRn3Lz-urPHLDFhf__xMcRL1NarSeQHiBEOicgR8jfN_lqtQKklu3U7u43W7sObdYBMDzB2tCVVya3Xi-nufLp2hrOGFu2OshoC0J92770xIgqx8m9nU4/s1600/easter+2014_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0Wn4AB7fx1liqYccGzdLknGRn3Lz-urPHLDFhf__xMcRL1NarSeQHiBEOicgR8jfN_lqtQKklu3U7u43W7sObdYBMDzB2tCVVya3Xi-nufLp2hrOGFu2OshoC0J92770xIgqx8m9nU4/s1600/easter+2014_0001.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Not too shabby, but hardly a childhood record of Easters-gone-by (several eggs are painted by parents and several others by my kids' friends!), but still a charming if not telling display of our family's relationship to crafts. <br />
<br />
So, the lesson is: make your kids participate in traditions and you too can have a big bowl of painted eggs! <br />
<br />
No. <br />
<br />
I still think traditions are a fun way to bond any group, especially a family. But the key to good traditions is to let them evolve from fun things you already do so you don't create more work for yourself.<br />
<br />
Also, if you don't want your traditions to "stress you out" or otherwise feel burdensome, don't plan them around chores you dislike (for me: crafts and shopping for anything, especially craft supplies).<br />
<br />
And finally: be flexible. Don't feel pressure to make your tradition happen every year. Just because you miss it for one year (or five) doesn't mean it's over. Pick it up again when you can, if you want. And let it be what it is: a fun way to celebrate a holiday or a birthday, or perhaps just a pity party for mom!<br />
<br />dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-2109069851974849432014-03-27T13:03:00.000-04:002014-03-27T16:46:09.458-04:00bottled water: just say no!There was a point in my past life when I bought a case of seltzer water a week. I developed the habit during graduate school when I felt perpetually ill from stress, lack of sleep and too much caffeine. Bubbly water seemed the only antidote to the buckets of bad coffee I drank to stay awake.<br />
<br />
I traded the caffeine (and the stress) for more sleep when I graduated over a decade ago. But my habit of drinking seltzer water continued for several more years. Then one day I looked at my recycle bin and noticed the way it overflowed with empty plastic. Why hadn't that bothered me before? Deciding that was way too much plastic for any one person to produce in a week, so I resolved to quit the habit. <br />
<br />
I still drink seltzer, but instead of buying twelve plastic bottles each week, I buy one or two glass bottles instead. <br />
<br />
Just a week ago, if you'd asked me if I drank water out of plastic bottles, I'd have said "no way!" I wonder if my feelings of self-righteousness would have showed through. With the exception of "rare occasions" when a plastic bottle of water seemed unavoidable, I did not see myself as part of our growing bottled water problem. <br />
<br />
Then last weekend, we watched the documentary <em><a href="http://www.tappedthemovie.com/">Tapped</a></em>. Have you seen it? It skewers the bottled water industry at every step of the product cycle: from extraction, where beverage companies haul water away from local communities who don't share in the profits; to packaging, where manufacture of the bottles relies on petroleum and harmful chemical elements (BPA when the film was made, <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/17707454">antimony </a>now); to testing, which is overseen by one FDA employee; to advertising, which misleads consumers into thinking the water is safer than tap water; to disposal which is turning our oceans into a "plastic soup." <br />
<br />
After watching it, you'll vow to never touch another bottle of water again. That's what Steve and I said anyway. Of course, I was thinking in my I'm-already-all-over-this way about how I gave up bottled water years ago, but I didn't say that out loud.<br />
<br />
The next day, I went to the coffee shop to work on my book. I don't do this every day - maybe once every one or two weeks. After a long morning drinking decaf and writing, I decided I needed something to eat.<br />
<br />
And I was thirsty.<br />
<br />
I looked at my drink options: plastic bottles of water, plastic bottles of soda, and glass bottles of juice. <br />
<br />
I hesitated. I couldn't drink a bottle of water the day after watching <em>Tapped</em>! But I hate juice, refuse to drink soda (it's in plastic anyway) and couldn't stand the idea of another sweet drink after all the coffee I'd had (I'm not a black coffee kind of girl). <br />
<br />
What should I do? I could hear the people behind me shuffling their feet in line. Their looks of "make up your mind!" drilled into the back of my head as I tottered on the edge of a panic-purchase.<br />
<br />
My mind raced. I didn't have a reusable water bottle with me, and besides, would it be fair to bring my own drink after sitting in this restaurant using their electricity and wifi all day? I felt like I owed the proprietors my business.<br />
<br />
So I did it. I pulled a crinkly bottle of water out of the ice, purchased it, and drank it. The day after watching <em>Tapped</em>.<br />
<br />
Just this once.<br />
<br />
Two nights later, I co-hosted a team-dinner for my son's soccer team. The other family provided drinks: two cases of water and a case of Gatorade. Egad! That was more water bottles than I wanted to be responsible for in a year!<br />
<br />
An hour or two into the evening, I offhandedly mentioned how thirsty I was to Steve. The other mom heard me and kindly brought me a bottle of water. "Oh, thanks!" I said with a pained smile. I didn't know what to do. Could I sneak through the living room, return the bottle to the cooler, then rummage through her cupboards for a glass without her noticing? And would it matter if I did? Someone was going to drink that bottle of water, whether I did or not.<br />
<br />
My friend stood in front of me, expecting me to guzzle down this drink with relief. Not wanting to be rude, I twisted off the plastic top with a crackle, and drank up.<br />
<br />
Later, I noticed Steve doing it too.<br />
<br />
Just this once.<br />
<br />
Three days later, I volunteered to help out at my daughter's swim meet. I brought a reusable water bottle with me because all-day meets in hot indoor pools never fail to dehydrate me. In the afternoon, I sat at the scoring table entering meet results into a computer. Toward the end of the meet, things became frenzied as we worked to finish the events on time. I had drained my water bottle long before. Parched, I asked a swimmer if they could refill my bottle at a water fountain. Before I could stop her, another mom intercepted, explaining there was no need to do that because "We have a whole cooler of water bottles right here!" She was nice enough to bring me one.<br />
<br />
And I drank it.<br />
<br />
Just this once.<br />
<br />
"Just this once" turned out to be three bottles of water within one week of watching <em>Tapped</em>! That's hardly a record of abstinence.<br />
<br />
If I were in high school trying not to get pregnant, I'd be in big trouble.<br />
<br />
I still feel completely committed to the idea that I should never drink or purchase a bottle of water again. What I discovered, however, is how much our culture has acclimated to this idea of portable water. With bottles so omnipresent, other ways of accessing and drinking water (like large thermoses, pitchers and, imagine: CUPS!) have disappeared.<br />
<br />
I'm sure I'm not the only person who watched <em>Tapped </em>and swore myself off of bottled water. And I bet I'm also not the only person to discover this can be a challenge. <br />
<br />
As a country, we consume bottled water like it's...well...water. Check out the numbers. Between 2009 (when <em>Tapped </em>came out) and 2012, sale of bottled water increased by 1.2 BILLION gallons!<br />
<br />
<br />
<a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&docid=kQa91i3iGecZ1M&tbnid=Rr8Uvp9i6pgm-M:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.beveragemarketing.com%2Fnews-detail.asp%3Fid%3D260&ei=cxEzU-qoNIrfsATKq4LIAw&bvm=bv.63738703,d.aWc&psig=AFQjCNHNlkMyAnGDJC0en6pMBkvNwQ2hww&ust=1395941968104306" id="irc_mil" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor;"><img class="irc_mut" src="http://www.beveragemarketing.com/images/2013Bwpr1.gif" height="393" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 0px;" width="361" /></a><br />
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For the visual effect:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a data-ved="0CAUQjRw" href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&docid=kQa91i3iGecZ1M&tbnid=Rr8Uvp9i6pgm-M:&ved=0CAUQjRw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fscienceblogs.com%2Fsignificantfigures%2Findex.php%2F2013%2F04%2F25%2Fbottled-water-sales-the-shocking-reality%2F&ei=EhEzU_XRK7bLsAS7-ILQCA&bvm=bv.63738703,d.aWc&psig=AFQjCNHNlkMyAnGDJC0en6pMBkvNwQ2hww&ust=1395941968104306" id="irc_mil" style="border-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img class="irc_mut" src="http://scienceblogs.com/significantfigures/files/2013/04/BottledWater-per-capita-2012.png" height="356" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 18px;" width="522" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Data from the Beverage Marketing Corporation. Graph by <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=bottled+water+statistics+2013&hl=en&qscrl=1&rlz=1T4GGHP_enUS414US415&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=zBAzU6_FAsK0yAG57YCwAQ&sqi=2&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ&biw=1051&bih=471#facrc=_&imgdii=_&imgrc=Rr8Uvp9i6pgm-M%253A%3BkQa91i3iGecZ1M%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fscienceblogs.com%252Fsignificantfigures%252Ffiles%252F2013%252F04%252FBottledWater-per-capita-2012.png%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fscienceblogs.com%252Fsignificantfigures%252Findex.php%252F2013%252F04%252F25%252Fbottled-water-sales-the-shocking-reality%252F%3B712%3B486">Peter Gleick</a> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
The <a href="http://www.bottledwater.org/us-consumption-bottled-water-shows-continued-growth-increasing-62-percent-2012-sales-67-percent">International Bottled Water Association</a> (IBWA) cited a bright future for bottled water sales last spring, noting a 6.2% increase in bottled water consumption between 2012 and 2013. According to IBWA, U.S. consumption rates work out to an average of 30.8 gallons of water per person per year! <br />
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But there's good news for conservationists too. <a href="http://www.sfexaminer.com/PoliticsBlog/archives/2014/03/04/sf-becomes-first-major-city-to-ban-sale-of-plastic-water-bottles">San Francisco just banned the sale of bottled water on public property</a>. How cool is that!? As part of the ordinance, the city will also take steps to provide more "water filling stations" around town. At least in San Francisco, public water won't go the way of the public phone. <br />
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While San Francisco marks the first major city to ban bottled water, smaller movements have led the charge. <a href="http://www.treehugger.com/environmental-policy/concord-massachusetts-becomes-first-city-us-ban-plastic-water-bottles.html">Concord, Massachusetts </a>became the first city to implement a ban when it did so on January 2013. That same month, the <a href="http://www.uvm.edu/~uvmpr/?Page=news&storyID=13129&category=ucommall">University of Vermont </a>became one of the first public universities to implement a ban on bottled water sales. The movement continues to grow with other smaller communities and private universities getting on board. In the latest news, <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/news/article/Western-Washington-to-end-bottled-water-sales-5342063.php">Western Washington University </a>will remove bottled water from campus shelves in just a few days, on April 1st. <br />
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If you want to learn more about the movement to ban bottled water, check out the blog <a href="http://www.banthebottle.net/">Ban the Bottle</a>. <br />
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As for me, I'm regrouping. Over the past week, I discovered that <em>really</em> giving up bottled water is not a passive thing. I had no idea the "rare occasions" when I drank bottled water were so frequent. All of my nice friends and acquaintances caught me off guard with their kindness and generosity. <br />
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But now I'm ready for them: "Thanks so much, but I've given it up." It's as simple as "Just Say No!" If anyone asks why, I get a chance to spread the word.<br />
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So many world problems feel impossible and expensive to solve. This one is so easy. <br />
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In the U.S., public water is safe and free. <br />
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All we have to do is drink it! <br />
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<br />dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-14086083838037345392014-03-16T11:48:00.002-04:002014-03-16T11:48:24.134-04:00strawberry smoothie mandateLast year, I wrote in <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/08/like-squirrel-in-tomato-patch-or-lazy.html">lazy locavore hangover</a> about how I couldn't get inspired to cook or do the work of food preservation for the coming winter. Cooking usually feels like a creative outlet for me, and preparing/preserving/eating local organic food feels like a spiritual practice. But last spring and summer, something was missing in all of that. For the first time in as long as I could remember, food felt like a chore. <br />
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As the winter winds down and I remember that lethargy, I am surprised to realize that somehow, I still pulled it off. We ate well this winter. In jars we had the usual suspects: apple and tomato sauces, peaches, pears and green beans among other things. We also had some new foods like pickled beets (they were delicious!), pickled peppers (yum!), and BBQ sauce (Yuck. It needed some serious doctoring out of the jar). <br />
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In the freezer we had various roasts, a few racks of ribs, a little ground meat, a lot of breakfast sausage, half of a lamb, and over 20 whole chickens. <br />
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I don't know why, but for me, there is something obscene about all those birds. When I layered them on the shelves with packages of wings, legs and thighs last fall, I couldn't help but wonder if the birds minded sharing space with so many packages of <em>parts. </em>I had this gruesome flash of how I'd feel packed into a room surrounded by bags full of frozen elbows. Ugh. My throat felt a little tight at the thought.<br />
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With an imagination like that, I suppose I am well-suited for vegetarianism (or <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/04/lessatarian-case-of-closet-carnivore.html">lessatarianism</a> to be more accurate). <br />
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When March arrived a few weeks ago, I looked in the freezer feeling satisfied. While I still had plenty of food for the next few months, I also saw a lot of empty space. Many of the birds had flown the coop (if we want to fool ourselves in that way). The green beans,<strong> </strong><a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/11/got-collard-balls.html">collard balls</a>, corn, black-eyed peas, and various kinds of pesto had dwindled. I was just thinking how well I'd planned when I looked at the top shelf, the one reserved for fruit and saw it was...FULL. <br />
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Holy Toledo!--we forgot to eat the fruit! <br />
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That top shelf sat bulging with 4 gallons of strawberries, 2 gallons of blueberries, 1 gallon of pears, a few random small bags of melon, and several quarts of raspberries. Aside from uses like muffins and pancakes, this stash was supposed to fuel a winter's worth of smoothies.<br />
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What happened?<br />
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I could say it was my hoarder instinct in overdrive. And I'm sure there'd be some truth in that. Sometimes I get so caught up in the gathering and storing "for later" I forget that "later" is NOW. This is especially true of the strawberries because I freeze them in May and must look at them for months before I'm "allowed" to break into them. <br />
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But that's not the whole truth. <br />
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If this local and mostly organic fruit didn't fuel my winter smoothies as intended, then what did?<br />
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Oh, I don't know. Maybe a banana or two? <br />
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Some almonds? <br />
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A bit of chocolate?<br />
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I might have added a "splash" of coconut milk. <br />
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And sugar. <br />
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It's true. <br />
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There is NOTHING local about a chocolate-banana-almond-coconut shake! <br />
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Unless, of course, you live within 20 degrees latitude of the EQUATOR.<br />
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Egad.<br />
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All I can say is: I got addicted. Surely that is some kind of defense? I think it was the caffeine in the chocolate. I don't otherwise drink caffeine, and I found myself waking up every morning saying, "Don't talk to me. I can't think before I've had my chocolate-banana-almond-coconut shake!" <br />
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In my chocolate delirium, I plum forgot about the fruit. <br />
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Now, spring is a week away (one week! woohoo!). Except holy crap - we've got a lot of frozen fruit to eat. There's only one thing worse than running out of your winter stores before the new growing season starts, and that's leaving your winter stores uneaten. <br />
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It feels so wasteful--of the food left over and the time spent preparing it.<br />
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So we've been hitting the strawberries hard. We've been under a near daily strawberry smoothie mandate for two weeks and have already polished off two gallons of them.<br />
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My kids have no idea why there's suddenly an influx of berry flavored stuff on the menu. I wonder what exactly goes through their heads as they endure my manic directives. <br />
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In one day I can swing from "Don't touch those strawberries!" to "Good God! Why haven't you eaten more strawberries!" <br />
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We have an urgency around food that wouldn't exist if we shopped for this stuff at the grocery store. <br />
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Or if, perhaps, the person in charge of all this food storage and consumption was a tad less neurotic. <br />
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Or forgetful. <br />
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Or susceptible to the intoxications of chocolate and coconut in a blender.<br />
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Still, despite the berry mania, I feel like we're in good shape as we ride out this last week of winter. In reality, I discovered the fruit just in time. After all, it's not like it'll start raining berries on March 23rd. We still have two months before fresh fruit will appear in the markets. <br />
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And I'm happy to say that, unlike my lethargy of last year, I feel tired of this year's winter food coma. After such a frigid season, I'm more than ready to do the work of eating fresh food and am happy to make my chocolate shake addiction a distant memory--an anomaly of a winter gone by.<br />
dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-16831957845900835582014-02-27T13:51:00.000-05:002014-02-27T13:51:32.073-05:00anchor of death: or teens, blogging & transitionI've written before about the difficulties of raising teens. One day your kids think you walk on water, the next they think you're the anchor of death, threatening with your mere presence to drag them to the sea-floor of all that is uncool and embarrassing.<br />
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I started this blog right on the cusp of this teen adventure, when Gareth (now almost 17) and Olivia (now 13) were 14 and 10 respectively. Although Gareth was already a teenager, he'd slipped into that rather quietly, and it hadn't yet sunk in for me. I still imagined my kids were kids: attached to me, influenced by me, mine.<br />
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The transition to "anchor of death" has taken some doing (in my mind, not theirs). And one place where I've felt awkward about my new role has been on this blog.<br />
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When I started writing here, the name "small house, big picture" referred to how the activities of one household connect to the world outside of it. An easy example of this would be how our consumption and disposal habits contribute to the pile at the dump. But I also thought of this connection in terms of parenthood: our household would teach by example that each of us is more than an important individual; we are all members of a string of communities: from family, to school, to town, to nation, to planet. I wanted to raise children who were not just loving and caring individuals, but active citizens of the nation and responsible stewards of the planet. <br />
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It all sounds so lofty now. And it was great for a while. It was easy to feed my toddlers local organic snacks and say we were a green household. But when the toddlers grow up, they eat industrial snacks like Ramen noodles and drink sugary food-dye laden beverages like Gatorade out of, it's true: plastic bottles. If that's not enough for my faint green mother's heart, they throw those bottles in their bedroom trash cans instead of the recycle bin! Egad. When you ask why they didn't adhere to this most basic of green household activities, they'll say, "Oh, sorry. I forgot--" as if you haven't been teaching this practice since they were old enough to walk. They'll promise to rectify the matter later, but they won't. <br />
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A good parent knows to stand back during this time, to trust in what you've taught and let your teen experiment with his or her autonomy. Teens need to make mistakes and try things their own way so they can decide for themselves if they agree with their parents' way of thinking, right? I know I need to pick my battles and keep my mouth shut. <em>But it's so hard!</em><br />
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To be fair, my kids are great. As far as I know, nobody's on drugs, or bullying their classmates, or shoplifting cigarettes from the corner market. They're just typical teens in an our-mother-is-a-hippie-freak kind of way: they're lazy about recycling, never turn off the lights, and take showers that far exceed the recommended 5 minutes touted by many water conservationists. (Although I have to give them a break because <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/09/4-minute-shower-no-way.html">I do this too</a>!) And they roll their eyes at me a lot.<br />
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The point of all this is that I began to feel uncomfortable about how to write about "our" environmentally conscientious household. Are we really all small-house-big-picture around here if my kids think I'm a kook? I hadn't forgotten the rule about how teens will reject everything I've taught them until they hit their twenties. It's just that I discovered how hard it is to wait that long to see the fruits of my labor. <br />
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So this is yet <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2014/01/bits-and-pieces.html">another reason </a>why I haven't been writing as much.<br />
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With time, however, I'm getting used to being the anchor of death. It's not so bad, really. I've also figured out this is still small-house around here, even if I'm the only one who turns off all the lights, loves the compost heap like it's an old friend, or is willing to try brushing my teeth with a piece of bark (I haven't actually tried it yet - will let you know how that goes if I do!). Part of this transition into parenting teens is remembering that you live your life the way you do because it's what <em>you</em> want, not just because you hope your kids will want it too. <br />
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That's what I should be writing about.<br />
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Just as I'm figuring this out and feeling good about it, Olivia comes home from school and says, "Hey mom, it turns out my English teacher is a 'crazy hippie' like you!" Then she shows me this "totally cool" video she's been "waiting all day" to share with me because she knows how much I'll LOVE it. <br />
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So I watch it, not sure what to expect, and it's a Chipotle ad. Perhaps you've seen it:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/lUtnas5ScSE" width="560"></iframe>
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I do love it. And what a bonus to discover she's been listening all along.dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-65745396912185528222014-01-15T10:37:00.001-05:002014-01-15T10:37:11.816-05:00bits and piecesWell. I generally feel like it's bad form to write blog posts about how you haven't been posting, so naturally, I'm going to do it. <br />
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You may have noticed things grinding to a crawl around here. I admit my time for blogging has dwindled. It's not for lack of interest, rather, for something much better: greed. Or perhaps I should just say: money. This fall, I decided to pursue editing and writing projects that pay. Of course, when you try to make your hobby into your living, the hobby inevitably suffers. That doesn't mean I don't plan to write here anymore--I do!--it just means I've had less time. <br />
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And that will change.<br />
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It will change because the real drain on my time has been my book. What book, you say? Ahh, yes. That is the problem: <br />
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What book. <br />
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I started a memoir almost 8 years ago when I quit my adjunct professor work. The book traces my professional life from corporate ladder climber, to grad student, to my work as an adjunct English professor. It culminates with my decision to leave academia (woops. I guess I should have given you a spoiler alert!). I've worked on this project for years in, you guessed it, bits and pieces, only carving out time when I wasn't child-rearing, grant writing, tutoring and/or cooking. You can see why it's taken so long. I hope.<br />
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But now, the time to publish is ripe. The working conditions and employment prospects in academe have sunk to new lows and more people are speaking out. While I'm participating in that conversation through twitter and on my other blog, <a href="http://professornever.com/">Professor Never</a>, publishing my memoir and telling my story would give me closure on that part of my life. I have a real sense of urgency about finishing.<br />
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So I've been working on it A LOT. I can be a "bit" monomaniacal about writing projects. I have trouble drawing boundaries around the work, forgetting to drink water, cook dinner, or to go to bed.<br />
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The same thing happened with my dissertation.<br />
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The consequence? Everything around me crumbles into bits and pieces.<br />
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This blog, with a post here and a post there, looks as neglected as the parsnips that have languished in bits and pieces in my vegetable drawer since the last co-op delivery in November! <br />
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And what's up with those parsnips anyway?! And the turnips. And the butternut squash--these remnants of fresh stuff I've neglected nag at my conscience. Don't worry, we haven't resorted to McDonald's every night (or ever), but my meal planning is more haphazard, and my plans less ambitious. I've been falling back on the greens I pre-cut and froze in October, or the almost-ready-to-eat beans I canned in September. I "forget" about the squash and turnips that need to be washed and chopped--egad.<br />
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At the same time, stores of other winter foods have dwindled to their own meager collection of bits and pieces: white potatoes, garlic and apples are in short supply from our co-op. I could supplement with trips to the winter market, but I've reduced even those trips to bits and pieces as well, with late Friday nights and cold Saturday mornings collaborating to keep me home. <br />
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My herbs, which are way ready for the jar, still hang from my pan rack and other sundry places about the kitchen, begging me to bottle them up by dropping bits of themselves onto my counters in despair. I sweep them up and wonder, should the pieces go into the compost, or our dinner? Who will know?<br />
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Even my primary paying job: tutoring, has grown sporadic. I've cut back on my students to make time for freelance writing/editing jobs that I can do while the kids are at school. But in the transition to finding new work, I have felt the spaces open up between appointments. Whether that's good or bad, shouldn't it at least mean I have more time to do the things I always used to manage anyway? You'd think. But exercise, meditation, email maintenance (what a drag that's a thing now), laundry and Christmas thank-you notes (I've written only one) occur in smatterings. What good is just a "bit" of exercise or one clean "piece" of laundry?<br />
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It all gets sacrificed to the book.<br />
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Still, I have managed to step away from the memoir to write a few other related "pieces." I published an article in <em>Inside Higher Ed</em> a few weeks ago. You can see that <a href="http://www.insidehighered.com/advice/2014/01/03/essay-humanities-phds-who-pursue-careers-based-passion-discipline">here</a> if you want to read my post-academic rantings about the perils of seeking a humanities Ph.D. I also submitted an excerpt from the memoir to a literary magazine back in October. That rejection should arrive in my inbox any day, so I hate to even mention it. But no worries. I will not crumble into bits and pieces when I get the news. Like most writers, I'm an old hand at taking rejection. <br />
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In the coming weeks, I will continue to make my book revisions a priority, but I will also try not to be such a stranger around here. I miss this blog, the ideas it generated for me, and the small community that grew up around it (that's you if you're still out there!). You know I have bits and pieces of a zillion different posts floating around in my head. Writing here more regularly would clear my mind and hopefully help me to see the minutia of life that lies littered around me not as evidence of my neglect, but of my industry!<br />
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<br />dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-9115026107463930252013-11-13T13:59:00.002-05:002013-11-13T13:59:31.176-05:00dinner: it takes a familyDoes one person take responsibility for getting dinner on the table in your house? I love to cook, so that's how it used to be around here. That changed when I started tutoring in the afternoons/evenings almost a decade ago. I never sat down to map out a new plan, but one evolved.<br />
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Monday is my busiest day: I grocery shop and write/edit in the morning, tutor at my house from 12pm to 5pm, then leave for the evening at 5:30, dropping Olivia at her three hour swim practice on my way to a writer's meeting that usually ends around 9:15. <br />
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Here is how this past Monday night's dinner found its way to our table:<br />
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On Sunday night, I marinated a flank steak and stuck in the fridge for overnight. When I finished tutoring at 5pm the next day, I chopped up some bok choy and garlic and left them in a bowl next to the stove. Then, just before leaving with Olivia at 5:30, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I put millet on the stove to cook and left Gareth to watch over it. Gareth did his homework on the bar in our kitchen so he could keep an eye on the pot. When the Millet finished cooking, he took it off the heat and carried on with his homework. </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Steve arrived home thirty minutes later, grilled the marinated flank steak, put it in the fridge, then left with Gareth to coach Gareth's soccer practice. </span>When we all arrived home at 9:30pm (egad!), Olivia set the table, Gareth poured drinks, Steve cut the meat, I sauteed the bok choy and garlic, someone served the millet and voila!– dinner was served.<br />
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Craziness!<br />
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If you're thinking we're insane to dine so late, you're right, but we do it on some nights because it's the only time we can <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/10/shout-out-for-family-dinner.html">eat together</a>. And if my Monday night sounds like a logistical nightmare, I should tell you I didn't plan it.<br />
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It just happened. <br />
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I do try to plan simpler dinners on crazier nights, but as to how it gets prepared? I wing it. It's just a matter of doling out responsibilities according to skills and availability. And all kids have skills. They can wash, peel and chop vegetables, cook rice or pasta, stir soups, baste meats, start the grill, and wash dishes. <br />
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You'd be surprised, even the littlest fingers can peel garlic, which happens to be the most annoying job in the kitchen! Olivia has peeled piles of it for me over the years, usually while sitting in front of her latest show. I send her off with a whole head and she comes back with this beautiful pile of shiny cloves. Just don't ask me where all those papery skins end up. <br />
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Through this process of sharing responsibility, we discovered that dinner is not one job, but many. And the cook? Not one person, but one family.<br />
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Tag-teaming dinner has more than practical benefits. Cooking teaches kids that we all need to take responsibility for the food we eat (mom is not the de facto cook in the house unless she chooses to be). It also teaches hands-on that high quality healthy food doesn't come out of a plastic bag or a box--it comes from raw materials. And of course, cooking teaches cooking! If our kids go out into the world knowing how to cook, they'll be more likely to eat healthy meals made from whole foods when they are adults. <br />
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That all sounds great, but I don't want to mislead you into thinking I have miracle children. While Steve and I almost always tag-team dinner, the kids don't help every night, and I'm sure you can imagine the freak-out that occurs on the nights when I do ask. The outrage, the indignity, the affront! <br />
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Still, of all the chores we might coerce our kids into doing, this one offers the best kid-friendly payoff. They don't care about the urine on the base of the toilet seat or the dust on the television. But they do care about food. You want cookies? Melt some butter. You want homemade ranch dressing? Get out the mayo and go cut some chives. <br />
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Of course, like anything, cooking has a learning curve. Years ago I left Gareth to cook a chicken while I went to tutor. I'd cleaned and prepped it, so "all he had to do" was put the bird in the oven at 5pm then set a timer to baste it every 20 minutes. He didn't have to worry about when it would be done because his dad would be home in time to take it out of the oven. <br />
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Simple, right? <br />
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When Steve arrived home at 6pm and checked on the bird, he discovered an ice-cold chicken shivering in an ice-cold oven, it's little wings tucked in tight against the frigid air. Gareth had dutifully basted a raw chicken every twenty minutes for an hour without ever turning on the heat! When I asked him if he noticed the chicken hadn't cooked he said, "I thought it just took a long time." <br />
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I suppose the moral of that story is it doesn't have to be perfect (although I prefer dinner not be raw). If you're having trouble finding time to get dinner on the table, it's okay to consider the crew of worker bees that is your family. I know the kids are busy too, so if they have a freak-out, just remind them they don't have to make the whole meal (the point is that nobody does). But if they want a decent homemade dinner in these hectic times, it takes a family. dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-53204105164122065282013-10-29T12:34:00.003-04:002013-10-29T12:34:50.041-04:00the pumpkinization of octoberHave we gone plum-kin crazy?! <br />
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I love the fall. It might be my favorite season (Although I say that about every season when it's at the cusp of it's glory. Just ask me about winter on New Year's Day.). <br />
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But for today, I'm restricting my praises to autumn. I am drawn throughout the year to it's deep colors, choosing purple, orange and red for all manner of things from dish towels, to sneakers, to the color of my bike. Then there are the fall vegetables. Forget those fragile sissy spears of scallion and asparagus I raved about in April. In October, I want the thump of a butternut squash and the heft of a box of sweet potatoes to celebrate cooler weather. <br />
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When I made my first pan of roasted vegetables in September, Olivia came into the kitchen and said, "It smells like school!" (Meaning, it smells like the time of year when school starts, not, it smells like that horrible building in which I'm held prisoner for 6 hours a day 5 days a week!).<br />
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These little things - a side dish for dinner that we haven't had in nine months - help us notice and celebrate the year's transitions.<br />
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So what's the gripe? <br />
<br />
Retailers, eager to exploit the pleasures of a new season, can really drive the thing into the ground if you let them. And pumpkin is the flave-o-fall extraordinaire. In October, I can drink myself into a stupor on pumpkin ale then wake myself up with a pumpkin latte. For breakfast I can smear pumpkin cream cheese on a pumpkin bagel, or if I'm not in the mood for a bagel, I could whip up a batch of pumpkin pancakes from a boxed mix instead. While I'm in the baking section, I may as well snag some pumpkin bread, or pumpkin muffin, or pumpkin scone mix so I have something to go with my pumpkin soup for lunch. And if I don't want soup, I could lather the bakery with pumpkin butter for a special treat! <br />
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I can't help but wonder: is there also pumpkin jerky? pumpkin quiche, or perhaps salted, gingered, or candied pumpkin nuggets? None of this is to mention the pumpkin seeds --do they sell them in pumpkin flavor? <br />
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When you shop for these pumpkin products, you will notice piles of real but mostly inedible pumpkins posing in Halloween pyramids about the store. How ironic that when I asked the clerk if the pumpkins were edible he looked at me in surprise, "Oh! I don't know!" he said, as if it had never occurred to him to eat a pumpkin before. <br />
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Could it be that we are surrounded by pumpkin simulacra?--representations of pumpkin-flavor so prolific that we have forgotten that the flavor of our October coffee (which tastes more like cinnamon and allspice than pumpkin if you ask me) derived in the first place from a vegetable shockingly called: a "pumpkin?"<br />
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After surviving the pumpkin pandemonium at the grocery store this morning, I'm thinking again about <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/04/lessatarian-case-of-closet-carnivore.html">lessatarianism</a>. I didn't even eat any of that pumpkin flavored stuff, but I still feel a little ill--as if I did. It must be the power of pumpkin-persuasion. Whatever it is, it's got me screaming "less is more!"<br />
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As in less pumpkin-<em>flavor. </em> I have nothing against a bounty of actual pumpkins. Here are my pretties for the season: <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">notice the not-dead-yet plant in the background!</span></div>
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Even after the grocery trip, I don't feel remotely ill when I look at this pair of squash. One is a little pie pumpkin from my co-op, the other is a Cinderella pumpkin - as good to eat as it is to look at. <br />
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If you're in the mood for a real pumpkin too, stop by your local farmer's market--they have the kind you can eat! It's not that the traditional pumpkin patch pumpkin will poison you or anything, but it might bore you to death with its flavorless, skimpy and stringy self. <br />
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Instead, get a beautiful, bulgy, knotty orange or green sensation--a Fairy Tale (or Musquee de Provence if you want to be French about it), a Cinderella (pictured above), a Jarrahadale (blue/green/gray that will shock you with its orange flesh), or a Hubbard (big or little, bulbous, orange). <br />
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If you want to have fun with it, pick one out for its pumpkin personality rather than for its perfection. Let it cheer your kitchen or family room for a bit, then, when the day arrives, slice the thing open and roast it. You know I'm not a food blogger, so <a href="http://www.elanaspantry.com/how-to-roast-a-pumpkin-in-10-steps/">here</a> are the details if you need step-by-step instructions with pretty pictures.<br />
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You can scoop out your cooked pumpkin and use it as is, but I like to throw it in a colander and forget about it for an hour to let excess water drain out (unless I'm using it for soup). <br />
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I also puree it because some of us are funny about texture around here and don't like any "strings" of pumpkin to show up in our soup or pancakes, but that step is only necessary if you're family is texturally challenged. <br />
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If your pumpkin is big, freeze the puree in 1-cup portions so you can pull it out for various recipes. Add it to bread, pancakes, soup, cake and pie, but for god's sake, don't stir it into your coffee or drop dollops into your beer--pureed or not! <br />
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We usually cook a pumpkin or two each fall, making sure to save enough puree for a thanksgiving pie. And that's about enough, because as you know, less is more. <br />
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Happy Halloween!dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-13885231801002211542013-10-20T13:35:00.001-04:002013-10-20T13:42:11.480-04:00shout-out for family dinnerWhen the kids were toddlers, sitting at the table together felt like a circus. I remember mushy food thrown on the floor, shared and slobbery silverware clattering on the table, halted conversation that competed with one child who banged their sippy cup on the high chair and another who whined about eating peas. Amid the fussing and the mayhem, it's easy to wonder: What's the point? In fact, while Steve and I always sat down to eat as a family when the kids were young, it was a civilized dinner by ourselves that I really craved. THAT sounded like real quality time! <br />
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Back in those baby/toddler years, we ate together because that's how Steve and I were raised. It just felt normal. I didn't know that during those nights spent wiping sticky fingers while trying to eat our black beans and rice, we were instilling a routine into all of us that would pay off down the road.<br />
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We all know that dinner time is social---even if some nights devolve into things less civilized. But in our digital age, meal time can provide respite from phones, ipods, and other hand-held electronics. When I was a kid, the rule was, "no books at the table"--I clearly grew up in a different century-- but the idea is the same: we should talk to each other.<br />
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I've also discovered that mealtime can teach respect for food. Sitting together gives me a chance to brag about my cooking, which of course, I take full advantage of, but it isn't just self-serving. Talking about cooking can reveal its artfulness while reminding the kids that food preparation takes effort, heart and soul. <br />
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I also talk about where the food came from: how's that chicken? you know it came from Polyface Farm; or eat up your arugula - it's fresh from our co-op today; or you know that farmer with the big melons (ha!), he said these beets would be like candy. And my favorite: "how 'bout them tomatoes? You know I grew those!" --Except that latter thing happens so seldom with me being a <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/03/plant-killers-anonymous.html">plant killer</a> and all.<br />
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Of course, sometimes dinner offers a chance to disrespect the food. No matter how many delicious meals I've prepared over the years, the one that lives in infamy? eggplant custard. I had high hopes when I set out to make it, but it proved a gray and slightly slimy casserole for which superior flavor could not overcome the shortcomings of color and texture. Alas.<br />
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Despite such misguided concoctions, mealtime teaches respect for the cook. The rules around our table are far more lax than the ones I grew up with (sit up straight, napkin on your lap, no elbows on the table). I can't be bothered to police the dinner table so closely, but there is one rule I especially treasure: you NEVER eat before the person who prepared your food has sat down to the table. After all the work of making a meal, this one gesture of respect and thanks goes a long way to acknowledging the effort.<br />
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This is especially fun when the kids did the work. We can honor them and also shower them with praise: Wow, look how well the vegetables were chopped; this pasta is a perfect al dente; who peeled that garlic? <br />
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If you respect the endeavors of the cook, then you are also more likely to eat the food he or she prepared for you. <br />
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Then there's respect for each other: it's boring, but it's true that you learn manners when you eat in a group. I never tell Olivia to chew with her mouth closed because her brother does it for me. Better she learn it from him than on a date with a cute guy who doesn't like the looks of her fish and broccoli in partial breakdown. <br />
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If you don't want to get kicked by a sibling, you also learn to pass food around the table after you've served yourself, to use your napkin when there's spaghetti sauce on your face, and wait your turn to tell that hilarious story from the lunch room at school.<br />
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While I saw over the years that family dinner could do all these great things: teach community, nutrition, manners, and respect, I didn't understand the value of family dinner as a sustained ritual until this summer when suddenly, Gareth had somewhere else to be every night: at Chipotle, playing soccer at the school, at the pool, spending the night at a friend's. He could easily leave in the morning and not return for days--and all that time wearing the same pair of underwear! <br />
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I was at first baffled about how to get him back. If he's welcome at the friend's house, or has already eaten out, then why should he come home? Then it hit me: family dinner! After years of eating together, it made perfect sense to him when I said, "have fun, but you have to be home for dinner." We had taught him, perhaps inadvertently, that food is more than a convenience or a pleasure. It is part of the social fabric of our family.<br />
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Looking back, I can see the seeds of that idea in bloom. Before we eat, we usually wait for everyone to be seated, but it's not always easy to get everyone to the table. Have you ever called a child to dinner forty-eleven times and gotten no response? When one of our darlings just cannot tear themselves away from <em>Breaking Bad</em>, or <em>Switched at Birth</em>, or whatever other internet/cable sensation has captivated them, we begin our meal without them. <br />
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With the other child sitting gleefully at the table with us, we chew quietly and smirk at each other while we wait for the offending family member to notice the silence in the house: the lack of clattering pans in the kitchen, the absence of a bouncing soccer ball in the dining room (no balls at dinner unless they're <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/11/got-collard-balls.html">collard balls</a>!), the long period of time since anyone yelled, "Dinner!" He or she will inevitably come bolting into the dining room: "You ate without me!" <br />
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Yes we did. <br />
<br />
It surprised me the first time this happened to see how much it mattered to the kids. I suppose no child (or parent for that matter) wants to be cast out of a family ritual. <br />
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Rituals bring families together--something about the obligation to one another, the predictability of repetition, the knowledge that we can count on each other to show up, and for dinner: the responsibility of getting the food on the table together (who's turn to set the table? who's getting drinks? someone get those potatoes out of the oven please). <br />
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Good or bad, there are things we can count on about dinner: Olivia will never stop talking, then will complain that we never let her talk. Steve will ask us to comment repeatedly on the part of the meal he prepared, regardless if it only accounts for 10% of what's on the plate; Gareth will put ice cubes in his soup even if I tried to let it cool; I will huff when people use salt. <br />
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None of that is to say we haven't had some bad times around the table. Who could forget the animal-shaped napkin rings we couldn't use because the kids nearly tore each others' eyes out fighting over the rocking horse? <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">the unwitting source of so much familial strife!</span></div>
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And that doesn't rival the night when a cabbage roll inspired the debate: <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2011/11/charming-anecdote-is-frickin-cuss-word.html">is 'frickin' a cuss word</a>. <br />
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To make it work, family dinner doesn't always have to be pleasant (but I can say we've definitely laughed more than we've fought); it doesn't have to be fancy (eat cereal together if you have to), it doesn't have to be every night (we have dinner some nights at 9pm and others not at all because of soccer and swim schedules), it just has to be. <br />
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As we transition through these teen years and the kids become more independent, I hope that our determination to eat with the kids while they were young will perhaps inspire our kids to eat with us when we're old. <br />
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I know I wouldn't mind the company. dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-17899784807765476322013-09-24T14:53:00.001-04:002013-09-24T14:53:43.753-04:00a plant killer and a primadonna go gardeningMy sister, Laurie, and I got a plot in a community garden! <br />
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After nine months of waiting for a spot to open, we were so excited to get this news that we did silly stuff like photograph our plot stake:<br />
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We grew up with a huge vegetable garden. That means that in our day, we picked a lot of green beans; we ate way too much egg plant, and we spent a good number of afternoons huddled on the front stoop while mom and dad fought over how to put jars in the canner (the potential for food spoilage and broken glass in the same activity always put my overly cautious mother right over the edge). <br />
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We had fun with it too. Every year, my father would let one zucchini grow unfettered, "just for grins." If you leave a tomato on the vine, it will get riper and riper, but a zucchini? A zucchini will just get bigger and bigger. <br />
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A humongous zucchini might be fun to look at, but it's not so great to actually eat. Still, after all that tending and growing, Dad couldn't let it go to waste. So my mother would stuff it. Then we'd all sit around the table gazing in wonder at this tremendous boat of a vegetable that my father had grown. Should we have taken it to the fair?<br />
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It's too late for zucchini this year, but the park service insists that we plant something--within two weeks of signing our contract.<br />
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With this new sunny space, and the imperative that we move quickly, we raced to our plot, eager to see the site of our future vegetative triumphs.<br />
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We found this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg004jd-Dq0SX7BjFzxnvEH8xTYvIYRL2C409CbxDOvPaqNJf5DlmDgCksoiHmvSwx17wDiI919lEcV2u724VY1R3L7kHrgN9uG9Cu94hF_bf84Jg6USfjo3ULgWyhvmOi8WhrFiAEUMxo/s1600/overwhelming+weeds+no+fence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg004jd-Dq0SX7BjFzxnvEH8xTYvIYRL2C409CbxDOvPaqNJf5DlmDgCksoiHmvSwx17wDiI919lEcV2u724VY1R3L7kHrgN9uG9Cu94hF_bf84Jg6USfjo3ULgWyhvmOi8WhrFiAEUMxo/s320/overwhelming+weeds+no+fence.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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And for some context:<br />
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I suppose we should take the rule about keeping your garden plot functional as more of a suggestion than a hard and fast requirement. <br />
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Not to be discouraged, we surveyed the situation and made a plan. <br />
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We'd clear it out. We'd get something growing. We'd be a great team!<br />
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<br />
Thankfully, Laurie knows someone (her husband) who knows someone who has the kind of machinery you need to knock a job like this out in a jiffy.<br />
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<br />
That's great, but there's a glitch. You see, the overgrowth was never our problem. <br />
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If you have been reading this blog for a while, I wonder if perhaps you have guessed the real challenge. <br />
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When I met Laurie at the plot the second day, I wondered as I watched her digging, if <em>she</em> knew what the real challenge would be.<br />
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The thing is, I've had a vegetable garden before. When Steve and I first got married, I persuaded my apartment manager to allow me and the other residents to plant gardens on an empty plot of land. I grew tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, bell peppers and carrots. I loved that garden, laboring over it all summer. I even carried huge cans of water from the distant spigot every day. <br />
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As I expected, it grew green and luscious. I strutted around amid my leaves and vines like Foghorn Leghorn himself. Oh, to be young and prideful; I had not yet discovered the true color of my thumb. <br />
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Then one day, it died. <br />
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Perhaps it wasn't just one day, but little by little, something in the way of disease or critter struck each and every plant I'd grown--before I'd picked a single thing. If I were Laura Ingalls, my journal would have come to a tragic end that year, the words falling off the page as my bony little fingers recorded my final words. <br />
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Oh the tragedy.<br />
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"How could it all die?" you ask. <br />
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You should know. <br />
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I am a <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/03/plant-killers-anonymous.html">plant killer</a>, remember? There's really no other way to explain it. These things happen. This kind of "luck" strikes people like me.<br />
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I'm not telling my sister any of this. I don't want to dissuade her from our partnership. You never know, she might cut me out of the whole deal. <br />
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Instead, I'm scampering around wondering, what can a plant killer hope to grow, starting in late September?<br />
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Oh - I know! Why not something I've already begun to kill! Although I haven't had a big vegetable garden since that first travesty, I do grow herbs in my yard's one sunny spot. I dabble with vegetables in there, but they almost always come to a bad end. <br />
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This year, I thought I'd try my hand at some fall crops, planting broccoli, spinach and lettuce. To my surprise, they grew heartily. "Everything looks so good!" I thought. <br />
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Unfortunately, the deer thought so too. Little by little, they've stripped the leaves in the dark of night, working their way furtively down the row. I know this isn't the same as killing something with your own hands, but still, a better gardener would have deer semen, or deer blood, or whatever it is people in the know use for a deterrent--perhaps a fence?! Not me. I just sit and watch as my little plants disappear, one bite at a time.<br />
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Since the new garden has a fence, Laurie and I decided to transplant my broccoli and spinach. She is excited and doesn't appear to understand the kind of liability I pose. Failure wouldn't occur to her anyway because her thumb glows so green it might have uranium in it. When she walks into my house, my plants perk up in desperation, hoping she might notice their plights and intervene. <br />
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While Laurie might not see the risks inherent in gardening with a plant-killer, I know full well how much I need her. I was counting on her to give this garden a fighting chance. I was feeling confident she can lead me into the world where plants live long enough to bear fruit.<br />
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Then my hopes were dashed when she showed up for our first day of labor wearing earrings and flip flops! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO2hgdisFhlGKN4ZqtEsk4XU2BdI5Yuu-IY0vdjCRihaumUZ2LUQgkqUNrUCTpPFGgFBIIFFJKTicJjusx7djKDakksfEEFDmMi3VLfqCC3TXPnwD7DRmKykxZMqxlueyEZf1S1uQqks/s1600/primadonna+shoveling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO2hgdisFhlGKN4ZqtEsk4XU2BdI5Yuu-IY0vdjCRihaumUZ2LUQgkqUNrUCTpPFGgFBIIFFJKTicJjusx7djKDakksfEEFDmMi3VLfqCC3TXPnwD7DRmKykxZMqxlueyEZf1S1uQqks/s320/primadonna+shoveling.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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How can a person garden dressed like that!? For god's sake, she's probably even wearing deodorant.<br />
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Our whole lives she has out shined me as the fancy pants in the family. I suppose I should revel in the fact that we've found something to do together for which I'm the one with the better outfit.<br />
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Still, if she's going to make this happen for me, she needs to get dirty! <br />
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You'll be glad to know that like true partners, we switched jobs. I dug the holes (without posing for pictures thank god!) and she did the planting.<br />
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It doesn't look like much, but it's a start. Hopefully together, we have what it takes to make this thing grow!<br />
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Interested in a community garden? Check with your local park service to see if you have plots available for rent near you. Ours is cheap - less than $10/month!<br />
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dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-61838592689734613642013-09-18T13:55:00.000-04:002013-09-18T13:55:13.679-04:00dear teacher, you're too sweet for meDear Teacher,<br />
<br />
Please stop with the candy already! <br />
<br />
My daughter, Olivia, came home from school last week and announced that her math teacher has a huge jar filled with candy in her classroom. <br />
<br />
That tells me this year won't differ from those past where my kids' teachers have doled out Jolly Ranchers, Starburst, Laffy Taffy and other food-dye, preservative and refined sugar-laden little bombs of distraction on a regular basis. <br />
<br />
Egad.<br />
<br />
Four years ago, we experimented with nutrition to help Olivia focus in school. As part of that experiment, we removed refined sugar from her diet. Two months later, we had a different child on our hands. She was focused, happy, and energetic in a shockingly balanced way. Most importantly, she was <em>present</em>. Present like I'd never seen her before.<br />
<br />
She actually told me, "Mom, I don't have that foggy feeling anymore."<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
Granted, we made other changes to her diet besides eliminating sugar. We went gluten and dairy free, beefed up the amount of whole grains and vegetables she already ate, and added a few supplements like Omega-3 fish oil. However, after seeing the benefits of these changes, it was the addition of sugar <em>back</em> into Olivia's diet that appeared to have the greatest negative impact on her behavior. <br />
<br />
On any given day after school, Olivia's ability to sit and do her homework independently told us whether or not she'd eaten candy during school that day. <br />
<br />
Can you guess, dear teacher, who gave my daughter the brain-killing candy she ate during those school days when we noticed her changed behavior?<br />
<br />
You.<br />
<br />
I understand that we live in a world full of people who make different choices than us. We have the neighbor-kid whose cupboards are packed with soda, fruit roll-ups, and oatmeal pies. We have the generous boy in the lunch room who brought marshmallows and pudding for lunch--and the sweet girl next to him who brought cupcakes to share for her birthday. We have the nice ladies at the bank, the hairdresser, and even our favorite Vietnamese restaurant who all want to hand out lollipops like it's Halloween. <br />
<br />
And speaking of that, we have Halloween, Christmas, Valentine's Day, and Easter--all holidays for which the candy companies are happy to manufacture some kind of sweet must-have. I'm telling you, if they invent a candy for Thanksgiving, I think my head will explode.<br />
<br />
I understand and accept that we have to negotiate all of these hurdles on our road to a healthy lifestyle. But YOU dear teacher. YOU were supposed to be on my side. The lady at the hairdresser hasn't made a career out of building the esteem and intellect of my child. <br />
<br />
You have. <br />
<br />
The lady at the bank doesn't hold a position of authority and influence over my child.<br />
<br />
You do.<br />
<br />
Why then, would you undermine all of our efforts (that's yours and mine), by drugging my child during the part of the day when she needs to be the most on, the most focused, the most well-behaved--for you?<br />
<br />
If you think I'm being melodramatic then check out this <a href="http://www.healtheo360.com/blog/894/cocaine-vs-sugar/#.UjnB9LfD_mQ">infographic</a> comparing sugar to cocaine. <br />
<br />
You may know that sugar is linked to big bad things like obesity, heart disease, diabetes, and cancer. You must also know from your own experience that sugar causes hyperactivity. But did you know that too much sugar has recently been connected to learning, memory, dementia and Alzheimer's? <br />
<br />
I saw the effects myself in my chemically sensitive child, but perhaps my story about Olivia's sugar-free transformation doesn't impress you. That's fair. You can google "sugar and the brain" and find a plethora of articles such as this one: <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/daniel-amen-md/sugar-brain-health_b_2868392.html">Psychodiabetes: Sugar on the Brain</a>, this one: <a href="http://newsroom.ucla.edu/portal/ucla/this-is-your-brain-on-sugar-ucla-233992.aspx">This is Your Brain on Sugar</a>, and this one: <a href="http://www.askdrsears.com/topics/family-nutrition/sugar/harmful-effects-excess-sugar">Harmful Effects of Excess Sugar</a>. Oh, and this one: <a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/daviddisalvo/2012/04/01/what-eating-too-much-sugar-does-to-your-brain/">What Eating Too Much Sugar Does to Your Brain</a>.<br />
<br />
Dear teacher, you cannot give my daughter candy then ask her to sit still and focus. You cannot give her candy then ask her to raise her hand before talking. You cannot give her candy then ask her to <em>learn</em>. <br />
<br />
This one really burns me up: Dear teacher, you cannot give my daughter candy then punish her for acting as if she's eaten candy. <br />
<br />
Dear teacher, I know your job is hard. That's not just lip service. I tutor learning disabled students and can tell you that one-on-one instruction is hard enough. I have the utmost respect for you and the work you do in a classroom overstuffed with children. But I implore you to figure out a way to do that work without candy-bribes because, in the long run, candy just makes your job harder. <br />
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If you think you can't teach without sugar, check out Dr. Yvonne Sanders-Butler talking about how she implemented a sugar-free policy at her elementary school in Lithonia, GA over a decade ago. I find her whole story fascinating, but if you're pressed for time (I know there's a stack of papers waiting to be graded), then skip to minute 16:45. That's when she discusses the changes she saw after they removed sugar from their cafeteria.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/gsP1vA21bXE" width="420"></iframe><br />
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<br />
Do you still think that one Tootsie Roll or that one Jolly Rancher never hurt anyone? <br />
<br />
Even if you are right, you have to consider that you're not the only source of sweet. It's everywhere. Your classroom could be the one place besides home where a child <em>isn't</em> presented with the temptations of that fine white powder. <br />
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You also have to consider that you're a role-model. You're the teacher! You're not just feeding your students candy, you're <em>teaching</em> them to eat it. <br />
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Dear Teacher, we are in this together. I will try to do my part: help with homework, send my kids off with a balanced breakfast in their bellies, and pack them healthy lunches for their school day. <br />
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I just ask that you please, <em>please</em> stop with the candy already.dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-24264886406050627032013-09-04T15:51:00.000-04:002013-09-04T15:51:14.530-04:00the wheels on the car go round and roundI am a controlling mom. It's the thing I most love and hate about myself. When the kids were toddlers, I thrived in matriarchal heaven, ruling my roost with dictatorial glee. <br />
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Lest you worry my children lived in rigid deprivation, I always provided the <em>illusion</em> of choice in our house. Would you like the apples or the pears? the peas or the carrots? the beans or the beets? Would you like to play with puzzles or blocks? draw or paint? run or walk? It's <em>your </em>choice my little darling. <br />
<br />
The beauty of caring for toddlers is that they only know what you tell them. They can't ask for pop tarts, potato chips, or the Disney Channel if they've never had or seen them before. <br />
<br />
Of course, I couldn't control everything. I accepted food-goo smeared on the furniture, toys on the floor, sleep deprivation, and a marked lack of the quiet introspective time I needed so badly. The house belonged to the kids, and that was okay. I couldn't, however, give up what little quiet I could garner in the car. Translation: I just could not live without my NPR. <br />
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One of my cardinal rules of parenting toddlers was always that nothing happens "just this once." You can't let the kids jump on the furniture, eat ice cream before bed, or run wild around the grocery store (instead of ride in the cart) "just this once." I always told Steve, "For a toddler, once is the same as <em>always</em>." <br />
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To protect my NPR time, then, I never, NEVER, played kids' music in my car. No Barney tapes, no Wiggles CDs, no Disney Channel on XM. That way, they didn't know they could ever listen to anything but the calm and measured reporting of <a href="http://thedianerehmshow.org/">Diane Rehm</a> and <a href="http://thekojonnamdishow.org/">Kojo Nnamdi </a>that I found so soothing. My kids couldn't (and didn't) miss what they didn't know.<br />
<br />
Once, however, after riding in his Aunt Laurie's van (always a bad influence, that darned sister of mine!), Gareth told me in his sweet little boy voice, "Mom, in Aunt Worie's car, she can play Barney!" He said it with amazement and just a hint of sadness that I admit, almost made me feel bad for him, but I didn't relent.<br />
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I responded with a sinister willingness to deceive: "Really!? That's pretty cool! Too bad our car doesn't do that." <br />
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Gareth: "Yeah, I know!" <br />
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He moved on to something else. I swear, he wasn't even scarred. <br />
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And I went on with my NPR.<br />
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Of course, the years went by and the kids grew out of "Wheels on the Bus." Despite their developing musical interests, however, we managed to keep a peaceful balance regarding radio use.<br />
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Until last year.<br />
<br />
That's when I completely lost control of the car radio. I lost it to Olivia, my tween monster who had a new-found passion for pop music. Personally, I don't know how a child can listen to the same three songs over and <em>over</em> and OVER again for weeks. I'm sure I never did this with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hihp_Jjdnsg">Leif Garret</a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-xfFqWaK1s">Andy Gibb</a>, or <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWdZEumNRmI">Air Supply</a>. I'm sure of it.<br />
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In the mind numbing haze of repetition, I've caught myself entertaining angry sounding internal dialogues with the most repeated artists, asking Bruno Mars, "You should've bought me flowers? Really? Well, I should've bought you laudanum. Take that!" And Rihanna, "You couldn't possibly still want me to stay when I want so badly for you to go away!" Then there's Katy Perry. I don't talk to her, but I'll say that "Teenage Dream" feels more like a grown-up nightmare.<br />
<br />
I cannot even bring myself to link up to these songs. Surely you too have heard enough?<br />
<br />
As the year progressed, the ten minute drive to Olivia's school became the longest ten minutes of my day. The music, on its incessant loop, would assault me with sameness when I felt the most groggy and vulnerable. Listening to Taylor Swift sing "I Knew You Were Trouble" every day before eight o'clock in the morning never failed to send me into a tailspin of suburban mother madness - a place where I wanted to bang my head incessantly into the driver's window of my minivan in a way that would involve drool. <br />
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Still, I tried to hide at least some of my frustration from sweet Olivia who couldn't imagine I'd have a problem with her music choices. Having denied her the Wiggles during the car rides of her early years, I felt I owed her this coming of age. I remember discovering pop music as a tween and feeling somehow, that I had discovered myself.<br />
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So I let the music play. <br />
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Then, just when I thought I might have to flee my car in rush hour traffic, Olivia showed up with her ipod.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Mom. Look!" she said, holding up the gleaming device. "I thought I'd listen on my ipod so you can hear your NPR!" <br />
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Feeling oh-so satisfied with this display of problem solving acumen, she plugged herself in with a smile and left me<br />
<br />
in deafening silence.<br />
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Now I drive around listening to Michelle Martin's <a href="http://www.npr.org/programs/tell-me-more/">Tell Me More</a> just like I wanted. But I keep finding myself with things I want to say, stuff I want to share. When I offer up my little insights, however, Olivia jerks an earphone out of her head and says, "What?!" with unmasked annoyance. <br />
<br />
Be careful what you wish for, right?<br />
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It's Karma coming back to get me, I know, because if I had to choose between the Wiggles, Katy Perry, and the silence in which I now find myself, I'd definitely go for a little family sing-a-long to Big Red Car.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/nhOlK2lzWms" width="420"></iframe>
dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-63396067994692556902013-08-28T19:50:00.000-04:002013-08-28T19:50:06.944-04:00tarragon summerHave you ever noticed that food has fashion? When I was a kid, chocolate mousse dominated the runway of restaurant desert menus. I have to admit, I wouldn't mind if that trend found itself suddenly back in vogue. The "chocolate mousse cake" that replaced it isn't worth the raspberry-swirled plate it usually comes on. <br />
<br />
Regardless, on the lightly whipped heels of the mousse I loved so much, came potato skins - remember those cheesy, bacon-bit laden little boats of perfect bar food we scarfed down after too many beers in college? (or was that just me). And after college, chicken wings flapped their way into the Friday night happy hours of our twenties, with curly fries hot on their trail. Perhaps I used to drink and then eat too much?!).<br />
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At some point, I grew up, stopped eating in bars, and became a more committed vegetarian (the kind that turns her nose up at imitation bacon bits). Still, there was food fashion to be found, even in a home cooked meal. In the 1990s, <em>Gourmet </em>and <em>Bon Appetit </em>would not be satisfied until they'd incorporated Italian basil and balsamic vinegar into each and every one of their recipes. Once the food editors tired of that, we got cilantro and lime followed by sesame oil, ginger and Thai Basil. Then, sometime before the restaurant became a thing, the chipotle pepper took over our cuisine. <br />
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I happily rode these waves of food fashion, adapting to them far more easily than I did to the idea I should change out my Tivas for something more edgy. But that ended about ten years ago when I began to cook seasonally. I quickly grew disillusioned with the cooking magazines that asked me, in the cold of winter, to make a Christmas veggie platter out of fresh broccoli and cherry tomatoes. Further complicating my relationship to food, we discovered Olivia's food allergies. The imperative that I cook without wheat, gluten, dairy, eggs, and peanuts sent me suddenly adrift, thrust into my own world where I invented new recipes and adapted old ones according to the limits of both season and diet. <br />
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I'm sure there is something new and ever so fashionable in food right now, but I'm no longer privy to such trends. Instead, my exposure to cooking magazines starts and stops with <em>Living Without</em> (a magazine for people with food allergies that I highly recommend if you are so in need). I use recipes out of it occasionally, but mostly, I just read the articles (Ha! We've all heard that before). This leaves me largely to my own odd devices. That, my friends, is how I've ended up in a summer where, around our house, the unlikely pairing of tarragon and jalape<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">ño </span></span>peppers hit runway pay dirt. <br />
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Perhaps I'm no better at the fashion of food than of shoes, or perhaps it's just that bounty rather than trendy determines what lands on our plates these days. You see, my basil did poorly this year. Usually I have enough to stuff a mattress, but this year it languished (did I water it too much? too little? at all? Maybe it didn't like the unusually cool weather?) Regardless, I haven't had much basil to work with. But the tarragon was happy, and the peppers were plentiful, so why not? <br />
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I used to think I didn't like Tarragon. Not because I thought it tasted bad, but because I thought it had no flavor at all. I grew the stuff years ago. I planted it, watered it, weeded around it, cultivated it. But I couldn't taste it. Still, I persisted, dutifully putting it in salads and marinades. No matter what I did, however, it always disappointed. Then one summer at the farmer's market, I came across a woman selling tarragon plants. "Huh." I said, sort of moronically. "Your tarragon doesn't look anything like mine." <br />
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You have to remember that I'm a <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/03/plant-killers-anonymous.html">plant killer</a>, a gardener of ill-repute, as it were. It's one thing to kill your plants, but it's quite another, isn't it, to lose track of your plant in the weeds, causing you to mistakenly cultivate the wrong thing! <br />
<br />
I think that at some point in the growing of my tarragon, I mistook it for a weed, pulled it out, and began caring for an impostor. For two summers, I tended to...something. I watered it, weeded around it, cut it fresh, dried it for winter, and fed it to my family in various forms.<br />
<br />
Yes. I fed my family a weed! (Not to be mistaken with: "I fed my family <em>weed,</em>" which is how I keep reading that sentence). Is it technically still a weed if you eat it? I guess I'm just grateful that I didn't have any wild and poisonous hemlock lingering around in my herb garden like a snake, waiting to strike at the first opportunity.<br />
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Would you know the difference? <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5sXtMbIemSt9W7TnWsnMlofXKqrInmXPT1DxIcSQmJRwoAWRTJB7UdeLPIJt-ZhVhudE-QK1SwoefRhm0XWtDmpdo9q8UElvUjHO9YQRexO-ob2vQI79BvesbUR9q4JzJgweFDhS4Jg/s1600/mexican-tarragon-growing-lo%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5sXtMbIemSt9W7TnWsnMlofXKqrInmXPT1DxIcSQmJRwoAWRTJB7UdeLPIJt-ZhVhudE-QK1SwoefRhm0XWtDmpdo9q8UElvUjHO9YQRexO-ob2vQI79BvesbUR9q4JzJgweFDhS4Jg/s320/mexican-tarragon-growing-lo%5B1%5D.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Mexican tarragon</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitcIPEr4ezAcy5rsUN1gVOFL6pBguIEQHZoHMStC44ZZQ_Yklouh3Mce7aldccNeKpdzNe3V0Qz5a9yoeETH0WbG7KyIiYglg_rzb3RNTUa5B0ph7UsmFVSBf8Y5E95MZTbjUeLkOAEzc/s1600/poison-hemlock%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitcIPEr4ezAcy5rsUN1gVOFL6pBguIEQHZoHMStC44ZZQ_Yklouh3Mce7aldccNeKpdzNe3V0Qz5a9yoeETH0WbG7KyIiYglg_rzb3RNTUa5B0ph7UsmFVSBf8Y5E95MZTbjUeLkOAEzc/s320/poison-hemlock%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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poisonous hemlock</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDcbYgJEW3v9GLJtJskCxQvDok4j-gN5jTrVF2VKhs94NxrB50xO1u8fGI1J_2siLKPpcdje-U1EUH3ie-wAMBEpgQWBrZTwZZWugJ0FeMg3r1INGNMtes-XV3S-yJKsUhFC_KBPMPGmk/s1600/marijuana%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDcbYgJEW3v9GLJtJskCxQvDok4j-gN5jTrVF2VKhs94NxrB50xO1u8fGI1J_2siLKPpcdje-U1EUH3ie-wAMBEpgQWBrZTwZZWugJ0FeMg3r1INGNMtes-XV3S-yJKsUhFC_KBPMPGmk/s320/marijuana%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>weed</em></div>
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It's been quite a few years since I began growing real tarragon, despite my horticultural challenges. Still, until this summer, I hadn't cooked with it much. Perhaps my years of eating a weed left a bad taste in my mouth? But this summer, in the absence of plentiful basil, I found myself turning more and more often to this subtle little gem. And since I had more <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">jalape<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">ños </span></span></span>than we could eat, I just kept throwing them in the same bowl. In salad. On beets. In pasta. On meats. <br />
<br />
Do the two go well together? Sure. I'm not going to write a cookbook about it or anything, but I've enjoyed all the spicy hot, tarragon-laden foods we've been eating. This is how regional foods evolve, right? Not through fashion trends set out by the whims of traveling food editors, but through availability. You cook with what you have. If I'd been lucky enough that bounty and circumstance had brought lemons, olives and mint to my kitchen table in the same summer, I just may have written a cookbook about it. However, I also can't complain. I could have been the person to whom the butcher said, "Sorry, there's a Depression out there, I only have cow tongue on the block today" (please don't let that ever happen to me). And what if my weed had been flavorful? I would have made a great discovery indeed!<br />
<br />
Regardless of what the season brings, then, eating locally and seasonally connects you to your region: the thrivings and failings of its plant life, the labor and luck of its farmers, the whims of its weather, the lurkings of its fungus, the creepy crawlings of its insects, and the work you did, or didn't do, in your own garden (no matter how misguided!). In this way, food becomes part of your story, your history, and not just an incidental purchase, made for fashion under fluorescent lights at the grocery store. <br />
<br />
So this summer will be the one that was too cool for basil. The summer when Olivia caught pneumonia, when Gareth learned to drive, when the AC stayed quiet, and no one went swimming. The summer we didn't eat weeds. The tarragon summer. dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-84112018625029808742013-08-18T15:05:00.000-04:002013-08-19T14:08:29.714-04:00a smattering on bikes, barrels and bogsI rode my bike to the farmer's market yesterday morning. I love it when it works out that I can combine exercise with errands. I really do hate driving around in a car--aside from the other annoying things like the exhaust, the heat, the traffic and the music that Olivia insists on playing, I think it's the getting in and out of the car that really bugs me. Something about that just requires too much effort. How odd that it's easier in my mind to ride 6 miles to the market than it is to drive there and have to, egad, get out of the car--and then later, horrors, have to get back into it!<br />
<br />
So, I set out on my bike for a few cucumbers, a melon, and some milk (yes, I admit I'm still buying that <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/04/boutique-milk-meet-lessatarian.html">boutique milk</a>. It's just so good we can't help ourselves).<br />
<br />
I had wondered at first if carrying the milk on my bike would work. I tried to imagine the various disaster scenarios: would it spoil in the heat on the thirty minute ride home? Would the bottle break from the bumpy ride? What if I crashed? Would the bottle go flying and bonk someone on the head before smashing into a million little milk-laden daggers on the sidewalk where my vulnerable bike tires, or perhaps my soft fleshy body, would land just seconds later?<br />
<br />
I worked all of that out by packing a small soft cooler for the bottle. It would protect the bottle from cracking during the ride, would keep the milk cool, and would at least keep the broken glass contained should some unforeseen accident occur. <br />
<br />
Feeling like I had it under control, I rode into the market feeling all invigorated and car-independent. I purchased my goods and packed them up in my panniers (basically saddle bags for a bike) then coasted happily out of the parking lot. It wasn't until I clunked over my first bump that it hit me:<br />
<br />
<em>Butter.</em><br />
<br />
I knew immediately that this was how butter must have been discovered. Some poor bloke (turned genius) slung an animal skin full of milk over his donkey one day, stopped for a swig hours later, and found something really unbelievably delicious had formed. I just hope he wasn't too far from water when it happened. <br />
<br />
You hear of people being "ahead of their time." I never expected to have the dubious honor of being ten thousand years <em>behind </em>my time. <br />
<br />
If I was to be the great butter prophet, I definitely dropped the butter ball, so to speak, in not happening upon how to make the stuff until the 21st century! My failing only gets worse when you consider that I didn't even have cream in my satchel. The last I checked (which was yesterday), you can't make butter out of 2% milk - even if it's the best, creamiest, richest, and most expensive 2% milk you've ever tasted. If you went to the trouble to keep the milk cold, your chances are even worse. <br />
<br />
None of that stopped me, however, from worrying about it for every bump and jostle of that suddenly very long six mile ride. What would we do with a half gallon of butter? How would we get it out of the bottle with that little neck at the top? How does that play into my imagined accident scenarios?<br />
<br />
Finally, I traversed my final bit of rough road and got the stuff home. I pulled it out of my bag and beheld: cold milk.<br />
<br />
We haven't drank it yet, but it looks normal. Surely there won't be a weird lump or some such thing that plops into Gareth's glass when he goes to pour it, right? Something like that could ruin a kid on milk for a lifetime, don't you think? <br />
<br />
So the lesson is: you can ride your bike to the farmer's market, even if you're buying milk. <br />
<br />
In case that's not a revelation for you, I have a few other butter facts that I found interesting once I started googling:<br />
<br />
The word "butter" is Greek for "cow cheese." Hmmm. That sounds more like something that comes from the ears or toes (thank goodness cows don't have toes) than the udder. I don't think that name does the stuff any favors.<br />
<br />
The Irish, and other northern peoples, used to store butter in barrels that they buried in the mud. They called these "butter bogs." Apparently, the longer they left the butter to sit in the mud, the better the butter got. I wonder if anyone tasted the <a href="http://www.irishcentral.com/news/Bog-butter-from-3000-BC--found-in-ancient-underground-store-120950094.html">5,000 year old barrel one man found in Ireland back in 2011</a>? <br />
<br />
Over time butter has been used to shine up hair, smooth skin, and to treat infections and burns. It's also been used in religious ceremonies, in tea, and as currency. Some crazy people, if you can believe it, even put it on toast! <br />
<br />
Weirder than toast, however, Dairy Goodness's <a href="http://www.dairygoodness.ca/butter/the-history-of-butter">History of Butter</a> claims the Irish, Norse, Finns and Scotts loved the stuff so much they were buried surrounded by barrels of it! I guess that gives a new and less savory meaning to the phrase "butter bog."<br />
<br />
The same source reports that in Elizabethan England, newlyweds received butter as a wish for fertility. Of course, this made me wonder if butter-wrestling has ever been a thing. <br />
<br />
Probably.<br />
<br />
Nothing so interesting as that going on around here, however. After all my worrying, I'm now left feeling cheated because, instead of some magical, medicinal, spiritual, and seductively slippery butter in my bag, all we've got is this suddenly deficient jar of plain old milk.dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-39062706373307835042013-08-12T21:17:00.002-04:002013-08-12T21:17:24.667-04:00like a squirrel in the tomato patch OR lazy locavore hangoverThis time of year, it's easy to eat local. In fact, it's sometimes hard to keep up with all the local stuff that greets me, with little vegetable arms upstretched, yelling, "me! me! pick me!" when I open my fridge. All those vegetables, dying to be eaten, just break my heart! <br />
<br />
Eating locally gets harder, of course, during the colder months, so I supplement the food that I get from various farmers' markets, coops and buying clubs with the food that I've canned, frozen or dried. <br />
<br />
And guess what, the bulk of the preservation happens: NOW. <br />
<br />
I mentioned in the spring that I'd grown a bit fat and lazy on my winter larder. Mama bear is not supposed to emerge from the den feeling as if she's just finished Thanksgiving dinner. No, no. She is supposed to claw her way back into the world feeling ravenous, edgy, and predatory. What had happened to me? Instead of anticipating spring with an eagle's eye for the first signs of fresh crispy stuff, I emerged feeling lethargic and a little drunk on a winter spent eating rich homemade soups and roasted foods that, thanks to my summer industriousness, had required little prep. I wrote about how I needed to wake up and snap out of it in <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/05/lazy-locavore-lettuce-liability.html">lazy locavore</a> back in May. I did rally to make several batches of strawberry jam that week, but while I've managed to do the hard work of eating fresh food all summer, I've sort of been dreading canning season.<br />
<br />
Of course, we all know I could have a lazy summer and <em>still </em>have a lazy winter. There's a grocery store just down the street packed to brimming with already chopped and jarred food.<br />
<br />
But it wouldn't be the same. Darnit! You know that too. You see, I don't just want to be lazy. I want to be inspired. Can a person be both lazy and inspired? The politics and economics of supporting local farmers, the environmental aspect of eating local and organic, the spiritual enrichment of eating seasonally: these things all simmer in that winter food. Unfortunately, none of that gets in there without the work. Winter food has labor and love bottled up with it in those jars. Leaving that out would be like forgetting the salt in the tomatoes. I think the value of that work is what I get a little drunk on as curtains of cold and gray shroud the picture window in my kitchen (maybe the "work" is more like the tequila in the margarita?). <br />
<br />
The problem with that: you have to actually do all that work: the washing, chopping, hulling, paring, freezing, drying and canning. And instead of doing it, I have been walking around with my lazy locavore hangover, telling myself that canning season is not yet upon us.<br />
<br />
Until I casually asked Gareth's friend if his mother had begun her usual canning routine. His eyes bugged out: "Are you kidding? She's a maniac! She's been canning round the clock for weeks!"<br />
<br />
"What?!"<br />
<br />
Like a squirrel caught lolling fat and lethargic in the tomato patch (yes, the squirrels ate my tomatoes again this year), I snapped to attention. The other bushy tailed rodents have been out gathering? And I've got nothing to show but some tomato skin between my teeth and a meager stash of strawberry jam?! <br />
<br />
While I've always suspected that my interest in food preservation must hearken back to some sort of survivalist hoarding instinct, I never realized there was a competitive element to it. I always wondered why I got so antsy feeling when my sister would call and tell me proudly: "I'm canning salsa today!" <br />
<br />
If I wasn't canning too, I'd get all defensive: "Well, why didn't you tell me?" As if she should always let me know her plans so I could be sure to keep us <em>even</em>. Now I'd learned that someone else had already put up jars in <em>numbers</em>? I needed to get my bushy-tailed-ass in gear. <br />
<br />
Immediately.<br />
<br />
I put up blueberry jam, peach jam, pickled banana peppers and the dreaded labor intensive salsa all in one weekend.<br />
<br />
Then I called my sister to tell her so. <br />
<br />
Of course.<br />
<br />
So I guess I'm writing to say I have the fire back. I found myself yesterday scrounging around the kitchen to see what I could boil, blanch, pickle or dry. Not enough cukes, not enough jalapenos, not enough beets. And the market had closed for the day. I growled in frustration. <br />
<br />
Quite honestly, I'm surprised one of my kids didn't end up in a jar. But I shouldn't be, really. I mean, if you're going to pickle your kids for later enjoyment, do it when they're fat and perfect at eighteen-month olds; don't do it when they're honing in on eighteen years. By then they've grown old and tough, their skins thick and bitter with self-righteous indignation. Who needs that with a shot of vinegar and dill?<br />
<br />
Anyway, I finally found some wax peppers to dry. And that led to the herbs. Rosemary, basil, thyme and tarragon all waited majestically for me in the garden. With bundles of aroma tied and hung, and piles of pesto in the freezer, this squirrel (or am I a bear?) called it a day. <br />
<br />
Until tomorrow--when the tomatoes arrive.<br />
<br />
------------------------<br />
<br />
Interested in doing some canning but don't know where to start? Check out <a href="http://pickyourown.org/allaboutcanning.htm">Pick Your Own.</a> That link will take you to the "All About Home Canning" page, but the website is pretty comprehensive on food preservation in general. Just scroll down past the paragraph about blueberries to links for your specific questions. If you're overwhelmed, I'd recommend you pick one thing and focus on that. I'd start with jam, tomatoes or applesauce. These are easy to get in jars and are acidic, which makes them easier to can safely. My first canning project was applesauce. I used a recipe from the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ball-Blue-Book-Guide-Preserving/dp/0972753702/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1376353494&sr=8-2&keywords=ball+book+of+canning">Ball Blue Book</a>. Applesauce is <em>so easy </em>(once you've pared and cored!). You just cook it down, ladle it into jars and process! :) And if you do apples, you still have plenty of time to get canning supplies (see Pick Your Own for suggested kits). Good luck! dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-87420819953913198432013-08-08T00:23:00.000-04:002013-08-08T00:23:33.965-04:00still no 'poo, are you?It's been a year and a half since <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/03/no-poo-part-two.html">I gave up shampoo</a>, so I think it's time to check in. I'm still at it, if you're wondering. While my family dabbled in baking soda, the practice didn't stick for them. They all have their reasons: Gareth refused because he's a teenager. Olivia gave it almost nine months before she decided her lackadaisical hair-washing skills weren't enough for the combination of long hair and baking soda. Steve, who probably only tried it because he was afraid of what I'd do if he didn't, lasted almost a year before he confessed that he wanted to switch back because his hair, which looked perfectly clean to me, felt "weird."<br />
<br />
Pooh.<br />
<br />
I acted like he was crazy, but I had a secret: my head/hair felt a little weird too. I didn't want to admit it because I was committed to the cause. I'm a martyr! A fighter! A true soldier in the battle to keep sodium laurel, sodium lauryl sulfates and parabens out of our water ways! But I couldn't deny to myself that my hair, which also looked perfectly clean, felt a little...is gunky the word? <br />
<br />
Egad.<br />
<br />
My hair felt fine when it was dry, but when I'd wring it out after washing it, my hands felt like they had an oily film on them. Yuck. Despite that, however, it actually looked better and was easier to style than it was before I gave up shampoo. For the record, "easier to style" means I didn't need to do anything to it. I could wash it and let it drip dry and it would look exactly the same as it always did, except without the shampoo, conditioner, hair gel, blow drying, and hair spray I'd always felt I needed to make my limp, thin and lifeless hair look like something instead of nothing. <br />
<br />
So, while I didn't know why my hair had that feeling when wet, I didn't want to go back to the old routine. I saw the gunkiness of my hair as a sacrifice I had made for all the little crayfish and minnows that no longer make their homes in our waterways. And if you must know, I didn't explore ways to eliminate the gunk because I was too busy moralizing about my sacrifice, thinking a little righteously about how I'd stuck with the cause when Steve--that irresponsible shiny-haired-'poo-using-traitor I married--had not. <br />
<br />
I did, however, begin to worry about what would happen when I got my hair cut. I hadn't gone in about nine months (one of my many beauty and fashion failings), and the last time I'd gone, I'd let them wash my hair--a decision I regretted because the shampoo returned my hair to its old corn silk condition. I know that sounds nice, but soft isn't always good. Corn silk for me means straight, flat, lifeless, and too slippery to style. It took a month to build up the weird residue that felt gross but gave my hair its new body. <br />
<br />
If I wanted to avoid another month of shampoo-recovery, I had to refuse the shampoo. But then how would I hide the secret of my gunk from Carrie, my hair stylist of twenty years? <br />
<br />
Not sure how to face her, I put off my hair cut, letting what had been a short over-the-ears cut grow to my shoulders! I am such a wimp. Finally, I could avoid it no longer, so I scrubbed my hair as best I could, and steeled myself for the humiliation.<br />
<br />
When I explained my green hair care plan to Carrie, she was cool. I expected that, actually, because Carrie <em>is </em>cool. Why else would I go to her for 20 years? If she thought I was a lunatic, she didn't let on, so I relaxed. She cut my hair and we chatted as we always do about books and movies and politics. Everything was going to be okay!<br />
<br />
Then the moment came.<br />
<br />
She stood behind me, fiddling with the back of my hair.<br />
<br />
"So...I know you haven't been using shampoo..."<br />
<br />
I'm telling you. I could hear the words clacking together in her head like marbles as she sifted through them for the ones that would say, "Your hair feels scuzzy" without actually saying that.<br />
<br />
She continued: "Your hair is clean...but it's almost as if, well, it has a...it feels like..." She scrunched up her nose. Then her eyes lit up. "It feels like it has a build up of too much product on it. <em>That's </em>what it is!"<br />
<br />
I could see her relief at having stumbled upon such a safe description. No, my hair wasn't scummy or oily, or fit for critters to nest in. It was just <em>overstyled</em>. As in, my hair had too much civilization in it instead of too little. <br />
<br />
Ultimately, we laughed at her euphemisms as I assured her they weren't necessary. If I couldn't hide the gunk, I didn't want to endure the awkwardness of pretending it wasn't there. If for no other reason, let the same person cut your hair for twenty years so that when the time comes, they will have the guts to say, "Hey, your hair's kind of gnarly. What's up with that?"<br />
<br />
I was really glad we talked about it because she motivated me to get rid of the scum, and she gave me a clue: <em>product</em>. <br />
<br />
Out of habit, I had continued to use hairspray with my baking soda regimen. Are you shocked and disappointed to hear I ever used hairspray at all? I had to. No matter what fabulous things Carrie had managed to create on my head while I'd sat in her chair over the years, they were always utterly destroyed by the time I got to my car. The sight in my rear view mirror never even remotely resembled the masterpiece I'd seen just moments before in her magic mirror. Why? Because Carrie (rightly) didn't apply hairspray with the same 1980s vigor that my hair has always required. Without it, my hair falls instantly limp into my face where it drives me crazy for the rest of the day. I <em>hate</em> that!<br />
<br />
I had just assumed I still needed the hairspray, regardless of my no 'poo status. <br />
<br />
I was wrong.<br />
<br />
My first order of business when I left Carrie's that day: eliminate the hair spray and see what happened. The second: revisit the use of vinegar. <br />
<br />
I used vinegar last year and liked it at first. After a few times, however, it left my hair greasy - as if I had used too much conditioner, or hadn't rinsed my hair well enough. That, actually, is exactly what had happened (too much conditioner/vinegar).<br />
<br />
This is where I tell you, if you've tried and failed with no 'poo: understand that it is <em>a process</em>. Perhaps you already knew this? I didn't. If after using baking soda your hair feels too dry, or too oily, or it accumulates <em>the gunk</em>, don't quit (like some traitorous husbands have done!). But also, know that you don't have to be heroic and endure embarrassing hair scum. <br />
<br />
Just experiment. <br />
<br />
I had been using this common prescription: 1 Tablespoon of baking soda in 1 cup of water. My hair is thin and tends toward the oilier side, so this solution proved too weak. I reduced the water, mixing my 1 Tablespoon of baking soda with just enough water to be thinner than a paste. Now, I work this into my hair instead of just dumping it over. Then I really scrub. It feels gritty, but I like that feeling on my scalp. I do this every other day, and it works well. After a week or two, however, it starts to get that dry-but-too-thick feeling: in other words: it starts to get the gunk (despite the fact that I don't use hair spray anymore). That's when I hit it with the vinegar. Instead of the 2 Tablespoons of vinegar in 2 cups of water like I tried last year, I use just 1 tablespoon in 1 cup of water (same proportions, just less of it). This leaves my hair feeling smooth and shiny, but not greasy.<br />
<br />
Nice!<br />
<br />
The moral of the story: you don't have to be a weird-haired martyr for the local stream beds! A little experimentation helped me to make my hair better than it ever was: cleaner, more full of body, not scummy when wet, and easy to style. I just wash it, comb it, and let it dry. No shampoo, no conditioner, no hair gel, no hairspray. That's a lot of money left in my pocket, time left in my day, and a lot of questionable chemicals left in their bottles.<br />
<br />
It just took a little perseverance (and a fearless hair stylist).<br />
<br />
And since so many people come to my blog under the search terms: "no 'poo pics": here are a few weird faceless pictures for your scrutiny. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgknlQiXAaowaQqkaE0HB6yHC9wttLfLUC4boPBuXrjiaUoYoDmpLcLZEKFONgzfKwlxrRTdyekolncIOUlPhx58Hn58axGa-boW9YKdtSZT-z-9gmYKjzoi_B68lKHxVJWEMbI8xGsSjw/s1600/img_5591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgknlQiXAaowaQqkaE0HB6yHC9wttLfLUC4boPBuXrjiaUoYoDmpLcLZEKFONgzfKwlxrRTdyekolncIOUlPhx58Hn58axGa-boW9YKdtSZT-z-9gmYKjzoi_B68lKHxVJWEMbI8xGsSjw/s320/img_5591.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">unfortunately, the baking soda doesn't help with the way my </span></div>
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">natural part extends down the back of my head. </span></div>
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">i'm certain this will be a bald spot in old age. :( </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-Tq0z_ZbH8EIeyQc2GwzRGjggzRG2_lmgZynYbTHXJpSehNC0t-voUlq5bJRHnL4im0U8VlYXyoMaFYyIz59RLWQ8JdjYX0OpkYR67Vzg_RfRI5i3UxYw_eiPfawswU_nn4YFhgZeZY/s1600/img_5593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-Tq0z_ZbH8EIeyQc2GwzRGjggzRG2_lmgZynYbTHXJpSehNC0t-voUlq5bJRHnL4im0U8VlYXyoMaFYyIz59RLWQ8JdjYX0OpkYR67Vzg_RfRI5i3UxYw_eiPfawswU_nn4YFhgZeZY/s320/img_5593.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">this is from the side. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">you can see the very tip of my nose sticking out on the left. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">weird!</span></div>
dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-19724545762530506332013-07-31T21:29:00.001-04:002013-07-31T21:29:12.159-04:00baking soda & laundry: is it a conspiracy or a miracle?I'm off my rocker--gone plum baking-soda-crazy. I'm telling you, I love that stuff! I wash my hair with it, brush my teeth with it, bake cookies, do the laundry, slap it under my arms in great powdery puffs, then turn around and scrub the tub and toilet with it. <br />
<br />
I'm hauling it out of the grocery store in 4 lb. boxes and storing it in recycled 1 gallon grain buckets in my laundry room, and it occurs to me: I hope this isn't a raw material for some kind of homemade explosive device (baking soda does everything after all). If it is, then my repeated trips to the grocery store, where I have swiped my card with my cart loaded down under boxes of suspicious white powder, have most certainly earned me a spot on one of those top secret government watch lists that prevent you from flying on planes or crossing carelessly into Canada. <br />
<br />
Rather than a threat to public safety, however, I wonder if this miracle stuff isn't more of a threat to corporate profits in the cleaning and beauty industries. In<a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/03/no-poo-part-two.html"> my shift to no poo</a> almost a year and a half ago, I managed to replace shampoo, conditioner, hair gel and hair spray with just baking soda! What was a no frills girl like me doing with all that crap to begin with? (More on that later in my highly anticipated follow-up post, "no 'poo, part...III?!" or some such title).<br />
<br />
There are a ton of websites packed to brimming with how-to-use-baking-soda advice. You'd think you wouldn't need any more from me, but last year I found several that included recipes and advice for washing hair and doing laundry with just baking soda and vinegar--and I don't seem to be able to find those sites this year. Everything I can find, like this <a href="http://lifehackery.com/2008/07/22/home-4/">Life Hacker </a> list and this <a href="http://www.care2.com/greenliving/51-fantastic-uses-for-baking-soda.html?page=2">Care 2 make a difference </a>list suggests <em>adding</em> baking soda to your shampoo or your laundry detergent in order to "boost" their performance, That both lists (and others) use the word "boost" suggests to me that their information came from the same source--perhaps there is a detergent or chemical association out there somewhere that has adopted a clever "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" stance, flooding the internet with green living advice that suggests baking soda should be used only <em>in conjunction </em>with store-bought products?<br />
<br />
I don't know why I'm going all conspiracy theory on baking soda today! Really, I'm just hear to tell you that while I think both of these above lists are otherwise useful (check 'em out! get excited about sodium bicarbonate!), for laundry and hair, you don't need to couple baking soda with anything but it's good friend vinegar. I assure you that together these two are good for more than just volcano making. <br />
<br />
After I gave up shampoo last march, I began looking into how baking soda might substitute for other household products. As with shampoo, I had a lot of concerns about what my Trader Joe's laundry detergent contained. Check out how it is rated by <a href="http://www.ewg.org/guides/cleaners/5298-TraderJoesLiquidLaundryDetergent">The Environmental Working Group.</a> Not good. You can search that same site to see how your brand is rated, and if you want to know still more about toxicity in detergents, you can read <a href="http://www.livestrong.com/article/153609-detergent-pollutants/">here</a>, and <a href="http://1st-ecofriendlyplanet.com/08/conventional-laundry-detergent/">here</a>. Unfortunately, you will see words and phrases like "hormone disruptors," "fertility problems, "eutrophication" (excessive growth of algae), and "loss of aquatic life." <br />
<br />
Eventually, I learned that I could wash my laundry (and my moldy shower curtain, btw!) by putting 1/2 C of baking soda in the wash cycle then adding 1/2 vinegar during the rinse cycle. (Do not mix them in the same cycle. Of more concern than the creation of a possible volcano, they will neutralize each other, leaving you with little more than a mildly salty solution with much less punch.) <br />
<br />
Steve is not particular about most things, but for whatever reason, the laundry matters to him. He has long complained that our "natural" detergent from Trader Joe's doesn't work. Sometimes the wash would just randomly smell bad, and it didn't have a long life at all if forgotten and left to sit wet in the machine by a certain member of the family who cares deeply about a lot of things like the environment, social justice and local food sources but who can't seem to get into much of a dither about forgotten laundry. <br />
<br />
Since Steve already felt I'd compromised the cleanliness of our clothes with my TJ detergent, I worried that he would reject my new laundry strategy out of hand. So naturally, I snuck the suspect ingredients into our wash routine without him knowing. I carried on in that clandestine way for a month, letting him whittle away at our last bottle of detergent when he washed, but then, when it was my turn, creeping furtively around the laundry room like a fiend, as if I were trying to slip the laundry a mickey when no one was looking. Now we're getting to the real conspiracy, I suppose.<br />
<br />
The results were amazing! Baking soda removes odors and stains, vinegar acts as a fabric softener. Our clothes came out bright, soft, fluffy and smelling fresh--which means, by the way, that they smelled like nothing. <br />
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If you use this method to wash your clothes, you should know that they will not come out smelling like a synthetic blue sky or a chemically induced meadow complete with faux-smelling butterflies (what do butterflies smell like, anyway?). If you've grown to rely on these smells for assurance that your clothes are indeed clean, no worries: it doesn't take long to forget about them. In fact, once you're desensitized, a trip down the detergent aisle of the grocery store will overwhelm you with perfume so thick you'll feel like you just licked a dryer sheet.<br />
<br />
I feel like I need to spit just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
Once I'd determined the baking soda and vinegar were effective, I broke the news to Steve--unveiling my deception as if it were the most casual thing in the world. He was leery until I told him I'd been doing most of our laundry this way for a month. Since then, he actually agrees our laundry seems cleaner and brighter, and even Gareth has learned to set the timer so that he can add vinegar to the rinse cycle. <br />
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As for cost, I wish I could say the BS&V way is cheaper, but that depends on your current method. If the number of loads advertised on detergent bottles are to be believed, then it seems buying baking soda and vinegar together costs about the same as purchasing an equal amount of detergent. If you count fabric softener, however, then BS&V is cheaper. Regardless, it's certainly not <em>more</em> expensive, and it's absolutely more green.<br />
<br />
And I think it's more clean. <br />
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So hooray for no more store bought detergent! No more reading labels and wading through articles about toxicity! And most importantly, no more crapola going down our drains from the washing machine! <br />
<br />
Perhaps it's a miracle after all.<br />
<br />
dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-68520357387154332182013-07-27T22:03:00.000-04:002013-07-27T22:03:12.046-04:00trayvon martin and the privilege of invisibility
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGwdbzpIyr2IbM-I0hLuXgtsNWcQ63WZihWtKR9bh2LCY1UfyiqbGJRtyP57i12VpAv0cO2xTDiPh_nX0tHNQhylAD5tsQxcZ8aOPPkby5v_nXRjMxyrXOlBqqQoZUne0Z0InEvEPFqA/s1600/TrayvonMartinHooded%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGwdbzpIyr2IbM-I0hLuXgtsNWcQ63WZihWtKR9bh2LCY1UfyiqbGJRtyP57i12VpAv0cO2xTDiPh_nX0tHNQhylAD5tsQxcZ8aOPPkby5v_nXRjMxyrXOlBqqQoZUne0Z0InEvEPFqA/s1600/TrayvonMartinHooded%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a></div>
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Amid the media frenzy over the George Zimmerman acquittal on July 13th, I came across this <a href="http://jetmag.com/life/living/bell-hooks/"><span style="color: blue;">Jet interview</span></a> with renowned
scholar and activist bell hooks. When asked about how African American
parents should talk to their kids about the dangers black children face today, hooks
reminds us that our current crisis doesn’t present a new dilemma for African
American families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She explains that black
parents have always practiced what she calls, "parenting for
justice"--a phrase she uses to describe ways black parents teach their
children to be activists for justice while also raising their kids’ awareness regarding
the inequities and dangers they will face growing up black in
America. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Reading the interview I was immediately reminded of a performance by my
fellow <a href="http://www.listentoyourmothershow.com/dc/">Listen to Your Mother </a>cast member Taya Johnson back in May. Taya's
piece, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aK9usc-NJ7A">Peanut Butter and Jelly</a>, recounts the tragic and sudden loss of her
husband and the subsequent challenges she faces raising their special needs son
alone. Embedded in this story, however, is the fear and weighted
responsibility Taya and her husband felt in the moments when they
discovered they would have a son. Taya notes that parenting is
terrifying for everyone, but adds, "our fear was doubled as raising
an African American boy presents a unique set of challenges and
concerns." She continues that racial "anger, fear, ignorance
and hatred is often directed to and acted upon black boys and
men." In the face of these threats, Taya and her husband made a plan: their
family, with a strong emphasis on the role model of the father, would help their son Marcus to navigate
these challenges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Sadly, Marcus's father did not live to see that plan through, leaving Taya to rely on male members of their extended family to help Marcus know the man his father was.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Still, I find it remarkable that even though they wouldn't have used this language, Taya and her husband had planned how they would "parent for justice" before their son was even born.</span><br />
<br />
Of all the fears and anxieties I felt when pregnant with my son, I never
worried that I was bringing him into a world that would not welcome him. I have
never worried that someone in our neighborhood might perceive my son as a
threat. I have never counseled him on how to avoid arousing the
suspicions of others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never advised him
about how to stay safe if confronted by the police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I have never had to deliver these dire warnings because Gareth enjoys a
privilege that white people, including myself, take for granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the privilege of invisibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gareth’s whiteness lends him a legitimacy and
a belonging that allows him to walk regularly to 711 to buy candy without fear.
He is invisible because no one notices him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one suspects him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I worry endlessly that he will step
carelessly into traffic, but in all the times he has made that trip, it has never crossed
my mind that he might get shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Such freedom of movement should not be a privilege; it is a right. <br />
<br />
The work of securing this right for all young people should not fall to
African American parents alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White
people can “parent for justice” too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
First, we can educate ourselves and our kids about racial profiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t just mean that we should understand
that it happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather, we need to
understand what it’s like—or admit that we don’t really know so that we can ask
questions and find out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Have you ever felt targeted by the police for something beyond your
control?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This has only happened to me
once in my life, and arguably, it wasn’t beyond my control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In January 2001, I went to DC to protest the
election of George W. Bush. Despite my peaceful intentions and my right
to free speech, the police repeatedly treated me like a threat to society
rather than as an active, socially conscious part of it. They blocked my
way, barked orders at me, refused to look at me, and refused to answer my
questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point, when the police
unlawfully blocked the protest route, I turned down a side street chatting and
laughing with some fellow marchers. Two police officers came out of
nowhere and attacked the young man walking just in front of me. They
threw him to the ground and raised their clubs at him, yelling for him to lie
still. I watched in horror before I was corralled away
by additional officers (no, I was not arrested). <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Later that afternoon, as I was driving home, I contemplated my treatment
and the mixed emotions it had evoked. I had felt indignant, angry,
misunderstood, and sometimes afraid. Most surprising to me, the unfair
treatment made me want to fight back. I wanted to yell at the
police, point my finger in their faces and tell them how wrong they were about
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to push them to make them
acknowledge me when I was talking to them. I didn’t do any of those
things, but I was shocked to discover how quickly the police could make
me want to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
While driving my car and marveling at this surprising turn of my character,
a police cruiser drew alongside me on the highway. When I saw that black
and white in the corner of my eye, I flinched and cowered a bit in my
seat, expecting him to pull me over. I had learned to feel like a criminal in just one day. Then I remembered that this officer
had no way of knowing that I'd protested earlier--that I was no longer the subject of his suspicion and ire. By getting in my car and
driving away, I had disappeared back into the privilege of my invisible self, a
self who was free to move about the city without question. I felt a
tremendous sense of relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My one day of minor mistreatment doesn't even make a drop in the bucket when
compared to the systematic infringements of racial profiling. If I could feel so targeted, so angry and so
vulnerable in such a short time, what must it be like for young black men who
endure the suspicious gaze of those who unjustly fear them on a regular basis—and
during the formative years of their childhood no less? How often do they
feel afraid? How often do they alter their plans to avoid trouble? How
often are they incited to violence they wouldn't otherwise commit? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I have heard arguments that profiling is an insignificant problem because
innocent people should have nothing to fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That argument overlooks the more far reaching damage done to a
population that falls perpetually under a suspicious gaze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even more importantly, the argument ignores
the fact that racial profiling subjects the same population to repeated risk of
dangerous conflict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually, someone gets
really hurt, or as happened in the tragedy of Trayvon Martin, someone dies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
That is unacceptable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> To truly bring an end to racial profiling however, we must overcome an even greater hurdle: </span>our fear. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Have you ever felt unduly afraid or suspicious of a young black man? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I've spent a lot of time studying things like race theory and the
history of slavery, Jim Crow, civil rights and stereotype. Still, I live
in this society that privileges whiteness while demonizing blackness, and
I am not immune to its influences. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I admit that there have been times when I have looked twice at unknown black
teens who have walked through my neighborhood or past my car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am ashamed of those feelings, but instead
of hiding them, I think we should confront them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We should ask ourselves where our fear
originates: in personal experience, or elsewhere?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far more than personal experience, we will
find the seeds of fear in Hollywood, on television, in the news, in the application
of the law, and in the law itself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As these many sources of fear show, no one of us has single-handedly created this culture, but whether we like
it or not, we are all stewards of it. Understanding the root of it
can empower us to resist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of
blindly perpetuating fear and stereotype, we can question them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can educate ourselves about their origin
and history, and we can “parent for justice” by teaching ourselves and our kids to
look beyond stereotypes to see the promise and the humanity they
mask. <br />
<br />
Without fear, the practice of profiling would die, and we could finally guarantee young black men the privilege of invisibility--the privilege of moving freely without evoking suspicion and incurring harassment. <br />
<br />
We can do all that, and if we think Trayvon Martin should be the last
innocent black child to die for our fear, then we must.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-30418791346931915302013-07-17T19:17:00.000-04:002014-08-03T00:55:25.355-04:00recycling and "the debris" in tennessee I just spent a week's vacation in the smoky mountains of Tennessee. We stayed on Lake Watauga, a body of water touted as the second-clearest lake in the country. Hearing that, and reading from the rental agency that we should avoid bringing paper and plastic kitchen products because they have "limited trash facilities" and excess trash would be "frowned upon," I expected pristine. I was not disappointed. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJh7Ie8D_uMQsb2oarbGelhyphenhyphen5Pv_42pmgl-Gf4fwHZ-XMf6pmoKJCP5mAw7N017JQZDSHuZv80HjMUMJ2-kcExeI55AH4czRLt85W54Hbywv0jp1FuVeTjvFILB5AMlPHhfnI2v2w_Mb0/s1600/TN+rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJh7Ie8D_uMQsb2oarbGelhyphenhyphen5Pv_42pmgl-Gf4fwHZ-XMf6pmoKJCP5mAw7N017JQZDSHuZv80HjMUMJ2-kcExeI55AH4czRLt85W54Hbywv0jp1FuVeTjvFILB5AMlPHhfnI2v2w_Mb0/s320/TN+rainbow.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I took this from our deck just minutes after we arrived. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I've never seen the end of a rainbow before--it went right into our own pot of gold: the lake!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Olivia fishing on our dock. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbstoyeDxgAiGm-c_VVq1ekZhx9P2HidaBtn29hAkGO1VGhe703I-aEFkp8YpE6owUr39e0m8CKCh9TgsPrKc775sWk7LUIQnE_VCElzIaCOO2idkLQKjD7wT2BtAYGZ9ttmKZgNWlgc/s1600/river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbstoyeDxgAiGm-c_VVq1ekZhx9P2HidaBtn29hAkGO1VGhe703I-aEFkp8YpE6owUr39e0m8CKCh9TgsPrKc775sWk7LUIQnE_VCElzIaCOO2idkLQKjD7wT2BtAYGZ9ttmKZgNWlgc/s320/river.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Taken from my canoe in the river that feeds into the lake right across from our cabin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Canoeing through here felt otherworldly. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">It was completely still and silent, save the kingfishers darting among the trees.</span></div>
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Showing you all that, however, is like showing you a family photo album that has pictures of the wedding, the birthdays and the vacations, but not the death, the divorce, or the long days at work. So I'll have to turn my camera around for you. <br />
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There was also this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhct2WZmxcxOY8oHR9KtohAy-TKRSndSa2svVVjcMt5tfJMU_u82BPBo5a-gF66BdtKD5_dGaz4OJdC8Q-kPUig_U-Y7-utg4FXG9Vxl3OU8mOwKr_uPZK_wDp9nO-1ChsWUY5usgEUqHA/s1600/TN+debris_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhct2WZmxcxOY8oHR9KtohAy-TKRSndSa2svVVjcMt5tfJMU_u82BPBo5a-gF66BdtKD5_dGaz4OJdC8Q-kPUig_U-Y7-utg4FXG9Vxl3OU8mOwKr_uPZK_wDp9nO-1ChsWUY5usgEUqHA/s320/TN+debris_0001.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
This is what our dock looked like on the first morning, surrounded by what we came to call "the debris." <br />
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Apparently, recent weeks have brought record amounts of rain to the area. Locals boasted that the lake was EIGHT FEET higher than usual. We didn't doubt it as we could paddle around in the canoe while peering down at fences and walkways that lay still and unused 6-8 feet below us. Our own boat house poked only its nose above the flood:<br />
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Unfortunately, like a mischievous child, those eight feet of water crept their sticky fingers up into everyone's yards the week before we arrived, lifted everything buoyant, and set it adrift. Consequently, the lake roiled with floating driftwood, bits of twigs and leaves, and, you know it's coming: plastic crap. Lots of it. <br />
<br />
Are you thinking that the lake and my vacation were ruined? I admit it was shocking to see so much trash in this beautiful place, but "the debris" came and left in waves. It traveled like the blob, in big amorphous slurries that answered to the whims of the wind and the moods of the river that fed into the lake. Also, it's wasn't smelly or slimy or slick. It floated atop the water, leaving no trace of itself when it moved on. <br />
<br />
What made it feel dirty was the plastic. You may know that one of the big problems with plastic as a pollutant is that it's light weight, making it highly transient. I could swim in this lake and see my feet it was so clear, but when "the debris" arrived, we'd watch plastic containers, balls, water bottles (oh, the water bottles!), and even a broken pink plastic tricycle (darn I wish I'd gotten a picture of that) float by amid the wood and the twigs. Whatever trash might have been sitting around in people's front yards, half buried, waiting to be fixed, or waiting to be thrown away, had gone traveling. <br />
<br />
Are you wondering why people had so much plastic crap in their yards to begin with? I bet it didn't look like a lot when it was contained to people's property. We all have stuff tucked away in our yards, don't we? If a flood came up on my carport right now, a few plastic buckets for gardening, a sidewalk chalk container, a hoola-hoop, a big plastic watering can and some Ping-Pong balls would all go a -traveling. None of it really looks like trash right now, but it sure would have if it had floated past my dock last week while I fished with my kids. <br />
<br />
Is the moral of this story to keep our plastic trash tied down in case of a flood? Or is it simply to avoid having so much plastic crap to begin with? <br />
<br />
On one evening, I sat on the dock splashing my feet in the water. The light was just so, the water a mirror, my feet feeling baptized by the kind of cool that speaks of depth and mountains. Everything was so still, I could see the current from the nearby river, running relentless and purposeful through the middle of the lake. I felt that calm we all hope to find on vacation. Then, I noticed a huge piece of white plastic, jagged and bobbing, sailing like a great ship down the center of the current. Are you old enough to remember those cars that used to drive around with bullhorns on top of them blaring political messages into quiet neighborhoods? I actually don't think I'm old enough to have ever seen one myself, but you've seen them in the movies, right? This chunk of a defunct plastic container, sailing past in all its glaring trashiness, reminded me of those cars. It blared its bullhorn through the evening sublime to tell us once and for all to PLEASE STOP THROWING SHIT IN THE LAKE!"<br />
<br />
In a great irony, while lamenting the presence of so much plastic, we discovered that the local municipality did not provide recycling services. <br />
<br />
Were we to throw our recycling in the trash?! <br />
<br />
As far as water goes, I had only brought one 5-gallon jug with us in case we discovered the tap wasn't potable. We didn't need it, however, because the well water tasted pure and wonderful--no way did I want to miss that for some prepackaged Polar Springs a la polyethylene blah blah blah. <br />
<br />
But beer didn't come out of the tap (darn it!). Neither did wine. And not everyone on our trip had come with reusable water bottles with which to take advantage of the tap. With a crowd of sixteen (it was a family reunion kind of event), we accumulated a pile of recyclables faster than "the debris" could collect at our dock.<br />
<br />
What to do with it all? I announced that we should save it, and I started a pile on my back porch. I had no idea what I would do with the regiments of cans and bottles that soon stood ready for battle outside my door, but I recruited them anyway. People humored me, sending an occasional soldier to join the ranks. <br />
<br />
I know, however, that they also thought I was a little crazy. I never saw anyone put a bottle or can in the trash, but I know they did it. I found the evidence, unhappy and ashamed, gone AWOL under my kitchen sink. <br />
<br />
I imagine my family quietly slipping the offending items behind their backs and into the garbage while casually talking to me about whether the fish were biting. They didn't know that just as quietly, while commenting on the latest influx (or outflux) of debris, I snuck many of those cans and bottles back out and deposited them on the porch where they stood proudly at attention, awaiting my orders.<br />
<br />
On the final morning, they marched dutifully into bags, filling two-and-a-half plastic trash bags with discarded plastic, glass, and crushed aluminum. Were we really going to dump all that into the "limited" waste disposal system of our hosts? I just couldn't bear to do it.<br />
<br />
So the moment of reckoning came. Steve trudged up the stairs with his packing face on. If you haven't seen it, you should know it's not something to trifle with. <br />
<br />
"Um, hon? I've got all this recycling." I gestured to the bags that pressed hopefully against the sliding glass doors like orphan children looking for a ride home. I want to take them with us."<br />
<br />
He stood erect, arms straight down at his sides, and looked at me. Everything about his body said, "You've got to be f--king kidding me." I'm sure that at times like this, he must wish I could just be a normal person. The kind of person that says, "When in Rome..." or "to hell with it, we're on vacation!" Even I wish I could be that kind of person sometimes. I think I can be really annoying with my inability to let certain things go. <br />
<br />
We take vacations precisely for that reason, right?--to let go. I get that. I showered less, I ate and drank more. I peed through my shorts in the lake for god's sake! But some things aren't meant to be let go. I still brushed my teeth. I took my thyroid medicine; I fed my kids...and, I recycled. Or at least I tried to. <br />
<br />
In the interest of saving our marriage as it wavered precariously on that top step, I saw Steve take a long slow breath.<br />
<br />
"Maybe in the cooler?" I ventured. (We had a huge cooler with us).<br />
<br />
He huffed his begrudging assent and gathered up my precious cargo. I dared not say another word.<br />
<br />
With our cooler "packed," we hit the road--me grinning as we rolled through the countryside, Steve probably rolling his eyes. We stopped for a quick breakfast along the way. When we returned to the car, I noted a distinct Eau de Frat House in the car. <br />
<br />
"Ew. The car stinks!" we all agreed. The kids and I laughed because we knew, as much as Steve might hate that, he'd never endeavor to empty the cooler now that we'd buried it under our mountain of vacation paraphernalia. So we drove merrily down the road, in our old tin can of a car, smelling like a stale beer. And you know what? Even Steve smiled eventually.<br />
<br />
At home, we dumped our cargo in the recycling bin. I'm happy about what we were able to bring home, but I also know a lot of recyclable material slipped by me in the course of the week. For that reason, I have a little recycling vacation advice for myself and anyone else who might want it:<br />
<br />
-if renting a vacation home, check ahead of time to see if it has recycling services <br />
<br />
-if not, check the local town/city to see if there is a place where you can drop recyclables during (or at the end of) your vacation.<br />
<br />
-if not, plan to bring your recyclables home (bring appropriate containers, plan room in the car, warn spouse of your plan before that moment when he/she thinks the packing is finished).<br />
<br />
-check ahead of time to see if your tap water will be potable. <br />
<br />
-if so, bring reusable water bottles that can be kept cold in the cooler at the beach, on the boat etc.<br />
<br />
-If not, bring 5-gallon jugs of water to fill reusable water bottles. That way, you can avoid using a gazillion individual water bottles, some of which are sure, at some point in the next millennium, to set sail right into the middle of someone else's vacation! dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-46218526197970638342013-06-19T13:55:00.000-04:002013-06-19T13:55:00.623-04:00teens, trash and toleranceWhen the kids are little, you're all "small house, big picture." You imagine you're changing the world because the family is a mini nation and it matters if you feed your kids organic homemade granola bars instead of nutri-grain bars, or fresh fruit instead of fruit snacks. It matters that you kept Disney out of the house because you resented the way that corporation pioneered advertising to young children, that you limited screens to one hour or less a day, that you sent up a feminist rah! rah! when your bullish daughter clobbered the unsuspecting toddler boys on the soccer field while wearing a pink tutu, that you taught your son to carry ants outside in the name of world peace, that you taught them both to pick up trash, conserve energy, walk instead of ride, and to forever hold love over hate.<br />
<br />
Then you find yourself in the checkout line at the grocery store, your cart overflowing with individual-sized GatorAid and water bottles, paper and plastic dining products, fake-flavored chips, big-ag ground beef, white flour rolls, processed cheese and unnaturally blue frosted cupcakes because, just for this one day, for this one end-of-year party, couldn't our family please please be normal, Mom, PLEASE!?<br />
<br />
Dejected, and even embarrassed by the the wagon-load of pure and unadulterated shit that you find yourself suddenly responsible for, you quickly and furtively stuff the plastic crap and the styrofood into your van, hoping no one, especially a reader of this blog, has seen you. You quell the anguish in your thumping little eco-friendly heart by telling yourself it's just one day, that your family will return to it's green and healthy routines the very next morning.<br />
<br />
But when you arrive home, you remember that things in your small house have taken a turn. You find every light in every room glowing bright, two TVs blaring (why do you have two TVs?), the Xbox, YouTube, Instagram, Vine and unlimited text messaging all operating in tandem. When you forget your indoor voice and demand to know who belongs to the pile of junk-food wrappers on the end table, your son swaggers through the room cradling an entire box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies that he purchased after his newly-licenced buddies <em>drove</em> him the quarter mile to 7-11. He shrugs and says he'll pick it up "later." <br />
<br />
You turn to your younger daughter for reprieve only to find her Instagramming herself as she dips gluten-free pretzels into a bowl of melted chocolate chips while watching Hannah Montana reruns out of nostalgia for the Disnified childhood you didn't know she had. When she sees you, she leaps out of her chair because she's so excited to tell you that her new favorite line to her new favorite song is: "She's the hottest bitch in the house!" which she sings for you with unexpected "hottest bitch" know-how as she gyrates about the kitchen. <br />
<br />
You despair that the "big picture" you so hoped to change with your little family is something so relentless and impenetrable that it will instead swallow your children despite your greatest efforts. You wonder if you should even write about it anymore.<br />
<br />
Until your niece sends you a music video. When you watch it with your kids, your son says, "cool," and your daughter adds it to the short list of songs she overplays daily. Their reactions ease your worries. On the surface, the video doesn't have anything to do with food, or plastic, or screen time. It's about sexuality. But in your moment of despair, it struck a chord anyway because for you, these things are all connected: Whether for the planet, the self, or the Other, you've tried to teach your kids about love and respect and justice. You've tried to teach your kids that it's all the "same love." When someone else stands up with that message in a culture that wants to squash it, you are reminded to do so too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hlVBg7_08n0" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<br />dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-65342048512707479752013-06-03T20:50:00.000-04:002013-06-03T22:41:22.849-04:00#514As you may know, I participated in a sprint triathlon this past weekend--a <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2013/05/try-athlete-extraordinaire.html"><em>try</em>-athlon</a> in my estimation.<br />
<br />
For all my worrying about my knees, it was my ankle that most loudly objected to this endeavor. It started complaining about two weeks ago, just after I posted about the race. I could still bike and swim without aggravating it, but even walking caused pain and swelling for a time. This meant I could not train for the run, <em>at all</em>. <br />
<br />
Have you figured out yet that I'm a type-A in disguise? (And are you laughing now because it's wholly undisguised and I just don't know it?). Either way, it won't surprise you that I do not like to go places unprepared. Showing up for this race, without knowing if my body could last the run, or if my ankle could even hold up for a walk, caused me a bit of consternation. <br />
<br />
Still, I wanted to try, and I'm glad I did.<br />
<br />
I thought the swim was good, but frustrating. I got into traffic that forced me to stop and stand up in the middle of the pool on two occasions. I may have said, "Are you kidding me?" when a lumbering man cut me off, but I hope I just imagined that because: how unsportsmanlike! I eventually got to the end and heaved myself out of the water feeling relieved. I'd been nervous about the crowded lanes, not sure I had the proper sensory equipment for swimming in a school.<br />
<br />
Once on the bike, I relaxed. This part was easy for me, so I tried to coast through it and save my energy for the dreaded final leg. <br />
<br />
When it at last arrived, I laced up my shoes thinking, "It'll be fine. I'll just walk fast!" Then I looked at the line of volunteers who directed the way in front of me. They stood cheering and pointing, ready for me to sprint out of the gate. Was I really going to <em>walk</em> past them in the very first moments? <br />
<br />
I couldn't do it. <br />
<br />
Instead, I tried to run in a way that suggested I did this all the time. I tried to give the impression that I would keep up this unreasonable pace for the duration, and not quit it the minute I rounded the corner. <br />
<br />
Which I did.<br />
<br />
The long and short of it? I ran three miles!! In all honestly, my "run" is so slow, I think I may have finished faster if I'd fast-walked the course in its entirety. I hadn't anticipated the spectators, however, and because I don't care what anyone thinks of me (really, not at all), I felt compelled to keep up the <em>illusion</em> of a run, regardless of how slow it might be. <br />
<br />
So I have to ask, is it customary for runners to offer words of encouragement to one another as they pass on the trail? Is this some kind of runner-culture-thing that I've missed out on all these years? I'm thinking of the Jeep culture that surprised me after I bought one back in the coolio days of my twenties. Jeep drivers give each other a way casual salute when they pass each other on the road. Did you know that? It gave me a great sense of community as a driver, suggesting to me that any of these fellow Jeep owners would offer late night road assistance if I needed it, without the threat of abduction or ax murder. <br />
<br />
If no such runner-culture exists, then I must have been looking particularly in need of encouragement, because I got A LOT of it. One person told me, "Looking good! Keep it up!" as I traversed the first downhill right out of the start. I thought, "For heaven's sake, I hope I'm looking good, I haven't gone 10 paces yet!" <br />
<br />
The thing is, we really only say "looking good" to people who, well...don't. Right? It's a way of appreciating the fact that someone is <em>trying </em>to look good--and I did say it would be a try-athlon after all.<br />
<br />
One possible explanation: tired or not, my face gets really red when I exercise. Even if I feel great, this redness suggests I verge on some kind of coronary emergency. We can blame my tendency to get overly flushed for one of the most tragic haircuts in the history of mankind when my mother, fearing I would collapse from heat stroke at the tender age of three, cut my toddler curls into a "pixie" cut that she thought would keep me more cool. Check it out:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACdsFlHlqJiy3yWbTgp3B3LDVRZv-Gly6ZVNEWayNPtHEVzcXLgZdOSKC8lbgy6kcytnTaPdbEOm4QvV_22BGJBeARxoFMb7dKFh9QfrRFQ-l8X82RzrRSBt0HV0B8Q8FrMtqS3gTtMU/s1600/deb+and+grandpa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACdsFlHlqJiy3yWbTgp3B3LDVRZv-Gly6ZVNEWayNPtHEVzcXLgZdOSKC8lbgy6kcytnTaPdbEOm4QvV_22BGJBeARxoFMb7dKFh9QfrRFQ-l8X82RzrRSBt0HV0B8Q8FrMtqS3gTtMU/s1600/deb+and+grandpa.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">me and my grandfather. I think I look cute and happy, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">but apparently, I'm feeling overheated</span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcKNEp4rXkC5eYzmvVUMxIvpDLUIBmxNhAH3Ndyv6xiUnhko-pIk5X0drj-OaDvsVRjIzALz3NBYuXBBSXH8WlCj-mEOwglrEAP5t8Mj2wqBgsGQVemaU6UKEVuNNM5aQnt19kg5VPpw8/s1600/deb+with+pixie+cut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcKNEp4rXkC5eYzmvVUMxIvpDLUIBmxNhAH3Ndyv6xiUnhko-pIk5X0drj-OaDvsVRjIzALz3NBYuXBBSXH8WlCj-mEOwglrEAP5t8Mj2wqBgsGQVemaU6UKEVuNNM5aQnt19kg5VPpw8/s320/deb+with+pixie+cut.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">a year or so later, hair butchered, but feeling much refreshed</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(and what's up with that short dress!!)</span></div>
<br />
Despite my probably purplish hue, the ankle held, and I honestly felt OK as long as I kept to my snail's pace. But the look of it must have really deteriorated because by the time I got to the final 100 yards (where I had begun to feel like a world champion because YES! I could see I was actually going to make it!!) someone clapped for me and said, "Just keep moving forward! That's all you have to do! Keep moving forward!" <br />
<br />
Was there a doubt about whether I could keep moving forward?<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. If it had been a swim/bike event, I would have pushed myself harder in both. I would have striven for speed! mastery! victory! Adding the run, however, turned all my focus to one simple goal: finish. <br />
<br />
I think there's something to be said for going out and doing your best at something even when your best kind of sucks. It's humbling and gratifying to show your weaknesses, because in the moment when you think everyone will laugh, they just might stand up and applaud.<br />
<br />
That's an experience worth having. In fact, when I crossed the finish line and everyone cheered, it made me want to cry just a teeny bit (I am prone to dramatic and unnecessary tears at sporting events). <br />
<br />
And then it was done! Exhausted and happy, I resolved to do it again next year (but perhaps not write about it quite so much!). Then I went home where I collapsed and slept so hard on the couch that my race number, which had been written in permanent marker on my leg, imprinted itself on the used-to-be-cream upholstery.<br />
<br />
Something to remember the day by, perhaps?<br />
<br />
Egad.<br />
<br />
(and no, Steve hasn't noticed yet)dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-58822706741147186722013-05-28T23:59:00.000-04:002013-05-28T23:59:55.446-04:00hot potato, or whose trash is it anyway?Since writing <a href="http://smallhouse-bigpicture.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-return-of-cheeto-and-story-of-stuff.html">the return of the cheeto and "the story of stuff,"</a> I've continued to think about our trash. While I know I've done a lot to reduce our output, it doesn't feel adequate. Like stink bugs, invasive weeds, or the mold in my shower (darnit!), I just cannot put an end to the appearance of trash.<br />
<br />
In addition to my own unavoidable trash production, people keep giving me trash: retailers who insist I need a plastic bag to carry one teeny pack of hair ties, the pharmacist who insists on printing out pages of instructions for the medication I've taken for years, the dentist who sends each of my family members home with their own teeny sample of toothpaste sealed needlessly up in a heavy duty zip lock envelope. <br />
<br />
I keep trying to give it back, but once bestowed, no one wants to accept a return. We push the offending item back and forth between us like a hot potato - exactly whose trash will it be when the music stops? <br />
<br />
And if I manage to refuse a plastic bag only to have the clerk shove the crumpled thing in the trash as I whisk myself victoriously out the door, have I really accomplished anything?<br />
<br />
One piece of trash that unmistakably belongs to me: the refrigerator that's been sitting on my carport for a month (yes, we're turning into one of <em>those </em>families). <br />
<br />
Actually, between that last paragraph and this one, I figured out that my county has a recycling center for appliances, including refrigerators, so wew! that's one big fat hot potato I get to pass happily on around the circle! <br />
<br />
I mean, what if it's not our lives that flash before our eyes when we die, but our trash!? Imagine: instead of a guilt-inducing playback of that time when you refused to apologize for knocking the neighbor-kid off his bike, you see images of the things you threw away: all those take-out food containers from the nights you were too lazy to cook, the potato chip bags you didn't know what to do with, the cellophane encased junk mail, the dental floss, and the many pieces of plastic crap that seem to follow your kids home like flies on poo. I'm telling you, I am so happy not to have a refrigerator on my conscience too.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, I have to ask you, what the heck do I do with this? <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59muYbn9DozzjreTtMh5Ne26fIx5yYpABu9AYjY7G6emIRHW4NrxjV6Ukgowg6kWCA0BduEK3YEL-pyEp9tQF8yC5YsUlcLTxnhyphenhyphenS4scfJmBeodupjRqbU1JnmiKZuIDy6mXJxG9IKT8/s1600/burnt+bowl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59muYbn9DozzjreTtMh5Ne26fIx5yYpABu9AYjY7G6emIRHW4NrxjV6Ukgowg6kWCA0BduEK3YEL-pyEp9tQF8yC5YsUlcLTxnhyphenhyphenS4scfJmBeodupjRqbU1JnmiKZuIDy6mXJxG9IKT8/s320/burnt+bowl.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">perhaps i could mount it in my yard and pretend it's a bit of sculpture.<br />
in an ominous statement about kitchenware and the environment,<br />
I could call it "heat on Tupperware bowl"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The problem of what to do with this bowl only raises another question: why haven't I gotten rid of all the plastic in my kitchen? <br />
<br />
Really, that's the subject of another post (that I promise to get to eventually), but in the meantime, getting rid of plastic in the kitchen still brings us back to trash. When we rid our kitchens of plastic, where do we send it all? Some of it is recyclable, and other stuff we can put to non-food uses. If you're me, however, much of it remains in the drawer because you're lazy and it doesn't fit neatly into either of those two previous categories. <br />
<br />
When you leave stuff in the drawer, I can tell you, it ends up getting used. <br />
<br />
While making popcorn this week, Olivia inadvertently set this bowl on the hot cook top, creating a fascinating and dangerous looking puddle of goo. <br />
<br />
Still, there's lots of good news: Olivia didn't tar and feather herself with the melted muck; the house didn't burn down in a toxic cloud of plastic infused vapor; I managed to scrape the gummy stuff off the stove while it was still warm; this very handy, but very plastic bowl no longer tempts me to mix that too-big potato salad in it, and last, I feel motivated to finally eliminate the rest of the plastic from my kitchen.<br />
<br />
But now, now I have this useless hunk of molded and polymerized petroleum on my hands. Will this be one of the pieces of trash to flash before my eyes at my death? How the heck did I end up with this hot potato?<br />
<br />
To dispose of it, I checked with Tupperware and discovered that they <a href="http://www.tupperware.com.au/wps/wcm/connect/AUS/website/socialresponsibility/environmentalawareness/">accept old stuff for recycling</a>. They also claim that <a href="http://tupperwarebrands.com/sustainability/relevant_solutions.html">recycling one ton of plastic could save 600-800kg of crude oil</a>. It sounds good, but I can't help but wonder if sending it back simply feeds the plastic producing beast. They say they'll grind it up and use it for plant pots, garbage bags and low-grade pipe--not the kind of stuff I'd particularly like to see in greater abundance. <br />
<br />
If I send my trash to a place that makes more trash, have I really unloaded the spud? <br />
<br />
I don't know, so I think I'll hold onto my "bowl" a while longer. I've at least learned that when deciding where to pass my potatoes in this game of accountability & responsibility, I should look beyond the music to consider who has come to play. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, if you have a suggested use for "heat on Tupperware bowl," or if you'd like to display this lovely sculpture in your yard, please let me know! <br />
<br />
---------<br />
Speaking of trash, if you're an email subscriber and you received a weird jumbled post from me in your box today, I'm sorry! That's what happens when you let your mouse hover over "publish" while still brainstorming an idea. egad.dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154988466625586293.post-89354143768153640072013-05-23T15:45:00.000-04:002013-05-23T15:45:46.696-04:00SOL in horizontal acrostic (yes, I made that up)<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>tandards <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>f <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>earning? <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>tupid <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>bligatory <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>aw<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>hows <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>nly <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>ists<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>illy. <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>bnoxious. <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>ost.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>tate <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>rganized <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>essons<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S<span style="font-size: small;">o </span><span style="font-size: large;">O</span><span style="font-size: small;">bviously </span><span style="font-size: large;">L</span></span><span style="font-size: small;">imiting</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>tudents <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>ver-<span style="font-size: large;">L</span>egislated<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>topped <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>ffering <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>earning<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>omeone <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>ughta <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>isten<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>hit <span style="font-size: large;">O</span>uta <span style="font-size: large;">L</span>uck<br />
<br />
I'm just so frustrated. Would love to hear your versions in the comments to cheer me up!dwerrleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05917174708039425122noreply@blogger.com1