Stuffed

Oops, no longer a vegetarian (but the turkey was organic and fresh), but I'm staying strong with no bacon and burgers.

Farmer's Markets

Before moving to Des Moines for college, I didn't know what a farmer's market was. There was a fruit and produce market about 15 minutes away from my house that we visited once in a while, but that was the extent of my fresh fruits and veggie knowledge. It took me until my sophomore year in college to discover the wonderfulness of the farmer's markets in Des Moines.

On Saturday mornings, there was one downtown on Court and 2nd Aves. It was the big one, the one that required setting an alarm to get a good parking space. I could spend all morning there, buying handfuls of green beans and apples and unidentifiable squashes. On these mornings, we relished the pastries from the German, Swedish or Czech vendors. We devoured kettle corn and excitedly planned our meals for the upcoming week.

On Thursday evenings, Valley Junction closed its Main Street while farmers and vendors lined the curbs with their goodies. Here, we discovered sweet potato fries for the first time and delicious cherries that would soon get baked into a pie. On Tuesday nights, the residents of the Beaverdale neighborhood gathered on a smaller scale and perused the fresh produce the farmers hauled in from the country.

On any given day, driving on any given road, one could find a man sitting in a lawn chair next to his pick-up, selling corn or strawberries or melons. These guys, for some reason, always had the best sweet corn. There was one man who parked by Blockbuster, I think, whose corn I bought every time I passed him. He wore dusty overalls, muddy field boots, and a John Deere hat. My roommates and I could eat three ears of his corn and call it a meal. We cooked it into casseroles and salsas and soups. I miss that man and his corn. Like, if I knew he still parked his F-150 on that same stretch of road, I might move back to Des Moines.

A Bug's Life: Cut Short

I killed a bug on my windshield a couple of weeks ago; I smacked it with the back of my hand as I was pulling into the Target parking lot. I was in a rush and didn't feel like looking for a napkin or receipt on which to wipe away the carcass. I'm embarrassed to admit the dead bug's body remains on my windshield today. It's gross and I have clearly had the time to dispose of it, but I for some perverse reason, I haven't. Every time I glance at it (it's just out of my sight line) I am reminded of my own mortality. How every day when I drive on the interstate or speed through a yellow light, in the blink of an eye, it could be me on splattered on that windshield, not a tiny speck of a bug. It'll probably remain on my windshield until someone like my mom or sister climbs in and, in a display of utter disgust, reaches for a tissue and wipes it off.

This seems terribly morbid, doesn't it?

Hunting and Gathering

In the final chapters of The Omnivore's Dilemma, Pollan embarks upon a huntering and gathering expedition. His end goal is to prepare a meal for family and friends using only ingredients he hunted, killed, foraged, etc. himself. A noble, yet overwhelming undertaking, yes?

He cooks, not without a few mishaps, what he considers the perfect meal. Yes, he had to rely on the help and kindness of new friends and yes, this or that may have been over- (or under-) cooked. He does admit that this type of meal preparation is not practical in today's society. We cannot all go out and hunt game for dinner every evening and our gardens may not support us year-round. It is practical and convenient to go to the grocery store and do the shopping, not hike into the cold, blistery mountains looking for non-poisonous mushrooms. (Yet, the thought of a bunch of soccer moms driving their minivans into the woods to hunt and gather gives me a bit of a chuckle.)

His meal may not have been perfect, but the idea of it was. He wanted to feel a sense of accomplishment and pride in what he had done, and in the end, he did. On a more muted scale, I feel the same sense of pride when I try a new recipe and don't set off the smoke alarms. It may not be perfect, and it doesn't matter since I cook for one most nights, but there is an inherent sense of accomplishment when preparing something new and trying new cooking methods. The lumpy gravy or just-past golden brown crust of a homemade pizza taste perfect to my buds.

I might need to be a vegetarian for a little while...

I have a box of Bubba Burgers in my freezer, and since finishing the chapter "The Ethics of Eating Animals" in The Omnivore's Dilemma, I can't even make eye contact with the box. In fact, I've reorganized my freezer so there are bowls of frozen soup and a gallon of ice cream blocking my view of the burgers.

We no longer have any rituals governing either the slaughter or eating of animals, which perhaps explains why we find ourselves in this dilemma, in a place where we feel our only choice is either to look away or give up meat. (Pollan 331-32)

I've never really thought particularly long and hard about what I eat. (I mean, I put thought into whether to have lasagna or pancakes for dinner, not necessarily where it came from and how it arrived on my pantry shelves.) Apart from this book, only two other instances come to mind. . .

When I was younger, I don't even remember how old I was, probably in fourth or fifth grade, we were at my grandparents' for a holiday. They all blend together, especially when there are 40 or 50 people crammed into a house, but it was likely Easter or Christmas. For our family gatherings, the food was always spread out on the countertops and we filled our plates buffet-style. I had been standing in line with my cousins, irritated that we were being pulled up from our basement ping-pong game for dinner. When I finally reached the food, I saw before me at least three different kinds of meat. I wasn't surprised that it all looked like chicken, but earlier in the day, I had overheard my uncles talking to my grandpa about how the rabbits he'd killed and cooked up for dinner. So now I stood in front of unidentifiable meats, not knowing which was the chicken, the turkey, or the rabbit (who could possibly be the brother, sister, mother or father of my own pet rabbit, Cuddles, who was likely asleep in his cage at home, safe from Grandpa's butcher knife). I yelled for my uncles and asked what I was supposed to eat. They teased me and told me they couldn't tell which plate held the rabbit. I threw a fit and refused to eat anything but green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, certain those were safe foods. I just couldn't fathom eating a buddy of Cuddles, and didn't understand why Grandpa thought it was okay to eat them. Maybe it was because I had never seen a chicken or turkey in person, so they weren't on my radar as being animals. I can happily report that I grew wiser and began observing in the kitchen so I could always tell which was the turkey, and would never have to go through that kind of ordeal again.

Supersize Me. Need I say more? I can count on two hands the number of times I've been to McDonald's since watching that movie, and every time I go, I am so disappointed in myself; I can't even eat an entire bag of value fries anymore. That said, if anyone ever attempts that at Chick-Fil-A, I don't think I'll be able to go on living. I like to pretend it's not as bad as Mickey D's. Please don't burst my bubble, friends.

So, for now, I'm quitting bacon cheeseburgers. Thanksgiving is around the corner so I can't promise no turkey, but I'm certain I'll be feeling a little guilty as I eat the yummy little bird.

A Hitchhiker's Guide to Jamaica

(After our class discussion about hitchhiking, and how it's not socially acceptable to pick them up anymore, I reflect once again upon my own decision-making during recent travels.)

Again, we encounter Millie and Bess, two girls escaping a chilly Minnesota spring at an island getaway retreat in Jamaica. Only this time, the intrepid travelers have companions, fellow risk-takers, if you will. Now, let's pause for a moment and reflect upon the poor decisions these girls made in Vegas, a trip occurring only 2 months before the jaunt to Jamaica. Two months! Have these girls learned nothing?

Bad Idea # 1: The Boat Ride

As Bessie and Millie and their three friends explored the oceanfront town of Port Antonio, they encountered a minor problem - the one beach they had heard rave reviews about had recently been washed out by a hurricane. As the girls gazed out upon the inviting waters, they pondered their next move. Try to find a different beach? Head back to town? Lounge at the hotel pool? As they were about to turn back toward the rental car, a local man offered to take the girls, and a group of three girls from Argentina or Brazil, to an island via his boat. Why not? Without thinking twice, the girls climbed into the rickety, baby blue boat and the captain glided over smooth waters toward an island a mile or so away from shore.

The local steered his boat onto a tiny, postage-stamp-sized sandy shore. This couldn't possibly be the island the man intended to leave us on, could it? There was hardly room for all 8 girls to lay their beach towels out without bumping elbows and block each other's sun. The man left and promised to be back in two hours to pick them up. Bess and Millie exchanged glances. Seriously?

If he doesn't come back, pretty sure I can make it to shore, Millie said, eyeing the beachfront houses on the main island. While the other girls relaxed on the "beach," Millie pondered their current situation. Who thought this was a good idea? Why did we think we could just get in this man's boat? What if he doesn't come back? This isn't even a beach. What's worse, if he does come back, we'll probably have to pay him.

He did come back, and they did pay him. But Millie and Bess still couldn't believe they had been so careless. They vowed never to make such a dumb mistake again.

Bad Idea #2: The Mountain Hijack

Bess, Millie and their friends ended their trip with another questionable decision. On their way back to the airport, they decided to take the scenic route through the mountains. Now, picture this - a crowded, mid-size sedan weaving up on a one-lane, pot-hole ridden road, driving on the opposite side of the road, the sweltering heat not aiding with overwhelming feeling of carsickness. The girls followed the map closely, certain they would make it to Kingston in plenty of time. They climbed higher and higher into the mountains, the view of the ocean below quite breathtaking. They paid little attention to the signs warning them of the impending road construction. They waved politely out the windows when a man yelled at them from the side of the road. They screamed in unison when Jamie slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt just a few yards shy of plummeting into nothingness. Those road signs? Warnings that the road was out due to a landslide. The man on the side of the road? Yelling at them to stop.

The girls exited the car, struggling to catch their breath and slow their pounding hearts. After several minutes of discussion of what to do next, the man who had hollered at them a few minutes ago sauntered up to the car, offering to sell the girls coffee. Coffee? At a time like this? Much to Millie's surprise, the other girls forked out the rest of their Jamaican cash and forked it over in exchange for Ziploc bags of coffee beans. The man then pointed to a road, which looked more like a straight uphill dirtpath, and said that was the only way over the mountain since the road washed out. The girls craned the necks back. No way that can be a road! they exclaimed to each other. When they decided they could not, in fact, get the car up the road, the man offered his assistance. Jamie happily handed over the car keys, and the man informed them the car wouldn't make it up the mountain if they were all inside - they would have to hoof it.

The girls watched as the man revved the engine and began to drive the car up the steep incline. The girls watched as their suitcases, passports, cameras, wallets, and Ziploc bags of coffee began to climb up the steep incline. He's not going to drive away with all our stuff, is he? someone asked. Crap. Suddenly, there was an urgency in their step as they hustled over the mountain and, out 0f breath, began their descent. Soon, they were in an all-out run, praying the man wouldn't take advantage of them and drive away with all their possessions. But alas, the girls came upon their sedan and the kind man who had driven it up the impossible road. They expressed their gratitude in the form of cash (as per usual in Jamaica, apparently) and continued on their way to the airport.

Now, there's another lesson to be learned here, and that is to avoid groupthink when on vacation. There's a false sense of security when you're in a group of people that you don't have when traveling alone. Also, wear sunscreen. The sun is very strong in Jamaica.

Mmm...corn!

I would like to start out by saying I think "Omnivore's Dilemma" should be required reading for all Americans. Every single one of us needs to read this book, if only to put into perspective one of the primary aspects of our every day lives - food. Michael Pollan tells the story of our food, nearly all of which apparently originates from corn. I've spent more time than the average non-Iowan American in Iowa. I lived there for four years while attending college in Des Moines and learned pretty quickly that corn is the lifeblood there.

For starters, I drove almost six hours from Michigan City to Des Moines, about five of those hours were spent watching the rows and rows of corn whiz by at 80 mph. Only in Iowa do tractors take precedent on the roadways; actually, only in Iowa do tractors merge so gracefully onto the interstates.

I met many people who grew up on farms in rural Iowa and Wisconsin and Nebraska. They told stories of heading home every weekend during the harvest and grew excited at the prospect of birthing a calf. I didn't understand this world I had infiltrated. I couldn't make sense of these people who loved the country, the farms, the ruralness of their lives.

After reading about corn so extensively in Pollan's book, however, I am forced to examine how I interacted with my farmer friends in Iowa. I didn't appreciate what they did until now, how hard they worked, how their parents struggled to make ends meet to send their kids to private school, how an unpredictable force such as weather can make or a break a crop. So here's a hearty thanks to all those farmers out there who grew the corn that inevitably was an ingredient in nearly everything I ate today.

A Hitchhiker's Guide to Vegas

(*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the hitchhikers in case their moms happen upon this blog and read this post. Should that happen, the hitchhikers would like to remind their moms that they are adults, capable of making their own choices and everyone makes mistakes. Also, I can neither confirm nor deny the identity of the girls in the photos.)

Once upon a time, two girls, Millie and Bess*, had a 12+ hour layover in Las Vegas on a return trip from Hawaii. Upon arrival at the airport at the godforsaken hour of five in the morning, the girls sluggishly lugged their suitcases off the luggage carousel and headed toward the information desk, where they inquired about luggage storage. The nice, helpful ladies suggest they head to the strip where any hotel will gladly check luggage for a small tip. Duly noted, help desk ladies.

As Millie and Bess headed toward the public transportation terminal, a sprightly young man approached them and mentioned he had overheard their inquiries at the help desk. I'm headed home, he said, my shift just ended. I live close to the New York, New York, I'd be happy to drop you there.

The girls exchanged glances and shrugged. Why not?

Now, perhaps their red-eye flight left them a tad bit delirious; after all, they hadn't slept in over 24 hours. Or, perhaps the sun shined so brightly that it killed any brain cells they had left after drinking screaming mai tai after screaming mai tai. Whatever the reason, they showed poor judgment by agreeing to ride with this stranger.

As they climbed into the passenger side of this man's F-150, he heaved their suitcases into the flatbed. What are we doing, they exclaimed to each other. I don't know, but you didn't say no, so I didn't say no, Bess said. This is how scary movies start, ya know, Millie said. Spring breakers making ill-advised decisions, then suddenly they're stranded on a tropical island during hurricane season with a hooked fisherman! Millie exclaimed. Bess reasoned with her, Okay, that's I Know What You Did Last Summer. And, we have cell phone reception, it's not like he can do anything to us. Besides, he's still wearing his badge. He's legit.

Millie nodded, trying to convince herself this wasn't the stupidest thing she's ever done. Hitchhiking. It was broad daylight, though, so their chances of survival increased exponentially. Luggage handler Matt (his name has also been changed because the author of this story forgot what it actually was) dutifully drove them the two minutes or so to the hotel, where the girls exited safely, breathing huge sighs of relief as they smiled and waved Matt the hitchhiker-picker-upper goodbye.

The lesson learned here, I believe, is that there are still nice people who don't murder stupid coeds out there, thus reaffirming my faith in humanity.

I'm not super stitious, but I am a little stitious...

I'm not a huge believer in the supernatural, but there are some things I believe in - like unsettled spirits haunting old friends and certain days of the year (Friday the 13s and full moons) lording special powers over us mortals. Case in point...the toddler dog whisperer. Today, I introduced the little boy I nanny for to my sister's dog, Gracie. Gracie has a rep for hating all kids, except her little "brother" (my nephew). So naturally I was a bit wary of taking an unpredictable 18 month-old boy to meet the huge 70-pound Weimaraner. But it was love at first sight - Gracie sat patiently waiting to be pet by Jake, who found Gracie's sweet spot under her chin. I was quite surprised that the child-hating dog took so fondly to Jake.

Pondering this hours later while playing outside at Jake's house, I still couldn't wrap my head around it. Now, Jake ran around his front yard, giggling at the wind whipping leaves in his face, tiny, crunchy brown bits stuck in his hair. From the neighbor's yard, a white dog began barking incessantly at Jake. He looked at me, unsure of what his next move should be. I knew the dog was being held back by an underground electric fence, but Jake was not restrained in any way. He did the only thing he knew to do, he barked back. "Woof woof!" he hollered and pointed at the dog. "Woof woof!" The dog immediately sat, ears folded back in shame, eyes longing for forgiveness from Jake and I. Holding my pinky in his small, chubby hand, he walked toward the dog, unsteady on the uneven ground, leaves cracking beneath his feet, and he gently set one hand on the dog's head. With a final "Woof" of apology acceptance, Jake turned and toddled back toward his own yard.

The dog sat quietly the rest of the evening, watching Jake and I cut the grass with his Fisher-Price lawnmower and draw messages to his brother on the driveway with sidewalk chalk. I realized then that this kid had magical dog calming powers. Maybe I was hearing "Woof woof" from his mouth, be he was secretly talking in dogspeak, a language only toddlers and dogs comprehend. I'm not sure and would probably be more skeptical were it not for the date, Friday, November 13.

City Living

I quite enjoyed the friendly debate we had the other night about city vs. rural living. I've put a lot of thought into this, actually, after moving out of Iowa four years ago. The state is almost entirely rural - farm after farm, a Kum & Go littered here and there. After getting lost on nearly every trip to my great aunt's house outside of Iowa City, I decided I could never live more than ten minutes away from a town center. Nay, a thriving, highly populated city center. I think my problem is that living in the country would force me to be alone with my thoughts far too often. In a city, I can easily get lost in the traffic or the people watching or the crowded malls.

That said, I have total respect for people who choose to live in the country. Many of the people I know who live in rural spaces really enjoy the peace and quiet. They have space for their animals to run about freely, a more relaxed pace, and a certain appealing ruggedness about them. They get their hands and boots dirty, they eat homemade meals, and they care about their neighbors. (I understand that these may be grand, sweeping generalizations, but I do know that for the people I know living outside the city, these things are true.)

Unfortunately, my need to blend in with my surroundings overrides my desire to get friendly with neighbors and live in a giant, creaky country home. I'm a city girl, at least for the foreseeable future.

Waterfront Dining

So, we talked last week about green space functionality. I got to thinking about the wonderful ways in which businesses interact with waterfront property in many of the places I've lived and visited.

In Maine, seafood is obviously a priority. The places where one can get seafood are abundant. In Portland, I ate my very first lobster on a riverboat. I had Mexican food on a pier, water lapping under the wooden planks beneath my feet. The little boat house where we rented paddle boats on our days off served the best ice cream sundaes in town.

In Minneapolis/St. Paul, lakefronts are unavoidable, thus entrepreneurs have a huge opportunity to capitalize on the pocketbooks of lake-goers. A fish taco connoisseur friend of mine claims the best fish taco she's ever tasted came from The Tin Fish, a tiny little seafood stand on the shores of the lake. Within walking distance are plenty of eateries, local and chains, that attract hungry outdoorsfolk. Because of its climate, I was surprised to find so many restaurants and shops that offered al fresco dining. Tables line the streets of downtown Minneapolis and twentysomethings gather on rooftop pubs as soon as the snow melts in March (or April...sometimes May).

Not quite as evolved as the lakefronts in Minnesota is the Lake Michigan lakefront in my hometown of Michigan City. Within walking distance of the sandy beach is a hot dog cart, and if one is interested in slipping on flip flops and going for a short (ish) walk over the draw bridge, there's a sandwich shop and Matey's, an island-themed bar.

What I'm trying to get at (I think) is the idea that the new (business and technology) can interact and function with the old (the natural environment), without completely destroying it.

Main Street, America

Back to James Kunstler...

He suggests that we should attempt to revive the idea of Main Street in our cities; shops and restaurants on ground floors, easily accessible from the sidewalk. This idea reminds of this great little street south of downtown Des Moines called Valley Junction. Lining the street are jewelry shops and clothing boutiques and art galleries. There are 50s-era soda shoppes and pizza joints and bakeries. This was my secret retreat the four years I spent at college in Des Moines. I don't remember the first time I went there, but I do know that once I found it, I wanted to drag everybody I knew there, too. Tavern Pizza boasted a to-die-for seven-cheese pizza and Nan's Nummies baked the yummiest (according to my mom) almond cookies on the planet. Cookies that I would have to ship home to my mother after she tried them for the first time and couldn't kick the craving. Cookies that I had to beg friends to send to my mother after I graduated and moved away from Iowa.

In this tiny little section of the capital city, I felt like I had traveled back 50 years in time to the era when girls wore poodle skirts and guys wore letter sweaters. People were always in a great mood there, especially the owner of Fifth Street Fountain, who served every Coke float with a smile. Children sauntered delightedly out of the candy stores, licking their lollipops and skipping over the cracks in the sidewalks. If every town boasted a "Main Street" atmosphere like this, I would happily support Kunstler's endeavor to create such an environment.

More Musings on Janisse Ray

On Poverty:
Janisse Ray writes with unabashed truth about her childhood and the struggles her family faced. One of the most poignant chapters in her book is when she writes about being poor. Her father gave what he could to others in need, even when his family was poor. This kind of behavior is probably partially derived from their faith, but I get the sense that her father was a good, kind man. I believe, too, that his children followed in his footsteps as they grew older. When I was kid and we'd go into Chicago or to a bigger city for vacation, my dad always threw change into guitar cases or Styrofoam cups if people asked politely enough. We were in San Diego for Christmas when I was 8 or so, and my dad brought a homeless man into McDonald's with us to buy him a meal. It's that kind of generosity that has been ingrained in me and I still feel compelled to give when I have very little to share. I'd rather make my family homemade gifts for Christmas and spend my money on the angel tree at the mall or donating to the Salvation Army bell ringers.

On Leaving:
"When I was eighteen and away from my town, I dived recklessly and surely into the world, not because it was a form of rebellion, as people might think, but as a form of healing and survival." (255)
Ray describes in this chapter what it was like to leave home for college. Her experience was not unlike many other kids who leave a small town and hope for bigger and better things. But, the experience can also be overwhelming and full of things that are new and exciting. I thought it was important for her to include this chapter, about drinking for the first time and rapelling off the cliff, because it clearly shows that you can emerge from the shadows of your family without severing the ties that bind you.

Suburban Tragedy

James Howard Kunstler, The Tragedy of Suburbia
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1ZeXnmDZMQ

If you hate suburbs and the ugliness of certain public spaces, you'll enjoy this guy. Kunstler claims that suburbs are places that are not worth caring about. To a certain extent, I do agree. The suburbs in Chicago look the same as the ones in Indianapolis and Dallas and Des Moines. The only difference seems to be the kind of trees you might find lining the streets. Targets look the same in every state, and so do all the Paneras and McDonald's and Best Buys. But, they are places to care about if you live in the suburbs (which I do). I feel I must defend my decision to live in a burb, like most things I need - grocery stores, gas stations, restaurants, even waterfront and recreation - are within ten minutes from my apartment. It's cheap, convenient, and practical. What Kunstler wants us to do is create spaces that are not degrading to humanity, places that are worth defending.

What he fails to mention, from my perspective, is that many people can't afford to create these kinds of places. In the current economy, people are worried about keeping the homes they have, in the city or burbs, and they worry about keeping their jobs. I believe they are worrying less about whether their neighborhood is architecturally beautiful and practical and just focusing on whether they can pay their bills every month. While it would be nice to create neighborhoods (and towns and cities, for that matter) that utilize space efficiently and effectively, it's not the crisis that Kunstler is making it out to be. People like Target because they can find things cheap; if the same items were available to me at a non-chain store close by, I'd certainly go there, but that's not the most feasible option for people living in a city where chain stores have a monopoly on the market.

More thoughts on this later, for sure...

Musings on Janisse Ray

Ecology of a Cracker Childhood
Heaven on Earth --
This chapter was quite compelling; it was interesting to see the connections between Ray's religion and her childhood (and later on, the effect her religion had on her in "The Leaving Years"). She claims that she and her family were different, for various reasons, throughout the book, but in this chapter specifically, because of their religion - they were white attending a black, Apostolic church. As she grew up, she was marginalized because of her father's occupation and the restrictions and guidelines she followed because of her faith. I found solace in this particular passage:

Church is a glorious place to daydream because no one knocks you from your reverie with a question to answer and no one asks afterward what you learned, which is good because you understand hell is burning but further expostulating - the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost being one entity, for instance - baffles you. What is entity? Imagination, on the other hand, keeps you awake and occupies your time. In church, I had this one recurring daydream. . . . (109)

I can tell from reading this book that she has a strong, creative voice and a plethora of ideas and thoughts. I think she questions the things that most children question in church, if they're even paying close enough attention to notice what's being said. She really admits to something that is rather taboo in this chapter, and that's blindly following religion because it what's you're supposed to do. She went to church, performed the rituals, said the prayers, abided her faith's rules, but admits that she didn't understand what exactly she believed in. I did the exact same thing - I went through the motions, sang the hymns, received communion, but anytime I wasn't actively participating, my mind was wandering. Sometimes it wandered toward the sermon or the readings, but mostly it veered off into unexpected places, like creating stories about the choir members and the family that always sat in the front row, or worse, sizing up the altar boys. I think that Ray's creativity and imagination are wonderful tools that she employs in this book with ease, and I admire her ability to do so.