Not having a cow

It seems like she has always been there, sometimes hiding just behind the front door, sometimes on the front porch waiting for kids to climb on her. Near the end she was too fragile even for that, and had to make due with kids posing next to her.

It was not her choice to perch on the roof, and indeed it subjected the artificial bovine to many indignities; besides the rain, there were the high school pranks, where she'd end up in someone's front yard or the middle of the football field.

But as fake as a fiberglass cow might seem, she was a piece of realness in a once-rural community where homogeneity has fast invaded. For nearly 70 years, she has watched as the McMansions and chain stores, strip malls and shopping centers slowly replace the fields of pastoral cows and corn. But still the dairy cow remained, even as a mega church moved in next door and the red-bearded owner passed away.

But last winter was different: for the first time in its history, Theno's Dairy closed for the winter. They promised to reopen in the spring, but the evidence is strong that this may not happen. Even as we turn the corner into sun-soaked days, the door (with the hand-lettered sign telling people to slide to open, since the automatic closer gave out five years ago) remains closed, the freezers (for gallons of vanilla and banana nut and mint chocolate chip to take home) are empty, and most telling, the cow is gone.

I stand at the closed door with my Little One, and we are both sad. There is simply nothing else like it out here in suburbia. Of course, there are the three national chains (you can probably name them with no difficulty), but this was the place we were going to buy two huge buckets for the end of year celebration at school. Without the cow, we are at a loss, for it seems impossible to treat the passel of happy kids to ice cream that comes from here, from milk from a fiberglass cow named Vivian.

Spice

I ran out of Dill on Thursday. Lamb, with garlic and dill. It was easy to shake the jar until the whole mound of dill saved from the farm and hung to dry in the kitchen last august, was in my hand, ready to be rubbed between my palms over the roasting pan.

I scribble "dill" on the chalkboard reserved for such purposes, and will transfer it to my shopping list for the co-op (for the CSA doesn't start for three weeks yet, and it's too early for fresh dill anyway). The empty jar goes in the dishwasher.

But the clean jar in my hand stops me dead in my track: the plastic tub of spice jars is overflowing, a testament to my love affair with flavors from near and far (thus the empty juniper berry jar). There is no room at the inn for one more.

I could chuck it in the recycle bin, and then I think better: the jar will join my shopping bags in the car for the next trip to the co-op. For there I can buy herbs and spices in bulk (and they will gladly weigh my empty), meaning I can not only save a jar from the landfill, but I can buy just enough to tide me over until the end of summer, when I will be sure to pick more than I did last year.

And what do you know--I ran out of cloves on Friday.

Meatballs

During the first few months of my residence in Germany, way back when, I was severely hampered in my grocery shopping because of my limited vocabulary. I had learned one word, Hackfleisch. Ground meat could get me through many a menu: meatballs, meatloaf, and burgers (tacos would have been on the menu had tortillas been available in the Vaterland).

Ground beef is in the headlines yet again, this time because of production methods. Blasted off the spines of unhealthy beasts, mixed with ammonia and tainted by the now-infamous pink slime. Once again, real butchers stand tall and proclaim that they grind their own meat, and that it is meat and only meat, nothing else. A few more customers have woken to question just what is in their food.

It is in this context that I stroll into the tiny butcher shop in the sleepy village of Cloughjordan in Ireland, hoping to find something for supper. I had leftover noodles and red sauce from our first jet-lagged evening, and was hoping against hope for a few hundred grams of ground beef that we could eat. I wasn't sure what to expect, given that the shop window featured not only an etched cow's head, but a display of assorted tools, as the butcher's doubles as the hardware store. Screwdrivers and sausages.

The selection of both hammers and meat was not huge, but it all looked very good, clean and bright. Still recalcitrant, I asked about where the meat came from. "Nowhere," replied the rosy-cheeked fellow without a hint of mischief. Wondering if my accent was hampering communication, I tried again: From how far away was the meat? "The family has a farm just up the road."

In other words, nowhere. Nothing to fear here, no frightening slime or corporate profits. Just real meat from a few yards up the road, from the man who raised and slaughtered it. No need to make it any harder. Or tastier.

Blow-ins

They are nearly everywhere I turn here: blow-ins, the endearing Irish term for those who are not from these parts. The village "in calm of middle country" is full of folks who, for whatever reasons, have gotten off the bus because they didn't want to go where it was headed. And somehow they ended up here, lost in the middle of Ireland, in Cloughjordan.

Cloughjordan has many distinctions: birthplace of Irish revolutionary Thomas MacDonagh, and named after a stone brought back from the crusades (Cloughjordan means stone; Jordan would be the crusader's rock's source). But these days, it is the Ecovillage that is being built here that draws both new blow ins and locals who are both curious and interested. We stumbled upon the village virtually, and unsure whether the appeal was the Eco-centric foundations or the appeal of an address in Tipperary, decided we had to see for ourselves.

So we are here, in Cloughjordan, trying to figure out how to visit four pubs in three nights, how to balance respecting folks privacy with our wanting to ask a thousand questions. And of course, this being Ireland and a small town, we needn't have worried, for people know (of) us--those Americans--before we have a chance to open our mouths. Short chats in the street, across a fence, on the front step and in the living room, longer discussions where we pick up the thread a day or two later.

But it all boiled down to broccoli. Delicate purple broccoli sprouts, bountiful in the village these days. We saw them on our first tour through the village, fully jet lagged, a crate full in the CSA barn, with a sign on them that said "loads;" piled on the counter behind the lady of the house who offers to show us her home office, offered like a bouquet and tucked into the basket of the baby's stroller. Best of all, they were there, these yuppie blow-ins (for they certainly cannot be considered a native species) heaped in a Pyrex dish, an offering to the groaning table at the community supper to which these blow-ins were warmly welcomed.

Gyre

A friend recently snapped a picture in his local supermarket. Amazingly, this fresh perspective of such an everyday place sparked quite the discussion. Different people saw different things: one person wanted to know where the people are (sobbing on the floor?); one commenter from the UK thought it was local; to me, it made it pretty clear where the Pacific garbage patch was coming from.

And it got me thinking again about the whole contrived experience of the supermarket. Carefully orchestrated choreography, designed to make you slow at certain (high-priced) items, themed end-cap displays to add to your list of must-haves for the season (n.b. "season" here refers to created events, like the Super Bowl party or Halloween).

The perspective makes it all clear: little bump-outs try to make you think something is compellingly different. But from this view you'd be hard-pressed to discern what section of the supermarket this is: baking, snacks, pasta? It all looks the same from here, just an ocean of packages.

Now, think of what you see at a farmer's market. If it's anything like the ones around here it's mostly food rather than "bland sugar-coated nonsense," (to quote the photographer) and a bag or basket carried on your arm serves the same purpose as the mega-cart designed to look like a cartoon race car. All those tents and people make it look more like a party than a store. I can also compare it with my CSA, where it is painfully obvious whether we are purchasing vegetables or meat, for example. Both of which would make for a more attractive picture postcard than this shot.

A gift

A farmer once told me that buying an apple at the farmers market is different from buying one at a big chain supermarket, but buying a book at an indie bookstore is no different from getting one on Amazon. "A book is a book," he said, "there's no difference in quality."

So begins the post of a Facebook friend this morning. It seems that in the wake of stories like the one published a few weeks back on the ruthless tactics employed in the large warehouses where people are exploited to pick our books and CDs and iPad covers and ear buds, a few people are reconsidering online purchases. It certainly affected me, an avowed online shopper.

When I lived in Portland, it was a lovely way to spend a rainy afternoon (and there are plenty of those), meandering through Powell’s City of Books. Back in the 70s, you could still smell the motor-y smell of the car dealership that had once occupied the space, and walk over the plywood that covered the erstwhile grease pits.

The habit stayed with me: college book lists meant a day trip Powell’s, both at the beginning of the semester (to buy) and the end (to sell). It was there that I fondled my first fine French Pléiades tomes, clad in calfskin, while my brother stocked up on Chilton manuals for his fleet. When I moved away, I found a local bookstore, Puss n’ Books, a place where you could lose yourself and your child for hours. Predictably, it could not bear the competition from the new kid on the block, Amazon, and so was no more.

So, I tried Amazon—who hasn’t? But I missed the used books, knowing that I was giving old books new life, and somehow connecting with other readers. When Powell’s went online, it regained its status as my go-to bookstore; it was as they say, a no-brainer. (You can see a link to Powell's on the left.)

But music was harder. My husband prefers a physical CD, so I had to go elsewhere when the local CD exchange emporium shuttered: the automated emails, the huge box and bubble wrap for the small item, the tracking number letting me follow its path across the country, the impenetrable customer service.

Then came another personal perfect storm: Mac McClelland’s warehouse wage slave article, and a post by my Irish fiddle teacher that he had a CD out—all about the time I was looking for the perfect something to mark Darling Husband’s birthday. With the CD located across the pond, I had to rule out buying it in person, so online it was. I clicked the link, expecting the slick automated shopping cart and checkout, and hoping against hope that it wasn’t a big warehouse with a sore-backed minimum wage slave.

It wasn’t. It was Walti, a friendly German fellow, who just happened to live in the village next to the one I had lived in Germany, and his website was refreshing: we’ll send your CD with an invoice, and we depend on your honesty to pay promptly. An exchange of emails between two people—no auto-reply bots—and CD and payment were both on their way.

The CD is lovely, familiar and new voices combined on familiar tunes, and Darling Husband likes it. I appreciate that the transaction was on a human scale. It is here that I must disagree with the farmer above: what I bought may be a commodity in the sense that CDs are manufactured (though in this case, Walti is selling his own voice), but buying from a person instead of a corporation meant that my experience was authentic and positive, something the big box folks will never be able to commoditize, as hard as they may try.

Cold feet

We spent our lazy Sunday afternoon yesterday looking at real estate. It's a slow market still, so realtors are happy for anyone to show up, even middle-aged tree huggers who ask questions like  what the heating system is and whether there's capacity in the electrical panel to charge an electric car.

We're not looking to move anytime soon, but we do know the day is coming eventually, and we know what things we don't want to give up on when we downsize. We love our radiant floors, for example: salvaged hardwood floors with hydronic tubing underneath. Clean, comfortable heat. So anytime something comes on the market that says "eco" or "green built" we go have a look.

Last fall, we had a peek at zHome offerings nearby; This afternoon, we noted that a two-bedroom cottage in a pocket neighborhood close to us was on the market. We had read the book by Ross Chapin, and were very interested in the idea of architecture that fostered a sense of community and also used resources wisely. We expected green building techniques, smart energy usage, and a floor plan that made the most of the reduced square footage. We parked the LEAF next to the realtor's sign, and meandered into the central green. Delightful, quiet and comfortable. Indeed, Darling Husband fell into conversation with a neighbor as I went on. And a vaguely familiar face from the school who recognized our car caught up with me, and we chatted about living here.

She noted that the upper cluster--where this cottage was--was mostly retirees, with the families favoring the second phase down the hill. One glance down the lane revealed much larger houses stretched in a line, with no green and little relation to each other. A very different feel from the little cottages tightly grouped around the green.

Once inside the cottage, the space revealed itself to be a bit schizophrenic: built-in shelving maximized some space, but in the kitchen, a huge mega-fridge seemed completely out of scale. The bathroom had some nice green finishes, but its placement required a convoluted entryway that squandered any space gained by built-ins. Upstairs, skylights and real plaster walls were above our heads, but run-of-the mill carpeting (have I mentioned I hate carpet?) and electric baseboard heaters were at our feet. Space heaters dotted through the house told a story of cold residents.

Our second drive-by also yielded an open house for "Eco-built" townhomes, based on the very common row house and duplex ("semi-detached") model commonly dotted across Europe. Indeed, our house in Ireland was of the same pedigree. These Northwest cousins had solid mechanicals: radiant floor heating, fire suppression system, energy-efficient windows. Clear effort had been made to allow for enough natural light to penetrate to avoid dark hallways--very important for our dreary winters. But here again, were misses: wasted space from odd jogs in walls, carpet over radiant floor heat, and closets that weren't even deep enough to hang clothes. The agent was patient, the pricing is fire-sale low, but errors like orientation and unworkable spaces undermines otherwise good intentions.

As we walk back to the car, Darling Husband shakes his head, clearly disappointed. "It seems like it's a game here," he notes. "For Europeans, saving energy is real." Once again, he's hit the nail on the head. With our big houses and big cars and big oil and energy subsidies, using fewer resources is not part of our collective wisdom (and you have to be over 45 to remember the gas lines of the 70s). Only hardcore eco-nutcases drive diesel or electric vehicles, only liberal tree huggers would put up solar panels or windmills or a green roof.

The only solar panels at the big-box home store in the US are for gate openers--so you don't have to run electricity half a mile down your long, gated driveway; in the German equivalent, you can buy PV panels to generate electricity for your home. French municipalities recognize green roofs as an opportunity to mitigate storm water retention from increased density (which leverages investment in municipal infrastructure); here, you have to fight City Hall to do something that out of the ordinary.

In the end, my biggest fear is not that we won't be able to find the perfect empty nest for ourselves, but that these kinds of errors will overshadow all the good effort that has been made. We need these dwellings to succeed, so that people can realize that consuming less does not mean living less. We all need to discover the freedom and ensuing joy of spending our energy, both personal and metered by utility companies, on things that matter.