End of the road

In the fall of 1977, my parents decided to splurge: they bought a new car. Lest you think these Depression babies were throwing caution to the wind, note that their thrift showed through: they waited until the end of the model year to be able to negotiate on the price, and they eschewed nearly every option--including a radio. It was also only the second new car either of them had purchased.

It was bad enough from a teenager's viewpoint that the car was so incredibly sensible (shoulder belts before they were mandated), but the radio was insult to injury. Still, it meant my brother inherited the old one--a 1968 model, and I got to learn to drive in a new car.

It turned out to be one of those models that never had any major issues along the way, and when I returned to the US with a husband in tow in 1989, my parents gifted us the car to serve as our second wheels. All we needed was a house with a two-car garage. It was still shiny, with a just a few dings and rattles, but still, no major issues.

Our family grew, we purchased a wagon, and the old Volvo became Darling Husband's classic ride. The Mom-mobile changed a couple of times over the years, but the blue beast kept on going.

We bought touch-up paint in increasingly larger containers and gave up trying to wax it to shiny. In 2001, after a fellow blue wagon got totaled, it gifted its front seats and floor mats to the '77.

For its 30th birthday, we bought the car a tank of premium and new classic car plates, along with a lifetime exemption from renewal and tailpipe checks. It purred and kept going.

This year, with a teenager, we joked that if it was good enough for me to learn to drive in, it was good enough for him. And so Jr. Firefighter slipped behind the wheel and learned to drive.  He dutifully noted that the turn signal on one side wasn't always lighting, so we took it in for some work. We ended up rebuilding the taillight, since no new replacement part could be found.

And then, four days after Jr. Firefighter earned the magic piece of plastic, the car spiked a fever. No amount of coolant seemed to help, and the mechanic found the cancer had spread to several areas. Words like "machining" were uttered. Like the old Quaker carriage, all the parts seemed to be failing at once. I think, said the mechanic, it's time.

Right on schedule, the first of the seven stages of grief, denial, kicked in: we could just fix it, really, it just needed some quality time and some new parts. But when we started attaching numbers to the rather long list, it became clear that this car had come to the end of its run.

A charity that specializes in fixing up old reliable cars declined; even for a Volvo, they said, we don't think it's worth it. The guy in Ballard who does electric conversions said it was too young (!); he only takes pre-1975 Volvos. So today, we shall take a last family photo in front of it one last time, and sign papers to release our interest in it to a salvage yard. It has been a very good run.

But it has also been a model of bucking the trend, a manifestation of our values: maintaining a car is always less expensive and more environmentally friendly than buying new.

New, the car cost $7900, and we are actually getting a few dollars from the yard: $256. That averages to about $225 a year for car ownership. If we had followed the national average and replaced it with the equivalent new model every five years, we would have spent over $130,000; if we'd bucked the trend and waited 10 years between cars, we would still have spent close to $75,000.

Driving it until it can no longer be driven and sending it to a pull-a-part yard is "using it up, wearing it out." Its parts will help keep others in its model (made until 1993) alive, as we eke out as much use before it ends up in a crusher--to be melted into steel and recycled into a new car.

As we considered replacing it--because a three-driver family needs three cars, right?--we quickly realized that we will never be able to repeat this performance. Darling Husband will keep an eye on the classifieds, but for now, we shall remain a two-car, three-bus pass family with a healthy savings account and a clear conscience.

Full day

There is a delicious crispness in the air, the one that the poets among us wax, well, poetically about. The shifted hour means there is a wee sliver of light when the alarm rings (for I can no longer rely on the sun to wake me), and the warm man next to me makes me yearn for hibernation. But it is evening for my Parisian client, who is waiting to hear from me so she can head towards her own duvet, so rise I must.

Bleary-eyed, I wake the sleeping devices on my desk and they beep and blink to life. The file has arrived unharmed from its transatlantic trek, and looks to be in good shape. (Would that it were that easy for us!) I will work, but it will not be long hours of drudgery. Very good news indeed. There is time to join the waking men folk for breakfast.

I suppose I should put on lipstick, don a frilly apron, and produce fresh croissants, but this is a work week, so the toaster will have to do. Little One opts for toast flooded with butter and topped with cinnamon sugar, washed down with cocoa. Darling Husband does the honors, heating up a mug for himself, laced with peppermint syrup (he is no fan of pumpkin spice). I snuggle into his back, and make my own, laced with coffee, for I must be alert to understand the vagaries of smart buses and on-board telemetry (hey, isn’t that what my car has?).

But I am peckish too, and note that the boys’ foray in supermarket hunting has brought home my old friend Crumpet. Toasted twice, smeared with butter, I take a bite. Something is missing, I think, and wonder if there is an open jar of last year’s blood orange marmalade. No, but there is that grape jelly that didn’t quite gel that the boys keep asking for in their lunch. Sure enough, it is perfect, a tangy, sweet foil for the cool crisp morning.

But lest you think this is just a poetic snippet, and that my family treks out into the dawn with full bellies and perfect love in their hearts, a plot emerges: Little One shouts out, "I lost my tooth!" And indeed, there it is, the second this week (I pity the poor parent who will have to deal with two coming in in quick succession, but she will have to take it up with the Tooth Fairy). My day is now complete, with a wry smile for my husband, who knows tonight's date will take on a whole new dimension when we get home. Kisses all around, a trek back into the house for the forgotten bits, and off they go, as the breeze turns to splatty rain.

A perfect start to the day.

Hung out to dry

There is something about real estate. I love traipsing through houses, pretending you live in that perfectly staged living room, spotless kitchen and freshly made bed. So when I heard about zHome, a "revolutionary, 10-unit townhome development that uses smart design and cutting edge technologies to radically reduce its environmental impacts," I had to see it for myself. Besides, they advertised an EV charging station out front.

And impressive engineering it is: the earthwork is a true work of art, moving water around, under and through, using grey water for flushing toilets and irrigation, and double-filtering drinking water. Electricity is generated from photovoltaic panels on the roof, and radiant floors are heated using geothermal heat. Surfaces are honest, responsibly sourced, and the spaces are light and devoid of that "new house" smell.

And it seems to encourage more responsible behavior: having only a one-car garage (and presumably only one car) and squeezing into 1600 square feet seems spartan in these suburbs, where 3,000 and 4,000 square feet and three-car garages are the norm. But as our house ages and demands more of our time and energy, and we look to simplify our lives, the idea of living in a smaller space and with less stuff is incredibly appealing.

We drove up in our red LEAF, plugged in, and started poking around. First up was the largest unit: walk in the door, there's a bedroom. Right next to the front door, with a sliding glass door. A bit public, but maybe useful for a home office.

A bit farther in, and there's a one-car garage. But not only is the charger on the street, but this is a three-bedroom unit, on the far fringe of the suburbs. If this is designed for a family, it will be rough going, as bus service is very sketchy way out here, and there is nothing within walking distance, since the planned community around it has yet to be built. The closest shopping is 20 minutes away, and the city a good half hour by freeway. Maybe both parents work at home, or maybe they're independently wealthy, since the price tag is not within the reach of the average Joe: $625,000.

I peek in the spacious storage closet under the stairway, and inside it is a high tech geothermal heat pump for the radiant floor heat. Lovely, comfy, efficient and truly green credentialed. But some boiler-loving contractor has placed it at the front of the closet, blocking the way to using the rest. Result: a good 15 square feet of inaccessible closet space in the garage.

Up the responsibly-sourced wood stairs to the living area, covered in the same responsibly-sourced floors. The kitchen is stunning, but after the initial impression, we realize there isn't a single cupboard large enough for a stack of plates; only drawers below. The corner features a "lost space" cupboard instead of a useful corner solution, reducing storage space yet again. Back in the larder, shelving and a closet, with--you guessed it--water filters covering the back of the closet. Imagine moving all your stored items every 6 months to change the filter and you start to see.

Top floor, another large closet, this time with a stacked washer and dryer. I love that someone understands putting the washer where the dirty laundry is, but the school of hard knocks reminds me that laundry likes to congregate before washing, sorting itself into pile of like colors and such. Here, since there is no space for even a box of eco-friendly detergent, I can see the piles littering the hallway on laundry day (every day is laundry day when you have kids). And while I love the energy star dryer, I note no place anywhere to put up drying racks; perhaps the balcony, overlooking the neighbor's?

In the end, we are disappointed that so much was done right, only to have these efforts marred by apparent trivialities that work against the stated intent: downsize to one car, but locating the homes in a place that has no transportation infrastructure; use efficient technology and reduce the square footage, but then situate the mechanicals in a way that space cannot be used; and omitting spaces for the kinds of occupant behavior that affects our environmental impact at least as much as technology.

We note with chagrin that the brand-new building next door has heated storage units for rent. Perhaps they saw an opportunity.

Over the fence

In the localization world where I cut my professional teeth, one of the worst things you could do was "throw something over the fence," a practice akin to painting someone into the corner and then walking away, leaving them with figuring out how to get out. Management learned early on that the right thing--and the most advantageous--is to think ahead, involving everybody down the line as early as possible, to make everyone's life easier, and the product better in the end.

But throwing things over the fence plays out in our personal lives, as manufacturer's bundle things together in odd multiples (three smoke detectors in a package, really?), package them against flooding and raining toads (why does a micro-SD card need a macro hard clamshell?), and plan for obsolescence (repeat the steps above when the first one fails or is replaced by something new or better). That we have to deal with the waste stream is not their problem anymore. They've thrown it over the fence, and we as individuals and a society will have to deal with it.

It is not coincidental that as I read Ray Anderson's Confessions of a Radical Industrialist, I am reminded that "over the fence" and "away," as in places we throw things, simply do not exist. Shedding our own responsibilities simply places them on someone else's shoulders. Unless we can close the loop.

Long-time readers may recall the situation where French pigs were contaminated by tainted grapefruit rinds shipped from Brazil. That no one thought that sending kitchen scraps (albeit industrial) halfway across the globe while waste from French cuisines was likely landing in landfills points to someone not thinking. (I should point out though, that the Germans get the packaging challenge right: you can leave packaging with merchants, which means they put a lot of pressure on their suppliers to create less of it in the first place.)

And so, when we noticed that our neighbors had acquired a pair of chickens, we saw an opportunity: instead of putting those kitchen scraps into the municipal compost stream, we asked them if they thought their ladies might enjoy the carrot tops and apple cores. Indeed, they would, and could they give us a few eggs in return?

And so we have the happy solution of throwing a bowl of scraps from fixing supper over the fence--literally. And the hens don't think it's a problem at all. Quite the contrary, if their happy clucks are any indication.

Dated

My list is long, but not exhaustive: the produce has been piling up all week, and it's time to put it by for winter. There is an enormous zucchini, five pounds of pie cherries, a dozen beets (yellow, red, and pretty-pink stripes) and blackberries, peaches and blueberries (a surprise from our overgrown yard). I have jars, sugar, lids, even flour and tapioca, but I somehow cannot find my rhythm. I am fragile and disorganized, slipping into crankiness at the drop of a hat.

I know I should simply decide which task I will do first; That I should do the mise for all, and everything will come together. But boys are hungry, and their puttering derails me again, and I snap at one of them, light-heartedly, I think, but not lightly enough, it seems, and tears flow: first theirs, then mine.

Why, I wonder, is parenting so hard today? When did my delightful toddlers become a complex, moody teen, and one on the cusp of tweendom? Buck up, I tell myself, and I pull out a freezer bag and a sharpie, and start to label it with the contents and the date. The date. And then I remember, I am supposed to be parenting a teenaged girl, and this was the date that our hopes were dashed. The tears flow harder momentarily, but once I give a name to my grief, I can face it. Darling husband comes to my rescue, reminding a broken child why Mommy is sad. A sticky hug, and I can proceed.

Finding peace in my pain (for my heart will never heal entirely) I can pare, shred, measure and stir. The enormous zucchini turns into 3 mini loaves and a dozen muffins (only some of which actually make it into the freezer, since men folk keep walking through the kitchen); fallen crabapples begin their journey to pectin; pie cherries release their juices to be thickened, and berries line up to be assigned pots and jars.

And one by one, as each task is done, each bag and each jar is wiped clean and readied for the larder or freezer. The sharpie etches the contents, and the date. As if I could ever forget.

 

Two-car garage

On a summer's day two decades ago, Darling Husband and I had a date: off to the Sears store we went, where the big lug took my hand an led me to the tool department and told me to pick out a table saw. As if I wasn't in love with him before, I fell head over heels all over again. Over the years, it has seen use, building ash nightstands to hold up lamps from the pottery down the lane from where we held our wedding dinner in La Borne; new bathroom cabinets for an astoundingly turquoise 60s bathroom; a custom shelving unit in the kitchen to hold my cookbooks in style; a play kitchen that both boys have outgrown.

But lately, the saw has seen precious little use: there are only so many pieces of furniture we can fit in the house, and so many hours in a day (and there seem to be fewer of those, not sure if it's age or kids or both).

If you drive into any American town, there on the outskirts, next to the freeway entrance, you'll see them: storage facilities. Drive through neighborhoods, and you'll see them too, attached to houses: garages, with cars parked in front of them. We have a car parked on the street, largely because of the table saw (and the wood stockpiled next to it, leftovers from projects that might come in handy someday).

And so it was time. The new car needed a place to sleep and charge at night, and it made no sense to park the other one outside. The scraps turned out to be enough to floor the hallway and build a shed to house the push mower (in the backyard, where it is used). But there was just no room for the big saw.

For the most part, this purge of stuff has been uplifting, leaving me feeling lighter and free (and padding my wallet with 20-dollar bills). But I'd been lying if I said that saying goodbye to an inanimate chunk of steel was easy. I will miss the dimming of the lights when it revs up, the whirr of the motor, the sound of the blade biting into wood, and even the mound of sawdust.

The giant plum tree overhanging the drive has been pruned, the car charger installed, and a shiny new garage door opener lets the red car cruise silently in. As for the saw, it has moved to a house on the islands, to find second life building someone's dream home for his retirement. I wish them both well.

Jack Sprat

We both grew up with the nursery rhyme, "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. And so between the two of them, they licked the platter clean." In our early days as a couple it became clear that Darling Husband and I were like Jack and his dear spouse, but it was the salty/sweet divide. He adored sweets; I craved salty. He bought milk chocolate; I bought dark. He would snack on candies; I would munch on cheezy crackers. It has been a good match.

Over time, I have come to appreciate the sweet, and he the salty. Salted caramels covered in dark chocolate, cardamom saffron cake, and chicken mole satisfied us both. It has been a long journey, but there are now days when I will slip raisins in my purse, and he will opt for almonds.

But one food we have always agreed on is cheese: he might levitate toward a sweet fresh rambol with dessert wine, and I will aim for the stinky chèvre with a flinty sauvignon blanc, but we both spread it on baguettes and sip from each others' glasses.

With dairy off the menu for so many years, and resolve to not buy supermarket junk pumped full of chemicals in boxes, it has been difficult to satisfy my cravings. It has been a long time coming, but I have finally broken the snack barrier, concocting a recipe that satisfies my salty-cheesy cravings without compromising diet or boundaries. Even my sweet-toothed spouse agrees.

Cheezy crackers

• 8 oz Daiya cheese substitute (extra-sharp cheddar cheese works too, if you eat dairy), shredded
• ½ stick unsalted margarine or butter, at room temperature
• 1 c GF flour (I use a mix of brown rice flour and tapioca starch; wheat flour works too)
• 2 T ice water
• 1 t kosher salt

In a food processor, pulse the cheese, butter until soft and combined. Add the flour and mix on low speed (the dough will be dry and pebbly). Slowly add the water and continue to mix as the dough forms a ball.

Pat the dough into a disk, wrap tightly with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least an hour.

Preheat the oven to 375˚F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking sheets.

Divide the dough into two pieces and roll each into a very thin (1/8 inch or less) 10 x 12-inch rectangle. Sprinkle with salt. Using a fluted pastry cutter, cut the rectangles into 1-inch squares, then transfer to the baking sheets. Use the tip of a chopstick to punch a hole into the center of each square.

Bake for 15-17 minutes or until puffed and browning at the edges. Watch carefully, as the high fat content of the crackers makes it a fine line between deliciously crispy and burnt. Immediately move the crackers to racks to cool.

Delicious with cold hard cider and a good book on a warm afternoon.

Not for sale

In 2006, I made over a hundred jars of jam. In case you're wondering, I don't have a particularly good memory, it's just that there are still a good lot of them left, as we plug away at the larder shelves. It was a year that the plums and apples were good, and so were the raspberries, and blackberries, and Mirabelles, and blueberries and currants, not to mention apricots and peaches. It was also the year that I learned how to make chocolate jam, and, perhaps out of boredom, started getting fancier, adding herbs and wine to various fruit combinations.

It was also the year that three of the family tested sensitive to wheat and gluten, meaning vehicles for said jam like bread and croissants were off the menu. So just as jam production increased, jam consumption plummeted. In economic terms, we had a surplus. I set about seeing how I might make lemonade out of the situation.

My first thought was to sell the extra jam ,which would fetch a fair price if the signs at the farmer's market were any indication. A quick look at the relevant regulations revealed that because my kitchen at home is a residential kitchen, as opposed to a commercial kitchen, it was illegal to sell my jam. The same applied to donating it to food banks. Nope, it was our jam, and we were stuck (sorry!) with it. Luckily, jam keeps.

A few jars went to friends, a basket of the more fancy combinations fetched a fair price at the school auction. Jars got tucked into teacher appreciation bags and brought as hostess gifts. We learned that jam was good in oatmeal; indeed, we started referring to jam as the duct tape of failed meals. But still, there was too much jam. And did I mention I kept making more jam each year? We have an over-achieving plum tree, and well, blackberries are free! And I do find it hard to pass up delicious, overripe fruit.

And then came the year in Ireland, where every farmer's market and farm stand had a few of these "extra" jars, with hand-made labels. We had seen the same thing on jaunts to Britain. I taught our farmer how to make jam, bringing home just one jar of amazing raspberry jam and leaving the other 50 with her to sell at her farm stand. But the idea of cottage industry had been drummed out of us in the States, replaced instead by the misconception that only commercial operations can produce safe foods.

So imagine my delight last night when Junior Firefighter showed me a column filler that mentioned that our Governor had just signed a "Cottage Food Operations" law, that expressly allows for selling homemade food products, including baked goods, jams and jellies, preserves and fruit butters, defining them as "nonpotentially hazardous." Maybe my home kitchen isn't so dangerous after all.

So I look into the rule, and here's where it falls apart. It does not mean that on July 22 (the date the law takes effect), that I can put a quaint handmade sign at the curb offering up some of my surplus for pin money. Nope, I'd need about a hundred dollars out of pocket for a yearly permit, plus I'd have to invest in jars and labels, so I'd have to be pretty serious about selling more than the odd jar to cover my outlay. Add to that inspection requirements and limitations on outlets (no internet or mail order) and earnings limits (less than $12,000/yr.), and it's clear that this law is intended for a very small group of people indeed.

So, even as the fresh fruit verily beckons to me in the farmer's market, there will be no sign in my front yard for the foreseeable future. Sorry, folks.

Phinney & Hayton

With the kids shipped off to summer camp, Darling Husband and I embarked upon a week-long date night (interrupted by work, sigh). We had only one "required" activity; the Microsoft Orchestra concert at the Ballard Locks. Sunshine, and appreciative audience and prime parking make this a perennial favorite, though the picnic blanket looked kind of empty with only the big man sprawled on it.

But traffic this weekend was extra-messy with Pride Parade snarls in the north end, bigger than ever this year on the tails of the New York law (I love New York!), and a Sounders game to the south. We managed to get there before the downbeat--barely. And the trip back home was looking to be just as bad. Ugh.

Darling husband earned his stripes as he steered the car off the clogged main drag onto peaceful Phinney, parking next to the Mecca of chocolate, Theo. There, we browsed samples of favorites, old and new (the toasted coconut was lovely, but orange still has a place in my heart, and fig fennel makes Darling Husband's heart got pitty-pat). The only thing that truly tempted was the closeout of their 74%. When we re-emerged, we saw banner flying a block off for the Fremont Sunday Market. Given my proclivity for farmer's markets, it bore investigating.

What we discovered was not a farmer's market, but a hodge-podge of artists, ethnic food carts, psychics and antiques dealers, selling everything from homemade ice cream sandwiches to old postcards to exquisite handmade jewelry (the coral piece was tempting but too pricey) to distressed furniture and more. The crowd was a pleaser too, for those who indulge in that sport. And there, in a positively un-funky white easy-up, was a very normal-looking man selling just one thing: local, transitional strawberries.

As I chatted with the amiable fellow from Hayton Farms in Mount Vernon, I could smell them. As I checked my pint ($3) for fuzzies, I could feel that even chilled, they were tender, like the berries we pick in our garden, not those crunchy things that arrive in clamshells. No, these were real berries, and I needed more than a pint.

The half-flat we scored has so far yielded two batches of jam: a big batch of just plain strawberry, and a smaller batch of strawberry-chocolate-balsamic. I'm thinking the remaining pints will become a third batch of strawberry mint, since Little One picked a bunch of chocolate mint last week, and it's been waiting for a pot to jump into. Or maybe I'll run out and grab a bit of rhubarb (it's been a good year for rhubarb locally) and do that instead. I'll let you know.

All this, very local; indeed, the chocolate and the berries both scored on the same street, in the middle of the universe.

Indulgence

As any parent knows, the ultimate indulgence is time. Luxury is something we sip rather than gulp, little stolen moments rather than long stretches. And even more so, as this mother stares down the barrel of nine weeks of summer vacation.

It seemed odd that I would shop alone once the kids were in school last September, but I soon grew used to the meditative escape, the leisurely browse. Granted, my kids are well past grabbing things off the shelf (yes, toddler mother, I understand why your cart is in the middle of the aisle), but they do disrupt the calm: they actually started punching each other in the cracker section last week.

Other than the requisite violence inherent in parenting boys, I also buy more food when they shop with me. Little One, a spring baby, loves all the little berries of spring and summer; my fall boy is drawn to the bags of crisp apples, and grumpy that I won't buy from things shipped from the southern hemisphere. We buy a big clam-shell of strawberries from California. Even though they're not local, at least the fruit in our patch has set, and we did see some local (but not organic) at the farmers market the day before.

On the way home, we stop by the library: Little One staggers under a stack of Hardy Boys and thicker books. I head to the magazine section. A little of this, a little of that, and I have my own thick stack to dip into and sip.

That evening, Darling Husband also partakes of my paper indulgence, and as we sit, exclaims, "eww!" "What?" I say. "Here's a recipe for chocolate mousse with strawberries and balsamic vinegar!" I smile and explain that the vinegar is a good foil, much like vanilla for chocolate, deepening the flavor.

So as I eye those strawberries that evening, I have it--nothing so involved as mousse, no, just a little indulgence.

Chocolate and Strawberry pots de crème
Serves 4

• 1/2 c strawberries
• 1 cup heavy whipping cream
• 1 oz. semi-sweet or dark chocolate, chopped (I used Theo's 74%)
• 1 t cocoa powder
• Splash of balsamic vinegar

Wash and hull the strawberries, chop them into bite-sized bits and place them into the bottoms of four espresso cups. Set aside two pretty ones for garnish, cut in half lengthwise.

In a saucepan, heat the cream until it boils, then stir in the chocolate and cocoa powder until smooth. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar and stir it in. Gently pour the mixture over the strawberries, using a spoon to push down any berries that float to the surface. Chill in refrigerator 1-2 hours.

Just before serving, garnish with strawberry half.

Exclusivity

I still remember the week that Trader Joe's opened up near our home: a hitherto empty strip mall parking lot was suddenly full and people in the know streamed through the doors. Curious, I ventured in. Here were the "gourmet" foods I had missed from my European sojourns: the cheeses, the chocolates. And here were organics and staples at decent prices. I was in love.

It didn't take long, of course, for the bloom to wear off: favorite products "discontinued," the incessant and insistent displays of balloons (potentially life-threatening to those of us with latex allergies). It would be safe to say that we are more realistic about our relationship. This is after all, business, designed to make money for private owners. Even those incredible avocados are designed to line their pocketbook rather than feed my cravings for them.

Perhaps it is because of the attractively-priced rice pasta that I turn a blind eye, but I'm wondering if we are headed to counseling or at least a gripe session with a girlfriend. I'm referring to the use of the word "exclusive."

In my mind, that term conjures up images of a social bargain: they are the only ones to offer it, and I will seek it only there. But when the neighborhood busybody posts pictures on the Internet, falsehoods are exposed. The busybody here is the FDA, doing their job with their new and incredibly transparent recall website: not only do we get the names and objects of the offense spelled out, we get pictures. And there Joe is, the last in a lineup of little Splendido tomatoes, his label proclaiming exclusivity, when the other pictures clearly tell another story.

The online Bullshitometer reminds me that advertising and politics are rife with this kind of deceit, and this label scores a perfect 10 of 10. I would be lying if I said it didn't undermine the trust in our relationship. Perhaps Joe thinks I won't come back if I knew his inner truths; or perhaps I am using him as much as he is using me.

The Piper

Little One has had a sheltered childhood: he has been spared images of falling towers, flooded New Orleans and tsunami-ravaged India. But he is slowly awakening from his reverie, as images of jackknifed trains and obliterated towns and exploding reactors flood our lives this week. It seems fitting that his class is studying Norse Mythology; they have reveled in the great trickster Loki and the power of being godlike, and have just arrived at the fall of the gods.

Dinner table conversation was interesting last night: the sausage was tasty (a local, smoke bratwurst), so much so that both boys asked why I couldn't make twice as much so they could have two each. I was just launching into my "do you know how many resources go into meat production" tirade when Darling Hubs jumped in, reminding them that we just ordered an electric car, and asking if we are carbon neutral yet? I pointed out that even though we purchase green energy and offsets, we're not, since we continue to heat with natural gas. But we do much better than average.

Once the conversation bounced to the nuclear plant situation in Japan, Little One, who had been watching intently with a furrowed brow, finally chimed in. He's trying to understand the big deal with nuclear energy. When we give him a simple explanation that it generates electricity using radioactive materials, his eyes widen at the word, and he says, "Radioactivity?! Don't they know that's dangerous? Why would they do that?"

I am a child of the nuclear age, ducking and covering under my desk during earthquake and nuclear drills: my father actually designed and supervised the building of part of a nuclear power plant, and both he and I voted to mothball it very few years later. Darling Husband can proudly say he marched against the nuclear plants placed along the Rhine. And we held on to each other through a frightening spring of misinformation when the cloud from Chernobyl was passing over our heads even as our governments said it wasn't.

But in the end, we must, as they say, pay the piper. There is a price for convenience--for flipping a switch and having it there, for leaving lights burning in an empty room, on an empty street, or an empty sports field. We are happy to abdicate the details to someone else, let "them" think about it. But "they" are us: we are complacent and complicit. Those who squeak warnings are squelched and silenced, and sidelined, but we would be wise to listen and wiser still to join in the chorus. Little One is being taught the lesson in school, but we adults fail to embody it. Those arrogant Norse gods thought themselves invincible, and fell. We would do well to remember.

Journey

On May 6, 2010, I traveled to Florida for a business meeting (yes, I offset the travel). The direct route from Seattle to Miami took me over the Gulf of Mexico. Just over two weeks before, on April 20, BP's Deepwater Horizon had exploded: to my horror, I could not only see the spill, but it was immense, mile after mile of brown sullying the otherwise blue waters. The oil would flow for two and a half more months before the wellhead was capped.

April 20, the day of the explosion, was also notable for another company. On that day, Nissan opened up their online system to take reservations for their first all electric car. I received an email inviting me to reserve.

Now, I'm not what marketers call an early adopter, nor am I a serial consumer. House, cars, cell phones, kitchen appliances, even clothing are bought used whenever practical. We don't even own a TV, so don't ask me what kind of DV-R we have or where we hang that huge flat panel. Only two things are always bought new: underwear and computers. The former for (hopefully) obvious reasons, and the latter pushed to the limits of their age before finding a second life with someone who can use them. But this email tempted me.

The week before I flew to Miami, I kept coming back to that email. Here I was buying offsets for my air travel, and we purchase green energy for our home. We line dry laundry and eat organic foods. This seemed entirely in keeping with our values, and there was no risk--we could always back out. I went online and placed my deposit, and put myself on the list.

Right before Christmas, I received the email: my number had come up, and I was free to order. The trickle of first deliveries started. I hesitated, not quite able to bring myself to buy new. I made spreadsheets, plugging in electric rates and usage patterns and battery life and years of ownership and tax incentives. I joined chat boards and followed tweets, listened in and asked questions. I looked at dimensions, and determined that the cello and my family would fit, but it was still cheaper, and arguably still environmentally sound, to keep my aging internal combustion car for another five years.

But still tar balls continue to wash up on the shores of the Gulf, and oil that has settled on the sea floor is not degrading. Countries in Africa, exploited for their petroleum are reeling under instability. I am sure the requisite media blitz will accompany the anniversary of the oil spill. Someone might even make a connection between revolution and gas prices. And everyone will shrug and say, well, gee, what can we do? And that's when I realized that this was not about the money after all.

Cayenne red, optional floor mats. No emissions. Delivery in 3-4 months.

Sunny faces

Ten years ago--a whole decade--a lone daffodil poked its way up through a neglected pot in my front yard. In the barely two weeks since it had first emerged, it had had to deal with rain, snow, sunshine and an earthquake, but it still soldiered on. February and March that year were colder than usual, with the same bitter nip in the air that we have been experiencing this year.

But in the wee hours of the morning ten years ago, amazing things happened. The wind shifted, bringing not cold air from the north, but warmth from points east and south. As if a huge sigh had been released, everything seemed to relax a notch; trees popped blossoms, and the lone daffodil knew it was time, and opened up, facing our front door to greet us.

It was there to greet the midwives as well, though it was still too dark for them to see properly, and they were focused on other things. With the sun's rising came warmth, birdsong, and a perfect little baby boy.

As one of my babies knows he will mark another trip around the sun with crisp falling leaves, so this one knows it is daffodils: the one in the pot that bloomed for eight more years before giving up; great swathes of them by the road in Ireland, and handfuls at the checkout counter waiting to fill the vases at home.

But this year is different. My Little One is no longer quite so little (his shoes are almost as big as mine), and daffodils remain elusive. We have seen a few in sheltered planting strips, but the cheery yellow faces have not yet appeared in that forlorn pot nor the checkout lane.

So this afternoon, in a last-ditch effort on my way to my monthly after-school date with said boy, we stopped at one last shop and struck pay dirt: there, hoards of bright cheery faces greet us, and even go so far as to tell me that they come from just up the road in Mt. Vernon.

Happy Birthday Little One.

Walla Walla WA

In a less generous moment, I might say that we need to start looking at old folks' homes for my mother. Like all of us, she has good days and bad: at her age, the bad can seem scary for those of us still coming to terms with middle age. But there are still plenty of good days in her.

She is on my mind as a package arrived today bearing her return address. She had not only managed to find a present for Little One and our address and a box, but got it shipped out to arrive a day early! But she did warn me that she had enclosed something she couldn't bear to throw away.

So it was with trepidation that I opened it--wanting to spare Little One from any trauma from unpacking garbage for his birthday, and there it was, nestled amidst cornstarch packing peanuts (she saves them for me, since she knows of my green leanings) and cheery tissue paper: a brown paper sack that read, "Remember? This was the last can--(it spoiled) But I thot the label was worth saving! xxx Mom. P.S. Happy Anniversary!"

Now, you have to understand the history of gifts from my mother: the makeup brush kit, the French provincial salt and pepper shakers and the glass pig are all legendary. I was almost afraid to open it. Was it the clam chowder that they don't make any more? It couldn't be the moon peaches (peaches we put up the day Neil Armstrong took that small step), since they were in a glass jar--spoiled, no doubt, but I know that last jar is still on the shelf as a historical relic.

So I take it out, let out my breath, and smile. Yes, I remember. Shortly after my family moved to Portland, we discovered the joys of fresh asparagus. We had survived our first, dark, grey, Pacific Northwest winter (my father did not go lightly, but cursed it loudly from the front porch, much to my mother's chagrin). My mother's lunch buddies decided to can asparagus, and arranged a date in a real canning facility. They went and trimmed the delicate stems, packed them in tins (upside down), and the facility put the lids on and processed them. She came home with a dozen or so naked tin cans, and I asked if I could label them. My father must have been enamored with the provenance, and started singing about Walsh's Walla Walla Asparagus. Kind of catchy.

Impractical

Ok, I admit it, I bought an impractical, red, not-your-mother's bra. And the matching panties, if you must know. But this was a special event, one that called for special dress, and I had found said special dress, and it required the aforementioned impractical undergarments. And I have to say, they were well-appreciated.

In my own defense, I did try picking it up at the brick & mortar store nearby, but they didn't have my size in stock, as they cater to the teens who pour in every Wednesday afternoon, their early dismissal day. Online it was.

So I wasn't surprised when their catalogue arrived in the mailbox. I'm slightly irritated with the one they enclose with the order (didn't I just buy something?), but I sigh at the identical one that arrives a week later. Don't they remember they sent it with the order. Or recall it was an online purchase? Seems they track all my other buying habits. Why would I want paper? I call the 800-number on the back, dutifully recite my quick service number, and chuck it in the recycle bin, much to the chagrin of my future firefighter.

And then they start arriving. The other catalogues, from outfits I've never heard of. There have been two this week alone, and it's only Thursday. That's right, they sold the list during those two weeks I was on it, and the snowball effect has taken hold.

Dear merchant, enough is enough. It's in everyone's best interest to add a simple little checkbox: "no paper catalogue" to your website. Save the postage, save the trees, save my time and yours. Because even practical, considered people need impractical, pretty things in their lives.

Shopping at home

The dish has gone through a family evolution: in my childhood, it used plastic-wrapped ground beef from a white styrofoam tray from Fred Meyer, two cans of Contadina sauce  and a packet of Lawry's spaghetti seasoning. By the time I had moved out to my college apartment, the ingredients list on the seasoning packet was a turnoff, so I replaced it with real (well, Spice Island) herbs.

In the piles of my past is an essay written as part of a freshman English class in which we were to instruct someone how to do something: I wrote, unsurprisingly, about preparing a meal. Spaghetti, as it would have it, and I instruct the dutiful reader to add red wine to the mix and to pour a glass for themselves and whomever else might be around. I'd like to tell you I waited until my 21st birthday before I started adding it to the mix, but given that I was underage throughout my university career, that seems unlikely.

In France, it took patience while the slow hotplate heated water to boil noodles, and I admit to resorting to jarred sauce--cold. It was one of the first dishes I taught my darling to-be-husband, and soon became a code for I'm not making it:

"Hi honey, I'm home! What's for supper?"
"Spaghetti."
"Oh, that bad? I'll make it."

As food sensitivities mounted and our numbers increased, the basics have been replaced by fare from the co-op, including pork sausage (my Italian Girlfriend admonished me).  My shopping list and habits changed. Until this year. This year, or rather last summer, we shopped the farmers markets, peeled, chopped, boiled, dried, and stuffed our larder and freezer full. Add to it a quarter pig that we affectionately call 'Porker,' and I haven't had to shop for anything but the pasta and onions since July.

Instead of making a shopping list, I head out to the garage, and reach into the arctic box for some Porker sausage and a bag of chopped heritage tomatoes (Yellow? Black? Or red?). Behind me, one jar breaks rank from the soldiers of tomato sauce. Upstairs, hanging from wrought iron hooks (from the blacksmith who visits at Michaelmas) are garlic and herbs.

This is the first year we have tried this, and it has been a glorious 7 weeks. Only seven, as the last of Porker's sausage (there are still chops and ribs and bacon) went in the pan this evening, so we shall revert to the co-op's decent-but-not-as-good stuff. The chopped tomatoes should last until late spring, and the canned ones should last 32 more weeks--until just about the time that the first local tomatoes start showing up at the farmer's market.

Comfort

The mushrooms at the grocer's are big this year, perfect for stuffing if you are so inclined, but the stems are too thick and tough for the delicate risottos and duxelles I have been leaning to these dark, cold evenings. Taking the knife to the fungi takes me back to when I first brought my first knife home and spent hours patiently practicing slicing and dicing. Snapping the stems from the cups, a blade to halve the circle, turning the cut edge down. It is all familiar and comforting.

The same knife and nimble fingers make short order of the crimini this evening, destined for a humble pizza. But just as the tops of onions and odd bits cut off carrots and parsley find their way into the stockpot, so these stems sit by my cutting board awaiting a similar fate. They go into their own dedicated pot, a bit of salted water and today's onion discards, to make mushroom stock, for I am reminded of the need for comfort, and not just in our home.

Little One's class is having a hard week, it seems, with book-ended traffic accidents leaving two parents laid up with fractures and bruises, and their families asking for help in the form of dinners and carpools. We are grateful we are not polishing shoes for a funeral, but it is hard to see the silver lining when the sun is so dim.

And so the simmering stock will be thickened, and cream added. Noodles will be boiled--a few more than usual. I will open two jars of tuna this evening, and fill twin casserole dishes with food designed to be reheated and to comfort the soul.