Of lettuces and elections

November brings two things around these parts: elections and the end of our CSA season. September and October have been a flurry of roadside campaign signs and roadside stands hawking local corn and cherries, growing piles of election fliers and a growing pile of colorful organic squash to get us through the winter.

And then came November, and the airwaves and the CSA went quiet. I put three long-overdue spring weddings on my calendar and washed my last head of Claire's lettuce. But despite the joyful weddings to come, the news wasn't all good, and it wasn't all local. California's Proposition 37, a mandate to label GMOs, was defeated. Even though the vast majority of people say they want to see labeling, Big Money from Big Corporations saturated the airways and billboards with confounding messages, and we all lost.

With that last head of CSA lettuce gone, I headed to the co-op to buy vegetables. The heads of red leaf were tiny and trucked from California. Organic, yes, but not bursting with the energy of the farmer I know. It might have come from a small-scale farmer, or it might have come from a mega-farm irrigated by water from huge canals. I don't know, and it's not obvious.

Like the anonymous lettuce, it isn't obvious who provided the Big Money against Prop 37. We expect it to be limited to big corporations that sell only pseudo-foods, neon-colored and laden with unpronounceable ingredients. But it's far more complex than that. Many of those mega-corporations (exercising their right to free speech by supporting anti-labeling rhetoric) actually own some of the more popular organic brands. There's a nifty infographic from the Cornucopia Institute that shows who is really who.

The anonymity of the supermarket is like a huge online chat board--you can't tell if you're talking to a gorgeous blond or a pedophile stalker. Infographics can help, but there has to be a better way for the person who wants to eat real food and do the Right Thing.

If complexity hides the truth, then simplicity exposes it. Just as my magic trick this summer, we have a simple tool. Get as close to the source of your food as possible. It's helped by social media, to be sure: it's the old-fashioned analog conversation. A chat with the produce manager, a regular date with your year-round farmer's market sellers, a buyer's club, a cold frame in your garden. Small money, simple, and the Right Thing.

Vegetable alchemy

"Wow, mom, you did magic!" exclaimed Little One as we left the farmers market this afternoon. And I did feel a bit like a medieval alchemist, transforming juicy fruit into root vegetables.

It started back in early spring, when we had a glorious stretch of sunny and warm. I looked out at the mass of bees and blossoms on the plum tree and thought to myself, "it's going to be a good year for plums (and apples)." As it turns out, I was right.

But it was also a good year for strawberries and raspberries, and somehow the finite resources of empty jars and shelf space dwindled long before we got to plum jam season. In our house, it's the last hurrah of summer when we pick the late-ripening plums and add foraged blackberries, a sort of bookmark on the jam shelf: once you get to the plum-based jams, you know that season has come to a close.

So what to do with the excess plums this year? It turns out the answer was staring us in the face, as we have joined an informal online group that arranges shared buys of various local produce. I put out an offer, and a few people responded. It's a perfect match: we still had plenty of fruit to use up every last jam jar, and the excess was magically transformed into a handful of bills.

Yes, the bills were the intermediary that I traded for the spuds, but it somehow felt direct, taking the same worn three bills that had been pressed into my hand only a few hours prior and pressing them into the hands of the farmer, so, yes, I agreed with Little One that it was indeed magic, transforming purple plums from the front yard into purple potatoes on the supper table.

____

The post script to this, is of course, that money is a kind of magic, based on mutual trust in a system. In a time when we hear terms like mortgage-backed derivatives and bankrupt brokerage firms bantered about, it's a good reminder, seeing how those leathery slips of paper can represent real value. It's pretty easy to follow the trajectory of those dollar bills, but how much of our economy is that firmly based in the real and tangible? Yet another compelling reason to keep it local.

Single shot

It crept up on me slowly, a mere dash of instant coffee from a leftover packet of instant for a bit of a lift one brisk autumn morning. And before I knew it, my morning cocoa had morphed into full-on mocha. Rich and creamy with coconut or soy milk, tasty syrups adding a little kick. Mint and eggnog prevailed over the holidays, and caramel, vanilla, and salted caramel flavored my summer.

At first, I didn't pay any mind to the syrup, just checked the label to make sure that the mysterious concoction was made of sugar rather than the evil corn syrup. But after a while, it seemed I was seeing a lot more of the fellows at the Cash and Carry, and lugging increasing numbers of bottles out the door. Not to mention chucking a couple of empties into the recycling bin every month.

And then, bent over the u-pick herbs at our CSA farm few weeks ago, Little One called out, "Mom, can I pick some mint?" Sure, I say, even though I have no idea what to do with it. But while I'm making my mocha the next morning, Darling Husband sidles up and starts making cocoa for the aforementioned boy, spiking it with mint syrup.

I look at the label on the green concoction. The main ingredient is sugar, which I have plenty of. I am after all, a jammer and a ten-pound bag sitting on the counter from making blackberry-plum jam last night is staring me in the face. I race to Google; sure enough, those fancy coffee syrups, the ones that cost about $3 a bottle? Simple syrup.

Simple syrup is about the easiest thing to make in the world. It's just sugar and water, heated until it dissolves. So I do, boiling it with a handful of mint for a few minutes. Voilà, homemade mint syrup, and it isn't bright green. If I caramelize it a bit first, I have caramel syrup (predictably, if I add salt, it becomes salted caramel syrup). A drop of vanilla extract is all it takes to make it into vanilla syrup.

So there it is, easy-peasy, homemade coffee syrup. Icing on the cake, it only costs about 86 cents to fill the bottle that gets reused now instead of thrown away.

String of pearls

I am dunking a lovely flaky pain au chocolat in my mocha this morning, thinking about how lucky I am, not just for the pastry and chocolate, but for my life in general. I’m enjoying what many would call success: the bounty of my years of professional experience, an amazing spouse (who brought me said pastry), a healthy and mostly joyful family (except perhaps for those testosterone bursts that happen in the back seat when someone gets grumpy); life is good.

In my professional persona, I read glossy (well, what would be glossy if I read the print edition) business journals. One article recentlyconsumed noted that the one trait common to all successful people is gratitude. Yup, that positive outlook that makes you truly grateful for all others have given you. And when you express that sincerely, it makes folks like you and want to do things for you. Voilà, success!

But my weekly CSA provides me with the missing pearls to complete this necklace of wisdom, in the form of the single Xeroxed sheet tucked in my bags between zucchini and lettuce. This week, after letting us know how the tomatoes are doing (always a cliffhanger in the short growing season in the Pacific Northwest), our farmer cogitates on success, clearly spurred by the tone of much rhetoric being spewed this election year. I can’t say it better than her:

 “When encountering the philosophy that maybe we are all responsible for caring for, and about, our 'neighbors,' there are two extremes of thinking. One is 'I came from a poor background, I worked hard to get what I have, I’m not going to give any of it to anyone,' the other is 'I was helped when I really needed it most and I want to give as much back as I can.' … [But] have you ever wondered why you are living where you are, in the time you are, why not born somewhere else in a very different life style. Maybe in a country with very different opportunities? I think we all have wondered about those things—how certain circumstances of physicality or people who were part of our lives have had a huge part in determining our current living conditions.

“The more I ponder on this, and think through my life, I can’t find anything that I can actually say is something I can take credit for. Every single thing I do, how I react, everything I have done, good or bad, is mostly due to circumstances and genetics.

“So maybe that’s the key to humility? Must we grasp that concept in order to be truly free of what I call 'fear' of sharing, giving, responsibility for caring about all other humans?”

Thank you, Claire, for completing this string of pearls: gratefulness, gratitude, humility, freedom.

Sweet 16

I turn 50 this week, and some people are asking what I want for this noteworthy birthday. I really do have all I could ever want—family, friends, beauty. Well, almost. When I cogitated about what I could do to bring meaning to this milestone, I realized that my age now gives me permission to speak my mind. What can I say? So, gloves off, here’s what I really want for my birthday, from you and every one of you:

Number 1. I want you to think about stuff. The raw materials and “cheap” labor that go into making our electronics, clothing, and stuff have a huge impact on the planet and its inhabitants. We are buying, hoarding and discarding at an alarming rate, all in the name of stimulating the economy. It is an unsustainable and harmful model, shifting wealth from the many to the few and destroying our planet in the process. In the end, the content of your character is not defined by what you own.

• Ask yourself if you really need it. Wait a bit; you may find you don’t really need it, it was just a fleeting desire, inspired by clever marketing, or you were Jonesing. I’m pretty sure there’s a commandment about that.
• If you decide you really need it, do you need it all the time? Maybe borrowing or renting it could be the answer. Most people only use their power drills 16 minutes a year. Libraries have books and videos. Consider granges or sharing schemes, which range for everything from cars to tools to kids toys. Seriously, one lawn mower would do for five or six houses. We likely don’t need 3,000 square foot houses, three-car garages and storage lockers either, once we cut back on the stuff.
• If you really do need it, do you need it new? Chances are what you seek can be found on eBay, Craigslist, or in a thrift store or garage sale.
• Read/watch anything by Anne Leonard. (storyofstuff.org)

Number 2. I want you to think about your food. Factory animals, intensive chemical farming, GMOs, and trucking and flying food all over the world are bad for us and the planet and don’t make sense on any level. Did you know that tankers full of grapefruit rinds are shipped overseas to feed French pigs, while local food scraps head for landfill? The single act of changing how we eat may have the biggest impact on carbon footprint—and climate change—than anything else we do. Because it is so close to our selves and so immediate (we do eat frequently), this is not easy, but try these in small bites and grow it into a habit.

• Grow it. Organically. Rip out a bit lawn and put in a raised bed, then grow the one vegetable that you eat a lot of, one that you eat some of, one you’d like to try, and some flowers. We need beauty in our lives, and a small bouquet of flowers from your yard will put a smile on your face.
• Get to know a farmer. Go to farmer’s markets. Hire a farmer: CSAs are all over the place, and provide a direct connection between you and your food. You know those stands by the side of the road? Stop at them!
• Eat real food. Forget about things that come in boxes, cellophane or Mylar wrappers with bar codes. Eat in season. Put things by for winter—freeze it, dry it, can it. Open a jar of sunshine in February (otherwise known as jam).
• Don’t buy GMOs. They require huge amounts of chemical fertilizers by design, and line the pockets of companies that have no interest in leaving the planet a better place. Keep putting pressure on politicians to label them. Vote.
• Plant a tree. Plant lots of trees. They suck up carbon. Hug trees, fight for their lives when you see them threatened.
• Read anything by Michael Pollan. 

Number 3. Think about your energy use. The petroleum industry is hugely powerful and subsidized by our money to the tune of billions of dollars. And it’s a great business model: they don’t have to pay anything to clean up the mess—think spills, fracking and the Arctic wilderness. They already have five times more oil reserves ready to tap than the planet can bear if we want to cap global warming to 2 degrees C—a level that already wipes some islands off the map. This is not theory, it is fact. At the rate we’re going, it’s only 16 years away. I will be 66, my kids will be in their 30s. This is important, and it’s something we all need to do together. Now.

• Don’t use it. Remember Jimmy Carter in his sweater? Turn down the thermostat. Sweat in summer, wear another layer in winter. Turn off lights. Insulate. Bake the whole meal in the oven or crockpot together. Go for efficient over flashy.
• Green it: If you have an expanse of roof, cover it with solar panels. They work even here, in the darkest corner of the country. If you live in the sunbelt, you have no excuse. If you have a lot of wind, put in a windmill. If you don’t have sun or wind, sign up for your utility’s green energy. Do it now, it’s easy, and will cost you less than the price of a latte every month.
• Think about your driving. Don’t do it: walk, bike, get on a bus. Work from home, move closer to work. Dump the low-mileage vehicle. You can always rent a pickup truck when you really need it, but look at your driving habits, and tailor the car you own to majority of your driving needs rather than 100%. I bet you’d be fine with an electric car or a hybrid (but ask yourself why you’re driving so much to begin with).
• Buy carbon offsets. They may seem like a scam, but they are the only mechanism we have to level the subsidized playing field. While you’re at it, write to your politician, and ask them to tax carbon emissions. And keep asking. Did I mention it’s important to vote?
• Read anything by Bill McKibben (350.org)

All of these things will save you money (some will take longer than others to do so), and all are good for you, but most of all, they are good for the planet—our planet. I want to have grandchildren someday, and I want to be able to spoil them with a beautiful, healthy planet. Call me selfish.
And there’s one more bit, and it’s hard: do these things as a gift to fellow inhabitants of the planet (not just humans). Lead by example, but don’t get too cocky—pride goes before the fall. The point is to make it look easy/fun/like it will save money so someone else might say to themselves, “hey, that’s a good idea, I’m going to try it.”

So there you have it, my birthday wish list. Feel free to share my wishes, pass them around, send me notes, but most of all act on them. Start with baby steps if you have to, but start. I don’t want to have to ask again when I’m 65.

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.

Fruit platter

I have assumed my corporate mantle, in spite of Mother Nature's efforts to bring Seattle to its knees. It was no triumph of humanity over nature that got me out of an iced-over airport, just patience and dogged determination. After my 24-hour travel odyssey, I was rewarded with a hotel room, and a upgrade to the executive level.

There is a certain comfort for the weary road warrior to know exactly what to expect: the branded soft bed with choice of pillows, big fluffy towels, a desk and huge-screen TV with an assortment of cable channels. Unfortunately, the food is nearly always equally as predictable: a breakfast bar of bagels, toast and pastries, with juice, cut fruit, coffee and tea.  The fruit platter, regardless of the season, is a prime example of homogenized food: cantaloupe, honeydew, strawberries, watermelon and pineapple; only the garnish (raspberries and blackberries this week) changes.

Hotel lunches offers up a little more variety, but afternoon snacks are invariably a cookie and coffee. It's no wonder that business travelers stream out of hotels for dinner, seeking a hole in the wall that dares to serve something other than chicken Caesar salad or steak and potatoes.

It was in this context that a couple of us set out in the hour between the end of the meetings and needing to catch a flight home--anything to get some fresh air before heading back into a sealed box. So imagine our surprise and delight in turning the corner to be greeted by rows of easy-ups: a farmer's market. Tables groaning under baked goods, fruits, meats--real, seasonal food; the people lining up to buy the food outnumbered the sellers.

In that moment, the reminder that the seasons still exist not just as snowstorms to disturb flight plans and that the earth provides without shipping pineapples across the globe, I relaxed. Just the sight of frost-kissed greens, and the promise in that oasis of bounty in an icy concrete jungle, and I could feel the tension leave my body and my shoulders drop.

Turnips and kale, bread and eggs; not cantaloupe and strawberries. Farmers in the city, life in winter.