One store, one season

I was driving to school yesterday, and a cheerful announcer with the weekly specials from Albertson's came on. I wasn't really paying attention until I mulled over what she was saying: Grapes, melons and strawberries were all on sale. Fresh Atlantic salmon and your choice of blueberries or blackberries round out their "seasonal" offerings.

But wait, it's February! Anybody who's ever grown anything knows that these crops are associated with a long sunny season, like summer. While the co-op offers up local kale and potatoes and leeks, mainstream America, it seems, is pretending the sun is shining. And I'm still trying to figure out why anyone who lives in the Pacific Northwest would buy farmed salmon from 2000 miles away.

OK, I thought, I'll give them a chance, and I pulled up their advertising circular for this week. At least oranges feature prominently, but grapes and melons are still on sale, and the fresh (Mexican?) strawberries are chocolate-dipped for Valentine's Day. But what's this? "10 for 10 sale!" screams the header. That's right, the really special savings are reserved for Oreo 'go-paks', bottled flavored water, canned tuna, jet-puffed marshmallows (strawberry or regular), Barnum animal crackers, canned oranges, canned bean sprouts, Lite Smoothie drinkable yogurt (artificially sweetened), heavy duty sponges, ketchup, paper napkins, coffee filters and canned diced tomatoes. With the exception of canned tomatoes and ketchup (which I buy organic versions of), none of these "foods" live on my larder shelves.

Perhaps it's telling that Prilosec OTC acid reducer and SlimFast shake mix are on sale too.

Underfoot

For years, we have worked to make our home more environmentally friendly, both in terms of materials used and the spaces we create. We've raised the 70's dropped ceiling in the kitchen, removed roomfuls of filthy wall-to-wall carpeting, and retrofitted radiant floor heat to this end. As I write, I sit in a used office chair on a true linoleum floor, chosen for its beauty along with its natural anti-static properties.

As our boys grow up, we are finding they need a bit of privacy, but we don't want to interrupt the flow of their play by separating them and their toys. We hit upon the idea of a large doorway between the two rooms that now serve as shared playroom and bedroom. A pocket door that closes for privacy and opens for play. Ah, but rien n'est simple. If we remove a piece of wall, there's a piece of floor exposed. The while-we're-at-it syndrome kicks in: now is the perfect time to replace that icky synthetic carpet with something more healthy and beautiful.

We know we want wool, and there's a carpet I met years ago in Europe, called Tretford. It's 80% goat hair, 20% wool, with a jute and PVC (non-off-gassing) backing. It comes in a gazillion colors, doesn't need a pad (no dust trap), resists staining naturally, and is easily patched, since the edges don't fray. Warm underfoot but solid enough to form a firm foundation for a tower of blocks. This is what we want. Thus begins my quest.

Google is my friend, and I locate the manufacturer quickly--in Ireland. (A brief visual flashes through my mind of us going through customs with a roll of carpet. I quickly dismiss the idea.) Yes, there is an American distributor, in Pennsylvania. A call to them takes a humorous twist, as the person on the other end can't quite grasp that I would want to put a commercial carpet in a home (never mind the picture of a family room on their website). She finally relents and provides me with the name of the Seattle distributor. A call to them yields the information that they only "sell to the trades," and translator isn't one of them. Still, I persist and they agree to sell to me; I can even bring my kids with me to pick up the sample card (but I'll have to use the side door).

My resolve to Do The Right Thing is being sorely tested. I mean, it's the perfect carpet for us, it's what we want, but it's coming all the way from Ireland! I make a few calls to see if I can find something similar closer to home, but come away empty-handed: they either aren't wool, or they're bound with latex, which I am allergic to.

Remember those maps of the United States that we had in fifth grade, with little symbols representing the different products associated with different regions? There were apples and trees in Washington, wheat in the Midwest, and a roll of textiles in the south. Turns out all the carpet made in the US is made in Georgia. There's just no such thing as buying local carpet. I talk to a sales representative at the Environmental Home Center, and she verifies that even they order their stuff from all over the world--and most of the wool is from New Zealand. She tells me not to worry about the distance, since one trip from Ireland for a sturdy wool carpet is better than twice from Georgia for an inferior synthetic product, since the wool will last (much) longer than the synthetic, and is much friendlier to the Earth to produce.

Now all we have to do is choose a color.

Be nice

It has been a long weekend. Dear Husband and I attended a Gottman Relationship workshop, farming the kids out to various people to whom we are now eternally indebted. This morning, as I cleaned up the kitchen, which was a repository for stuff rather than a center of food preparation this weekend, I reflected on just what and how we had eaten.

Breakfasts were fairly normal, like a regular weekday; Sunday pancakes were replaced by blueberry muffins baked the day before and brought to family #2 in a wicker basket as both fodder for our boys and an attempt to show appreciation. (I also popped a couple into my bag: the ample workshop refreshments were all predictably wheat-based.)

Dinner was a guilt trip for me: poor planning on my part meant that the first night, Ersatz Mom had to come up with something from my nearly-empty fridge. She did amazingly well, throwing together some red sauce and spaghetti. My boys were fed and happy, as were we. Sunday evening, our kids were delivered to us in Seattle, so we walked over to a pub on Queen Anne, and stuffed our faces with insanely huge portions of fried foods.

Lunch, however, was something else. The Gottman folks gave us 1 1/2 hour breaks for lunch on both days, and since we were in Seattle, we were surrounded by all sorts of possibilities, from the Space Needle to a myriad of Thai restaurants. You would think that catching a bite on a deadline wouldn't nourish the soul much, but the opposite was true. Both days we headed to an upscale supermarket, where my better half could indulge his love of chili and I could nibble on salady things. We also picked up some fine wine and chocolate (we nibbled on one but refrained from sipping the other for the afternoon sessions), and had time to chat, browse the record store and just stroll. For us, it was rare luxury to spend unstructured time together. It's something we make far too little of in the hustle of parenting.

The workshop taught some powerful lessons, not the least of which is to be nice to each other. Not coincidentally, that was the sole advice offered by my usually reticent father-in-law on our wedding day. Being nice to each other, lots of small things everyday, add up to a happy life. The everyday is more important than the occasional. We talk, we eat, we kiss everyday. So talk nice to your someone today, and by all means, eat with them.

Butter and vegetables

We are bombarded regularly with all sorts of doomsday reports about rampant obesity in children, and fingers point primarily to those marketing junk to kids. That may well be true, but my neighbor has an interesting take on it.

After an afternoon of chasing kids (why are we always one step behind?), we were both contemplating just what to make for supper, and all I knew was that I was going to cook up some carrots and top them with butter and dill (the carrot tops are earmarked for the guinea pig next door, Toffee). Irish Neighbor, swooping up her deliciously plump toddler, said that sounded yummy, and wasn't it terrible how the vilification of butter has put so many kids off eating their veggies.

I can recall our godson, messily eating slices of butter when he was about 3 years old. As a duly low-fat indoctrinated American adult, I was appalled at the apparently unhealthy aspect of it. But this mother--a wise woman as it turns out--maintained that babies need fat. And indeed, we now know that fats are indispensable for adequate brain and nerve development, not to mention essential for everyone to extract the goodness in vegetables. Hydrogenated margarine is harmful; the real thing is the right one. It's true: butter makes babies smart.

When we made butter the bad guy, we started steaming vegetables and serving them naked. No wonder kids weren't eating them: I much prefer my peas with a dollop of sweet cream butter, and so do kids. Is it instinct, I wonder?

So go ahead, put butter on the veggies, and make sure there's a nice olive oil on the salad. It doesn't need to be a Julia Child sized portion, just a nut of butter to slowly melt on its way to the table. An irresistible invitation, to all of us.

White coats and green symbols

I was 'net surfing yesterday, and came across a clip from the Today Show where they talked about irradiated food. My knee jerked when a fellow in a white coat (could have been a doctor or line worker) said, "There's no question that it's safe." I forced my knee back down. I don't want be radical, I want to remain open to all viewpoints. But I'm not fully convinced we know everything there is to know about this. I mean, think about it: we used to think that doing x-rays of pregnant women was safe, and people were routinely prescribed smoking as a way to calm their nerves. My generation is full of people with disfigured limbs from an FDA-approved medication against morning sickness. When does our arrogance end?

So I start digging. I learn that irradiation effectively kills bacteria, which sounds great, if you're afraid of bacteria. I quote the FDA: "Energy waves passing through the food break molecular bonds in the DNA of bacteria, other pathogens, and insects." Nothing there to help me understand how it can disrupt the DNA of the bacteria without affecting that of the food in question.

The debate quickly dissolves into polarized views, no middle ground to be found, so I turn to the Europeans for a more balanced view. In the EU, irradiation is currently allowed for preserving dried herbs and spices. (Ironically, this can include herbs in supplements.) These items often travel great distances, and are affected by more exotic pathogens. Something like curry powder must be labeled irradiated even if only one of its many ingredients has been subjected to ionizing radiation. And in response to concerns raised by the general population, the EU has placed a hold on further irradiation licenses in the bloc "until member states come to a concensus on the safety of some chemicals formed when food is exposed to radiation." Turns out that there are some compounds we don't know a lot about that result, and they're looking into it.

Back home, these chemicals don't seem to be on the FDA's radar, but at least they require irradiated food to carry a label identifying it as such. I do have bone to pick with those who deceivingly print the international symbol in the same green as used for the FDA organic symbol. I even found a thread of nuclear scientists discussing the logo, "The irradiated food RADURA symbol is usually printed in environmentally friendly GREEN, and it looks very [much like] the EPA logo with its flower design."


(Hint: the one in the middle is the radura, the international symbol for irradiated foods. The EPA logo is on the right.)

But it occurs to me that there's a relatively easy way to avoid the whole issue: buy fresh, buy local, buy organic. Sound familiar? If we think of irradiation as a way of preserving foods--and we must--then all foodstuffs that have been subjected to the gamma rays from cobalt-60 cannot be considered fresh. Buy fresh, buy local, buy organic.

Remorse

I cheated yesterday. I needed change for bus fare home, so to break a large bill, I ducked into a drug store and bought a package of Starburst "Fruit & Creme." Now, it has been literally years since I've eaten anything like it. (A co-worker in 1992 had them in his office at all times, where, together with Skittles, they formed the base of his personal food pyramid.)

I waited until intermission to open them. The bright packaging (my knee jerks: total overkill that should be illegal), the neatly organized rows of colors entice. I shared them with my seat mate, Number One Son. So, do I feel guilty? No, not really. It's not like I scarfed a huge Costco-sized bag of them. No, it was a tiny indulgence, and that should be OK.

Or is it? The ingredients list sounds like a who's who of food world baddies: high-fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, and panoply of numbered dyes. Yummy! Well, actually, it wasn't. It was disappointing. In spite of all the chemical ingredients (I'm suppressing a shudder as I write), these were nothing special as far as flavor was concerned. And the texture is just this side of ear wax. Frankly, if I'm going to fall off the real foods wagon, it should taste better than this. Sorry, Starburst, but this is goodbye. I'm going back where I belong.

Not so whipped cream

Sunday! It's pancake or waffles, and if we're lucky, there's whipped cream to top them. But a quick peek in the fridge today is sobering: no whipping cream. There is, however, some soy creamer. We've bought soy whipped cream before, how hard can it be? We pour a cup into a bowl, add some vanilla sugar and start beating. It gets foamy like milk would, but that's about it.

Quickly, I dig out my vegan bible, How it All Vegan. They would know. Sure enough, page 151 tells me to add sugar and cornstarch to soy milk, and blend it while drizzling in some oil. I grab the container of cornstarch and start doing the math: 1 teaspoon for ¼ cup milk means 4 teaspoons for a cup. In it goes, and we start whipping again. It does get a bit thicker, but the bubbles start popping when we stop the mixer. Hmm. I try drizzling oil in, to no avail. The recipe does say to let it sit for an hour, which means we won't have whipped cream on our pancakes. Oh, well. The pancakes are yummy anyway, with syrup and jam and yogurt.

I read the comics and a bit of the Sunday paper, we call the in-laws, and then I come back to the bowl of whiteness. It's thick at the bottom, but whizzing it with the mixer yields the same result. Clearly, I have a dud on my hands.

Now, a good professional would just chuck the thing, but I'm still hopeful. I review what's in the white bowl of doom: soy milk (well, creamer), vanilla sugar, cornstarch and a bit of oil. Sounds like pudding to me. There is a Meyer lemon sitting forlornly on the counter. I zest it and juice it and add both to the white stuff, then pour the whole mess into a saucepan. A few minutes on the heat and the whole thing thickens--I fear far too much. Of course it did, there's enough cornstarch in there to set Lake Erie.

Fifteen minutes later, it's set so thick you can pull it out of the bowl in one piece. But it still smells lovely lemony. A couple of times, I come close to chucking it, but that heavenly lemon smell stops me. I bring it to the table for dessert, in four cute little bowls. We all eye it suspiciously. Number One prods his--to see if it will retaliate, presumably. I take a bite (after cutting it off with my spoon). Taste is delicate, texture desolate. I pass it to my Darling Husband and he tries it. He rises slowly from the table, marches purposely to the fridge, and returns with a jar. Yes, homemade jam, the duct tape of our kitchen. He finishes the bowl with jam. One bite even makes it into Little One.

Now, what am I going to do with the other three bowls?