Corn chips calling

An end cap at Whole Foods called to me today: “Look! Corn chips! You can make chili-Frito pie!” Apparently, that was what their marketers were thinking too, as they conveniently flanked the bags of organic yellow chips with cans of chili, mild on the left, hot on the right. Lucky for me, I have some Trader Joe’s vegetarian chili in the larder. I also had to double back to the cheese section (tasting fresh mozzarella balls and goat milk gouda as we passed) to pick up some jack cheese to grate over the whole mess.

As I grate the local Beecher’s Just Jack, I reflect on what Michael Pollan might think of this quasi-food. I haven’t quite finished his latest book, but have the basic gist. (I set it aside to read Pastwatch: the Redemption of Christopher Columbus, which I stayed up too late to finish last night.) The meal barely meets Michael’s basic criteria, and though I’m positive my great-grandma didn’t put it on the table, I bet my grandmother may well have done so: she was, after all, a Californian.

Chili-Frito pie is comfort food, and in its mainstream incarnation, wildly irresponsible, from its GMO corn chips fried in hydrogenated oils, down to the petroleum- and water-intensive beef by-products mass canned in a featureless cannery somewhere many miles away, and topped with an rBST-laden cheese food. Our version is a moderate improvement, but still quite processed. Organic (and thus non-GMO) corn has been ground into masa for the chips, non-GMO soy made into tofu for the chili. We won’t overeat: two cans for four people, two of whom are growing boys, is about right. Mostly plants: a vegetarian chili manages fine on this count, and the local cheese stands alone (high-ho the Derry-o, the cheese stands alone) as the lone animal product. There’s a salad on the table too, which adds some well-needed leaves to the mix. Have you noticed that the spinach gets sweeter as the days get longer?

My menu choices bring up an interesting conundrum that Michael, for all his good intentions, does not grasp, I think because he is not a mom. The reason I was at Whole Foods instead of the co-op or the farmer’s market is because I was between violin lesson and the Post Office and parent-teacher conferences, and I knew we were out of milk and bread and salad. Whole Foods was conveniently situated (between the Post Office and home), and conveniently situated also applies to the end cap display with what is now our supper. Stopping by the store gave us a chance to have lunch at home (leftovers). Yes, I could have made this a better dinner by making the chili myself from local grass-fed beef (or making fresh tofu from the soymilk I make myself), but then I wouldn’t be writing this; I’d still be in the kitchen. And convenience food would have been on the menu for lunch. Instead of supper.

The whole truth

The sign outside Starbucks in Benaroya Hall screams, “Did you know a nonfat grande latte contains 35% of your daily calcium?” I’m reminded of a Six Chix cartoon several years ago, where a granny is being handcuffed, presumably being arrested for fixing the grammar on a billboard: “Got Do you have any milk?” I fight the urge to scour my pockets for a big red marker, and realize there’s not enough room on their snazzy reader board for the whole story. Calcium may be present in cow’s milk, yes, but it’s not in a form that is bioavailable for humans can easily absorb (it’s great for calves)—supermarket milk is fortified with vitamins A and D to help, but it still doesn’t change the fact that the animal proteins in dairy products cause calcium loss (vitamin C would be useful here too, but they didn’t add it to the carton, since it would sour the milk). Unfortunately, along with higher concentrations of calcium, nonfat dairy products also have higher concentrations of those pesky proteins, so they’re no improvement, unless you’ve been convinced that all fat is Evil.

Then there’s that little problem of the caffeine in the coffee part of the drink. The jury is still out on just how much milk you have to add to the coffee to counteract the widely-known fact that caffeine leaches calcium from the body. It would appear that a mostly-milk latte is an improvement over just a dash of milk, but there is no clear consensus—we just don’t know.

Clearly, that grande latte is not as great as the reader board makes it sound (unless you’re a very sleepy calf). So what to do? It’s not like there are no other sources of calcium out there, with better bioavailability and no calcium-leaching animal proteins. Indeed, the list is long and varied: Molasses, dark salad greens, cabbage, broccoli, green beans, cucumber, peas, soybeans, squash, beans, nuts, cocoa, kiwi, maple syrup, brown sugar, tomatoes. Did you note those foods also are a great source of other good things as well? And did you notice that cocoa was on the list?

The problem here, though, is more than the nutrients and their inner workings in our bodies. Michael Pollan Eater’s Manifesto deals with this subject extensively, noting that we have abandoned traditional diets in deference to the scientists, whom he likens to high priests on the altar of the church of nutritionism. His thesis is that by focusing our attention on the small bits—vitamins, minerals, etc.—that make up our food, we are headed down the wrong path. We blindly follow scientists who identify and sing praises for the nutrient du jour (just read the papers for the latest study on [name nutrient here] found in [put food name here]). This somehow assumes that these scientists even know what they all are, and more importantly, that they completely understand the living dynamic of how nutrients interact with other foods and in our bodies. In other words, we don’t know a lot more than we do know.

I doubt I can change the world by going door-to-door with my message that people are following the wrong religion. Which is why I shall continue to buck the trend and quietly (and not so quietly) eat food, real food, that I prepare myself whenever possible. And it shall include my morning cup of cocoa, made with a rotating selection of politically correct chocolate products and either homemade soy or almond milk. Not to mention that even with my indulgent chocolate spending habits, it’s cheaper and frankly, tastes a whole lot better. Maybe mom did know best: she certainly is a lot more forthcoming with the full story than the green mermaid.

Year of the rat

My father always said that he and my mother stopped at two children, because he had read at the time that one in three babies born in the world were Chinese, and they didn’t want a Chinese baby. These were different times, and my grandparents were staunch Republicans.

Today is our annual pilgrimage to Uwajimaya, the Asian supermarket up the hill. My shopping list includes things the co-op is lacking, such as wood ear mushroom and lily pod, but I assure you, they're for a traditional dish, not for a witches' cauldron. The list also includes recognizable items like sake and fortune cookies (always add, “between the sheets” when reading your fortune).

Every year about this time, we get together with some old friends; she and I bonded when we applied for unemployment together after being laid off during the tech bust of ’92. We get together around this time of year because we love Chinese food, and we know that if we don’t schedule a date many months in advance, our calendars fill up and we’d never manage to see each other. The date has evolved from tossing a coin to see which yuppie couple buys the take-out to splitting up the menu and messing up one kitchen or the other. This year, they’ll have to clean up after my mu-shu.

I spent the last week doing what management-types call sharpening my saw: With the addition of more board work (Create new task: learn to say “no” more often), I simply had to get my ducks in a row. I’ve upgraded software, and for the first time since I got email (right about the time I was laid off), I have an empty email inbox. No, I didn’t throw out emails like soybeans to drive away the devil, I just learned to file them where they belonged—on a task list, not the inbox. I feel like a new woman, and fully intend to keep up this good habit.

I find that this is the time of the year that I tend to adopt new habits: The holiday frenzy has died down, and it’s a good time to curl up with my thoughts (and seed catalogues). Sometimes changes are seemingly small, like buying heads of lettuce instead of bags, sometimes of greater personal import, like controlling portion sizes (and losing weight) and emptying my email inbox so I can focus on what actually needs to be done. Perhaps I really was the third child: That would make this my new year, and what better time to make a resolution.

Brown steel

Little One came bounding into my office yesterday afternoon with his latest treasure: a crumpled brown paper bag. It seems that his friend Opa R had supplied him with some rolling stock for his new train set (actually my brother’s old one), and he had an idea for the paper bag. We can use it to make popcorn, he said. I smiled and absently told him that was an excellent idea, and gave it no more thought.

When I was a young girl, my uncle worked for American Can Company. In addition to cans—they pioneered the aluminum can (they’re now called Alcoa)—they made lots and lots of steel cans, and as a sideline, steel lunchboxes. Every Christmas, our family would exchange a box of luxury paper goods from my father’s employer (we called it the “bumf box”), for two steel lunch boxes from his family. We were the envy of all our classmates, as we had the latest, most coveted lunchboxes in the multi-purpose room, and we had a new one every year. Remember, they were made of steel somewhere outside of Kansas. They were built as solid as a Chevy, and a good lunchbox could make it through your entire elementary career if you took care of it. The thermos was the limiting factor, being made of glass.

The year before he retired, my uncle sent along the cream of the crop: a Snoopy doghouse for me (I loved Snoopy when I was 11), and a Land of the Giants lunchbox for my brother. I loved my lunchbox, so when I dropped the thermos and heard the telltale crack, I wept. Its replacement was an orange vinyl Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus lunchbox. The black plastic handle broke early on, to be replaced by one made of clothesline using my mother’s new macramé skills (hey, it was the 70s). My brother, however, was more stoic. When his Land of the Giant thermos met its demise after three full years (he was really careful), he refused another lunchbox, and switched instead to a brown paper bag.

Freudian analysts might say it had something to do with a teenager wanting something to do with his father (Daddy still worked at the pulp mill, where they made Kraft paper for the brown bags), but I think it was a question of convenience. My fastidious brother managed to make a single paper bag last an entire semester: it went to school with his peanut butter sandwich (Skippy creamy, grape jelly), and came home folded in thirds in the left rear pocket of his Levis 503s (more than once it got washed with the jeans, and yet he still used it afterwards). I recall how we admired it on the last day of school, all soft and leathery from the wear, before we finally threw it out.

My mother had bought a package of small paper bags, thinking she would have to replace them frequently, but he only used half a dozen or so (there was a mishap with an overweight bully that caused the messy demise of both bag and PBJ). When I moved out, my mother placed the bundle in the box of things she was sure I would need (one in a continuum of confusing gifts), and I’ve been moving with them every since. They’ve finally found a use recently as a way to pop real popcorn in the microwave. Thrift runs in my family, as I reuse them until they’re brittle and singed before chucking them in the compost bin.

I found a bright shiny metal lunchbox at the thrift store two years ago, and Little One used it happily. Unpainted metal, he could drum loudly on it, stick stickers on it, and generally bang it around with impunity (we use stainless steel thermoses). When the plastic handle inevitably broke, his kindergarten teacher wove a new one out of bright orange cotton. I fixed the hinge a half-dozen times before giving up, and switched him to the ubiquitous-at-a-Waldorf-school basket. But he didn’t like it, since the handle didn’t fit in his cubby. I toyed with the brown paper bag, but given what he did to Detroit steel, that didn’t bode well for our forests, so I grabbed an oversized dishtowel, placed his lunch in the middle and tied up the corner. It serves as a lovely tablecloth when he unwraps it, and when it comes home muddy, I can throw it in the wash.

I found Little One’s paper bag in the kitchen this morning, quasi-folded and tucked behind the canister of popcorn. Soft and leathery, it reminded me of my brother. Call it Freudian, but we’ll pop popcorn in it until it can give no more, and then quietly bury it in the compost to give it back.

February bites

A good friend of mine started a part-time job last week at a local non-profit. I talked to her yesterday, and she noted how working at the same thing all day was mentally quite fatiguing. I couldn’t agree more: my days have been a flurry of emails and actual, real-life paying work, which leaves precious little time for digesting new information and writing. So, after sending off various and sundry invoices (there is a silver lining to the work cloud), I whipped up a few quick tidbits in between ticking things off my to do list.

Michael Pollan and I curled up with a cup of cocoa last night (actually, I don’t know what he was having, since it was only the words in his book, In Defense of Food that actually saw me in my jammies), and I laughed out loud when I got to his rule about avoiding foods “containing ingredients that are … unpronounceable.” For as long as I can recall, the menu posted at our couscous bash lists ingredients so folks can make the choices that work for them. And at the bottom, it reads, “this cook doesn’t use fillers or weird polysyllabic ingredients (except zucchini).”

Darling Husband wanted to go dancing the other night, and I was feeling sluggish, so I motivated myself by dressing up and putting on a face. I think back to those peer-pressure days in high school when I got up early to put on makeup every day, and what a freeing moment it was when my Darling told me he disliked the smell of makeup and how it made kissing me less pleasant. I have learned over the years that his instincts are usually spot-on, and the Washington Post confirms it—makeup may help us feel good, but it is only skin deep, as women slather mercury, asbestos and formaldehyde on their bodies and then wonder why pregnancy seems elusive or they’re feeling bloated. The database at http://www.cosmeticdatabase.com/ reassures me that my Burt’s Bees stuff is fine, but the stuff I used to battle my teenage zits contains endocrine disruptors. And unfortunately, the soap I use to wash the makeup off scores higher on their toxicity scale than the makeup itself. It’s a bit daunting to wade through the ingredients list, but I shudder at the thought of my father’s lye soap, which would no doubt meet Pollan’s requirements.

Alaska’s in-flight magazine tempted me with a blurb about the Chocolate Fest in Portland last weekend. Darling Husband was ready to jump in the car without packing so much as a toothbrush, but I reminded him that we had children who can’t manage without us for the weekend (yet). He was crestfallen, as he had clearly hoped to witness and partake of the world’s largest truffle. Undaunted, I prepared our own little chocolate fest, a tray of representatives from Amore here in Bellevue, Recchuiti confections in San Francisco’s Ferry Building (just a few of those left), and a big box of truffles from Kingsbury chocolates in Alexandria. I can tell you that we made a dent in all the boxes, and thoroughly enjoyed it, but our sampling was less than scientific, which is how it should be.

Frozen coconuts

So we’re back to food safety. As we hunker down to winter fare, when we face a seeming dearth of fresh food, it seems normal that we should turn to boxes and cans and the freezer instead of the garden or the farmer’s market. But all is not well in Grocerilande: it appears that we have yet another case of tainted food, this time a frozen coconut dessert that contains the Listeria bacterium, as well as a particularly damning story showing high levels of harmful pesticides in everyday supermarket produce.

When I was in Alexandria, across the Potomac from Washington, D.C., I had a free afternoon to explore a bit. Besides an incredible chocolate shop (up some narrow stairs, I found Kingsbury Chocolates) and a great chili joint (I slurped up the Frito-chili pie at Hard Times Café), I went hunting for a letterbox at Gadsby’s Tavern. The day was incredibly clear, but bitterly cold. I descended the steps near the tavern’s north end, where thoughtful restorers had created a cutaway view into the ice well. Unsuccessful in finding my quarry (though I did locate a cleverly disguised geocache), I read the historical marker. The well served as an underground storage area for ice cut from the Potomac in winter, offering a way to cool drinks and refrigerate foods into early summer. It is empty now, but for two artfully arranged hay bales, and the Potomac is not frozen—yet.

I scratch my head and think how odd it is we should think to consume a frozen coconut dessert in January, when it was made months ago, and it’s really too cold to be thinking about slurping popsicles anyway.

An intrepid researcher also released his findings today: apparently, when kids eat conventional fruits and vegetables, they show traces of organophosphate pesticides. If they switch to organics, the markers in their urine and saliva disappear. What’s more, the markers show up in higher concentrations during the winter months, when we tend to import more foods. There are no surprises here, but the alarm is sounding because this is the same family of pesticides that the EPA was supposed to remove from the food chain. Chuck Benbrook, chief scientist of the Organic Center, dares to speak aloud what is on the tip of many of our tongues: "Given the almost daily reminders that children are suffering from an array of behavioral, learning, neurological problems, doesn't it make sense to eliminate exposures to chemicals known to trigger such outcomes like chlorpyrifos?"

Indeed. Once again, I bypass Grocerilande and head over to Co-opville, where I pick up some lovely local thin-cut pork chops (they will be paired with an apple past its crisp prime), some local blue potatoes (“Mommy, why do they call them blue, when they’re purple?”), and some fuchsia red-stemmed chard. Our plates are beautiful, dark like the season, but colorful and delicious (and organic) nonetheless. Dessert is an indulgent square snapped off a bar of Kingsbury chocolate (with essence of orange, dried cranberries and pecans), also dark like the season. But not frozen.

Creature comforts

As I bask in the comfort of my own home, I reflect on my travels last week. Every day, when I logged on to my laptop to check email and establish a video link with my family, I was greeted by the hotel’s login screen. This being an all-suite hotel “designed for the business traveler” they couldn’t help but extol their virtues: “Spacious two-room suites,” “Cooked to order breakfast,” “Evening Manager’s reception,” and so on. They have a business center where you can print things out (instead of frantically hunting for the nearest Kinko’s) and a playroom where the kids can blow out some steam with toys that were too big to pack. This particular hostelry had construction going in the central atrium, with a big pile of sand that gives me different ideas for a hotel playground.

But for me, the best part was having a fridge and a microwave. Combined with the fact that there was a Whole Foods across the street, it meant that I was not at the mercy of restaurateurs. Trying to get a non-allergen menu in a reasonable portion, not to mention sitting alone in a restaurant, is not my idea of a recharging or even marginally relaxing meal. Kudos to the hotel chain that finally figured it out: no one wants to eat in a restaurant for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I think back to road trips in Europe with my Darling Husband (who was darling at the time, just not my husband yet). We would throw some things in a bag that was light enough to carry, and set off to the train station. We later added our own car, but our destination was always the same: a youth hostel. The bed, which seems to be the main feature in standard-issue hotels, was usually a Spartan metal framed affair with sagging springs, one of many in a sleeping dorm. But the rest of the hostel added to the experience. There is nearly always a full kitchen (and sometimes a laundry) at your disposal, where you can whip up something as simple as an omelet (pick up four eggs and some cheese at the fromagerie in Rennes), or as complex as a pot of soup (fresh vegetables from a market in Avila) and wash it down with a local vintage (a Côtes du Rhône in the Vaucluse Valley). And a room with a big table and some sofas and chairs to hang out in, often with outdoor spaces with fire pits or grills (sausage and pork chops from the butcher shop in Lorient) and lawn chairs and hammocks and such. Sometimes we would score a “family room” which only had four beds, and a lock on the door (I recall a particularly romantic one, under the shingles in an old Norman flour mill, with machinery running the length of the stone room). We could raid the kitchen for milk and cookies at midnight if we wanted (we dipped cookies in mascarpone at one a.m. in Ravenna). Try that in a Travelodge.

So, much as I prefer the comforts of home, it is good to know that the tide is changing, if only a bit (they still have those annoying paper lids on the glassware). Perhaps they realize they’re up against videoconferencing, which allows participants to stay home and sleep in their own beds every night. Odd to think of hotels cluing in to the more human comforts of the youth hostel that not only make travel pleasant, but contribute to the texture of the experience. Let’s hope for more fridges in the future, since curling up with Ben & Jerry and Harry Potter on HBO (and no kids to interrupt you) is something I can paste in my scrapbook.