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. 

Noodling

On a sultry summer's day a lifetime ago, my fresh-faced darling husband and I steered our rusty Opel up a twisty road in Alsace, past the brewery and through a rusty gate to an old house covered in vines. The inhabitants were parents of  a young woman who had spent a year abroad in the same English village as my husband, long before I met him. After meeting the family, we retired to a table in the back, under towering old trees to sip and sup our way through a light meal. Somewhere between the main course and the coffee, the monsieur of the house got up and headed to the kitchen, re-emerging several minutes later with a large pot. He carried it up to the rear of the yard, where happy wagging tails greeted him. Penned up for our visit, it was nonetheless time for the pooches to have their supper, French style--noodles and some gravy.

The image sits clearly with me to this day--the textures, the sounds and the tastes--as we prepared for a jaunt across the Rhine to fill up on French provender and visit the daughter. Her mother, a plump woman with a smile and a way with vegetables passed a few years back, and her father declined rapidly without her steadying love, so it was to be lunch with her family, now situated in the suburbs a few miles up the road, with a husband, three kids and two cars.

We look forward to these visits, a reconnection to simpler days, when we found delight in the possibilities that the future may hold. But alas, a brief message came to us, cancelling our date; her father had passed in the night, and she couldn't bear the thought of entertaining just now.

The day dawned with a cold fog that settled in the valley, refusing to budge, like a pall over our visit. There was no warm hearth to welcome us, no groaning table and smelly cheese course, and no papa to slide his chair back from the table to make the dog's noodles. We made our way through the supermarket, and filled our coffers with treasures to mete out in the days and months to come. It seems fitting that the dernier cri in the chocolate aisle this year is fleur de sel, salty tears on our French chocolate.