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.