The year of the cat

The new year is a time for cleaning out the old, cleaning up what you’re going to keep, and cleaning up your act, otherwise known as resolutions. The image I hold is of German women scrubbing their doorsteps in snowy weather to ring in the new year, presumably to booby-trap their stoops with ice to incapacitate visitors with muddy feet. Last year, my resolution was easier on my back than scrubbing steps: try to clean up my eating habits, making a difference on a small scale, and blogging my thoughts as I went. The latter, it was hoped, would serve to test my discipline for writing on a regular basis, and, I humbly hoped, serve as an example to those so inclined, though, given my limited readership, this cannot be considered a primary goal. I have been mildly successful, so will keep at both, working to keep both habits from accumulating grime without too much scrubbing.

***

Hannah’s personality is emerging, and it appears that she is quite the right cat for us. After having recovered from the trauma of going from stray to foster home to shelter and back to a home (ours) again, and after shaking off the kennel cough that turned into kitty bronchitis and conjunctivitis, she is today the picture of both physical and mental health. Her Christmas present was a homemade toy engineered by Number One Son and a bit of freedom: as we cut down the tree from the front yard, she came out with us, nose and tail twitching. She soon asked to go out more and more, and we have settled into an easy rhythm of spending a few daylight hours outside each day, punctuated by breaks for her power naps. It is reassuring that she has not fled; indeed, if she spots one of us in the yard or through the window, she will come running to tell us all about her adventures. This weekend, we knew we had won her heart: her loud mews summoned us to the back door to ooh and aah over the treasure she wanted to share with us: a freshly killed bird (we think it was a chickadee, it was frankly hard to tell at that point). And even in this she fits in with us, embracing our frugal ways: after sharing the pleasure of the red-tinged carcass, and even offering us a turn to bat it around too, she ate it. The whole thing, down to chewing any flesh off feathers.

The new year will hold some special challenges for me, as I transition “back” to the working world. I will have to travel in my new leadership role, which takes me out of my comfortable home and kitchen and my comfort zone. My aching hips and tightening waistband remind me that I do need to work harder at taking care of myself, as well as taking care to reduce my footprint. My old neighbor has persuaded me that carbon offsets do make sense, and not just as “Catholic guilt,” but as a way to make my voice heard in the messed-up energy market. But I also need to be mindful of the environment in my body, and do a little cleaning up there (especially right now, with fondue and Christmas-cookie induced sugar overload). Travel will test my resolve on both fronts.

I used to joke that my cat taught me the importance of ergonomics by making me get up from my desk and change my focal distance from time to time (open door, close door, open door, close door…). But I realize, as I slip gently back to professional life, that what both the felines and the offspring in my life have taught me is that balance is absolutely key: neither cat nor child does the same thing all day long, and neither shall I.

Après Silvestre

After the cheese fondue—nearly three pounds of cheese melted and scooped up with chunks of chewy ciabatta loaf and rinsed down with a lovely German Gewürztraminer (Bloom)—and the company of good friends; after the decadent princess torte from Hoffman’s, with its layers of delicate sponge cake, cream, and marzipan; after the bottle of bubbly from Château Ste. Michelle and the fireworks, the kisses and hugs; and after the late night punctuated by wandering children, cats and neighbor’s fireworks, you would think that we were done with revelry.

But no, we woke to greet 2008 late and lazy, and after a leisurely photo shoot of matching Hanna PJs and cute family toes, we headed to the kitchen at an awkward hour: far too late for breakfast, way too early for lunch. Luckily, New Year’s day and the leftovers in our fridge work well enough together. We pulled out the cut loaf from last night and melted the last bit of cheese, then uncorked the leftover champagne and had ourselves a brunch fondue.

Stymied by the leftover cake—cheesecake, angel food and princess—we invited one more friend over in the afternoon to help take care of it. We melted some chocolate in the fondue pot (easy, since it was already out). And thoroughly decadent.

We slide into our “normal” routines tomorrow, the boys to work and school, myself to the pile that has accumulated on my desk over the past two weeks. That means a healthy supper and early bedtime, for we must rise before the sun tomorrow. Needless to say, no one was particularly hungry after the melted debauchery, but a quick toss of broccoli and carrots in some garlic and oil over some leftover brown rice went over well, and should get us back on track for living not only well but right.

Dear John

I hate to be the one to have to say it, but we were never meant to be. You came home with me on an impulse, because it was easier to say yes than no. My sensible side would never have aquiesed when I was younger, but you made me feel youthful again, full of potential. And we have had some great moments together, working on projects, camping near the river, times when you’ve more than pulled your own weight. And I cherish those times. But most of the time, you just sit there, expecting me to provide for you. And provide for you I do, nothing but the best.

But, let’s face it: we have a problem, and it’s not going to evaporate on its own. I’ve tried ignoring it, but now my husband knows, and he’s not going to put up with you any more. So I’m sending you away for a bit, to dry out, and then I’m posting to Craigslist to find you someone new. That’s right, Green Pickup, you’re going to find a new home where they make you earn your keep, and I’m going to tuck those crisp bills into my Prius fund. Trust me, it’s for the best.

Pimping the electric ride

Our outing yesterday, in spite of dire weather predictions, was to a little corner shop on the fringe of downtown Seattle, MC Electric Vehicles. My big brother, mild-mannered school bus driver by day, has at latest count four cars in his garage and driveway, three of which are collectible project vehicles. With a short two-mile commute, he’s concerned about the wear and tear on his non-collectible but aging Honda CRV. He had visited the sister MC showroom in Oregon, but discovered that the little electric car he likes, the Canadian Zenn, is limited to 25 mph on neighborhood streets—hence the moniker NEV, or Neighborhood Electric Vehicle. A little research on my part revealed that the cap is 35 mph for the same car purchased in Washington, and he was wondering what mechanism was used to make this enhancement. He wandered off with the jeans-clad salesman to take a test drive.

As for me, I’m still in the research phase for a car change. I like the idea of a plug-in hybrid, since my driving patterns tend to be mostly neighborhood jaunts for kids and household stuff (school, 5 miles; co-op, 6 miles; doctor, 6 miles; and so on), all typical “neighborhood” usage. But twice a week, I make longer drives, one to Renton for my violin lesson, and one to Magnolia and Shoreline on Number One Son’s cello run (lesson + orchestra). An all-electric car would be great for the short runs, but insufficient for the 35-mile freeway- based round trips that can include side runs that bring the daily total up to over 50 miles. A standard hybrid only runs full electric to about 10 mph before it fires up the internal combustion engine, while a plug-in has more juice—enough to run up to 35 mph for 30 or so miles. On my way to school last week, I noted only one moment when I got to 40 mph, while merging into traffic. The rest was under the 35 mph that would allow me to run full electric. I am not interested in paying the premium for the new car smell, so I’m looking at the used market, which means I need to learn more about things like battery lifespan and plug-in conversions before I take the plunge. A book on the subject is on hold at the library.

Big brother, however came back all smiles from his spin in the little blue Zenn. Seems the car can be purchased in his sales tax-free state, and then a separate invoice is written to upgrade the software to allow the higher speed. It looks like he will be buying an electric blue car on his return home.

Visions of cheese

I dreamt of cheese last night. I’m not sure why, but there you have it: slabs of cheddar in toasted cheese sandwiches. It comes at a good time: The tree is finally up, and there are even some presents under it, along with the cat, who thinks it a splendid place to sleep. Gramma arrived yesterday, and the boys are thrilled. Their uncle, my brother, arrives today, since he needed to do his shopping yesterday. That means X-Day is even closer.

With a solid English tradition behind us, there is a large roast beast (from Oregon Country Beef) waiting for the oven tomorrow. We’ll fill out with red potatoes chiogga beets, a Yorky pud, and some green beans. Our soggy autumn means some of the produce has come from farther south than I care to admit, but local pears will top a warm frangipane tart (we’ll melt some ice cream on top). But what about the Christmas Eve? If we were good Catholics (we’re not, but I promised the bishop I wouldn’t stand in my husband’s way when raising our children as such), we would fast until after evening mass. That’s already a lost ideal, since Gramma joined the boys in a bowl of manly oatmeal for breakfast.

So what to make? As if he can read my dreams of cheese like an open book, Darling Husband looks at me and says, “let’s make Käsespätzle!” It’s a meal the whole family makes together: Beat together 500 grams of flour and 6 eggs until bubbles form. Sounds easy enough, but we have to take turns beating the thick mixture, since our arms tire. Then one person takes up a position at the pot of boiling water and spoons the bubbly dough into the Spätzle press. Another gets the job of lifting the cooked noodles out of the pot with the strainer spoon when they rise to the surface, and layering them with grated Gruyère in a big warm bowl. Whoever isn’t cooking is setting the table and helping make salad. When the whole thing is done, a generous handful of crunchy onions goes on top and we all dig in.

We’ll fête the evening with eggnog and oodles of homemade cookies and a reading of The Night Before Christmas, and take a plate to the neighbors. The boys will artfully arrange a selection for the old guy in the red suit, along with the finest local carrots for the reindeer, of course (We figure the cat will be really surprised by his appearance in the fireplace). The Spätzle will warm our bellies and stick to our ribs, and the cookies will fill the corners, insuring that when we settle down for our long winter’s nap, we’ll be surrounded by visions of sugarplums—or Brie, as the case may be.

Empties

When I was in high school, the hot civics theme was the trade imbalance. It was clear in the late 70s that it was an untenable practice to continue to import more than we exported. This was pure economic theory, based on common sense: if you kept buying more stuff, and selling less, then you would eventually run out of money, since buying is less profitable than selling. But then the Reagan years ensued, and we were treated to talking heads who told us that it was OK to buy into excess, since the poor would benefit via “trickle down.” Since we were young and still pretty stupid, and it was what many of us wanted to hear anyway, we bought into it—literally. Of course, the results were as dire as predicted, even before we figured in the environmental costs, which we hadn’t at the time.

***

It’s Christmas season, and while I literally don’t buy into copious consumerism, I do purchase presents, and thus more stuff altogether in this season. The week I spent in bed laid up with the flu let me get my shopping done online and early. For two weeks, it seemed like the mail carrier and UPS guy were taking turns stopping at our house. No surprise then, that there is a growing stack of boxes in the garage.

There are a couple of padded envelopes from Powell’s and FSP (purveyors of fire buff paraphernalia), and a cardboard envelope from the Postal Service (I bought stamps before I decided to send our Christmas card electronically). They went into an office cupboard with like friends (they’ll be reused to send books to other book moochers). But then there are boxes from Hanna Andersson’s (striped organic cotton jammies for the whole family), the LED light store (we replaced some halogen bulbs), and B&H photo (an indulgence—a tripod). Add to that list some oversized cartons from finishing up the long-term bath remodel this week (a high cabinet, the cabinet door, a faucet assembly, shower doors, a hand-held shower), and another large box from the replacement office chair I’m sitting on now, and it’s easy to see why the recycling bin will be full. And that doesn’t count the plastic pouch from Victoria’s Secret (shh! Don’t tell Darling Husband!) that has to go in the garbage.

In the interest of rebalancing our export deficit, I worked on getting some stuff out of here: Two bags of toys went to charity, Freecycle yielded three people interested in a 15-year old office chair, and a visit to Craigslist transformed a bulky, dusty telescope into a Christmas present for a starry-eyed girl in Lynnwood, and an empty shelf for us.

***

As we drove from my violin lesson to Number One’s cello lesson this week, we decided to take the more scenic route, going up the back way via Highway 99 instead of I-5. It’s fun, because it takes you through the industrial area: big warehouses, waterfront cranes and railroad yards. One of the more striking features are the mountains of containers. Literal mountains, hundreds of containers stacked ten or twelve high. They’re mostly orange, some blue, with names like Cosco, Matson and the like. But one mountain caught my eye as we stopped for a red light: A huge banner hung from the side of a cliff screaming, “CONTAINERS FOR SALE.” I thought of the relatively small mound of empty boxes in my garage, and realized what they were. The stuff that we buy comes from overseas, leaving us with not only a trade deficit, but a container surplus. No one is going to pay to ship empty containers back across the Pacific. But since people have a need to store their excess stuff somewhere (their houses are full), a container in the backyard may be just the thing.

***

Of course, there will be presents under our tree this year, but many will be edible, handmade or re-purposed (yes, I shopped for presents at Value Village). Our presents will be swaddled in holiday fabric, re-used every year in increasingly creative ways, so there will be no wrapping paper waste. And there will be no need for a container or storage locker to store anything, since we just happen to have some empty shelf space.

A low-wattage Christmas

Number One Son had a fit today. The British neighbors were out, unfurling their strings of Christmas lights, and we needed to get to the store so we could do ours too. Right now! The fact that I had just mixed up some mortar to finish the downstairs bathroom shower didn’t seem to faze him.

I calmly informed him that Darling Husband and I had talked about it and decided to put the brakes on buying more of the ubiquitous strings of lights from China. I noted that if they wrote ‘disposable’ on the package, it might make people stop and think (then again, it might not). His eyes grew wide with disbelief, “Aren’t you embarrassed to not have lights up?”

This from the child who wept at the trailer for An Inconvenient Truth, who gently moves ladybugs to where the aphids are, and who merrily spent the afternoon replacing incandescent light bulbs with LED and CF bulbs last week.

I know he is at an awkward stage, the inner child wanting everything magical and simple, but the emerging adult understands that everything has a cost. I will search to see if I can find some simple, durable star lanterns—with replaceable bulbs) or instructions to make them). For this is a season of traditions, and I choose a tradition that does not involve standing in front of a mountain of imported strings, wondering if I spend a dollar more if they will last one more year.

I am reminded of the acquaintance who tried to sell us on attending the Christmas pageant at his mega-church. I can’t think of anything less Christmassy than microphoned choirs and baby Jesus production numbers with a cast of thousands. No, I prefer the low-key exterior and a warm inner light.