Exclusivity

I still remember the week that Trader Joe's opened up near our home: a hitherto empty strip mall parking lot was suddenly full and people in the know streamed through the doors. Curious, I ventured in. Here were the "gourmet" foods I had missed from my European sojourns: the cheeses, the chocolates. And here were organics and staples at decent prices. I was in love.

It didn't take long, of course, for the bloom to wear off: favorite products "discontinued," the incessant and insistent displays of balloons (potentially life-threatening to those of us with latex allergies). It would be safe to say that we are more realistic about our relationship. This is after all, business, designed to make money for private owners. Even those incredible avocados are designed to line their pocketbook rather than feed my cravings for them.

Perhaps it is because of the attractively-priced rice pasta that I turn a blind eye, but I'm wondering if we are headed to counseling or at least a gripe session with a girlfriend. I'm referring to the use of the word "exclusive."

In my mind, that term conjures up images of a social bargain: they are the only ones to offer it, and I will seek it only there. But when the neighborhood busybody posts pictures on the Internet, falsehoods are exposed. The busybody here is the FDA, doing their job with their new and incredibly transparent recall website: not only do we get the names and objects of the offense spelled out, we get pictures. And there Joe is, the last in a lineup of little Splendido tomatoes, his label proclaiming exclusivity, when the other pictures clearly tell another story.

The online Bullshitometer reminds me that advertising and politics are rife with this kind of deceit, and this label scores a perfect 10 of 10. I would be lying if I said it didn't undermine the trust in our relationship. Perhaps Joe thinks I won't come back if I knew his inner truths; or perhaps I am using him as much as he is using me.

The Piper

Little One has had a sheltered childhood: he has been spared images of falling towers, flooded New Orleans and tsunami-ravaged India. But he is slowly awakening from his reverie, as images of jackknifed trains and obliterated towns and exploding reactors flood our lives this week. It seems fitting that his class is studying Norse Mythology; they have reveled in the great trickster Loki and the power of being godlike, and have just arrived at the fall of the gods.

Dinner table conversation was interesting last night: the sausage was tasty (a local, smoke bratwurst), so much so that both boys asked why I couldn't make twice as much so they could have two each. I was just launching into my "do you know how many resources go into meat production" tirade when Darling Hubs jumped in, reminding them that we just ordered an electric car, and asking if we are carbon neutral yet? I pointed out that even though we purchase green energy and offsets, we're not, since we continue to heat with natural gas. But we do much better than average.

Once the conversation bounced to the nuclear plant situation in Japan, Little One, who had been watching intently with a furrowed brow, finally chimed in. He's trying to understand the big deal with nuclear energy. When we give him a simple explanation that it generates electricity using radioactive materials, his eyes widen at the word, and he says, "Radioactivity?! Don't they know that's dangerous? Why would they do that?"

I am a child of the nuclear age, ducking and covering under my desk during earthquake and nuclear drills: my father actually designed and supervised the building of part of a nuclear power plant, and both he and I voted to mothball it very few years later. Darling Husband can proudly say he marched against the nuclear plants placed along the Rhine. And we held on to each other through a frightening spring of misinformation when the cloud from Chernobyl was passing over our heads even as our governments said it wasn't.

But in the end, we must, as they say, pay the piper. There is a price for convenience--for flipping a switch and having it there, for leaving lights burning in an empty room, on an empty street, or an empty sports field. We are happy to abdicate the details to someone else, let "them" think about it. But "they" are us: we are complacent and complicit. Those who squeak warnings are squelched and silenced, and sidelined, but we would be wise to listen and wiser still to join in the chorus. Little One is being taught the lesson in school, but we adults fail to embody it. Those arrogant Norse gods thought themselves invincible, and fell. We would do well to remember.

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.