Healthy Addiction

Yeah. That title is a contradiction in terms, isn't it?

Except in this case, it isn't.

About six years ago I was working for Alltel back in the States, and during a lunch break I discovered a natural foods store on Battlefield Rd in Springfield. I can't remember the name of the store now, but you walked in and it was vast and smelled strong of herbs and spices. It was there that I found Reed's.

Reed's is a company that makes ginger "brews," not "ales" like you would normally find from Vernor's or Canada Dry. Mind you, I was raised on Vernor's. But Vernor's is more of a soda, with a hint of ginger. This stuff from Reed's is more of a ginger juice, with a hint of soda-like properties. They also serve it in a beer bottle, which tends to freak out your coworkers and such until they read the label.

For two years at Alltel, I was addicted to Reed's, and then, when I left to move to this lovely state, I somehow forgot about them in the fray. This past couple of months, however, I have been cycling through energy drinks, and found one in a purple can in Roxie's, the corner mom and pop place in my neighborhood.

Reed's Natural Energy Elixir: Ginger, Green Tea, Ginseng, Goji, Acai, Camu Camu, Jiaogulan, L-Theanine, B Vitamins.

An old friend has returned.

Lucky for me, I can also get their brews at this store, but this new energy drink has that softly sweet bite that I remember, which is enough for now. Apparently, I am the only person in the 9 square block area that drinks it--there's always the amount that I left behind the day before. I crave this stuff, crave this ginger signature. I can taste it at the strangest times, get cravings for it in the midst of writings or readings or just any old time. My body is returning to a saner time when I drink this stuff. It's my ginger, my medicine, and my life's blood.

It's me. And I don't know of others who drink it. Dear reader, if you drink this stuff too, be not afraid.

It's a healthy addiction.

Mom or Dad, My Heart Belongs to Me, Barbra

Tonight broadcasting to you live from the Mission, since it is Wednesday night and Wednesday night is the blog from the City. The Mission was very smelly (like a dead fish on a beach, baby) and rich tonight--worn tapestry. I sit at the table with about 20 items strewn about sharing with others. Seems odd and right.

I share other things as well. I share a little Barbra Streisand on the iPod with lost friends from the past. I share half a life of my mother's and another half of a life of my father's.

I'll explain. To do this requires that I go back to a little history.

Growing up, my mother stayed home with my brother and I. Her sole purpose in life until I was about 13 years old was to raise us. We went to school but were home-churched. We raised 90% of our groceries. Around about the time I was 13 my mother announced that she would like to operate her own business out of the farm, a "truck farm" as they are called in Ohio, full of bedding plants, container gardens, and eggs out the wazoo. She started to go to Bryan and Montpelier's Farmer's Market in the summer. My brother and I didn't really like it--we never had much "family" time without interruption after that, but my mother was absolutely entranced. (Funny thing, years later...my mother was moved to the living room on a hospital bed during cancer and I got to act on my resentment for the business, after years of being a good sport. A customer had come around--the business was closed, mind you, due to her prognosis--and refused to leave. My father and brother were in the driveway with this guy, telling him we couldn't sell him anything--nothing to sell--and he refused to believe that my mother could no longer bring anything to life from mere seeds. My father came into the house and said, "He won't take no for an answer." Jo stomped out the door, grabbing a lawn rake on the way, and she didn't have to say a word. The guy had the ignition turned before I left the bottom porch step.)

My mother not only loved the plants, but she loved people. She soon found out that she could talk to other adults about plants and not all of them had my father's grumpy temperament. But my father had a reason to be grumpy--my mother's business never turned a profit in 15 years, and he had to work at a stinking, unsafe factory in order to make her dream come true. He resented it. He resented it when she got sick before the business bills were paid off, he resented it when he had to clean up after her illness and her years of accumulation, and he resented it when no one understood his resentment--most of all his kids.

Seven years later I have a better grasp of why she wanted what she wanted and why he felt cheated. When I am here in the City, looking to Sutro in the brassy blue sunset, or writing in a cafe with a glass of wine buzzing me like guitar strings on a wild night, then I'm with Mom--we look across the kitchen table at each other in my mind's room and grin conspiratorily. But when I'm riding the Muni and BART and AC Transit with the homeless and the rude, I feel as robbed as my father, determined to be angry that I have to sell myself out 10 hours a day. My father and I have a beer at that kitchen table and we bitch each other's hearts down to the consistency of oatmeal. We let life win.

Funny, I nearly forget the other spouse when I am with the City Spouse or the Cross Country Spouse. Mom forgets Dad when we are in the City--we're a couple of kids. Dad forgets Mom when we are in Oakland--we're a couple of teamsters and women are stupid. (Screw the fact that I am a woman. I'm not allowed to be with Dad. A woman wouldn't sit at his table.)

My Dad is paying for my Mom, and my Mom is keeping my Dad alive.

I hope the guilt doesn't kill this Mom, too.

And I hope to reach as many people as Mom did, before Jo shows up with a rake.

Two Out of Three Ain't Bad

Bad day at work. I mean BAD day at...

Oh, yeah. Not supposed to talk about that word.

So we'll get to the good news.

*****

The first full week in January Oprah had a series called "Live Your Best Life," which she is continuing off and on through 2009. I got to see a couple of episodes of the series because I was off that week (ah, the good old days)--one episode was about money, and one was about sex. Yep, I know what's important. ;)

The one about money, of course, was with Suze Orman. Orman has this great vision of the world--save, save, save. I would hate to think what small businesses think of her--even though I love her I imagine that her idea of rarely spending money makes those of us trying to boost the economy cringe a little. Another thing that never set well before with me regarding Suze is the idea that SHE CHARGES MONEY FOR HER BOOKS. So, I have a hard time comprehending--you're supposed to spend money that you were supposed to save to buy her book? Seemed a bit off.

Still, occasionally I find ribbons of knowledge that I can take away with me, and this year, for 2009, Suze offered up two great tools on the Oprah show: she wrote a free, downloadable book for a financial plan for us for 2009 (get this--if you don't have a computer you can BUY it at Wal-Mart for $9.99...sigh...) AND she offered up a three-part treatise for what to do in 2009 to get started on your financial success. Here is the treatise...Pay attention, grasshopper:

• For one day, do not spend any money
• For one week, don't use any credit cards
• For one month, don't eat out in restaurants, cafes, etc.

Ladies and gentlemen, I've managed the first two.

(Also, keep in mind that I haven't spent money with a CREDIT card since December. I use my debit card all the time, but that, in my humble opinion, doesn't count--it's my money, not borrowing, and abandoning the cc's for a week is Suze's way of stopping the borrowing cycle for a week, and maybe starting a good habit.)

Believe or not, I finally got the opportunity to not spend any money for one day yesterday, on the first day of the New World. I was very tempted to even get cash from the ATM to be prepared for today...but no dice. I stayed firm. Breakfast was packed and eaten at the train stop...two mini whole wheat bagels, a thermos of skim milk, and a fresh/ripe banana. Lunch was packed and eaten at work in our conference room where I wouldn't be found...peppered turkey breast sandwich on whole wheat bread with roasted bell peppers, sunflower sprouts, fresh spinach, mustard, a side of carrots and honeycrisp apple, and more milk in another thermos, cold. Dinner was a bowl of whole grain cereal and a cup of nonfat organic yogurt. My God. I AM most definitely Californian.

Ah, you say, but Jo, aren't you the queen of public transit? Don't you take not one but THREE forms of public transportation? Indeed. The Muni pass is paid for on the last day of the previous month. The BART fastpass is paid about twice a month. And the AC Transit card is paid the same way. Yesterday I missed the BART and AC Transit billings in my direct bill--they were falling on different days this month.

HA.

It's like a fantastic game! That last part of the treatise though...whew. That may not happen. Wednesdays, due to packing the Piccolo, I don't plan to pack a lunch. (Hoofing it gets a bit ridiculous when you pack more than two bags--you start to look homeless.) On writing group nights I usually eat out because packing a lunch and a dinner again overloads the shoulders. But for the other days of the week? Oh, hell yeah. I would have never guessed how good I feel in two ways--I'm getting better calories (not the empty ones laced with a lot of sodium), and I'm not spending as much money. What was once avoided because it took too much time is now done as a love song to myself. Even the care of packing the lunch becomes a meditation. The tiny Sigg of milk is colder than a witch's wine. The bright red of the black-flecked peppers is delightful against the green of the spinach and the yellow coarse ground mustard. I start to swoon, taking care of myself.

AND it costs less.

Stunning.

As to the credit card thing, I should have the last of the crappy unemployment debt paid off by April of this year, which is a relief. Occasionally the cards will come out--for flights/rental cars/things that won't take debit cards because of the way debit cards bill--but for the most part I am looking forward to being debt free (well, excepting the student loans, but those are ever eternal, since students don't get a bail-out) after that point.

But no restaurants...sheesh, Suze, I live in FREAKIN' SAN FRANCISCO...and I watch Check, Please! Bay Area...so that last one isn't likely to happen. Instead, I try to do that goal one day at a time, allowing for more days where I don't eat out than days where I do. And I'm much better at it. Most of the time now when I go out it's to go up Moraga, or walk around the Park, or hit up the deYoung. The deYoung I already have a membership for, and I can write on a bench there, or sit in the lounge with a thermos on quiet mornings. And it's not so much a withdrawal...stopping myself from spending as a form of punishment...oh, no...

When I got my vacation pay, the pay that was supposed to be vacation TIME, I got an extra 1300.00 on my paycheck, and I kept half of that and paid off bills with the rest. When I get my tax refund, half that will go to another bill or bills, and the other half put to me for spending or saving, depending on the moment's need. I always need new workpants/socks/etc--working in a warehouse forces one to wear Dickies (which would make me look like a bigger lesbian than I already am not) or to buy new more often. Or there may be something that catches my eye to wear on the weekends to hopefully dazzle some rich writer/intellectual who will ask me out. One can never tell. I use moderation though. I know if I have 1800 bags. I know when I look at wallets it ain't happenin'. In fact, I see no real need to buy anymore books until at LEAST 2010. If I need to read it and I don't have it, then I think it needs to come from the library. Time to clean up some tomes, use the bags I have, and stop buying 'cause I feel "nervous" or anxious.

As Sarah Ban Breathnach, of my mother's devotional fame, would say, "All I have is all I need."

I know...I sound like a goodie two-shoes. But I didn't like having the books and magazines stack up. I didn't like the woman who needed just a little something from the paper or the book or the bag stores to feel whole. I would prefer being a woman who gets off on hiking up the hill at sunset and being greeted by a strange dog with joy or visiting with a kid on the train who is in awe of the Kindle. The little girl couldn't even read the words yet. But oooohhhh, flip the "page" again, please ma'am. I'm a magician.

A magician with my own loaves and fishes to divide. Sort of a Unitarian pun, but you ain't going to find it just anywhere.

Equal measure of spend and save. Not sure I would ever be able to hoard it ALL...

Maybe next time I'll write about the sex show Oprah had. ;)

Shut Up and Not Write...

Was catching up on the blogroll of friends this morning before work and caught one on another channel that hurt a little at first, with some healing to follow. I try to see all sides when I read these things, and thinking on it this morning was a somewhat challenging, but in the end I sorted it out.

For some time this morning I thought that I might close out my Green website, because people are probably sick and tired of hearing about carbon footprints and ecology and global warming. And then I stepped onto the platform to wait for BART at the Coliseum, way up high like a bridge, the purple rain-clouds pressed up against the glass of the atmosphere like a group of school-children, and I knew I couldn't do that. I thought about closing up shop on this blog for the remainder of the year, no links, everyone locked out, and just writing for myself, and then looked again to the mountain and clouds across from me and couldn't do that, either.

I could write here of a million environmentalists who live outside of San Francisco and how some of them have children, but that's just defensive. I ask myself, "What can I learn about myself from this?" And the lessons:

• I was raised environmental by a woman who wouldn't let me swim in my grandfather's pond because he used chemicals to clean it, a woman who had compost heaps, a woman who used old tires to plant tomatoes and other vines in, a woman who had free-range chickens. My brother will beat the shit out of the culprit who leaves the rat's nest of discarded fishing line on the beach for the birds and seals to get caught in.
• I need to be more like my mother and less like my brother in my passion of what's green. My brother wants you to see the floundering pelican in the line and suffer for your carelessness. My mother just wanted to journey alone to live green and didn't care if anyone else did or not.
• Hence, I vow to work to write Paved Paradise as a journey of my organic, and not as a diatribe to everyone else to burn their books and buy a Kindle. I am nowhere close to sainthood, ecologically. I fill pages with ink so that I don't do something psychotic--all those dead trees. I take three transit agencies to work daily, which is God-awful on the environment, albeit still better than a car. I often put containers in the wrong receptacle, out of laziness or ignorance.
• Just because I don't have children and want them doesn't mean that I need to weild that desire to anyone as a weapon. Love in the wrong use. Leave the kids out of it, Jo.

Do I ever feel like I write too much? Absolutely. But if I write too much readers can skip those parts. ;)

Amusing aside to me, because I can now chew on this too:

• I've been from the Midwest, which is seen by some coastal people on both sides of the continent as "backwards" and "primitive"
• I've been from San Francisco, which is seen by some people not living in San Francisco as "Birkenstock-bedecked" and caring more about the environment than people
• I'm reading a book right now about a sometimes misconceived environment...Afghanistan.
• Notice in the first two bullet-points I utilized the word "some." The blanket statement didn't work for me to make. My mother couldn't make them either. Not every plant can handle compost--never put it on pineapple starts. It'll rot the top that's trying to germinate.

No judgments. I imagine we're all pretty angry these days at something or more than one thing. I just wanted to state that I am working very hard not to jump up and down and lecture.

In the course of that, this post probably looks like a lecture.

Peace to you, dear reader. Sleep well.

The Park

Ladies and gentlemen, my backyard.

Less than six blocks from me lie two fantastical museums, facing each other like a pair of Birkenstocked queens, arms crossed and tricks on the table. The Music Concourse sinks between them like a reflecting pool, empty and drifted with dry autumn leaves.

So they filled the pool with music and guidance and set us loose in it.

On Saturday morning I dropped off my laundry and thought I would saunter down to the opening of the Academy, aka The California Academy of Sciences, thinking that there was no way in hell that there could be as many nerds in the City as to fill it first thing in the a.m. But as I rounded the corner at Kirkham and 9th and looked down the hill and saw the mass exodus from the concrete to the green (with the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge in the background looking very much the part of the Gray Horse from the Velveteen Rabbit), I started the process of resetting my sights. So maybe a wait to get in.

A wait was an understatement. By the time I rounded the corner to the Concourse with the rest of the herd, I knew I wasn't going in. I was pleasantly surprised, though, that there was a Music Concourse full of tents and food vendors and musicians, with plenty of room there. The Academy would be there from now on (or, at least until we get an 8.5 shaker), but the tents would be gone on Monday, so I turned my focus from the new cute boy in the class to the foreign exchange student in front of me. The cute boy'll keep.

A quick tour of the tents yielded a wealth of information--from a bicycle that charges up its own motor (no more calf-breaking trips up the San Francisco hills!) to solar exhibits to tales of the Farallon Islands (going someday now, DEFINITELY) to my very favorite tent, the Rana Creek exhibit.

For those of you who haven't seen a picture of the Academy, here's the biggest signature of it: it has a plant roof. Rana Creek is an architectual firm that specializes in making buildings and parts of buildings out of plants. Think of Laura Ingalls Wilder and "On the Banks of Plum Creek" if you will, but it speaks to me when there is A FREAKIN' MEADOW ON THE ROOF OF A MUSEUM OR OFFICE BUILDING. The Bay Area is full of The Box--a mindset of architecture that looks like Port of Oakland container stacking (I've heard of that done as well...no thanks), and when the lawn is on the top of the building it seems to soften all of the square, sharp points.

After picking up packs of information and free goodies, I wondered to the circular spaces in the middle of the concourse and picked a free bench in the shade. In the center circle was a four-man jazz band, kickin' it. These guys could play so many instruments I started to wonder if there was an extra hand in it from God, like the memorial in Washington, D.C. The kids absolutely loved it, and the grown-ups applauded enthusiastically after the two numbers we got to hear before they packed it up to make room for sound from SF Jazz at nearly 10 am. We all begged for one more, but the program was running a tight ship.

I checked out the deYoung after tear-down for the band, just to see if I could get in and chill away from the swarm for a moment. No dice--this was closing weekend for Chilhuly, glass master, and everyone was getting in there too. So I moved to the arch at the west end of the concourse to hear SF Jazz and relax a little longer. On my way I passed the western circle in the concourse with Junkestra set up in the middle. If you want to hear what Junkestra does, go to YouTube and type in "Junkestra." It's serious music, but it was so fantastical that I couldn't help bursting out laughing when I did the YouTube search. I didn't get to hear them Saturday because I left before they fired up.

SF Jazz looks like a typical Glen Miller set-up, until you realize all of the musicians are pretty young--like, high school young. AND they can bring it. I listened to three numbers before moving on, and their execution was college level, or, more by the fun they seemed to be having, a band in somebody's parents' garage, with suits. The riffs were so relaxed and enjoyed by the musicians, it was like the audience walked in on a big secret.

I left the dusty benches of the arch and walked back to the east to see what was for brunch. (It was 10:30. Cut me some slack.) I decided on a Hibiscus Flower Limeade in a biodegradable cup (which looked an awful lot like promogranate juice but tasted just sweet enough not to be tart and just tart enough not to be sugary) and a grass-fed (not that kind of grass, dear reader) all beef hot dog. I crawled up the side of the bowl that is the concourse wall and sat in cool, damp grass in the shade of the palm tree, eating my treasure (no ketchup on the treasure though...Chicago style). In front of me at the sidewalk was a short woman resting in a folding chair about four feet to the right of the recycling receptacles. I don't think she was there to monitor them, but I think in the course of her resting there I think she found her calling in telling people which container to put their waste paper and containers into. For those not familiar with the selection, there was a black box marked "Landfill," a blue box marked "Recycle," and a green box marked "Compost." I was raised on a farm with a compost pile and still this selection confuses me. What's even more confusing is that the container I was drinking from looked like a plastic cup but on one side stated that it was made from plant material. This development drove the recreational recycling monitor into a frenzy. "Not there!" I heard her say more than once, and I started thinking she was right, until a worker from the food vendor in front of the receptacles stepped up to assist and read the cup to her and said, in a voice loud and plain, "It's made of CORN!" He wasn't intending harm to her, just getting it through her head. The statement was so short and delivered so succinctly that I burst in silent, shaking giggles and had to think of something depressing to behave myself. I could hear my father telling me to straighten up and fly right and not make fun.

I wasn't, Dad.

The phrase was funny, is all, Dad. Perfect line perfectly performed.

*****

I moved to San Francisco from the South Bay two years ago, and still my knowledge of The Park is limited. To me this crime is roughly on par with living in Manhattan and hanging out in Washington Square Park, or living in the Richmond Heights district of Saint Louis and journeying to Fort Leonard Wood for fresh air. I've committed this crime for two years, all the time only seeing The Park when there's an event. I can tell you where Stow Lake is and the Music Concourse and the Conservatory and where they keep the buffalo and the police horses, but living here and not living them seems a bit of "standing knee deep in a river and dying of thirst." So I'm on a new quest to explore the park and follow Gawande's mantra in all of it so that I know my own backyard.

Henry would be proud.

Rock On...

Very interesting comments in the Chronicle tonight about the three day concert in Golden Gate park...

Not that it's that much of an issue for me, but the trash part does bother me...

If they want me to forgive them that, they'll have to have The Boss there. But if they did, I still wouldn't have to go...Tom Petty's playing in my window right now.

Update For Our Shoppers Here At Smoke

A little update on the environmental front...

And that's what happens when I have a little time, my friends.

Several Thousand Years of Solitude

I almost put this bit of news in Paved Paradise, but after reading several articles on it there didn't seem to be a link to global warming.

Just a case of the cards finally falling over.

I did not get a chance to see Arches on my way west in 2004, but I do remember this--between the baked hell that was northern Arizona and the blackened hell that was southern Nevada, I remember a brief red earth heaven in southern Utah, the curve and strength of St George and the national parks surrounding that fine city.

God bless our national parks--whatever shape they're in.

Aww, See? AAAALLLLL Better...

God bless the fine folks at Amazon.

Kindle is now working fine AND I found another hidden menu screen in the bargain. Wild carrots to Queen Anne's Lace in 4 seconds flat.

Turns out my Kindle has the same "quirk" that my iPod does. Strangely, since day one, ye olde Nano can't be recognized for a laptop sync unless I completely reboot it before hooking it up to the USB cable. The Kindle needed to be completely rebooted in order to recognize my stuff that I downloaded after hooking it up to the USB cable one time.

So it's kind of like having two kids with the same food allergies. :)

Or, the frickin' HP laptop is a pain in the ass to everything it touches.

Easy, Jo...QAL, QAL....

Commence a First Generation Hiccups

Yeah, the Kindle is flubbing up a little.

Somehow in the last two weeks I have lost Whispernet capabilities on it. I can go to the store and buy books, but they won't load, even with very creative loading processes. I have to wait until I get home and load the books using the USB cable.

Yes, I finally broke down and e-mailed Amazon last night.

Insert eye-rolling here.

ANYWAY, what can I say? This is the downside to new toys for the world. Although, I must comment that the pen prototype I got some months back is still gliding across the page...

:)

Someone has to try the Life cereal first, you know.

The Great Barrier, Reefed

How to get nice young Bay Area men to talk to you:

Step 1: Buy a Kindle.

Step 2: Open said Kindle on the Number 6 Parnassus and read. Enjoy. Be sure to sit next to a smart and pleasant looking guy.

Step 3: Close said Kindle and contemplate what you just read.

Step 4: Enjoy the conversation that ensues. iPod or other mp3 player or even cell phone is optional. They'll talk to you anyway.

I haven't smiled like that since before Gary.

:))

Kindle: $360.
Books on Kindle: $3.40 - 9.99 each.
Talking to a guy who likes the ideas without manipulation: F'ING PRICELESS.

New Arrival

It's here.

:)

Mmmmm...Fresh From the Oven...

Just pulled this from the oven after struggling home with three and half pounds of 3-foot stalks. :)

THIS is my definition of summer happiness.

Eat well, dear reader.

She Steals Away and Tries Not To Talk of Tigers

Okay, apparently I can't shut up about the environment, so I created a separate blog for it...

The blog will be linked as "My Green Site" in the "Reading, Writing, Skip the Math" section on the right side of this blog, or, if you go to my profile you can find it there with my blog collection.

My thought process here was two-fold: I wanted a site with solutions on a personal level, and I wanted a separate blog where I could tote the green stuff and not sound like fire and brimstone on this blog.

If you have any suggestions for links or articles for Paved Paradise, or, if you would like to contribute an article (pending editorial approval, 'course, but I'm pretty open), please get in touch with me.

That's all.

No more tiger talk here, scout's honor.

*Crosses fingers, grins.

Post Post Script: Go See the Tiger

Okay, okay, I'll stop PS-ing this post... :)

Just wanted to share this link on sustainable and seasonal stuff for the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market...the site looks absolutely delectable to me...

;)

Found Treasure

Yep, the environmentalist got another treat with this film. Absolutely wonderful. It continues to delight me how Pixar uses the most mundane of actions, adds nuance, and gives their films life.

I was talking with my roommate the other day how the only Pixar film I hadn't seen was "Cars," because I wasn't impressed with the clips (to me it looked like a bad driver's ed film). I was a little leary about "Wall-E" as well, until I read The New York Times review and found out what the premise was. My previous conception was "How can Pixar create emotion in a robot?" But they did, and the robot conveyed it to me. :)

The short before the feature was hilarious as well, although nothing amazing animation-wise there. Are we so used to the technical marvels of Pixar that now we have to watch for content? In case of the short, yes. In the case of the feature, I was still appreciating the animator's and sound engineer's complete development of physics on a flat canvas. The shopping cart scene and the fire extinguisher propelled flight/dance are great examples...

And the most surprising thing about the movie?

A plotline where the humans create a planet instead of destroy it.

Independent

Amazing how when I have to go to the grind I can't rip myself from the bed, but if I have a day of reading and writing ahead of me I leap out of bed at 6 am full of energy.

:)

Goals for today whilst I relax:

• Catch up on the podcasts
• Read the Kingsolver book up through July (I want to follow it by the year)
• Do some writing (yeah, that's about as specific as I can get at this point)
• Cook
• Watch some fireworks

Dear reader, what are YOUR plans for the day?

Post Script: Go See The Tiger

It's get even more challenging to buy local when it's not market day and one is trying to buy produce.

I was hoping to make some fresh dishes for tomorrow, and purchased the following items:

Johnsonville Brats, from Wisconsin (couldn't find local)
Mushrooms and Strawberries from Watsonville
Purple potatoes from Stockton
Nectarines with only "California" on the label
Onions from "the USA"

And the plot thickens...

Go See the Tiger

This past Christmas season when there was an "issue" at the San Francisco Zoo that provoked the killing of humans and tigers, I mentioned the idea that maybe, just maybe, if we wanted to see a tiger bad enough we should grow some balls and go see it in its natural environment.

Lately I have been eating my way through "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" by Barbara Kingsolver and in chapter three have dawned to another thought that you could say spins off of the "go-see-the-tiger" sentiment, and that is the exportation of food from other countries. Yes, without exportation we would never get to taste champagne or prosciutto, but wouldn't half the fun of visiting France and Italy be in finally getting to taste those things?

There is the argument, says co-author and author's husband Steven Hopp, that by purchasing imported food we are "contributing to developing countries." But, Steven says, that argument is lost on the fact that corporate brokers of the import are the ones making the lion's share (pardon the word choice) of the profit, while the farmer reaping the harvest in Brazil makes little more than "$6 a day." Something to think about--there's always a company making money from something that's compromised to the end user. Flowers, raspberries, bananas, certain cheeses, etc all have to come from overseas. My mother tried a pineapple once, and got a fruit the size of a hand gernade, but there's a reason God doesn't want you building the Tower of Babel in Ohio. Mom's pineapple looked cute but tasted like wood.

I'm not advocating giving up any imported food, although I would like to. Still, I want to keep the few friends that I have, and I just discovered lamb about 4 years ago, and I don't think they raise much lamb in the Bay Area. The thought process is this, however. Kingsolver's family is starting out with some weeding out, so to speak. They begin their adventure with limiting themselves to picking out just one thing each that they can't live without. Mr. Hopp picked my favorite, COFFEE.

Although, if I moved to Hawaii I could get that locally along with Mom's attempt: a nature-intended pineapple.

Make a trip once a year to visit food and wild animals...try to buy local when you can...try keeping to mass transit...suddenly, SUDDENLY, my reason for being here seems a bit more clear. Try to the local stuff wherever I live. THAT is the big adventure.

Mmmmm....what to taste NEXT? :)

Organic

I have a stack of books next to my dresser in my bedroom, and from time to time a visit to my therapist's neighborhood also proves a visit to The Book Store in West Portal, whether I need it or not.

On one of these visits I picked up a copy of a collection of essays/memoirs by Barbara Kingsolver called "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle." For those of us die-hard green folks (remember, I refuse to get a car, despite the fact that it would be "easier"), it seemed to be another one of those geological texts that my brother and I crave (my brother's geological professor at Ohio State University was featured in Al Gore's film "An Inconvenient Truth"). I like these ecological things on a micro level--blades of grass. My brother likes them on a grand level--snow disappearing from Kilimanjaro. This book wouldn't address my brother's interest, but it finally addressed mine.

About a month ago I stuck a bookmark in it and vowed to myself that I would try to read a chapter a week (small steps). Weeks passed, no words absorbed. Tonight I picked it up and read to page 8.

I want to grow things again.

I will talk about this more to come, dear reader. In the meantime, be healthy, with my compliments.