High Heels and Muck Boots

Miss Cracklins, part 2

2011-04-09T15:17:00.004-04:00

[Read part 1 here]

We stepped onto the kill floor. Steam was roiling up from the scalder making the room humid, sticky, almost tropical. The clean, buttery smell of fresh blood was in the air and I was nervous. We discussed how the harvest had been going thus far with the men on the floor, their rolled-up sleeves revealing knotted muscles and scars. We walked into the blast chiller to check out the morning's carcasses, still with wisps of steam curling up amongst them as Jay looked them over. They were beautiful. And I was nervous, nervous, nervous.

We'd gotten a late start that day and there was only one pig left to walk through the doors from the holding pen. The door opened and she walked into the chute. At that point I could feel some adrenaline coursing through my veins and I was focused on nothing else in the room. The workers were finishing up with another carcass so Jay and I stood and watched as this sow checked the room out, sniffed around, took a couple exploratory nibbles on the bars of the chute, tried to root under the door through which she had just walked.

She didn't appear to be stressed out, just curious, just... obstinate. The one pig with the neck fatter than any others... It took me what felt like years to finally turn to Jay and whisper, it's Cracklins.

I know, he said.

Of course we had both known the moment they opened the door. Of course she WOULD be lucky number 13, the last pig to be slaughtered, the only one we would see. If watching an animal die was ever going to turn me into a strict vegetarian for life, it would be the queen of the tummy-rub herself. My legs felt rooted in place, as anyone who consumes meat is rooted to the slaughterhouses of the world. One man picked up the .22 and walked up to her, steadied his aim... she moved. It had to be a clean shot, an instant kill, for him to take it. And then he did. And there was Miss Cracklins' blood pooling on the kill floor.

What more is there to say? This had to be personal because eating is as personal as it is animal. Cracklins had a good life, as did all of the hogs we harvested. In the end, I wasn't upset. The night before, after loading them onto a trailer and sending them off the farm, Jay and I were watching Forrest Gump. In the depths of some sad theme music I suddenly was awash in tears [and let me say, also extremely embarrassed. What a girl!]. I was afraid of what I might see in the morning and how I might potentially feel about it. I felt heartsick. Jay was concerned and gently suggested that maybe we shouldn't go, but I insisted. Never again would I have this opportunity and I tried to explain why. He and I both realized, I think, that it wasn't a morbid curiosity but need for both answers and more questions.

How I came to be so intimately involved with meat and livestock and a farm is sometimes as much a mystery to me as it is to you, my readers, my family and friends. I love it, but I also love the opportunity to tell people about what I see, just in case they wonder about but will likely never visit a kill floor. I think it's something worth seeing, but I also think there is a right and wrong way to go about getting there. You can't see blood for the sake of seeing it. Cracklins is a reason for everyone to know their farmer, even if you don't want to know the names of his or her bacon-makers. She's a reason to know your butcher, to know where your food comes from, and know how you feel about the way it was produced. Death is difficult to see, but peace of mind is a beautiful thing.

Miss Cracklins, part 1

2011-03-17T09:05:00.002-04:00

Creepin' up to say 'hey'

Here is why I've been hesitant to write about the pig formerly known as Cracklins:

we gave her a name and she enjoyed belly rubs and then she got mean and then she became sausage.

There, ok, I said it.

That's sort of what it comes down to, but at the same time, I'm not sure how to go about sharing the humor and smiles and, frankly, the agony caused by this one particular sow. The book Half the Sky by Nick Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn describes the challenge writers and activists are faced with when translating a problem into action from readers: people feel overwhelmed by the idea of hundreds, thousands, or millions of beings [whether women, children, oppressed peoples, or animals] in trouble. But if you can just tell the story of one, and give the reader a way to feel connected, you can build support or garner donations or accomplish what it is you've set out to do.

So what is the problem here? The problem is that when most people go to the supermarket and pick out neat little bloodless packages of chicken breasts or ground chuck or pork loin, they only see the meat. There is no connection to the animals. To channel Temple Grandin again, it was here, now it's meat. Where did it go?

Miss Cracklins was somewhat of an abberation. All of the hogs on the farm are fairly social— they're used to the humans, legs, boots with stick-things coming out of them, whatever, that walk through the herd and bring grain and move fences. Some of them don't mind being touched, some of them squeal if you get close, and some of them like back scratches. Pigs are curious and they aren't above taking little bites of your boots when you're standing amongst a swirl of them. But this goofy one, Miss Cracklins... you'd be out in the field counting or fixing a fence or something and it would catch your eye. This pig would be standing right behind you, waiting for a tummy rub. And she would lay down and roll over, eyes closed, and let you scratch her to your heart's content. As long as you were willing to stay there, she was happy to be there.

Out of 100 or so hogs running freely in a huge wooded pasture, many of whom looked almost exactly like she did, I could pick her out of the crowd by her fat neck. Good lord did she have a fat neck, and I mean really.

The Cracklins fairytale continued as it became apparent that she was going to be a mama! In raising free-range pigs, unlike in factory operations where confinement makes temperament irrelevant, a friendly sow makes life easier for everyone. In theory her pigs would be friendly too, and if you had the choice between a sow who wanted to take a chunk out of your butt and one who wanted a tummy rub, the choice is pretty obvious which you would want to keep around.

On the day that we loaded for the last fall harvest, we saved her out. Once again, among 20 hogs who mostly looked the same, there was Miss Cracklins and her fat neck. She had a diva personality and was obstinate about being moved... even sweet-talk and grain failed to win her over. But she was still here and everyone was excited for her little piggies to arrive.

She farrowed while I was home for Christmas, and out of 8 pigs only 2 survived. Some sows have really great maternal instincts and others just... don't. But even that could be forgiven for an inexperienced sow. What I noticed, however, was that while the other sows in the field with her became increasingly friendly [game of tag with the Plastic-Loving Pig, anyone?], Cracklins became more aggressive. It didn't make much sense to me but the signs were unmistakeable. She was still small, but I kept imagining her with an extra 100, 200, 300 pounds of weight and attitude. I certainly wouldn't want to work with her.

I had a difficult time choosing, between all of the sows I had come to know, which ones to keep and which to send for one final harvest. They have distinct personalities. With Cracklins, even the thought of sending her, a named pig, made me a little uneasy. I'm new to this and I'm a softy prone to anthropomorphizing. But for many reasons, she was loaded onto the trailer with the others.

to be continued...

Made For a Man...

2011-02-21T22:57:00.003-05:00

...but are they strong enough for a woman?

Since September I have worn out 4 pairs of heavy-duty cowhide gloves and I noticed a few days ago that my 5th pair has started to tear. At least half a dozen pairs of thick wool socks, and my favorite pair of work jeans, have also met their demise. The first pair of muck boots I owned lasted over 5 years, during which time I wore them to the barn, walking my dog year-round, and to class in the winters. My current pair is just over a year old and I've noticed the constant muddy mix has begun to eat away at some of the waterproof stitching.

Consider this a challenge, Carhartt! I work harder than your gloves do, and it's nearly official. The ones pictured above lasted about a month, and the "heavy duty" boot socks I've been wearing under my muck boots gave out after about, oh, 5 or 6 weeks.

Every day on the farm brought new challenges but it brings a peaceful balance with it, too. With a lot of hard work and interminable senses of humor, things are looking good. In other words, the work I came here to do is nearing its end. I'm headed home. What an incredible journey it has been— I will never forget this place, the pigs, or the people I came to love here. I hope to be back soon, maybe when there are a few less pigs and a little less mud. I hope my girls remember me, because I know I will never forget them. At times I was pushed to the utter limits of my physical strength, my mental capacity for multitasking and problem-solving, and the depths of my humanity. I never thought I would get into an automatic vehicle and reach my foot blindly for the clutch, but... here I am, some weird college/city/farmgirl hybrid who misses the contents of her closet but also loves to drive the tractor. Wah not?

Derive happiness in oneself from a good day's work,
from illuminating the fog that surrounds us.

— Henri Matisse (1869 - 1954)

Eating Well

2011-02-11T01:27:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I watched the HBO film Temple Grandin. She's arguably the world's most famous autistic person, and a foremost expert on animal behavior and slaughterhouse design. Grandin thinks and sees the world in pictures, she has a difficult time understanding what death means. [Just watch the movie, I can't do it justice.]

In one scene that particularly moved me, she questions what happens to a cow after it is slaughtered:

"Where does it go? It was here, now it's meat. Where does it go?"

Being here on the farm for nearly 6 months has brought that question to my mind as well. Once as we were loading a group of hogs to send to the processing plant, I wryly remarked that "today is the first day of the rest of your lives." [The pigs didn't seem terribly impressed by my sense of humor, but they don't get impressed by much except straw and grain.] These pigs, like millions of other livestock around the world, are born and raised for slaughter. Our market hogs spend about a year on the farm, rooting around for delicious woodlands treats. Then they spend 2 years curing, becoming Woodlands Pork.

In the months since I first arrived at the farm, I've gotten to know the pigs pretty well, not only individually but collectively in their respective groups. I see their day-to-day interactions, and they see a lot of me. When they're hungry they follow me around, even if I'm nowhere near their pasture. They'll walk their fenceline, eyes trained on me, and whine in my general direction. Some of them like to nibble on my boots, others like to rub on the tractor tires. A few seemed to watch for me to set down a bucket or a grain bag— as soon as I did they would snatch it and run away [can someone tell me— why do pigs LOVE plastic so much?].

Our last harvest was on Monday. This one was personal, different from the others— previous harvest-loads came out of one large group who lived their final months in the woods. There were too many to know them individually. We loaded them onto the trailer or sent them back into the woods based on size, the biggest first. You look at them one last time with the knowledge that you've taken care of them every day but... beyond that there's only so much emotional rollercoasting going on. It's exciting to have a successful day of loading, and it means out-of-this-world [to-die-for?] pork is in your future.

I knew the ones we sent on Monday. They have been living at the front of the farm with their piglets for the last few months. I interacted with them every day and came to know their personalities. The spotty one who is obsessed with plastic. The Hereford with her ever-alert ears and that square, puffed-up way she would stand and snort if you surprised her in a field. The two who stood watch over each other while they gave birth to piglets. Miss Cracklins. We sent a pig with a name.

I asked Chuck last week if I could have the day off so that I could drive up to Nelson's Processing Plant. I felt it was a necessary part of the experience for me— as a carnivore, as a farmer, as a student, as a human— to confront the fate of "my" pigs. Even as I discussed my reasons for wanting to go with him I could feel a tightness in my throat, the sometimes-choking knowledge that when I watched them take their last breath it wouldn't be like the cows I saw before. These aren't pets, of course, but they're more than just dinner, too. My sows, my charges, my Big Mamas, my girls. It was me who walked through all of the fields and decided which ones would live and which would die, who we'd keep and who we'd eat. Cracklins, who used to walk up to people and roll over for tummy rubs, was a lackluster sow [she had 8 piglets and only 2 survived] and she had become increasingly aggressive. She was also difficult to work with, obstinate as hell. So she went on the trailer along with 12 others.

Meat-eating has been getting both more and less complicated for me in the last few years. More complicated because of what I have learned about production and what I know about the animals themselves. But far, far less complicated because I see a clear way of eating that is good and right. Because I personally saw to it that each of the pigs we slaughtered had a good life, to the best of my abilities. They have forever changed the way I think about food, and not in the way I expected. It's not what you eat, but how you eat. As they say in West Virginia... I eat pretty damn good.

Next up, Miss Cracklins' story. Coming soon.

Your Questions

2011-02-03T00:16:00.001-05:00

Writing is a lot like working out— the more you go the gym, the more you feel like going back again and again. It can be a little painful and awkward at first but then you get into a rhythm and it becomes a release.

That said— do you, faithful and occasional readers alike, have any questions for me? I spend a lot of time in my own head here and sometimes I think of things I'd like to write about but they are lost in the mix of daily routines and the unexpected. Or I'll start on something and then realize [or tell myself] that it may be ridiculously boring or overly technical and not something anyone wants to hear about, let alone read about.

Let's hear them! It's February, the worst month of the year, and I'm going to need something to keep me occupied when it's just above freezing and raining and I need time away from the mud. Reply with a comment, send me a facebook message, email, whatever! [You can be anonymous if you'd like.]

Animal Instincts

2011-01-27T19:22:00.000-05:00

Two years ago I didn't know the first thing about pigs— no concept of how to handle them, what to feed them, what sorts of structures they required to keep them safe [and out of trouble, hopefully]... nothing! After the first week of work at Spannocchia, I was writing in my journal about things that quickly became the most mundane and obvious parts of my job. Checking fences and milling grain became second nature. I remember reading over the entry after I came home and laughing at myself, thinking how little I knew.

One thing I really enjoy about working with animals of any kind is that you're constantly learning. I grew up with a dog who was already a "god dog" by the time I was born. After Bogie died I wanted another one so badly that I somehow convinced my parents to buy me a puppy training book to prove to them that I could handle the responsibility of one. I read it cover to cover many times. That coupled with a fantastic dog trainer/behaviorist taught me about the body language of dogs, i.e., how to communicate with them in a language they understand. Hobbes and then Oscar both turned into the best dogs anyone could ever ask for.

I also grew up horse-obsessed, of course. I remember one day seeing a book on my mom's bedside table whose cover showed a picture of a man with a horse standing directly behind him, without a halter or leadline anywhere in sight, his great head just over the man's shoulder. If you've read the book you know the man of whom I speak, Monty Roberts. The book is called The Man Who Listens to Horses and that, too, I read over and over again until I had parts of it memorized. In it he explains how he came to know and "speak" the language of horses and how it enables him to "join up" with them to form a team. He did it by observing them in the wild— and soon realized that they expressed clear signals to one another, and he could elicit those same behaviors from them.

People who are mostly around horses in movie theaters may think that horses are constantly rearing up and neighing and snorting but it's just not true. Hollywood for some reason finds those sound effects necessary [I think they're really awkward and distracting!]. Horses are prey animals. It wouldn't make any sense for a horse to go through life constantly alerting every wolf, mountain lion, coyote, bear, etc., to their presence. So instead they have a strong body language, and as you learn to listen, or read it, you can also learn to use it.

I'm no expert but I've tried various methods of Mr. Roberts', as well as seen him in workshops a few times, and I have seen how it works. It's truly an incredible thing.

When I was in Italy my closest companion came to be a horse, Nera. A beautiful mare, smart as a whip, well-trained but then left out in the pasture to rot for a year before I arrived. It was immediately obvious to me that at some point someone[s], most likely the ever-rotating interns with no idea how to handle horses and impatient, had mistreated her. She was shy but in an aggressive way, always at the ready with a kick aimed in my direction, always watching me. I started taking her treats and spending my free time down at the stable each day, and after a few weeks managed to get a halter on her and slowly begin grooming her.

Another evidence of past mistreatment reared its head a few times when she was haltered and tied to a post. I would leave her side briefly, usually to grab a different brush or something, and suddenly she would be rearing back in a white-eyed panic, thrashing until she broke the halter. She did that to me 3 or 4 times, for no apparent reason. Something awful happened to her once under similar circumstances and she won't ever forget it.

I took my time with her, happy just to have a horse in my life. The riding wasn't important and I had been there a month before I attempted it. Jay and I had been saddling her up and taking her for walks, not wanting to do anything to damage her already fragile trust. One evening we walked her to the front of the villa and it just felt like the right time. He gave me a leg up into the saddle and we just walked and walked more. Each day we went a little farther. At first she was anxious to leave her pasturemate behind, but gradually she became, I think, just as enthralled with our long rides through the woods and meadows as I was. It was spring and everything was blooming. On my free days we would disappear for hours and hours, exploring in every direction the 1200 acres of nature preserve that surrounds the farm.

She was a "green" horse, young and inexperienced, and as flight animals horses tend to run away from things they don't understand. One day we were flying across a lush meadow when two pheasants thundered out of the grass just to our left. She ducked sideways just so slightly and I sat back deep in the saddle bracing myself for bucking or running. We must have been 4 hours from the villa and I would have been in some real trouble if she'd thrown me off. Instead I talked to her, Easy, mare, it's ok, just look at it, and she took a deep breath and... was totally fine. Another day we encountered a huge excavator out in the middle of the forest— no idea what the operator was doing there, but she took a look at it and I nudged her forward and we walked right by. I was so proud of her!

Nera in the cow pasture

What best exemplifies the bond, the trusting partnership we had, occurred one day out in an enormous cow pasture. She was really antsy that day for some reason but I had been riding her during chores for a while, and the cows had completely obliterated a fence, and it was almost lunchtime and I was hot and hungry and ready to be done with it. I don't know what I was thinking [well, ok, I obviously was NOT thinking], but I quickly tied her to a fence post to make one small repair so that both hands were free. I knew better, and what a stupid thing to do! I should have known that she would pick that particular post for one of her sudden panic attacks, and when she reared back, instead of catching the halter's resistance she was pulling against a bridle, with a bit across her tongue. The leather split into a dozen pieces, and her eyes were rolling as she backed up at a furious pace. My first thought was that she was going to turn and run and we've never find her again. Once again though, I started talking to her in a soft voice, and somehow that triggered the switch. You could see her entire body relax and her head dropped to a normal height, and she walked right up to me and put her head against my chest.

Two months earlier, when I first arrived, she was described to me by all who knew her as "the devil horse" or "that crazy horse" or some other permutation of "You gon' die!" And yet here she was, afraid and surrounded by hundreds of acres of freedom and grass, coming to me just as sweetly as you could ever imagine.

I have always been told that bad horses are made, not born.

A "Crazy 8" in the woods

This is starting to get a little long-winded but originally my intent was to make this about pigs, not Nera! The same principles apply to some degree with pigs. We just loaded a group that we call The Crazy 8s. They all had wild razorbacks, a tendency to bark and charge at people, and a complete disregard of the electric fence. A few months ago they had to be loaded onto a trailer from the large wooded pasture where they'd been living, and to date that is the closest I've come to being mauled by a pig. They were 200 pounds of snarling teeth coming at you like the Tasmanian Devil. Since then they've been in a smaller pen with hog panel fencing— in other words, daily contact with me, bearer of tasty foodstuffs, whether they liked it or not, and no escape. So the other day a guy came to buy them, 14 in all, and I was very unsure of how they would behave when we tried to get them back on a trailer. I knew they had mellowed out considerably, but... you just never know.

As it turns out, all I had to do was call them, and they pretty much walked in an orderly fashion behind me from their pen to another, into a loading lane, onto a trailer, and then into his larger trailer. Because they knew me as a mostly peaceful emissary, the girl with the buckets of grain, they were willing to follow me to see where I was headed. If I had been in there shouting and using electric prods on them, or even just throwing grain over the fence, for the past 2 months, there's no way they would have followed me. In establishing a relationship with them I reduced the stress for everyone involved. It was actually one of the easiest things I did all week.

I'm learning as I go. I still make mistakes, and usually it's just due to carelessness. But each day that I can see the rewards of my work, those things I'm doing correctly are reinforced. They're teaching me every single day.

After all, Nera only ever kicked me once. She could have probably taken off one of my legs if that had been her aim, but it was just a warning kick. She wanted me to know that I was being impatient with her. I never did it again.

I Used to Throw Like A Girl...

2011-01-15T16:39:00.002-05:00

My hat, modeled by Oscar

... then I starting working on a farm and now I throw like a MAN.

OK, probably not so much but it's been suggested. I amuse most of the good ol' boys around here just by virtue of being me, but in the months since I started working the amusement seems to have turned from "haha, you're a sissy girl" to something more along the lines of, "She's a pretty good worker... for a woman!" I'm fairly certain that Paul meant that as equal parts joke and hearty compliment, and it's something I hold close and carry proudly with me out here.

Jim has been working on the house near to where most of the pigs are kept. Apparently on his smoke breaks he watches us work from the windows. One day we got done around the same time, and I walked over to say hello. "How's it going Kate?" he asked. "Out there workin' like a man?"

His favorite joke now seems to revolve around me arm-wrestling the other guy working on the house, Ray— and winning, of course. Yesterday as I was filling buckets of water, Jim stuck his head out the window and hollered to Ray, who was carrying sheets of drywall or something, "Well lookatchu Ray, carrying two at once! If you keep that up you'll be as strong as Kate!"

Amidst the blood [literal], sweat [literal], and tears [figurative] of the day, that just struck me as so incredibly funny that I was grinning about it all evening. On some days it feels as if my body's going to break if I try to lift or throw or hoist or... anything else! Other days, however, the combination of icy wind and a gently warming sun and pig problems makes me feel so very much alive that each breath feels like a renewal. This must be what the French mean when they talk about joie de vivre.

This morning I was out in a field perched on the tractor bucket 8 feet above the frozen ground, tipping bags of grain into a big feeder. Chew [his name is either Jimmy or Johnny but no one can ever remember so he just goes by Chew... wah not?]... anyway Chew walked up and we talked about this n' that... as he bid good day he paused, turned to me [by that time climbing back onto the tractor] and said "You know, I'm gon' brag on you a bit now but, for a woman... you amaze me."

Seems I really earned the soft pink Carhartt hat that keeps me warm when I'm out working with the pigs. Many thanks to Chuck and Nadine for the badge of honor.

Of the Fallen

2010-11-30T22:14:00.007-05:00

[click to enlarge]

abattoir |ˈabəˌtwär|
noun
a slaughterhouse.
ORIGIN early 19th cent.: from French, from abattre ‘to fell.’

Just over one week ago I stood on a kill floor for the first time. In many ways I've been building up to that moment for a few years now [at least], learning about food systems and production and how the food we eat gets from the farm to the table. In elementary school we were assigned a research paper, and my initial "animal rights" topic quickly changed to a more focused study of slaughterhouses. What I learned turned me off meat for months, as I recall.

But let's face it. I'm like many other red-blooded Americans who love bacon and steak and fried chicken and Thanksgiving turkey. My studies [and interests in life] led me to food, and I changed the way I bought milk, where I shopped, what I shopped for. My internship in Italy got me so close to the food chain as helping raise animals, and seeing their carcasses return in halves, still warm.

But this whole part about death... that part scared me as it does so many people. It's easier to turn away and pretend that pork chops simply come from the grocery store in neat little bloodless, and plastic-wrapped, packages. I've seen film footage, both raw and in documentary form about it, but I wondered how I would feel actually being there for the moment of death. Could I ever, EVER, eat it again?

As soon as we got back from the processing plant, I sat down to write about the experience. It's disjointed but thoughtful, shock and a sort of peace between every line.

"To stand less than ten feet away from an animal who is about to take its last breath; to watch it take in its surroundings, fresh blood spattered and streaming across the kill floor, steam rising from another animal so recently slaughtered that it, despite being halved and headless, has rhythmically-twitching muscles that speak to pastured life."

Blood is an amazing, sustaining thing that captivates and horrifies us. To see so much of it, still hot, will take your breath away. And these men working make it all look so easy— when I know how much practice goes into each slice, knowing the grain of the meat, where to cut and where not to cut. It's one of our most primal skills as a species, perfected over centuries of passed-down learning.

"I've still never stood in place and watched a livestock animal take its last breath as it continues along the path from farm to food. Today the Farmily made a trip to the local slaughterhouse where our market hogs are processed. We put labels on various packages of sausage, mixtures of sage, white pepper, nutmeg, ancho chili, coriander... The men cutting made swift, sure strokes that make their work look impossibly easy. Chef Jay deftly sculpted raw body parts into hams and shoulders to be cured as other men sliced loin, belly [bacon], lard, pieces intended for sausage...

All of that I've seen before. At some point Jay showed me the room where all the sides of meat hang to cool— think Rocky punching sides of beef as his breath curls around the frame of the shot. It's awe-inspiring in the way that only something as personal as food and sustenance could be, a chilly cathedral built to honor the survival of man, the sacrifice of our domesticated animals, and the raw brutality that rules behind the scenes of our domestic lives.

And then, the kill floor. When I stepped into the doorway, a freshly-felled cow was being hoisted up, hooks through each leg, ready to bleed out. The men make quick work of it, slitting the throat, slicing through the spinal cord to remove the head, pouring the innards into a bucket, peeling back the hide like someone might peel an orange.

I watched for some time as the cow was broken down into pieces, cuts, right in front of my eyes. There were three halved animals hanging by hooks, being inspected by a representative of the USDA and hosed down before heading into the refrigerated cooling area. Logically, there was only one thing left to happen— close the gate, open the door, chute another cow through. Two, actually, small ones. They stood next to the steaming blood running across the floor, looking around, showing no obvious signs of panic.

BAM.

BAM.

The first heifer shied and took two shots to fell. Her chute partner stood there, not struggling, as the first one slumped into the gate and against her.

BAM.

The second cow sat back against the door they had just walked through. Even in death, muscles remember and spasm in protest. Both cows kicked, blood foaming from their nostrils, eyes glassy and framed by long lashes. They were both dead in an instant. The inspector checked them both, and they were strung up by their back tendons as is every slab of beef that eventually arrives to your plate."

At least in a processing plant of that [small] size, employees have time to learn their craft and do it surely. On any given day, they might slaughter 20 or so animals. Industrial-strength plants process 400 animals per hour. It's more disassembly line than anything else, just another factory— as harmful to the employees who work in slippery conditions with extremely sharp tools as it is to the animals pushed through.

It is shocking, sudden and brutal. Yet at the same time the cows didn't appear to be stressed, and anyone who consumes meat is consuming an animal who does feel fear, or sunshine warming its back. As one man walked up to the first cow, rifle in hand, I felt a surge of adrenaline and wondered, will I turn away? But I didn't and I couldn't, because it was something I needed to see. If I'm not ok with the process, I just can't be ok with eating it [especially given my many close calls with vegetarianism].

It's not something to be sanctified. In some ways yes, to watch an animal die is a religious experience unto itself, where you are made to look deep into your own soul and consider your humanity. But it's also a fact of life and of nature. There are countless problems with our current food system and I think a lot of that stems from the simple fact that we are so far removed from what we eat. It's more than just a purchase at the store— someone, somewhere, grew or raised every single thing that you eat. The question we need to ask is, how?

And for anyone wondering, I've been enjoying sharing in the sausage made that day with family and friends, and the Thanksgiving turkey was especially delicious and grilled to perfection this year.

An Explanation

2010-11-05T08:46:00.001-04:00

I suppose at some point I should explain the name change and general overhaul on here.

For the longest time, since this blog's inception, its title was "Waiting for Inspiration to Strike." In a lot of ways that really is what I was doing— throughout my college career I struggled to narrow my interests as directed by various academic advisors. I considered plenty of majors: journalism, political science, agricultural economics, history, sociology... As an incoming freshman I signed up for classes that sounded interesting in hopes of finding that one subject that really sparked my interest. That one career field I could really picture myself in. It had to be out there, right?

Well, as it turns out, I may have been looking for a field all along. I grew up obsessed and consumed by all things horse, as many little girls do. Longing to have been born in the days of the cowboys, I'm still remembered by some of my elementary school peers as "that horse girl." I dreamed about horses for years, and had one to call my own for a time. But the social demands of high school caught up with me, and I made the decision to give it up. My horse retired to a local therapeutic riding center, I sold my tack and hung my helmet up, and considered it in many ways the end of a chapter in my life [decisions made in high school seemed so final!].

One of MSU's requirements for graduation is an Integrative Studies in Biology course, and I think that is likely the origin of "the rest of it." The course I chose, "Insects, Globalization and Sustainability" was taught by a fiery, sarcastic and inspiring professor [hey Dr. Besaw!]. Even though I'd grown up in a fairly "green"-friendly family, his class laid a solid foundation for thinking about the problems of sustainability and the environment in an academic way. From there, I think food was a natural step. Everyone eats. But how do we eat?

After receiving a threatening letter from MSU telling me to pick a major already or we'll kick you out! [my summary], I stumbled into the Residential College in the Arts and Humanities. I used to joke that they created the college just for me, but in any case, finally I didn't have to focus all my scholarly energies on narrowing what seemed to be impossibly broad interests. They also allowed me the opportunity to finish my degree in a roundabout way, by first completing a life-altering internship at Spannocchia. As my anticipatory writing reminds me, I had no idea at the time how I'd feel about farm work, callouses, and the whole lot. I thought there was a pretty good chance I might hate it.

If someone had told me, when I was in high school, that I would end up on a pig farm... Italy, West Virginia, ANYWHERE... I would probably have been immensely disturbed. But here I am again and I'm loving every minute of it. There's a lot of mud, and poop, and hay in uncomfortable places... but also dynamic shifts in weather that we're starting to be able to identify, the tiny thrill of sweet new piglets, the satisfaction that comes with the end of a day. The solace that darkness brings, knowing that everyone's settled for the night. It feels good, as Wendell Berry would say.

Next week starts our harvest, when we bring pigs who have been fattening up on acorns [and the occasional unlucky turtle] in the woods to a local slaughterhouse to fulfill their porcine destiny. The next generation of hams [and shoulders and chops and sausages] is already being born. Today, with the patient help of my fellow intern and friend Chelsea, I made a loaf of bread. First time ever, and it was real, and hearty, and oh-so-good.

I suppose at this point you may be trying to figure out where the high heels come into play. Well, I was home for about 48 hours a few days ago. It was a last-minute trip, and the 4th call as I got out of the holler and back into cellphone range was to see about getting my hair cut. I like to shop [sometimes]. I like wine and cheese and impossibly tall sleek shoes. My time in Europe last year definitely did a number on my sense of style, and I'm sort of one of those obnoxious iPhone-using, scarf-wearing, farmers-market-shopping hipsters even I can't stand. But I think what that may show is that it is possible to have a foot in both worlds. Maybe a work boot in one and a stiletto in the other.

Food right now is a hot topic, and it's intensely personal for each of us. What and how we eat is an intimate experience as well as a boisterous one, tied up as much in memory and senses as it is in nutrition. I want to learn more about it, to understand better the ways in which each of us thinks about it [or doesn't], and how the system works [or doesn't]. Being here, hands to earth, is one of the most moving ways I have ever experienced my food— I look at the bad sow who has, to date, killed 12 of her 13 piglets, and all I can think is, I cannot wait to eat you. What a strange way to look at an animal. But I also look at the group of pigs slated for cutting and curing in the next two weeks and I see them individually, as characters. Pieces of a puzzle. They interact with their world, test things, run, play...

Truth be told, I have never been closer physically or personally to my food. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it. But once the harvest is over we're going to have a celebratory dinner. I can't wait to change out of my muck boots and mud-covered jeans and into a pair of heels and a dress, and join the rest of the people here in raising a glass to the inimitable... pig.

Countdown to... something

2010-10-12T23:47:00.001-04:00

12: piglets born today
10.5: volts running through electric fence
8: bee stings sustained after stepping in a ground nest
6: bruises on right leg
3: eggs gathered this morning
2: roosters who have chased me recently

How strange to be so far from home and yet feel, once again, that life is somehow as it should be. I've been wading back into the rhythm of waking at dawn and working for 10 or so hours until dusk begins to detract from your productivity and time is better spent at the house, enjoying a meal and a hot shower and the prospect of a down quilt. There is something so incredibly satisfying about the time and effort and sweat and blood spent and spilled outside, working with animals. Pigs. Such frustrating creatures with their stubborn destructiveness, those long eyelashes, their sweet and alarming grunts and huffs and snorts...

It was one thing to go to Italy to chase pigs around a farm. People understand Italy, with its wine and arts and food and vistas. Pigs, livestock, farming... all of it was an afterthought to them as it was to me two years ago when I applied for the internship at Spannocchia. I wanted to work with animals because I like animals, but even that was a flippant generality as I had no idea about these animals, what it takes to care for them and how that job might take over one's life. I used to wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of broken electric fences, that telltale snapping that meant hours of time fixing once again what those damned pigs had broken and then putting those pigs back where they were supposed to be all along.

But what I discovered when I left was that I really missed it. The only time in four months abroad that I felt homesick happened 2 days after I left the farm. I woke up in Cinque Terre to the sound of hens clucking across the narrow street from my bedroom window, and I was overcome with a sense of loss. How odd.

Fast forward to now. I'm in West Virginia on a pig farm. People don't really "get it" and I understand why. It's pigs and West Virginia and, basically, "most people go to college so that they don't have to do manual labor."

I don't want to grow up an become a pig farmer necessarily, but that doesn't detract the value of this work or the learning experience for me. As it turns out, this farming stuff is really complicated. There's a lot that goes into it. A small part of the job is feeding and watering the animals and making sure that they have shelter. The other 90% of your job, from day to day or week to week, is problem solving. Every day, new problems that require fast but effective thinking, creative fixes, making do and making things better. Weird or not, this is an invigorating and rewarding way to spend a day, a week, a month...

I came here back at square one, where I was when I showed up for the first day's work at Spannocchia. Tender hands that couldn't even be protected by gloves, because the gloves gave blisters. A sunburn from skin used to a steady florescent glow. And not even a fighting chance of hoisting a 100 lb. bag of grain from one place to another. I had to re-learn the feeling of wire in my hands, the way it bends and twists from a Slinky coil into sturdy structures that even a pig can't destroy. And there's a lot, A LOT, that I don't know. But I'm back and it feels good. Except for the stings, and even those are feeling better already.

ShakeWeight

2010-07-06T12:20:00.005-04:00

We Westerners can safely take for granted the body issues we've been doled out. By the media at large, by ourselves, by our inherited [but ever-changing] standards of beauty. Over the period of a long weekend, I just had two very different image-related experiences that, combined, have made themselves impossible to get out of the forefront of my mind.

Experience #1) Spending time lakeside with one of my best girlfriends. It's summer in Michigan so we all bare as much skin as possible, hoping to kickstart our Vitamin D stores and renew our faded tans. She and I wanted to take a picture looking out over the lake from her deck... and the resulting picture was immediately picked apart by both of us. Women are hard on themselves anyway, but it seems that in combination we multiply all of the things we've been trained to hate about ourselves and throw in a couple imaginary ones for good measure. It's as if we need to go around and around the table until every possible flaw has been accounted for.

Experience #2) Spending time lakeside with a large group of friends, some of whom I already knew, some of whom I had just met. More running around in bathing suits and the like. One of the guys on the trip made a comment to me, something about "all 98 pounds of you." At first comes the oh yeah right, look at all this beer I've been drinking and I haven't gone for a run in 5 days thoughts. Then the [hopefully] inevitable, wow, stop it, you look and more importantly feel great and healthy. Don't knock yourself.

Maybe I should have prefaced this all by saying that I'm very happy with myself and I think I have a pretty healthy body image. I'm active and I eat well, but I also love splitting a large pizza with a friend or indulging in late-night ice cream sundaes and the like. I consumed 3 pounds of Cheez-Its in January [thanks for the excellent Christmas gift, Dad!] I think it's completely possible to have it both ways and I've found a good balance in my life. I also read up on some delightful plastic surgery blogs and frown upon the excessively thin, pinched-looking women I see working out in my gym. They just can't be having that much fun, at the gym or in life.

That said, I see wiggling when I look in the mirror sometimes, and I know exactly where weight goes when I gain it. We're always our most unforgiving and merciless critic.

Especially having spent some time abroad, where eating is more about the experience of family, friends and flavors than it is about "refueling" as it is to many Americans, helps to keep me grounded. I gained weight on the inimitable Italian diet— olive oil with everything, bread, pasta, meat twice daily, desserts you can't turn down [and why would you want to?]. I've never felt so healthy and strong.

So, back to the "98 pounds" comment. First of all, a near slap-in-the-face reminder that my image of myself doesn't always jive with reality. I'm actually back down to the average female's much-coveted "high school weight," even below it. But lately for me it's been less about the scale and more about how I feel. I'm eating what I want. I can also run faster and farther than ever before. I recently ran my FIRST EVER 9-minute mile, something I'd never even considered as a possibility. In middle school gym class, being forced to run a timed mile was, each time, mortifying for me.

His comment also made me think about body image in general. He of course was exaggerating to make a funny point, but if I truly weighed 98 pounds I'd be skeletal [or dead]. According to BMI calculators I'm smack in the middle of a normal weight range. Another way to calculate your ideal weight, multiplying your height in inches over 5' by 5, then adding 100, yields... my weight. But do we really have any idea of what people weigh? What we see in magazines is so warped by Photoshop's invisible brush that even more realistically-sized women have been smoothed out so they don't look like us.

Those slim shadows my girlfriend and I hated in our deck picture are so easily painted out that I can fix them myself in a far-simpler photo editor. But one day we'll wake up and wonder what it was that we didn't like. Because we're young and healthy and fortunate to have legs that run and arms that kayak and backs that can survive a few days' sleep on a tiny couch. The best way to fight media's portrayal of men and women alike, with impossibly smooth skin and perfect hair and rippling muscles [but of course lean ones on the ladies, enormous ones on the guys] is probably just to love ourselves a little more. Cut a little more slack, get a little more fresh air, eat that box of Cheez-Its.

And next time you feel some self-hate coming on, remind yourself to hate that, not yourself.

Historic Day

2010-03-22T14:15:00.006-04:00

So I haven't had much to say here in a while. I've been working more or less full time and generally life is pretty static these days. I did run off to Guatemala for about 2 weeks, and I'm taking an urban gardening course, so things are happening but... for the most part any posting I would do seems more to be notes to myself rather than anything worth digesting by other people.

The more I realize that's the case, the more I get the urge to leave— not really to leave but to go, to restart that conversation with myself and you out there in the world. It's been too long since I've written, but lately even that has been changing and I can sense myself coming back to it. Hello, old friend.

Anyway, the health care bill passed last night [barely, an embarrassment to both parties in my opinion]. There's an article on CNN, How GOP Can Rebound From Its 'Waterloo', written by David Frum. It starts out on a pretty ridiculous foot, as he says this should be the No. 1 early priority:

One of the worst things about the Democrats' plan is the method of financing: an increase in income taxes. The top rate of tax was already scheduled to jump to 39.6 percent at the end of this year. Now a surtax of 5.4 percent will be stacked atop that higher rate. At first, the surtax bites only very high incomes: $500,000 for individuals. But that tax will surely be applied to larger and larger portions of the American population over time.

Oh yes, SURELY that will happen, no doubt at night while you're sleeping. EVERYBODY PANIC.

I mean, I get it. Not everyone's happy and the bill is far from perfect. It's a meaningful start, at least. Anyway. Frum finally calms down a little and talks some real sense...

"Conservatives have whipped themselves into spasms of outrage and despair that block all strategic thinking.
Or almost all. The vitriolic talking heads on conservative talk radio and shock TV have very different imperatives from people in government. Talk radio thrives on confrontation and recrimination.
When Rush Limbaugh said that he wanted Obama to fail, he was intelligently [disagree] explaining his own interests. What he omitted to say— but what is equally true— is that he also wants Republicans to fail.
If Republicans succeed— if they govern successfully in office and negotiate attractive compromises out of office— Rush's listeners get less angry. And if they are less angry, they listen to the radio less and hear fewer ads for Sleep Number beds."

Glenn Beck will be crying gleeful fake tears and Rush will be getting ready for his next cardiac episode, Sarah Palin will get her pointy fingers going... I don't know who exactly listens to them, but apparently it's a lot, A LOT, of people. At least when I watch The Colbert Report I understand that much of what he says is carefully worded to make a point, usually opposite to what he's just said, or to get a rise out of his unwitting guests. His audience is in on the joke.

Poems by My Grandfather

2010-01-28T15:53:00.003-05:00

I drafted this over a year ago and for some reason never posted it. I'd actually forgotten about it completely till now when I stumbled across it. I would have been four years old in 1991....

My aunt and grandmother have been cleaning house from top to bottom recently, and came across these poems written by my grandfather, a man of few words and big smiles.

Sept. '91

Kate came into
my bedroom to
wake me from a nap.

"Get up - You're a
sleepyhead couch potato"
she said
with a wonderful
smile in her eyes.

[Untitled]

I looked at Jill today
and for some reason thought
"She's Rosie's daughter"
and it pleased me

and I played golf
with nice people
and enjoyed it

and no matter
what happens
in this world

What I enjoyed
on this day
in time and space

Can never be erased.

End of October

2009-10-26T01:31:00.003-04:00

Well. Here I am. As of this week, I am finished with my degree requirements at MSU, so while I don't have the diploma yet, I'm done. It's not as exciting as I thought it would be— it mostly feels good to have the work out of the way, but at the same time, the burnout I was feeling last fall semester was at once relieved and exacerbated by my time abroad and subsequent return home.

Now comes the Big Questions time, when I have to start thinking seriously about what my next step will be. There are lots of directions I could go, but knowing how to choose seems daunting. This is the first time I've ever not had that next step already lined up, and after so many years of classes and more classes, I'm enjoying the sense of adventure that comes with the unknown.

Little Something

2009-07-22T22:16:00.004-04:00

I'm, quite frankly, getting pretty tired of hearing people jabber on and on about how they want to buy organic food and "be green" and then see them do nothing about it. Sure, buy "organic" things from WalMart and buy 17351 "eco-friendly" shopping bags when one or two would be enough, and then forget them at home and end up with new paper or plastic anyway.

My father, who sells ad specialty items [like those bags you see for sale everywhere nowadays], put it best and bluntly when he said to me, "Everyone wants to go green until they see the price tag." And that's why you can buy those shopping bags from Meijer for $1. Partly, I think, because Meijer wants to foster good will and make people think that they are NOT, in fact, positioning themselves to be the next WalMart, but also because some guy like my father priced out a few options of bags that they could put their logo on and sell to customers. Meijer execs would have taken one look at the price tag on a higher quality, organic cotton bag or something along those lines and said "absolutely not!" So instead, we get these bags produced who knows where and who knows how, that make us feel good about our more environmentally-friendly approach to life.

Actually, I should say "you" instead of "we" because I stopped shopping at Meijer stores some time ago, in favor of my local food co-op. Find yours here! Their motto is "Big enough to meet your needs, small enough to meet your neighbors," and that is exactly why I go there.

Anyway, this was supposed to just be a quick post to remind you to think a little outside the box when it comes to reusing materials. While I was in Italy, my father sent me a birthday package that had some of those weird air-filled plastic shipping bubbles in it. Those can be re-used for shipping, of course, so I left a few of them on the farm for other people. Then I took a few of them, carefully tore holes in one end to fit around specific bottles of stuff [shampoo, sunscreen, etc.] and packed them away! That way, in case one of the bottles exploded in transit, the rest of my luggage was protected! And it worked.

Il Pennato

2009-06-24T19:22:00.004-04:00

This is a journal entry that I wrote on the train the day I left Spannocchia, May 25, 2009. I submitted it to Broni as my final pennato.

“Wow, what a blur.

“I’m sitting on a train currently, headed for Cinque Terre. My internship at Spannocchia is over, seemingly as suddenly as it began. We’re rolling by intensely green fields, filled with dustings of yellow flowers and brilliantly red-orange poppies. Crumbling stone buildings, cyprus trees shouting into the sky, broombrush in full buttery bloom sliding by my window. Small garden patches that I have come to expect and yet still cherish. Freshly plowed fields, vineyards leaning into the sun on hillsides, olive trees reaching with crooked fingers out and up, maybe for clouds.

“The conductor just walked through the cabin, asking to see our tickets and frowning at my shoes propped up on the chair across from me. I am suddenly an American again, traveling with a duffel bag and a backpack through Europe like so many others. An American student, wearing tennis shoes, shorts and a tank top like all the rest. He doesn’t know I spent the last three months living and working here, even learning enough Italian to get me places. I’m no longer an intern at Spannocchia (the golden ticket in this area, for it is a well-known place). I’m anonymous, alone. It is at once terrifying and exhilarating. This trip is the longest that I have ever been away from home, and the coming month will be the first time that I have ever traveled completely alone. I think I can do it. I’ll find out soon, either way.

“We’re passing in and out of little towns, flowers on every windowsill and balcony. The sleeping, towering construction cranes that are watching over these ancient cities as they grow. The tomato plants with their teepee trellises, the same ones here as are at Spannocchia. Laundry out to dry. People walking— some obviously Italian, some obviously tourists. The Americans are the easiest to spot (like me, right now). Then, just as suddenly as you are in a town, you are out again, passing by fields made golden in the sun, with hay bales scattered like carelessly discarded marbles in the grass. A giant would play jacks with them.

“Oh, Tuscany. A place I have come to know very well, and yet still not at all. A way of life so different from my own, and yet now partly mine. I will take away as much of this place as I can, in memories, in language, in the dirt under my fingernails and the sun-streaks in my hair. And it will keep some of me, too— my work in the fields, my hands on the prosciutto legs that won’t be ready for two years, the sweat that I wiped into the grass (and even the occasional tear), my laughter echoing in the hills from the top of Pig Hill to the horse pasture where I said goodbye to Nera. Often here, tears and laughter came together.

“Was it all a dream? Or should I say, could everything have been real? Were Jay and I truly almost struck by lightning atop the tower one stormy night? Did I really go flying across fields on the back of a beautiful black horse? Did I wake up each morning and see Tuscan hillsides, olive orchards and fog lifting over castles? It can’t be true. And yet, somehow, it is. It was all real and I really do know how to tell a taxi driver where to take me, my family. I know how to wrangle pigs and form a team with a broken-hearted horse. I know about wines from all different regions, and I know that I love pecorino cheese. I know to stamp my train ticket at the station, and now I know to keep my feet off the furniture. Well, ok, so some things I knew before I came here. But I’ve learned so much and added so many things to my life list— things to do, places to go, people to meet, food to try (and to cook!). The universe must still be expanding, or at least mine is. May it always be so.

“Time to change trains…

“And what a change it was! The train from Siena was quiet, pensive. I switched in Empoli and this train is loud, rattling, exciting! The first train had air conditioning but this one does not, so all of the windows are down. The wind as we cut across the country fills the entire cabin, billowing out the shades and feeling like we’re moving at a much faster pace. I don’t think we actually are though— funny thing about life. The illusion of speed, tranquility, or whatever it may be. Sometimes all it takes is opening a window, and everything is different.”

Pictures from Paris

2009-06-17T16:25:00.003-04:00

My travel partner in crime Carlee has kindly agreed to let me post a link to her pictures from Paris... there are some great ones!

Venice is a fascinating city and I've been enjoying being hopelessly lost here. The other people staying in the hostel are really fun, so I've had people [with better map skills than I possess] to wander with!

OK, here's the one I wanted to post

2009-06-16T15:25:00.004-04:00

Bonjour hopeful readers!

I'm sorry to have neglected you over the past two weeks, but rest assured that I am still alive and having a wonderful time!

I was so lucky to have a week to spend with my friend Irena, who not only showed me all the fun things to do around Helsinki but also provided me with a week of stability— the same apartment, a set of keys, and an opportunity to catch up on sleep. And I did crash for the first few days, enjoying a chance to do some laundry, read, and wander tentatively around the city on my own while she worked.

She was a fantastic tour guide as well as hostess, taking me for a picnic on a nearby island one day, on a bus tour of the city another, to an old [but not Spannocchia old] castle via a train ride through beautiful northern countryside... we even took a cruise to Estonia! I also got an idea of some Finnish traditions, like cold-cured meat [something I would like to learn more about], cloudberries & cheese, and saunas! And most of all, it was great to be able to spend a week catching up with her!

From Helsinki I headed to Geneva for a night, meeting up with my friend Carlee from the RCAH. I'm not keen to go back there, but we did have a delicious traditional Swiss dinner called R osti, which is basically hash browns with delicious toppings and lots of cheese! And then, Paris!

I took French from 7th grade until I graduated high school, yet have never actually been to a French-speaking country until now. It was an interesting dynamic to observe in myself as my brain grappled with what I remember of French from six years of study, and what I learned of Italian in three months in Tuscany. I'm still rolling my R's and saying weird combinations of the two languages. It's something I never in a million years would have guessed would happen to me— not because I'm a language genius and should be able to distinguish them perfectly, but because I never would have predicted I would possess a working knowledge of two languages other than my mother tongue.

Interestingly enough, I made a friend at a restaurant one night, an Italian living in Paris [who speaks, of course, three languages effortlessly... damn you, American school system!], and so have been speaking more Italian here than French! Go figure. Anyway, turns out I can actually carry on conversations in Italian!! I am determined not to lose this ability once I get home.

So back to Paris... Carlee and I have managed to cover an incredible amount of the city in just one week. One day we walked from our hostel right next to the Gare de Lyon all the way to the Arc de Triomphe! On our way we stopped at Notre Dame [and were able to go inside!], the Louvre [just to see it], Assemblée National, Hotel des Invalides [where Napoleon is buried], and the Tour Eiffel for a picnic. By the time we made it to the Arc, we were ready for a siesta!

We also saw the Sacre Coeur, both by day and as the sun set, the Opera National de Paris-Garnier, the famed Moulin Rouge and the Bastille. We've also spent a few hours in the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay, which in addition to holding an incredible amount of art are works of art themselves. One of my favorite things was going up to the top of the Notre Dame— we were there, looking out over Paris with the gargoyles, for the ringing of the bells at 5:30. Incredible.

Here's an idea of where we walked... I still can't believe we actually made it!

View Larger Map

And of course, we've been walking miles and miles every day, and then rewarding our efforts with the most perfect pastries imaginable. I have fallen in love completely with macarons. Today we stopped into Ladurée, a place I know about because of an art blog I read, and had a beautiful pink macaron with raspberries in the middle. Oh la la!

En Transit

2009-06-15T08:11:00.005-04:00

This is a rough draft that I wrote on the train on my way to Paris... it's definitely not finished and there's a huge block of a quote that I haven't yet broken down into the essay, but you'll get the idea.

I wrote an update about my time in Paris and Helsinki but currently can't access it due to a dead computer! Exactly one hour from now I will board a train to Venice, and am officially in my last 10 days here as of tomorrow morning. Hard to believe.

Anyway, here's this... enjoy.

“How we eat can change the world.”
— Alice Waters

Almost as amazing as what I learned each day working with maiali, pecore, vacche, gallini [pigs, sheep, cows, chickens], constantly broken recinti [fences], and my broken Italiano, are the things I learned from the people there. From the owners of the estate, Randall and Francesca, I learned about the history and vision of Spannocchia; from the staff I learned about various workings of the farm; from the other interns I learned about food! Of course, I learned a lot about food anyway, as we were surrounded by traditional Tuscan dishes each night at dinner, and participated in tastings of wine, cheese, and regional aperitivi [appetizers] as much as time allowed. But that aside, I was constantly amazed by the knowledgability of my fellow interns on the subject of all things food. Anne has been working in a New York City bakery for the past few years, and Alison was a waitress at the revered and world-renowned The French Laundry restaurant in Napa before arriving in Italy. We also had the distinct pleasure of getting to know Jay, who came to Spannocchia as a “transformation” volunteer for five weeks. He has worked as the top chef in a number of restaurants in the States and has big plans to open his own small-scale animal processing facility in Kentucky, emphasizing quality over quantity.

And so we come to the crux of the European food experience, the reason Carl Petrini started the Slow Food movement in Bra, Italy, the reason so many people travel to Europe for the food and to America for the vistas. Quality over quantity!
The restaurants in Tuscany advertised their steaks proudly, proclaiming them to be Chianina beef. Chianina is a heritage breed very similar to the Kalvannah beef raised at Spannocchia. In America, steakhouses shout their steaks to you in ounces, the bigger the better. It doesn’t seem to matter where they came from or what kind of beef it is, nor does it matter how it was raised, or on what sort of food. Grain, rendered animal parts and antibiotics? Yum! I’ll take your biggest New York Strip please!

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the American food system is lacking in integrity because Americans just don’t care. They don’t demand it, from our suppliers or producers. For us, as long as every McDonalds hamburger looks and tastes the same, it doesn’t matter where its ingredients came from. People don’t care that McDonalds beef comes from used up dairy cows [ladies, think about that one for a while!] and they don’t care that the taste is largely imparted by chemicals, created in a lab. And when, every now and then, a grainy video is smuggled out of a slaughterhouse showing a “downer” cow being prodded and beaten so that it can be turned into a “tasty,” chemical-enhanced hamburger, of course people will be disgusted and demand an end to it. But they rarely change their habits. In a slaughterhouse where hundreds of animals are processed per hour, of course cows become commodities. The system is specifically designed that way, and a cow that can’t walk is a flaw in the plan, a broken piece.

The interns, or a few of them, seemed always to be talking in hushed tones about some woman named “Alice.” Who was this Alice lady, and where was I when we met her? Then I noticed an oft-referenced cookbook hiding in the corner of our kitchen in Pulcinelli, titled The Art of Simple Food. So began my education about Alice Waters, the founder of a now-famous restaurant in California that is rated by many as one of the best restaurants in the U.S. and the world. I decided to read a biography about her that sounded interesting, called Alice Waters and Chez Panisse: the romantic, impractical, often eccentric, ultimately brilliant making of a food revolution. Waters, more or less, decided that she loved French culture and that she wanted to start a restaurant, despite not knowing anything about them, or about food for that matter. What she did know, however, was that she loved la cuisine du marché, market food. Fresh food. Whatever looked the best in market stalls was what went into dinner that night.

In some ways, Chez Panisse today goes no further than Alice’s first modest desires for it. It still occupies the same old house in Berkley . . . There is not a Chez Panisse outpost in Las Vegas, or anywhere else; there is no Chez Panisse frozen pizza; and it is only in the last few years that Chez Panisse has become a genuinely profitable enterprise . . .

But for many people, including many who will never eat there, Chez Panisse is a much larger enterprise than a restaurant. It is a standard-bearer for a system of moral values. It is the leader of a style of cooking, of a social movement, and of a comprehensive philosophy of doing good and living well . . .

Alice Waters has transformed the way many Americans eat and the way they think about food. Her insistence on the freshest ingredients, used only at the peak of their season, nearly always grown locally and organically, is now a ruling principle in the best American restaurants and for many home cooks. Her conception of a moral community based on good food and goodwill has helped to spawn a new generation of artisans and farmers . . . .

[Waters] envisioned the soul-deadening machinery of corporate agriculture supplanted by a profusion of small organic farms, sustainable fisheries, and humane and ecologically benign animal husbandry. She dreamed of the fractured American family coming back together, and back to health, around the dining table. She saw that people worldwide could be drawn by pleasure to a new way of thinking about the earth and a better way of living on it.

Finalement en France!

2009-05-30T05:47:00.006-04:00

I've been in Nice for the past few days, with my friends Lindsay and David. They don't call it la cote d'azur for nothin'... it's beautiful. I have finally tried macarons and they were everything I've always hoped for. We spent yesterday morning wandering through the famous Marché aux Fleurs, a daily flower and farmer's market.

My brain is going through language shock— just when I was really starting to settle into Italian, I suddenly find myself in France! I took French for many years, but after three solid months in Italy, I'm having a lot of trouble remembering words that I know I know in French. I couldn't tell the taxi driver I had been working in Italy for the last three months, because I couldn't remember the words for "work," "month," or "farm." I've also been rolling my r's like crazy and saying perche? instead of pourquoi?, si instead of oui, and so on... apparently it's bad enough that a waiter asked me if I spoke Italian when I was trying to order in French. Such a strange thing!

Here's a farm video that's different from the rest... excuse my manic laughter in it! Fellow animale intern Max stars on the bike and with the ukelele, with Greg sitting next to me on the tractor and our supervisor Giulio driving. Enjoy!

Also, in case you are hoping for more posts about Spannocchia... they are coming! I will continue to digest my experience [probably for the rest of my life!] and will most definitely be writing more about it here. If anyone out there has questions to ask, about the farm or my experience or food or whatever, please leave a comment here or send me an email and I promise I'll get to it! Grazie, merci and thank you!

And... new pictures of my travels thus far.

Tomorrow I'm headed to Helsinki to see my dear friend Irena. Can't wait!

Cinque Terre!

2009-05-27T03:13:00.002-04:00

Lady Luck seems to be shining upon me!

I got to the first town in Cinque Terre, Riomaggiore, by chance. I missed my original train in Siena but the man who helped me buy a new ticket seemed to appreciate my broken Italian and got me a great deal. When I got off the train here, I had no idea where I was going to stay. I actually asked an American couple where they were staying, and they directed me to a campground outside the city, "close by" as they said, but a half-hours train ride away! (Please excuse my terrible punctuation in this post, as I am using a weird keyboard and cant find the apostrophe key!)

Anyway, that did not appeal to me so I walked outside the train station, questioning my judgement in arriving without solid plans. Just then, an older man walked up to me and asked if I was looking for a room. Of course, my first reaction was "Dont do it, who knows what will happen?" but I remembered reading somewhere that its very common for pensione (pensioners) to rent out rooms here. So I figured, why not look? His apartment is about 30 seconds from the train station, and when we walked inside, there was another American woman, Michelle, staying in a different room! And not 5 minutes later, a Canadian couple showed up at the door looking for a place to stay-- and one of them had stayed with Sergio two years ago.

So thats where I have been for the last two nights. Sergio has an adorable breakfast ready for us in the morning (croissant with jam, fruit, and hot chocolate!) and is an all-around nice guy. He speaks to Michelle in English but he speaks to me, mostly, in Italian. I have continued to surprise myself with my Italian abilities-- of course I make lots of mistakes, but time and again I can communicate. I even spoke to a random woman on the street about her adorable little dog! Three months ago it would not have been possible.

Michelle and I get along really well, and spent yesterday hiking along the trails that link the Cinque Terre (Five Lands). The trail starts off fairly easy, paved and flooded with tourists. We stopped in each town to wander, getting a fantastic almond milk smoothie in one, getting foccaccia (flatbread) in another, and going for a swim in the ocean. By the time we started out for the last town, it was beginning to cool down and the sun was setting. A fantastic day. We also had a great meal, all fresh frutti di mare (sea food, literally "fruits of the ocean").

Today we will probably rent kayaks for a couple hours, and then I will be on my way to Nice!

Leaving Spannocchia

2009-05-25T03:07:00.003-04:00

So, today's the day! The past three months really flew by. I meant to post something here but there just hasn't been time.

I'm headed to the UNESCO world heritage site Cinque Terre today. From there I will head to France and then Finland to meet up with friends. Exciting of course, but it's sad to be leaving. Yesterday Riccio and I moved the horses and donkeys out to their summer pasture, and with that, my work on the farm was done.

Since I'll have some time on the train today, there should be a longer post coming soon. Until then, pictures of my final weeks here and here.

The Final Countdown Commences....

2009-05-18T15:55:00.002-04:00

Ciao tutti!

As you may have guessed from looking at the last pictures I posted, the exciting day I mentioned in my last post involved herding vacche [cows] on horseback! Realistically, it probably took longer than it would have on foot [because these cows are used to being “called,” not herded]… but it was a lot of fun for me and for Nera, the mare I’ve been working with here. I had the “Man From Snowy River” soundtrack playing in my head the entire time [some of you will know what I’m talking about].

The most exciting news I have to report is that I spent the last week with my mom, grandmother, aunt and uncle! It was the best birthday present imaginable [other than the Cheez-its, thanks again Dad!]. Spannocchia is a bit Grand Canyon-esque in that no picture or description [or various combinations of the two] can truly do it justice— it was a lot of fun for me to show them what I've been doing for the last 3 months. I realized, too, just how much I’ve been learning. I think they were on information overload all week from my ramblings about Cinta Senese breed standards, how to make pecorino, why Tuscan bread is terrible, and who San Galgano was. They were also lucky to be here just as every field in the region burst into bloom with wildflowers, most notably the famous Tuscan poppies.

This is our last week of work, and next Monday I will be on a train headed for France. It’s impossible to believe that the experience is nearly over. For now, I am trying to soak in every last experience, smell, taste, texture... Right now there are roses in bloom all over the farm, each of them a different color and with different petal shapes and patterns. Unlike the roses in the States, every one smells lovely, and they all smell different. But, hell, even the way the clothes hang on the lines to dry here is beautiful. I hope I never forget.

The Miracle of Place

2009-05-05T16:14:00.007-04:00

“I really want to get the miracle of this place into everybody’s mouth right from the start.”
—Odessa Piper

While perusing the library here at Spannocchia, I came across a book that instantly piqued my curiosity. Entitled The Tuscan Year, by Elizabeth Romer, the book was published in 1984. I, of course, am only here for the Tuscan Three Months, but I was curious how much of the book would cover things that I had already experienced. I also wondered if the book would still ring true twenty-five years later. A lot has been changing in Italy in these last few decades— the first fast food restaurant, the advent of the Slow Food Movement in response, the very slow trickle of “foreign” food restaurants into various cities, and the backlash against them, not just from citizens but also in the form of laws. Traditionalism, globalization, protectionism and tourism have met in Italy and run headlong into one another.

Romer addresses that immediately, right in her introduction:
When we first came to the valley Silvana did her ironing with an antiquated tall hollow iron that was filled with wood embers. One day when I wandered into the fattoria, she was using an electric one and chuckling with glee at the ease and convenience of the new iron. Then I realized that this old fashioned life could change; perhaps the next generation of country women would forget how to make cheese, maybe the prosciutto would be bought from the store and the old skills would be gradually forgotten [emphasis added].

Of course, this was before such an organization as Slow Food existed, but the danger is still present. Happily for me, the prosciutto at Spannocchia is made in the traditional way, from a heritage breed of pigs, the Cinta Senese. The tradition is still very much alive.

The very safeguards put in place by organizations like Slow Food which are meant to protect traditional methods might also deal them a deathblow of sorts. For as long as humans have been around, they have been interacting with other cultures and trading food traditions. The tomato, which much of the world associates with Italian cuisine, is a New World food that didn’t make an appearance in the country until the mid-1800s. Is it realistic to freeze a cooking method in time? Can that method remain authentic if it is artificially kept static? That will be a question for everyone, producers and consumers alike, to consider in this confusing world of food.

I’m quite pleased that I happened upon Romer’s account of a year in Tuscany, and it was an appropriate read at the halfway point of the internship. I’ve been here long enough to have a substantial exposure to many food traditions, and for my remaining time I will have a renewed appreciation for what I am eating and why. The Tuscan bread, which is known in all of Italy for being terrible, is cardboard-esque for a reason. Peasants for hundreds of years would fire up their bread ovens once weekly, and omitting salt from the dough ensured that the bread would not attract humidity get moldy. The bread was also designed to accompany salty foods like prosciutto, or well-seasoned soups swimming in olive oil. Tuscan butter is unsalted for the same reason. That knowledge doesn’t particularly comfort me in the mornings as I eat semi-stale saltless toast with unsalted butter, but at least I know.

Romer also discusses a few production methods. Her explanation of the butchering and curing of meats mirrored much of which I witnessed firsthand in Spannocchia’s “transformation room.” I smiled as I read her account of soprasada, or what I’ve been calling “spare-part sausage.”

Then the butcher takes the pig’s head and part of the belly and kidneys and he cuts them up and cooks them in the great cauldron over the fire. When the meat has been boiled to a state of tenderness he takes out the pieces and lays them all on a the bare, well-scrubbed wooden table . . . he quickly chops the meat into small pieces [and] seasons this medieval-looking mixture with chopped fresh orange peel, salt and a great deal of black pepper to make a deliciously perfumed brawn which is a real delicacy (13).

Romer’s contrast of “medieval-looking mixture” with “delicacy” sums soprasada up exactly, truth be told. When she talked about making pecorino, which is sheep milk and absolutely delicious, I had a newfound knowledge and appreciation for it, having visited the Azienda Agricola Sant’Anna for a tour only days before. As Romer explained, rennet is a necessary ingredient to make the milk coagulate and form curds. Rennet was discovered through the slaughtering of lambs who had, basically, the beginnings of cheese in their stomachs, and it is harvested from sheep and cow intestines. There is, however, another way to get rennet, and I had no idea about it until just days ago [and then heard it from two sources one after the other]. A substance found in thistles produces the same effect, and can be extracted by drying the flowers and then soaking the stamens in hot water. During our Sant’Anna tour we were able to sample a fresh, raw milk pecorino made with the vegetarian rennet, and it was delicious! I also did not know that ricotta was made with whey, the leftovers that would otherwise be wasted during the pecorino-making process. Waste not, want not.

Oddly, the pattern of learning about something just before reading about it in this book continued throughout. Carciofi fritti, fried artichokes, is apparently one of the most popular ways to serve artichokes. Last week the interns had a cooking class where we prepared a traditional Tuscan lunch, and carciofi fritti was one of the sides we made. “The artichokes are sliced . . . then dipped into flour for a light dusting, then into a bowl of beaten egg and lastly plunged into a pan of oil . . . The slices must be dipped into the egg and fat individually or the whole thing will coagulate into a mass that will spoil the appearance of the dish” (61). That was the same warning, almost exactly, the interns received from Loredona, the woman who taught our cooking class.

Needless to say, my curiousity as to the potential similarities and differences between this book and my life here at Spannocchia was sufficiently satisfied. I seem to be experiencing many of the keystones of Tuscan life, and the things I am learning about food here are classic, time-honored. Even the Cerotti family that Romer followed for a year in Tuscany is an uncanny mix of all the people I interact with here on the farm, for my three months at Spannocchia.

New pictures are up! Here, here, and here.

And a little video of one of the newest lambs on the farm:

And look for a post soon about the fantastic day I had today!

A metà strada

2009-04-26T11:38:00.005-04:00

The internship ends one month from yesterday, and two months from today I will board a plane headed for home. Two months ago tomorrow, I was sitting in Detroit Metro airport wondering how the hell I had gotten myself into this all. Can I really be halfway done here, two-thirds of the way through at Spannocchia? Apparently.

The animales interns switched duties around as planned, so I have been taking care of the 28 pecore [sheep] and 10 agnelli [lambs] instead the maiali. It was a welcome change, but brought about new challenges of course. The learning curve with maiali was steep, but after working with them for five weeks I am confident enough to gauge most situations and deal with them appropriately. Our Cinta will, for the most part, follow anyone or anything with a grain bucket. The pecore, on the other hand, have an incredible herd instinct, which is great as long as they actually follow you.

The first morning after the switch, I had a plan:
I remembered all the trouble Max had with them his first week, and I remembered helping him once when he had a bucket of alfalfa. So as I got ready to lead them out of the fold, I grabbed a bucket and stuck fistful of alfalfa in it. “Pecore, andiamo! Vieni! Let’s go, come on!” Oh, I was so hopeful. My plan actually seemed to work for a few minutes, but then Roberto’s dogs were outside and barking, which made the pecore hesitate… I tried regrouping, rattling the fieno in the bucket and letting the leaders sniff at it. That’s the problem with sheep, though. Whoever is in the front of the herd is the leader— regardless of which direction they’re headed or who is in front. As soon as a car drove down the road, it was all over. They took off in the opposite direction down the road, with me tailing them at full speed in my muck boots and overalls, rattling that stupid bucket of hay and trying to call them to me in the calmest voice I could muster. It just so happened that Greg was headed in our direction to check a fence, so the two of us got them turned around… and then they all scaled the rock wall and jumped into a pasture. Not really where they were supposed to go, but I figured that wasn’t a bad attempt for my first day. A half hour later as I headed back up to the main fattoria, I realized that they had promptly climbed back over the wall again and were out on the road. Sheep are very different from pigs— the pigs will test and test and test any fence, and escape from it the moment it fails, whether it’s electric or just cyclone wire. Sheep, on the other hand, will respect any closed gate, even if it’s not latched, but they don’t think twice about scaling five-foot tall rock walls.

It’s gotten a lot better though. I picked up a bamboo stick near one of the vineyards and have been using it as a crook. The extra arm span it gives me seems to make a big difference, and I’ve realized that it’s really only important to get a few of them to follow you. Piano, piano [slowly, slowly]— the pace that dictates life here. The rest of them with follow those few. It’s a huge change of pace from feeding the pigs, and I’ve been enjoying the more relaxed mornings, leading them out to graze. Keep in mind, of course, that I’m walking with a herd of sheep, bells tinkling around their necks, by vineyards and through olive orchards, across pastures covered in yellow, purple and white wildflowers, and poppies, and all in the shadows of 700 year-old stone buildings. It’s so surreal, still.

Add to the mix what is, for me, probably the most exciting development of all— the mare I’ve been working with piano, piano, Nera, has gone from being my pet project to a faithful riding companion. Every night, the moment I finish with work, I run down to the horses and work with her until it’s time for dinner. I’ve even ridden her during chores, starting last weekend when I was on duty, and continuing this past week when I fed the sheep in the evenings. Yesterday she and I explored some of the far reaches of Spannocchia’s property, poking around Casetta al Leccio for a while and galloping, flying really, across a few verdant fields. You can imagine how happy I am. It'll be hard to leave this.

That being said, a certain few family members might like to know that I am very much looking forward to seeing them in a few short weeks! Mom, I had a dream the other night that you were here, having dinner with us in the Villa. [aww, I know.]

Anywho. Lots of new pictures here, here, here, and here... and videos galore!

Here are the pecore, or "peckers" as Giulio likes to call them:

Meet Nera!

And the hens...

This one is overdue, but here's a look into the Transformation Room with Riccio [when he curses about halfway through the video, it's because the casings kept breaking, which is why he cuts it]:

Community and Place

2009-04-13T14:07:00.005-04:00

“[T]o a great extent we are a de-placed people for whom our immediate places are no longer sources of food, water, livelihood, energy, materials, friends, recreation, or sacred inspiration.”
— David Orr

William Vitek (1996) discusses “community and the virtue of necessity” in an article he wrote by the same name, from the anthology Rooted in the Land: essays on community and place. His assertion that “necessity leads inevitably to virtue for the individual and well-being for the community” makes a lot of sense when you consider the oftentimes selfish nature of humans. It serves as a reminder that, without necessity, we tend to live without regard for others or the Earth— until faced with some sort of catastrophe or day of reckoning.

I have been at Spannocchia now for five weeks and feel remarkably settled into life here. I enjoy waking up early, knowing that the animals are hungry and waiting for me. I enjoy spending my days outside, and really, many days I am outside for 12 hours. On the days when we only work in the morning and have class in the afternoons I feel restless, anxious to put my boots back on and get outdoors again. I have been working with one of the horses here, so after I finish evening chores [or class] I run down to the stable until it’s time for dinner. What a change from my life at home, and oh, how much I am going to miss it when I leave.

I have also had time to feel established in the community here, with the volunteers and interns and staff. Everyone here has a role in the daily functioning of the farm and villa, and I interact with the results of their labor each time I use the hot water, eat dinner, drink wine, or walk among the rows of olive trees. As Vitek explains, “[i]t seems that human beings, because of our limitations and necessities, seek out one another and engage in cooperative behavior. With time and the right conditions, practices and customs arise that celebrate this heretofore instrumental gathering. Stories are told, memories are formed and revered, a community is defined.” I am living in a true community, where someone cuts trees down and stacks the wood, someone gathers the wood, someone builds the fire each morning and stokes it during the day, and I get to take a hot shower after a long day of tending the pigs that those people will eventually eat. Of course, I am only here for three months, but in that short time my contributions to the farm are necessary, and I am very aware of that fact. There are infinite amounts of things to be aware of here— Vitek cautions us to “feel the motion of our moving planet and see the ground beneath our feet for what it is.” I think that is what this experience is truly about.

I read another article concerning the idea of place, this one written by David Orr (1992) and titled “Place and Pedagogy.” First off, I had to look up “pedagogy” in the dictionary: “the method and practice of teaching, especially as an academic subject or theoretical concept.” Got it. Let me preface this by saying that immediately after reading it, I told the education director Broni that the article should be somehow incorporated into the intern curriculum here. I thought it summed up perfectly many of the things I have been thinking about here, and much of what is important about this place. Orr begins by discussing Thoreau’s reason for going to live by a nondescript pond in the middle of nowhere. Why am I here at Spannocchia? Thoreau went, “‘to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms,’ . . . to live ‘deliberately’ . . . [not] the far-off and the exotic, but the ordinary, ‘the essential facts of life.’ . . . In the process he revealed something of the potential lying untapped in the commonplace, on our own places, in ourselves, and the relation between all three.”

Orr then talks about someone to whom he refers only as Whitehead— I assume he is talking about Alfred North Whitehead (1861-1947), a philosopher and mathematician. Yes, I had to look that up in the dictionary too. Anyway, Orr includes a quote from this Whitehead character: “The learned world . . . is tame because it has never been scared by the facts.” Have I been scared by the facts since arriving at Spannocchia? Probably. I’ve eaten burista sausage, which is basically all the spare parts of pigs [guts, skin, head, etc.] left after butchering takes place, stewed, then mixed with blood and placed in cheesecloth in order to drain some of the gelatinous goop from it. Last night for Pasqua [Easter] dinner, I ate lamb’s brain. A few weeks ago I saw a sow eat part of a dead piglet. This morning, the oldest sheep on the farm was dead by one of the guest houses, and I will no doubt help dispose of it in “the Pit” tomorrow. These are the facts of life on a farm. I am also covered in scrapes and scratches, bruises of varying sizes [one of the horses bit me the other day and the bruise is about as big as an apple], and I severely pinched my index finger while cleaning out a water trough and can barely use it to type this. My hands are rough, blistered and blood-blistered, calloused. I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night with “charlie horses” in my legs, and I already have tan lines from my overalls. Am I a weather-beaten farmer? Hardly. This is what five weeks of work will do to a body unaccustomed to physical labor. I love it.

Orr continues: “Aside from its merits as literature or philosophy, Walden is an antidote to the idea that education is a passive, indoor activity occurring between the ages of six to twenty-one . . . For Thoreau, Walden was more than his location. It was a laboratory for observation and experimentation; a library of data about geology, history, flora, and fauna; a source of inspiration and renewal; and a testing ground for the man.” He might as well be talking about Spannocchia, it too a place rooted in place and history and soil. Does my life in East Lansing “encourage much sense of rootedness, responsibility, and belonging”? I take three-minute showers here— and not every day or even every other day, generally— turning off the water almost as soon as I turn it on. The well that supplies water for all of Spannocchia could run dry at any time, and has, as recently as last year. I certainly don’t want to be responsible, or even partly responsible, for all of Spannocchia running dry.

Orr argues that, most of all, the issue is not the role of place in education, but instead is “our relationship to our own places. What is the proper balance between mobility and rootedness? Indeed, are rootedness and immobility synonymous? How long does it take for one to learn enough about a place to become an inhabitant and not merely a resident?” Those are questions I am exploring on a daily basis here, but I don’t think I will be able to answer them here. I know that my time here is limited, and no matter how comfortable and settled I am in this place, it is not my own. The true test of my time here will be what happens when I go home, and what I do when I get there.

New pictures here and here.

Also, I finally uploaded a few videos to youtube! It may take a while for them to show up. I'll try to embed them to this page, but if that doesn't work, click this link.

Quick Update

2009-04-06T15:30:00.002-04:00

Many of you have probably read about the earthquake[s] in Italy that happened last night... if there were any tremors here I slept through them, and all the pigs were in their pens this morning so life is good! Buona notte!

Primi Tartufi

2009-04-05T18:04:00.004-04:00

After what can really only be described as a hellish week, with the theme of inexplicably broken fences and escaped pigs and all things wrong that could go wrong continuing, I am coming to the end of a much-needed relaxing weekend. Yesterday we drove to Pienza, hometown of Pope Pius II and one of the first planned cities [in Italy? Ever? I’m not sure, but Pius was the one to do it back in the 1400s].

From there we headed to a really beautiful natural hot spring to soak our sore muscles away. The drive itself was worth the trip— the area where Spannocchia is located is very hilly [bordering on mountainous], rocky, and densely forested. As you head south-east-ish, the landscape is transformed into gently rolling hills, intensely green right now from a week of rain. Cipressi [cypress trees] are exclamation points against the sky, and large herds of sheep white out some of the hillsides. The clouds, too, are gorgeous every day, always changing. Oftentimes it doesn’t look real, resembling more closely the backdrop of the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz. If I haven’t mentioned the tramonti [sunsets] here yet it’s because it seems cliché, but they are the most beautiful I have ever seen, night after night. Sometimes, especially when I’m really tired after a long day of work, it feels like I’m beginning to take the beauty of the place around me for granted, but then I’ll look around and see olivi [olive trees] and ancient castelli [castles] and the sky against the surrounding mountains and it’s all new again.

Today Broni took us to a tiny town whose name escapes me now, to a tiny alimentare [deli]. We had a deliciously simple lunch of bread, formaggio, salumi e vino, all locally produced. I have completely fallen in love with the pecorino [sheep’s milk cheese] here. We’ve had all different kinds— young ones aged only 10 days, some aged 30, some over a year old. Also some that are aged in ash, or barley, or leaves, or that are made with pepperoncino. Today we tried a pecorino made with tartufi bianci [white truffles]. I’ve never had them before and the cheese was rich in a way I’ve never before experienced. Delizioso! But with pecorino you can’t really go wrong. Here’s hoping I can find it in the States.

Hard to believe I’ve already been here for a month. On the one hand, it feels like we’ve just arrived… and yet at the same time, it seems like I’ve been here forever. This routine feels comfortable, and I’ve been thinking already about how strange it will be to leave this place and wake up one morning with nothing to do, no animals to take care of or grain to mill or fences to build or mend. I think it will feel like something’s missing.

pictures!

Butchering!

2009-04-01T15:10:00.002-04:00

This week I was very lucky and privileged to spend two days in Spannocchia’s “transformation room,” where all the salumi and other meat products are made. I say lucky because butchering only takes place in the winter and spring in keeping with tradition, and the room is not climate-controlled and relies on nature’s air conditioning to maintain a safe temperature for processing carcasses.

The pigs raised here are Cinta Senese, an heirloom breed local to the Siena region. They are easily identified— black with a broad white stripe across their shoulders and down their front legs. Because the Cinta are an heirloom variety, they do not pack on weight quickly like many modern breeds, and are generally slaughtered at anywhere from 10 to 16 months of age (as opposed to the pigs commonly raised en masse in America who are slaughtered at little more than five months). The selected pigs are sent to a nearby slaughterhouse four at a time, for a total of twenty to thirty in a year, and the butchering of each group takes place every two weeks. As a testament to the intimate and local nature of the process, the pigs are transported on a Sunday and returned in halves the next morning, still warm.

From those halves come all the cuts of meat and various ingredients used to make the many types of salumi and pork products for which Spannocchia is known. After the meat has been prepared, the products, which require curing, are hung to dry a small, cool, humidity-controlled room. Prosciutto, which takes about as long to cure as it does to raise a Cinta to butchering age, has its own tightly climate-controlled room. It’s quite a production and requires an impressive amount of knowledge, finesse and patience to produce such high-quality meats.

On Monday as I did various chores around the farm, I walked by the transformation room and could see the halved carcasses hanging. By Tuesday morning when I showed up to work, the only pieces left intact were the hind legs, which become prosciutto. Another of the animales interns, Greg, and I suited up in long, white lab-type jackets, medieval-looking chain mail aprons and a chain mail glove to protect our non-cutting hands. While we got ready, the master butcher Pierro arrived. He is probably in his sixties, grandfatherly but stern, a man of few words and even fewer compliments. He only comes to the farm when there is butchering to be done. We were also working with Riccio who lives and works on the farm, and is the boss of my animales supervisor. Last but not least, Devin, a volunteer who has been working in the transformation room since November and was asked to stay on until the end of butchering season.

Pierro got right down to business, carving up the hind legs until they became recognizable as prosciutto. While he worked on that, Riccio and Devin continued to pare down the remaining parts, taking the good cuts to be used for various things. Greg and I were charged with cleaning up the leftover bones, cutting away all the leftover bits of meat to be used in salumi. The knife I used was easily the sharpest I have ever handled, sharp enough to leave slice-marks across the bones. Every so often Pierro would take the knife from me and expertly sharpen it on a whetstone. When I first started, Devin handed me a bone and told me to “get all the red.” Then Riccio came over and showed me how to cut with the grain of the meat, and they left me to work. When I had finished that one, Devin brought me two more bones and I set to work on them. At home I never cook with meat because I hate handling it, so this was a new experience for me. Apparently though, I passed the test— Riccio came over and inspected the bones, then patted me on the back and said I was “catching on” and doing a good job. He then showed the bones to Pierro who seemed to nod approvingly, although it was hard to tell for sure.

We ground the meat scraps for salumi and I was given the task of… wait for it…. cleaning intestines to be used as casings! Yum! They had already been soaked and salted, but I had to rinse them and fill them up with water three or four times, until the rinsing water lost its grayish color. It’s a smell I will never forget, a fairly repulsive task but nonetheless one that needs to be done. I kept reminding myself that nothing is wasted, and that to use any other sort of casing would be artificial and not in keeping with the spirit of tradition. Later that day I watched in awe as Riccio used “the meat cannon” to fill the prepared casings with ground meat, and then tied them. I kept thinking about the many thousands of times he’s gone through this process, his fingers probably knowing what to do more than he does at this point. Filling the casings is a delicate process as they can tear and are rendered useless. And the tying requires a delicate balance between firm pressure, securely-tied knots at each ends, evenly-spaced and tightly-wrapped loops down each salumi, and a smattered of pin-holes that allows the salumi to breathe as it cures rather than rot in the casing. All of this must be done without tearing the casing, and it has to be done in a timely fashion because there are many, dozens, to be made. [Author’s note: I took some video of this process which, hopefully, I will be able to upload to youtube. I’ll keep you posted.]

Wednesday was a very interesting day for a very different reason. The butchering process was more or less complete by then, and there was really only one thing left to make: sopressata. It’s an uncured sausage made of all the leftover pig parts that aren’t used in anything else. Its ingredients? Kidneys, skin with lard attached, various unidentifiable things, and “pig faces” as Devin put it. Also some lemon juice and spices. The whole mess of ingredients is thrown into a huge pot with water and stewed for about four hours. While that was cooking, I got a chance to try a similar type of sausage, called burista. I am told that burista is fattier than sopressata, but the main difference is that the collected pig blood is added into burista after it has cooked for a while. It’s offensive to the unaccustomed eye, a dark blood red color with alarmingly large chunks of unidentifiable pig parts in it, and I could tell that all three of the seasoned butchers were waiting to see if I would actually eat it or not. I didn’t see not eating it as an option— and actually, once I got over the texture, it tasted quite good. Faintly spiced, citrusy, and something you would probably never find for sale in America. I’m glad I tried it.

Once the sopressata had cooked sufficiently, Pierro took what looked to me like a metal butterfly net and ladled the meat into a big tub. Each time he pulled out a pig face, he took a large butcher knife and picked the meat off of the skull, taking care to remove the cartilage from the snout and to cut out the eye. There’s a surprising amount of meat in a skull. Who knew? All of the bones, teeth, cartilage and rejected parts were tossed into a bucket, and what was left in the tub was a quivering blob of very gelatinous things. Sopressata is a truly artisan product, completely hand cut, unlike most salumi which are machine-ground and more uniform. Pierro took his knife and a cutting board and drew it through the mass over and over again, cutting all the chunks into smaller and smaller pieces. In this way, each batch of sopressata is different and even each slice of it has different things in it. He ladled the mixture into cheesecloth bags, tied them, and then handed them to me to rinse and hang to dry. As they hung, the gelatinous stuff seeped out of the cheesecloth and eventually began to harden into strange rubber cement-looking stalactites. I know the interns will be trying some of it soon, and I’m excited to compare it to the burista. I am also very excited to have had a hand in making things that I will be eating later on, and also in things that other people will eat. I helped give the new prosciutto legs salt massages, and many months from now someone will buy those legs. I also was feeding those four pigs before they were sent off to slaughter— I helped mill the grain they ate for their last meals and I know which pen they came out of. For someone who has never really had a hand in producing the food she consumes, I can honestly say that I am really excited and proud to have been a part of the process. It quite literally put a face on the animals I eat— although actually, Pierro and Devin invited me to have pig face for lunch with them on Wednesday and I declined. I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet.

A few quick things

2009-03-28T14:45:00.004-04:00

... since this computer refuses to open the post I had all typed and ready to go.

1) The other day I had some downtime so I walked out into the cow pasture a ways, and scared the hell out of three deer. I came over the top of the hill and was about 40 feet away from a buck, who the strangest barking noise I have ever heard before he and his girlfriends ran off. Then as I walked back, I surprised a young cinghiale [wild boar].

2) Each day I understand more and more of the Italian conversations around me. I'm still having trouble responding, but am at least learning new words daily that I can sometimes string together to form terrible half-sentences.

3) I think I've figured out the secret to Graciela's cooking. Olive oil.

4) The smell of chives will always remind me of yoga on the front terrace. They grow amongst the grass and wildflowers there and are crushed as you move through the asanas.

5) After just a few weeks, I am getting noticably stronger. When I got here I could lift bikes off the hooks where they're stored, but couldn't put them back up. As of this week, I can. I can also hold a full chatturanga pose during yoga, and throw bales of hay around . Still can't lift them above my head, but maybe next week...

6) I'm on duty this weekend which means that I'm in charge of all the animals [pigs, chickens, horses/donkeys, cows, sheep]. I worked from 8 am this morning until 6:30 tonight, with about an hour's break for lunch. Would have had more downtime but two groups of pigs busted through their fences and wandered down to the farmhouse for a little lunch in the olive orchards and I had to bring them back to their respective pastures. I'm turning into the pied piper of pigs.

7) On a related note, the more I work with pigs the less guilty I feel about eating them.

Also, new pictures!

Oh Shenanigans

2009-03-19T16:35:00.002-04:00

Animales interns had a crazy day today!

Greg and I walked up to Pig Hill as usual to feed the miaili and miailini and check fences. At some point Nello, the giant polar bear-esque boar, escaped from his pen and wandered into the mill where we keep all the grain. The pictures don’t do this guy justice— we guess that he weighs around 500 pounds— but he’s not very excitable, so we chased him at a snail’s pace back into his pen and went to feed the rest of the pigs further up the road.

Then it was time to check the fences. They’re divided into three main sections, and two of them weren’t working, so we started walking to the back pasture where the third section has a breaker. Once you figure out which sections aren’t working, you have to walk along the fence until you find the spots where the current is broken. As we walked, we came across a sow who had just given birth to nine miailini. We found another sow last week while walking fences, so we knew what to do more or less. We went back to the mill to get buckets to carry the piglets, and returned. The tricky thing about collecting them is that the mothers can become upset and step on them as she tries to protect the “nest.” We put the 9 mialini into three buckets and then encountered the next tricky thing: actually getting the mother to follow you. The first time we did this, Giulio was with us and the sow came along pretty easily. The sow today refused to follow, despite our pleading “Qua! Qua!” [“Here! Here!”… the Italian equivalent to “Sooooeeeee!”].

Even after we grabbed sticks to prod her along she refused, sniffing around her nest looking for the miailini and making all sorts of strange and angry sounds. We assumed that, like the sow last week, she would follow the squeals of her babies, but this one was particularly stubborn. At one point I actually thought I was going to get mauled, because I tripped on some of the thick underbrush and fell backwards just a few feet from her, with a bucket of squealing miailini in my arms. Fortunately I still had my prodding stick in hand so a somewhat panicked thwack on her nose kept her away. According to Greg, pigs do bite. Hopefully I won’t find out.

So finally we decided to take the miailini back to Pig Hill and come back for the mama. We had gotten a fair distance away before we heard her crashing through the bosco [forest], and managed to get her into one of the enclosures near the other mama miaili. Greg and I thought she would be happy to be back with her babies, but in our haste to get them situated in the shelter we forgot to close the gate, so she ran out and started back for the trees. Again we wrangled her into the pen, only to see her escape through a hole in the recinto [fence]. Dio mio! We couldn’t catch her that time, so after 15 or 20 minutes we just decided to leave the gate open and give her some space to go in on her own. In the meantime, we repaired the hole in the fence. Rather than join her babies, she disappeared into the bosco. We figured, correctly, that she had gone back to the nest. Sure enough, we found her there and she was even more obstinate than before. After another 15 or 20 minutes we decided to try our luck bringing some of her miailini back in one bucket and some grain in another. Once she heard the squeals, she met us in the bosco and was successfully corralled. Feeding the pigs usually takes an hour or so, but it was 11:30 before we finished. Giulio called and told us to leave the fence and start milling grain because all the cibo [food] bins were empty. Four bags in, the mill overheated, which is something interns can’t fix. We found Riccio who fixed it, then needed Greg to help him give one of the mamas a shot [she’s sick and, sadly, as of this afternoon all of her miailini died]. I was milling and realized after a while that they’d been gone a long time. Turns out, since the fence was never fixed this morning, nine pigs escaped from their pasture and were wandering all over the place. Now I realize why we check it first thing every morning.

By then it was 1 p.m., time to meet back at Pulcinelli for lunch. After almost a half hour, Max showed up. The sheep had broken down a fence and had to be rounded up from the vineyards… again.

I really love the unexpected things that come with the bestiame [livestock]. Our chores are the same each day, but our tasks are constantly changing. Today was frustrating, but becoming more hilarious in hindsight by the minute. Now it’s time for vino e cena [wine and dinner]. And tomorrow is a brand new day!!

First Week

2009-03-13T10:01:00.004-04:00

I don’t know how to begin.

It’s been a week since the interns converged in Siena and headed to the Tenuta di Spannocchia. We’ve already settled into a steady rhythm, eating breakfast, working from 8 to 1, lunch from 1 to 2, and then work again until 5. After that, free time to bike or talk a walk around the grounds or write in a journal or collapse in a patch of sunlight and wait for what is certain to be a spectacular sunset across the valley from the front terrazzo. Sometimes we get out our yoga mats and practice sun salutes until the sun disappears below the mountains.

At 7 each evening we meet in the dining room for Spannocchia red wine, and then the dinner bell sounds at 7:30 and we get to experience Graciela’s unbelievable Tuscan cooking. Dinner really is an experience, with the primo then secondo followed by insalata [I’m still trying to get used to salad after dinner] and then last but most certainly not least, la dolce. The interns are usually back to the house we share, Pulcinelli, by 9. We build a fire in the fireplace and play a card game or read until, one by one, everyone goes to bed to prepare for another early morning.

I’m not sure how long this will be, not so much because I’m pressed for time but because I spent the morning helping to castrate piglets, and my hands are so tired I can’t quite form a closed fist. I am one of 3 animales interns, strangely enough with the guys I met up with in Firenze. What are the chances? We’re in charge of the pigs, cows, sheep, horses, donkeys and chickens on the farm. In the morning we slop the pigs and check fences to make sure that no cingiale, wild boar, have knocked down a wire and broken the electrical current. We ride bikes down a twisty mountain road to feed the cows as well, and a few times have helped Max with the sheep. Apparently it takes a while for sheep to get used to you, so mostly they ignore him while he tries to move them to a different pasture or herd them into the forest to graze. He’ll be in charge of them for one month, then I will take over, and then Greg. I feed the chickens each day and collect any eggs they’ve laid, taking them back with me to Pulcinelli for the interns to use. Then I feed the horses [two] and donkeys [three].

There are different projects to be done each day. Today, as I mentioned, was piglet castration. Greg and I spent yesterday laying fence and building them a temporary “pig palace” in the olive orchard. Then this morning we herded them into a smaller enclosure and, one by one, grabbed the males by their legs and restrained them as Giulio castrated them. I think there were 10 or 12 in all. They squealed bloody murder when we first grabbed them, but actually didn’t seem to be terribly bothered by the actual process. A half hour later they were rooting around in the mud, oblivious to the fact that one day in the next year or so, they will become very tasty prosciutto.

The interns have two Italian classes a week and the occasional field trip as well. Tomorrow [today, by the time it actually gets posted] we’re going to Siena for the day. This weekend we’re going to drive a half hour away to some natural hot springs. This is probably the only weekend all the interns will be free, thanks to some other volunteers who are currently on the farm. After this though, there will always be 3 of us here, to make sure there’s hot water every day, take care of the gardens, and feed the animals.

I still can’t believe I’m here. This place should only exist in fairy tales, but instead I can climb to the top of a 700 year-old tower to watch the sun set if I’d like. The olive orchards freshly pruned, the vineyards ready to leaf out any day, the mama sheep with bells around their necks grazing while their lambs snooze in the sun… Everything I want to tell you about this place is swimming around in my head and I can’t quite figure out how to explain it all. The greens we have for dinner have been picked just that morning by two of the people I live with. A few nights ago we had sausage made from a cinta senese [the breed of pigs raised here, local to Siena and endangered] that was running around in a pasture a week ago. It was hands down the best sausage I have ever eaten. But the food is another post entirely.

Pictures:
End of our time in Firenze and Siena
Tenuta di Spannocchia
Fattoria e Trattori

Haunts

2009-03-05T08:41:00.003-05:00

Greg and I were craving some good ol' fashioned American food before we head out to the farm, and stumbled upon what is probably Firenze's only diner. It's also the only place I have seen wi-fi in the city so far— go figure. There are some things only a burger, fries and a milkshake can cure.

Blogger seems to be broken and refuses to upload any pictures. If you click here you can see pictures through my facebook account!

Ciao Firenze!

2009-03-05T08:39:00.002-05:00

I suppose it's the best possible news I could give you... that I haven't yet had time to update. I have been having an incredible time wandering the streets of Florence, eating gelato (usually more than once a day), and getting to know two of the interns, Greg and Max, I will be spending the next three-ish months with. The three of us met up a day after I arrived here, in the Piazza della Signoria in front of the outdoor copy of Michelangelo's David.

Even after 5 days here, it seems unreal to walk by the Duomo or across the Ponte Vecchio, impossible that I could be in Italy. Today we spent the afternoon exploring the Uffizi Gallery, coming face to face with thousand year-old paintings and sculptures as well as the frescoes inhabiting the ceiling space. My thoughts are fairly scattered right now and we're getting ready to venture out into the rainy night in search of fresh, hot pastries sold from the back door of a bakery near the River Arno.

As soon as I find a wireless internet connection I'll post pictures... and I promise to have a more interesting update for you soon. Tomorrow we're heading to Siena, and on friday we're heading to the farm! There's just no way to explain how excited I am. Ahhhhh!

If you want to check out the official Spannocchia farm blog, click here. And you can read a fellow intern's (Max) blog here.

Saving the World [or not]

2009-02-25T01:24:00.007-05:00

This seems like a fitting last entry to make before heading off to Spannocchia to work on a farm for three months. Cracked.com posted an article titled, "5 Ways People Are Trying to Save the World (That Don't Work)." Of course, I thought it sounded interesting and I was curious not only what the five things were, but what the justifications were behind them, and if there were any solutions mentioned. The article begins,

Between the hybrids, the reusable canvas shopping bags and cloth diapers, everybody's doing their little bit to save the world. Entire industries have sprang up to cater to us socially-responsible types who want to leave behind a better world for the robots to inherit once they take over.
But, most of the time, making you feel better is about all it does.

How ominous. There's certainly been a lot of press about how many of the "green" or "eco-friendly" products out there don't really work, and as it tends to do, corporate greed managed to capitalize on the earth-conscious trend by making crappy new products that weren't any better than the old ones— effectively diluting the meaningfulness of the movement to the average consumer. People realized that buying eight thousand cloth bags didn't really help the environment at all, especially when they forgot them at home anyway.

So what are the five things, you ask?

#5 Buying Organically Grown Food
The gist of the argument here is that organically-grown food hasn't been proven to be any healthier for you, and it actually might be worse for the planet because farming without chemicals makes the process less efficient. And since it's in short supply it gets shipped over long distances.

I've discussed my thoughts on this issue here before, and as I prepare to head off to an organic, sustainable farm, rest assured that I will be exploring this subject a lot more. Obviously, if Walmart is selling "organic" food, something has been lost. The estate I will live and work on for the next few months was occupied by the Spannochi family by the early 1200s. I will be working among established vineyards and olive orchards, drinking wine and cooking with olive oil made on-site by previous interns. I'll be eating whatever comes out of the garden and eating meat that I will have the responsibility of... how do I put this delicately... harvesting? So if this farm can sustain its staff, interns and guests, and can stay in operation for upwards of 700 years, they must be doing something right.

People seem to delight in cutting down organic food, and again, buying it from Walmart is a lot different than buying food— of any kind, origin or chemical content— that was grown locally by a farmer.

#4 Rejecting Vaccinations
Science and modern medicine tell us it's probably better to get a vaccine with as-of-yet unknown effects than it is to die from the Plague. Seems reasonable. Interestingly though, through the MSU Traveling Chautauqua student/professor dialogue group I was involved with, we had one presentation on bio ethics. They talked about all sorts of things, and at the end of the presentation we could ask questions. So I asked about the Gardasil vaccine that recently entered the market for HPV/cervical cancer. It's brand new, and I'm concerned about having a vaccine that hasn't been around for very long... so I asked the 4 students, three men and one woman, their opinion on it.

The men immediately started talking about the benefits, why this vaccine should be used and that it can help prevent some of the strains of HPV and etc. A few minutes in, I stopped them. Not to discount your expertise, I said, but I'd like to hear what a woman has to say about it. Have you had the vaccine yet?

She got quiet, looked at her hands, then admitted that she hadn't had it yet. She wanted to wait longer to see what, if any, long term effects there were.

#3 Recycling
Just because "we're not in danger of walking through streets of garbage" as the article says doesn't mean you shouldn't recycle. As my materials engineering friend Lindsay says, glass is the most easily recycled material, followed by metals and then plastic. I just don't think there's any excuse for not recycling, ever.

There was one part in the article I liked though: "Just like those douchebags who drive to the gym to run on a treadmill but still hop in the car to go the one block to the corner store to pick up their pork rinds and soda, it's not clear just how much benefit there is at the end of the day." Exactly. It's all about choices.

#2 Using Antibacterial Soap
People still do this? Antibacterial soap was probably thought up by the same people who decided that bottling 2 cents worth of tap water and selling it for a dollar was a great idea. Regular soap and water works just fine... just like tap water is subjected to more rigorous testing than bottled water. Mmmm delicious.

#1 Buying Carbon Offsets
I agree with the general slant of this part, which is that carbon offsets serve as a way to clear consumers' guilty consciences. There needs to be regulation. One idea I've heard about through my ECO student group is the idea of a limited amount of carbon credits internationally, period. Let's say climate scientists, or whoever, got together and decided that there would be 10,000 carbon credits available to all the companies in the world. That would mean that large, polluting companies could offset their activities by buying credits from smaller, cleaner companies, but only to a certain point. There could never be more than 10,000 credits spread among all the companies of the world.

Would it actually work? I'm not sure, and I know that industries would have a cow over something like that. But wouldn't it be cool? And what if average people, or groups, could actually pool their money and buy a credit? Then there would only be 9,999 credits for all the companies in the world, and someone, somewhere would have to figure out a way to run their operation more efficiently and cleanly. Wouldn't be half bad... except for companies who operate by dumping toxic chemicals and wastewater into rivers and wherever they think they can get away with it.

But at least, since consumers can buy healthyhealthyHEALTHY organic food from Walmart that gets shipped in from all corners of the world, we don't have to worry about those sorts of spills in our own backyards and watersheds. That problem belongs to someone else.

Talking Trash

2009-01-29T00:36:00.006-05:00

According to GOOD magazine, each American throws away 5 pounds of trash per day. That, coupled with industrial waste, generates 251 MILLION TONS of trash each year. You can watch the video here.

So it got me thinking about the things I throw away. I am currently living at home with my mother, and between the two of us, we barely generate any trash whatsoever. Garbage collection is tomorrow and there is nothing to be taken out this week. Sure, we have a half-full bag in the kitchen, and sure, there are bags filled to varying half-degrees elsewhere in the house, but that represents one week where we will not contribute a thing to a landfill.

Last week, there was one bag. I noticed it because, the night before, I was going to take the trash out to the curb, but there was nothing to go out! The next morning, before she left for work, she took the mostly-filled bag of kitchen trash out. And that was it.

As the video points out, one third of all household trash is packaging waste. My introduction to the idea of wasteful packaging came early. Grocery shopping with my father, as a child still in elementary school, meant helping to pick out the ingredients that would make up lunch during the school week. My brother and I always wanted the little bags of chips— you know the ones— that come in "individually-sized" bags, packed into a box of nine. Oh, the allure of Cheetos and Doritos and Lays potato chips when you're 10 years old. Occasionally, my mom or dad would buy them, but usually any request at the store was met with a stern lecture on the dangers and prevalence of "wasteful packaging." To this day, when I hear that phrase, I can imagine my father standing in the snack aisle of Meijer.

Of course, as each and every bag of chips mentions, "contents may settle during shipping." What that basically means is that you're getting a plastic bag filled about halfway with chips, and the other half with air and lots of snazzy graphics. As a kid, all I wanted was the damn Fritos. But I realize now that his mini-lectures settled somewhere within my psyche, and have emerged into my life in a big way.

My mom and I shop at our local food co-op [click there for the co-op directory, to find one near you]. We try to buy locally grown and produced food as much as possible, shop at a local farmers market during the growing season, reuse paper bags and take our own when we shop. I suppose those few things are the main reasons that we don't generate much trash in a week. Maybe those things are what make us an aberration, removing us from the American norm. I'm not sure, because as I often say, I have a hard time telling if everyone lives like me [they don't] or if I live in some kind of lifestyle bubble, surrounded by a lot of other people who conduct their lives in a similar way. Maybe another thing that sets us apart is that we very rarely consume fast food. Many eco-minded people will point out that fast food wrappers, from the paper around a burger to the little packets of ketchup to the bag it comes in, are designed to travel a few feet from the counter, be opened, and then be thrown away. By eliminating that kind of consumption, you eliminate that kind of waste.

Of course I buy fast food every now and then, but I limit it as much as possible. Of course I buy things that are done up in unnecessary packaging. In this society, it's unavoidable. But there are easy ways to reduce your refuse. If you don't need a bag to carry that gift card you bought, don't take one. Tell the salesperson you can just carry it. And if you do end up with a couple bags or boxes or something, reuse them. Recycle the cardboard, recycle the packing peanuts, save the bubble wrap to use again somehow. I have a collection of bags from clothing stores that drives my mom crazy. When you actually look at the number of bags you receive from day to day, it's startling.

And of course, as I just mentioned, one of the best ways to cut down on waste is to recycle! Where I live, you can recycle all sorts of things. Aluminum, newspaper, clear and brown glass, #1 and #2 plastic [still hoping for more!], "junk mail" and mixed paper, magazines, paperboard [yes, I recycle all my toilet paper rolls. what of it?], phone directories, batteries, shoes, cardboard, paper bags, cell phones, electronics... even fishing line!! I also collect green glass which can be recycled in Ann Arbor, an hour from here. If I'm going to make a trip there, I might as well recycle that too! Fruit and veggie peelings get tossed out back, into the garden. Old clothes are donated or turned into rags. There are so many ways to reduce waste! And it takes a minimal amount of effort, really.

I also believe that, in a world overrun with landfills and rife with environmental problems, there is just no excuse not to.

So back to our trash can that will be staying in the garage tomorrow, all alone. I'm proud that tomorrow, the only "refuse" from my home will be a bin full of recyclables. Ours may be the only house on the street without a trash can outside.

The Logic of War

2009-01-11T23:50:00.005-05:00

I've been reading an anthology of essays edited by Ira Glass, The New Kings of Nonfiction, and was struck by an essay by Lee Sandlin entitled Losing the War. He points out what over and over again history books and docudramas seem to marginalize about World War II: "what an absolutely miserable, pointless, blundering, screaming bloody hell it was," to quote one review.

What I found most interesting, after reading it, was that the piece was written in 1997. It's so relevant to the current situation in Iraq and, in my humble peacenik opinion, just about any other war that has ever been waged. War is so barbaric, so out of place on this small planet, and yet conflict smolders and burns all around us.

Sandlin does a quick run-down of what he calls "the standard autopsy of the causes" of WWII: Germany crumbling after WWI, Japan's wounded national pride, racism, military stockpiling, fear mongering. And then he hits you upside the head with this...

"All of this is true enough, yet there's something faintly bogus and overly rationalized about it. The approaching war didn't seem like a political or economic event: it was more like a collective anxiety attack. Throughout the '30s people around the world came to share an unshakable dread about the future, a conviction that countless grave international crises were escalating out of control, a panicked sense that everything was coming unhinged and that they could do nothing to stop it."

As I read that, I had to stop and remember that Sandlin was writing about the days leading up to WWII, not the current fears about which the world is currently so panicked. Not only is this not written about our current world crisis, but the article is ten years old. So many other articles in ten years would feel quaintly outdated, but war is always familiar.

He continues: "From the beginning, the issues of the war were discussed only in the dreariest of platitudes. 'America is the symbol for freedom,' Life magazine patiently explained to its readers— as though there might have been some confusion about whether the other side was the symbol for freedom. But Life firmly refused to be drawn into a debate about what 'freedom' might mean: 'Freedom is more than a set of rules, or a set of principles. Freedom is a free man. It is a package. But it is God's package."

End of discussion. Hard to believe anybody was moved to go to war by such tripe, but it was typical. When they're consumed by war fever, people don't need considered rationales for the use of military force; they don't even bother with the appearance of logic."

And with that, I was taken back to the gloomy days after 9/11, when everyone put those newspaper-printed American flags up in their windows and storefronts. Until I read this essay, I always thought of WWII as I had heard it described: "the Last Great War." But really, when I think of it, one war is just like any other war. People dying in the trenches, blown to pieces, driven to insanity by the things they've seen and done. The economic wreckage of the losing country, the economic loss of so much destruction, the forgotten mines and bombs that obliterate people up to this day and even as I type this.

Sandlin points out near the beginning of the article that "people my age and younger who've grown up in the American heartland can't help but take for granted that war is unnatural. We think of the limitless peace around us as the baseline condition of life. All my life I've heard people say 'war is insanity' in tones of dramatic insight and final wisdom. But there's been places and times where people have thought of war as the given and peace as the perversion . . . Any of Homer's heroes would see the peaceful life of the average American as some bizarre aberration, like a garden mysteriously cultivated for decades on the slopes of an avalanche-haunted mountain."

I think we get a choice though: do we want to be the gardener, or the avalanche?

Spannocchia!

2008-12-09T12:39:00.004-05:00

WONDERFUL NEWS!!!

I'm going to Italy! To work on an organic farm!!

I was looking for study abroad programs for spring semester when my aunt told me about this magical place called Spannocchia. I knew I had to apply. And this morning I found out that, three months from now, I will be in Italy working on this beautiful farm in the heart of Tuscany.

I'm so excited right now that surely anything I write will be incoherent. Instead, I'll post up some of what I wrote on my application.

A question about our experiences with manual labor:
I have loved horses since the age of two, when my mother took me to the horse barns on MSU’s campus for the first time. As I got older, I started taking lessons from a woman who let me ride her horses and gave me lessons in exchange for chores— mucking stalls, feeding, etc. As a horse-crazy little girl, that was as wonderful as actually riding the horses. The time came that I bought a horse of my own, and boarded him, working at the barn as a way to keep the cost of boarding down. I worked at both the barns I kept him in— the first one, Arrowhead Farm, had approximately 30 horses in one large barn, and the second, Light Rein Farm, had approximately 25 horses in three smaller barns. In both, I mucked the stalls, brought in horses from pasture, and fed and watered them, and helped with any maintenance work. I also helped put up hay in the barns on occasion. When the owner of Light Rein built a new barn, I helped move boards and lay cement [and have never been so sore in my life!]
This year, I became involved in a local farmers market. I initially got involved there through a class, and after the class ended, I decided I loved it so much that I wanted to continue working there. Starting in May and going until the market ended at the end of October, I helped with everything from set-up at noon to tear-down after the market ended, around 7. I spent many hot, humid days lugging tents and tables and cinderblocks— but I have never had more fun than I did during those long market days. I made many great friends, and we bonded over 90 degree days, torrential rainstorms, and snowy set-ups towards the end of the season. The utter exhaustion I felt at the end of those days was extremely satisfying, and Wednesdays were my favorite day of the week. I can’t wait for the season to begin again next year.

A question about sustainability, and what it means to us:
Sustainability is at once a complex and very simple idea. I believe that, for something to be sustainable, it must be in a system that can be repeated for generations, eons, without depleting the natural resources that supply it. Organic produce that is grown out-of-season and flown halfway around the world can never be sustainable, no matter how much its marketing team may want you to believe otherwise. Many people are moving away from food labelled "organic," to food grown locally by small, family-run farms, thereby supporting not only a farm but a lifestyle. When people's livelihoods depend on a certain amount of land, they have a reason to take care of it, which is the root of sustainability.
As for what sustains me, well, I’d say it’s a mix of fresh vegetables and knowledge— not just the knowledge I possess already, but the constant search for more, in ever-expanding circles. What my time at MSU has accomplished, more than anything else, is the realization that all things are connected in some way. I see links between many of the world’s problems and food, between many problems facing Americans and their lifestyles, between the natural world and our fabricated societies. My eyes were opened to these connections a few years ago, when I took a class titled “Insects, Globalization and Sustainability.” Three things I might not have realized were connected suddenly appeared hopelessly intertwined and important to each other. The more I learn, the more I want to learn.

A question about how we will prepare to live in this community:
I am not afraid to get dirty. I love being outdoors and I love the satisfaction that a hard day of physical labor leaves you, when you are so tired that you can barely decide whether you would rather eat, take a shower, or sleep more. I’m one of those people who finds humor in most things, and my work at the market taught me that there is a wonderfully comfortable humor in exhaustion and sweat. I am comfortable in new situations, and with new people, and am easygoing even in stressful situations. I love learning about people and their viewpoints, especially when they differ from mine, because I know that I can learn something from everyone. I have never had the chance to work on a farm, despite my growing interest in food systems and agriculture [pun intended], and I feel that an internship with Spannocchia would tie together many of my interests and solidify my commitment to sustainability, agriculture, and a local way of life.

Three interesting things about me:
—One of my classes this semester is all about Appalachian literature and culture. The professor is originally from West Virginia, and she organized a class trip to visit the place we had been reading so much about. One of the people we met is a 77 year-old subsistence farmer named Dellis Rowan, who still maintains a team of draft horses and mows his own hay [using nothing but horsepower— he doesn’t own any tractors]. He made a living logging timber, and last year won the first plowing competition he ever entered, beating men decades younger than he. After I graduate, I would like to move down to West Virginia and learn the traditional farming methods from him, documenting the process so that others can also learn about these dying traditions before they are gone.
—My great-grandfather founded Baker Publishing, and I am the fourth generation in my family to work there. One of the trade magazines we publish is the Michigan Farm Trader, so even though my family has never farmed, our livelihood is tied to Michigan’s agricultural industries.
—At the end of my freshman year of college, my mother and I took a trip to the Grand Canyon that I will never forget. With a small group of people [and guides, of course!], we rafted 90 miles down the Colorado River, camping under the stars at night. When we reached “the bottom” of the canyon, the real test began! We hiked up and out of the canyon, a daylong journey that thoroughly tested the limits of my physical and mental endurance. My mother and I, among the first from our group to reach the top, looked down over the rim at the trail we had just covered, I could hardly believe that I had actually managed to ascend millions of years of the Earth’s history. That day taught me that, while physical strength is important, you can push yourself beyond your absolute limits if you just put your mind to it.

Details about my life:
I have many goals in life. As I get closer to graduation, I have been thinking about what I want to do next. I would like to spend a year learning with Dellis, and after that I would like to join the Peace Corps. I think, and hope, that my generation will greatly value community work, and I want to leave this world better than when I came into it 21 years ago. I have a unique worldview and I truly do believe that I can make a difference, wherever I end up. I am excited by the seemingly endless possibilities. I have developed some wide-ranging hobbies thus far. My involvement in the farmers market and at my local food co-op have been instrumental in shaping my interests, as well as being a great way to meet interesting people and contribute to the local economy in a positive way. I love photography and writing, and have been actively honing both passions via a blog that I maintain and a “Photovoice” community project that I participated in last spring. I have two dogs and enjoy spending time in the great outdoors with them, exploring new trails or making our own. I also frequently “dogsit” for people, staying at their home while they are gone and taking care of their dogs [and sometimes cats, birds, even horses!], and have been babysitting since I was 13 years old. I have been involved in a Chautauqua group on campus between the three residential colleges at MSU. The mixing of ideas from natural science, social/political science, and arts & humanities majors has been one of the most interesting and meaningful activities I have ever participated in. We tackle touchy subjects— sustainability, human rights, equality— and I have learned more listening to people who completely disagree with me than I have in many of the classes I’ve taken. I love to travel as well, and have been lucky to visit my former “house sister” from Germany and her family, and travelled to both Nicaragua and Argentina on study abroad programs, focusing on environmental and social issues in both instances. So far, I’ve never been to a place I didn’t like and couldn’t learn from.

One thing I've learned in the past year:
Just over a year ago, I was facing expulsion from MSU. Not because of my grades, which have landed me on the Dean’s List each semester for four years. No, the Office of the Registrar notified me while I was on study abroad in Argentina that if I didn’t declare a major by a certain date, I was out.
I had been a “no preference” major for two years, unable to chose a degree path despite the ever-increasing range of classes I was taking— anthropology, history, advertising, humanities, sociology, economics, natural/political/social sciences, and philosophy. I hoped that one of them would spark some sort of lifelong passion that I could turn into a degree and then a career. No luck.
By accident, I stumbled upon MSU’s brand new Residential College in the Arts and Humanities. I figured my chances of getting accepted to a college where everyone else would be freshman weren’t good, but set up a meeting. It was a perfect match, almost like someone had discovered my plight and created a program just for me. Finally, a college that was all about worldview, versatility, broad interests, and above all, learning! The old joke about liberal arts majors working in fast food restaurants because they are unemployable? It’s not true. Not knowing where I will end up, what I will do, how I will change the world— that’s part of the excitement. Every day, I’m thankful for not limiting myself to standard expectations, and I’ve learned not to settle for something that isn’t right for me. Vive la chance!

Peppermint Jim

2008-11-02T00:22:00.003-04:00

Rather than retype and slightly retool a post I just made regarding the fate of a fourth generation family-owned mint farm near my house, I'm going to redirect you here, to another blog to which I contribute. Peppermint Jim reminded me a lot of Dellis, so you know I pretty much fell in love immediately. I'm sure you will too.

The Rowan Homestead

2008-10-21T16:18:00.009-04:00

... or, How My Life Changed in Mabie, WV.

I have really strong feelings regarding our visit to Dellis Rowan's farm. In his 70s, he still keeps two draft horses, Dick and Dan, and they work for their keep! Dellis and his horses mow the hay that feeds them, and he puts it all up in his barn. Alone, from what I could tell. Here is a man with an incredible life story.

There's just too much to say. We all know of my childhood obsession with and passion for horses, my growing [pun not intended] interest in local agriculture, the family business that includes the Michigan Farm Trader. Dellis and his way of life really called to me that day. I want to learn how to plow, how to mow, how to harvest, how to build a barn and shoe my own horses. Even taking his age into account, he was probably the most physically fit person standing out in the field that day.

He spoke, wracked with emotion, of his sons lack of interest in his lifestyle. Of their decision to find work in the automotive industry, which no doubt ensured them an easier life without the isolation that Dellis and his wife, who live on the same land where he was born, must feel sometimes. Of making his son help build a haystack, so that one day he could tell his children and grandchildren that he had.

What this nation is losing, what the world is losing with the advent of giant conglomerate farms that grow one crop is what we as Americans like to hold near and dear. Independence, self-sufficiency, tradition, the honest work that comes from a day's sweat. That pioneer's spirit.

Our economy is tanking and people are wringing their hands, wondering how they're going to make it. People are complaining that they can't afford fresh fruits and vegetables, that they can't afford to keep their pets anymore, that it just isn't fair. It isn't. But what else can we expect when we base our sense of security on imaginary money and economies half a world away, based on exploitation and politically-minded lies.

There aren't enough ways I can explain what this glimpse into his life meant. Knowing that these traditions and methods are dying out is a sobering jolt back into our modern-day reality from an afternoon that could have taken place 100 years ago.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about Dellis and his way of life since we left. I would like to learn.

The Keeper

2008-10-20T17:44:00.003-04:00

For the slightly squeamish or uncouth [or perhaps this is uncouth of me], look away now. For everyone left, I just made a post about my decision to stop using tampons here. If you're wondering what the hell else I'm going to do now that tampons are out of my life, or have ever questioned your use of them, I would suggest reading it. You'll definitely learn something, and might even change the way you think about the subject.

Just For Fun...

2008-10-13T21:24:00.002-04:00

Make Your Own ID!

Simpler Times...

2008-10-07T14:02:00.005-04:00

In honor of Google's 10th birthday, they are enabling a search page from 2001. It's amazing to think of how much has changed since then, and it's fun to see what results turn up for things we take for granted. It's also kind of depressing. Case in point:

Also, the page is archived from a pre-September 11th world. Nothing comes up. No Department of Homeland Security. When you google "President Bush" you get his old campaign website, complete with depressingly out-of-date slogan: "George W. Bush is running for President of the United States to keep the country prosperous." So much for that.

On a lighter note, there's no youtube, no Perez Hilton, no "The Hills." Facebook was still available only to students at Harvard. Feels like so long ago...

Hunting Mushrooms

2008-09-29T00:55:00.013-04:00

It rained almost the entire 9 hours we spent in the car driving from East Lansing to Elkins. By "almost" I mean maybe 8.5 out of the 9 hours. When we arrived it was foggy and still raining on and off. It rained the first night as we slept soundly in our dwellings, lulled by the river.

And when we woke up that first morning it looked like... another day of rain. But that was not the case! We ate breakfast out on the porch, trying to ward off the chilly fog with hot black coffee.

That morning, led by Robert— a botanist, naturalist, PhD and mountain man reachable only by mail or hike— we were going to hunt for mushrooms in the Monongahela National Forest. We couldn't have asked for a better day! All that rain made just about every spore in the forest bloom into a mushroom overnight.

Robert and his faithful companion Shep scoured the woods with expert eyes— Robert looked for mushrooms and Shep looked for sticks to chew on.

We found so many different types of fungi that I could never begin to remember them all, and I'm not going to put all the pictures up either. Robert knew the name and classification of every single mushroom, and he could tell us how to identify them as well as how to distinguish them between other, similar types. The beautiful turquoise mushrooms below are fairly rare [I think Robert said "You found the treasure!" when someone pointed them out].

The "honey mushrooms" below are edible, and we had them for dinner on sunday night. They were all over the forest floor, and thankfully easy to spot and indentify.

Mushroom hunting isn't exactly my favorite pastime, and I would never trust myself to scour the woods for dinner, but the knowledge Robert had of... everything... really impressed me. He lives up in the mountains, without so much as a phone! In order for him to visit us and take us on this tour, Michael sent him a few letters and hoped that Robert would come down the mountain to check his mail before we had come and gone. As it turned out, he got the letters just in the nick of time. Michael told us that Robert's home was quite a hike, which is why he didn't visit him in person to ask about the weekend.

I'm sure if the world collapsed into disorder tomorrow, Robert would be able to survive and thrive on his own, foraging for food in the forests around his home. Sad to think that, not so long ago, the average person would possess a fair amount of the knowledge he has of the natural world. Today, we think of mushrooms shrink-wrapped in styrofoam.

You can see how small two of the students on the trip looked when put into perspective against the nearly-still river and forests set deep into the mountains. We should remember that more often.

West Virginia, Mountain Mommas

2008-09-21T16:58:00.009-04:00

One of the classes I'm taking this semester is "Appalachian Literature and Culture," an "elective pathway" requirement within the RCAH that is being taught by Anita Skeen, a poet and West Virginia native. With the semester barely underway, she offered my class an opportunity to travel to Elkins, West Virginia for a weekend. The point of the trip was to be immersed in Appalachian culture and to get a feel for the place and history of an area we are going to focus on for the next few months. Of course, I couldn't pass it up.

We stayed at Water Gap Retreat on the Cheat River, which is owned by reknowned textile artist and all-around cool guy Michael Davis.

As you can see from his website, he specializes in the Japanese style of shibori dying. Imagine high-end, silk tie-dye. He owns a beautiful cabin, and built 5 "dwellings" with the shibori-dyed silks as windows. Over time, the outside-facing silk has faded, but in the morning you wake up in a canvas cathedral. It's unbelievably beautiful, especially with the rushing Cheat River right outside your door.

In the evening, my lovely classmates and I waded into the Cheat River where it grows still, armed with our steely resolves and some biodegradable shampoo, to clean up after long days packed with activity. The river is almost unbearably cold as you first dip into it, but once you're submerged it's just about perfect.

In the morning, the river and the air mingle together, waiting for the sun to rise. It was the perfect way to greet the day, watching the sun pierce through the trees and mist.

Paying it Forward

2008-09-08T23:40:00.005-04:00

Today as I was walking to class I noticed the sky darkening and the temperature dropping. I had neither an umbrella nor a jacket with me, and could see that rain was imminent, but it was too late to grab either at that point. Sure enough, by the time class was out an hour and a half later, it was pouring.

I must have looked really miserable, waiting in the rain for the bus in my t-shirt and jeans, because a girl walked over to me and said "You look really cold and wet," and proceeded to share precious umbrella space with me. It was really touching. There I was, a grumpy senior standing in the cold, winter-is-coming rain, thinking about how I should know by now to always have an umbrella in my backpack, and what looked to be a freshman girl offered me some shelter under her umbrella.

Once I was on the bus, I started thinking about the Hollies song, "Bus Stop."

Bus stop, wet day, she's there I say
Please share my umbrella

But it also got me thinking about the concept of "paying it forward."

Last thursday, I was riding the same bus line. It's almost always crowded because it circles through the entire campus, and I was riding it at the busiest time of the day. It was standing-room only, and people were packed in as close as our backpacks would allow. Quite miserable, really. But the bus driver, an older gentleman, made sure that we all moved back as far as possible to allow everyone on. "We're not leaving anyone behind!" he kept exclaiming in the general direction of the rear of the bus. And he meant it. He didn't seem to mind waiting for oblivious students with their cell phones and iPods to move, crowd closer together. He also made sure that everyone who needed to get off at a certain stop actually made it off. I've seen students get nicked by the closing doors of CATA buses, and I know that sometimes people really have no choice other than to continue on to the next stop. He made it a point to greet everyone who stepped on to the bus, and gave a cheery "Have a nice day!" to people exiting.

Driving a bus, especially that line, has got to be a mostly-thankless job. And yet this man was unfailing polite and cheerful. I'm sure he's someone's grandfather, and a well-loved one at that.

So after pushing my way off the bus at my stop, I called the main CATA office. "I just want to let you know what a great job your driver John is doing on the 31." I told them how polite and friendly he was, and how great he was at stops even though there were so many people getting on and off. The woman I talked to seemed genuinely surprised and pleased to get that kind of a call— CATA is an oft-maligned service, and I'm sure they get lots of angry calls. But I thought John deserved a little recognition, and after I got off the phone I felt pretty good, too. Who knows, maybe getting that feedback made his day?

But I do know for sure that being able to stand under that umbrella made mine.

Toad Paradise

2008-09-01T10:13:00.007-04:00

By our driveway, my house has a basement window. It's small and protected, if you want to call it that, by a metal guard that is probably supposed to keep stuff out of there.

My mom and I can't really figure out how they get in and out, but somehow that small area has become a toad hotel. It seems like any time I look, there's at least one toad in there. I don't know if they can squeeze between the siding and the metal to climb out, or if there's a secret tunnel... but however they do it, the toads seem pretty happy to live there.

How many can you spot in this picture?

Living Local

2008-08-31T20:19:00.005-04:00

My grandfather lived his entire life here in East Lansing, MI. Maybe not the most glamorous place in the world, but a diverse university town nonetheless. He was born here, grew up in a home on the "main drag" [that now houses students], went to Michigan State University, worked just minutes away from his house, bought cars made in Lansing, contributed to local charities, shopped at a locally-owned grocery store, and didn't like to travel more than a few hours away for anything.

These days, "local" is the buzzword on everyone's lips. Local food, mostly. I was thinking about it today while I ate lunch with a friend at the decidedly non-local Panera Bread Co. [I know, I know. There was a gift card involved!]

It's very fashionable nowadays to shop at farmers markets and sport those "Think global, act local" bumper stickers on your car. But when did it become so terribly taboo to stay in your hometown beyond high school? I grew up here and am now a student at MSU. I've spent time abroad, in Germany, Nicaragua, Argentina... and yet, the town I always complained about in high school has become a place I could see myself living in for a while. I've discovered gems like the Allen St. Farmers Market, various cafés and and restaurants, record stores, bars, bookstores... there's more to connect me to this place than just my parents.

I'm certainly not against moving, and of course you can put down roots anywhere. Sometimes, though, when I tell fellow MSU students that I grew up in East Lansing I get this quizzical stare that says "Wow, you're still here?" And you know what? I'm not ashamed to say that I love and appreciate this town. Would I love and appreciate Detroit, Chicago, Paris just the same? Maybe. Probably. They have a lot of what EL has, and more. There are neighborhoods within cities. You could go anywhere and make new friends, raise a family, live happily ever after. But it's so easy now to move from one place to another, following a job, living in cookie-cutter houses that I think people might be forgetting what it really means to act local. Or, if they haven't forgotten, it just doesn't appeal to them for some reason. Why is that?

Sunsets

2008-08-29T18:16:00.006-04:00

I think sunsets are over-photographed. It's easy to understand why that is, but I don't think the beauty of a sunset can ever be truly captured in a picture. One thing I love, though, is the way they change moment to moment. Sometimes what looks like it will be a spectacular solar show fizzles out into gray, or a monochromatic sky can suddenly light up and dazzle you.

Mostly, I love the light at sundown. A setting sun provides beautiful warm light for any subject to the east, or interesting silhouettes and backlighting for anything to the west. The long shadows give photos extra depth as well.

Framing also plays a roll in what "your" sunset looks like on film, as does zooming, your angle to the sun... I guess like most things, a photo of a sunset is purely subjective.

If you have the patience to stay for the entire thing, you end up with a series of photos that probably look like they were all taken on different nights. All of the photos in this post were taken on the same night, from the same perch on a dunegrass-y knoll on Elberta Beach by Lake Michigan.

The order here is the same order in which they were taken— you can clearly see how much the light changes back and forth. Also, in some photos you can see the fog that slowly rose from the lake, whereas in others you cannot. That dark spot to the right of the picture above is the same boat from the first picture in this post.

Then again, maybe taking photos of sunsets is the closet I will ever be to a painter. I can live with that.

Why I love FARK.

2008-08-24T21:55:00.003-04:00

FARK never ceases to amaze and entertain. But it also does a service to people who might not otherwise hear about odd stories in the news. Tonight's gold came with an intriguing tag: The AFA has set up an online form to send Hallmark hate mail for making same sex marriage greeting cards, what a shame it would be if logical people used it to send Hallmark support mail instead.

Naturally, I did just that.

The American Family Association sets forth a rabid argument against what Hallmark is doing. I actually thought it was pretty funny— oh, the fearmongering!! Seems like American families have better things to worry about these days than people getting married, but maybe not. I mean, the housing crisis will fix itself, right?

They write, Hallmark Greeting Cards has announced it will begin selling same-sex wedding cards, even though same-sex marriage is legal in only two states. The purpose, they say, is to satisfy consumer demand. It appears that their purpose is also to push same-sex marriage. Last year Hallmark began offering "coming out" cards - as in "coming out of the closet" -- a euphemism for announcing homosexuality.

So if you're feeling saucy, send Hallmark a letter. In mine, I basically said that I appreciated that the company was promoting tolerance and that it would certainly influence my decision to buy cards from them in the future.

I just don't understand why, in the world we live in today, these kinds of issues are what people are devoting all their time and energy to. But I guess there will always be people brainwashed to the point of irrelevancy. If they want to be on the receiving end of ridicule, well, that's their choice and the lifestyle they've chosen to live. Too bad idiocy isn't illegal in 48 states.

Emerging From a Hole

2008-08-14T11:59:00.003-04:00

I know I talk about food a lot here. Not only do I find it a really interesting subject, but it is also something that affects each and every one of us on a daily basis. Food's important any way you look at it.

For what seems like forever, Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma has been at the top of my list of books to read. Because of school and other activities, I hadn't gotten around to it until this week, when I have been lucky enough to be at my cottage with lots of time to spare. So I read it. I devoured it, really [pun intended]. Once I started reading it I couldn't put it down, finishing it in just a few days. I LOVED it.

The kind of funny thing is that nothing in the book particularly surprised me. It made me realize how much I have learned in the last year or so about food, and our "modern" food system, as well as the kind of food system I want to be a part of [local!]. Since I'm in that just-finished-it haze, now I have to recommend it to everyone who hasn't yet read it. I figure, if I made it this far without reading it, there are others like me. Granted, I have read a fair number of Pollan's articles, and he was already pretty much one of my heroes. But now, now, it's official.

I just sent an email to the keeper of a blog titled The Daily Coyote. She posted an email from a reader who had concerns with the ways cows are treated as they enter our food chain. I thought The Omnivore's Dilemma would be a good way for that person, as well as all followers of the blog, to be introduced to the very subject s/he was asking about.

"I read with great interest the email from the person who was torn about their relationship to food, meat especially. In the last year or two I have become quite interested in our food system, trying to eat locally and buy produce and meat, as well as milk, eggs, flour... from farmers whom I can talk to and ascertain the origin of everything that I'm eating.

" . . . I think that even someone who wasn't aware of how our industrial food system works, or how local agriculture benefits us as well as animals and the environment, would find it a really good entry into the subject. Pollan clearly illustrates the complexity of it all, and the difficulty we all face in choosing what is right for us and our lives. It is organized in a way that is approachable and riveting.

"Maybe even if you didn't want to post this on the blog, you could at least direct it on to that specific person? Sounds like they are searching for answers and not quite sure where to start."

I See Food

2008-08-08T02:52:00.006-04:00

I've been eating a whole lot of fresh, local food this summer, virtually all of it from farmers at the Allen St. Market. I've also taken on the task of photographing the food as I wander through those lovely Wednesdays.

At the East Lansing Art Fair earlier this summer, I finally found a photographer with a new idea: he framed series of photos. Most of them were baseball stadiums and the like, but he had a couple of food pictures. His method of grouping was by color— radishes, cherries and red peppers, for example, framed in red. I loved the effect and haven't let it leave my mind since then. Now if only I could remember his name!

While I liked the idea of color groupings, and also thoroughly enjoyed a break from the easily "attractive" photos that decorate art fairs, I just like the idea of a "produce study." Food is so beautiful, and yet, for most of us, it's something we take for granted and give nary a thought on any given day.

It's a feast for the eyes!

Problem with Religion

2008-07-31T11:42:00.007-04:00

Here's one of my biggest problems with religion—

People use religion to justify and explain their lives and things they find unsettling. Death? We're going to heaven. Terrorist attacks? God wills it. Having 18 children [as has just been in the news]? "[C]hildren are God’s blessing and husbands and wives should happily welcome every child they are given." Apparently they've forgotten that humans, as any other animal on earth, are reproductive machines. Having 18 children doesn't mean God has blessed you, it just means that you're not using birth control and aren't afraid of the day when the human population tops out at around 10 or 11 billion people and Earth might no longer sustain our lives. As a bonus, the husband's name is Jim Bob.

I was also disturbed after the September 11 attacks to hear people talk to reporters about their experience. There were many accounts of people who missed their train or randomly showed up late to work, thereby saving their lives. Many of them had answers like "It just wasn't my time to go yet" or "God still had a purpose for me." So what, that means that God decided to save a handful of people while giving a big "fuck you!" to the rest of them? That's such a dangerous way of thinking! That kind of flippant justification leads entire populations to war and genocide.

People also use God in other ways. A guy I went to high school with posts his religious ramblings on Facebook, and lists his religious views as "Jesus is Lord." About a year and a half ago he posted a note that I still think about, reference, and show to friends. He titled it "Dating and Singleness," and it's here for your reading pleasure:

"Well, it turns out that God really is awesome at everything, including relationships. Including making and breaking relationships. I don't think that God is so concerned about who we marry that we must be in search of the "one," but I do know that he has plans for us and will bless us with someone to marry if that is the desire of our hearts. More importantly, though, I see God being faithful to our sanctification over our love lives. I think the two go hand in hand at times, but sanctification far outweighs relationships because in being sanctified we are made more like Christ and we enjoy Christ that much more as we come to know God better! I do not consider it a misfortune that we should endure hard times for the sake of being drawn closer to God! Rather, like James says "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know the testing of your faith develops perseverance." It is a much greater joy when God lavishes on us part of his love through sanctification than when we try to create love through remaining in a relationship. It is another joy that God would bless you in a relationship and lead that into marriage. But breaking up is a joy as you experience God's grace through sanctification.

"How are we sanctified through breaking up? We are forced to lean on God for hope and joy, we are shown our own weakness and our need for God, we are shown more sin that we didn't realize was there, we cannot escape dealing with emotions and sinfulness that was not apparent before, we are disciplined into repentance, we must trust in his promises and hope in Christ alone, we must seek him out daily as we feel a need to seek out something else to fill this void that was left behind. Having to lean on God and deal with hard things is far better as we see Jesus work in our lives and experience his peace and joy than just being content with our current situation as we see and experience nothing about God.

I don't know about you, but I can rejoice in breaking up because Christ is so much better!"

I think that speaks for itself. What is says to me is "This guy's a whackjob!" Seems like God would have better things to worry about than who your college girlfriend is. And if He wills you to break up with her in order to lean on Him, doesn't that make it a codependent relationship?

codependency |ˌkōdəˈpendənsē|
noun
excessive emotional or psychological reliance on a partner, typically a partner who requires support due to an illness or addiction.

Then, this morning, I got a request from a guy I've known since elementary school to join a support group. His brother's fiancée was admitted to a hospital, and "the following day, our family was informed that she had been diagnosed with acute leukemia. This came as a shock to all of us because she is one of the nicest, caring people any of us have ever met." I actually did a double take when I came to that last part of the sentence. A shock because she is young and healthy and we never could have imagined this, would have been a little more appropriate.

I guess I'm pretty sensitive when it comes to the subject of cancer these days, because pancreatic cancer claimed my grandfather two months ago, my best friend was diagnosed with thyroid cancer at 22 a month ago, and my dog had a cancerous tumor removed a couple weeks ago that is almost 100% guaranteed to return. Does that triple-whammy mean that God's trying to punish me for something, trying to get me over to his side? Or am I just struck by coincidence? Would God really punish MY DOG for my "sins"? Because honestly, Hobbes never did anything to rile God up and he's been a very good dog throughout his 10 years. Mostly he likes to chase sticks and the occasional squirrel. If God has a problem with that, well, he shouldn't have given squirrels such a chase-able, fluffy tail.

Real Food

2008-07-23T11:38:00.005-04:00

Can you spot the little green worm I nearly ate for breakfast? [yes, I was eating broccoli for breakfast. Sometimes you just want it!]

I didn't see it either, and it managed to survive a couple days in the fridge as well as being washed. I took a bite and he fell onto my shirt— that's how close I was! And then I started thinking that I'd probably already eaten one. I know that's part of getting local food— no chemicals to kill it— but I still can't get used to it.

A few months ago, I broke a bowl when I went to take a bite of salad and I saw something green crawling up my fork. In my surprise, I just threw the whole thing.

Don't worry, neither worm was harmed. I took them outside and put them in the garden.

BREAKING NEWS

2008-07-19T09:33:00.003-04:00

Man counted calories, watched the pounds go

Yes, that's the title. And yes, apparently, that's newsworthy. Or as Fark always reminds us, "it's not news, it's CNN." Here's the article.

Since when was this kind of thing newsworthy? Granted, with all the "miracle" diet products on the market these days, people do seem to have forgotten how weight gain happens. Eat a box of Twinkies and sit on your ass all day, day after day, and you're going to pack on the pounds.

Prepare to be enlightened:

"'As long as you know how many calories you need and how many calories you eat, it's just math,' Sujit Bhattacharya said. He also included more fruits and vegetables in his diet and ate fewer fatty meats. For exercise, he changed his routine from three days a week of limited cardio and heavy weights to six days a week with the same heavy weights but increased cardio."

Next thing you know, he'll be writing a book. Of course, it will consist mostly of math illustrating input/output concepts, as well as pictures of fresh food with plus signs next to it and processed food with frowning faces. Sadly, it'd be a book people might buy but probably wouldn't use, since people expect quick fixes and results without effort.

I know a family who seems always to be suffering from one health ailment or another. I've babysat for them before and had them cancel at the last minute on more than one occasion due to someone in the house being sick. Their house has, if I remember correctly, 5 televisions in it: one in the living room, one in the dining room, one in the basement, one in the parents' bedroom, and one in the 9 year old's bedroom. The toddler doesn't have one yet, as far as I know. Their refrigerator is full of things with artificial ingredients; once we baked cookies and I spent 10 minutes searching high and low for sugar, which was finally pointed out to me by the child as the "Splenda" box. I had to read the box to find out how it "worked," not knowing how much to use, relative to the amount of sugar. I was also dismayed at my inability to locate butter, but was told by a now-exasperated charge that "the butter is right there!" Margarine. "Does this... bake?" I asked? Apparently it does, but I thought the cookies tasted weird. I didn't recognize either of those things as ingredients.

Another thing that always bugged me was the pantry. It was bursting at the seams, and of course all children like to have fun snacks [you will never find a bigger fan of Gushers than I am], but some of the things worried me. Hershey's 100-Calorie chocolate bar?

Nabisco's website invites consumers to "feel good about your snacking choices." You can read about "100 Extraordinary Women," "Tell a Friend" and most importantly, "Buy Now!" Not only do these "packs" have an awful lot of packaging, but they can also be more than twice as expensive per ounce as the same thing in larger amounts. My father refused to buy those multi-pack chip boxes when my brother and I were growing up, always giving an emphatic "no!" and railing against the "wasteful packaging." It's an awareness that I am happy to have with me still.

I worry about any kid who grows up limited to "100 calorie packs," not really understanding what a "calorie" means and not learning portion control. Take it from someone who was on the heavy side in elementary school, and who has gone on to have a pretty good relationship with food— someone has to teach you. As much as I love ice cream and chips every now and then, I really love fresh food in just about any form. I have yet to meet a vegetable I don't like [although my relationship with cilantro is beyond repair]. I love brown rice, an achievement of my parents that took months, probably, when my brother and I were young. One of my favorite restaurants is Magdalena's Tea House, a local vegan and raw food joint. I didn't grow up eating this way, but I did grow up knowing the importance of good food. [My parents were also smart enough to feed us dinner really late in the evening if they were serving something they knew we wouldn't like. I'm definitely going to do that with my kids someday!]

We as a nation have developed this twisted relationship with food, where we overeat and eat junk, and then blame food for our weight problems. We don't exercise but we expect to have perfect bodies. And I certainly don't have the perfect body, but I know it's healthy and strong, and I like it. We need to, in the words of CSNY, teach our children well. Not only in the "satisfactory" sense, but also when it comes to "wellness."

2008-07-18T00:12:00.009-04:00

Some of my favorite flowers growing in our backyard are the purple balloon flowers. Before blooming, the flowers look like little presents, green at first and then swelling nearly to bursting as they take on a violet hue. Sometimes I'm seized with the urge to squeeze one and see if it pops open, the way Impatiens seed pods do. I go through this sequence of thoughts every time I look at them.

The blooms are brilliant, too, but I love the little "presents" more. Don't they look squeezable?

I also found the exoskeleton of a cicada [or that's what I think it is], clutching a maple leaf. Its former inhabitant was nowhere to be found, but was probably up in the trees somewhere making a racket.

A Blogger's Manifesto

2008-07-15T10:52:00.001-04:00

You might have noticed that I’ve been posting a lot more lately. For a long time, I felt that this space should be devoted to deep thoughts, important things that needed discussion, my brainstorms.

But lately I’ve found myself reconsidering what a blog truly should be. In order for it to be interesting, not only to the author but to other people as well, it needs to be personal. What does it say about you? How does it relate our lives, through common threads or interest?

What I was missing with my grand concept was what makes the blogs I read [listed to the right] so interesting. I go back to them again and again because they are honest, unassuming, consistently worth reading.

As I wade deeper and deeper into photography, and as I have more and more to say about the world I see through the lenses I’m developing due to school and my experiences, I want to find a way to tie them together. Both photography and writing are important parts of me, and I think they are my strongest assets when it comes to explaining my world view to others.

So for years I rarely posted, thinking of many topics I could cover and then forgetting them again. Hopefully now I’ve gotten myself past that mental block, I’ll not only want to post more but the content will be better. It’s working already, since right now I can think of about 10 things I would like to post.

Another thing that has helped relates to the title of this blog. Waiting for Inspiration to Strike. When I first created this, I had no idea what my major would be, no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and no clue what classes I would be taking as soon as the next semester. Since then, I have found a major perfectly suited for me and have discovered the things about which I am truly passionate. The environment, sustainability, community activism... whatever it is I actually end up doing, these years will serve me well. So in a way, inspiration really has struck.

A couple weeks ago I reviewed all my posts and gave them tags, like “animals,” “government,” “food,” etc. In doing so I really took stock of the things I’ve found “worthy” enough to post previously. As it turns out, what I imagined to be a wildly varying range of topics condensed pretty well into a dozen or so tags. The process has been slow but it seems that I’ve really managed, despite my misgivings, to find my path in life. All that time when I was telling people I didn’t know what I was interested in, other than “everything,” it turns out I was already developing a focus. That’s pretty cool.

So here’s to the next year, the next ten years, and a lifetime of learning. I still don’t know where my interests will take me, but I really can’t wait to find out. I’ll tell you about it here.

Elements of a Farmer's Market

2008-07-13T14:56:00.007-04:00

One of the things I love most about the Allen St. Farmer's Market is the way it has been designed as a part of the community around it. Not only does it feature local farmers selling only their own produce, local restaurants and "local folks" who make anything from soaps to dessert sauces to t-shirts, but the market was created and is maintained by people who live, for the most part, on the Eastside. Since the Allen Neighborhood Center is a non-profit, finding volunteers is an important part of the mix in order to keep things running smoothly. Volunteers like myself show up each week for the market and make sure that tents are up, signs are out, and everything is where it should be. We then make everyone coming to the market feel welcome, answering any questions and trying to communicate why, exactly, this market is so special. Easier said than done, almost— in my case, I'm there from set-up to tear-down every Wednesday and it is hopefully apparent to people who see my week after week, no matter what time it is, smiling away from my post by the front gate or taking pictures as I wander from tent to tent.

The class I took this spring that had me involved in "pre-season" market activities allowed me to get involved in the market in different ways. One of the things we did was create flags that ring the parking lot on market days, an eye-catching and beautiful sight. It was not just my small class of four who made the flags, however. A lot of people contributed many different talents to make these flags happen.

Everything from securing materials to cutting and sewing the flags, to painting them and making sure they're hung out for every market needed to be taken into consideration. Most people had very little practice in the artistic department, and needed help with ideas for what would make an appropriate flag for a farmer's market. In my case, not having picked up a paintbrush since probably the 5th grade didn't seem to hinder my attempts, to my great surprise.

One of the best things about the creative process was the range of talents contributing. From young to old, artistic to "two left hands," volunteer to staff members... we asked anyone who came through the door of the Center to help us make flags.

The picture below is one of my favorites. In it you can see, clockwise from left, Professor Laura DeLind, AmeriCorps VISTA Franny, an Eastside resident, and one of my classmates in the RCAH Jesseca. In my mind that photo sums up the connections between the neighborhood, the community, the university, and people which allows the Center to function.

In the end, each flag symbolized what we found to be important about the farmer's market, food, and our relation to it. The colors are crazy, the lines aren't perfect, and some of the vegetables are a little hard to discern. But when they're all up and flying on a hot, windy market day, wow. It's exactly what we hoped for.

Teen Pregnancies Up

2008-07-11T04:03:00.003-04:00

A new study was just released which claims that teen pregnancies are up for the first time in 15 years: Read It

Allow me to present my theory on this. Bush was elected president in 2000, and since weaseling his way into the White House he has pushed abstinence-only sexual education at home and abroad. In order for schools to receive federal funds, they need to follow lesson plans that barely, if at all, mention preventative measures such as condoms, birth control, or emergency contraception.

I believe I had my first sex ed lesson in third or fourth grade, so I would have been somewhere around 8 or 9 years old.

So here we are, nearly 8 years after Bush took office.

The kids who started their sex ed classes when they were, say, 8 years old, as Bush took office, are now about 16. If teen pregnancies are starting to increase, could it possibly be due to the fact that, thanks to their lovely born-again president, none of them have received reliable information about sex in school?

Just a thought...

Re-Formatting

2008-07-10T10:48:00.001-04:00

Just want to apologize for the ugly awkwardness of this blog over the next couple of days... I promise it will be for the better!

Pure Joy

2008-07-06T11:16:00.006-04:00

There's not much my dogs enjoy more than running through rain-soaked grass first thing in the morning.

People Who Are Offended By WALL-E

2008-07-02T10:37:00.007-04:00

Apparently certain people have been up in arms over Pixar's new movie, WALL-E, since last November. All I knew about it before seeing it was that it looked adorable. So last Friday I saw it with a couple of friends... and I loved it. As the story goes, mankind has abandoned Earth because it was too polluted and too covered in trash to be inhabitable. The enormous corporation "Buy N Large," who appears to control all of Earth's commerce, builds a giant spaceship to take people away for a "five year cruise" until robots left behind can clean up and allow people to move back home. Seven hundred years later, it appears that only one of the robots, WALL-E, is still in working order. Each day he goes out and compacts little piles of trash, building skyscrapers with the blocks he spits out. The only life form is a cockroach who fills the role of Wall-E's dog. Over the years, Wall-E has developed a personality, collecting interesting knick-knacks and cherishing an old VHS tape of Hello, Dolly! that shows how he yearns for a connection with someone.

All of that is set up in the first half hour of the movie. When flashy, futuristic robots come to Earth in search of life forms, WALL-E falls in love with one and ends up in outer space after climbing onto the rocket ship that will take them back to the mother ship. He had given EVE a plant he found growing, and as we find out, that is not only the first sign of life to return from Earth with the rest of the search mission, but also the first to return in 700 years.

Seeing the introduction to the movie, a layer of thick smog blanketing abandoned buildings and skyscrapers of compacted trash, sent waves of sickness through my mind and stomach. At the rate we're going, that very well could be a look into our future. The smog and the trash— it's already a problem in many parts of the world. My uncle, who travels to China on business fairly regularly, emailed the family a picture of the midday sun— it looks like a dim lightbulb through the haze [see below].

Not only that, but the way Wal-Mart and other huge corporations are pushing other companies out of business, a world where one corporation owns everything isn't hard to imagine. Phillip Morris, the much-maligned cigarette company, owns Kraft Foods, for god's sake!

So, getting back to the part about how I think the people offended by Wall-E are being a little ridiculous... First of all, it's an animated movie. A children's movie. There are very few, if any, movies aimed at children that don't come complete with a life lesson and a moral at the end. By design, a children's movie teaches some important lesson or idea. There are obstacles to overcome that the hero of the story must endure in order to better him- or herself. That's totally standard for Disney movies.

As Chris Suellentrop writes in the New York Times article Another Brick in the ‘WALL-E’, "Two denizens of National Review Greg Pollowitz and Shannen Coffin think Pixar’s latest is a bit of 'leftist propaganda about the evils of mankind,' as Coffin puts it. 'It was like a 90-minute lecture on the dangers of over consumption, big corporations, and the destruction of the environment,' Pollowitz writes at Planet Gore, National Review’s global-warming blog."

No, actually, it was not like a lecture on the dangers of over-consumption, big corporations, and the destruction of the environment. That was the whole point of the movie. Critics are accusing Pixar of being Malthusian, a theory named after Thomas Malthus which predicted that as human population increased, tragedy would win out as Nature placed its checks and balances on it in terms of available resources. Granted, what Malthus did not understand in his time was that, with technology, we would have the ability to geometrically increase our output of crops to match the geometrically-increasing human population. However, the idea supporting his logic makes perfect sense.

Not everyone, thankfully, blindly attacked the movie for asking people to reevaluate their lifestyles.

“'The real tragedy of these callous conservative critics (say that three times fast) is that they are missing the real lessons of the movie, ones I found immediately attractive to a traditional conservative,' Patrick J. Ford, of The American Conservative, writes. 'In the film, it becomes clear that mass consumerism is not just the product of big business, but of big business wedded with big government. In fact, the two are indistinguishable in WALL-E’s future. The government unilaterally provided its citizens with everything they needed, and this lack of variety led to Earth’s downfall. . . . Another lesson missed is portrayed perfectly in Coffin’s claim that WALL-E points out the “evils of mankind.” The only evils of mankind portrayed are those that come about from losing touch with our own humanity. Staples of small-town conservative life such as the small farm, the “atomic family,” and old-fashioned and wholesome entertainment like “Hello, Dolly” are looked upon by the suddenly awakened humans as beautiful and desirable. By steering conservative families away from WALL-E, these commentators are doing their readers a great disservice.'"

And really, what is SO awful about teaching children not to consume junk food in large amounts and stay constantly plugged in to various technologies? One of the most poignant scenes in the film takes place when one of the fat blob humans gets knocked off her hoverchair. Suddenly, she looks out a window and for the first time sees an entire universe of stars and galaxies.

We complain that obesity is on the rise and "things aren't what they used to be," and yet in the face of something as beautifully executed as WALL-E, people eschew the movie on the basis of "right" or "left". This isn't a movie about politics, or even corporations, really. It's a movie about what it means to be a human, what it means to exist and to be alive. If we forget why it's important to look at the stars, we just might end up needing to look for a new home someday.

Increasing Oil Production

2008-06-22T11:43:00.004-04:00

I find it incredibly funny that Saudia Arabia is going to increase their production of oil from about 9 million barrels of crude per day to 9.7 million. They're also going to invest in some kind of new technology that will allow them to output 12.5 million barrels daily by the end of the year.

They're saying it's to combat the sharp and quick increase in gas prices around the world [read: the United States]. Oil is going for twice what it was a year ago, and people are finally beginning to consider alternative sources of energy as well as more efficient means of transportation. Amtrack is turning record profits as people start choosing to take trains rather than drive. People are also using public tranportation as well as biking places they need to go.

So basically, the oil minister of Saudi Arabia, along with the rest of OPEC no doubt, is saying to himself "Oh shit, you mean people are SERIOUS about driving smaller cars and riding their bikes to work and using less gas?? I never thought this day would come! EVERYBODY PANIC."

While high gas prices will affect many people and families in difficult ways, I think it's the best thing in the long run that ever could have happened to this country.

Batteries

2008-06-21T23:33:00.007-04:00

If you ever wondered why you should NEVER throw batteries away, well, here's your reason.

My grandfather recently passed away, and in the weeks following, my mother and I have the task of cleaning up and cleaning out his office. His filing system consisted of opening a drawer and dropping in whatever files and records he was holding, as well as the occasional golf ball or odd change. He also kept stacks of magazines, old bills, etc., variously piled on the floor or in filing cabinets. As the acting president of our small family business, he came in each day long enough to open the day's mail and make any calls to overdue accounts or business associates, as needed. Most days, if you blinked, you missed him.

So it makes sense that, after we moved to a new office building 10 or so years ago, anything he brought with him from the old office [and from the days when he worked a full day] might still be in the office, so many years later.

I was sorting through some things on shelves in his office and came across an unopened package of DD batteries, covered with a fine layer of dust. When I picked them up, I was rather horrified to notice that some of the contents of the batteries had managed to escape out of the bottom of the battery. Again, these were unopened and never used [or even touched after being purchased, apparently], so it could be assumed that this happens to all batteries at some point.

Batteries contain toxic materials, like lead and cadmium, as well as acid and valuable metals. According to one recycling website, "Mercury and mercury compounds in batteries are highly toxic to people, wildlife, and the environment. Health risks associated with mercury include kidney damage and genetic, neurological, and psychological disorders. Cadmium is a confirmed human carcinogen and is poisonous when ingested or inhaled."

There has never been a 100% leak-free landfill, so any potentially toxic material you throw away could wind up leaching into the earth and into the water you and I drink.

Recycle your batteries! If your city doesn't offer it, demand to know why. Demand that recycling sites be made available, not only for batteries but for glass, plastic, aluminum, paper, etc. In today's world there is no excuse for throwing away any material that can be reused. It also helps to reuse things like glass bottles before recycling them. Any glass bottle with a cap works well as a water bottle, without the creepy plastic chemicals getting into whatever you're drinking.

And buy rechargable batteries, while you're at it. I've been using the same 4 batteries in my camera for FIVE YEARS. Think of all the batteries, and money, I've saved myself.

Market Daze

2008-05-28T20:58:00.006-04:00

I very rarely make posts like this but I suppose that, since I was referred to as "bubbly" today [probably for the first and last time], it's fitting and I can make an exception.

Today was the second Allen St. Farmers Market of the season. I volunteered at the market last fall semester for a class and was entirely smitten with it, and then volunteered at the Allen Neighborhood Center this spring. I decided to continue volunteering there this summer [and for the season], without the parameters of a class. Not limited by a class schedule or other school-related commitments, I told my boss that I would need Wednesdays off and plan to be at the market from set-up at 12:30 until tear-down at 7:00 for the summer.

Today was a fabulous day. It frosted last night and thunderstorms have been predicted each day for the past couple days, but today was clear, sunny and probably 70 degrees. Set-up only took an hour, and then I helped the East Lansing Food Co-op [where I also volunteer] set up their tent. As the market got underway I took a seat by one of the entrances as a greeter. The day flew by. There was a steady stream of people all day, some attending for the first time, some with babies, some with dogs, some I knew from previous markets. You just couldn't ask for a nicer day, and everyone was all smiles. You can buy everything from herbs to milk, flowers to brownies, and people came with cotton bags and woven baskets to carry their purchases home. Many people walk or bike from their homes or work, picking up ingredients for dinner that night.

I love the conversations you have with strangers. There's just something so intimate about a market, especially this little one, that you feel like you know the people around you already. You say "hello" as they come in and "see you next week!" as they leave. It doesn't matter that you don't know their names or where they work or anything about them. You know enough.

The more involved I get with things like the Co-Op, the ANC, farmers markets, yoga, local restaurants, the more I realize how big the circle of people involved really is. When I talk to people about things like why I buy local milk instead of organic, sometimes they look at me like I am the strangest alien creature they have ever attempted to communicate with. And yet, in the food/social justice/hippy circle that I've found myself in, I see many of the same people in all of my favorite haunts. Sometimes I can't tell if there is a growing momentum towards this kind of lifestyle or if I just go about my daily life in a comically large eco-bubble.

I rode the bus home. The bus driver commented on the single flower I was carrying, an iris. I sat down to smiles from other people, a rarity on any bus, especially in the early evening. Flowers are disarming. I helped a couple figure out which bus stop to get off, and they asked if I had been working at a grocery store close to the bus stop where I got on. I was surprised they had paid any attention to such a minor detail, and told them where they could find the market next week. Maybe I'll see them there.

Far from feeling tired, I feel energized by today. I'm lucky to afford the luxury of an entire day to volunteer, and I know from experience that there are cold, rainy, miserable markets down the line. But the sun and the people and the hand-painted signs fluttering in the wind today... it was all perfect.

Ramblings About the Media, Whores, and Voting

2008-05-28T02:03:00.005-04:00

VH1 just aired a multi-part show about the sexual revolution, covering everything from "free love" to homo-hysteria to the onset of the AIDS epidemic. For the most part it seemed informative and thoughtful.

Immediately following? The Maxim Hot 100. The intro described the chosen 100 women as "sexy and talented" or something like that. It's hosted by the Pussycat Dolls [a Barbie band]. Number 97 is Kim Kardashian, one of many party girls famous for being famous, or as Maxim.com tells it, "A sex tape with R&B star Ray J catapulted this stunner from daughter of O.J. lawyer Robert Kardashian to front and center of the blogosphere."

Granted, a network like VH1 couldn't care less about the irony of running these two shows back-to-back. They're in it for the ratings, like anyone else. But at the same time, if you're going to make an investment into a socially-aware program, it seems like you might want to cushion it with other shows containing pertinent themes. Did the average viewer tonight notice the dichotomy between these shows, or just pop another bag of popcorn and settle in for a night of easy viewing?

This quote, so eloquently phrased by Tila Tequila, sums up the whole thing. "Tequila" has more "friends" on Myspace than any other member. She claims to be recording artist, but as far as I can tell, she's more of a porn star. I think she looks like an alien with grapefruits stuffed unceremoniously into her chest cavity. Anyway, after reaching a certain status on Myspace, she proceeded to declare herself a bi-sexual and star in a reality television show pitting men against women to win her heart. So, here's the quote. She was talking about a fight between two of the contestants.

"And I'm like, 'Two bitches fighting over me? Sweet.'"

And, from one of the "Hot 100s" I can't remember: [talking about being pulled over for some driving offense] "And I'm like, should I keep driving or slut my way out of it?"

Given the starts of those quotes, I suppose they both could have been Tila Tequila's. Who knows, and really, who cares? I don't understand our newfound infatuation with people famous for being totally useless media whores. More people vote for the next "American Idol" than the next American president. Maybe if the elections were a little snazzier, involved more hair and makeup, and fewer clothes, people would be more interested.

I guess the upside would be, more choices. We could start with thousands of potential presidents, weed out the worst candidates right away by hilarious measures [ahem, Fred Thompson anyone?], and go from there. Each week, someone gets sent home and everyone gets to campaign another day, until there is only one...

Dumb Journalism

2008-04-27T12:31:00.016-04:00

I have a big problem with the main story I awoke to find featured on CNN's homepage today. Read it first: The high price of going 'organic'

Obviously, given the food rant I posted just yesterday, you can tell that I am a proponent of organic food, natural ingredients, and sustainable food systems. So maybe I should preface this by saying that I might be biased. But I believe that I have a good reason for that bias.

The subtitle to the article is The push for 'green' products may have peaked - due in part to the fact that they're so much more expensive than mass-market alternatives. I read the news and my eyes are open, so I am well-aware of the economic state most of our country is in right now. Foreclosure rates are at an all-time high, people are losing their jobs, and our dear President Bush came up with the very clever Economic Stimulus Act of 2008 which will be worth about $600 to everyone who receives it. So how does this relate to food, you might ask?

The article states that many people are "getting turned off by the organic hype for three reasons: price, skepticism, and confusion."

The benefits of organic food, and I do mean truly organic food that is produced sustainably, are many. But maybe I should start from the beginning.

What does sustainable agriculture mean?

sustainable |səˈstānəbəl|
adjective
able to be maintained at a certain rate or level : sustainable fusion reactions.
• Ecology (esp. of development, exploitation, or agriculture) conserving an ecological balance by avoiding depletion of natural resources.
• able to be upheld or defended : sustainable definitions of good educational practice.

When I talk about sustainable agriculture I mean food that is grown in a way that can be repeated for generations. No massive, monoagricultural fields of corn growing for miles and miles, with nary a bird or bee to be seen. I mean small farms growing many different varieties of produce, and even many varieties of one kind of produce. Those fat red tomatoes we are all used to seeing don't look like the tomatoes our grandparents knew. There are at least 400 different kinds of heirloom tomatoes, in all different shapes, sizes, colors, textures and tastes.

But most people have no idea, because they see the same red tomato at every grocery store they visit. It's the same now with many kinds of produce and even livestock. Having the same couple of animals and plants dominating our food system is dangerous, because it would only take one virus or blight to wipe it all out.

If you've heard of the "Doomsday" seed vault in Svalbard, near the North Pole, you might know that they are not collecting the seeds to the kind of junk produce we see in the grocery store every day. Scientists are preserving millions of seeds from all over the world, strains that have been evolving over hundreds if not thousands of years to be perfectly adapted to their particular environment. Many of the strains have specific resistances to insects, or are particularly drought-resistant, depending on where they are grown. They have survived for so long because they are well-adapted to their environment, not because whoever tends the fields sprays them with a plethora of pesticides and herbicides each day.

In what has become my favorite and most-referenced New York Times article of all time, A Dying Breed, author Andrew Rice discusses the changing landscape in Uganda where American Holstein cows are overtaking the hardy Ankole in popularity, due to their factory-like milk production. Ankoles have been a fixture on the grasslands for the last thousand years, where they roamed all day and provided their owners with milk. But the Holstein can out-produce these ancient, perfectly-adapted cows by 20 or 30 times. Holsteins are happy to sit in a pen all day long unlike the Ankole, so a family with just a small plot of land can keep one. The disadvantage? Holsteins are always sick and always hungry, and do poorly in adverse environmental conditions like drought.

Rice writes, "The Food and Agriculture Organization, an agency of the United Nations, recently reported that at least 20 percent of the world’s estimated 7,600 livestock breeds are in danger of extinction. Experts are warning of a potential 'meltdown' in global genetic diversity." Each different strain of wheat, rice, pig, or cow carries with it a rich and valuable adaptive history. Each time we lose one of those strains, we are losing something important.

So getting back to my argument, this article about consumers turning away from organic food mentions that organic food is expensive, that it sells for a hefty premium of 50-100% more than mass-market produce. Duh. Big companies have figured out that it's cheaper to apply huge amounts of chemicals to their food than it is to farm it in small plots along with lots of other fruits and vegetables. It's the same reason Wal-Mart can sell its cheap plastic crap for less than any other retailer— the more of something you produce, the more you can shave costs by even just a penny per pound, for example. Does that mean you're getting a better product? No, it just means you are getting something for cheap, probably at lower quality. But that's how the quality vs. quantity thing works. Which one do you value more?

According the CNN article, "42% of those polled said they are skeptical and don't trust that products labeled as 'organic' actually are organic." That might possibly have something to do with the fact that the USDA has given in to pressure from lobby groups [who represent companies like ConAgra, for example] and relaxed its definition of "organic" food, so that in order to be organic, something only has to be 95% organic. And when Wal-Mart starts carrying its own line of organic food, any smart person would be skeptical. I wouldn't trust it either [nor would I shop at Wal-Mart, given everything I have read about it. Sam Walton must be turning in his grave]. If the labels are confusing, it's because companies eager to profit from the recent interest in "green" products have abused terms like "organic," "natural," "eco-friendly," and "sustainable," making them almost meaningless. But would you expect anything else?

We live in the information age and I don't believe it's enough to trust labels anymore. Consumers have to start asking questions and researching things for themselves if they really want to know what goes into them.

A move many people are making is away from just food labeled as "organic," to food grown locally by small, family-run farms. Not only can you ask the farmer exactly how they grew something, but you can probably visit the farm and see for yourself. So that takes care of the consumer skepticism mentioned in the article. And as for the higher prices? Not only are you paying for a higher-quality item, but you are supporting a farm and a lifestyle. You're not paying for robots and pesticide applicators, you're paying for a family to work a plot of land. When people's livelihoods depend on a certain amount of land, they have a reason to take care of it— in other words, to farm sustainably. No one will pollute land that they plan on working for the next couple of generations.

Nothing is better for a faltering economy than supporting local businesses, either. If you want to keep shopping at Wal-Mart, well, okay, but don't expect them to contribute anything back to your business either. If you own a small business, you might be able to expect the farmer you buy heirloom tomatoes from to come in and spend some money in your store. And why wouldn't they? That's how local economies work. Everyone benefits and the money stays in the area. It's a better deal for everyone involved.

If you read the original article, and then read this, you will realize the difference I hope. The CNN article makes it sound so obvious why people are moving away from "organic" products, when really this is a complicated situation that has some very simple solutions. The reporter didn't take the time to talk to any organic farmers and ask them why their produce costs more than what you can buy at Wal-Mart. The answer, I think, is obvious.

Our Suspicious Lives

2008-04-26T17:28:00.007-04:00

Most of us probably consider ourselves to be fine, upstanding citizens. Maybe we are. We live our lives out in the open, just trying to make an honest living and go about our day-to-day business. But more and more I am aware of a seedy side to the honest, industrious American dream. The products we come into contact with on a day to day basis, everything from our breakfast cereal to our facewash to our lunch to that after-dinner snack, goes through its life cycle as covertly as possible, hoping not to get noticed by alert or informed consumers. We spend our modern lives surrounded by junk.

Take an unassuming package of cookies I was recently given after donating blood. "Grandma's Homestyle Fudge Chocolate Chip Cookies," to be exact. Frito-Lay bought Grandma's Cookies in 1980 and boasts that "today, Grandma's Cookies is the most popular cookie brand sold in convenience stores and vending machines in the US." What a selling point!

As I was perusing the Frito-Lay website, I noticed a section under "For Your Health" entitled "Ingredient Concerns." Under that subheading I noticed a "Products Not Containing MSG" list. As you might know, MSG or monosodium glutamate is a chemical best-known for its use in cheap Chinese food. It's marketed as a "flavor enhancer" and is now included in many of the processed foods we encounter every day. Basically, it tricks your brain into thinking something tastes good when it doesn't. It also causes reactions in some small amount of people, but is classified as safe by the FDA [which is not exactly the shining standard for regulation, but that's another post]. "Why do Frito-Lay snacks contain MSG? Monosodium glutamate (MSG), found naturally in many foods, is merely a flavor enhancer. Only very small amounts of MSG are necessary to enhance the spices and seasonings used in flavored Frito-Lay snacks. Extensive consumer testing indicates that consumers prefer the taste of chips with MSG." Duh, because it's tricking their brains into preferring it! I wonder if those people were told what MSG is and what it does before they took those surveys.

So, that aside, here I am on Frito-Lay's website looking at a list of products that don't contain any MSG and wondering which ones do. By the way, Frito-Lay refers to itself as a "leader in the convenient food industry," as if apples were somehow not convenient.

What I really want to do here is call attention to the creepy nature of the food these kinds of companies sell. MSG aside, we are ingesting all kinds of alien "ingredients" each time we eat this stuff. In my bag of Grandma's Cookies, the ingredient list is long and filled with 4+ syllable words. So as I was staring at it, I began to wonder how it would compare to real homemade cookies. Probably not at all. But I thought it was worth investigating.

Ingredients for Grandma's Fudge Chocolate Chip cookies: enriched flour (bleached and unbleached wheat flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamin mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid), vegetable shortening (partially hydrogenated soybean and/or cottonseed oil), sugar, high fructose corn syrup, semisweet chocolate chips (sugar, chocolate liquor, cocoa butter, anhydrous dextrose, milkfat, soy lecithin, natural and artificial flavors), dextrose monohydrate, light and dark cocoa processed with alkali, malt syrup, modified corn starch, salt, leavening (ammonium bicarbonate, sodium bicarbonate), propelyne glycol, mono- and diesters of fats and fatty acids, mono- and diglycerides, soy lecithin, BHT (to protect flavor), citric acid (to protect flavor), powdered swiss chocolate flavor (natural and artificial flavor, nonfat milk solids, modified food starch, dextrose, maltodextrin, gum acacia, partially hydrogenated soybean oil), natural and artificial flavors, and whole eggs.

For the purpose of comparison, I just searched for cookies with a similar name. I couldn't find any double chocolate chip cookies in my Joy Of Cooking or Better Homes cookbooks, so I googled it. The first recipe I came to seemed like it would do.

Ingredients for Absolutely Deep Dark Chocolate Fudge Cookies (from massrecipes.com): unsweetened cocoa, all-purpose flour, baking soda, salt, semisweet baking chocolate, unsweetened baking chocolate, light brown sugar, unsalted butter, eggs, vanilla, semisweet chocolate chips.

Look at the difference! And what is all that extra crap in the first list anyway? BHT, or Butylated hydroxytoluene, which was apparently used to protect the flavor of the cookies, is used as an antioxidant food additive as well as in cosmetics, pharmaceuticals, jet fuels, rubber, petroleum products, and embalming fluid. It prevents changes in food's color, smell and taste— I wonder if it does the same thing for corpses? BHT is found in cereal, chewing gum and food high in fats such as potato chips and shortening, and has been banned for food use in Japan and Australia. Gum acacia (aka gum arabic) is at least a natural product. It's used as a food stabilizer, and also in soft drinks, paints, inks, cosmetics, pyrotechnics, shoe polish, and postage stamp adhesives.

I always wonder, too, what exactly is meant by the "natural and artificial flavors" ingredient. According to Eric Schlosser, author of the fantastically disturbing book Fast Food Nation [read it!], the flavor industry in America rakes in about $1.4 billion annually. Schlosser writes, "Many of today's highly processed foods offer a blank palette: whatever chemicals are added to them will give them specific tastes. Adding methyl-2-pyridyl ketone makes something taste like popcorn. Adding ethyl-3-hydroxy butanoate makes it taste like marshmallow. The possibilities are now almost limitless. Without affecting appearance or nutritional value, processed foods could be made with aroma chemicals such as hexanal (the smell of freshly cut grass) or 3-methyl butanoic acid (the smell of body odor)."

So really, the cocoa in those seemingly innocuous cookies may very well have been added as a token ingredient, a nod to the simple recipes of yesterday and a way of pacifying consumers who expect cocoa in chocolate cookies. But does it need to be in there? Who knows. Maybe for color purposes?

My solution to this kind of scary ingredient list has been to quit eating it! I stopped shopping at Meijer and now do all my grocery shopping at the local food co-op. There's a lot less junk food there, and what is on the shelves consists of natural ingredients and less of the unpronouncable stuff. And anyway, when I'm there I'm so tempted by the real food I usually don't look too hard at the processed stuff.

If you're interested in this kind of thing, I would recommend Michael Pollan's newest book, In Defense of Food: an eater's manifesto. I actually haven't read it yet [my mom has it right now], but it focuses on what the subject implies— defending food. From the website:

Food. There's plenty of it around, and we all love to eat it. So why should anyone need to defend it?

Because most of what we're consuming today is not food, and how we're consuming it -- in the car, in front of the TV, and increasingly alone -- is not really eating. Instead of food, we're consuming "edible foodlike substances" -- no longer the products of nature but of food science. ...

But if real food -- the sort of food our great grandmothers would recognize as food -- stands in need of defense, from whom does it need defending? From the food industry on one side and nutritional science on the other. Both stand to gain much from widespread confusion about what to eat, a question that for most of human history people have been able to answer without expert help.

Or, to condense it all, Pollan gives us a simple motto to live by: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

By the way, if those Deep Dark cookies sounded delicious, try them for yourself!. The recipe included a ganache for dipping. Yum!

Animal Accidents

2008-04-07T13:56:00.008-04:00

Once again, I haven't posted in a long time.

It's not that I don't have things to say, it's that I have too many.

I come up with ideas for posts and usually start composing them in my head, when I'm on my way to class or before I fall asleep or things like that. But then I forget about them, lose the start, and the idea is lost somewhere in my brain. Even when I carry a little pocket notebook with me, I forget to write it down. I guess that's just how things go.

Yesterday I saw one of the most disturbing and unsettling sights of my life.
I was headed to Ann Arbor with some friends to participate in a street art festival, Festifools, in the early afternoon. All of the sudden, three deer came bolting out of the corner of my eye straight into the highway. The first deer was hit by the car in front of me. As a lifelong Michigan driver, as soon as I saw the deer I hit the brakes along with everyone else, but it was too fast for the deer and the car in front of mine. The deer was hit by the right headlight of the car at 70 mph and it spun in circles faster than I could have imagined, landing in the ditch. The driver pulled off, and there was broken glass along the lane along with splatters of various kinds from the deer, manure and the like. "Oh god," we were saying, "Did you see that?"

The other two deer had made it across two lanes of highway and were frenzied in the median, darting headlong with only the whites of their eyes to guide them. They somehow both managed to make it back across the highway and hopefully to safety. The deer who was hit wasn't moving, or at least wasn't visible down in the ditch. I'm sure it was killed upon impact. People slowly accelerated, eyes peeled in case any more deer might come dashing across the road. I followed suit, and was trying to avoid the broken headlight glass. And then...

I saw a slippery-looking mass lying in the lane, and immediately thought it must be the poor fallen deer's stomach or other organ. I maneuvered around it, trying to discern what it might be. I wish I hadn't looked. It was a fawn. A tiny, perfectly-formed deer lying sprawled across the hot highway concrete. I'm sure it was close to being born, because I believe deer give birth around May. It wasn't moving and I'm sure that if the doe was hit with enough force to abort the fetus instantly, the fetus was killed as well. I didn't stop the car and I'm kind of glad I didn't, because the sight of things like that tend to stick in my mind and haunt me at night for a long time afterward. But as it was, last night when I was trying to fall asleep all I could see was its tiny body on the concrete, A life over before it had even begun.

I've seen dead deer all over the place, and plenty of other types of "roadkill" as well, but I have never seen the impact before. Actually, I did hit a squirrel once, and another time a bird flew into my windshield, and driving through my neighborhood a couple years ago the car in front of me ran over a squirrel [which was awful to see, it was picked up by the tire and flung into the air, and after it hit the pavement it started trying to crawl away until it died, and I can still remember it in awful detail years later]. Seeing the fawn really shook me up.

Accidents like these are one of the many reasons that hunting is important. Keeping deer populations down helps keep them from starving and other awful ends. But we live in a state not originally inhabited by deer [due to extensive forests], and deer have migrated north alongside our development. Their habitats disappear to agriculture and subdivisions, and we've removed their natural predators, so these violent deaths are not uncommon.

What three deer were doing at 1:30 in the afternoon on US-23 I will never know. I do know that if I had been there a couple seconds earlier or later, I either could have hit one myself or never known the details of what happened. I know that I am a bit of a softy, easily moved to tears over these kinds of things. I hate scenes in movies that depict mass slaughters of animals [and people too, but at least people have a choice when they go to war], and I am ashamed of us as a species when I read the news every day. Car-deer accidents may be commonplace, but for me the result will never look the same as I drive past a carcass on the highway.

Being Sick

2008-01-30T21:16:00.002-05:00

I am one of those people who eat predominantly healthy foods and gets regular exercise. I also have the benefit of youth I suppose, but then again, I'm surrounded daily by 45,000 other college students who are all little carriers of doom and missed classes. I don't get sick very often, but for the last couple of days I've been sick.

This won't turn into a recitation of symptoms [or an "organ recital" as my grandmother refers to it]. Rather, I would like to comment briefly on our medical system these days. We're constantly bombarded by commercials and advertisements for various medicines, prescription or otherwise. People can google their symptoms and "diagnose" themselves, then find the "perfect" drug for whatever ails them, all without a doctor. On the one hand, it's incredibly empowering and has probably saved lives. On the other hand, we think we can be our own doctors. I'll admit, when I woke up this morning with a painfully sore throat, the first thing I did was whip out my laptop and google "strep throat symptoms" and "tonsillitis." Then I made an appointment with the university health clinic, called my mom, and took my dad up on an offer for homemade chicken noodle soup.

I drank green tea with honey until my appointment, then dutifully recited my symptoms to the nurse and was poked and prodded by various instruments by the doctor. He took swabs to test for strep and the flu, said I was a little congested, and prescribed me pseudoephedrine, a decongestant. I was honestly a little surprised to be getting a prescription at all, because I am hardly having trouble breathing due to excessive snot migration or anything of the sort, nor is it interfering with my social life. [Is that too graphic? Apologies.] In fact, I think this is the least congested I have ever been while sick— the common cold is much worse.

I think that the prescription was symptomatic more of the expectations of patients rather than my symptoms. People go to the doctor and expect to get medicine to make them better. I understand that, partly, but I also have read about superbugs and drug-resistant strains of common afflictions. An MSNBC article from 2004 reports, "Flesh-eating bacteria cases, fatal pneumonia and life-threatening heart infections suddenly are popping up around the country, striking healthy people and stunning their doctors. The cause? Staph, a bacteria better known for causing skin boils easily treated with standard antibiotic pills. No more, say infectious disease experts, who increasingly are seeing these “super bugs” — strains of Staphylococcus aureus unfazed by the entire penicillin family and other first-line drugs."

That's scary. Among other things, such as shared close quarters, the article cites "overuse of antibiotics, which tends to kill weak bacteria and help hardier ones develop resistance."

If you want to read a great and comprehensive NYT article on this subject, check out Drug-Resistant Staph: what you need to know

So anyway, while the doctor didn't prescribe me an antibiotic, he prescribed me medicine that I didn't need [or want— I didn't fill the prescription— I have Kleenex]. At some grocery stores now, such as the locally-based chain Meijer, there are programs in place to give people free antibiotics. While it's a great thing to provide much-needed medicine to everyone, I fear that it devalues the purpose of antibiotics.

Meijer offers seven antibiotics for free with a doctor's prescription, and states it places "a special focus on the prescriptions most often filled for children." Furthermore, in the "What the Experts Say" section, it says "National health experts say that 40 percent of children who see a physician leave with a prescription." If you perused the NYT link already, you would have seen the following: "Without question, people need to show far more respect for antibiotics. Misuse of antibiotics allows bacteria to evolve and develop resistance to drugs. But parents often pressure pediatricians to prescribe antibiotics even when they don’t help the vast majority of childhood infections." So now you see where I'm going with this.

We're overmedicated, and not in the Tom-Cruise-thinks-psychology-is-a-hoax kind of way. We think we need medicine for everything, including [slightly] runny noses. I'm certainly not against medicine, and I take ibuprofen from time to time as needed, but I am concerned with what we are doing to ourselves, our bodies, and the microorganisms that make us sick [and keep us healthy— not all bacteria is bad!]. Unless new, more powerful drugs can be found to combat these superbugs, we have a problem for which we have only ourselves to blame.

I will end with a pun that I thought of while responding to my roomate's plea for me to stop coughing.

"That made me laugh, which made me cough. It's a vicious cycle. ... but I suppose it could also be a viscous cycle since I am coughing up some phlegm."

taDA!

Waterboarding isn't Torture?

2008-01-30T12:38:00.002-05:00

This just in:

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- Attorney General Michael Mukasey told the powerful Senate Judiciary Committee on Wednesday that it would be inappropriate to discuss whether the "waterboarding" interrogation method amounts to torture. During his first testimony since his November confirmation, Mukasey testified that it wouldn't "be appropriate for me to pass definitive judgment on the technique's legality."

Sen. Edward Kennedy pointed out that -- because Mukasey has acknowledged his opposition to torture -- his refusal to pass judgment on waterboarding is "like saying you're opposed to stealing but not quite sure that bank robbery qualifies."

At one point the Massachusetts Democrat posed a blunt question to Mukasey: "Would waterboarding be torture if it was done to you?"

The attorney general responded, "I would feel that it was."

I remember reading an article once written by a journalist who wanted to see what waterboarding was like. It was to be performed on him in a safe environment, surrounded by people, and he knew he wasn't actually being drowned. I think he had a "safe word" too. Anyway, he barely lasted a minute before panicking, believing that he was drowning.

From what I have read, waterboarding isn't a "simulated drowning" at all— the cloth covering your mouth doesn't keep the water from running down your throat, of course, so it would depend how long the technique was used. Sounds like torture to me.

EDIT: I just got back from the doctor's office where they tested me for the flu and strep throat. It included throat and nose swabs. I suggest that, to avoid this awkward questioning by Congress in the future, the CIA switch over to nose-swabbing as a means of getting information.

2007-12-22T01:38:00.002-05:00

We seem to live in a world increasingly devoid of personal contact.

Schools across the country are banning everything from hugging to high fives. An MSNBC article from October had this gem of a quote... '“Would you want your children to be hugging or kissing at school without your knowledge?”' That would be from David Hadley, the principal of some middle school in Texas.

Some administrators are citing "hallway clogs" as the reason to ban hugs, blaming girls for exchanging lots of hugs between classes, and others imply that hugging could lead to something worse. [Well, I suppose that Britney Spears' 16 year-old sister IS pregnant, so maybe they're on to something afterall.]

Spawns of Spears aside, it seems like a lot of us live without any meaningful contact from day to day. Touching isn't allowed, and with sexual harassment suits on the rise, it becomes more of a risk every day to reach out. I read an article once about a male teacher who took his young students into the hallway to help them zip up their jeans after using the bathroom, just in case. We don't trust each other, or can't. Touch has become a taboo thing, an excercise in deviancy practiced in the shadows by child predators and creepy Catholic priests.

I can think of so many examples to illustrate my line of thinking about this, some of them funny and some of them disturbing. I remember reading an article in the local newspaper about someone breaking into our local zoo and sodomizing a miniature horse with a pop bottle. As a child and as a longtime lover of horses [a word which can be misconstrued in this context] I was horrified, but thinking back, I can't help but wonder what was going through the mind of the person who did it. Honestly, who the hell would do something like that? Probably someone whose parents didn't hug them enough as a child.

Human contact has been shown in studies to reduce stress, and even petting an animal can have a stress-relieving effect. We're social creatures who crumble in the face of solitary confinement. More and more we live in relative isolation, surrounded by technology that enables communication without connection. The neighborhood is no longer a center of activity, and we hardly even know our neighbors anymore. New subdivisions are designed so that houses are set at the end of long driveways and there are no sidewalks for children to ride bikes on. Instead of walking next door for a cup of sugar, we drive to the nearest convenience store.

If this all seems unorganized, my apologies— as I write I keep thinking of more examples and I want to list them all. I think we forget to think about our lives, why we live the way we do, why we live here and not there. It's too easy to walk through everyday life with blinders on, not facing any of the problems pressing into our generation. It has to stop.

Because of a service-learning class I took last semester, I became involved in a community center just down the street from the place I go to school and the neighborhood I was born and raised in. My neighborhood and the one I volunteered in were different in many ways and had different sets of problems. What impressed me time after time as I spent time at the neighborhood center was the level of commitment the staff had to building a thriving community. They offer workshops, coffee hours, homebuyer's counseling, and many other services— all with the neighborhood's health as a whole in mind. It's a wonderful program that, quite frankly, I am enamoured of, and so excited to be working with them again next semester. More on that later.

A couple months ago my yoga instructor mentioned to us that we shouldn't worry about touching other people as we moved through the various positions during our practice. She talked about how many of us go far too many days at a time without being touched by another person, and I was deeply touched by the sentiment. I try to remember that as I move through each day.

2007-12-01T12:21:00.003-05:00

No, Gracias.
Nicaragua: Rainforests and Reality
MSU Study Abroad
March 4-12, 2006
Nicaragua crumbles upon you as you first emerge from the fluorescent glow of the airport. A towering, quavering, saturated wall of green. The night air is filled with the rumble of ancient engines, shouting of harried drivers, and the hum of everything out beyond the lights of the airport driveway. A full day of traveling, compounded with the loss of our luggage, made this new country seem altogether too overwhelming for even just one week. Where were we, and how had we ended up here?

Nicaragua, sandwiched in Central America between Honduras and Costa Rica, is a country roughly the size of the state of New York at 129,494 sq. km. The largest of Central American countries, it lays claim to coastal plains on both the Pacific and Atlantic sides, with mountains dotted by volcanoes residing within. Tropical forests fight to retain their ground as people attempt to make livings farming small tracts of land spread throughout remote areas. Nicaragua is a bright, bustling country marred by poverty and political strife. Colonization and occupation, followed by internal strife, corruption, civil war, and finally interference by the United States has left the country economically scarred, though work goes on to reverse that trend.

With only a week’s worth of time to experience such a big and diverse country, the group with whom I was traveling soon realized that we would be attempting to jam two or three days into each precious day we had. The MSU Study Abroad trip for which we had signed ourselves up was named “Rainforests and Reality,” and we left with what must have been wildly differing ideas about what our week would entail. I expected rainforests, of course, but what I really hoped for was a glimpse into a life completely different than my own in most imaginable ways, and some unimaginable. Here I was in yet another country whose language I did not speak— leave it to me to take years of French, and not visit a French-speaking country. I spent a good part of the week worrying that, in a moment of blind panic and reactivity, I would respond to someone’s Spanish inquiry with a rusty response of my own. That never happened, though I thought to myself in French some of the time. Some part of me, the world-conscious part, needed to prove that I did in fact speak a language other than just English. Someday I will.

My story actually began the day before departure.
I was in Ann Arbor, situated in a coffee shop while my boyfriend attended a meeting. I had homework to do and chai tea to drink, and a steady stream of jazz occupied the right side of my brain. After quite some time, a man sat down at the table next to me who was clearly down on his luck. Long disheveled beard, thick and well-worn leather jacket (not those shiny black ones yuppies wear), gloves and a hat, heavy boots, a small plastic bag filled with things. His fingers were wrapped around a coffee and he said a prayer before taking a sip. At the time I was immersed in a science textbook, but I soon finished my last chapter and moved on to my next subject. From time to time he mumbled to himself, but for the most part he sat in silence, working on the coffee. At 9:43 p.m. he asked me for the time, then began counting his money intently. “Miss, can you spare me a dime? I’m eleven cents short.” I started digging through the front pocket of my backpack for change. Finding none, I handed him a dollar. “Thank you and God bless.” I responded with the appropriate knee-jerk “you’re very welcome,” and he asked me what I was reading.

“This is for my sociology class. It’s pretty interesting.”

I began to flip to the front cover; it’s a reflex of mine. As the traffic-light yellow binding began to appear, I stopped short. The book I had been so intently reading was entitled Experiencing Poverty. I began to flush red, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Sounds like heavy stuff,” he said.

“It is. I mean, it can be. Err, it is.” He began to talk about something, but I was so flustered I don’t remember what. He told me he had been in the shop earlier that morning, and I replied that I had been there going on five hours. “What can I say,” I quipped, “I like the music.”

“I like the fireplace. It’s warm over there. That’s where I was earlier.”

We talked a bit more, and then he left. My boyfriend showed up just minutes later and found me with tears in my eyes. Here I was reading Experiencing Poverty while a homeless man counts his change and comes up eleven cents short for a cup of coffee. In less than 24 hours, I would be in Nicaragua. Deep breath.

Following our late-night arrival to the country, sans luggage, we bounced down roads in various states of disrepair into a volcanic crater, the site of our first hotel. I use the term hotel loosely, as we actually stayed in an ecological project center perched over Laguna de Apoyo. The crater lake directed your eye straight to the towering Volcano Mombacho, a dormant but impressive formation we would be visiting later in the week. After a deep sleep interrupted occasionally by falling forest objects, we awoke to a new world. I had realized the night before, even in the pitch black surrounding us, that we had found our way to some version of the Garden of Eden. I had not prepared myself for the waxy banana leaves and tree limbs snaking in and amongst themselves, nor for the exotic sounds of birds and humming insects announcing the morning sunshine. After slathering on sunscreen (fortunately I possessed the foresight to pack that into my carryon, as well as a clean pair of socks, a toothbrush, etc.), I made my way from our room to the main deck and kitchen. Wary of traveler's diarrhea, or “t.d.” as we affectionately came to call it by the week’s end, I avoided the eggs and gallo pinto, or rice and beans, offered in favor of granola and a banana. Plus, as an American, it had been deeply ingrained into my head that gallo pinto did not constitute a breakfast food. How little I realized then what I would learn in one week.

After breakfast we boarded the bus to our first destination. After stopping along the way to ooh and ahh over, or actually in the direction of, howler monkeys, we were soon winding our way towards a volcano in the Masaya Volcano National Park. The landscape changed from foreign to positively extraterrestrial as the road cut through lava fields populated by scrubby brush and the occasional wind-twisted tree. As we exclaimed and snapped pictures, what was truly alien— the land, or us? Grinding down through lower gears, the bus shrugged its way to the top. As we exited the air-conditioning, the wind immediately grabbed at our hats, shirts, backpacks, anything. Here we were in Nicaragua, staring down into a large pit, from which thick mucus-colored sulfuric clouds emanated.

After observing the volcano’s visibly violent history, we went spelunking in a nearby volcanically-formed cave. Some of the girls supremely enjoyed the bats flying about, while the rest of us listened to our guide recount its history of high priestesses and human sacrifice. We later lunched in a pleasantly shaded restaurant. Excited to buy beer, excited to see the cute little caged monkey kept near the bathrooms, we probably filled any available positions for “obnoxious American tourists.” No matter. It was our first day in a country so foreign to our mindsets that we could not help but exclaim over every single thing we noticed.

On a quest to find clean shirts for the luggage-less, we stopped first in a swanky mall clearly servicing people with more money than we possessed. How anyone in Nicaragua could afford to shop there is, and shall always remain, beyond me. We cut out in favor of the nearby central market. I suppose the images of poor people remain mostly the same no matter your location in the world, at least to some extent. The rambling market reminded me of a market I visited in Athens, Greece, minus the smell of meat cooking. The wares vary somewhat to fit the locale, but the hungry-looking shopkeepers use every mean within their power to attract you to their merchandise. Children swarm, hawking small trinkets and tokens bestowed upon them by their parents— supplemental income with big brown eyes and a sweet smile, trying to solicit our sympathy and our Cordobas. You don’t want to say, “No gracias,” to so many children, but to say yes to one is to invite a stronger advance from those who remain. We clutch our things closely against our bodies, avert our eyes. No, gracias.

That night a group of us went for a swim under the silent watch of Mombacho. Heading into the water as the sky’s dusky glow faded, we waded through ten feet of razor-sharp volcanic rock until meeting with sand. The water had a slight funk, but it was the perfect temperature for stargazing. We felt so far removed— but removed from what? Our mostly carefree lives in the States? Or the poverty through which we earlier cruised with the A/C on full-blast? Our luggage arrived late that night. Clean clothes at last!

We stumbled onto the bus at 4:30 a.m. and headed for the airport. Our flight to Bluefields, a small town accessible only by boat or plane, was short, though for some the unpressurized plane was just a little too daring. A few motion-sickness tablets and green faces later, we landed and made our way to the hotel. A brief walking tour around the main market revealed faces underscored by years of hard work, crippling injuries resulting in a betrayal by the body during those years, and polite smiles from which cheerful greetings issued. “Hello, my children,” one woman said quietly as she moved around and past us using a twisted crutch. “Good afternoon and God bless.” Here we could find almost anything— bananas, shrimp, rice, baskets, hammocks, cheap McDonald's toys, ice cream advertised by sharp choruses of bells, shy dogs looking like they’d been kicked one too many times. It is amazing how, without the “help” of facials and creams and sunblock, a person’s face is so capable of telling a story. I will never forget that. Each smile, each wrinkle, each scar told of a different day and a life more different than I could even begin to imagine. I took pictures as my camera hung at my side, hoping no one would notice. I felt guilty, because my face had no reply to give. I hid behind glasses, sunblock, and my daily skin care regimen.

Stopping in a little restaurant for something to drink, I noticed that our group of about twenty people had amassed a small following of kids. Some of them had come with us, “old” friends of our group leader Dr. Urquhart, but the others had probably been confused by the sight of twenty Americans herding protectively around a couple of scraggly Nicaraguan children. As they sipped delicately at the sugary drinks we placed before them, the other kids hung at the door, shifting their gaze back and forth from the kids to us. “They” and “we.” Isn’t that how it always goes with Americans? We’re separated by more than just our nationality; it’s our clothes, our position in the world, our wealth, our fancy cameras, our passports, our endless opportunities. It’s their poverty.

After finishing the drinks, we were cut loose to wander around in small groups. Every town carries its own distinct smell, and Bluefields smells of overripe fruit, dust, car exhaust, and stale sea breezes. Upon reaching the end of a road, we ventured into a long dark building filled with tables and tables of fresh produce stacked neatly. A little boy helping his mother took note of our wanderings, and sidled towards us. Taking notice of our cameras, he began pointing things of interest out to us. Over there, see that chicken? his eyes seemed to ask. Do you see that funny old man snoring? He ushered us out the back of the building to a wharf with many docked fishing boats. I gestured to my camera and he smiled; I took a picture of him. In it he looks solemn, but there is a faint smile playing at his lips. His hands are pressed tightly to his sides, and he is wearing a St. Louis Cardinals t-shirt.

After rejoining the group, we headed to a nearby community to visit more of Dr. Urquhart’s friends. The children just kept coming and coming, from all directions. They smiled shyly, pointed to our cameras. The resulting flurry of picture-taking and oohing and ahhing over cute little kids produced plenty of giggles as we showed them their pictures in the preview screen of our cameras. They pointed to themselves and their friends, covering their mouths with little hands. Reality set back in once I actually stopped to look around. The families who occupied this little neighborhood lived in one-room houses built out of wooden slats and corrugated tin. Brightly dyed clothing flew in the breeze as it dried on lines, and smoke from cooking fires poured out of openings in the house walls. One little girl started playing in water, or at least that’s what we Americans assumed. We soon realized she was actually washing clothing. Where was this place? This is the reality of life in impoverished countries. Quick childhood and a lifetime of work.

We made a second trip later, this time to the community center to pass out clothing and toy donations. The structure was distinguishable by its size and also the fact that it had been more-solidly constructed of poured cement, in addition to the wood and tin. I will be frank, and perhaps disappoint the reader by revealing this experience to be one of the least satisfying of my life. We had limited resources to distribute, so the door to the center was closed and locked. I had brought two dozen hats along with me, but they went fast and there were many disappointed faces once they were gone. Children gathered outside, peering in through the metal grating which constituted a window. While certainly we were doing good by donating clothes, much of it was frivolous given its intent. Although some of the kids could hardly contain their elation upon receiving a toy, others had twisted looks of disappointment on their faces. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I could see them thinking. Children’s faces hide very little. I realized that many people must riffle through their toy boxes and think, hmm, I don’t like this toy, maybe I’ll donate it to some poor kid in Nicaragua. That is some of what we had to offer— cheesy fast food trinkets and other oddities. Even then, the kids were gracious to us. The worst was the cameras. Here these people were, being given much-needed things, and my group could not contain themselves from taking pictures. Not just regular pictures, but pictures with the flash turned on. Full blast, no matter where you turned, flashes going off in the face of these humble people. It sickened me; I must admit I was embarrassed to be a part of it. Americans will be Americans.
Later that night we had the chance to see Garifuna dancers perform. In addition to glimpsing a bit of both local history and culture (the dances remain as part of slavery’s far-reaching legacy), each of us had a chance to embarrass ourselves in front of everyone. A good bonding experience, certainly. I was told I looked like a Hula dancer. It’s a start.

The following morning brought fresh-squeezed orange juice and pancakes for breakfast. In groups of three we headed to the market clutching a dollar each— the amount most Nicaraguans live on per day. Our mission was to buy food for the next 24 hours. While it sounded daunting from the outset, the cost of living is lower than I originally imagined, so my group came back with far too much rice and beans. We also bought plantains, a diet staple in many countries, and mangos with our leftover money. I noticed many of “my” hats from the day before bobbing along in the marketplace. What a strange feeling it was— Hey, I gave people those hats! It was not enough, but you contribute what you can. It seems that this is how most Nicaraguans fashion their lives, and it’s a shame that more people around the world do not follow suit.

We reconvened and soon everyone was packing up their duffel bags. We set out on two rented panga boats to our next home-away-from-home. These boats sit low in the water, unless you are moving, in which case you had better hope you put enough weight into the bow to see over it. We headed upriver towards a rainforest farming cooperative. As we zipped through miles and miles of jungle, the boats cruised beneath birds and frightened sunning turtles from their perch on logs. We passed the rusted-out hulls of shrimping boats destroyed by Hurricane Mitch, as well as the occasional pair of people paddling in dugout canoes.

Our drivers docked, and suddenly the noise of the rainforest was upon us. It’s an oppressive mix of birds, insects, and heat (most who live in warm climates can attest to the noise a hot day makes). The group spread out daintily across a network of logs laid into thick mud; each tried harder to grip with their toes through sneakers after seeing one unfortunate girl step off the trail. One by one, each piece of luggage, tent, and jug of water was passed through the line until it cleared the mud. We collected our things and headed to camp, by way of a deceptively harmless-looking hill. Instantaneous sweat. It’s amazing to think how soft American bodies really are. We lift weights, jog, eat healthy food (or at least have access to it), and receive a plethora of medicines for a trip such as this one. And still we sweat, we find ourselves out of breath, we become stricken by t.d. (which I avoided, thankfully). We must really be a sight to see for people who have spent their entire lives living and working there.

After swift introductions to the family on whose land we would be staying, we fanned out into a field carved out from the forest to set up our tents. I was startled to hear something crashing through the brush— it turned out to be a sweet-faced cow. There were about a dozen of them, and they paid us no heed. We sweated and set up our tents, and after applying bug spray once or twice, headed to a building for a lunch of either peanut butter and jelly, or tuna. Smashed Wonderbread has never tasted so good. A jar of mayonnaise which had been left out for an alarmingly long period of time was divvied up among three extremely skinny dogs. I led the movement, even though I knew I probably shouldn’t. The dogs I have at home are extremely well-loved and well-fed, and there is a side of me who will never be able to fully accept that cultural difference. It seems silly to expect people who have enough trouble feeding themselves to feed a dog; in fact, it is downright unreasonable. But I, along with another woman, could not help but extend the plastic spoon of peace to these dogs. You contribute what you can.

We had boxes for this family as well. Clothes and toys, mostly. It received little fanfare on the part of my group, because there were only two children to witness this American “Christmas.” Nonetheless everyone was very grateful; for them it is not just a façade.

As sunset neared Dr. Urquhart led us away from the camp on a path which skirted the rainforest. He identified the bold flashes of colors we saw streaking before our eyes easily; to him each color and call meant something. We were on visual overload. Toucans, parakeets, exotic-sounding things I had never heard of— this was really it! This was the rainforest! The canopy looked surprisingly similar to what I had imagined from years of nature magazines and Hollywood movies. As it grew dark we headed back, and dinner, the dinner we had so carefully purchased earlier that day, was served. That meal was easily the best of the trip. Doña Berta, our obliging hostess, cooked gallo pinto in coconut milk, fried some yucca and plantains, and had fresh cow’s milk sitting in a pail for us to try. No one spoke as we dug into our plates. The family gathered and stood near, silently watching us, thinking.

After each plate had been emptied we headed back to the boats, this time to hunt caimans. These reptiles are related to alligators, but apparently far more docile. After spotting one and zeroing in on it, one merely needed to be lowered from the boat far enough to snatch it out of the water. They submitted meekly to our many photo ops, and were duly given back their freedom. The river at night was a beautiful, if somewhat frightening, mass of dark green plants, various shadows, and strangely full and bright moon. Every noise not identifiable as either human or engine-made resulted in ten lights flailing around wildly into the raven-hued night. We didn’t know what was out there, and perhaps preferred not to find out. That would involve more “rainforest reality” than we were prepared to experience in one short week. Our tents that night provided us enough separation from our surroundings that I slept soundly.

The next morning brought an early wake-up call in order to spot a greater variety of birds. With dew still heavy on the ground we clomped back out towards the rainforest, leaving little trails in the grass behind us. A breakfast of gallo pinto and mangos later, we headed back out, this time to venture into the rainforest itself. By that time the sun was up and the dew was quickly dissipating. Sadly, what I remember most about being deep in the jungle is the mosquitoes. Despite all the bug spray (which was probably all sweated off), the steady hum of mosquitoes was inescapable. We zigzagged back and forth to points of interest, slapping at our faces, necks, and any other exposed place. After leaving the forest we visited a cleared plot of land where Don Avelino, our host, raised a few staple crops. Banana trees, yucca, and beans were interspersed with a few stray stalks of corn here and there. We argue that cutting down the rainforest is wrong, yet how can one deny a man the chance to produce a living for his family? He was proud to show us his work.

After our walk through mosquitoes’ paradise, we headed for the river. Despite knowing of the caiman lurking who-knows-where, we jumped in and swam for the opposite bank in earnest. Questionably dirty river water had never felt so good. Everyone felt refreshed after climbing back out, and started back to camp to change into fresh clothes. We had forgotten about The Hill, and by the time we reached our tents we were once again dripping in sweat. No matter. Soon we found ourselves once again in the boats, zipping breezily along farther northward toward Pearl Lagoon. The little fishing village felt very friendly, and we made our way to our newest lodging. The hotel was a beautiful, understated, open building and we settled in quickly. A little boy wandered through, carrying a basket filled with small biscuit-like loaves of bread for sale, fresh out of his mother’s oven. Women with babies clutching at their skirts hung crisp white laundry out to dry, and kids in uniforms passed by on their way home from school. After a short downtime, we set out to find a swimming hole. The sidewalk we followed meandered through neighborhoods and turned out onto a marsh. We continued to the sea, passing people hard at both work and play, and swam in a place where the sandbar extended out hundreds of feet. The water was perfect— not too warm, not too cool, a mixture of both saltwater and freshwater. Walking back to the hotel, my hair curled like it never has before. After dinner a group of us converged in the hotel’s little bar area to recount the day and week’s adventures. Later on, we passed through the hotel gate in hopes of a local bar, which we found. Talk about conspicuity! The locals seemed both amused and intrigued by us, but fortunately the girls in the group were outnumbered by the guys who had accompanied us. We danced our feeble little American hearts out, until power was cut to the entire area. Our signal for bed.

The next morning found us piling back into the boats, and this time heading out to the Pearl Keys. One very rough boat ride later, we beached on a little island of paradise and were turned loose for a few hours to snorkel, wander, or even sleep. (By that time people had started to get sick.) The island did not fit into the rest of the Nicaragua picture; it was the stuff of glamorous movies and people with more money than they knew what to do with. I’ll admit it was a nice change of pace, but I felt guilty doing the tourist thing in the middle of such an experience. We had a chance to observe the reefs around the island, sip coconut water, eat more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and accrue sunburns. It really was a fun few hours. Soon our time was up and we headed back to Pearl Lagoon, packed, and then began the trip all the way back to Bluefields, and then Laguna de Apoyo.

The next day’s adventure included Volcano Mombacho, an organic shade tree coffee plantation, and ziplining through the forest canopy. The volcano’s position is such that it “collects” clouds, and the resulting cloud forest is what most people picture when they think of “the jungle.” Huge trees carpeted in ferns, bromeliads, and orchids, and green absolutely everywhere. There were also massive vents in the ground from which steam curled up, and all the while clouds were blowing just overhead. A short trip down the mountain led us to the coffee plantation. Although the plants weren’t fruiting, we witnessed workers sorting through beans, manually picking out the good from the bad. We had a chance to try the coffee, whereupon we all bought bags to bring back home with us. After everyone’s purchasing needs had been fulfilled, we walked a little ways down the mountain to the ziplining. Each person was outfitted with a secure harness; once you climbed the stairs set up by the first tree, they hooked you in and off you went! We coasted through the tops of the trees, going from one tree to the next and jumping off again. My ears were filled with the steady drone of cicadas— it completely absorbed all of the silence which should have surrounded us. Once everyone finished their first-class tour of the canopy, we headed for another market for our last purchasing binge of the trip. While this one had the characteristic kids tagging along behind each group of people, it was clearly aimed more towards tourists than the first one we visited. Bright hammocks, woven clothes, and non-threatening slingshots punctuated the bustling square. One old woman brought to my attention a basket balanced on her head, and pushed a plastic bag into my hands. “Cocoa,” she explained. I smelled it and smiled. She pushed another bag into my hands, this time a spice I could not identify. I smiled again, and she whipped out a plastic bag to put the bags in. “N-no, gracias,” I stuttered, shaking my head. She snatched her bags back, threw them in her basket, and muttered something that made me glad, for once, that I could not understand Spanish.

That night we ventured back to the lake for another swim. The moon was even brighter than it had been earlier in the week and the waves churned up cool water which soothed our somewhat (read: significantly) burned skin. I tried to find more constellations in the sky but the moon drowned many stars out. “How many people can say that they’ve been swimming in a volcanic crater lake in Nicaragua,” we mused. “How many people can say they have even been to Nicaragua?” We broke into fits of exhausted laughter before heading back to the hotel to shower and collapse into bed.

On our last full day, we did the tourist bit. A drive through wildly varying terrain of dry plains and small jagged mountainous hills ended at Pochomil Beach. The sun was out in full force, so much so that it was impossible to make it across the hot dry sand to the water’s edge without sandals. The glassy beach stretched into pounding surf, and groups of kids chased after soccer balls. Teenage boys whipped skinny horses up and down the beach trying to attract takers for a horseback ride down the beach. While that has always been a goal of mine, I couldn’t bring myself to ride one. After testing out the water, I eventually settled into a hammock to absorb the surroundings. We were once again a target, as women and young boys and girls passed by offering necklaces and bracelets to us. We were so tired. “Why won’t they go away?” we complained. Yet, past our annoyed exteriors, we all knew that these people were merely trying to make a living. Buying rice and beans in the markets of Bluefields had been a game to us; the same cannot be said of the people we encountered at any time during our trip. The familiar sharp sound of bells alerted us to the ice cream in the area. There were two carts jingling their wares— a middle aged man, and a boy who was probably our age. He stopped ten feet from the long table around which we were centered and leaned against a support beam of the thatched “tiki hut” we were in. His eyes passed steadily over everyone, a lingering look which did not give itself away to any specific emotion. I wonder what he was thinking about. I will always wonder.

Once lunch was served, a man came over to play songs for us on his guitar. All listened intently, few tipped. He smiled and thanked us for listening. No one seemed to notice he was gone. I spent a fair amount of time that last day wondering if that was how the trip would be for some people— out of sight, out of mind? With the advent of digital cameras it’s so easy to take pictures, but of what substance or significance are they if no further thought is invested in them? Everyone’s heart breaks when they see those commercials on television asking viewers to “sponsor a child for less than a dollar a day!” but how many actually take the step and pledge their support? Not enough, not nearly enough. We were worn out that day, some had fallen to the intestinal ills of LCDs— Less Developed Countries, the politically correct term for Third-World Countries— and saying “no gracias” is so easy. As the day began to wane we clambered back into the bus and headed to Managua, to a Best Western hotel literally right across the street from the airport. We vied for the showers — “I call first!” “Well then I get second!”— and enjoyed controllable temperatures and “real” water pressure. Clean and refreshed, each of us donned the nicest of the clothes we had packed and made our way to dinner. No one ate much though. Whether because of a protesting stomach or perhaps because of a somewhat smaller one than had first arrived, we nibbled at our food and consumed vast amounts of water. There had been many “three-liter-plus days,” when no amount of water seemed to quench our thirst. At home I’m a non-water drinker, but this wasn’t home, was it? We joked about our sunburns, our tangled hair, the first thing we would do when we got home the next day. Sleep! Brush my teeth using tap water! Eat chocolate! Watch television! My mind flickered back to the boy with his ice cream cart, watching us as we played and lounged in hammocks drinking cold bottles of water and Coca-Cola. After dinner we convened near one of the hotel’s pools and shared some Nicaraguan rum. Our last night together! we half lamented, half rejoiced. One by one people lost interest and headed to bed after saying their goodbyes.

My flight departed early in the morning. I meant to spend it thinking and writing about the experience, but instead I slept. My father picked my up from Detroit Metro airport, and we stopped in Ann Arbor’s The Prickly Pear for dinner. It’s a southwestern-style restaurant, quite good. I ordered buffalo enchiladas, and when they came, I could hardly eat any. Too much cheese. Too rich. Too much food. Too too much. In addition to the main dish, it was served with a heaping portion of rice and beans. Gallo pinto, my home away from home. They weren’t nearly as good as Doña Berta’s, but they would do. I ate them all.

When I got home that night, after a long shower, I settled down into my big bed and felt completely overwhelmed by guilt. But as days passed and I mulled the experience over, I began to see things differently. The guilt remained, but it was of a lesser sort, a different sort. I am no more responsible for having been born in America than any of the people I encountered during our week were for having been born in Nicaragua. I did not choose my parents, they did not choose theirs. I believe that is an important distinction to make. There is a broader social responsibility those of us carry who have been born into positions of automatic influence. I may not have name-recognition or anything along those lines, but I have voting power and a modest, college student’s amount of money which I can use to make my voice heard. While Nicaraguans have little say over the direction of their country (at least as long as the World Bank and other such organizations are involved), I can choose not to buy certain products or not to support certain people. I can exert my influence over friends and alert them to situations of which they may not be aware. I can show them pictures and tell them about what I saw, and how I interpreted it. I can do so much. The Western world has reached a point where people in positions of major political or monetary power can no longer be given the benefit of the doubt. Change starts from the bottom up, with people like me going on trips like this one. A step out onto a fragile-looking limb sometimes creates a fall, but if I’m going to crash down out of the American tree of power, wealth, and greed, I would rather have it be for a good reason. In order for someone like me to last a week in Nicaragua, I “needed” to be up to date on all vaccinations, such as Tetanus. I needed a Hepatitis A shot to ward off food-borne malaise. A live oral Typhoid vaccine, kept refrigerated and out of any and all light, taken four times, every other day. Anti-malarial pills taken the same day once a week for 5 weeks. A powerful antibiotic just in case of any t.d. Pepto-Bismol as a preventative measure against the same thing. I have never been so heavily medicated in my life. I have never seen so many small rectangular houses. I have never seen so many skinny dogs or thirsty-looking people or children in sandals many sizes too big for their feet. I will never forget the faces of the people I passed on the street, or the people of whom I took furtive pictures. Rainforests and Reality. The world needs a booster shot of both.

2007-11-18T12:37:00.001-05:00

Consider the YouTube phenomenon: easy access to millions of videos shared by people around the world. If you want to hear a specific song you can find it with a quick search, and usually there are many versions from which to choose. Unknown, unsigned artists can create a huge fanbase by posting performances. People can post parts of their lives or create a personality for the viewing pleasure of thousands of loyal subscribers. The search term "Laughing Baby" turns up 10,200 results. The all-time most watched video is entitled "Evolution of Dance" and has been viewed 65,031,195 times.

These "viral videos" have not only created a culture but garnered fame for their creators. Not only can it be used as a marketing tool [by companies like BlendTec, known for their "Will It Blend?" videos] but it is a place where you can stumble across untold numbers of strange, offbeat things.

I will leave you with an example [which has been viewed more than 350,000 times]:

I really have nothing profound to say about YouTube... I suppose it's profound enough in its own right. I will however post the link to my "favorites" page, for a somewhat filtered example to fit with this post.

http://www.youtube.com/profile_favorites?user=kYels1

old haikus

2007-09-05T00:59:00.001-04:00

turn off, alarm, please
I need a few more minutes
late to class again

oatmeal, newspapers
wrapped up in my fleece blanket
breezy sunny day

vegetarian
chili and cheez-its for lunch
way way too much salt

I'm falling asleep—
public bureacracy and
EEP again

and now to Udon
for passionfruit with Heather
then maybe Beaners?

our yard looks so strange
naked, no trees, but trucks stuck
Mother Nature wins

homework and Apple
dinner, study group and bed
uneventful life

Hope the open seas
and sushi are good to you
I miss miss miss you!

2007-04-10T10:39:00.002-04:00

I'm taking a Humanities course this semester about Islamic art and culture. Now that there's only a couple weeks left in the semester we have moved from the ancient history of Muslim civilization to present-day. Today in class we watched a film about "Orientalism," or the West's fascination with the Near and Far East. It was inspired by Edward Said, a Palestinian-American professor at Columbia U who wrote the book Orientalism. According to Wikipedia [I know, only so authoritative], he had been under FBI surveillance since 1971, probably until he died in 2003.

Odd how time chances perceptions.
He wrote the book in 1978 and updated it in the 1990s, saying he had noticed an uptick in the presence of anti-Muslim sentiment in those years. We grow up with an idea about the exotic lands to the east, home of the famed spice trade and silk routes and caravans of camels. This is nothing new, although it continues to evolve. In the Disney movie "Aladdin" for example, one of the main songs' lyrics perpetuates many myths to children so young they don't even understand what they are hearing.

Oh I come from a land, from a faraway place
Where the caravan camels roam
Where it's flat and immense
And the heat is intense
It's barbaric, but hey, it's home

[Original first verse (1992-93):]
Oh I come from a land, from a faraway place
Where the caravan camels roam
Where they cut off your ear
If they don't like your face
It's barbaric, but hey, it's home

So they toned down the barbaric imagery for the kids but left the reference.

The film we watched included footage of the aftermath of the Oklahoma City bombings [which were obviously perpetrated by two Americans], and so many of the journalists basically came right out and said "This attack is characteristic of Islamic jihad" or referred to the Middle East that watching it's embarassing. There was also a news clip by a reporter talking about the first World Trade Center bombing as he walked, you guessed it, in front of the World Trade Towers. A quick look around the classroom revealed grimaces and a couple stiff laughs— the movie needs a bit of updating now that the WTC towers are no more.

It frightens me a little that despite being a fairly open-minded person, and despite reading books and taking courses that address this kind of subject, I am still unable to shake the all of the perceptions and misperceptions I have about Islamic culture. I realize that "Islamic terrorists" are misusing the Qur'an much in the same way that Pope Urban and his trained emissary monkeys misused the Bible and launched the Crusades, and yet with the media's slant on the war, it is too easy to see people blowing themselves up in the Middle East and stop all intelligent thought thereafter. Nevermind that the US is probably in it for the oil and that we ally ourselves with Israel which hasn't exactly treated its neighbors well. We get to sit back and wage our own holy war against an entire religion, one of the largest and most peaceful in the world.

I'll save my thoughts on religion for another day.

From Edward Said...

"So far as the United States seems to be concerned, it is only a slight overstatement to say that Muslims and Arabs are essentially seen as either oil suppliers or potential terrorists. Very little of the detail, the human density, the passion of Arab-Muslim life has entered the awareness of even those people whose profession it is to report the Arab world. What we have instead is a series of crude, essentialized caricatures of the Islamic world presented in such a way as to make that world vulnerable to military aggression."

2007-03-20T11:20:00.001-04:00

Quebec is fantastic. We are in a beautiful area of the city... it's very hilly but we are only a block or two above a main shopping district. We're surrounded by cute cafes and pubs, as well as a couple galleries and plenty of stores. It is REALLY cold here, and the artic blast is cold enough to melt your face off.

Our first morning here we had breakfast in a cafe that was filled with the most delicious pastries I have ever seen. They also had really good coffee, and basically it makes me loathe most alledged "bakeries" in the EL area. There is no comparison.

Today and yesterday we volunteered at a local soup kitchen. The first day we cleaned the entire "drug and alcohol" ward [awful, it smelled like vomit] and today we cleaned the main area where people congregate before meals are served, as well as the "smoke room" [also awful, liquified smoke running down the walls]. Both days we also served dinner. The first day, half of us were in the back kitchen doing the dishes. My job was to take the newly sanitized [and scorching hot] dishes out of the washer, dry and sort them, then stack them to be taken back out for serving. Today, the same half of us served food in the line. I served soup, and I was the first person they talked to as they came through the line. It's been a challenge not only to remember French but to be able to listen well enough to understand any of it. People speak a lot faster than any of my teachers did, but everyone is very nice and I think they appreciate that I am trying. I'm able to understand and speak well enough to communicate and to be polite, at least.

Last night we went ice skating in the center of town on a little rink. Of course, people here take ice sports so seriously that it has it's own little zamboni to clean the ice. The city is beautiful at night, all covered in snow and twinkling lights and warm store-fronts. There are also carriage rides which I'm crossing my fingers for.

We've met a lot of really wonderful and interesting people, not only those helping us but also locals and the people served by the "soup kitchen." It's actually a very big building with separate men's and women's wards, and an area for people to take classes and learn the skills necessary to re-integrate into society and the workforce. Today we had some free time so we walked to a nearby train station and big beautiful old church [now I know why Catholics are so fervent... they have the most opulent churches I have ever seen, with giant, well-marked boxes for donations to the church, and tiny concealed "poor boxes"... nice]. On our way back to the soup kitchen we walked through a mall because it was unbearably cold, and as we left we encountered five police cars and a man being arrested. It was someone all the students recognized, and we had talked to him earlier as we worked. Sad, but at least this way he is guaranteed a warm place to sleep tonight.

We also met an old man with a very kind face, full of character, who told us of his Inuit heritage. He wants us to visit a musuem down by the ferry port? But anyway, today I asked if I could take his picture to remember him, and I don't think anyone realizes the extent of the lonliness a lot of these people feel. He also has a homing pigeon. I didn't know that until we had said our "au revoirs" and I was ready to go to my serving station, that I noticed a moving plastic bag at his feet. I asked what was in it and he told me all about homing pigeons and how you need to talk to them and tell them who you are before you take them far away, otherwise they won't return. I took a picture of him with the pigeon, too.

Tomorrow and thursday we are going to be in an "old folks home" of some sort... apparently we'll be making bonbons and decorating for a St. Patty's day party. Friday is a free day, so we're probably going to a museum or two and then sightseeing a bit. My intention is to eat pastries until the moment we leave, as there is no suitable comparison that I can think of back home. The hot chocolate is also better here, and last night we ventured out to a pub where I told the waitress I would like "un biere Quebequoise" so she surprised me with a local dark beer which was also good. So basically most things here are superior, except maybe the weather, because it's too close to the Artic Circle.

That's all I can think of for now... we spent 8 hours in the soup kitchen today and I think I'm in need of a shower to get rid of the tobacco drips and soup splashes.

2007-01-26T20:28:00.001-05:00

Stopping by the barn on a snowy evening...

2007-01-25T19:12:00.000-05:00

I received a lovely postcard today, out of the blue, from my Dad. But not really since he was out of town last week. But anywho... the front was Curious George holding tight to his balloons. Dad wrote...

It made me smile a great smile when I thought of the nights spent reading these books. No amount of time that passes will dim those memories.

How lucky each of us is to smile a great smile every now and then. Even if it's something small, something old, something long past. I feel like today's culture discounts smiles and even warns against them. I was in Nicaragua last year, a beautiful place filled with beautiful souls, and one of the people on the trip never smiled in a single picture. Was he unhappy or just trying to look tough, aloof? I have a few friends who do it and I never understand. I've been told more than a few times that I have a great smile, though secretly I think I look a little deranged in pictures when I'm really happy. I look ready to eat someone. But at least you can tell I'm not faking it.

Pasted smiles and forced solemnity only perpepuate our glossed-over, lonelier-by-the-day world. We're surrounded by computers, cell phones, fast food, ATMs... all these things that make us forget what it feels like to laugh so hard you cry, or to snort milk out your nose. I love it when that happens.

2006-12-18T00:19:00.001-05:00

On PostSecret...

And the response:

Sent: Sunday, December 17, 2006 5:27 AM
I believe that a new religion could be based on this single postcard.

I don't know, we're only human but at the same time... maybe we're not so bad after all. The holiday season seems to be a popular time for people to forgive and reconnect and all of those things we do to reverse damage and enrich our lives. I wonder how many people want to say exactly that to so many of the people in and out of their lives... and they never do.

I wonder how differently my generation will deal with this kind of outreach, being the first generation to grow up with computers and email and instant messaging and voicemail and text messaging, and even blogging. We can say things to a gadget that we can't say to a person. We can reveal our most personal thoughts to an undefined mass of readers online which we could never in a million years divulge to some of our closest friends. Oddly enough, in a culture so concerned with privacy, we open ourselves up to all kinds of accountability for our thoughts. There are search engines which can find basically anything that was ever on a website. Ever. It's still out there. We have a false sense of security posting incriminating pictures of ourselves on Facebook, figuring that we set our Privacy Settings to "Friends Only" and that means only approved eyes may see. That is simply not the case.

2006-12-09T01:48:00.001-05:00

Overheard in front of Olds Hall while walking home from class:

Dude: I can't believe it.
Dudette: I know! He would never actually have done that, he was just talking about it. And of course the State News jumps all over the story.
Dude: Yeah, "MSU's independent voice." If a liberal had been talking about that they never would have said anything.
Dudette: Thank God for Fox News.
Dude: Hah, yeah.

That's the only part of the conversation I heard as our respective sidewalks crisscrossed. I was tempted to follow for a while in order to figure out what the unnamed guy was talking about doing, but the temperature was hovering around 15°F so I decided against it.

2006-11-28T00:41:00.001-05:00

We like to think we go through life unwatched. The truth is that people are always being watched in one way or another. We can't help but look, stare, double-take, observe, study. Communication in a species so poorly evolved physically is one of our only assets.

On saturday I was heading out of town and stopped to buy gas. The man on the other side of the gas pump tossed a handful of things into the garbage can, some of which didn't quite make it in. He of course ignored it, but I noticed that what was left was a AA battery.

From a UC Berkley webpage: "The toxic heavy metals and corrosive properties of batteries make them unsuitable for disposal in the municipal trash. Alkaline and other batteries contain caustic electrolytes that can cause severe chemical burns if the electrolyte comes into contact with the skin or eyes. Many batteries also contain toxic heavy metals like lithium, silver, cadmium, nickel, and mercury. Toxic metals in landfills have the potential to contaminate surface waters and groundwaters."

Picking up the offending battery, I told him he "really shouldn't" throw batteries away, they're highly corrosive and should be recycled.

"Oh yeah? Well gas is bad for the environment and you're filling up your car right now."

Did I fail to mention previously that this man was driving a Denali? A luxury SUV which gets up to 16 mpg city, according to GMC's website? I don't know what my little Grand Am gets but I'm pretty sure it's more than that. What this arrogant bastard failed to realize was that he, of all people, should take more care with the little things like batteries. We lead toxic lifestyles and most people couldn't care less. According to one of my biology professors, 38.2% of all household waste is comprised of paper products which are completely recyclable.

Typical Household Waste
Paper............ 38.2%
Yard waste.... 12.5
Plastics......... 10.2
Food waste... 10.0
Metals........... 7.6
Rubber.......... 7.0

I'd imagine that in the not-so-distant future, landfill salvage will be a very profitable business.

2006-11-13T00:32:00.001-05:00

Observed in McDonel Hall, East Lounge, last tuesday:

Boy with long goatee, wearing a bright green shirt and socks with sandals, orange hair. Coming from Totally Takeout. Sits down at table near my seat. Carefully removes a cup of soup, salad, Dorito and Baked Lays chips from bag, leaving nachos. Also has a pop. Looks over food, bends head, says a quick prayer of thanks. Procedes to eat.

I'm not a big fan of religion but for some reason I found that rather moving.

2006-11-08T18:39:00.001-05:00

Oragutan. Malay and Indonesian origin, "Orang" meaning "person", "hutan" meaning jungle. "Man of the forest."

Watch: Orangutans on Computers

2006-11-06T16:42:00.002-05:00

Those who know me know that I went to Nicaragua last year on a study abroad program with MSU. If you follow the news you would know that Nicaragua voted today. The following is an email sent by Dr. Gerald Urquhart, who led our trip last year, to all of us who participated.

Hi Everyone,
Today marks the return of hope to Nicaragua, with the FSLN's victory in the 2006 presidential elections. Daniel Ortega won because of the Nicaraguan poor, so disenfranchised during the recent regimes that they found Daniel their only help. Some of the estimates were that 30 out of the 38% of the vote he got came from the extremely poor (about 75% of his votes).

http://www.elnuevodiario.com.ni/2006/11/06/politica/33222

Although the FSLN has many negatives, I think they will do much more for the poor than the previous regimes. Neoliberalism does nothing directly to help the poor, and its "trickle down" really flows in reverse. Over the next couple years we will have to wade through the propaganda from both the US and the Leftist South to see if things actually improve. For now Nicaragua will be added to the list of Rogue Nations and Ortega, Chavez and Castro will be portrayed as looters, dictators, or worse. Coming from the Bush-led US, it's like the pot calling the porcelain bowl black.

Oddly, Vietnam and China are tearing up the global economy, but Nicaragua's elected government will likely be ostracized immediately from global economics. Wealthy Nicarguans are rightly worried about incredible inflation under Ortega, which might become a reality if the World Bank and IMF reject the FSLN govt or vice versa. Ortega is probably going to have to continue paying the IMF and following Neoliberal structural adjustment to avoid getting into a cash-flow problem and not having anyone to turn to. I guess if Ortega rejects the IMF, we'll see how far Chavez's charity can go toward saving an economy.

El Che called for a United [Leftist] Americas as the only way for Latin America to move forward. His dream is becoming a reality, now let's see if it really helps the little guy.

Hasta la victoria siempre! (with guarded optimism)

Jerry
________________________________________________________________________
Gerald R. Urquhart Ph.D.

Assistant Professor
Lyman Briggs School of Science

Here are some pictures from BBC of voting today...
Nicaraguans go to polls

And if you want to see some pictures from our trip...
A Week in the Jungle Pt. 1
A Week in the Jungle Pt. 2

2006-10-24T02:07:00.001-04:00

I was driving to an area of Ann Arbor over the weekend, by way of US-127 and I-94. I've never driven farther down 127 than Mason so it was an enjoyable drive, light traffic, everything. Good day for driving.

There is construction on the bridge which connects 127 and 94 so I, along with a line of other cars, got to take a nice detour through the middle of who knows where. Also referred to as "somewhere close to Jackson, but not." At any rate... I saw lots of Confederate license plates, jacked-up trucks with enormous high-tread wheels, and "Deer Processing Here" signs. Like I got off the highway in Michigan and landed in Alabama somewhere. Michigan is a strange place.

Once I reached my exit I misread the poorly-written directions and headed the wrong way. I suspected this mistake when the road I was on turned to dirt and gaping potholes, but being unfamiliar with the area, I continued. After passing an old barn surrounded by fleecy sheep, and then what appeared to be a castle, and then driving over a one-lane bridge, I decided that this was, in fact, the wrong direction. I turned around and headed back from whence I came, and eventually came to my destination, but I was going the opposite direction compared to what I thought.

That was strange for me, being someone with a fairly accurate sense of direction, but it was an overcast day and impossible to get bearings. Makes you appreciate those who sailed the world in search of new lands all the more.

2006-10-21T01:08:00.001-04:00

Tradition and change
passing on the street with barely a hello
that is what the world has come to today
and probably tomorrow too.

note: I found this picture somewhere on the web but I don't remember where... hence the lack of credit where it's due. My apologies.

2006-10-12T05:34:00.000-04:00

I checked out a book from the library today which has never been checked out before. Date of publication? 1977. Administrative problems in metropolitan areas: a case study of Pimpri-Chinchwad Municipal Area. On the problems of urban development in the Poona metropolitan area. I wonder if it will ever be checked out again, I wonder if it has ever been read before.

It may not be the most interesting subject, I may hate the class and therefore the fact that I even know of the existence of this book, it may be 5:32 A.M. and the paper may be due at 8 A.M. and it's not even started yet. This book may live in the basement in those creepy moving bookcases and smell like mold, but not the nice old book kind, just the kind that makes me sneeze, and it may be impossible to read because it appears to have been typed using a typewriter.

Still, though, what a lonely life for a book.