New year's resolutions seem to bubble up on me around this time of year. Actually, the 'resolution' part of that statement isn't really accurate. In December and January, I'll find myself doing something or other which is either brand new, or in some way an incremental change. For instance, in '09/'10 it was playing the guitar on a daily basis. So I called it a resolution, and have continued ever since. A sort of 'leading (myself) from behind.'
This year - this fall and winter actually - I've notice a somewhat hastened slowing down; this may sound like an oxymoron, however I mean that my symptoms of MS seem to be getting heavier faster. Is it my resolution to make it even faster? Hardly. Resolutions to the contrary or not, that's how things have felt, with their attendant emotional baggage. Particularly over the past few weeks.
For a couple reasons perhaps, not least of which might be the less healthy diet that is so popular this Yuletide season. Another reason was my first colonoscopy the week before last (the result: clean as a whistle!) Which means I haven't been to the gym for two weeks. I've recently resumed, and behold, I feel better! Causality of course is not clear - that is, maybe I'm getting back to it because I feel better, and not vice-versa - but it is good to be back at it regardless. During this decade of 'MS-tery', the single best medicine I've found is regular exercise.
Which includes daily physical therapy, starting with balance movements, and moving on from there. A bit of tai chi, a swing and lindy hop, and recently I'll attempt to include something 'baroque' each session. By which I mean some improvised movement in the moment that is not necessarily fancy, ornate, or extravagant - the usual metaphoric meaning of the term. But instead something odd. Strange. Unexpected. The word baroque derives from the Italian word for an irregularly shaped pearl, and that is the meaning I employ for something surprising, or out of the ordinary. Suddenly reaching up to the sky, or swiveling my head, perhaps slapping the floor. Maybe all three in succession. Or something that happens in the moment - maybe it has percolated up from below, some muscle group that is subconsciously asking for attention. Or something quite pedestrian, which may or may not result in a feeling of release.
(A favorite song of mine is Baroque and Blue by Claude Bolling, in which this is given a voice, and can be seen/heard here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dVtLVSzESU Click and you can listen as you read this post. There is much more to the suggestive title, it seems: the jazz, the classical, etc. I think the song takes the classical music sense of the word Baroque - Bach for example - and after juxtaposing it, weaves it gradually together with jazz, and the blues. And plays with the obvious double entendre, 'broke and blue'. The sense of baroque meaning something unexpected or enigmatic, however, would put the jazz into both words, making something of a hidden triple entendre. I love the resulting confluence of musical traditions. End of parenthetic foray.)
Back to the physical therapy. For a few days now, I have reincorporated 'the fall' into my routine. The 'fall of man,' Paradise Lost? Not exactly. Ideally, a moment will come when my balance is teetering a bit from some action or other, and I will slowly follow that in a relatively careful roll or fall to the floor. But more often, it will come at the end of the PT session, and not be preceded by a spontaneous balance loss. What's the point? No therapist has ever suggested it (liability concerns maybe?), but I have fallen and gotten bruised a couple of times since my diagnosis, and it seems that the more practice I get falling slowly and carefully, the less chance for injury. At the very least, it adds to the PT session, working different muscle and nerve groups as I get back up to my feet.
Sometimes, but not often, I'll have music playing as I do the PT. Glenn Miller's In The Mood is great with the swing/lindy hop steps, of course. I should try doing it to Baroque and Blue, but I don't 'have' that song yet. I think it's on my top 100 (plus) songs list that my dear wife has been burning by approximately 20 song chunks at a time to CD's for me, on my birthday, Christmas, etc.
Another thing that I've gradually been adopting, is to set a timer each hour to get up and move about, walk, stretch, do pushups, whatever. Most of us are doing far too little of that these days - witness the obesity, high blood pressure, and diabetes epidemics - but with MS it is particularly important. Butts sat upon for several hours can result in rather congealed and unyielding legs.
Which means, do it, right now, the alarm has sounded! Soldier, hit the ground, give me fifty!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Bags of bags...
I just read that it costs San Francisco $4,000 to process (collect, compact, bundle, store, etc.) a ton of old plastic bags, but they can only get $32 to sell that same ton. And I wonder who is buying such a product. From my years as recycling coordinator in Charlottesville, I know that plastic bottle recycling (milk jugs, water bottles, etc.) is hard enough, that is, costs much more than what little revenue might be generated from selling the 'product.' And that 'closed loop' recycling - that is, turning old milk jugs into new ones - is quite rare. Making them into park benches or vinyl carpeting is more common, though the market for these items is pretty limited, and therefore the used container market is also. At least that was the case in the nineties, but I have seen nothing since to indicate any significant changes. When was the last time I bought something made of recycled plastic? And I'm the sort who actively looks for it when I do shop, which is, admittedly, a rare occurrence.
I also read that many of the compacted bag shipments are going to places like India or China with their much laxer, if any, environmental regulations. Then the bags are incinerated (hopefully, at least, to generate electricity). I have never heard of 'bag to bag' recycling. Even from an energy analysis, I can imagine that to wash, sort, shred, melt, and create new bags from old, would be much more intensive than using new resins. Which are, essentially, already 'by-products' of the fossil fuels we use mainly for energy production. To a certain extent, making plastics from such 'by-products' is a sort of 'recycling' already. The main problem comes from the trash produced. (Well, a case could be made that the bio-toxicity of plastics and their many chemical additives, is an even greater problem, but that would be for another blogger. Or hey, how about a scientist! Or a journalist! Remember them?)
I also read that many of the compacted bag shipments are going to places like India or China with their much laxer, if any, environmental regulations. Then the bags are incinerated (hopefully, at least, to generate electricity). I have never heard of 'bag to bag' recycling. Even from an energy analysis, I can imagine that to wash, sort, shred, melt, and create new bags from old, would be much more intensive than using new resins. Which are, essentially, already 'by-products' of the fossil fuels we use mainly for energy production. To a certain extent, making plastics from such 'by-products' is a sort of 'recycling' already. The main problem comes from the trash produced. (Well, a case could be made that the bio-toxicity of plastics and their many chemical additives, is an even greater problem, but that would be for another blogger. Or hey, how about a scientist! Or a journalist! Remember them?)
I have for decades tried to do 'the right thing.' I usually take a cloth bag with some used plastic bags inside for produce to the store with me. But occasionally I forget, of course. And in that case, sometimes I'll put my groceries in paper bags, which I then reuse for collecting paper to recycle. Or sometimes just give in to the plastic bag juggernaut. Even while limiting and reusing, however, somehow I still amass what seems like huge quantities of film plastic. Partly from forgetting to follow through on the good habits listed above, and partly from all the things that come packaged in bags, or bubble wrap, or other flimsy plastic. If I were a tad bit more OCD, I suppose I could do a self audit, and track just exactly where all this comes from.
Now the less compulsively eco-fanatic among you might not see much of a problem here, and I respect that perspective. As long as we reduce what we can, and make sure it's properly landfilled, what's the big deal? Well, as the sixties adage goes, 'if you're not part of the solution, then you are part of the problem.' This has always spoken directly to me. And has kind of come to replace or complement the Catholic guilt, or the 'original sin' that I was born into.
You may have heard of the 'great pacific garbage patch', a floating mass of trash (mostly comprised of plastic). Some estimate it's twice the size the state of Texas. (For more information about this modern day tragedy, go here http://greatpacificgarbagepatch.info/ You'll find links to other sites with more info. For a quick glimpse, look at where our plastics (not just bags) all too often end up (you can look to the right now).
Which is all much ado about something. And just exactly what to do about plastic seems clear: stop making it. (As in the famous 'one word' of advice given to Benjamin (Dustin Hoffman) in The Graduate, the future still may be in plastics, but I think if we don't change course soon, not in the propitious way it was understood in the movie.) For you and me, to stop making it means to stop using it. Just how to stop is the challenge. So far, given the multitude of differing plastics, and even the economic and energy costs involved, recycling is really a smoke and mirror side show. Don't be fooled. However, if you find a pair of shoes, say, which are made from 100% post-consumer recycled plastic, and you like them, they feel good, etc., by all means buy them. But then wear them out as you traverse the planet (or your little corner of it), while attempting to avoid 'one-way', or single use plastics, whenever possible. Whereas recycling is not really viable, we can do much to reduce, and reuse whenever possible.
In the meantime, I will continue to dutifully take my bags of films back to the store to 'recycle.' I know it's bogus, but I think it's worth the effort to show that I, that we, are willing to do such a thing - and more - if it could possibly help the planet.
End of sermon, vade in pace ('go in peace' - not in plastic)...
Update: Montgomery county (where we live) recently passed a regulation that levies a 'bag tax' of ten or twenty cents. Some are of course outraged, but generally folks are either wealthy enough not to care, or conscientious enough to support it. Or even realistic enough to note that the fee is really just a drop in the bucket, and not worth notice. However, a couple 'scientists' recently came out with concerns about the potential adverse health impacts of reusing bags - which may have come into contact with meat or other germ infested vectors. To these Ebenezer Scrooges I counter, simply, bag humbug!
Now the less compulsively eco-fanatic among you might not see much of a problem here, and I respect that perspective. As long as we reduce what we can, and make sure it's properly landfilled, what's the big deal? Well, as the sixties adage goes, 'if you're not part of the solution, then you are part of the problem.' This has always spoken directly to me. And has kind of come to replace or complement the Catholic guilt, or the 'original sin' that I was born into.
 |
| Albatross chick |
Which is all much ado about something. And just exactly what to do about plastic seems clear: stop making it. (As in the famous 'one word' of advice given to Benjamin (Dustin Hoffman) in The Graduate, the future still may be in plastics, but I think if we don't change course soon, not in the propitious way it was understood in the movie.) For you and me, to stop making it means to stop using it. Just how to stop is the challenge. So far, given the multitude of differing plastics, and even the economic and energy costs involved, recycling is really a smoke and mirror side show. Don't be fooled. However, if you find a pair of shoes, say, which are made from 100% post-consumer recycled plastic, and you like them, they feel good, etc., by all means buy them. But then wear them out as you traverse the planet (or your little corner of it), while attempting to avoid 'one-way', or single use plastics, whenever possible. Whereas recycling is not really viable, we can do much to reduce, and reuse whenever possible.
In the meantime, I will continue to dutifully take my bags of films back to the store to 'recycle.' I know it's bogus, but I think it's worth the effort to show that I, that we, are willing to do such a thing - and more - if it could possibly help the planet.
End of sermon, vade in pace ('go in peace' - not in plastic)...
Update: Montgomery county (where we live) recently passed a regulation that levies a 'bag tax' of ten or twenty cents. Some are of course outraged, but generally folks are either wealthy enough not to care, or conscientious enough to support it. Or even realistic enough to note that the fee is really just a drop in the bucket, and not worth notice. However, a couple 'scientists' recently came out with concerns about the potential adverse health impacts of reusing bags - which may have come into contact with meat or other germ infested vectors. To these Ebenezer Scrooges I counter, simply, bag humbug!
Saturday, December 3, 2011
The key.
Thanksgiving has come and gone, food and family enjoyed. My niece and her husband hosted the bounteous feast. Though now 'eating for two,' she was unable to finish her plate. Seated next to her, I scavenged some morsels of stuffing, gravy, and flesh, carrion for the tarrion. Then later pie for all. And great parlor games!
Though food is what many think about over the holidays, I do not intend to dwell on my particular dietary peccadilloes. I think my readership has already had their fill of that. Or at least I'll try not to dwell on what it is we eat and drink, so much as how.
The recent New Yorker magazine was dedicated to food, as it usually is this season. One article followed the story of René Redzepi, proprietor of Noma, a gourmet food restaurant in Denmark, where 90% of its food comes from local sources, and a significant portion of that foraged in the wilds nearby. Mushrooms, berries, even the occasional insect (though this is in the 'alpha' phase as far as I could tell), added fresh, cooked, or preserved by pickling or drying. The restaurant is rated 'best in the world,' apparently for the second year running by the über-exclusive British Restaurant magazine. The article was very interesting, but in the end, though I am fond of local food in general, and intrigued by foraged food in particular, I did not feel inspired to dash off to Copenhagen on the next flight. Instead, my appetite was stirred for the contents of my own refrigerator (which my wife will tell you can be rather scant - actually, no, she will tell you it is always scant).
Another fascinating article had to do with a coffee grower in El Salvadore who produces high altitude and shade-grown beans, meticulously hand-picked three or more times (sequentially to get the ripest 'cherries' - that is, the round pods in which two coffee beans ripen). Aida Batlle, the grower, a woman in a field dominated by men, is also a connoisseur, and a vanguard in what is now referred to as the 'third wave' of coffee. The first being the Maxwell House bilge water served from percolators - or Folgers Instant - drunk by our parents' generation. The second wave took the dark, or French roasted coffees of southern Europe, in particular from Italy, often espressed, and sometimes sweetened or mixed with steamed or foamed milk. This is the coffee that Starbucks and other cafés popularized. And some say bastardized in the process.
The third wave is supposedly closer to the roots of where coffee originated in what is now Ethiopia, millennia ago. The coffee is roasted mildly, and added to boiled water, and sometimes pressed or poured through a sieve. 'Cuppers' then will taste the various varietals in a fashion similar to fine wines. Hints of caramel, or chocolate-covered strawberries, say, or the aftertaste of créme brulée are detected. Or how about 'remember that time we were stranded in Morocco mid-summer with the musky smell of camel dung heavy in the stagnant air... And the pipe tobacco from the cart driver?' (This last one was mine, but the impression I got was that a 'cupper' could say such a thing without breaking character.) This third-wave eschews anything dairy or sweet in their oh-so-precious cups. A frappucino is considered a crime against humanity.
And reading the article I was inspired to try such a fancy brew. But then again, I don't drink much coffee, and I like latte when I do. I really like it, and I refuse to think the lesser of myself for it. On the other hand, I suppose I would give the Batlle coffee a try. The article said it was available at Caribou cafés, but I don't get there very often, maybe twice a decade. I'll wait and see if this so called 'third-wave' lasts.
This fascination with the latest greatest taste - local or exotic, traditional or new wave - has me noticing something about my breakfast. And for this, I need to go into my aforementioned verboten area of what I eat. 27 of my breakfasts out of 28 consist of granola (most often the inexpensive Giant brand - which ain't that bad really), some 'Kashi' Seven Grain cereal (similar to Grape Nuts), and several dollops of yogurt stirred in. I will vary the kind of yogurt - traditional, greek, goat - and vary the relative amounts of the dry stuff. So that, though the menu item reads identically, each day it is slightly unique. Which has seemed a desirable strategy. For, as you may be aware, eating the same dang thing each morning can become tiresome. As I munch on the contents of my feed trough, I snort at the porcine behemoth next to me: 'Oink, don't they have anything else at this giant factory farm? I never would have agreed to vacation here if I'd known.' Munch munch...
However, it ain't necessarily so! It's not what's in the trough, it's what's in the heart. It could be exactly the same each day, and if I am truly alive and present, so also will my meal be. What miracle is this: notice this hand that holds the spoon, it lifts and guides it magically into my open mouth, just after I've swallowed! And these teeth that crunch and munch, as this tongue deftly dodges the 'guillotine' as it pushes and prods the larger morsels into the grinder! What a symphony!
And the green tea. I vary the flavor - jasmine, moroccan mint, genmaicha - and the spoonful of honey - orange blossom, clover, wildflower - but truly these variations are mere window dressing for the wonder of hot essence rising from a cup of golden elixir!
Full disclosure, it is not often that I can be this present. While eating, I'm usually busy getting my son's bagel ready, or checking the weather forecast on-line, or counting out my week of medicines and supplements, maybe planning or resenting my day ahead; and true, I will continue to vary the ingredients of my breakfast meal. But I know from experience that the key to a truly remarkable meal has very little to do with what went into it, and very much to do with my presence of heart, mind, and spirit. When I accept the invitation to right now, it is truly a present. To notice what is there in front of me, and not mire in what isn't, seems to be the key.
But like all keys, it is subject to getting lost...and found again, just when you give up looking!
Though food is what many think about over the holidays, I do not intend to dwell on my particular dietary peccadilloes. I think my readership has already had their fill of that. Or at least I'll try not to dwell on what it is we eat and drink, so much as how.
The recent New Yorker magazine was dedicated to food, as it usually is this season. One article followed the story of René Redzepi, proprietor of Noma, a gourmet food restaurant in Denmark, where 90% of its food comes from local sources, and a significant portion of that foraged in the wilds nearby. Mushrooms, berries, even the occasional insect (though this is in the 'alpha' phase as far as I could tell), added fresh, cooked, or preserved by pickling or drying. The restaurant is rated 'best in the world,' apparently for the second year running by the über-exclusive British Restaurant magazine. The article was very interesting, but in the end, though I am fond of local food in general, and intrigued by foraged food in particular, I did not feel inspired to dash off to Copenhagen on the next flight. Instead, my appetite was stirred for the contents of my own refrigerator (which my wife will tell you can be rather scant - actually, no, she will tell you it is always scant).
Another fascinating article had to do with a coffee grower in El Salvadore who produces high altitude and shade-grown beans, meticulously hand-picked three or more times (sequentially to get the ripest 'cherries' - that is, the round pods in which two coffee beans ripen). Aida Batlle, the grower, a woman in a field dominated by men, is also a connoisseur, and a vanguard in what is now referred to as the 'third wave' of coffee. The first being the Maxwell House bilge water served from percolators - or Folgers Instant - drunk by our parents' generation. The second wave took the dark, or French roasted coffees of southern Europe, in particular from Italy, often espressed, and sometimes sweetened or mixed with steamed or foamed milk. This is the coffee that Starbucks and other cafés popularized. And some say bastardized in the process.
The third wave is supposedly closer to the roots of where coffee originated in what is now Ethiopia, millennia ago. The coffee is roasted mildly, and added to boiled water, and sometimes pressed or poured through a sieve. 'Cuppers' then will taste the various varietals in a fashion similar to fine wines. Hints of caramel, or chocolate-covered strawberries, say, or the aftertaste of créme brulée are detected. Or how about 'remember that time we were stranded in Morocco mid-summer with the musky smell of camel dung heavy in the stagnant air... And the pipe tobacco from the cart driver?' (This last one was mine, but the impression I got was that a 'cupper' could say such a thing without breaking character.) This third-wave eschews anything dairy or sweet in their oh-so-precious cups. A frappucino is considered a crime against humanity.
And reading the article I was inspired to try such a fancy brew. But then again, I don't drink much coffee, and I like latte when I do. I really like it, and I refuse to think the lesser of myself for it. On the other hand, I suppose I would give the Batlle coffee a try. The article said it was available at Caribou cafés, but I don't get there very often, maybe twice a decade. I'll wait and see if this so called 'third-wave' lasts.
This fascination with the latest greatest taste - local or exotic, traditional or new wave - has me noticing something about my breakfast. And for this, I need to go into my aforementioned verboten area of what I eat. 27 of my breakfasts out of 28 consist of granola (most often the inexpensive Giant brand - which ain't that bad really), some 'Kashi' Seven Grain cereal (similar to Grape Nuts), and several dollops of yogurt stirred in. I will vary the kind of yogurt - traditional, greek, goat - and vary the relative amounts of the dry stuff. So that, though the menu item reads identically, each day it is slightly unique. Which has seemed a desirable strategy. For, as you may be aware, eating the same dang thing each morning can become tiresome. As I munch on the contents of my feed trough, I snort at the porcine behemoth next to me: 'Oink, don't they have anything else at this giant factory farm? I never would have agreed to vacation here if I'd known.' Munch munch...
However, it ain't necessarily so! It's not what's in the trough, it's what's in the heart. It could be exactly the same each day, and if I am truly alive and present, so also will my meal be. What miracle is this: notice this hand that holds the spoon, it lifts and guides it magically into my open mouth, just after I've swallowed! And these teeth that crunch and munch, as this tongue deftly dodges the 'guillotine' as it pushes and prods the larger morsels into the grinder! What a symphony!
And the green tea. I vary the flavor - jasmine, moroccan mint, genmaicha - and the spoonful of honey - orange blossom, clover, wildflower - but truly these variations are mere window dressing for the wonder of hot essence rising from a cup of golden elixir!
Full disclosure, it is not often that I can be this present. While eating, I'm usually busy getting my son's bagel ready, or checking the weather forecast on-line, or counting out my week of medicines and supplements, maybe planning or resenting my day ahead; and true, I will continue to vary the ingredients of my breakfast meal. But I know from experience that the key to a truly remarkable meal has very little to do with what went into it, and very much to do with my presence of heart, mind, and spirit. When I accept the invitation to right now, it is truly a present. To notice what is there in front of me, and not mire in what isn't, seems to be the key.
But like all keys, it is subject to getting lost...and found again, just when you give up looking!
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
CHANGING
Three babies times
Three years, easily
equals ten thousand diapers.
One mother times
One year’s rapid decline
equals one hundred diapers.
One wife times
Two years' gradual decline
equals one hundred-fifty diapers.
I did not know
Love could be measured
by wiping shit off of bottoms.
Will I have the courage
Necessary to lie back,
and have it done for me?
Three years, easily
equals ten thousand diapers.
One mother times
One year’s rapid decline
equals one hundred diapers.
One wife times
Two years' gradual decline
equals one hundred-fifty diapers.
I did not know
Love could be measured
by wiping shit off of bottoms.
Will I have the courage
Necessary to lie back,
and have it done for me?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Grub
Profile - a formerly widowed and remarried returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Nepal; have been a stay-at-home father for the past 16 years; am afflicted by a serious autoimmune condition, but can manage with a cane or walker; have four children ranging from 14 to 19, three sons and one step-daughter; play guitar (not too well, but enjoy it); live in the mid-atlantic region, but prefer the west coast; have been a vegetarian of various stripe for over 25 years, but currently consider myself a 'carrion-vegetarian,' that is, one who will occasionally eat the flesh of fish, fowl, or beast if it has been leftover and forgotten in the fridge well past anybody's intent to consume. These are some of the things that I carry.
Sometimes it feels like my life experiences, both big and small, will separate me in ever smaller groupings till this unique little snowflake melts or blows away. But then I will reach out, talk to another homo sapiens sapiens and find that in fact the chasm which divides really isn't there. How vast our shared humanity is. However, there are some issues I might broach that almost without exception will paint me into my tiny idiosyncratic corner. Such as this post. Why do I persevere in this manner? Is it boredom, a desire to shock and awe my dear reader? To stand up and be counted, occupy myself? Probably some pedestrian blend of the above, and more. Or perhaps less.
Without further ado, back to the 'meat' of this post. What is an entomophagist? (And, will this discussion wedge me off even further from the 99%?) It's a nice new (to me) word I recently picked up from an article in the New Yorker with the same title as this post. And means one who eats insects. As noted above, I've practiced vegetarianism for much of my life, mostly lacto-ovo, and for some years I also ate fish. Recently went back off fish, due to the very dire state of worldwide fisheries. However, I will occasionally eat the leftovers off the plate of a friend or relative, right after they tell the waiter 'sure, I'm done.' Maybe a crunchy fish head, some fat off of a steak, salmon skin - whatever, before it goes to the trash. That's me, the last stop before the dumpster.
Well, some many posts ago I mentioned trying the 'chapulines', or grasshopper tacos at the gourmet Mexican restaurant Oyamel here in D.C. I was working on my 'life list' of bizarre foods (not to mention taking my then girlfriend/now wife Dwan out for a Valentine's day dinner. Go figure, I ate bugs, and still she married me!). And they were pretty good. Recently we returned to the restaurant with a gift card we'd received from a friend. True confession, I ordered the 'hoppas' again! To be honest, it didn't taste as good as the first time, so I probably won't be going back for more anytime soon, if ever.
I have a question though, namely, are bugs people too? That is, are they sentient beings? And, more specific to my brand of vegetarianism, are they endangered? According to the New Yorker article (as far as my weak memory serves) they are a very healthy source of protein and other nutrients. And have been eaten throughout the ages, both cooked and raw, even to this very day in some cultures. There are even entomophagists in this country, and they meet for occasional cooking competitions, serving up morsels both savory and sweet like the delectable pictured here:
Sometimes it feels like my life experiences, both big and small, will separate me in ever smaller groupings till this unique little snowflake melts or blows away. But then I will reach out, talk to another homo sapiens sapiens and find that in fact the chasm which divides really isn't there. How vast our shared humanity is. However, there are some issues I might broach that almost without exception will paint me into my tiny idiosyncratic corner. Such as this post. Why do I persevere in this manner? Is it boredom, a desire to shock and awe my dear reader? To stand up and be counted, occupy myself? Probably some pedestrian blend of the above, and more. Or perhaps less.
Without further ado, back to the 'meat' of this post. What is an entomophagist? (And, will this discussion wedge me off even further from the 99%?) It's a nice new (to me) word I recently picked up from an article in the New Yorker with the same title as this post. And means one who eats insects. As noted above, I've practiced vegetarianism for much of my life, mostly lacto-ovo, and for some years I also ate fish. Recently went back off fish, due to the very dire state of worldwide fisheries. However, I will occasionally eat the leftovers off the plate of a friend or relative, right after they tell the waiter 'sure, I'm done.' Maybe a crunchy fish head, some fat off of a steak, salmon skin - whatever, before it goes to the trash. That's me, the last stop before the dumpster.
Well, some many posts ago I mentioned trying the 'chapulines', or grasshopper tacos at the gourmet Mexican restaurant Oyamel here in D.C. I was working on my 'life list' of bizarre foods (not to mention taking my then girlfriend/now wife Dwan out for a Valentine's day dinner. Go figure, I ate bugs, and still she married me!). And they were pretty good. Recently we returned to the restaurant with a gift card we'd received from a friend. True confession, I ordered the 'hoppas' again! To be honest, it didn't taste as good as the first time, so I probably won't be going back for more anytime soon, if ever.
I have a question though, namely, are bugs people too? That is, are they sentient beings? And, more specific to my brand of vegetarianism, are they endangered? According to the New Yorker article (as far as my weak memory serves) they are a very healthy source of protein and other nutrients. And have been eaten throughout the ages, both cooked and raw, even to this very day in some cultures. There are even entomophagists in this country, and they meet for occasional cooking competitions, serving up morsels both savory and sweet like the delectable pictured here:
The article claims that insects are an ecological source of these nutrients, but I wonder just how sustainable they would be if everybody started eating them. I mean a lot of them every day. And, if they had to be transported hundreds of miles, freezer packed, or otherwise processed, for the average consumer to be able to incorporate them into their busy lives? (For more about the article, and some cool audio and video, check out: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/08/eating-insects-entomophagy-video.html - it's pretty short.)
If this sounds like a bit too much bother, for little or no gain, how about this? Drop a roach into your next smoothie, blend it beyond recognition, and if there is a crunch, tell yourself it's a blackberry seed. Still feeling skittish? Maybe start with an ant, and work your way up the food chain? I can feel the chasm widen as I think of you pondering this... But wait, let me paraphrase Solzhenitsyn: the line which separates disgusting from delicious runs through the heart of every bug!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Anti-materialistic
You think shopping for the 'guy who has everything is hard'? Try the guy who hates everything! Which would be me.
Well, sorta kinda. Not quite everything, so much as most 'things.' And hate is a bit of an exaggeration. For my birthday, my wife gave me a compact disc she burned with some of my all time favorite songs. (Oh right, and a delicious Nepali meal delivered, and cake. Mmm.) Those are examples of the kind of 'thing' I like. Or the letters 'D', 'A', and 'D' that my sons fashioned with their bare hands a few years ago out of the relatively hard sand and sediment layer under the great Salt Lake where we went for a dip. Or the skateboard broken in half and re-glued into the shape of a heart from Eli.
Certainly there are other 'things' - hand-made or not - that have found their way into my relatively Spartan lifestyle, which have gathered to them feelings and memories. And a certain emotional gravity that I will not discount. Or even necessarily feel burdened by. In fact, these are the things that can be triggers for joy, sorrow, poignancy, and other emotions.
However, in general I can be described as 'thing-o-phobic.' I readily acknowledge that this predilection to eschew the material is not in any way spiritually superior to acquisitiveness. I find that either direction can be as 'materialistic' as the other. The degree to which one finds suffering through aversion on the one hand, or clinging on the other seems for all intents and purposes equivalent. And the challenge at either extreme also seems equal: can one be surrounded by material possessions without attaching to them? And by 'attaching to them' I don't mean to value them, or use them, or admire them - but rather to feel an undue sense of grief if they should be lost or broken, which is an inevitable outcome, whether in one's lifetime or after. And can one live in relative austerity without feeling a sense of moral superiority, and disdain for the few things that do come into one's possession?
Buddhists speak of a 'middle way,' which in this arena might be understood as neither Spartan nor cluttered. But I think it refers rather to an ease with either extreme (or middle), a peace that is borne of understanding the true nature of all things and non-things. Namely, that they are in their very nature holy, spirit - just like all of us. Ultimately we are of this earth, we are this earth, and ultimately we shall lose everything and everyone we know, love, or feel attached to. Can we know, love, and attach to that which is our timeless perfection? The god we all already are?
Certainly there are other 'things' - hand-made or not - that have found their way into my relatively Spartan lifestyle, which have gathered to them feelings and memories. And a certain emotional gravity that I will not discount. Or even necessarily feel burdened by. In fact, these are the things that can be triggers for joy, sorrow, poignancy, and other emotions.
However, in general I can be described as 'thing-o-phobic.' I readily acknowledge that this predilection to eschew the material is not in any way spiritually superior to acquisitiveness. I find that either direction can be as 'materialistic' as the other. The degree to which one finds suffering through aversion on the one hand, or clinging on the other seems for all intents and purposes equivalent. And the challenge at either extreme also seems equal: can one be surrounded by material possessions without attaching to them? And by 'attaching to them' I don't mean to value them, or use them, or admire them - but rather to feel an undue sense of grief if they should be lost or broken, which is an inevitable outcome, whether in one's lifetime or after. And can one live in relative austerity without feeling a sense of moral superiority, and disdain for the few things that do come into one's possession?
Buddhists speak of a 'middle way,' which in this arena might be understood as neither Spartan nor cluttered. But I think it refers rather to an ease with either extreme (or middle), a peace that is borne of understanding the true nature of all things and non-things. Namely, that they are in their very nature holy, spirit - just like all of us. Ultimately we are of this earth, we are this earth, and ultimately we shall lose everything and everyone we know, love, or feel attached to. Can we know, love, and attach to that which is our timeless perfection? The god we all already are?
Monday, October 17, 2011
Fund drive!
Yes, it's that time of year here in the D.C. metropolitan area. Our local station, WAMU is soliciting funds. And in a time of shrinking governmental support, it's more important than ever. If you haven't done so already, pick up the phone, or go on-line, and pay until it hurts.
Because public broadcasting - especially NPR and the local affiliates - seems to be the last bastion of independent journalism. There is an overabundance of opinion (much of it right-wing nut-job). Our very democracy hangs in the balance. You know it, I know it, all of us choir members know it, so as the demigoddess Nike says, just do it!
And if you listen regularly to NPR, there is an even more immediate reason to make your donation: self interest. Once you've called and made your pledge (or payment), then you can go on listening to the shows - Morning Edition, This American Life, Car Talk, etc. - even as they are holding the telethon. Then notice the lack of guilt you feel, even as you enjoy the clever promotional 'spots' done by various celebrities. And not feel the urge to change the channel, or turn off the radio, just to avoid the guilt.
Because public broadcasting - especially NPR and the local affiliates - seems to be the last bastion of independent journalism. There is an overabundance of opinion (much of it right-wing nut-job). Our very democracy hangs in the balance. You know it, I know it, all of us choir members know it, so as the demigoddess Nike says, just do it!
And if you listen regularly to NPR, there is an even more immediate reason to make your donation: self interest. Once you've called and made your pledge (or payment), then you can go on listening to the shows - Morning Edition, This American Life, Car Talk, etc. - even as they are holding the telethon. Then notice the lack of guilt you feel, even as you enjoy the clever promotional 'spots' done by various celebrities. And not feel the urge to change the channel, or turn off the radio, just to avoid the guilt.
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