372: the end of meat

There have been a few things leading up to it: first, my body decided it. I respect and trust my body.

Second, I got a tattoo. I spent seven hours with some of my favorite vegans; when I came home, I confessed to Ryan: "Well..." And he said, "You are not becoming vegan."

Oh. Oh, no.

But: I'd been debating it by then though. Not veganism, not when I love milk-and-cheese-and-wool-and-honey, but stopping the meat again.

And there it was, a little something, a particle of something, a something that niggled and now, I'm taking that plunge, with more thought than I did for my first venture.

There are thirds and fourths and fifths and so much else influencing me:

:: Food, Inc.

:: Jonathan Safran Foer's new book.

:: The considerations of No Impact Week.

:: But most of all, last night, when we went for our last visit of my grandmother in the nursing home. The four of us piled into the car, Mom and Dad up front, and my grandmother's white kitty between us (oh, and: interesting dream, if you haven't read it), Ryan and I poking our fingers through the bars, cooing, calming, and suddenly there is that metallic sound, that crunch that is car-upon-something-big, something-frighteningly-big, and it wasn't my father rear-ending someone, but instead that slam that-is-a-body. My father has bagged his third deer, each roadside creatures, and this one, leaving that gritty red-upon-red, those quill-hairs in miniature, something that looks like an organ-bit or something-fatty. I sat still for so long, my fingers pressed against my mouth, my mother fretting over the trip back home (flat tires, radiator fluid leaking, what-could-it-be?) and the cat, silent, a few mewls from her kennel. My mother confessed: "If we were in Wisconsin, that deer would be yours" after the pondering of what might happen to the body.

Fortunately for my father, just around the corner of his home is the Wildlife Sanctuary, and he can make some kind of karmic retribution.

I hate to admit this, but I'm glad, of the four of us, that it was my father who hit the deer: he has the right distance from me for me to not feel the hot shame (Ryan), he feels the right level of guilt (me: I'd spiral out of control in sorrow) balanced with the right level of nervousness at the car's ability to get its passengers to the nursing home (my mother kept repeating her hyperbolic fears--whatifwhatifwhatif!)--but my father, my poor father, who has now hit three deer in his life (this is the second from visiting his parents), who hasn't wanted to hit any--he knows how beautiful these creatures are and how good it is to contentedly drive a hanging-in-there car--

Can I now? The biggest images will haunt me: the chicken whose breasts are too-heavy to hold the bird upright, the cow whose hind legs couldn't hold it upright, the chicks separated so aggressively, and now, the sound of the thunk of bumper-on-deer.

371: from our hands to yours

This year, Thanksgiving is like some others in that: we drive for hours, stare at the familiar blankness of the Indiana tollway, witness the falling of the drizzle, eat in small + cramped spaces, eat in sticky places that should be closed for family time, put my fingers out the window to feel the air, think of Touchdown Jesus as we pass South Bend, sleep through the chaos of Chicago in the backseat.

We stopped to visit my grandmother, a moment that was eerily familiar to two years ago, when stepping onto the soggy grounds of a nursing home, but this time, the occupant was lucid, her ailment not Alzheimer's but a hip broken in not three places, but four. We had to wake her in the dark of her room to say hello, but she lit up and when Ryan walked in, uncomfortable at participating in the gentle rousing, my grandmother turned to him and said gratefully, "Ryan, you brought my girl!" Oh, to be my grandma's girl. I want to treasure that small moment, keep it safe and close to me.

Tonight is preparing for tomorrow's feast, which will include both of my parents this year, as well as me and my husband, my aunt and uncle, my cousin and his wife and five children, and another cousin:

Winning the husband lottery, we prepared:

:: Brine for the turkey, a first experience for both of us. Ours included plenty of kosher salt, sugar, sage, celery, cinnamon sticks, and carrots.
:: Cranberry, apple and walnut sauce with this recipe (and adding hunks of the orange we grated and minus the pepper as I forgot to get that ingredient):

• 1 cup sugar
• 3/4 cup fresh orange juice (about 3 oranges)
• 1/2 cup white wine
• 1 cinnamon stick
• 2 cups diced peeled Granny Smith apple
• 1 1/2 teaspoons minced peeled fresh ginger
• 1/8 teaspoon ground red pepper
• 1 (12-ounce) package fresh cranberries
• 1 tablespoon grated orange rind
• 1/2 cup coarsely chopped walnuts, toasted

Preparation

1. Combine first 4 ingredients in a large saucepan; bring to a boil. Cook 3 minutes or until sugar dissolves, stirring frequently. Stir in apple, ginger, pepper, and cranberries; bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 35 minutes or until sauce thickens. Remove from heat; stir in rind. Cool; stir in walnuts.

Tomorrow will be a great deal more: bumbleberry pie from scratch, the turkey, of course, as well as Brussels sprouts, green beans, carrots, sweet potato and winter squash gratin, and pumpkin pie. My aunt is bringing the mashed potatoes, a ham, and the stuffing.

Have I mentioned this is my last week of poultry? I have a chicken and corn soup that is waiting for consumption at home, and after that, it's just seafood, and fortunately, there isn't a lot left, which means by Christmastime, I will officially be vegetarian again. I would have switched immediately, but because we have such a stockpile of "my" meal accouterments that my charming-but-finicky husband will not eat, I figured instead of wasting them, I would switch. I must confess, he had these beef sticks with cheese he picked up at the butcher that smell so good and every time I spotted them, I was incredibly tempted to cheat, until I remembered that scene from Food, Inc. in which a cow cannot walk on its hind legs naturally (instead, on what appears to be the "hocks," or what, in humans, would be the calves, where the tibia and fibula reside); then, my mind drifts to the chickens whose breasts are so immense they plop over like toddlers each time they stand up, and I think: I am grateful this is my last week of poultry; I cannot have these images in my head and morally consume on. (I must also admit: I am scientifically fascinated, and I love cooking whole birds, because I can then pull back layers and touch bones and see how it all fits together, which is why I am best at eviscerating the creature at the end, prepared to make soup and stock.)

But I don't want to leave a Thanksgiving post on this didactic note. Rather, I'm going to give you a few things, that, in-this-moment, I am grateful for:

:: smelling sage and oranges on my hands
:: the husband sleeping, waiting, helping me today and tomorrow (and always)
:: finding a few biographies on Robert Lowell, who is popping up in the book I'm currently reading and, of course, a major component to my Elizabeth Bishop study
:: my new slippers, which will get me through tomorrow's cooking without drastically exhausted feet
:: you, of course, in hopes of a lovely time spent with friends and family
:: (and to the tofurky-day I missed with my poetry-friends)

370

I received some disappointing news at the doctor's office this week, and though it does not mean all is a failure, there are possibilities regarding the (lack of?) permanence of my affliction. Is this all veiled enough for you? In other words: a medication I've been taking isn't doing what it's supposed to do, which is scary and frustrating, but after Thanksgiving break, I go in again and they're going to examine me and raise the dosage to see if that works. I feel angry at my body for being a failure, a poor reflection on my self as a whole.

It's hard to not point out the cliche, the obvious: it's all becoming material. Foibles as fodder.

We made the first leg of our Thanksgiving journey late last night; Ryan "allowed" me to stay late on campus so I could spend time with my beloved poetry girl friends, dinner at a campus Thai restaurant, and I drove the whole journey from our corner of Minnesota to his parents' corner of Wisconsin. He slept in the back with Penelope; Zephyr kept watch in the front seat, where we spotted a doe and a few miles later, the most magnificent buck with an amazing rack, and the fog descended with a light drizzle and I sang lonesome country songs in my head.

369

So last night I was watching an episode of Northern Exposure with my husband, the episode where Ruth Ann hurts her ankle and Ed gets all freaked out at her turning seventy-five and he ends up throwing her a surprise party and her gift is a patch of land for her grave and before the credits, Ruth Ann says she wants to dance on her grave, because it's one of those rare opportunities, and so they do and the camera pans out and you can see all of that Alaskan glory, the pines and the lake and the great mountains.

The very next episode, by the way, opens with a handful of people (in an old-fashioned circus, bus broke down) walking down a wooded dirt road with a bear on a leash. I cannot handle how much I want to snuggle with one of these tame animals on the show--the elk, the deer, the brown bear. No worries, I still abhor the idea of wild animals as pets, but I still can't help but get squishy at the idea of touching one.

368

Look what I bought for our home! It just arrived a few days ago and I can't stop looking at it; it's even prettier in person. Thank you, Heather. I love those two words too: hope and seeds. I have it in my living room, waiting to eventually be framed, and it's reminding me to keep myself with head-above-water, with glass-is-half-full, with love-in-my-heart. Yep, it does all of those things.

Inspired by Shari, I've decided to declare this winter the winter of Russian writers: Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Anna Akhmatova, maybe a little Dr Zhivago. Russia seems quite perfect for hibernation and thick quilts, for snow-filled days. Suggestions, of course, are always welcome.

367: no impact week, days six + seven + eight

Day 6: Water. We're pretty low water users as it is, though I admit, my showers are probably longer than most (I shave every day, which makes me strange, I know). The largest waste of water is when we homebrew and bring the temperature down using a garden hose, though in the summers, we use jugs to fill up quickly and I bring them out to the garden. In the winter, it's a bit trickier and I can only make sure the largest buckets are full (to use for the pups and the indoor plants). Otherwise, we only run full loads of clothes and dishes and because it's just the two of us, it takes a while for that to happen.


Day 7: Giving Back. Today wasn't about taking out the checkbook, though I can say I do what I can (my two most recent donations were to an anti-smoking campaign and Julia's work, both in honor of people I care about). Instead, today, for Ryan and myself, it was about the garden. We took it down, harvesting the last of the Brussels sprouts and broccoli, and we built our very first ComposTumbler! It's already full, but I'm hoping we will be able to work our way through composting fairly quickly in comparison to the pile method I had earlier (which, actually, worked quite fine). We also mulched in the vermicompost and leaves from the gutters, all rich and gooey, and I started the worm compost bin over with the handful of remaining worms and brought the bin in for the winter. I'm surprised any worms survived the cold and the snow we had in October, but they are strong and I'm hoping they'll make baby wormies and fill the bin with more rich worm poo. I promise to take better care of them.


Day 8: Eco Sabbath. Here I am, writing on my laptop, getting ready to take a shower, Ryan is mopping in the kitchen, we will be making fish for dinner as I am hosting book club along with boiling vegetables and using the refrigerator to cool the wine, Ryan is going to leave soon to go to Meat Heads, our local butcher to which his mother gave us a gift certificate, and on. I cannot have a sabbath today; not with guests coming and Thanksgiving around the corner and this week being a big one for school. But I do fully respect the spirit of this day. I admire the concept of the idea of celebrating staying at home, not consuming, family game night, crafts, whatnot.


I'm making decisions and small changes that I hope will more permanently reflect how I feel about this earth. When we get to that children-having point of our lives, I hope to fill the house with toys that are eco-conscious, those sweet wooden options and repurposed goods. I want the emphasis in our home to be on handmade and being mindful and loving.

I think this week wasn't entirely about "no impact" as much as it was about "scrutinizing options to make yourself lower impact." Small shift, small steps, better planet. And I admit, sometimes writing or talking about these choices I've made, especially with those who haven't made the same choices, often makes me feel uncomfortable. I believe strongly in living more ecologically-mindedly, but I always feel those choices have to belong to someone. I may tease some for shopping at Target, but really, we do what we feel comfortable with; I have never felt comfortable with telephone fundraisers or faith converters or anything of that ilk. I think, instead, I'd rather live by example, even if I'm more often more a shoddy example than anything else. I include my husband in these choices--he may peripherally feel the impact, but I never want to make him feel uncomfortable, and it always makes me a little glowy when he makes concessions for me without my request--buying organic eggs instead of standard or bringing home fruit from the farmer's market.

366: no impact week, days four + five

Image: from Redwoods Sapling Trio on Organic Bouquet

A little while back, I wrote of how my grandmother has been spending time in a nursing home environment for rehabilitation for her hip, which she broke in three places after a tumble from an examining table at the doctor's office. Tonight I began a little something for her, a get-well gift I hope to be done with before I leave her home over Thanksgiving break, but I've been thinking about the act of sending someone flowers--in celebration, in sympathy, in best wishes. I found this website: Organic Bouquet. It's so beautiful I snuck one of their images to put on my blog, a thing I don't do so very often; I also am in love with the idea of the Yule Tree to Be and there's blood orange and olive and rosemary--what better way to express your sentiments? The bouquets are organically grown and sustainable and look gorgeous and full. And wreaths! I am in love with the six herb wreath and the simplicity of the rosemary is nice too (minus the calla).

Day 4: Food! I've begun to slowly transfer more regular shopping to Simple Abundance, our local health foods store, which carries organic and local options as well as plenty of holistic healing options. For my new recipe this Wednesday, I picked up over half the ingredients on my list and purchased my free range turkey that I will cook for our Thanksgiving feast. I hope to make Simple Abundance a weekly stop, especially for Ryan's meats. We usually buy Lorentz, which is located twenty minutes away and mentioned in Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma in a positive light, but our local grocery store seems to have stopped carrying their products. We were purchasing wine for book club and I weighed the options: organic versus local? We wound up picking local as it fits better with what I'm serving.

Some websites that have helped me in the past with local eating:
- Finding a CSA at Local Harvest
- 100 mile diet and 100 foot diet
- freedom gardens

Day 5: Energy. Oh, all of our energy-sucking computers. I have put some lights on timers, particularly since I hate going upstairs in the dark. If I go to bed at a regular hour, I know the timer will click off the lamp a few minutes after me, which is a relief on two levels. We've gotten good about the heat and air conditioning, mainly because Ryan likes to save money--the temperature is constantly kept either too low or too high for comfort, which results in our learning to dress properly and in winter, pile on the blankets and wear fuzzy slippers. We've also recently gotten an HE washer and dryer (last winter?) and love it, using less detergent and energy as we clean.

My biggest energy suck will always be in transportation and I thank Emily for pointing out the fact that I cannot compare myself to those in different circumstances. I simply don't live near work, won't sell this house to move to the Twin Cities, and when I'm done with my graduate degree, plan to go by the date as opposed to the mileage when it comes to oil changes. For now, I do what I can within my comfort zone. I'm afraid if we go outside our comfort zone, we might burn out, become bitter, start shopping at Wal-Mart and eating fast food because we crave that convenience we are lacking in our everyday lives. And me? I'd rather not burn out. I'd rather continue to make small adjustments so everyday becomes greener without frustration or exhaustion.