Waste Not

Every time I rip open a package these days, I'm astounded by the sheer amount of packaging that gets wasted with every product. Does cereal really need a bag and a box? Does gum need to be in a wrapper, in a box, sealed in cellophane?

(Thanks, FailBlog)

We all do it, myself included. Ever go to the grocery store and find yourself putting single lemons, onions, and other produce in plastic bags? Did the rind/skin suddenly stop achieving its sole purpose of protecting the food? It doesn't really need to be in a bag - it did just fine on the tree and in the ground without a plastic coating. It's easy to get accustomed to wrapping things up, wasting more materials in the process, without really thinking about what you're doing.

It's not a malicious thing we do, but it's pervasive and needless. The underlying cause, I think, is convenience, reinforced by habit. Paper towels have effectively replaced rags and reusable towels, because (I'm the first to admit) they're convenient. Tupperware has ceded to plastic bags, even disposable plastic containers are more common than something built to last. The whole Swiffer line of cleaning products should tell you more about the fate of the common mop. Convenience rules and causes much of this waste. We apparently care more about doing something because it's the easy way, not because it's the right way or the best way.

Taking it further, even once luxury items - computers, cars, condos, McMansions - have become almost disposable commodities, something to be used for brief periods of time until the next better thing comes along. When did we abandon our idea and pride in permanence? Since when is building something to last, to stand the test of time, no longer desireable?

Our culture has shifted significantly in this regard, valuing temporary satisfaction over permanent accomplishment. We're unsatisfied if our cars are 5 years old - we need new ones! A house is only good enough until you think you can afford something better. We're a bunch of big babies who want the toys our neighbors have. In this case, it surely isn't convenient to toss away our house for a new one. It's more wastefulness, though, of money, resources, time, effort, and products, simply because we got bored or coveted our neighbors.

It's naive of me to think this is something new, and hopefully it isn't naive to try to do something about it. Something small, just what I can accomplish to try to be less wasteful, to reuse, to ignore the cravings for new and better by renewing an appreciation for what I have and have earned. In this new world of mine, socks become dust rags. Old t-shirts are non-paper towels. Bath towels become dog towels. Leftovers become dinner. Something I can't wash and re-use will outweigh the convenience of using disposable items. Not only will this keep my trash pile smaller, it will keep my wallet fuller with a reduced need to buy replacements. The main goal, and reward, will be greater thought and thoughtfulness. Not to bad in any case.

The Other Side

One of these days, I'm going to take beautifully-lit, food-porny shots of the recipes I will inevitably end up posting on here. Until that magical, storied day, I leave you with this:

Yeah, that's a bucket full of frogs. I love Chinatown.

If the maternal family detailed below instilled in me a lifelong obsession and hunger for food, my paternal side gave me the respect and craving for simple, hearty fare. They are farm people; in their kitchens, nothing is ever wasted, nothing is thrown away. More on this resourcefulness later. You won't find fois gras in the farm kitchen, but you will learn how to de-bone a chicken, cook the meat, make stock from the skin and bones, and throw whatever's left into the ensuing soup. Bonus points if there is a dog around to slurp up the scraps.

Mainly, though, I will credit them always with introducing me to a lifelong love of happy hour. I grew up thinking a small meal before dinner was normal, and I'm inclined to keep this belief. Hey, it's more food for me. From them also I learned that simple food is often the best food, and fresh farm produce beats shipped-in grocery fare any day of the week (twice on Sunday). Relish tray platters of pickles, olives, carrots, celery, radishes, cheese, crackers, and a drink or three preceeded every meal. Following the pre-dinner gorge, this no-nonsense, lightly sauced crowd, though no longer required to milk cows and haul hay, still buckles down and eats as if their after dinner activities were more than shootin' the shit, or clay pigeons, behind the garage.

I spent a lot of time with my grandmother, and then my father, learning to cook in their farmhouse tradition, where nothing was wasted and everything came from scratch. Thanksgiving and Christmas turkey carcasses always became pots of stock (you may want to read the entry a few down...) and chicken soup (with homemade noodles, carrots, celery, onions, and parsley, plus lots of black pepper - simple perfection) the next day. In fact, most leftovers that didn't get subsumed into a following meal got thrown into a soup pot for the best sort of recycling I've ever tasted. My grandma (both of them, actually) passed on when I was just a child, so my memories of her I savor and relish. I make her rolls every holiday, not only because they are the best vehicles for turkey sandwiches (with only yellow mustard - I'm a purist), but because thoughts of grandma showing me how to make them permeate their flavor still.

Grandma's Rolls
2 C. Boiling water
½ C. Sugar
1 Tbs. Salt
2 Tbs. Butter
2 Eggs, beaten
2 Yeast cubes, or two envelopes yeast
½ C. lukewarm water
½ Tsp sugar
5 1/2-6 C. Flour

Dissolve 1/2 cup sugar, 1 Tbs. salt, and 2 Tbs. butter in 2 cups boiling water. Cool until lukewarm.

Prove the yeast in 1/2 cup lukewarm water until frothy.

Add cooled water mixture, yeast mixture, and beaten eggs to 5 1/2 cups flour (more as needed up to 6 cups or so - the dough will be fairly sticky). Cover tightly and let rise in the refrigerator overnight.

Punch down in the morning and roll out on floured board or surface to ½ inch thickness. Cut with 3” diameter glass or biscuit cutter. Place small pat butter in the center; fold over, sealing edges, and put in greased pan. Alternatively, shape into two loaves. Let rise until double in size. Bake at 375° F. for 25 minutes for rolls (check at 20 minutes, let continue baking until golden brown on top) or 400° F. for 30 minutes for 2 loaves of bread. Makes two 9” x 13” pans of rolls or two loaves of bread.

Now, if you are going to follow Grandma's tradition, and of course you should, replace the butter in one of the rolls for each pan with jam, and be sure to seal tightly so that cheaters can't see the colorful jam leaking out. Tradition states that whoever finds the jam roll has good luck throughout the year. These so remind me of her that regardless if whether I get the jam roll, I'm still lucky.

Seriously, pretend it's Thanksgiving, make a turkey today for the sole purpose of enjoying cold turkey sandwiches on these rolls. Mustard only!

What it all Means...

Yeah, I wish I knew.

"This Side" really means anything. It can be this side of an argument, whatever your belief may be, the chance and space to expound upon it. It refers to this side of the world, the small slice of the planet we've chosen to be our home, why we remain on that side and our ventures out from it.

It is also this side of the coin, this side of the mirror, This Side of Paradise (you caught me, my favorite book). Along those lines, it can be just what side of the page you're on, what you're reading, thinking, singing, dancing, painting, sculpting, feeling, at any given moment. In that way, it's really just what's going on in life and thoughts right now. It's the freedom to be on any side of a subject, or to define the subject yourself. To claim your own issue and your own side, to express your own thought and your own mind. This side is what you make of it, and what you make it.

To be and to live on this side is my goal.

Crabby Dance

In my family, eating is a way of life. I suppose you could say it's a literal way of life for all families, but that would mean I'd have to come up with another first line. Anyway, my cousin S always told (I erased "joked"; this was not the intent of her phrase) of her "training" before Thanksgiving, which entailed eating as much as possible at every meal for the week prior to stretch out the stomach and allow for maximum consumption during the event. She's a doctor now, so I believe the truth in this statement. She is a wise one, that S. Of course, she learned from the best, dear ol' (left the "d" off for ya) Uncle Jerk, who never fails to be the last one to leave the table, and usually only after picking up each serving dish to polish off whatever is left inside. If you aren't careful, he'll eat right off your plate. My Aunt and Godmother J calls ahead to every gathering to scope out the dessert selection and ensure that enough chocolate is on the menu. Cousin K always, always brings the most delicious cookies, cakes, candies, and other sweets, although as a nurse with two young children we don't know how she finds the time. Two years ago we staged a green bean casserole cook-off, complete with judging rounds and a control group who just feasted indiscriminately on both.

Though I'm teasing, I love my family. Honestly, they're the best, and we're lucky to have each other. So because of all this food-focus it seems only natural that I am consumed by (the irony!) food, obsessively collecting recipes, devouring food network shows, pouring over cookbooks, drooling at the fridge on an hourly basis. But I come from simple roots. Here's a recipe (I say the word lightly; it's the easiest one in the genre, unless you consider "open can" a recipe in itself) for our family favorite dip, Crab Dip. There are two things you should know, though.

1. It is MANDATORY at all family gatherings, particularly those featuring younger Sissy or quirky, lovable Aunt J
2. One does not get cute with crackers. It's Triscuits only. I'll tell you the story of how Sissy reacted when Wheat Thins were the only vehicle available to convince you of this fact.
3. (Bonus fact) It's almost too easy to be a recipe. My favorite kind.

Crabby Dip
1 8oz brick cream cheese (not fat free)
1 8oz can lump crabmeat, drained, picked over for shells
1 bottle cocktail/seafood sauce (amped up with horseradish, if you dare. We always dare)
Triscuits

Spread the cream cheese on a plate, spread the top with crab meat, pour horseradishy cocktail sauce over the top. Stick a knife in 'er and spread heaping knife-fulls haphazardly on Triscuits. Spill some on your shirt, be too busy chewing to care, repeat.

Yummmmmmmmmmmy.

Now, this might be in the 1950's genre of cooking, which food snobs today probably scoff at. But I'm no snob - that last sentence ending in a preposition should tell you that - especially when it comes to food. Though I'm stretching and refining my weak culinary muscles, I like food to be simple, to be cooked to enhance its essence, not to hide, mask, cover, etc. it. Likewise, I have very little patience for 10 step recipes that call for any number of advanced techniques only to render an end result unrecognizable as any of its original components. Maybe this is why I loathe pureed soup? I can taste you, ingredients, but I can't find you.....

Did I mention that my Sissy's nickname is crab? She'd want you all to know.

What Remains

There is something mesmerizing and almost magical about vestiges of the past. From the grand scheme of Machu Picchu and the Egyptian pyramids down to little reminders like this advertisement for a long-dead newspaper, they force themselves onto you, make you imagine existing in their own time of modernity.

I always get caught up by historical markers like these, feel captivated and caught in their web. What was it like to walk by this freshly painted wall? Did the Inca view their temples with the same level of reverence? Are we patronizing or honoring the societies that have survived in ruins by preserving them further.

It may just be my natural fascination with the interaction between the man-made and the natural. Watching the decay of what we put on the Earth never fails to remind me that nature will always win that battle.

Still, their power perseveres, and inspires the imagination to travel backwards in time with them. I can only think that these markers are longing for their heyday, forced to exist in our strange, modern world, waiting only for their inevitable demise.

Downtown to Chinatown

You don't have to know what foods are in these barrels (I don't think I do) to know what they contain. Chinatown in NYC is probably not "authentic," certainly not in the way pretentious folk would define it. But seeing strongholds of particular cultures, even when they exist mainly for the benefits of tourists seeking cheap handbags, Rolexes, or sunglasses (count me guilty there), still is somehow reassuring that, no matter how far the American ideal has drifted from being a welcoming place for nations' "tired, sick, and poor," we still aren't quite homogenized.

From the window....to the wall!

Inside looking out?

Or outside looking in?

Maggie Tales

If you ever ate chicken soup, or any sort of soup, for that matter, at my house between 1991 and 2004, chances are good that you ate Black Labrador saliva.

See, being the farm-bred and half-Dutch family we were, stock was something you made, not bought. Likewise, the refrigerator was the back deck in the winter, for the most part, not the white metal box in the kitchen. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other special occasions calling for turkeys or chickens was immediately followed by stock-making, and of course homemade soup. Once you've boiled the carcass and aromatics for hours, the stock must cool so that the fat rises to the top and can be skimmed off, clarifying the broth. This is where Maggie, the Lab, comes into play.

She thought cooling stock, covered or not, was fair game for dog tongue. Much like the bottom of the grill, hot or not, was a prime licking location. So after the stock went on the back deck to cool and clarify, you were more likely than not to catch a black labradorian retrievering dog nosing her way into a recycled tupperware container and licking the delicious poultry fat off the top off the broth.

Being the aforementioned farm-bred and half-dutch family, dog saliva was no match for cheapness. Besides, it would be boiled eventually, right?

Thus, if you ever at chicken soup, or any other soup, for that matter, at my house between 1991 and 2004, you probably ate Black Labrador saliva.

RIP Baggie Maggie.

This is where I came from

This is where I grew up....not literally, but in a sense it will always be identified to me as home. It's my family farm from the back side, where I spent every Christmas and Fourth-of-July from before birth to last year. Our large extended family returned to its homeland twice a year, the accomplished aunts and uncles reverting to their country ways and a flock of barefoot, dirty children running through fields, staging lawnmower races, and enjoying tractor rides aplenty. Forget the idea my society aunt-in-law had about this "wonderful pastoral experience" for the children. To me, it was home just as much as my own was, enhanced by the freedom to explore hay lofts with adventurous cousins, get dirty without getting in trouble, name scores of barn cats, eat endless popsicles without reproach, and wish I could stay there forever. Grandma's hugs probably helped.

We're selling the farm.

It seems a bit strange that this place that is so firmly identified as "mine" will eventually be ceded to a developer to turn it, one of the last vestiges of the town's rural heritage, into a subdivision. I've watched the desolate corner up the road turn from two crop fields, a fruit stand, and an abandoned building into a Kroger complex, brand-new library, Mobile gas station, and subdivision. I miss what it meant to me more than I miss the building, as in recent and older years the idyllic summer days and winters spent huddled by the Christmas tree have turned into a shadow of what they once were, reunions and holidays being celebrated more because that's what we always did than for any want or reason to continue the tradition. Many members fail to return at all, and every year our reunions seem emptier and more fragile. This year, my family didn't go back for Christmas at all, and family feuds are making a family Fourth, once a certainty, seem unimaginable.


The thing is, what I'm sad about isn't that the farm will be sold, or that traditions are changing, or that our family is not the all-loving group it once was, or more likely seemed to be like a sugar-fed eight year old. It's not that the tradition is dying or that the family is growing apart, and that we're all having to choose sides. It's not anything I can define, really.

Looking at this heap of junk, the "remnants of the years" of farm life left to languish in non-use, it seems to speak to this sadness, to shout out, "we know how you feel!" And to represent my sadness at the dissolution of a piece of home. There's not really a good or bad side to that, just the knowledge that most things end up here, back to the earth, remembered by few, their usefulness forgotten. I don't want it to go down like that, decaying, left to rot. Bring on the bulldozers, McMansion developer. Let me preserve it. So I will remember the farm.

This Side of....

What side are you on?