Category Archives: sustainability

Blueberries and Pickles–No, I’m Not Pregnant

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Rocky Point Blueberry Farm, Warwick, RI

Rocky Point Blueberry Farm, Warwick, RI

Last week, I picked blueberries in the rain. It wasn’t that pleasant. I was cold. When I reached into the bush, water shook from the leaves, soaking me to the bone. I got colder and wetter. I started to frown. There was one drop of rain on my glasses I couldn’t get off. When I wiped it on my wet shirt, I smeared both lenses until I couldn’t see the blueberries. And I had a migraine. Annoying.

I thought about homesteading. How I planted my garden, how my husband chopped the wood, how we try to get off the grid. How the stuff we can’t do–produce eggs or meat–we get from the farm around the corner. About how close I am to getting rid of boxes, store jars, and tin cans. As I sat in the middle of rainy blueberries wishing the weather would clear, I thought, “A couple hundred years ago, I wouldn’t have had a choice to make homesteading my…(dare I say)…hobby.”
Not picking very fast. Pioneers didn't check email while farmingI never thought of homesteading as a hobby. It’s a good activity–I started out intending to save money, produce better quality food, and maybe stop global warming, prevent a few small nations from blowing each other up, or attain enlightenment. It doesn’t save money. Farming is expensive and I give stuff away.  Friends visit and remind me they like my peach salsa.
“Homesteading” is cool, though. What people once mocked me for, comparing me to their grandmother, is now chic, hip, and in. I’ve never been any of those things–I’m enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame.
But whining about wet blueberries–weak. I could never be a real homesteader on the prairie…I felt somewhat disingenuous. The pioneers didn’t have an option. They would’ve picked blueberries in the rain. And been grateful. The work would’ve been there every day. No one’s great-grandmother in Oklahoma would have skipped a day because of a weather, a lunch date, or a migraine.
Because if they did, they would have died. I watch homesteading shows on the Discovery Channel. The Alaska ones are cool–no one comes to their rescue. “Excuse me Stop & Shop Peapod…can you deliver?” I think not. Conversely, I watched a few shows where modern families pretended they were pioneers–shows where people dress up and cry after the first few days. The Alaska people never cry. I have to toughen up and be more like them. Today, In the true spirit of Alaska, I’m weeding my garden and making pickles again because I killed my last crock of kosher dills.
“HOW did you ruin pickles??” asked my friend of Russian Jewish descent. No Russian ever ruins food–that might be the last vegetable you’d see until the reincarnation of Lenin. And a Jew ruining a Kosher Dill? Heresy. Doesn’t happen.
“I didn’t weight them down. The top ones molded.” I asked around, “Can I eat them anyway?” I was so looking forward to them–I’d just eat one off the bottom. My husband said no, it’d kill me. I rationalized that cheese is mold, and the life insurance is paid up…would the pioneers scrape off the mold? They wouldn’t have had mold to begin with. Because if they did, they’d have starved.
Prairie women. My heroes.

Prairie women. My heroes.

I googled in case everyone was wrong. Google said, “Don’t eat it, moron, you’ll die.” Not trusting Google is sort of like not trusting Jesus or the threat stated in a chain letter. I tossed the pickles.

I’d be a crappy homesteader. I didn’t pick enough blueberries–too busy finishing off a text conversation and dictating ideas into Siri. Pioneers wouldn’t have stood for such behavior. And I killed the pickles. I’d have eaten them anyway because Google wouldn’t have been there to save me. I must drink some imported french-roast coffee and contemplate ways to improve.
The weather cleared midway through picking.  I remembered why I love it. I go deep into the middle of the bush, where lazy people don’t pick. Then, I crawl under the bushes, where no one goes, either, except the grandmothers who are serious about their homesteading, and little, tiny kids.
When I’m  looking under the bushes, I see an entirely different view. Seeing the berries under the leaves where no one goes reminds me of teaching. The berries at the top shine for the world. They hog all the sunshine, tasting nice and sweet. But when you climb in and under the bush, you see the berries the world forgot. They’re there, clumped together waiting for someone to pick them. I like those best–they’re bigger and sweeter because they were left alone to grow at their own pace. They leap into the bucket with excitement ready to become part of something great. This reminds me of my students, the ones who get left behind by traditional academics and need someone to peel back the branches and leaves to let them see the sunlight, too. But when they do, it is always magic.
Maybe I’m a bad pioneer and homesteader, but thinking about the blueberries this way, I decide I’m a pretty good teacher.
I smile. And I pick one more bucket before it’s time to go home.
[image 3: candgnews.com]

The Curse: How to Destroy Appliances Like A Pro

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Screen Shot 2013-07-21 at 9.07.51 PMI’m going shopping for a new gas dryer. I don’t really want one. I want to hang my unmentionables over the garden fence to dry–give the neighborhood something to talk about. It’s not like I live in an area where people can see where I’d hang underwear anyway. No one will post pictures of my laundry on Instagram. If they do, they seriously need a life.

“Nothing to see, folks, move on.”

When major appliances break, my mind makes a twisted route to Plan B as if I lived in a third world nation. “I don’t really need a new dryer anyway.” I don’t want to buy one. Having a drier makes me feel guilty. I should be hanging my clothes out to dry. I could be saving the kilowatt for a part of the world that needs it.  I justify my use of the drier by saying, “Well, at least I’m not ruining the universe with drier sheets. They kill trees and produce fumes.”  I can justify my bad ecobehavior by putting down those who use dryer sheets. It works.

I do like fluffy towels that can only be achieved in the drier. They don’t have fluffy drier towels in parts of the world that need my kilowatt. That thought makes me feel guiltier, as does the fact I often use two towels. Instead of taking my clothes out of the drier right away, I often throw my wrinkly work clothes in the drier a second time for five minutes to dewrinkle when I could have ironed. Lazy, first world behavior! I am an ecocriminal, like when I forget to put my reusable bags in the back of my car before shopping.

I have lost three appliances this year, each one taking up several cubic feet in the landfill. The demise of every appliance followed a luxury purchase on my behalf. The dishwasher crapped out after I pushed the button on my first yoga retreat. The washer died two weeks ago, after my husband convinced me we needed a specific Japanese-style charcoal grill because we needed to Japanese-style charcoal grill everything, every day, for every meal. Incidentally, if your spouse convinces you that you need to charcoal grill your baking because it’s summer, leave your chocolate chip cookies out of your Japanese-style chic charcoal grill. Something about the wood-fired taste of–chocolate–that makes me want to barf. You can’t unexperience something like that once it’s hit your taste buds.

But anyway, that’s why the washing machine died. Because I bought something.

“Ha,” said the pop-up on my online banking, “You could have bought a washer!” Who needs a washer anyway? Hell, I lived in places laundromats didn’t even exist. I’ll hand wash those clothes! My family didn’t agree, so we bought a nice old tank of a washer that can wash every piece of clothes in the house simultaneously, using twice the water. I’m feeling farther away from green by the minute. If this keeps up, I fear I’ll lose my green card.

Three days ago, the drier broke–died of a broken heart because his partner of 30 years, the 70′s washer, passed. Or perhaps it was that I spent money on the next great yoga retreat my friend Marianne suggested we attend. Part of me wants to think appliances are like a parakeets that sing their swan song soon after their partner croaks. Romantic. They must go to Valhalla together. But I really think it’s the curse.

I’m superstitious. I believe this stuff. After I buy this drier, there will be no further purchases here, because I do not want to tempt fate. I’m afraid the next appliance I’d kill is my freezer. I need that for harvest season. After all, you only get to pick blueberries once a year. I’m going to need that freezer.

 

[images: denmarkandsonsappliances.com]

Food Extremists Who Are Worse Than Me

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This is me. Entirely. I never made out with anyone in the produce aisle, but I feel strongly about food. I want to grow and raise what I eat. I want to eat healthy, to avoid packages. I do lots of things that are considered weird. I bake bread–it goes on the counter to rise at night so it’s ready to make in the morning. I make two types of yogurt–Greek yogurt, and filmjolk, both of which can easily be made into cheese, which I then mix with herbs from my own garden and spread on home-made bruschetta. If I could be perfect, in my own mind, I’d produce or trade for the bulk of my food. I have the land to do that now, and it’s going to get ugly–things planted everywhere–a landscaper’s nightmare, but my idea of heaven. My husband has advised me to “Stay the #$%%^ away from the front yard.” So far I have.

“People don’t like militants,” said my new friend with whom I was discussing food. Am I that bad? I don’t eat meat, I don’t like packaging, I try to avoid processed sugar, erring on the side of local honey and local maple syrup. I denounce pre-cut fruits in bags in the store and I think that the person who invented the Lunchable, is a marketing genius but the devil incarnate.

I never eat fast food–I told my son Chuck E. Cheese was the evil mouse. I haven’t taken him yet. There are much better foods to eat. Like the ones I grow myself.

I just ate my first salad from the garden. I made my own mayo for the dressing from eggs I got down the road–kidnapped right from the chicken at my request, the farmer put them  in the carton I brought from home–never even saw a fridge before they were converted into culinary greatness.

Maybe my friend is right. Perhaps I am a bit extreme. But not militant. I don’t spray-paint people’s leather shoes or threaten their eternal salvation if they eat shellfish or drink beer. I’ll even cook you a steak if you’re a carnivore guest, as long as it’s grass-fed beef.

I just think we’ve lost touch with our food and I think it’s time to find it. But I’m feeling a bit paranoid–am I really all that extreme? It’s time to engage in the great American past time of looking at other people to make myself feel better.  After all, I’m just a vegetarian–there are plenty of extremists out there worse than me.

Many  cultures don’t understand vegetarians. When I was in Russia, people would offer me meat. I’d politely decline. They’d say “Oh, just have one.” I said, “I’m a vegetarian, like Tolstoy.” Tolstoy was also a political extremist. That never helped, but it got me out of the beef stroganoff even if I had to starve that night.

Many of my students are Hispanic. Vegetarians are even less common in that space. More than one student or parent has, out of great concern, tried to send me to the doctors. “Vegetarian? You need to see someone about that.”

But am I really all that weird? I researched other diets. There are people out there who are far more particular than me. There are some really extreme foodies out there.

Screen Shot 2013-05-10 at 6.18.03 AMI feed paleos all the time. Their food lists are like mine, if you cross off the meat. A list of restrictions that makes an Iron Chef competition look easy. Then there are celiacs, raw foodists, vegans, and locavores, each with their own lists of prohibitions, rules, and food prep nightmares. Muslims and Jews are easy–even though I technically need a second kitchen and a rabbi to convert me to really cook properly for my Jewish friends, there’s a tacit agreement that vegetarians are understanding enough not to use bacon grease in the home-grown French cut beans, and we’re good with that. It’s the culinary secret handshake. If only solving peace in the Middle East were so easy.

So, I do my best to eat my raw carrots for breakfast unobtrusively, while I greet my next-door colleague who’s busy avoiding wheat, apples, and lactose. We drink home-juiced liquids out of mason jars and shot glasses, and the leaves in my desk aren’t inappropriate for a school setting, they’re just a blend of black and fruit teas, some of which I grew and dried myself.

Am I that far outside the mainstream? Maybe so. We planned a work outing. “You two will not be bringing the food.”

“Your loss.” I thought, as I downed another shot of my friend’s juice–two beets, a banana, pear, and just one sprig of kale–and ate my home-made sauerkraut from a mason jar. It was pretty good. And it was all mine.

[Image: beginwithnutrition.wordpress.com--today this is a link because there are some awesome recipes here!!]

How Much Manure is in Your Job?

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The snow has melted. There is a really loud bird singing outside the window. Crocuses poke through the dirt, and the Yankees just got clobbered by the Red Sox–it’s spring.

Time for growing stuff.  This weekend, we constructed the garden. At the old house, I built a ton of raised beds built when my husband wasn’t looking. It was a suburbanish-urban area right under the flight path of the airport. Our yard was first thing important people and foreign dignitaries saw upon approaching the runway. Our urban homestead had the potential to make everyone smile.  I waved as planes approached the runway, hovering three feet over my treeline. The guy in the third seat behind the wing tipped his glass, waved back, mouthing the words, “Nice garden.”

“Thanks,” I mouthed back, “Enjoy your stay.”

My husband didn’t feel the same way about my homesteading. “It looks like you barfed vegetables all over this yard, like someone with ADHD invaded!” He wanted rows. I wanted production. I stuck vegetables in every pot, raised bed, and crack in the sidewalk I could. Production.

Screen Shot 2013-04-08 at 6.01.39 AMWe’ve relocated to the forest and fenced in space for an epic garden–the kind that’ll feed a small nation through the winter. It required more than the usual couple bags of manure–it was time to get real, so I visited the family farm down the road. Ironic that I grew up in a rural area–we all laughed about chickens, tractors and cows, and now I want to be a pseudo-farmer.  I respect them. They work hard on behalf of the nation for very few accolades–kind of like teachers. We share a common affinity.

“Oh, we have manure,” said the farmer, leading me to the bags. Point to note, you must request  ”aged manure,” or “composted manure.” It makes a difference. You can’t just let the cow poop on your carrots; that’s a health hazard.

Screen Shot 2013-04-08 at 6.01.23 AM“Why can’t I just poop in the garden?” my son asked looking to cut out the middleman and be naked in public.

“Can’t I use the cat’s litter box?” another friend wondered.

No. It must be aged manure.  I handed over the measurements, and faster than I could say “Jimmy Cracked Corn,”  three cubic yards of manure appeared in the middle of my freshly tilled land.

Three cubic yards of manure is a lot of shit. We’ve been telling poop jokes all weekend.

The size of the pile made me wonder–if I could measure all the nonsense I’ve put up with in my careers in a tangible manner, what would it look like sitting next to this pile? And whose job would have the biggest pile?

Would a lean startup have less than a corporation, because they are so quick to measure and move, whereas corporations would let the pile sit, waiting for stockholder approval? Would police and emergency personnel have a larger pile because are paid to put up with it, or would they have zero because they have authority to do something about it? Would teachers have insurmountable piles because we can’t pick up a shovel without three layers of approval, filled out in triplicate after a national test, and by the time we get the ok, three more cubic yards would have been dumped on top?

Martha's vegetable garden. Not mine. Someday.

Martha’s vegetable garden. Not mine. Someday.

Would government officials have big piles, or would theirs be kept to reasonable levels because they have can donate parts of their piles to the rest of us? Would theirs be compounded by the manure added by opportunists, lobbyists, and extremists?

Who’d have the largest pile?

I started to think it wasn’t the size of the pile that would matter, but what happened to it. Would we smile, pick up our shovel, and use the manure to make things grow or would we let it fester into a pile that grew ever deeper… How do we make a difference in whatever we do, enjoy going to work, and grow a beautiful garden of results?

One shovel at a time, I think. Never look at the pile in front of you, just take a shovelful, rake it around, and then plant some seeds. You’ll be eating carrots, radishes, and tomatoes in no time. Everyone else will be standing around looking at their piles while you feast.

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[Images: hacer.org, green.autoblog.com and marthastewart.com.]

Getting an Early Start on Common Cores Using The Economist

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I am reading my son’s school newsletter. It does an excellent job discussing the Common Cores. I know this because I use Common Cores all day myself. The school is calling for a 50/50 balance of literary and informational text. I support this because I am a serious professional nerd.  Literacy’s important.  I’m tired of people who can’t read a basic newspaper–which the American press has kindly reduced to a fifth grade level. I hear soon they’ll only be featuring world leaders with two-syllable last names that at least 75% of the American public can pronounce. Netanyahu, Fernandez de Kirchner and Berdimuhamedow will be banned from print media. Unless we act now. To paraphrase my beloved Tolstoy, who never did write much informational text and is therefore O-U-T–out in favor of better things, “How much Seuss does a man need?”

Banned Books

Banned Books

In honor of the transition to informational text, we read Shel Silverstein for the last time last night. That’s about 25% too much poetry. We’re way off our targets here, which can only hurt down the road. I’m packing up that nonsense to unpack the Common Cores. We’ll use my Economist, Foreign Policy, and Mother Earth News.

When Declan was born, I used to read op eds from The Wall Street Journal and articles from Sports Illustrated. Babies love this as long as you read with the right enthusiasm. Stories like “doping,” “scandal,” “end of the economic world as we know it,” have far better hooks than Yurtle the Turtle. The life-long skills they produce are invaluable.

He can now read stock reports even if they go into negative numbers–he’s not just accessing the literacy Common Cores, we’re reinforcing numeracy as well. That’s important. High school kids have lost the skills of memorizing basic math facts, and many stare mystified at an analog clock like it came straight out of science fiction. Numeracy is critical as well. Unless you’re The Boss.

I tell my students that they’re right, math isn’t important if they want to work in my business, because if they can’t calculate their paycheck, I get to pay them whatever I want. Heck, I might even pay them in gum.

“How many sticks of gum do I get this week, boss?”

“Well, if your wage is five sticks an hour and you worked fifteen hours…how many sticks should you get?” I say chomping on a wad and blowing a bubble, having underpaid Math Deprived Employee by two sticks. AND slammed him with a word problem just to illustrate my superiority in the Common Cores.

Common Core approved informational texts

Common Core approved informational texts

All this gets back to why it’s never too early to start promoting high-level informational text literacy. My son won’t learn how to rhyme, but he’ll build a darned good chicken coop. The article has pictures, so he will have art appreciation, too.

You can never read too much instructional material on permaculture and composting. I’ve made plenty of Learnist boards on informational subjects–I’m going to make him read those and answer a set of Socratic style questions, which I’ll provide for his whole kindergarten class in a lecture on career development.

I’ve sold the Seuss, hidden the Harry Potter, and sent out the Silverstein. Go Dog Go is gone, dawg, gone. Today, we’re going to analyze The Economist’s “Rough Guide to Hell.” (pictured above). Then, I’ll plug Hell into my GPS for a geography lesson sneaking 21st century skills tech skills in, too. You guessed it, more Common Cores.

We’re keeping the Dino encyclopedia, even though dinos are dead. Dead doesn’t send a good message, “Work hard and you can be extinct.” “No matter what you do, a giant meteor may wipe you out.” But it’s instructional, he likes it. It sends a grave warning about global warming (Science Common Cores) in addition to having very big words (instructional text literacy), so it can stay.

It’s 5AM. Declan just waltzed into the living room, “Mommy, I can’t sleep.” I said, “Come on, let’s get started tackling these Common Cores.” He took Fluffy the Sheep and ran back to bed. Which is probably just as well. I want him well rested for when the learning begins.

 

 

Kletzmer Music, The Farmer’s Market, and Rebuilding Rhode Island

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photoI love the farmer’s market. I feel comfortable. There are people like me at farmer’s markets. There are people with canvas bags, no doubt tons of vegetarians, and older parents.  That makes me smile because though I feel young at heart, and I hate it when I’m the only parent around that remembers the Reagan administration.  I love sitting with people who dress their children in colors from the 70′s, including stripes, dots, and patterns in one outfit. I feel at home.

This weekend at the farmer’s market, we were lucky. We got a front row bench to the band playing in the corner–usually it’s a bluegrass trio or Celtic music, both of which I love, but this time we got somewhat of a treat–Kletzmer music. A group called Ezekiel’s Wheels out of Boston, some of whom, I learned, were financing grad school, and a couple of whom were full-time professional musicians.

I love Kletzmer music. It’s entrancing. It makes me feel a combination of emotions all in the space of one song that few other types of music evoke. It’s the only music that can sound joyful even in the minor key.

I think Declan thought so, too.  Irish music holds his attention for a little while, within limits, probably because you are supposed to get a beer. It’s in the Irish Rulebook. Kletzmer kept him hypnotized and dancing for an hour and a half–a world’s record for a kid who flits around faster than the thoughts in my brain.

As soon as the first song ended, he said, “THAT IS THE UGLIEST GUITAR!” I bent down to shush him as soon as I heard the word “ugly,” because I didn’t want a repeat of past public incidents like the “Why is your nose so big?” scandal or the more horrific “Why are you so fat?”  But it was too late–he bolted away toward the quartet. He stopped in front of the bass player with wonder in his eyes.  ”That’s a funny guitar.”

“It’s a stand-up bass,” the musician informed him.

I thought that was a good answer. There was another parent there. An older parent.  His little person was dancing too. “Ahhhh!” she shrieked.

“What’s that?” He said, “Right, it is a stand up bass.”  I didn’t want to argue, but there is no way that “Ahhhh!” coming from a pre-verbal child translates to “Daddy, that’s a stand up bass,” any more than Declan’s original applause at the scales played by the fiddle player and clarinetist meant, “Mommy! I love those arpeggios!” But alas, we older parents are ever so hopeful our child will be the next Einstein or Yo Yo Ma. In this economy, it’s our only retirement plan.

By the third song, Declan had forged a solid relationship with the fiddle player, Jonathan, a grad student at BU who Declan apparently booked for his bar mitzvah. Then, being informed he is not Jewish he converted on the spot, reciting half the Torah so that in just seven or eight short years he can have a bar mitzvah and get a fiddle of his own.

The amazing part to watch both as a smiling parent and a failed musician was that the boy really got the emotion of the music–during the slow pieces, he stomped around like a dinosaur, and said, “Mommy, this is sad.” During the fast songs, he was a five-year old whirling dervish spinning toward the heavens reminding me that music truly touches the soul at all ages.

photo copy 3By the end of the farmer’s market, I’d scored ten pounds of B-grade apples and a nice cup of New Harvest Roaster’s “Steamroller Blend,” which, I might add, though delicious, certainly required a “you will move faster today” warning label.  I enjoyed a spinach-feta crepe from The Creperie, a fantastic local restaurant that can turn anything into a flat pancake and have you asking for more.

Declan stuck with the standard fare–kettle corn and a cupcake, both of which had the nutrition police lurking, I’m sure, but a kid needs to keep up his energy to dance and contemplate a career in Kletzmer. He confirmed that he still wants to be a paleontologist, but he does like “this music.” Maybe if Kletzmer had been around, the dinosaurs would have been happier, and a few would have made it–who knows. That will be his job to find out.

There are a couple more weekends of indoor Winter Farmer’s Market, and then we move outdoors for the season of mud and planting. This year, I’ll be busy planting my own large sustainable enterprise. But moments like these will bring me back to the farmer’s market, not just for the musicians, but for the sense of adventure and community–to support the people who made their products for me, who came out to play for me, who fished for me, and grew vegetables for me.  It’s the sense of community in a world where we sometimes forget about such things that keeps me coming back for more.

It’s nice to see Rhode Island building that community once again–it’s definitely gaining momentum here–the small businesses growing, the family farms gaining prestige, the entrepreneurs coming into the state;  I’m glad we’re putting Rhode Island back on the map. I can see it more and more clearly every day–Startup Weekends, storefronts filling, and businesses like my husband’s expanding. It will be nice to see this trend continue. It’s even nicer seeing Rhode Islanders support it with such enthusiasm.

My ultimate goal is that we can sustain this sense of community–where everyone supports each other and takes a moment to chat and smile at places like the farmer’s market, and we all stop and enjoy the music. That is what I find at these markets. And it truly is magic.

Four Seasons of Frugal: Why I’m Grateful to the Great Recession

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Screen Shot 2013-01-05 at 9.44.32 PM

It all began with blips on the financial radar in 2006. I was pregnant with Declan–the hero of some of these stories. The universe was about to come crashing down. I felt it. I wasn’t sure what was about to happen only that something was wrong in the universe. Our business was struggling. I researched taking a home equity loan to tide us over, and was told the house has doubled it’s value. They were willing to roll me into an adjustable rate mortgage and allow us to cash out some equity in the house. Luckily, I know my fine print.

“But I have excellent–no–pristine credit.”

“Oh yeah, but that’s just the way things are these days.”  It doesn’t take jumping off a fiscal cliff and being reincarnated as Alan Greenspan to know something’s wrong. I declined. There would be no home equity loan–we would find a creative solution. When the market did crash–and I remember sitting by my fish tank watching the Wall Street shark tank devour itself on TV–I was not surprised. Mystery revealed.

And so began The Fourth Season of Frugal.

Frugal isn’t new to me.  For my parents, it came with a jump from banking into doing the good work of the Lord. They started soup kitchens and helped humanity. God might be good, but he doesn’t pay in cash and stock options, and so ensued the First Season of Frugal. Government assistance, job hunting during the Little Recession, trying to move back to the community they left to follow the Lord, scrimping and saving–Dad taking a job with a friend of the family entirely across the state to make ends meet while mom saved cash from couch cushions because government programs will let people buy candy and chips but not soap and toilet paper. She never let us buy candy and chips. I never understood.

My Second Season of Frugal came during college when I was paying massive tuition bills while working full-time and overloading on courses. After making the large cash payment each month to cover the difference between The Bill and The Aid, I remember having  $11 remaining one month. I said a prayer on the way to Wegman’s, our local grocery store, that some shape of pasta would be on sale. And it was.

A few times a week, I’d eat dining hall breakfast for $2.65, and fill my Tupperware for the rest of the day. Technically, I now know this is stealing, but at the time it seemed justified, because it was all-you-can-eat, and I ate little, but the football team vacuumed up food. I converted what I should have eaten into take-out to balance this out. Then at dinner time, I’d eat something during my nightly shift at the diner. I never starved.

In fact, I remember always having enough food to scrape up a sorority or fraternity dinner in my off-campus house. And the laughter that filled the air.

The Third Season of Frugal came when I took a massive pay cut, and racked up grad school loans leaving Corporate America to go into teaching. This fear led me to hold onto my corporate job on the weekends. My pay working two days in Corporate America was $40 less than my pay teaching. I kept both for a while–because money is the great temptress–but eventually left to teach full-time.  I said The Wegman’s Prayer once again.

So when the Fourth Season of Frugal arrived, I’d like to say I was prepared, but this time I was terrified–because this time I owned stuff. I had stuff to lose. That made all the difference in the world. Before, it was just me walking down the street hoping for pasta; I was free.  Now, we had a business, a home, and a car to lose and a family to support. That is the perfect equation for terror.

When we perceive we have things to lose and we worry about protecting our things, our fear only multiplies.

Thankfully, my deep reservoir of frugal memories helped me focus. I would be able to re-engage in minimalism, even though I had been tainted by the mindset of the Alex P. Keaton era and the robust Clintonesque 90′s along with the spending habits of one in possession of the out-of-college corporate paycheck. I would readjust my mindset about “stuff,” learn to be creative with my budget, commit to going zero-credit and paying down student loans and the credit which had already been extended. I would dust off the Wegman’s Prayer once again.

This was going to be ground zero for spending.

I sold my car. The diesel that was going to save the universe by letting me collect fry oil had to go. I converted it to a near antique little beetle, which was okay because I could enjoy the sight of teens punching each other as I drove by, “Punch buggy, silver!”

I cancelled credit cards.  I have them now, and I keep them at zero. Credit is the great American addiction. I was reading a post by James Altucher, inferring that we, as a society, shouldn’t consider income when making job decisions, because we’ll just spend our raises anyway. Not true for this individual.

I studied self-sufficiency. I wrote about that in my last post–canning, planting, making bread, yogurt, cheese. It’s not just about eating, it’s about the act of creating. The miracle of producing food, of being free from the store, and about breaking bead with friends and family is the lesson of self-sufficiency.

I wanted less. We don’t do this as a culture. We want more. I realized that I’m fairly happy with a pair of running shoes, some books, and a piece of paper on which to jot down my thoughts. Turning my daily habits into hobbies–sustainability, cooking, simplicity, organizing for example, eventually converted them into Zen-like acts. In this mindset, every act becomes something we can use to become more reflective, more peaceful, and more content. We embrace “wabi-sabi,” the perfection in imperfection. We enjoy who we are and what we have in the present. It makes all the difference.

One day, I was cleaning the garbage can. My mind froze and took a snapshot–I saw myself performing this odious chore.  And I realized I was happy. Happy cleaning a garbage can. That made all the difference in the world.

The Great Recession hurt many of us. But I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned and their outcomes. Somewhere on Wall Street, there are people to whom I owe a large debt of gratitude, in all sincerity. They might have received their golden parachute, and America may hate them, but I’d shake their hands. I was reminded that living simply makes me happy, whether I have $11 in my hand or a million in the bank.  I hope there’s no Fifth Season of Frugal in my life, that I won’t need a refresher lesson or wake up call. That every day will prove a simple exercise in gratitude, and that I can do something to make the world a better place.

 

Simplicity: The Intersection of Frugal and Cheap

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I found my canvas bags.  In my move, I’d lost them and I’d been forced to use plastic. I’d  committed a great many enviro-crimes in moving from House A to House B, the least of which was forgetting my bags.

I confessed this to my green friend.  I expected to hear “You can do better,” but I got a welcome surprise, “You get a pass on this when you move.”  She proceeded to tell me to throw out all of my clutter and simplify.

I had, in fact, been working on this for some time–decluttering, simplifying, and replacing processed foods with home-grown all natural items; learning the fine art of DIY and self-sufficiency.  More on the reasons for this in a different post.  Regardless of the reasons, I’m enjoying my journey uniting myself with the skills of my grandmother, part of the Greatest Generation, who knew the real value of thrift, frugal, and efficiency–a value that far exceeds the bottom line that it saves.

What I learned in the process was that DIY, “green,” life hacks, frugal, and cheap, were all components of the same higher virtue–simplicity. And simplicity clears a tiny space in our brains where happiness and contentment should reside.

The Journey: 

I decluttered. This was the first step. Doing so in Tiny House A was difficult. House B is laid out better, and easier to keep Zen and clean. A lot of this is thanks to my Zen and Clean husband, but I try harder here too. In the beginning of this journey, getting rid of stuff was tough. I struggled.  Now, it’s almost freeing.

I planted.  In Old House, every time my husband left for work, I planted a raised bed. He liked this at first. Then, he said, “You THINK you have enough of these?” But, the backdrop of this project was the Great Recession–which is as good an incentive as any to simplify life. As anyone who has been nervous about losing their job, home, or business knows (for me, it was all three), it’s far better to have a positive obsession than become a crack addict, and one or the other is bound to happen.  Carrots became my crack. So, as soon as his vehicle rolled out of the driveway, my shovel snuck out of the shed and a new raised bed emerged, filled with seeds and seedlings before anyone had the power to stop me.

I changed my shopping. I went to all the little shops and bodegas where no one speaks English. This is where you get the real deals, and it’s fun. The Spanish store is a blast–Salsa and Bachata music dance customers around the store. The Korean and Chinese stores have aisles of noodles, wrappers, and teas. I’ll admit, the 26 major dialects at the Indian store occasionally slow me down, and I had a couple of epic fails learning the Cambodian store, but in the end, I increased my repertoire of ingredients and culinary techniques. If you look in my spice cabinet now, you will, indeed, have to translate, as I do not know the name of all my ingredients in English.

I do what I can myself.  I bake bread, culture yogurt, make cheese, sew, fix, construct, plant, forage and can.  It’s fun, and I don’t have to pay anyone.  My rule is if it doesn’t explode or cause a flood, I will at least try to fix it.

I reuse everything. This appeals to the green side of me–I’ve been bringing bags to stores way back before it was cool. I learned this in Russia where people took their three-foot loaf of bread from the boluchnaya (bakery) and carried it home. With their hands and no government warning about germs. It sort of looked like a bunch of people on deck at a Yankee game waiting take a swing. The American marketing machine wastes so much packaging and wrap it’s disgusting.  I was already trying to leave that behind by shopping bulk and making waste-free lunches.  However, add in the Recession, and I became obsessed.

I even began to wash ziplock bags if I am forced to use them at all, and I’ve been known to reuse Saran wrap–after all, it was just keeping flies out of my daily bread dough–why can’t it wrap a tomato? I knew the Recession was at its height when I considered reusing dental floss.  I know. The psychology of the human mind is baffling and it is possible to degenerate from positive obsession into insanity in very short order. I’m better now.  Ultimately, I decided that there are things that should not be reused–global warming be damned–and dental floss is one of them.

I compost. I will be expanding my farming operations this year since I have some land, but it’s nice not seeing a million garbage barrels out in front on trash day. Americans generate too much trash.

I cook my own food and freeze it.  I use my Food Saver.  I never waste if I can avoid it. I have a thousand code words for “leftovers,”  including (but not limited to), soup, stew, casserole, stir fry, and hash. Nothing gets wasted. I get grass-fed or locally farmed meats for the non-vegetarians in the family, which is expensive, but I don’t serve it every day. And I always pack my lunch. It tastes better, I get what I want, and it’s cheap. Besides, it’s really fun to see my coworkers marvel at my mason jars, furoshiki wrap, and “weird” foods.

I can and forage. Canning is not hard. It’s cathartic and fun.  It used to be a big money saver–getting B grade produce from farms and putting up a winter’s supply. B grade costs less because it’s the produce that doesn’t look perfect–the produce that is actually better because it’s the way God and nature intended it–it was never supposed to be a perfectly red shiny GMO-frankentomato anyway. Heck, if I can save some cash in the process because I know that detail, all the better for me.

Canning was supposed to help the budget, but it backfired.  The food is so much better that I have friends come over and raid my pantry for jams, salsas, and spreads. Therefore, I must ramp up production and buy more mason jars. This takes canning out of the money-saving category, but it’s still good, healthy, natural food, prepared in season and that, I’ll share any day of the week.

I use cloth napkins and put old face cloths on the Swiffer.  I am so militant about this that when Declan, the boy wonder, saw the emergency roll of paper towels I keep for dog barf and biohazards, he said, “Mommy, what’s a paper towel?” That’s green and frugal.

The Results?

Simplifying my life has allowed me to recognize the important things in life–family, friends, and joy about the things that really matter. I’ve learned the value of the skills of our grandparents relied upon for day-to-day living. And I’m glad that I’m no longer an outlier–that this vision has caught up with many of us in society, leaving the wasteful 80′s and 90′s behind.

So, while I agree it is still not okay to reuse dental floss, I’ll still squeeze an extra month out of the toothpaste, make “products” last forever, and march forward on my quest to banish waste packaging, industrial foods, and nonsense from my life, and hopefully save a ton of money in the process.

Because the process, I’ve discovered is about living a simple lifestyle and freeing the soul.

The Horrors of the American Grocery Cart: Really Dumb Things You, Too, Can Buy

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I was doing the grocery shopping–because that’s what good moms do, and I took time out of my life to really pay attention to people’s carts.  I’ll admit it…I’m frugal. I might even do a mini-series on frugal, because it’s a lifestyle few understand and many mock. “You bake your own bread?” they’ll say incredulously. “You make cheese?” Yes to both. And about the follow-up comment, “If I had YOUR time!?”

This always sounds more like an indictment than an exclamation. I don’t have a lot of time. Being frugal is easy. It’s discipline. It saves money. And my food tastes better than packaged food–because bread isn’t designed to have chemicals in it. And it doesn’t grow in an aisle at the store.

This topic is near and dear to my heart, and deserves more time in print. For me, what started with “green,” progressed to “decluttering,” which has a natural evolution to “holy crap the economy stinks,” to “conserve,” to “frugal” to “obsessively frugal.”  There have been some speed bumps along the way–I’ll write about those another day.

Simplifying and learning “frugal” has been a catharsis. I’ll commit to breaking down my journey towards simplicity into a few posts, with one or two even having a touch of depth and serious reflection. The entire nation has suffered over the past half-dozen years. For many of us, it wasn’t anything we did directly–the housing market collapse, jobs and industries moving overseas, industries relating to those industries being impacted and fear that it could happen to any one of us.  It’s been a game of dominoes America never wants to play again, with deep psychological effects.

But for me, though challenging, it had an amazing outcome–simplicity.  The fear of losing my house and business was sobering.  I’ve lived in “situations without money,” before. I don’t like to say “poor,” because I feel that’s more of a mindset. But for anyone who has experienced the loss of a job, business, financial insecurity–it changes you permanently in ways unseen to the eye. For me, it took my interest in sustainability, cooking, green, self-sufficiency, food sourcing, and recycling, and elevated them to an obsession.

I’ll admit it–such high levels of social awareness sparked by fear often become blanketed with a touch of judgementalism. I don’t shop at the regular grocery store often–I am usually at small bodegas where I’m buying ingredients in foreign languages.  It’s like a culinary trip around the world for the amazingly cheap–I can go to Cambodia, Vietnam, India, Mexico, Korea, Japan, on a quarter tank of gas–how awesome for global warming! Somewhere, I know there is a polar bear who thanks me.

But part of being so left-wing on this issue is that when I do go to the store, I notice the really dumb things they stock.  Yesterday, I took a walk around and photographed just a few items. I am amazed they even exist, let alone rest in people’s carts. I’m stuck half-way between being ashamed at humanity for permitting these things and the desire to high-five every entrepreneur who convinced people to buy them. I might be a little jealous of their success.

LunchablesLunchables.  You’re telling me people are really too lazy to cut three slices of pepperoni and put them in reusable Tupperware next to a slice of cheese and two Ritz crackers?  That they have to waste the packaging for a “lunch” that normally costs $3 and wouldn’t fill a toddler?  If you pack this every day for work or school, that would be $60/month for lunch. This is the epitome of shameful. Declan asked me for one, once and I told him it was the Devil’s pepperoni.

Pre-sliced things.  Oh, they are everywhere. There was a whole aisle of them in Whole sliced applesFoods, even, which makes me sad, because in all other respects people who shop there are generally socially conscious–seeing people with crocs loading bulk food into satchels they sewed themselves is the norm at Whole Foods, and makes me smile. Seeing people look both ways for the enviro-police before snatching pre-sliced packaged apples makes me wish for a loud alarm.  ”You there. With the Grateful Dead T-shirt. Put DOWN those pre-sliced apples!”

For three dollars you can have someone pre-slice your fruit, and wrap it in two layers of packaging with a hefty dose of sulfur dioxide as a preservative. For $2.99, they will pre-slice four beets and place a smiley cartoon on top.  Because seeing a smiley face always makes me want to pack beets. And the cost of six carrot sticks with a smidgen of dip–$2.50.  I can buy the same carrot for a penny or two and chop it myself. Heck, I’ll do it for you for a buck.

Someone even created a small plastic square holding the seeds of a pomegranate, because nature’s packaging was just not sufficient. I wonder whose job it was to take the seeds out and package them?

Baby brie.  For a substantial added expense, you can have mini-cheese rounds so small a mouse would call them leftovers, wrapped in a hefty dose of wax which defeats the purpose of eating them at all. Is it a candle? Is it cheese? Who knows. Best to just save the seven bucks and skip lunch.

Cubed cheese.  Oh, the horrors of cubed cheese and cheese sticks!  Again, this goes into the “buy a big block of cheese and use the French knife God gave you” category. But for people who haven’t developed their knife skills, they can make sure to waste rolls of plastic wrapping sticks of cheese that will only piss them off later, because no one can open those things, and they are way too salty anyway.

“100 Calorie” snacks. If you’re that worried about 100 calories 1. Don’t have a snack, or 2. Count the number of crackers yourself. Do you really need one of the Kiebler elves to do your first-grade math and put it in eighty layers of plastic?

Screen Shot 2013-01-06 at 5.53.06 AMDiet water. This is something I found on Facebook.  You read that correctly. Diet water. This is genius. This marketing team deserves a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. Someone made people buy that “diet water.”  They sold ice to an Eskimo.  I want to be that person one day.  That person who sells you cut up pieces of cheese for fifty bucks, a pre-sliced apple with plastic and chemicals, or a plastic tray with three pieces of pepperoni and two Ritz crackers have nothing on Diet Water Guy.

I’m not trying to go all Greenpeace and PETA on you.  I’m just wondering about the state of affairs in the United States where we have become so disconnected from the foods that we eat to be convinced that these things are okay.  It’s affecting our health, our finances, and our national psyche.

I’ve been working toward getting rid of jars and packages for a few years now. I’ve reconnected myself with lost skills–canning, freezing, drying, production gardening–I felt pretty good about learning these things. However, these were basic survival skills for our grandparents and their parents, not artisan crafts and hobbies. That all changed over the last generation or two–Generation TV Dinner. I don’t deserve a medal. I’m just getting back to doing right by my produce and grains.

You know who also doesn’t deserve a medal? The dude eating pre-sliced apples.

 

A Connecticut Yankee (still) Lives In Rhode Island (and you should, too)

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Screen Shot 2012-12-30 at 9.50.19 PMYesterday morning seemed to be a good time to reflect about my twenty years in Rhode Island. I was driving to an appointment I inadvertently scheduled for next Saturday, making me seven days and ten minutes early, when all of a sudden a rusty-red truck cut me off, nearly knocking me into next week (which would have made me only ten minutes early for said appointment).

The truck felt the need to zip in front of me, avoiding me by a fraction of a micron, though there was not another car on the road, then proceeded to slow down to a half a mile an hour, take both lanes, and navigate a ninety-degree turn in just under fifteen minutes, sans blinker.

“Rhode Island drivers,”  I exclaimed, nodding my head.  Actually, I didn’t say that at all, and that wasn’t the gesture I made–I made the real one in my mind because I think such gestures, though deserved, lack class and dignity. But I did say the word out loud.

Rhode Island has such a unique little culture–once called Rogue Island by the other 12 colonies, it was so difficult in all matters of trade, intercourse, and politics, that Connecticut threatened to invade it and wipe it off the map.

Perhaps you find yourself in Rhode Island currently. You might be attending one of our excellent colleges like Brown, RISD, Bryant, Providence College, URI, Roger Williams, Johnson & Wales or RIC. Perhaps you are stationed in Newport at the Navy base. Maybe you’re thinking of moving your business here. I have a friend from Brooklyn who came to Rhode Island just because, and appears to be stuck forever.

So, in case you are driving through, not realizing Rhode Island is a bona fide state, and you get a flat tire, I’m here to help you consider the possibility of spending even more time in the Ocean State.  You can develop an appreciation for the “biggest little state in the union” and its culture while you are waiting for AAA. You know you want to live here forever. Here are some reasons to stay:

It’s cheap. Compared to Connecticut, New York, and Massachusetts, you can afford a lot. A house that’s a half a million dollars in Massachusetts is sure to be a couple hundred thousand here. Many people commute to Boston from Northern Rhode Island as a result. We even have connections to the Boston commuter rail (the “T”), an Amtrack to New York, and a real honest-to-goodness airport where you will only be delayed sometimes, and when you are, there’ll be plenty of Dunkin Donuts coffee.

We have great food.   Federal Hill has some of the best restaurants in the country. I’m partial to little establishments tucked away in remote neighborhoods, but don’t be mistaken–we also have a list of heavy-hitters a mile long in the five-star department.  It’s just that, well, not many five-star chefs enjoy sharing their art with five-year olds who only eat noodles with butter, so I don’t get to these often. Guy Fieri has recognized the Rhode Island culinary scene–he’s been here twice!

In addition to restaurants, we have farmer’s markets, like the summertime market at Casey Farms in South County, which is more like an event than a market, showcasing food, music, and artisan crafts. South County is really Washington County but no one knows that–it got nicknamed “South County” because it’s–well, south of the other two counties, and it’s easier to spell on a form than “Washington.” Casey Farms has been active since 1750.  It now has a community supported agriculture program in addition to the farmer’s market.

There is a wintertime farmer’s market in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, in what is called the Hope Artiste Village.  ”Hope” is a motto of Rhode Island, as in “I hope I can find my way out of this place,” “I hope I can understand you people,” and “I hope I don’t lose a tire to a pothole.”

The Artiste village is really inspirational, though. This is an old mill converted into loft and artist space, where you will find everything from artisans and businesses to the New Harvest Coffee Roasters.  Just follow the hippies and sustainability people (you spot them easily because they carry their own canvas bags) and Brown students (you recognize them because the expression on their faces is a unique combination of pride at their intelligence mixed with sadness since they are about to spend the rest of their life paying student loans). It’s every Saturday morning. Incidentally, I used to live a few blocks up the street, but when I lived there, there were no hippies and Brown students, just people trying to steal my car.  Ironic twist of fate–the cool stuff comes when I leave.

You’ll save on gas.  This is because the state is only three feet wide by four feet long.  Local Rhode Islanders don’t see it this way, so you’ll have a decided advantage when immigrating. You’ll say, “Wow, I can get there in a half-hour.”  Driving a half hour or crossing one of the state’s three main bridges will cause a Rhode Islander to pack an overnight bag–no joke.  ”Mainlanders” going over to Newport, a drive of twenty to forty minutes depending on the point of origin, often incur hotel fees, but if you come from any other state, you’ll jump up and down for joy at how little time it takes to get anywhere and how silly-short your commute will be.

Believe it or not, despite the size of Rhode Island, there are many drivers in this state that do not use highways, and prefer only to enjoy the scenic back roads. This gives you more space to cruise down 95 from pothole to frost heave, making your commute even shorter.  Beware, though–Rhode Island and Massachusetts have a long-standing feud from on who has the worst drivers. Blinkers are optional but middle fingers mandatory. If you have a good imagination, you can pretend you’re participating in one of those NASCAR adventure excursions without paying a dime. Be safe!

You won’t have to watch mobster movies anymore.  They say that Rhode Island corners the market on two things–mobstas and lobstas.  Both are true. If you’ve been watching too much reality TV or an excess of Godfather reruns, you’ll save time with your move to Little Rhody. Turn off your Goodfellas and Jersey Shore. Read a few days of the Providence Journal and your craving for these things will be satisfied.

You can visit all the important places from “Family Guy.” Although it might look like a cartoon, it’s real. The Big Blue Bug exists. I lived two miles from the Quahog Convenience Store. For real.

It’s easy to make friends here. You won’t have to memorize many names. If you forget one, you can call everyone “my friend.” All male names have only two conjugations–the “ie” conjugation “Vinnie, Joey, Ralphie, Nicky… ” and the slightly less common “o” conjugation “Dino, Rocco, Bruno, Vito.” This makes it very easy to bond quickly and remember everyone, which is important if you want people to like you.

If you do move to Rhode Island, however, the first thing you’ll want to do is get an accent coach. He can double as a translator for learning words like “kah,” and “bubbla” or when you are puzzled to discover a “cabinet” isn’t something that stores dishes, it’s something you drink. This is costly but essential to your successful integration to the state because Rosetta Stone’s Rhode Island course won’t be ready until 2014.

All in all, Rhode Island is a great place. There are a million things to do–hike the woods, go to the ocean for clams, eat the best food in the nation, pretend you’re in Venice, drop a couple hundred grand on a prestigious institution of higher learning, or pretend to be a mobsta. Prices are cheap, the economy is rebounding, commutes are short, and in a week or two, with hard work and a friendly attitude, you can meet most of its citizens.

If you get a chance, come visit. If you get lucky, stay!

[That is my public service announcement for Rhode Island, the only state smaller than Connecticut.  For more great info, visit my Learnist board "About Rhode Island"]