Women's Work

The Ice Cream - Exercise Balance

The line between self-care and self-indulgence can be very blurry. Often the difference comes down to moderation. I define self-care as something that feels good now and later. A skein of yarn for a scarf I actually knit makes life better. Buying enough yarn for three sweaters and then feeling guilty about not knitting them doesn't feel good in the long run. 

I try to indulge in self-care more often -- regular walks and occasional ice cream. It feels pretty good when it is working. When it gets out of balance, I work on the strength for getting back into balance.

Taboo Topics

Ideas of politeness can stifle interesting and productive action. So many rules demark unacceptable conversation. Don't talk about religion. Don't talk about politics. Don't talk about topics that make people uncomfortable. Whatever you say, don't don't talk about sex. Even worse, don't talk about money. That pretty much covers public policy and structures that impact us in daily life. 

Dreams, opinions, and goals are extremely important for the future of our communities and our lives. Because they are important and weighty topics, they often come with taboos. My great-grandfather has been quoted to me on multiple occasions: "Don't talk to a man about religion, politics, or his wife." He was charming, persuasive, well-loved, and an excellent rose gardener; however, he also thought women were immoral if they wore pants.

My beef is with taboo topics. Undeniably they are potential sources of discomfort. They should be handled with care, but they should not be brushed under the carpet. Disclaimer: please do not march into your boss's office and layout a manifesto that is the opposite of her abortion beliefs. That is divisive and counter productive, and a different beef of mine. However, taboo topics can be teased into conversation if both parties acknowledge an interest and a willingness to explore ideas.

Disagreement on those topics can lead to more thoughtful discussion, and possibly, a middle ground. Discomfort comes with the territory. Those who have participated in sweeping social change will be sure to remember the end of segregation and war protests. Those who participated can also see that the world has changed and be proud of their part in the change. I encourage everyone to err on the side of being interesting and constructive instead of falling prey to being bland and vapid.

Memories and love

Love is so complex that I'm not even sure what it is. It is like trying to tell someone what wine is by describing a Merlot. The person runs right out and buys a Riesling and isn't sure it is really wine. Much like wine, love changes over time. Sometimes it improves and sometimes it becomes vinegar. I tried to write about love but it sounded like a person with commitment issues -- shocking, I know.

Over the last few weeks have have felt a deep, warm, accepting and pleasant sentiment. Spring arrived in my backyard, and dormant plants are blooming. They aren't yet singed by harsh winds, and tending to them is pleasant in the warm sun. One of those plants is a woodland phlox. I have so many fond memories of this plant. In the early 1900s, my grandmother's farmhouse was situation on the bank of a creek. By the time Grandma and Grandpa moved to the farm in the 1940s the house had been moved to avoid flooding and mosquitoes. 

The site of the old farmhouse was always a treat to visit in the spring because the phlox grew in a large area and it looked magical. My great-grandmother called it "Sweet William," and Grandma told me how much they enjoyed visiting the flowers together.  It was a bit of a hike to get to the site of the old farmhouse, but I remember walking there with my grandma when she was in her late mid-eighties. We held barbed-wire fences for each other as we climbed through and staggered up a steep creek bank. Grandma was still very strong and agile at that time, and I didn't realize how remarkable it really was. Seeing the spring flowers brings back those memories vividly, and I enjoy taking her a bunch of the flowers in the spring to reminisce with her. 

Economic Inspiration

The economic recession has my attention. I'm old enough to remember the dot-com bubble bursting, and that was definitely unpleasant. According to current news stories, this economic monster makes the dot-com look like a lap dog. While ignoring it or spending every waking moment in fear is tempting, I decided to just deal with it. There aren't too many things I can do about the widespread ramifications. I don't know whether I will be fortunate enough to keep my job, so I will be tuning up my resume. 

What I do know is that I currently have an income and I have choices about how it is spent. I know that I can take this opportunity to be a good employee. I can take this opportunity to re-evaluate my priorities. (I really enjoy reviewing priorities. That is the golden lining to every cloud on my horizon. Re-prioritizing time.)

Late in December, a friend and I were still in limbo about what we would do if the worst happened -- the economy collapsed, we lost our jobs, and we had to start over. I dusted off my copy of Your Money or Your Life by Joe Dominguez and Vicki Robin. My friend was intrigued and we started a club. We started tracking our spending and our saving and assessing how much we earned.

What I'm learning about myself so far is that I've got enough money coming into my life and it zips right out of my life again. Just being aware of that has made it easier for me to save money by packing lunches to take to work and having friends over to watch the movies instead of going to the theater. I've also learned that I'm more likely to spend when I'm with some friends than with others and I'm looking for other ways to have a meaningful friendship with spend-y friends. 

It is giving me an opportunity to live more creatively and to focus on actions that will help me achieve my goals instead of tools. I'm remembering that snuggling with my cats, sipping tea and reading can be far more satisfying than sitting at Starbucks, reading, and sipping a mocha. I've even found some extra time as a result. All of that shopping is a real time hog.

Spontaneous Celebration

Organic, spontaneous and jubilant celebration is my favorite kind of celebration. I've been to lovely weddings, solemn graduations, and victorious award ceremonies, but when I think of celebration, it contains an element of genuine elation that is difficult to stage. 

This typically manifests itself in children who find themselves gathered in large groups and begin to play. My cats also display unabashed enthusiasm when the receive a new toy or empty box or pile of crumpled newspaper. I have felt it after periods of hard work when I persevered despite thinking I might fail. The discovery one morning that my garden actually began to look cohesive instead of assorted plants that landed in the ground made me want to take the day off of work and enjoy the work. Finding acquaintances who out of the blue recite the next line of a favorite poem makes me feel warm and happy. That quiet glow or the sudden urge to stop and savor what just happened is my favorite kind of celebration.

There are some new homeowners on my block. They have the tiny, modest sort of house that is ubiquitous in our neighborhood. Their Christmas decorations show exuberance and joy. When they ran a line of Christmas lights for each strip of siding, I snickered. It's been a cynical year. Several days later though, the shrubs were completely covered with lights. I started to go out of my way to drive by the house to see what would happen next.  Soon, they crawled up the huge, ancient elm tree and covered it in lights. I was intrigued. The latest addition is a web of lights covering the grass. I don't know where they could possibly put another light or whether their circuit breakers can handle it. Still, I enjoy seeing people enjoying their house and the lights of Christmastime. It is pure delight and exuberance. And I'll be driving by tomorrow night to find out if they have managed to take this celebration any further.

The Curriculum

I'd like to say that learning is one of my greatest pleasures because in some ways I always want to learn. New classes in photography or knitting or gardening never fail to capture my attention. If I cannot enroll, then I wistfully think about what I might be learning. Or, I spend hours on the Internet trying to learn that skill. Sometimes I even think of returning to school -- just to learn more. Learning is definitely a requirement for my work. If there weren't frequently something new to learn or figure out, I'd want a different job. But then, sometimes, enough has been learned. I'm tired. I want to do a victory lap and then take a nap. But if I let the lapse become more than a short break, I feel dull, tired and sluggish. 

This year was a tough year for me because I had piled on the challenges of learning. I signed up for some tough projects because I wanted to gain experience. I volunteered for things that would require me to gain new skills. I bought a new spinning wheel and five pounds of fleece for goodness sake! 

And then, I got a divorce which made every last adventure seem like nothing. And I was tired. I wanted to crawl under the covers in bed and hide. But I didn't. That was my single most courageous act this year. I had to learn to be a me instead of an us and to rely on friends and family for comfort and fun. I learned so much about myself and my friends. One of my friends, who is in a less-than-perfect marriage, has enviously mentioned that I have learned so much. She thinks I have grown. She seems to have romantic notions about my new found freedom.This might be true, but I don't have the perspective to know. What I do know is that I want a far less rigorous curriculum next year. Maybe a book club will suffice, and I'll still have time to reflect about what I've learned.

The Comfort of Family

Family is a big part of how I perceive myself. My mother was one of six children. They were a close-knit, competitive family who worked hard, read, and had an excess of political and economic opinions. Through most of my childhood, we would pile into my parent's yellow Volkswagon bug and drive out to the farm on Sundays.

One of my uncles lived on the farm with my grandmother. He and his wife eventually had nine children, but at the time, they only had five. The adults would stay inside and talk and drink coffee. That was the 80s, so discussions were about Reganomics, abortion, and government deregulation. To say that everyone had a different opinion is an understatement. Everyone loudly had a different opinion.

My sister and I could hardly wait to run across the gravel road to house where my cousins lived. We asked my aunt as politely as possible whether our cousins could play. Then we'd tumble through the pasture and down to the creek where we would splash and play. Sometimes we would play in the hay barn. It was always an adventure. When I see litters of puppies wiggling and wrestling and enjoying the tussles and races, I think of the time spent with my cousins. I know that despite a multitude of differences, I will always be delighted to see them and they me. There is something always knowing one another from the beginning that is very reassuring -- understanding their essence and they yours. Watching that develop and gain depth over the years is even more interesting.

That clannish sense of belonging and the sense of place where it occurred stays with me. Sometimes, when I don't have a well-developed opinion or when I'm trying to understand my instinctive reaction, I think back to those times and draw opinions from that. It's not that I will never move past being part of that group or that I will never change, but it fundamentally colors my perspective, gives me a sense of belonging, and a sense of accountability.

People Culture

To my way of thinking, culture doesn't exist in a vacuum. Culture and lifestyle are intertwined. Some might say culture is art museums, opera, and symphonies. I agree. Those enrich life, illustrate history, add depth and create new perspectives.

My community is fortunate to have a variety of venues for those cultural outlets. The Wichita Art Museum brings new exhibits and has a mind-blowing display of Dale Chihuly's art glass. They also have a Mary Cassatt painting that I have visited many times in my life. It is like an old friend, and I feel a small sense of relief when I see it again. The Final Friday Gallery crawl is a younger, more dynamic venue where patrons stroll from gallery to gallery and view exhibits and mingle late into the night. The Wichita Jazz Festival brings in musical genius at all levels, and the Symphony always has an amazing performance.

Culture, though, means something bigger to me. Something more entwined. When experiences blend is when an event becomes truer and more meaningful. One day at a local Italian restaurant, an older man stopped at the door to sing an Italian song and everyone turned to watch and enjoy it. The waitress says he does that each time that he leaves -- he was in the opera at one time and he knows the owner likes certain music. Happening upon a pick up band during the Final Friday gallery crawl and seeing people gather around to enjoy the music is another enhanced experience. Watching children want to draw immediately when they see art work is when culture is at work. When people gather to celebrate and participate in art together, rather than just view it from the audience is when art becomes culture. People make culture from art.

Garden food

As long as I can remember, my parents had a garden with a few basic herbs: peppermint, chives, parsley,sage. Back in the 1970s that was considered exotic, and now people think nothing of zipping into the grocery store to buy a few snips of basil or a sprig of thyme. As soon as I moved into my own place, I planted a little garden with a few basics too. My favorites are parsley, basil, thyme, and chives. Sometimes there is sage and sometimes lavender or marjoram.

While it is hard to choose a favorite, the parsley is a strong contender. The green springs often stay healthy under the snow in the winter. If the cook is brave enough to wade outside, the leaves are available to be snipped. Boiled potatoes in the winter have freshness and hope when tossed with the chopped green sprigs and drizzled with butter. The taste is earthy, new, green, and understated. Parsley isn't as flamboyant as a pineapple sage or a Thai basil but it complements the subtle food so well.

In the summer, handfuls of parsley add dimension to a tabouli with bulgar wheat, fresh tomatoes, green onions, lemon juice, olive oil and black pepper. My father prepared the dish so that it was practically a parsley salad. For the longest time, I thought no one knew how to make the dish properly because it just wasn't green enough. Since then, I've learned that there are many variations on a good tabouli. Some people add feta for kick or garbanzo beans for protein. The Angry Chicken recently talked about making tabouli with quinoa. I haven't tried that variation yet, but it certainly looks yummy.

Lazy day meals are also important. Sunday nights often find me exhausted from too much fun on Saturday and too much frantic preparation for the coming week on Sunday. Popcorn and milk is a favorite meal. So is spaghetti and eggs. I don't know of anyone outside of my family who eats this dish or has heard of it, but it is very satisfying, has cheap protein, and is easy to make. The quality of this dish improved dramatically when I started to grate Parmesan cheese from a wedge rather than using the pre-grated stuff in a plastic canister. The ratios of this dish can vary according to what you have on hand. I've never actually measured the amounts. I judge by the way it feels in my hand, looks on the cutting board, and mixes in the pan. The end result is a steaming plate of pasta with yellow and green dots.

Spaghetti and Eggs

8 oz whole wheat pasta
1-2 eggs
2 handfuls parsley
2 t. butter
2 oz grated Parmesan cheese
salt and pepper to taste

Cook four servings of spaghetti.

While the spaghetti is cooking, pick several handfuls of parsley from the garden. Wash it, pat it dry, pluck off the leaves, discard the stems, and chop the leaves. You will have approximately 1/2 c to 1 c parsley.

In a separate dish, scramble 1 - 2 eggs.

Drain the pasta and return to pan. Place pan back on the hot burner and turn off the heat. The greatest danger is overcooking this dish. (My sister swears by the double boiler. I think that sounds like more dishes.)

Melt the butter over the pasta. Then mix in the eggs and parsley. Allow the mixture to sit until the eggs are done. Because of the butter and the parsley, the eggs may seem slightly runny, but this is desirable. Waiting until they are like rubber bullets is a bad idea -- don't ask how I know.

Divide into four servings, season with salt and pepper, and top with Parmesan.

Special Eggs

My food journey is a mix of idealism, stewardship, and social needs. Admittedly, the food I choose often has nothing to do with anything but convenience or a whim – e.g. my love-hate affair with McDonalds. Matching actions with beliefs presents a challenge, particularly when the beliefs are complex or even conflicting. Food can be political, emotional, and nurturing, and the history of my food ideals comes from a variety of sources. The poet Wendy Cope is a woman after my own heart, and her poem from Making Cocoa for Kingsly Amis expresses my views so well:

Kindness to Animals

Poem commissioned for an anthology for the benefit of the World Wide Fund for Nature but rejected as unsuitable

If I went vegetarian
And didn't eat lambs for dinner,
I think I'd be a better person
And also thinner.

But the lamb is not endangered
And at least I can truthfully say
I have never, ever eaten a barn owl,
So perhaps I'm OK.

I first read the introduction to Laurel’s Kitchen: A Handbook for Vegetarian Nutrition and Cookery when I was twelve; that was the first time I’d encountered any writing about intentional living. Carol Flinder’s described learning to cook from her friend and their quest to develop healthy diets that reflected their political and spiritual beliefs. The sense of community and purpose were important. Groups of people who would trade soy spread and bean sprouts for bread, or a person who would deliver freshly baked loaves of bread to new-comers spoke of goodwill and connectedness.

Intentional living was something I had experienced before. When I was young, my parents were vegetarians for several years. They were experiencing something similar to what was described in the Laurel’s Kitchen cookbook. They explored meditation, yoga, and visited areas where people lived as a community. Growing up in a Bible belt town, it is hard to explain to friends what you believe. They want to know whether you are Catholic or Methodist or Baptist. People who don’t eat meat, bake their own bread, and sit cross-legged in the evening are damned-near incomprehensible.

I was a child, the whole family would climb in our Volkswagon bug and drive out to visit Grandmother on the farm. When we visited my grandmother, we all ate meat--even Mom and Dad. Typically, my sister and I would get sandwiched between two uncles or an uncle and Grandmother. While they ate, they would say, “Mmmmm. Roast beef. Roast beef is verrrry gooood.” Everyone would agree that meat was delicious. I don’t remember ever seeing a response from my parents. Looking back, I realize that my grandparents were cattle ranchers. Mom and Dad’s choice of food threatened everything they did. The brainwashing did work. To this day, every time I eat roast beef, I have to bite my tongue to refrain from saying how good it is.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver and The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals by Michael Pollan are books that have changed the way I think about food. They talk about the food chain, eating foods in season, and being able to locate the source of your food. The term locavore entered my vocabulary. My ideas about eating mindfully and intentionally changed too. While no one in my family has been a vegetarian in the last ten years, but I harbor a certain amount of guilt for eating meat. I feel even worse that I enjoy it so much. Thinking in terms of food chains and the diminishing variety of what is in our food chain, I reviewed my thoughts on meat. The Slow Food motto, “You have to eat it to save it” shocked me at first, but it makes sense. So does Ted Turner’s work to save buffalo by making them a viable commodity.

Sometimes food doesn't have a relationship to politics at all. The times spent around Grandmother’s dining room table with the enormous, extended family were very happy. The parents tried to keep kids in their chairs and we romped away and took up raucous games. The food was delicious and familiar. People were relaxed and laughing. That comfort and joy was all mixed in with the food and the people and the setting.

A friend took me to Faye Farms in Udall, KS this weekend. It is approximately 25 miles from home but we were lured there by the temptation of free-range, free-roaming hens and their eggs. Hours before I got the invitation, I read a chapter of The Omnivore’s Dilemma that discussed how the protein quality and the color of the egg yolk of hens that have grass available varies from a hen that does not have the grass. Keeping me away from that farm would have been very difficult. Indeed, the quality of the eggs was good. The large eggs had double yolks, and the smaller eggs had single yolks. The eggs were very fresh, and Mrs. Faye told us they had been gathered earlier that morning. It took me right back to my childhood and playing tag with my cousins. By the way, the Faye Farm doesn’t have the scary roosters I remember from my childhood. They have friendly chickens, and I’ve included a few pictures.

 

Since today is my mother’s birthday, I baked a sponge cake that her family has made for birthdays since my great-grandmother’s time. The cake is very simple and not too sweet. The frosting is whipped cream. A friend said it tasted like sweet air. To me, it tastes like home and birthdays. Mom agreed too, but she wondered why my cake was yellow. They’ve always been white before. Maybe it was the special eggs?