Waste not

Our refrigerator crashed last night. Two attempts to reboot it were fruitless, so, at 7:30 this morning I started tossing food that was too sketchy to be recovered. In the tossed pile?

• Three sodden TV dinners


• One nearly full gallon and three partially eaten pints of ice cream


• 1.5 packages of gyoza


• A gazillion pounds of industrial grade hamburger patties


• 1/2 pound of sliced turkey


• 4 slices of Canadian bacon (eh?)


• 1 pint of sour cream


• 1 quart of fat free cottage cheese


• 1 mostly empty bottle of fish sauce, and


• 1 mostly full canister of fat free whipped cream.

I'm proud to report that, with the materials we recovered, we made the following:

• Succotash - 1/2 bag of frozen lima beans, 1/2 bag of frozen corn, and turkey bacon (with Old Bay for flavor)


• Curry chicken salad- 2 pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, poached and tossed with lo-fat mayo and Key Lime juice (+ a bunch of other stuff)


• Mashed cauliflower - head of cauliflower, boiled and then mashed with leftover fresh parm, plain soy milk, and onions and garlic cooked in (turkey) bacon fat, and


• Spanish rice - 1 bag of frozen peas, (rice), 1 jar of salsa, 1 jar of sliced Spanish olives, and leftover cooked hamburger and crispy pork belly

We also cooked 4 steaks, and are hanging on to toaster strudels, all of our eggs (Europeans don't refrigerate eggs, why should we?), 5 pounds of hot dogs and one pound of hot dog minis (don't ask), three types of block cheese, veggie burgers and a host of cookies and spices in the freezer. I steamed green beans for salad, and have roasted asparagus leftover from a nice dinner out that will also be added to salad. Today BMG ate a bag of salami and 1/2 pound of cheese to help with the "eat down."

We could have thrown everything away. A new (to us) fridge comes as early as tomorrow, and as late as Wednesday. We don't have sufficient cold storage, save for the vaguely cool fridge. And every time we open the fridge we lose a little of the cool to the warm air. So, keep food - even cooked food - is a giant pain in the neck.

But...

I hate wasting food more than almost anything else in the world. There are people in the world who are literally dying of hunger and malnutrition. While I know I'll never send my uneaten dinner to the starving kids in China (or Ethiopia, or Boston), I do want to feel like I'm not contributing to the problem by throwing away perfectly good food just because I am inconvenienced by not having a fridge for a short period of time.

PS: Want to see what our fridge used to look like? Take a peek via our 2007 posting on Fridge Watcher.com.

Hello 42!

You've heard the question before, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?" Or, "What are the first things you would you do if you won $700 million in the lottery?" Both are variations of the now popular "bucket list" idea. You know, where you make a list of all the things you want to do before you die?

I welcome the start of my 42nd year on this planet tomorrow. Birthdays always put me in a reflective mood - considering how I've grown in the past year, and who I want to be in the next year. The start of my 40s was filled with excited anticipation, and the prospect of being free to really dig into my "bucket list", which includes:
1. Live in NYC and/or Paris for at least six months
2. Learn to speak French
3. Successfully grow a giant pumpkin
4. Carve a giant jack-o-lantern
5. Hike Mt. Kilimanjaro
6. Provide some sort of service work (e.g. Peace Corps, NPS VIP Corps, etc.)
7. See as many of the US national parks as possible
8. Be a more diligent biker or kayaker
9. Do "the" road trip across the US
10. Water ski.

At first blush the last year has been a disappointing one because I haven't come substantively closer to achieving any of these things.

No one WANTS to be disappointed with themselves. Well, at least I don't. So I dug a little deeper. How would I characterize my 41st year?

One of the most significant changes is the evolving sense of peace I feel in my relationship with my mom. A light bulb was turned on and I realize that, while I am fundamentally different than she is, this doesn't preclude our having hundreds of ways we can appreciate and enjoy one another.

"Coming to peace with mom" isn't on my bucket list. But it probably should have been. Not only because being at peace with one's parents is a noble endeavor but also because, for me, the energy I put into my psychic wranglings with my mother (my childhood, my (mis)perceptions of my adult capacities) kept me from feeling the confidence I need to take bold steps towards achieving my goals.

I'm one year deeper into my life, and not outwardly any closer to crossing anything off my short list of aspirations. But inwardly, I'm ready for year 42 to begin.

When I First Believed in God

I first believed in god after my initial glimpse of Yoesemite Valley from the road to Glacier Point in Yosemite National Park.

I was struck by the clarity with which I could see the power of glaciers that sheared off Half Dome, carved the valley to Mirror Lake and Tuolumne Meadows, and created water ways from the Sierras to locations like Vernal and Bridal Veil Falls. I know the geological mechanisms that continue to shape the topology of this National Park. I also felt the presence of something much larger than myself as I entered the park for a six-day car camping trip in 1999.

The last 24 hours in the Park I went backcountry camping through the the Wawona region, in the less traveled southern part of this national treasure. At the start of strenuous 8.2 mile hike, through endless switchbacks to the curvy Chilnualna Falls, I fell in love with the gorgeous ingenuity of the manzanita shrubs that covered the mountain side. At the end of the first day of hiking, tent pitched in a dry creek bed, I had the privilege of seeing the Northern lights, confused at first for white fuel-induced visions. The beauty of the earth and the sky, along with my own triumph at having accomplished the hike, only reinforced my sense of a power greater than that of any single species.

*****

The blog post was written in response to call for stories about the National Parks. Share your story with the National Parks Conservation Association.

Photo credits to The Cachegetter.

Saving a Marriage

"I'm kind of embarrassed to ask this, but, I think you can help me save my marriage."

So starts my conversation with Ryan at Hingham Bathing Beach this morning. He is a tall man pulling kayaking gear and children out of a shiny SUV parked one spot away from my battered sedan and my sand-covered kayak.

"Do you live near here?" he continues.

I nod, cock my head and squint one eye, indicating he should continue.

"My wife is ready to kill me because I left one of our paddles at home. We drove all the way from Newton to go to World's End, only to find out they don't let people kayak from the Reservation. We got caught in a Memorial Day parade in Weymouth. We left 2 hours ago and we still aren't in the water. She's really ready to divorce me."

I look at the woman carrying an infant and ferrying a toddler towards two kayaks on the shore maybe 20 feet away.

Ryan then asked tentatively, "Are you done for the day? Can we, uhm, borrow your paddle?"

I thought for a moment about BMG, and how mad he'd be if the paddle was lost or stolen or damaged. And then I put myself in Ryan's shoes, feeling the frustration and anger and disappointment that comes from best laid plans that are about to be thwarted.

"Sure," I replied, "You can borrow my paddle. I'm done for the day."

We exchanged numbers, and I told Ryan to call when they got back to the Harbor. He could leave the paddle at the gazebo on the town green, just beyond the asphalt where we both had parked our cars.

As he triumphantly ran down the beach with the paddle and I started tying up my kayak, the elderly couple in the car on the other side of mine said to me, "Nice work. You really did save their marriage. You should have heard them arguingI"

I smiled and said in my most pious voice, "Do unto others, for you never know when you'll need a favor from a stranger someday."

****

If feels good to do something nice for someone you don't know - particularly something that is immediately recognized as a an act of generosity. Why? For me I feel like I've done just a tiny bit to create joy for someone else, and through my actions, reinforced my own wish for a world filled with kindness and respect.

Gifts from Brisket

I wish my cat had the uncanny ability to bring me winning scratch tickets and Pringles.

Instead, Brisket, the more aggressive of the #meatcats, seems to have a sixth sense for finding and scavenging small mammal graveyards. He is also an excellent, stealthy and non-stop hunter. Just this week Brisket brought home:
1. Bunny rabbit, dead, and missing only one foot
2. One distraught duck, who was quacking non-stop because she was missing her chicks and upset about being chased around by a tiny grey cat
3. A live garter snake, which was ferried up the stairs and down the stairs, over and over again
4. The most raggedy and tiniest dead mouse I've ever seen.

This complements the 1 dead squirrel, two squirrel tails, and myriad moles and mice he has brought home over the course of his short kitty life.

Thank you Brisket, for sharing your gifts with me and BMG.

Love,
-CF-

The bravest people I know

In spite of all of its faults the subway in Boston offers a wide view of the human condition. A man, who looked Chinese, caught my eye on the 70 minute ride home tonight. He was petite, appeared to be in his late 50s, dressed practically and appropriately in brown corduroy trousers that were rolled up at the the ankle, and he had the front jaw of someone who didn't have stellar dental care over his lifetime. Most interesting was that he carried a bundle of six empty soda bottles tightly shrink wrapped in plastic.

As we traveled to the suburbs South of Boston I wondered who he was and what reason he could possibly have for toting around a bundle of empty redeemable bottles. It isn't unusual to see men pushing shopping carts on neighborhood streets, pulling bottles and cans worth $0.05 each from recycling bins, to be redeemed for their daily income. I've seen Chinese women with wide brimmed straw hats walking up the middle of minor highways dragging shopping carts in both hands piled high with bottles in filmy garbage bags. Never have I seen someone carrying six bottles as if it were a lap dog.

"There must be something special about these bottles," I thought to myself, "or this man is so poor the $0.30 he has in his lap is like gold."

Still wondering what story guided this man's life as I poured out of the train station, I espied an elderly African American man selling copies of the Boston Globe to evening commuters. He had no obvious teeth, the hood of his worn and frayed winter jacket pulled up over his head. He wasn't talking, just holding a hand written sign that read "Boston Globe, $1.00." He was a different seller than the white, heavy set but gnome-like man I'd seen selling the paper in the morning.

"I didn't know the Globe had an evening edition," I mused. The dialogue in my head continued. "I've lived in Boston for nearly 18 years, I'm not aware of an evening edition to the paper. Is he just trying to sell papers that no one bought this morning? Sheesh, are things that rough? Are people that desperate or scrappy or stupid?"

Walking towards the next stop on my way home I realized that immigrants and poor people are among the bravest people I know. There is no way I could imagine picking up my life here - whether it was a comfortable one or not - and moving to another country where I might not have (a) documentation legitimizing my presence, (b) money or other resources, and (c) the ability to navigate my way culturally or linguistically. And, if I had the cojones to do this, I don't think I have the creativity or resilience to try everything to make it work so that I could have the better life I was seeking. I don't imagine I'd sell discarded newspapers, or spend all day looking for bottles to earn a meager $0.30. I often see the glass as half empty, and can't imagine having the vision to believe that one day I'd be selling real newspapers rather than old ones I fished out of a recycling bin, or the desperation to try to sell discarded papers because nothing else I was capable seemed to work to put food in my belly.

I pitied the Chinese man I saw on the train and the African American paper vendor. And I also admired them. For their imagined scrappiness and hopefulness. These two men are some of the bravest people I know.

Who are the bravest people you know? Why?

Park and Shop (or structure binds anxiety)

I lay awake in bed this morning anxiously running through my list of errands:

• Post office - mail packages, buy stamps


• Gym - exercise


• Transfer station - trash and carboard recycling


• Library - return books (get more?)


• Bank - for cash


• "In-laws" - return book, leave newspaper.

I also want to go shopping for a new wallet, check out the possibility of getting new gloves (on sale) and look at late season winter coats. The house needs to be cleaned, dishwahser unloaded, laundry started, cats' nails trimmed, and homemade bacon smoked.

By now the horse is out of the gate and my mind starts to race.

If I really wanted to go nuts I could also mention that I want to return a book I borrowed from my sister and send her that t-shirt I don't want anymore while I'm at it, stash the spare buttons from the new suit jacket, and find a place to store all of my pashminas.

Am I going to hook up with that guy who wants to buy my mom's old beer steins?

I probably should start getting my tax receipts in order too. And research plane tickets to Orlando for May, And return that Christmas gift, and look for an olive oil vessel for the counter.

I could go on. But I'm getting anxious.

So anxious that I just ate dinner for breakfast.

And I haven't even finished one cup of coffee.

Stop. How do I manage this?

Structure binds anxiety. What this means to me is that the more boundaries I create to control my life - my day - my errands - the less likely it will seem out of control. You know the feeling - like you can't relax until you've cleaned the house, or you can't get started on that paper for school until your desk is straightened up.

To manage the anxiety about "everything I have to do" I turn to Park and Shop.

This is a board game that belonged to my mother when she was a girl. My siblings and I played it when we visited Gramma, and eventually it made its way to our home. The object of the game is to run your errands downtown more quickly than anyone else. You start in your car at your house on the game board. You drive to a parking garage and then start your errands on foot. Your errands are assigned to you by the dealing of yellow errand cards labeled "Fish Market," "Laundry," or "Haberdasher." The idea is to find the most efficient walking route, grouping your errands together and avoiding "red lights" marked on the board.

My siblings and I use the phrase "park and shop" as a verb i nour adult lives.

How will I park and shop my errands.

The Post Office, gym and bank are all downtown. I could go by way of the transfer station. (Ugh, if I carry trash in my car then I need to add "car wash" to the list of errands.) I really want to get the gym over & done with. But, if I do that first I'll be sweaty and likely cold when I run my other errands. Augh! In the amount of time I've been fretting over this I could have had all of these shenanigans done.

Deep breath. This is what I'm planning to get me through the first (functional) 2.5 hours of the day.
0. Write a note to put into the book package for my sister.
1. Post office
2. Gym
3. Library - drive through book deposit
4. Bank - drive through
5. Transfer station.
When I come home I'll get the pork belly being magically transformed into bacon out of the over. Then I'll shower. Then I'll make another list to get me through the next part of the day.

Easy does it, one step at a time, park and shop.