Suburban Snow White

Suburban Snow White has moved!

2014-06-08T10:31:00.000-07:00

Mystery

2013-12-11T14:22:00.001-08:00

It's been so quiet right?

It may seem so, but under the surface, SSW is undergoing a major makeover. All my spare time goes into it. I get home from work after the sun goes down, start dinner, and rush to the computer to continue the all-consuming project. It's something brand new that doesn't exist anywhere else. And in an odd way, I just feel like I'm just along for the ride.

When the mystery is unveiled, I hope you enjoy it as much as I. :)

Smooches,
~Katrina

Spots of Brilliance

2013-10-12T15:29:00.000-07:00

There are some brilliant beings out there.

As a teacher just coming off of the September scary-wave, I am relieved to note that things are starting to settle down -- at least until the parent-teacher conference wave in a couple of weeks -- and I want to highlight these lovely ones who have made my hectic life oh-so-much better.

One: Bonzai Aphrodite. This gal (her actual name is Sayward Rebhal) has a way of honestly telling it like it is and making you love her even more when things don't go as planned. Every time she puts a new post on her blog, it feels like my favorite magazine showed up in the mailbox. (Is there any feeling quite like that?) Her recent post on making coconut peanut butter changed my snack life. No joke. I swear, if you do one thing this weekend, make this stuff. It took me, let's see, about three minutes? Fast, amazing, and it wowed my friends at work when they tried it. I dip apple slices in it, but you could use it in anything. Divine. And did I mention it is fast to make?

Two: the Weeping Katsura in our front yard. We planted this tree when we first moved in, about five years ago. She (?) is gorgeous and silly all at once. And in the fall -- listen up, here -- as her leaves begin to dry, she smells like cotton candy. Cotton candy. Thank you, Weeping Katsura, for making the strolls through the yard as intoxicating as a walk through the State Fair.

Weeping Katsura, beginning her fall disrobe.

Three: The app called Shazam. Ryan loaded this onto my iPhone and it allows you to press a button to find out the name of the song you are listening to. It's magic, I think. Thanks to this app, I heard a song by Frank Turner called Recovery and one by The Mowgli's called San Francisco playing on a college radio station and could quickly identify both. Each makes me happily bop around the house like a teenager, which to my mind makes it worth its weight in gold. (If an app can weigh anything, I suppose.) My musical tastes have needed revamping and Shazam expands my horizons.

Frank Turner, "Recovery"

The Mowgli's, "San Fransisco"

Four: The site Animoto. I've only made two videos on it so far, but it is so much fun! The videos come out great and it makes you look like you're actually a creative techie. The first one is of our family get together this August in Lake Tahoe and the second is the Baby Shower for my brother Josh and my sister-in-law Caitlin. Love.

(These are a little clearer, I think, if you follow the embedded links above.)

Five: Fall leaves. It's Fall Fashion Week for the trees over in our parts here and they are delivering. I love it when they are so eye-popping, you almost drive off the road.

Six: This page.

Seven: Morning Glories. Last fall I was busily digging up half the yard and neglected to put some of my vegetable garden to bed. Which ended up being a good thing, because all the morning glories I'd so carefully nurtured to grow on the fence around the garden self-seeded over the winter and grew into a wall of flowers this year. Here are a few that remain clinging to the edge during these chilly days. I'll never have to plant a morning glory again! Laziness paid off.

Eight: the Beautyberry Bush I planted last fall. Behold:

Nine: Claudia Chapman from My Fascinating Life. I started following her blog when we were going to adopt from Ethiopia and I have continued to follow her, despite our leaving that path behind us. Her wit is hysterical. And, man, the gal can write. And she just published her first book, Hypothetical Baby, which is on my toppling to-read list.

Ten: Elizabeth Gilbert's new book The Signature of All Things. I am devouring this story.

What spots of brilliance have shown up in your life?

The Lobster

2013-07-24T07:55:00.001-07:00

The lobster may be the gateway animal for veganhood.

For coastal New Englanders, lobster-eating is a summertime luxury. The bib, the mound of steaming corn-on-the-cob, the watery cracking of the shell, the large silver pot, the thick colored elastics. Native residents and visitors look forward to hot, sandy days on a damp towel overlooking the Atlantic and the subsequent late afternoon feast.

Here's the elephant in the room for my family members, though: I was never keen on the taste of cooked lobster. I remember enjoying it just one time as a kid, though I think that had more to do with the big bowl of butter. But after that day, I found the richness and texture of the delicate, pink clawmeat off-putting. As much as I love the ocean and the mysterious beauty of its plants and animals, the idea of tasting anything from it makes me gag. (Seaweed can occasionally be tolerated under heavily-seasoned conditions.) I even forced myself to retry lobster several times as an adult, thinking my tastes had matured, but no.

In short, not eating lobster was easy.

But as a kid, I watched their dark maroon bodies waving and arching frantically as they were taken from the brown paper bag and lowered into the boiling water before being let go to sink. It seemed horribly wrong. Their claws were even clamped shut, so their last defense for living was taken. The lid was pushed down and the clanking noises from inside the pot made my eyes widen. I knew how much it hurt to have a drop of boiling water hit my skin and how much the mark hurt for the next couple of days. What would it be like to have your whole body lowered into a tank of it?

And what got me was that it never seemed to bother anybody else. Perhaps it did, and nobody else was speaking up, lest it exacerbate my angst. But it was so unimaginably cruel and barbaric to me. I'd run away and cover my ears tightly so I wouldn't have to hear them fight the edges of the pot.

I find it hard to believe that I was the only child or adult bothered by this. We're usually not charged with killing animals ourselves. Instead, most of us pay the service of having others do it for us. Seeing the animal alive immediately before we kill and eat it is a unique experience nowadays. And for me, at least, it made me consider all animals' experience of death for my palate.

The argument has long been that lobsters don't feel pain. It's a rather self-serving argument, when you think about it. We can dump them in scorching water and not feel bad about it. And it's simultaneously fascinating, because most people would acknowledge that cows, pigs, and chickens experience pain, but that doesn't stop us paying others to kill them. We know they are in pain, but we do it anyway. So what makes people so defensive about lobsters' pain? Why go to such lengths to explain it away?

An ABC report from 2005 noted that animals with simple nervous systems, like lobsters, didn't experience pain.

"I think that individuals, based on their heritage and their genetic makeup, do project their emotions onto animals," said Richard Cawthorn, director of the Lobster Science Center at the University of Prince Edward Island in Canada, who supports the research finding that lobsters do not feel pain."When people do anthropomorphize animals -- even cartoon animals -- it reflects our needs and our desires," said Stevens. "It's more of a political agenda than any kind of scientific or social discussion of the issue."

Excuse me while I compose myself after reading those snooty remarks. A political agenda? How is it political to protect someone from being hurt? We call that empathy, buddy, not politics. And what's more, he works for the Lobster Science Center, whose website reads -- get this -- "Our research is based in the areas of lobster and crustacean science, focusing on the health of lobsters, crab and shrimp as they are a significant part of the economy in Eastern Canada." A significant part of the economy? And who has the political agenda here? Methinks someone wants to keep his job and eat lobster. (And don't even get me started on the word anthropomorphize.)

Later studies, though, showed that crustaceans were, in fact, feeling pain. D'uh.

In 2009, NBC reported the work of Robert Elwood, a professor in the School of Biological Sciences at The Queen's University in Belfast, and Mirjam Appel, a colleague.

Elwood and Appel gave small electric shocks to some of the crabs within their shells. When the researchers provided vacant shells, some crabs — but only the ones that had been shocked —left their old shells and entered the new ones, showing stress-related behaviors like grooming of the abdomen or rapping of the abdomen against the empty shell.

Grooming, as for a person licking a burnt finger, "is a protective motor reaction and viewed as a sign of pain in vertebrates," the researchers wrote.

...If crabs are given medicine -- anesthetics or analgesics -- they appear to feel relieved, showing fewer responses to negative stimuli. And finally, the researchers wrote, crustaceans possess "high cognitive ability and sentience."

Elwood was also quoted in a 2013 Business Insider article titled "SCIENTIST: Yes, That Lobster You're Boiling Alive is Probably in Real Pain."

Elwood told AFP [Agence France Presse] it was impossible to prove beyond doubt that the animals feel pain, but the research results were "consistent" with pain and added: "Perhaps we should err on the side of caution."

Elwood said billions of prawns, crabs and lobster are caught or reared for human consumption every year and treated in "very extreme ways."

"Crabs have their claws torn off and the live crab is thrown back in the sea. Lobsters and prawns have the front half of the body torn off from the abdomen which is kept for the meat. The nervous system in the head and thorax is still functional an hour later."

The biologist said many people assumed that because crustaceans do not have a brain resembling that of vertebrate animals, they could not feel pain.

"Crustaceans are invertebrates and people do not care about invertebrates," he said.

"More consideration of the treatment of these animals is needed as a potentially very large problem is being ignored."

So yes, Virginia, animals do feel pain. Being thrown in boiling water tends to hurt a lot.

Lobsters provide people with a unique moment of seeing the animal as someone living and fighting to stay alive, not as an inanimate thing. That we argue so strongly against their feeling pain is very telling. We don't want to think of ourselves as someone who would intentionally cause suffering.

But I wonder if there are other kids and adults out there who are watching how lobsters react to being put in that pot. I can't be alone in this. If I were, people wouldn't be arguing against it so strongly, because who cares what one piddly naysayer thinks.

Nope. I suspect there are many others whose conscience is nagging them on this issue. And who knows where that might lead?

***

PS. Since I was small and pushed my nose up against a lobster tank, I've longed to free them. I dream of buying the entire tank of lobsters, renting a boat and taking it far far out on the ocean (away from lobstermen's traps), carefully removing the blasted elastics, gently placing the lobsters back in the icy water, and letting them go. They will float downward to the ocean floor, far from boiling pots, and live out long lives.

Yes, I realize it doesn't make much sense to pay for them, as it only supports the industry that kills them. But I dream about it anyway. Because if I were born a lobster, I would hope someone would do the same for me.

Enlightened?

2013-06-30T14:43:00.001-07:00

About three weeks ago, I wrote a feature for Our Hen House called "Just a Joke." It centered on how humor either includes or excludes others, and how we can react when the latter form is used to make light of animal abuse. A week or two after the feature was published, it was quoted in a front page Yahoo article. This was amazing and incredibly flattering, and yet a bit nervewracking at the same time. (I don't mean to sound falsely self-deprecating, but I kept thinking, "Why on earth are they quoting me? I'm just ... me." I think I will forever feel like my dorky nine-year-old self.)

The article talked about a Red Robin restaurant commercial that had upset many vegetarians. (I hadn't actually seen the commercial at that point.) I vowed not to look at the comments section, as they can get notoriously nasty. But after only a few hours of being up, the article had garnered over 13,000 comments. Gulp. (A good gulp, but a gulp nonetheless.)

Some of the people followed the link to my original article on Our Hen House, and left comments. Let's just say most of them didn't agree with me. And a few were livid. Which is fine. I'm completely good with engaging dialog, as long as everyone remains respectful.

What surprised me, though, was my own internal reaction to someone's suggestion that I was acting enlightened. I felt my defenses go up at that word. "I don't act enlightened!" I fumed inwardly.

I thought about that comment off and on for the next few days, mostly because it bummed me out. I really make an effort to not come across as Ms.-Buddha-on-a-hill-smugly-smiling-down-on-the-little-people, since I'm clearly bumbling and tripping along the path along with everyone else. (I just happen to babble as I bumble.) But the more I thought on it, the more I wondered about that word, what it really meant, and why its connotations were so negative.

Merriam-Webster defines enlightened as this: "freed from ignorance and misinformation." And I thought, "Well, hold on now. That's not so bad." I was ignorant before learning about what is done to animals. (Turning back to Merriam Webster, ignorant means "unaware; uninformed.") I wasn't idiotic, stupid, or cruel. I was just unaware. And misinformation? I was chock full of it. I thought humane slaughter was quick and that the animals didn't suffer. I thought cage-free meant beautiful pastures. Wool? A wonderful haircut in the summertime. What's wrong with that?

And I began to realize that I am enlightened. And that's not a bad thing. It's something we all strive for. Don't we all want to be freed from ignorance and misinformation? I took one of the best courses of my life recently, on teaching science to elementary grades. Upon learning oodles of great teaching techniques, I realized I'd been a woefully inadequate science teacher despite my best intentions. I immediately applied the newly learned strategies to my States of Matter lessons. The changes that took place in my students as a result took me by surprise. Suddenly they were enamored with the scientific process. Kids were voluntarily writing in their Science Notebooks during recess -- recess! -- expanding on their new ideas and questions. They'd lie on their bellies, tongues sticking out the sides of their mouths in great concentration, furiously writing away. And I wondered if one of these intent writers would someday discover the cure for cancer. Thanks to a terrific university teacher, I was enlightened, and now 24 kids were enlightened. I was grateful that he freed me from ignorance and misinformation. Grateful and humbled.

Being enlightened on anything means you know more than you did before. And then, if you choose, you can pass that information on to others! This is especially powerful when it means suffering for victims -- especially voiceless ones who need all the allies they can get -- might lessen as a result.

Enlightened doesn't mean "you're a complete ding-dong, let me explain things to you." It has nothing to do with being a more moral or superior person, if that is even possible. It's just mindblowingly cool. When you read a captivating book, you are enlightened in some way. You are changed. I started following a blog about a couple that has an adorable child with Down's Syndrome. It enlightens me every time I read it. My many misconceptions get an education. The way I view the world is altered.

So I'm fine with enlightenment now. And the amazing part is every person is enlightening in some way. We all have many things to teach or pass on.

There's this fun game we sometimes do at school in Morning Meeting. You start with your group seated in a circle and the first person throws a ball of yarn to someone else with one hand while holding on to the end of the yarn with the other. The new person holding the ball of yarn (who is attached to the original thrower by that long, connecting strand of yarn) holds her piece of the yarn and throws the ball to someone else. And the process continues until the whole class is connected in a cool, spidery web. It's that interconnectedness that really illustrates enlightenment. We learn, we share, we get stronger from each other.

You bet I'm enlightened. Wouldn't have it any other way. It's a badge everyone should wear with pride.

Serenity's Return

2013-05-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

(Written last Sunday, but my website host has been acting funky the last two days, and I haven't been able to publish.)

Ahh.... calm is settling. As I sit back this lovely Sunday evening, all the laundry is done, a fantastic dinner is sitting happily in my belly, the kitchen is clean, and the house is regaining a sense of order. Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Song Book plays spunkily in the background. You haven't lived till you've heard her sing "It's Too Darned Hot." What a great tune.

If anyone is following this blog with any regularity, I extend an apology for being so silent. I always find it disconcerting when a blog suddenly goes quiet. "Are they okay?" I wonder. "Have they stopped posting for good? Did something bad happen?"

Nope. All is well. I've been productive and, as much as I missed writing posts here, there was an angry and disgruntled line of "you-can't-put-us-off" tasks awaiting. Many are now done (or partway done) and I'm feeling sheepishly proud of myself.

SIMPLIFY
For two months, I have been decluttering like a woman possessed, and last weekend we had a monster yard sale.

A while back, Tammy Strobel's You Can Buy Happiness (and It's Cheap) arrived at my library. I was immediately smitten by her story and inspired to simplify a life that had become very spread out.

I'm also a huge fan of Peter Walsh, of Oprah fame. Several years ago, I got his book It's All Too Much and subsequently shed layers of stuff that no longer held importance in my life. Recently I came across his newest book in the library entitled Lighten Up! which focuses more on finances, clutter, and life choices. Very eye opening and just what I needed to hear. It was good kick in the pants.

As a result, our house has been a bit frightening looking for the past few weeks as I've gone room from room, deciding what I wanted to keep and what I was ready to kiss goodbye. Boxes upon boxes of things that once were important stood in precarious Leaning-Tower-of-Pisa arches about our home. (On the upside, the cats had a blast. It was like Disneyland for them.) Among the cast-offs were tons of baby things for the baby that never arrived. Knitting paraphanelia when I thought I'd become a knitter. My enormous children's literature collection that wasn't being read. And big people books. (I'd say adult books, but that could be misconstrued.) So many books. What had I been thinking when I bought them all?

Naturally, a lot of feelings resurfaced like vague echoes. Decluttering can be a skewed and often unwelcome trip down memory lane. The baby stuff, in particular, was something I'd avoided for years, after packing it away in the attic. Out of sight, out of mind. Except it wasn't really out of mind. It was a weight I didn't realize I carried, like a sad ghost haunting me from above. Now it's gone and I feel like a new person.

There's still more to do. Even though I got rid of a lot of attic things, for example, I want to go back and do another sweep to organize what's left. We continue to sell things on eBay. But having so much meaningless stuff gone is an incredibly liberating feeling.

SHED
We finally finished the shed! It was my Dad's design and project and it's gorgeous! He did most of it, with Ryan and I just filling in here or there doing odd jobs on it. And now our lawnmower and other unsightly objects are finally out of our living room! Once we organize and clear our tools out, we can actually have people over again! And they can bring their kids without worry of the children getting into our saws! Luxury.

We're getting our life back.

YARD
I redesigned a large portion of our yard last fall and had a lot more work awaiting me in the past month as the soil awoke. There is literally a lot more ground to cover, but I've made great strides and am really thrilled with the progress! (Pictures will be posted soon...) Ryan disassembled the large fence -- we gave it away on craigslist -- and it's opened up the yard. We're at the point where neighbors are beginning to come by and comment on the amazing difference. I squirm like a child being praised for drawing a pretty picture.

I've also begun our garden. All the cold crops are coming up nicely and I'm putting in all our summer things tomorrow after visiting our favorite local garden center. Picking up my vegetable seedlings is one of my favorite tasks of the year. I can't think of a happier chore! [added Monday note: I just planted everything!]

CLASS
I just began taking an 8-week, 3-credit online graduate course at Wheelock College about teaching science at the elementary level. I actually adore online classes, and I suspect I may be one of the only people who does. Taking classes in Boston, though, can take a huge bite out of your wallet, what with the exorbitant parking fees. So I'm content sitting home at my computer and doing the work from there. :) I have two one-credit courses after this one and then I am done with my post-graduate classes! Huge sigh of relief.

KITTIES
We had a big scare a week and a half ago when Sergio, one of our two indoor kitties, escaped the house unnoticed. He's gotten very good at slipping by me when I get home but I usually catch him right away. This time, though, he was gone. Just gone. He didn't hang around and howl after he'd gotten outside. There was no sign of him for about 8 hours. We'd searched the neighborhood from about 5:00 - 10:30, plastering posters of him everywhere and calling to him constantly. We finally came home dejected and heartbroken and settled into the living room, where we unenthusiastically ate our dinner whilst keeping our eyes peeled outside.

And then suddenly he walked up to the back door and meowed. I ran over, let him in, and sobbed. Sobbed like a baby. I thought my boy of 15 years was gone for good and my heart had been broken into tiny shards of glass. And then by some miracle he was back.

Every day that I see him now, I thank my lucky stars. He's such a sweet cuddlebug.

Meanwhile, our other kitty Kaci, has been rapidly losing weight. All the tests came back saying everything was as it should be, so we were mystified. But she's been endlessly ravenous, so it struck us that she just wasn't properly absorbing the nutrients in her food. The vet gave us some different medication, though, and she's perking up quite a bit in just two days. She even seems to be putting on weight again. We'll bring her back on Wednesday to have them recheck her weight.

I never want to be the person that makes their animal companion survive miserably just for the sake of surviving a few more months. But if she can thrive again, I'm all for that! So we've got our fingers and paws crossed!

WRITING
I've started to do more regular writing for both Vegbooks and Our Hen House, two terrific websites that I've long admired. Every two weeks, it seems, a new book arrives on my doorstep from a random book company, ready to be reviewed. (In the spirit of keeping the house clutterfree, though, I give the books away as soon as the review is finished.) It's work I love to do, though, as writing is just plain old fun and the subject matter always interesting.

***

So that's the scoop. I have many new ideas I want to write about and am glad to be back!

Born again?

2013-04-27T20:36:00.000-07:00

About twenty years ago in one of my undergrad classes, I developed a crush on a boy. He was a tall fellow, with dark hair that fell seductively in his eyes in a kind of Hugh Grant way. (I also had a simultaneous crush on Hugh Grant, after seeing his break-out role in Impromptu.)

I'd had my eye on him but wasn't holding my breath. He was altogether dreamy and out of my league. But he was excellent eye candy, particularly if the topic of the lecture wasn't holding my attention. (Which it never seemed to do when he was around.)

That is why I was rather taken aback when he began to notice me. It was understated at first. Just a glance and a smile here or there. But enough to make my little heart go pitterpat.

Then things got more serious. He'd ask me a question about something the professor had said or would lean in close to make a quiet joke.

And before you knew it, we were walking together pretty regularly after class ended. I felt very Marcia Brady-esque, clutching my books and swinging my longer hair as provocatively as I could. (Though I've never been the provocative type, so heaven knows how ridiculous I must have looked.)

And one day, it happened. We were ambling over to our next class and I noticed that he seemed nervous. I felt pretty confident that he was about to ask me out somewhere on an honest-to-goodness date. (See? Marcia Brady all the way.)

"So, um, Katrina," he began.

"Yea?" I answered, super casually. (You must NEVER appear overeager.)

"Well, I was wondering .... Um ... " [smiles nervously]

(Here it comes!)

"See, well, I was hoping I could talk you into coming out with me..."

(See??)

"... to, um, a meeting."

(Wait. What?)

I glanced at him confused. He pushed forward, now resolved to get through this all at once.

"Yea. Well, a bunch of us like to get together to study passages out of the Bible. It's really a lot of fun. Anyhow, I thought you might like to come and join me this Wednesday evening."

I stopped and turned to him, all calm pretense gone. "Wait. Let me get this straight. You are asking me out. To a Bible Study meeting?"

He laughed, "Oh man, no. Not that. No. It's not a Bible Study!" (Keeps laughing.) "No, we just like to look at the Bible together and then talk about it."

Are you confused? I was confused. And I turned him down gently, being a devout agnostic who gets kind of sleepy at the sight of a Bible. This fellow wasn't looking for a date. He already had a date. With Jesus. Who can compete with that?

Anyhow, I found out later that he'd had an interesting history before becoming born-again. (I'll leave it at that.) How I missed this, I don't know. I blame it on hormones. And his hair.

But I'd always been suspicious of born-again Christians and their seeming desire to convert people to their way of thinking. Now to set the record straight, I've been proven wrong on this before and have been very impressed with a few born-again friends. They were and are good people who never broached the subject of religion. They were funny, ordinary, and very thoughtful. The majority of born again Christians, though, freak me out a little. And that probably says more about me than it says about them. I'm not proud of it, as I realize it's pretty judgmental of me to feel this way. We all have something we're working on, don't we? :)

So why all this talk of born-agains?

In short, I sometimes fear that this is how people see me. That I see myself as born-again. That I am out to convert. That I have been brainwashed. That I have a book of rules I must follow.

But here is the difference between born-agains and my going vegan for ethical reasons. One need not follow any faith nor trust in any god. You simply open your eyes and click "play" to see what is happening to the animals we randomly call food. Animals who are just as deserving of life as our dogs and cats are. Animals who play. Who nuzzle. Who know fear. Who have nerve endings that work just as well as ours do.

It's not based on faith. It's based on documented reality. It's no longer denying what's really going on, no matter how awful it may be to initially watch and learn.

It's empathy. It's opening your eyes to what animal agriculture is hiding. (Why do you think they're falling over each other to create legislation that criminalizes those who film and expose the "industry standard practices," a new phenomenon called "Ag Gag"?)

It's saying, "I would no more eat that bacon, which came from a scared and feeling being, than I would eat your family dog. I won't do it."

There is no rulebook nor set of guidelines. If I find a product hurts anyone, then I want no part of it. Nobody has told me I can't. I just won't. I won't hurt anyone if I can avoid it. And it's not hard to avoid.

Do I want to convert others? I don't know if convert is the right word. I want to inform. I want us all to know what we're doing. That we are paying others to hurt animals, in ways that are more devious that most of us could imagine. And if that information inspires someone to join the growing movement of people who are slamming their wallets shut against animal agriculture? If it makes them say, "Nope. You've lost my support folks. I won't pay you to do that anymore." Then I'm good with that, whatever you might want to call it.

No. I'm not born-again. I just unclenched my eyes and pressed "play."

And that's about all there is to it. No meetings. No newsletter. No church. No book. No faith.

Just facts. And a healthy dose of empathy.

It's really that simple.

Press play if you want to be informed.

The Choice

2013-04-16T09:29:00.001-07:00

My enthusiasm for holidays has waned with adulthood. I don't dislike them in any way, but I find more enjoyment in unplanned moments. A planned day comes with so many expectations (at least it has for me) that the real thing sometimes fall short, particularly when stacked against thrilling childhood memories. Ryan and I stopped celebrating Valentines Day a couple of years ago, deciding to instead focus on surprising each other throughout the year. I'm not saying this is the right thing to do -- I admire people who go gung-ho making holidays sparkle -- but it works for me and makes me happy.

Patriots Day in Massachusetts, on the other hand, never disappoints. That is the day of the Boston Marathon. And while I'm no longer a runner (I did some bizarre damage to my knees back in high school on the cross-country team,) I find myself, year after year, completely mesmerized by the event. The day never loses its luster.

Last Friday at the school where I teach, a bunch of us were congratulating a colleague who was running it for the first time. In the midst of our excited chatter, we found out we all shared something in common: this annual Boston event makes us emotional, shedding proud tears for people we've never met.

The Boston Marathon brings out the best in humanity. There are no political candidates vying for attention. Nothing to buy. No gimmicks. No teams. Nobody we're told to hate. (I've never understood the Red Sox/Yankees rivalry.) Instead, it's simply witnessing thousands of people run by you who knock your socks off. Each one has an incredible story to tell, and each is fulfilling a dream, right in front of your very eyes. And you get the privilege of cheering them on! It just doesn't get any better!

Some parts of the individuals' stories are more obvious. Like the person that looked to be in his seventies who had on the sign thanking his doctor for four glorious cancer-free years. Or the woman running in memory of her late niece. Or the endless people selflessly raising money for a cause.

Every year that I go to the Marathon, I leave elated, thinking, "I can be great! I can be better! " It's like you get jolted by the energy there and want to literally run home to accomplish your own dream. Everything seems so possible, you can practically taste it.

Which is why yesterday broke my heart. And broke so many hearts. This wonderful event that allows us to jump and cheer for people we don't even know, people who look back at us, exhausted and smiling weakly; this event that wipes out cynicism from our rough-and-tumble city for a whole day; this example that there is great hope for our species to overcome and rise above any kind of wrongdoing. This event was attacked from behind.

This was traitorism of the worst kind.

People who did nothing more than to go for a dream and people who did nothing more than cheer them from the stands, saying, "I believe in you! I'm so proud of you! I knew you could do this!" These people now lie greviously injured in hospital beds, many on the brink of passing over into death. Some have already passed. Those who survive will never be the same.

And the question I know we are all confounded by is "Why?" And a close second is, "Who could do such a thing?" There are no answers yet. And though they will surely come soon, those answers will bring even more questions.

My initial reaction is to physically hurt the person or people who did this. It's a primal, vengeful feeling, making my face hot and my heart pound. It makes me strangely wistful for placing the guilty party in a Roman arena with the victims' families and letting them do justice in whatever way they see fit. It's not a feeling I'm proud of or one that I would ever give in to. But it's there.

In fact, the more I ruminated on it, the more I realized that this is the opposite feeling from the post-Marathon elation. If good and evil really exist, then each of these opposing feelings represents these polar opposites within me. I have a choice now -- we all do -- about which way we'll go. And while I could never envision myself actually being violent, I know that that hot anger can still exist inside me, eating away at me.

So which do I want to entertain?

I choose the former. I choose to continue to be inspired by the runners, every single one of them, from the last person to cross the line to the first. I choose to work steadily towards my own dreams, buoyed by their example. I choose to look upon those who did this and think, "You simply have no idea how great life can be, do you?" And while the perpetrator undoubtedly holds no merit in what I or you think, I hold merit in it. And I choose inspiration.

Runners ~ keep doing your thing. And we'll be there to cheer you on.

Behold, My Friend

2013-04-03T20:46:00.001-07:00

"I'm not afraid of death, I just don't want to be there when it happens." ~ Woody Allen.

A sketch I did from my art class a couple of weeks ago. I love this pose. She looks so reflective.

I turned 42 this year, and something unexpected happened. I suddenly realized I don't have forever.

Some might call this a mid-life crisis. I see it as the opposite: a mid-life wake up, like a friendly caffeine jolt. I haven't bought a red convertible or gone for Botox. Instead, I'm just looking at everything with fresh eyes, much as I did in my formative college years, but with the realization that I've got a diminishing time limit.

It was during college, in fact, when I discovered an effective technique for putting things in perspective: visit a graveyard. It sounds like I'm trying to be funny (or morose), but I swear it's quite practical and effective.

The epiphany was accidental. One beautiful fall day, the warm kind that makes every one of your senses burst with wistful nostalgia, a couple of friends suggested doing gravestone rubbings. I'd never done such a thing, but the weather was inviting and I was in the mood to avoid my schoolwork. So off we went, with cheap paper and some lumpy charcoal in hand.

It was an old graveyard, perfect for exploring. We wandered under brilliant foliage -- Amherst trees just have a knack for fall color -- tripping over gnarled old roots which had forced tombstones to splay at odd angles. We read the epitaphs with interest, imagining what the buried occupants had been like. And then I saw a gravestone that changed my life with these spine-tingling words:

Behold, my friend, as you pass by
So you are now, so once was I
As I am now, so you shall be
I say prepare to follow me.

Ah!! I still get goosebumps over it. I made just one gravestone rubbing and hung it on my dorm wall. I kept it for several years, even as the edges started to yellow slightly. And though it eventually got lost, its message became tattooed in my brain.

That person was alive! And now they ... weren't? When you take some time to ponder that, it gets a little freaky. And, as they suggested, I needed to come to terms with the fact that I would, indeed, follow them. Someday I will not be alive. Not be alive! Do you ever just think on that? It's such an incomprehensible idea. It should be simple, but it's like we can't accept that there will be an end to all our drama. Regardless of your thoughts on the existence of an afterlife, it can make your mind spin in dizzy circles.

After that day, I found my sense of perspective changed. When difficulties arose and I had to make what seemed like a hard decision, I'd pack a snack and visit a graveyard to reestablish some common sense. (During the day, of course. I'm no fool.) The solutions always became very obvious once I sat among the greying stones. "What would the deathbed-me advise the college-me?" I would muse. Ends up, deathbed-me's advice never steered me wrong. She always pushed me in the direction of taking the risk. I'd never heard of anyone lament during their last moments, "Oh man, I wish I had been more cautious."

So I learned to be brave. Maybe not rollercoaster-brave, but tell-the-boy-you-like-him-brave. Apply-to-that-study-abroad-program-even-though-you-have-no-money-brave. Did I make an arse of myself on occasion? You bet. But I never regretted putting myself out there. I knew that I would regret the what-ifs. Those kind of regrets have always scared me. I never wanted wallow in what-ifs during my last moments on earth.

Ends up, though, the boy eventually liked me back and we spent two wonderful semesters together. And I found some hefty scholarships that made a year abroad eating French bread a reality. And if I professed my crush to a boy and it wasn't reciprocated? Well, I wouldn't have to always wonder if he'd been the one. He wasn't. Next! (And to save you the suspense, I found him. He was worth the wait.)

See? It's a very practical strategy.

As we get older, we sometimes forget these earlier lessons, and I'm no exception. I've found myself becoming more cautious as the years passed. Until I hit 42. And then the college-me knocked on the door and said, "Um. Is it just me, or are things getting a little, I don't know, safe?"

College-me and deathbed-me now hang out around here in a helpful way. And I'm looking at things in a new/old perspective. For example, where will my rekindled love of art lead? I haven't a clue. And I don't care, really. I just love drawing. Goals no longer feel important as they once did. The process, as so many have noted before, seems to be the real gold.

I notice that writing is playing a bigger and bigger role in my life, and I'm not sure where that is going either. But I want to make more room for it, because it somehow just feels right.

This month, I've been going through my possessions and realizing that I don't use most of what I have. And I'm learning to let go of those things. And when I do, I feel my life open up a bit more to who I'm becoming.

That sounds all fancy-pants ethereal, but I'm not sure how else to describe it. This is clear, though: you've got to clear the spiderwebby things out if you want good things to come.

Gotta love a graveyard.

***

Five minute sketches. I love these because they force you to just go quickly and not get mired in the detail.

A longer one. There is something so relaxing about drawing these calm poses.

Podcast Addiction

2013-03-23T07:45:00.003-07:00

I love podcasts. I listen to them while cooking, cleaning, folding laundry, walking, and commuting. They can really stretch your own little world out and make unpleasant tasks fly by.

One of my favorite podcasts is Our Hen House, which is run by a powerhouse couple in New York City. The mission of Jasmin Singer and Mariann Sullivan is "to change the world for animals," and that they do. Every Saturday morning a new episode comes out, and I am always ready with coffee or tea in hand. They start off my weekend like two friends dropping by the house to catch up.

Every now and then, I'll shoot them an email, suggesting a book or movie they might want to check out. They have some very entertaining and well-spoken reviewers on there who constantly open me up to new literature and film. So many of my "new favorites" stem from those reviews. They are very responsive to emails and always write back with genuine gratitude. Somehow they balance the fine line of friendly/funny/approachable with professional/high quality. And there is the occasional swear word thrown in, which keeps everything light and humorous. It's a great balance of everything. You learn a lot, you feel connected to others who care about animals, and you get entertained. What more can you ask for?

Last Saturday, I sent them a link to my Powder review, raving about the movie and suggesting they watch it, if they hadn't already. Now I was not angling for anything other than sharing my enthusiasm for this film. I've never done an interview in my life and am much more comfortable writing than talking. Plus, as I mentioned, they have a couple of regular and engaging reviewers on there. So I was shocked when Jasmin wrote right back and asked if I'd like to review Powder on their upcoming episode. Despite the Cindy-Brady-red-light feeling in my gut -- that's a Brady Bunch reference for you folks who didn't grow up in the 70s -- how could I say no to talking with two marvelous people about something I loved?

So we got to chat the next day, and they are as fun, sweet, and hilarious in person (well, by phone technically) as they are on their show. The new episode came out today and you can hear it directly on their website. You can also subscribe on itunes, which I highly recommend. (It's free, for anyone unfamiliar with how podcasts work.)

So I hope you take a listen. And I really hope you see the movie.

Do you have any favorite podcasts?

Stuff

2013-03-19T10:03:00.001-07:00

All photos are shared with permission from Rowdy Kitten's Flickr page.

When I was about eight, the new neighbors moved in. This was good news as the previous folks were a little grumpy and, as I recall, a bit obsessed over their inground pool. Many a loud and rowdy party ruined my more contemplative moments of sitting on the warm earth of the vegetable garden, saltshaker in hand, eating tomatoes off the vine and reading one of my Little House on the Prairie books. (The aptness of that title will become apparent in a moment.) The new people didn't have loud parties and, even better, they had a daughter about my age.

The girl invited me over one day and let me explore their camper. This was a pivotal moment. While it wasn't a particularly attractive abode -- it had those garish tones of tan and orange plaid that plagued the seventies -- everything was adorably little and had a domestic, transformer quality to it. Look! This table turns into a bed! And this storage box turns into a seat! It was like a dollhouse come to life. I was in love.

And, I soon discovered, it wasn't just campers that had this cozy snug-as-a-bug feel to them. Boats did as well. We weren't boat owners ourselves, but I often accompanied my mother to the idyllic New England seaside town of Scituate, where we'd buy corn fritters dipped in maple syrup and sit on the docks feasting on them. My mother would usually settle herself on a less splintery corner of the dock and disappear into a book. I, on the other hand, would walk and jump the length of every dock, peering into the bobbing motorboats (that smelled faintly of gasoline), completely fascinated by their tiny fortlike proportions and hidden lower levels. There seemed to be no wasted space. It was a compact house that you could take anywhere! (Anywhere wet, that is.) During every visit, I'd pick out the boat I'd most like to have and would daydream about sailing the world in my fort.

One would think that the infatuation with all homes tiny and portable would disappear with adulthood, but my imagination clung to them just as it has to the thought that maybe, just maybe, I can figure out how to fly by if I only flap my arms hard enough. (If you haven't had nighttime flying dreams, you're missing out.) My eyes always light up at the sight of tiny cottages. The desire for a boat disappeared as soon as I learned how much money and work it was to maintain. Unless, I suppose, you actually lived on the boat.

Recently, I came across an online article about the new Tiny House movement. My fevered fingers quickly led me to Tumbleweed Houses. Talk about cuteness. I wanted to move in to several of these cottages-on-wheels immediately. They were compact and multi-purpose like a camper, but adorable and cool in a way a camper can only dream about. In fact, these bulky cousins suddenly looked like sulky, misproportioned teenagers compared to the tiny houses. Oh, to live so simply and be able to drive your home to a new beautiful location on a whim! The whole world must look so different from that vantage point, I mused. The only problem with entertaining such a venture was what to do with all my stuff. Our stuff.

Ryan and I are relatively good at not letting things accumulate in our home. We're not spartan by any means, but you don't feel overwhelmed walking through our house. (Except for the room that houses all stuff from our half-finished shed, which we are in the process of building. That room is crazy cluttered.) About twice a year we routinely purge our closets, not because we are particularly organized but because you hit that moment where -- ahhh!!-- there's just too much. And the weird part is that we're not big shoppers. A mall trip is a rare and avoided chore. This isn't due to lofty ideals, but simply because malls make both of us tired and cranky. People at malls, particularly those in parking lots, have the tendency to be ninnies. Upon entering a mall, I can practically feel myself starting to morph into ninnydom. It's exhausting.

It's a strange fact that stuff accumulates, even if you do lack the shopping gene. By chance, last Saturday I heard the lovely ladies of the Our Hen House podcast discussing an article from the New York Times that had inspired them to purge their home of excess stuff. "These are my people!" I thought. Though I suspect there's a lot more of us in the world than one would think on first glance.

(And here I will shamelessly promote that yours truly was interviewed this week by Our Hen House for a movie review of Powder, which will air this coming Saturday! Squeal! Jasmin Singer and Mariann Sullivan are two cool gals who are totally dedicated to, in their words, changing the world for animals. Check out their website. And definitely subscribe to their weekly podcast. It's highly entertaining and informative!)

As luck would have it, a book I had seen online and put on hold at our library arrived on Saturday. It's called You Can Buy Happiness (and It's Cheap). The author, Tammy Strobel, describes a journey many of us can relate to, at least the initial part. When their journey began as a couple, they had lots of things. Lots of things and lots of debt. Tammy described not feeling fulfilled by her work or life in general, despite having a super husband, stable job, and overall good health. Ultimately, they saw their possessions as barriers to financial and emotional freedom, and they gradually shed them. They continued to move into smaller and smaller spaces until, one day, they decided to move into a tiny house on wheels, built by the fine folks at Portland Alternative Dwellings. The results they experienced in finance, health, time, career, and overall happiness were astonishing. Astonishing and yet not that surprising once you think on it a bit. In fact, the more you look at their lives, the crazier and heavier most of ours seem.

We are only here on the earth for a very short time. We all say this and understand it, but every once in a while it really hits you, be it a particular birthday, a death/birth, or that random moment when you realize that nobody's asked for your ID in a really, really long time.

This is it. This is your life. Is the way you are currently living one that is intensely satisfying? If it is, my hat's off to you. If not, let's boogie and sculpt our lives into a shape that makes us grin.

I know I'm not there yet. I've got it pretty good and have nothing to complain about. But I'm not at that hard-to-define moment of peace and purpose. It's coming. How, I'm not sure. But I can feel it coming towards me and I'm walking steadily towards it, step by step, like that kid on the sun-bleached dock.

***

If you want to learn more about Tammy and her journey, you should visit her blog at Rowdy Kittens. (Great name, no?)

P.S. Don't forget to tune into Our Hen House this Saturday! I'm crossing my fingers that I don't sound like a dweeb. If I do, don't tell me.

Powder

2013-03-15T19:18:00.000-07:00

Year Two as a happy vegan gal is rapidly approaching. Of course, anyone who might read this blog with any regularity knows that I reflect a lot. Since delving a bit into the book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, I've become more comfortable with this side of my personality and less prone to apologizing for it. The Thinker, after all, is a sculpture that is regarded with awe. You don't hear of many people admiring a piece of artwork called The Multitasker or The Chatterbox. It doesn't have quite the same appeal, does it?

In the midst of this ongoing reflection, I'm often taken aback that I didn't give up eating animals much sooner. Memories of roadsigns along the way begin to resurface. Like the time when I lived in Indiana and a humungous truckload of pigs passed me on the highway. Their snouts were coming out of the holes in the side of the truck and one of those pigs looked at me from between the slats. Our eyes actually met. Then the truck pulled ahead. I was pulling off at the next exit anyway, which was probably the safest thing for me, as I had begun crying in gulping sobs. I pulled to the side of the first available road and put my little Toyota in park, noting that my hands were actually shaking on the steering wheel as I tried to pull myself together.

For the life of me, I cannot remember my frame of mind afterwards. Why didn't I give up eating animals once seeing that? After coming face to face with the eyes of someone's dinner, perhaps my own? I have no answers. It's like trying to remember what sight was like with my two eyes, after having injured one substantially at the age of nine. I simply have no recollection of seeing the previous way. And I don't mean that in a snobbish "I'm so evolved" manner. I simply cannot remember and feel a little confounded by that memory lapse in both situations.

About six years prior, there had been another roadsign. Like the pigs on their way to slaughter, this one left an indelible mark on my heart. It was a movie called Powder. I think I saw it in a theater, and so many scenes stayed with me. Every now and again, I'd mention the title to friends, but no one had heard of it. Wondering if it was as good as I remembered, I started a little google search and saw, to my amazement, that the film got bad reviews left and right.

So tonight, almost twenty years later, I decided to sit back and rewatch it and see if my memory's raves had any merit.

I don't know what those reviewers were talking about. And I don't care. Because this is one powerful movie. The many tears I shed earlier have now dried on my face, leaving it feeling a little -- hey! -- powdery and sticky in a been-at-the-beach way.

The basic idea of the story is that a boy is born after his mother is struck and killed by a lightning strike. The boy (Jeremy, aka Powder) has some very unique characteristics as a result and is completely white with no hair. Fast forward to his latter teen years and he is in his grandfather's home, with the grandfather having just passed away of natural causes. The boy is taken by the state, after having been hidden away from strangers for his whole life. Along the way, Jeremy (Sean Patrick Flannery) gains a stray ally here and there (Mary Steenburgen, Jeff Goldblum, and Lance Henrikson) while enduring the torments of small-minded people. He's this kind, gentle soul who only wants to be back in his familiar farmhouse and away from the taunts of others. He's so believably sweet and scared, he breaks your heart. Animals sense his kindness throughout the movie and are drawn to him.

The scene that made me loathe hunting more than I did before was one in which Jeremy is in the woods and comes upon several older boys and a deputy (Duncan) who have just shot a deer. He sees them whooping and congratulating each other as the deer lays dying at their feet. Duncan has already made his distaste for Jeremy known and gets threatening as Jeremy approaches the wounded deer. Jeremy, crying, puts his white hand on the writhing deer's neck and grabs the arm of the deputy with a firm, powerful grip. Duncan instantly starts crying and falls to the ground, spasming each time the deer spasms. Jeremy finally lets Duncan go, and the deputy curls up on the ground, crying and shaking as the boys surround him and look at Jeremy in fear.

When Jeremy is later questioned, he says calmly but with sadness in his eyes, "I let him see. I opened him up and I let him see. He just couldn't see what he was doing. So I helped him."

Later the sheriff (Doug) finds Duncan at home and discovers that he has relinqished his rather substantial gun collection. When pressed, Duncan finally opens up to his boss.

"Let me tell you something, Doug. You ever tell anybody I said this, I'm movin' out of town.

"That ... kid? He lays his hand on the deer while it's still shakin'. And then he touches me at the same time. Now I can't figure out why, 'till my heart starts pounding and I'm shakin'. And I'm feelin' myself hurt and scared shitless in the goddamn dark. That's the worse thing I ever felt. It's like I could feel that animal dyin'. Hell, it's like I was that goddamned thing.

... Now ... I just can't do it anymore. I can't look at something down the barrel without thinkin' about it. I tried it ... I'm tellin' you, he took whatever's in that goddamn deer and he put it right into me."

It sounds a little forced as I even read over those words, but boy I found the whole thing so well acted.

Now the obvious problem here is, Did they use an actual deer in the film? It does look like it, and I have serious qualms about that if they did. But I can't deny that the movie had a huge effect on me.

I actually haven't given that much of the film away for those who are intrigued. It's a wonderful tear-jerker with a pretty phenomenal ending. Ignore the bad reviews and its disappearance into obscurity. This movie needs to be seen. It's rare that a older movie exceeds your memory's take on it.

I'd be curious if anyone else has seen Powder or plans on seeing it? Or, for that matter, what roadsigns did you encounter along the way to "Veganville"? Or what roadsigns are you encountering as a non-vegan?

This Week's Menu

2013-02-24T18:15:00.002-08:00

Week's already under way, but here it is... (Weekly menu explained here.)

SATURDAY (b-day celebration)
Thai Coconut Corn Stew (double recipe) (Eat, Drink, and Be Vegan 102)
Rosemary Boule Bread from Whole Foods
Toasted Coconut Cupcakes (Vegan Cupcakes Over the World 87)

SUNDAY
Cocoa Coconut Chili (Eat Drink, and Be Vegan 94)
Rosemary Boule Bread from Whole Foods

MONDAY
Red Lentils
Quinoa
Berbere Kale

TUESDAY
Mac and Trees (Appetite for Reduction 184)

WEDNESDAY
Hottie Black-eyed Peas and Greens (Appetite for Reduction 119)

THURSDAY
Broccoli Cashew Teriyaki Tofu Stir-fry (Eat, Drink, and Be Vegan 122)
Rice

FRIDAY
Curried Chickpeas and Greens (Appetite for Reduction 228)
Rice

Have a good week, y'all!

Good Hodgkins

2013-02-21T13:09:00.002-08:00

Here's a conversation that is becoming pretty common nowadays.

"I saw something on the news last night about what they do to those poor animals in factory farms."

"Oh, I know. It's awful. I can't even watch. That's why we buy humanely raised meat."

"Oh, so do we! Well, we do when we can. I just want to know that the animal had a good life, you know?"

"Exactly. At least it was happy. The humane stuff costs a bit more, but we buy less meat now, so it all works out and we're spending the same amount as before."

"Right? And it's a lot healthier too. All organic. No pesticides and no hormones."

I say this dialog is common because it's one I proudly took part in many times. And it's one I hear repeated.

To begin, I think it's interesting that we call the animals in question "it." It's much easier to purchase and eat an "it" than a "he" or "she," but that is exactly what we're buying. Beings. It brings to mind the chilling scene in Silence of the Lambs, when Buffalo Bill (the serial killer) lowers a bucket with lotion to young woman he's holding prisoner in a pit and says, "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again." When she begs to be let go and cries that she misses her Mommy, he gets very affected for a moment, but he pulls himself back by telling her "It puts the lotion in the basket!" He even begins to make fun of her screams. We can do whatever we want to an It, and feel no remorse. We can even make jokes about its fate. But a He or She? That's completely different, isn't it? It makes sense why so many farmers refuse to name animals. (So often I'll see a picture of a pig posted in a non-food way on facebook and someone will always, and I mean always, comment, "Mmmm.. bacon!" It's chilling to me that people do that and also disappointing because it's so incredibly unoriginal. But often people's first reaction is to make fun of the animal by labeling it as an It to be eaten.)

The reason I bring up the outlined conversation above is that I heard it the other day between two women in the supermarket and it reminded me of something, but I couldn't quite remember what. Like it was on the edge of my brain but I couldn't bring it forth. Some funny situation.

And then it came to me today. Factory farm animals vs. humanely raised animals. It is just like that scene from Curb Your Enthusiasm with the "good" Hodgkins and the "bad" Hodgkins. If you haven't seen it, the main character on the show is just this outrageously obnoxious person who is a complete ... ninny. (There's another word, but I am striving to keep this blog PG.) Anyhow, in this scene he claims that there are two forms of the disease and that one is "good," in that the chances of survival are greater. Everyone keeps remarking to him that it's not really good, just slightly less bad. Take a peek below.

Is humanely raised meat better than factory farmed meat? Technically, I suppose, it is better in some ways, but just barely. Though a few things need to be cleared up about humanely raised animals. (I wrote a post about this word humane, because I find it so distasteful.) First, they all come to the same grisly end. Most are, in fact, sent to the same exact slaughterhouse as their factory farm brethren. Some of these animals, though, may have enjoyed a few more inches of space. A rare few enjoy that idyllic farm we all daydream about and which always seems to be plastered on all the humanely-raised meat labels. But overall, the animals still get treated very badly, and receive the same "standard practices." (Beaks, feet, tails, horns, testicles, ears, and teeth are cut off without anesthesia, for example.)

But just for fun, let's suppose for a minute that humanely raised animals all do get raised on beautiful farms. They have wonderful food. They get to go out to green pastures or peck for bugs in the warm sunshine. People affectionately clean them and name them. Ahhh... Heaven.

Then one day a truck comes to take them away to what we would all deem a living hell. Some may say that's alarmist talk. But what would you call it if it were you going to be slaughtered? I've seen a lot of footage of this and there is simply no other word for it. It's hell. (There goes my PG rating.)

I had one friend tell me they knew of a person who had a truck come and they did the slaughtering right there on the farm in the truck. As though that blew any theories about inhumane treatment out of the water. But to that I say, "That's humane?"

When I ate meat, I drew comfort from knowing that an air bullet thing went through the animals' skulls, which knocked them unconscious. "At least it's quick," I used to tell myself. The unfortunate truth is that when that air bullet is blown into some of the animals' brains, it very often doesn't do the job. The animal goes through processing alive. This is frighteningly common. (And for goodness sake, when is an air bullet going through one's brain good?)

If we were talking about slaughtering humans, would there be factory farm meat and humanely raised meat?

"This humanely-raised human had a great life. We fed it well and it had a safe place to sleep. We let it out during the day to enjoy the sun and the company of other humans. We protected it from harm so that its life was never threatened by predators. Sure it's sad that in the end we have to cut its throat, but that's the way of the world. It's a symbiotic relationship. We feed the lesser humans and protect them, and in exchange, they give their lives to us so we can continue to live. It's natural." (Creepy eh?)

This kind of argument I'm putting forth will certainly raise the hackles of some, who might shake their heads and say, "Well come on now, humans are different. These are animals! You can't make that comparison." But what is the difference really? Intelligence? There are many humans who have lower measured intelligence than some non-human animals due to different brains. Do we kill them? Are they less deserving of life?

Maybe it's that we're more moral than non-human animals. But again, turn on the news and I'm sure you'll find plenty of cases of people not being moral. (I find, actually, that non-human animals are much better examples or moral behavior, at least as I define moral.) So maybe moral behavior isn't how we distinguish who does and doesn't get eaten.

We all have the same or similar organs that serve the same functions. Eyes, ears, skin, feet, legs/fins, mouths, and reproductive organs. We all have nerve endings. We all experience fear and we all know the feelings of sadness and grief. What makes a non-human animal's fear or pain less than ours? Think about it. Why do we think we are so much more important or deserving? What's the damned difference? (PG-13)

Humane meat is a bunch a malarkey, just as is good Hodgkins. I invite you to ruminate on this. How would you feel having your leg hoisted up by a chain and then facing a knife? And why would a non-human animal's reaction be less deserving of sympathy than yours? Just think about it.

If you made it this far, thank you for doing so. And I hope -- boy do I hope -- it might make you think on humanely-raised animals differently. I hope that when/if you buy packaged meat, that you remind yourself that that animal was not an it. It was a he. Or a she.

And maybe you'll look into a non-human animal's eyes and realize that there is no difference in our collective desire to live.

This Week's Menu

2013-02-16T10:38:00.000-08:00

What an exciting week ahead!

Though nothing huge is planned, it's my February vacation from teaching AND it's my birthday week. I was blessed with never having to go to school on my birthday. That's a big life-long gift right there. Well done, parents. :)

I'm very taken with a new-to-me cookbook called Appetite for Reduction by the famous Isa Chandra Moskowitz, a prolific author who also runs the website Post Punk Kitchen. It's one of several cookbooks I bought all at once with a gift certificate given by a student's family. (Buying a stack of new cookbooks is one of the funnest, most luxurious feelings in the world.) Every single thing I've made from this cookbook is a winner. Better yet, the recipes are all relatively simple and quick to prepare. Ding ding! Jackpot!

While the book focuses on healthy low-fat food, I bought it when I'd heard the recipes were out-of-this-world delicious. The rumors were right. This gal knows her flavors.

So with my free schedule this week, I'm going full-tilt trying out recipes from the book I haven't attempted yet. I'll also be honing my new banjo skills, sketching, writing, and maybe going to see a movie or two. And I'll probably start planning some dates for things I want to do this summer. (Among those are visiting some of Newport's mansions, going back to Farm Sanctuary, visiting Woodstock Sanctuary, and going on a mega-family vacation to Lake Tahoe. I can hardly wait!)

For more info on "This Week's Menu," check out this short explanatory post.

SATURDAY
Red wine and Kalamata Tempeh (AFR 157)
Cauliflower Mashed Potatoes (AFR 54)
Berbere Kale

SUNDAY
40-Clove Chickpeas and Broccoli (not really 40 cloves, but it's a good, catchy name) (AFR 125)

MONDAY
Caribbean Curried Black-eyed Peas with Plantains (AFR 129)
Brown Basmati Rice
Berbere Kale (I told you we eat a ton of this stuff. So good.)

TUESDAY
Mac and Trees (AFR 184) (Basically, pasta, broccoli and a cheezy-sauce.)

WEDNESDAY
Pasta de los Angeles (AFR 177) (It was described as "Mexican pasta." I'm intrigued.)
Berbere Kale (Once you make it, you'll understand how addictive it is.)

THURSDAY
Going out somewhere for my big day! Maybe Red Lentil? Mmmm...

FRIDAY
Black bean, zucchini, and olive tacos

I don't usually put desserts into my menus, as I only make them when inspiration hits. Which tends to be on Sunday afternoons, but you never know. So quick little trips to the market for any necessary items are allowed. You see, having chocolate chips just laying around the house is bad for me. Good, but bad.

So there may be desserts in my near-future, but I just don't know what they might be yet. Stay tuned!

This Week's Menu

2013-02-11T08:04:00.000-08:00

This may be a bad idea. It's something that I may ultimately leave by the wayside. But I thought it might be interesting to anyone considering leaving animals off the plate, whose main question was "But what would I eat, exactly?" It could also prove enlightening to anyone who thinks I live on tofu and sprouts.

My new goal has been to do my grocery shopping on Saturday morning, after a splendiferous yoga session at Mystic Fitness. (The name sounds all mystical and incensey but they're lovely and very down-to-earth. The perfect balance of centering yourself, getting a good workout, and not taking yourself too seriously.) So I'm going to aim to get my menu planning and shopping list done on Friday night after work.

It occurred to me to post my weekly menu. This may seem like a huge step for narcissism, and believe me I can see why it would appear to be so. On the other hand, it might prove helpful in showing that vegan food can be phenomenal. (It can be equally possible to have a super lame vegan food, but I love food far too much to settle for blah.)

This is just an experiment. If it sounds like the most boring of posts, well, you may be on to something. But as my mentor teacher told me years ago, if you're going to make mistakes, make them big, beautiful mistakes. Don't be shy about it.

So with that in mind, here is this week's menu of dinners. It's short, as I hope to normally post a week's worth on Friday nights or Saturday mornings and this week is already well under way. I've not mentioned lunches because they are always leftovers from the previous night's meal. All the meals are quick and easy. I'm often tired after a day of teaching and I like to keep my time in the kitchen to a minimum.

SUNDAY
~Thai Coconut Corn Stew (Dreena Burton's Eat, Drink, and Be Vegan)
~Rosemary Boule Bread (I buy it half-baked at Whole Foods. Preheat your oven to 400, then pop the bread in for 10 minutes only. Gorgeous fresh baked bread comes out. You have to ask them for the half-baked at the counter; it's never displayed as it needs to be kept refrigerated.)

MONDAY
~Cocoa Coconut Chili (Dreena Burton's Eat, Drink, and Be Vegan)
~Rosemary Boule Bread

TUESDAY
~Soy Chorizo Black Bean Stew (Kathy Hester's Vegan Slow Cooker)

WEDNESDAY
~*Chickpea Piccata (Isa Chandra Moskowitz's Appetite for Reduction)
~Berbere Kale
~Quinoa flavored with a bouillon cube

THURSDAY
~Curried Chickpeas and Greens (Isa Chandra Moskowitz's Appetite for Reduction)
~Ginger Mashed Sweet Potatoes and Apples (Isa Chandra Moskowitz's Appetite for Reduction)

FRIDAY
~Tortilla Soup (Isa Chandra Moskowitz's Appetite for Reduction)

* recipe I haven't tried yet! :)

Last night was the perfect night for Thai Coconut Corn Stew and fresh bread. It was my best batch yet, which may be due to shoveling and roof-raking our way out of a blizzard. Nothing like working hard outdoors in the cold to make food taste great.

Big Hair, Big Cars, or Big Ag? (oh my)

2013-02-03T14:36:00.003-08:00

I walked the halls of Hanover High School in the age of big hair. The late eighties was a time when the female gender valiantly fought gravity with industrial-sized cans of Aqua-Net. I joined their ranks for a short while, sporting an embarrassing Joan Jett spiky hairdo in eighth grade that unfortunately didn't deliver the coolness factor I longed for. (Neither did the fluorescent-everything phase. Dang it!)

After a short while, I realized my new do was not bringing in the social riches I'd anticipated. Also, I had fine hair which didn't take well to onslaughts of hairspray. To use Eddie Izzard's words, it "collapsed like a flan in a cupboard."

Around this time, though, I learned that AquaNet was responsible for a mysterious, invisible hole in the ozone layer, so it was just as well. And I felt better, knowing I was no longer contributing to worldwide destruction through my stubbornly cornsilky bangs. By the time graduation rolled 'round, I was one of about four girls without big hair. I'm not making this up. My friend Nancy and went through our yearbook and counted.

As the years went by, though, it became apparent that it was not, in fact, Aqua-Net that was ruining the earth, but our big, bouncy, gas-guzzling cars. (Even so, the big hair went away. I think we all got tired from the effort. Plus we had our midriffs to start working on.)

In the last few years, though, the real culprit has been found. Transportation doesn't hold a candle to it. And hairspray quakes in its presence.

Animal agriculture is the worst contributor to climate change. Its effect on global warming is monumental. But we're not hearing a lot about it.

It's not because the research hasn't been done. Back in 2006 the United Nations' Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) released a report that blew our worries about big cars right out the window. Or it should have. But most people never heard about it. I certainly didn't. It was entitled Livestock's Long Shadow. The report contrasted the environmental effects of transport against those of animal agriculture. There was no contest. Here is a telling excerpt:

Says Henning Steinfeld, Chief of FAO’s Livestock Information and Policy Branch and senior author of the report: “Livestock are one of the most significant contributors to today’s most serious environmental problems. Urgent action is required to remedy the situation.”

Here and there, you'd hear little blips of information, but it was mostly done in a joking manner. I found out about it -- and I'm being completely serious -- through NPR's funny show Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me when one of their quiz's correct answers focused on the alarming amount of methane in, well, cow farts. Which is funny, when you think about it, but still. Why weren't we all curbing our animal-eating habits? Small and efficient cars became the new thing, both for the environment and for our collective wallet. Reducing or eliminating animal products on our plates would have had the same double-whammy effect, but most of us didn't change a thing.

Four short years later, the United Nations again pulled our attention to the catastrophic results of animal agriculture, this time insisting that a drastic change in our diets was necessary. (The United Nations for crying out loud!) The UN Environmental Programme (UNEP) released "Assessing the Environmental Impacts of Consumption and Production," a rather lengthy report that cautioned us to go to a more plant-centric diet in order to slow down the deleterious effects of global warming.

Food production is the most significant influence on land use and therefore habitat change, water use, overexploitation of fisheries and pollution with nitrogen and phosphorus. In poorer countries, it is also the most important cause of emissions of greenhouse gases (CH4 and N2O). Both emissions and land use depend strongly on diets. Animal products, both meat and dairy, in general require more resources and cause higher emissions than plant-based alternatives.

And further along the report:

“Impacts from agriculture are expected to increase substantially due to population growth increasing consumption of animal products. Unlike fossil fuels, it is difficult to look for alternatives: people have to eat. A substantial reduction of impacts would only be possible with a substantial worldwide diet change, away from animal products."

Did you catch that on the news? Probably not. I don't know anyone who saw it. But that's a pretty big deal. If we were indeed focused on halting climate change, it should have been shouted from the rooftops. Instead we heard crickets.

Last month, President Obama was sworn into his second term. Among many things, he addressed climate change, which was heartening. Not surprisingly, though, animal agriculture was not even mentioned by the more renowned talking heads following the speech. I didn't hear one word said, and believe me, I was on the ever-hopeful lookout.

If the United Nations has made such a big deal about the harmful effects of animal agriculture, why isn't it even being discussed?

While I'm no Rachel Maddow, I can say this: the lobbyists for animal agriculture are very, very powerful. Look at Oprah, one of the most influential women of our time. She had the ex-rancher Howard Lyman on her show in 1996. When she learned that cows were eating other ground-up cows, making Mad Cow Disease possible, she stated, "It has just stopped me cold from eating another hamburger." She was subsequently hit with a suit for defamation from The Texas Beef Group. Though Oprah and Howard ultimately won two years later, it scared many people from saying "boo" about this nefarious industry. (They're just plain old creepy!)

There's more -- much much more -- to say on the subject, and I will be devoting a post to the devastating effect of fishing on our climate. But I did want to get this out there. Because most of us are completely unaware of it. And the fact that it is being hidden from us is, in my mind, downright criminal on several levels.

This ain't no fad. Even if one could argue that animals go through no suffering [they do], and even if one could prove that eating animal products is healthier than eating plant products [it's not], the stubborn fact is that our diet is well on its way to destroying the world we love. Sounds melodramatic. Even as I type this, I'm a little anguished, thinking, "How can I say this without sounding like a tree-hugging alarmist?"

The truth is, I'm not sure how to communicate it so that others will take heed and not dismiss it as simply interesting food for thought before they eat their meatloaf tonight. The facts are there, though, as much as we might wish them away. And as John Adams once said, "Facts are stubborn things." Global warming is not going to go away because big hair is out. It just isn't.

A Spoon Full of Sugar

2013-01-26T14:20:00.001-08:00

Mary Poppins knew how to make chores fun. We all daydream of the time when a lovely nanny with perfect pitch can come take care of the less-than-desirable items on our list, all with efficiency and good humor.

One of those less-than-desirable items for me is planning the week's menu. This may sound surprising to some, but as much as I occasionally enjoy cooking, it's the planning part that just bugs me somehow. There are many other things I'd rather be doing!

We all know that it makes good economical and healthful sense to plan one's week of meals ahead of time, and to subsequently go to to the store with a prepared list of needed items in hand.

We also know we should go shopping on a full stomach.

I usually aim to do both of these. I really do. However, I failed on the latter this morning, and left Whole Foods with a bag of (vegan) sour gummy worms. As soon as I got back into the car, I mauled the bag open grizzly-style and ate the entire contents while listening to Ira Glass's rushed chatter on NPR's This American Life. What can I say? Things got a little crazy.

But back to the menu planning. This often takes me a while. I sit in a sunny spot on the floor of our front living room, surrounded by stacks of cookbooks, hemming and hawing about what I'm going to make that week. I skim the books, trying to recall what the past successes were and which books they are in. And being a cookbook whore, I have many recipes to muddle through. Plus the cats always show up pining for attention in the midst of all this, so some time is lost there as well.

Sergio, always pining for attention. :) Isn't he adorable?

I wondered if I could streamline this process a bit so that I could have more quality time for important things, like satisfying my online solitaire addiction.

The first step was pushing my meal-planning day from Sunday to Saturday. Sunday can be such a "meh" day and adding food shopping to that day's activities suddenly struck me as a very bad idea. It's a much more tolerable chore on a Saturday morning, as you get it out of the way and you still have the whole weekend of possibilities laying out before you.

So here is the system, if one can actually call it that. I opened a new document in my Google account and entitled it Winner Recipes We Love. I shared it with my beloved, so that we could both add recipes to it. (You could just use a word document or -- gasp -- write in an actual honest-to-goodness notebook.)

Then I began listing my cookbooks and the winner recipes we've tried from each one. (This isn't to say that these are the only good recipes in each book. They're just the ones we happened to have tried and loved so far.) Here is an example of what I've started. (I've still got a many books to go through, but you get the idea...)

Eat, Drink, and Be Vegan
47 Chipotle Lime Two-Bean Hummus
84 Peanut Passion Sauce
94 Cocoa Coconut Chili
95 Lemon Chickpea Lentil Soup
102 Thai Coconut Corn Stew
122 Broccoli Cashew Teriyaaki Tofu Stir-fry
131 Lemony Cashew-Basil Pesto on Pasta (better fresh, not as good for leftovers)
148 Thai Chick-Un Pizza

Chloe’s Kitchen
41 Warm Spinach-Artichoke Dip
73 Coconut Mashed Yams with Currants
95 Avocado Toast
101 Chloe’s Award-Winning Mango Masala Panini
191 Tempeh Piccata
201 Ginger Nutmeg Spice Cupcakes

Color Me Vegan
32 Quick Curried Swiss Chard
34 Beet burgers
37 Cajun Red Beans and Rice
38 Watermelon Granita
41 Raspberry Lemon Muffins
46 Citrus Salad
50 Peach Salsa
59 Carrot Fries
62 Sweet Potato Tacos (K likes)
76 Lemon Basil Vinaigrette
99 Frozen Banana Dessert
117 Kale Chips
129 Green Smoothies
152 Linguine with Purple Cabbage
176 Coconut Rice
179 Lemony Pan-Fried Chickpeas with Chard
180 Salt and Pepper Tofu
195 Black Olive Bruschetta
212 Nori Wraps with Orange Cashew Cream (K likes)
219 Chocolate Cherry Cookies
228 Carrot and Avocado Salad
229 Thai Coconut Soup
238 Indian-Style Black Bean and Veggie Burritos

The Vegan Slow Cooker
62 Soy Chorizo Black Bean Stew
74 Thai Red Curry Tofu and Veggies
110 Risotto
121 Tempeh and Veggies in Spicy Peanut Sauce

A few of these I've marked "K likes" because Ry is not a huge fan. So I plan these recipes for those nights when he is out on a gig. The numbers next to each recipe, you've probably guessed, are the page numbers in the book.

This has cut down significantly on menu planning time, since I can quickly peruse the list and see the winners. I'm not listlessly flipping through cookbooks anymore. And while I continue to try new recipes, the frequency depends on the week ahead. Some weeks are just about the quick-and-easy standards when I know I'll have very little energy or patience for experimenting.

So that's my little trick. Not Julie Andrews-worthy by any means, but it helps get the job done quicker.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some solitaire to play. And kitties to pat.

See? As soon as those cookbooks land on the floor, Kaci appears ready to be admired. It never fails.

Abby Normal

2013-01-18T19:08:00.000-08:00

What's normal?

Ask anyone who's lived or traveled away from home for a spell and, as much as she may have enjoyed her time, she'll probably admit that there is something very comforting about returning to one's own culture where the rules and language are a given. This can be true for cultures in distant lands, and it can be equally true for a culture a mere fifty miles away from your front doorstep. Ryan and I trek to Pennsylvania each December and I love our time there. But there is an undeniable thrill in seeing the familiar green Massachusetts Turnpike signs and other visual markers announce that we are almost home. My favorite stations reemerge on the radio. Even the obnoxious Boston drivers are somehow endearing. Our wonderful known world comes back into focus.

Life has so many forced surprises in store for each of us, that framing our lives in "normal" gives us a wonderful sense of stability. It's an anchor that keeps us safely tethered in a world that manages to occasionally make us feel blown off course.

Like everyone, I have my normal, and I love it. It might be a bit bland for some, but it makes me happy. One example: I can read all day. Get me hooked on a good author, and I'll snuggle in bed with a tank of coffee and some salted dark chocolate, completely content. (The Sookie Stackhouse series is my current drug of choice.) That might be torture to someone else whose normal is training for a triathalon. But it makes my little world lovely.

Another cornerstone of my normal is going to the movies. I can go by myself, with one friend, or with eight. Just as long as I have my homemade berbere popcorn and a cherry Coke (it's my one naughty movie allowance and one of the few occasions when I crave soda.) I'm completely sold into the movie producer's vision. You know the AMC thing they show after the trailers with the two gals and the guy watching the movie? The one where all the seats start turning into plants and stuff as they stare at the movie screen, smiling as only models can and sipping their sodas in a sweet yet sexy way? That's me, minus the sexy part. (I'm the one enveloped in cozy clothes with spilled pieces of popcorn in her lap.) I disappear blissfully into the movie's world. It's heaven.

Occasionally we all veer off slightly from our normal and try something different. A new restaurant. An undiscovered road to walk or run on. I recently started taking art classes again, which was initially intimidating. But like all small changes, it quickly got absorbed into my slow evolution of normal. Small changes to our normal are whimsical and nonthreatening.

Normal has its dark side, though. It can hypnotize us from seeing what we'd rather not see. We get so wrapped up in our view of the world, that we often fail to connect the dots because our normal creates a rather comfortable haze around us.

For years I viewed veganism as decidedly "abby normal," to quote Mel Brooks. It was extreme. It didn't jive with what I'd been taught. Vegetarianism was cute and acceptable. But veganism? Egads.

Besides, the animal cruelty couldn't be that bad, could it? After all, my parents ate animal products and they taught me so much about being kind and fair to everyone. I have a vivid memory of my father trying to dissuade my younger brother from buying Nike sneakers because he'd heard the company used child labor to make the shoes. He lost that particular battle, but his words stayed with me. My paternal grandparents were phenomenal humanitarians and early environmentalists. When I'd sleep over, we'd take early morning walks in the woods behind their house, always with a plastic bag in hand to pick up trash. Gramma taught me to cut the plastic 6-pack soda and beer holders into small pieces, lest a creature get strangled in the plastic rings. She also scolded me once when I was nine or so when I shared with her how I'd learned to fish during a camping trip. "But I throw them back in the water!" I explained. She emphatically asked, "Well how would you like it if someone stuck a long hook through your mouth?" And yet she enjoyed the occasional dinner of fish, a thought that did not enter my mind until recently. My mother would care for wounded animals that got hurt in our yard, as did my father. And friends and family were equally thoughtful and kind. I was surrounded by wonderful examples of compassion.

But we all ate meat and eggs, wore leather, and drank milk. It was never presented as a choice, really. We all just did this. It was normal.

Flip that coin, though, and see the results of this normal from the animals' perspective? Quite a different story. And though I may be wrong about this, I believe that if these same lovely people saw and heard what happens to the animals used for these products, their reactions would be similar to my own. If they actually saw the journey of the cattle in India and China and what workers will do to a collapsed animal to get it back on its feet on its way to slaughter. If they saw the harvesting of the leather and realized that, dear God, that animal is still alive. If they saw what people did to those cute male chicks in hatcheries, the same ones we go gaga over in Easter commercials. If they saw animals destined for "humane slaughter," legs roped together and their bodies shaking from fear so badly that the sides of the pickup truck they are lying in rattle. How could any of us possibly support it once we knew? Once we saw? Once we heard?

And this is why we resist learning what happens. Why so many of us (me included) have said, "I can't bear to know," as we eat our bacon. We know, deep inside, that we couldn't support it. And that we'd have to divorce ourselves from our normal and be cast adrift from our beloved anchor.

The initial challenges of such break from normal are twofold.

One: The people in your life your hold dear may try to coax you back to normal, no matter how diplomatic you try to be. They may try to reason with you, debate with you, scare you, even roll their eyes at you. But, most fascinating, all but a rare few will not want to hear a word of what happens to the animals. Because it will threaten their normal. And nobody wants their normal threatened. I speak from experience because, while I never disagreed with people about animal rights, I was your classic example of "don't tell me." I knew that knowing the truth would be a game changer.

Two: While small changes are fun and playful, a large paradigm shift in one's normal is very intimidating. Cooking without animal products seems loony at first. It's a complete upheaval of so many dimensions of our lives. We worry about the health consequences. Losing our anchor is unsettling to say the least.

But here's what I discovered. I didn't go adrift. I still had the anchor. I had just pulled it up into the boat and then cast the sails to explore new ports. It was, in fact, actually kind of fun! The food I was trying out was surprisingly tasty. Sure there were some culinary disasters, but that had happened plenty of times when I ate animal products. We used WAY less trash, as most of our refuse went into the compost. And what did go into the trash didn't rot or smell. After a while and some experimentation the food got -- damn -- really good.

The salty old harbor I had long anchored in paled in comparison to the new places I was exploring. And there was an unexpected beauty to creating a new normal. A normal that finally matched the Golden Rule touted by so many. Only a month after going vegan, I found it laughable that I'd ever considered it a big deal. My old normal seemed kind of pathetic and out of date. It smelled of mothballs. I loved my new normal.

In Young Frankenstein, Igor picked the abnormal (abby normal) brain by accident. But the resulting person ended up being a pretty cool guy. (And pretty good in the sack, if you remember Madeline Kahn's reaction to his overtures ...)

Because when you get down to it, normal is not all it's cracked up to be. Abby normal can be cooler. Healthier. More fun. And way more in line with your own ideas of what kindness and empathy really mean.

Pull up the anchor. See what happens.

I triple dog dare you.

***

What are some fun sides of your normal?

A New Year! (Regrets and Silver Linings)

2013-01-03T17:17:00.001-08:00

Like Sinatra, I've had a few regrets, but too few to mention.

On the other hand, they can be worth mentioning. Because regrets are very powerful motivators. They are your conscience giving you a well-needed kick in the pants. Or a glaring roadsign demanding that you take the next exit. "This is not who you are!" it beseeches. "Come on, man! Take a different path. Pull it together. Honestly." Regret changes us.

Sixteen years ago I boarded a plane for Bolivia to volunteer in the Peace Corps. Three years later, like the thousands of volunteers before me, I left full of experiences and memories that forever altered me.

Most of those were very positive, but I had one very strong regret. It involved a pair of kittens.

Now don't get all worried. Nothing horrible happens, so you can uncover your eyes and keep reading.

I was renting my dilapidated property in a small town called Yotala for about $20 a month from a relatively well-to-do couple that lived in the city of Sucre, only half an hour's busride away. Like all properties in Yotala proper, mine was enclosed behind clanging metal gates and high walls made from oversized, crumbling mud bricks. Each property was its own secret world. Mine had old gardens that snaked around the small house in an overgrown, gnarled fashion, much the way I imagined Frances Hodgen Burnett's famed secret garden did. There were exotic lilies that sprang unexpectedly from weeds, and passion fruits growing sneakily up the sides of the house. (Passionfruit, I soon learned, attracted the scariest looking spiders you can imagine. About the width of a child's hand, hairy, and flat as a piece of thin cardboard.) Eventually, I planted a small vegetable garden way in back. There was a lemony/tangeriney tree back there too. (I never figured out what the fruit was but it made the most marvelous lemonade.) But other than going back there to occasionally harvest those goodies, I never had any need to visit that part of the property.

Now the landlords hired a tiny man to come in occasionally and look after the gardens. He didn't seem to do that much, but he was nice enough and having him stop by now and then forced me to practice my pathetically rudimentary Quechuan language skills. He was very poor and was always dusty. Even the skin on his finely wrinkled face was dusty. His wife was ... well ... a piece of work. I can't think of another way to describe her that would be pleasant. She too was tiny and she'd emerge every now and then on my property to scare the living daylights out of me, always shouting what sounded like insults, and hitting me with things. I never knew why she did this, but some unnameable thing about me royally pissed her off. She reminded me of those kitchen witches that graced many a home in the seventies and early eighties. A violent kitchen witch. Poor tiny man.

One day, towards the end of my first two years and right before I moved to La Paz to work directly in the Peace Corps main office, the tiny man brought two kittens to my property, one male and one female. I can't recall his reasoning, though he did attempt to explain once. I don't know how or why they came into his possession. I always guessed he kept them on my property because of his scary wife, but I never really knew. (Again, my Quechua was pretty bad. And he didn't speak any Spanish. Let's just say I improved at charades during those two years.) Regardless of his reasons, he left the kittens on the property and would stop in every day to feed them.

The kittens were terrified of me, which was initially surprising since cats and I tend to get on quite well. But animal abuse was the norm there, so they had every right to be afraid of an unknown human. People mostly kept cats around to keep the mice at bay.

The kittens stuck to each other in a protectively hunched, furry mass, and they fled whenever I showed up, usually scooting into the back yard where I was a rare threat. The tiny man continued to come by to feed them, and I'd throw them some food at other times of the day, just to fatten the poor things up a bit. They were so damned pitiful.

In my last week at the house, I came home and the female ran directly up to me, clearly upset. This was oddly out of character and I wondered where the male went. Maybe tiny man took him back? I began feeding the newly brave girl, but she always seemed very anguished. I assumed that she just missed her brother and was lonely. A couple of days later, I was trying to soothe her with soft pats and some more food, when I heard a strange birdlike call coming from the back of the property. I couldn't imagine what it was. But I went to the back to investigate and the noise got much louder. The female kitten followed me anxiously.

And suddenly I knew. Her brother was back there. Something was wrong. I followed the noise to the very back wall, a fair distance from the house, and peered into a dry, abandoned water tank. There, looking up wide-eyed and frantic was the little male kitten, trapped and meowing with such loud ragged force, it shocked me. He'd been in there for at least two days with the hot sun baking his unprotected, parched body. He looked like a little furry, matted skeleton.

I reached down and pulled him out. He weighed nothing.

His sister was visibly relieved that I'd finally caught on, and she meowed along with her brother. As I held the previously skittish kitten, he clung to me, purring and shaking. I began to cry a little at this heartbreaking scene. They were just so starkly desperate. I carried him back to the covered porch, his sister right at my heels.

Grabbing some change, I put him down and ran to the butcher, where I bought a half a pound or so of cow's meat (a whole other story that I'll go into on another day). I returned to the front gate and could hear the meowing on the other side as they wailed against the five minutes of abandonment. I reemerged into their world and they followed me to the kitchen, tripping over each other to be closer. Cutting the meat into tiny pieces, I put the food and a bowl of water in the shade and sat down next to them. The girl ravaged the meat (I'd already been feeding her for two days, but she was still a skinny minny). The boy, however, ignored the bowl and plate. His one concern was crawling up my pants leg with his weak little claws. I pulled him up, realizing that he wanted to be held. His only desire at that moment was astonishingly not food or water, but feeling safe, loved, and protected.

So I held him for a very very long time. And soon his sister, now finished eating, jumped up too, and they fell asleep purring in my lap as the sun went down. They refused to leave my side.

The timing was terrible. I had to leave for my new post in La Paz and bringing two cats was not in the cards. I packed up my belongings with a heavy heart. I was sad, of course, to leave my town and the good friends I had made there. But I was very upset at leaving this new pair of friends that I had become very attached to in such a short amount of time. Would tiny man and his strange wife take proper care of them? Tiny man might. I had doubts about his wife. But what could I do?

The kittens followed me to the door, meowing. I hardened my heart and walked out, patting their heads a final time, wishing them luck, and assuring them that everything would be okay. They weren't my cats, after all. One can't solve every problem.

My good friend Margarita drove me and my few possessions to Sucre. There I spent the next two nights at my city home, which I shared with several other volunteers, getting ready to move to La Paz. I couldn't get the kittens out of my head, though. Were they okay? Would the boy get stuck in the tank again?

Finally, after losing enough sleep over it, all logic left me and I resolved to go get the kittens and bring them with me to La Paz. If they weren't allowed on the plane, I'd just take the 24-hour bus ride with them. I'd figure it out somehow. I'd get the paperwork needed to bring them home with me to the United States, no matter what it took.

I hopped on a truck back to Yotala carrying a small box with a blanket inside. I was excited to retrieve them and my heart was at peace now that I was finally doing the right thing. I hadn't returned the key to the owners yet, so I let myself back through the gate and called to the kittens. They didn't come. I searched every inch of the property, continually calling them. I even checked the well. They were clearly gone and the place was empty.

Regret filled me. Why why why did I ignore my instinct to care for them? Why did I ever leave them? Now I had no idea where they were, as I didn't know where the tiny man lived. I had no idea if they were being cared for or if they were left to fend for themselves. I can't believe tiny man would ever intentionally harm or desert them. But I had to wonder at their quality of life with his wife around.

Regret is a tough thing to swallow. I've never forgotten those two kittens. They've probably passed on by now. I adopted my current kitties, Kaci and Sergio, less than a year later (after I'd returned home to the States) and they're both fourteen now. Cats don't tend to survive as long in Bolivia.

I can still picture them at that gate, trying in vain to follow me outside. If I could manipulate time, I would have taken them with me without a second thought. I would have followed my heart and let the details work themselves out.

I hope they made it. I hope they had some happiness in their lives. I hope they forgave me.

But that intense regret changed me. When I see an animal in need now, I don't turn away, no matter how inconvenient it might be. I always stop. I always do what I can to help.

And since going vegan, I've noticed my empathy for humans increase as well. I don't walk past homeless people, pretending not to see them as I once did. Even if I have no money or food, I'll always smile or say hello. If I see a child that looks lost, I go to them immediately.

I don't say this to throw on a halo. Only to reflect that regret, as painful as it is, has a huge silver (non-halo) lining. Regret is our deepest self outlining the borders of who we are. Never pass here again, it warns. This isn't who you were meant to be.

I never have to give it a second thought now. Regret has molded me into a stronger advocate for others. I don't have to sit and reflect, "Remember those kittens? Remember how that felt?" It's deep in my cells now. It's become part of who I am. I no longer hesitate.

The experience isn't unique. We all have moments, some regretful, that define us. They're not pleasant, but they are powerful.

It's hard not to wallow in what we have done. Or perhaps worse, not done. But if we can turn regret on its head, and let the experience serve us, then it's almost like a second chance, isn't it? And that's pretty great when you think about it.

So I raise a glass of bubbly to you and your regrets. May they allow you to continue to become who you were meant to be.

Two Foodies Make Ice Cream for the World

2012-12-24T05:44:00.000-08:00

Unlike Vancouver, New York, or San Fransisco, Boston does not (yet) have the reputation for being a vegan hub.

But things are starting to change.

In Allston, a young, chic, urban couple decided to open an ice cream shop aptly named Fomu. (Do check out their website.) The ice cream is mostly coconut-based with a couple flavors made from an almond/cashew blend. (Soy soft serve will be arriving shortly.) I will admit that I had my reservations when I first visited last summer. Though I'd read nothing but rave reviews online, I prepared myself for their ice cream being "pretty good." But upon tasting the rich flavors, I actually laughed a bit at the disconnect in my brain, thinking "It isn't possible. This HAS to have dairy in it. It's so creamy!" In fact, the longer I tasted it, the more I came to the conclusion that this ice cream was far superior to any I'd tasted.

Deena Jalal and Hin Tang wouldn't, at first glance, seem like the couple you'd expect to obsess over frozen desserts. Deena had gone into marketing and advertising after school, and Hin was working in finance, which kept him busy consulting and traveling. They were doing well in their respective careers.

Deena, one of the co-owners

And yet they both had a great fondness for fine dining, agreeably lumping themselves into the foodie category. With Hin's family's experience owning several small restaurants, they were familiar with the many aspects of the food business. Owning an ice cream shop became a dream they'd turn over in their heads. As Deena pointed out, ice cream is such a happy food; everybody loves it. Additionally, they began to question whether their current careers were adding value to the world. (Though Deena was quick to clarify that while both lines of work do provide much value as a whole, they were beginning to think their collective contribution to the world lay elsewhere.)

In the midst of all this consideration, the perfect space in Allston became available. It was just the size they would need, and it abutted two popular vegan joints: Grasshopper (a Chinese restaurant) and Peace o' Pie (a pizza parlor. You must get the barbequed chick'n with onion rings on top. Oy.). They realized, "If we don't do it now, we'll never do it."

And so Deena, nine months pregnant with their first child, and Hin bought the space and immediately went into action transforming it into a hip ice cream shop. A few weeks later, Deena gave birth to their son. And a few weeks after that, on May 30, 2012, they opened their doors for business. (I know. I feel lame too.)

Deena and Hin are not vegans, which may make their decision to open a dairy-free ice cream shop all the more surprising. Both, however, had many friends and family who were were either vegan or allergy-prone. (Though being lactose-intolerant is actually quite normal for adult mammals, but that's a whole other subject.) So their goal, in Deena's words, was to "bring ice cream to everybody!" She went on to confess that they were ice cream snobs, so they played with flavors and ingredients until they felt they had a superior product. (They continually experiment and come up with new flavors.)

Deena pointed out that they don't specifically advertise their ice cream as vegan, because some people shut down when they hear that word. In fact, the majority of their customers are not vegan and often don't realize that the ice cream is dairy-free. For Deena and Hin, though, it should be all about tastes that everybody can enjoy. And yet the vegan community is so strong in Boston, that the word spread immediately and they've had a very loyal following.

By the time Deena and I had sat down to talk about their business, I'd previously eaten at Fomu four times and was familiar with/addicted to many of the flavors. (On my first visit, I got my favorite concoction from childhood -- a mint chocolate sundae with hot fudge and coconut ice cream. All vegan. All to-die-for/I-need-to-be-alone good.) The most obvious question to ask was which flavors were her favorites. Her eyes lit up as she glanced up at the menu on the wall. (It changes often, as they only aim to use only fresh ingredients in season.) After thinking a moment she shared that her current favorites were Cinnamon Bun, Thai Peanut Chli, and Cherry Amaretto. "Say," she said suddenly, "do you want to try some flavors?"

It was like the ice cream fairy godmother flicked her glittery magic wand.

They put a scoop of each of her favorites into a cup and I sampled each in the name of proper research. The Cinnamon Bun actually had pieces of gooey cinnamon bun inside. I wanted to cry a little bit, it was so good. The Thai Peanut Chili was, at first, just a lovely creamy light peanut flavor (and I normally don't like peanut flavors in ice cream) then suddenly the heat curled in a warm unfurlinglike way around the edges of my tongue. So fun and surprising! And addictive. But there was still one flavor to sample: Cherry Amaretto. This baby was plain naughty. The sustantial chunks of cherry inside made me scoop it all into my mouth an a voracious, unladylike way. (But as Ryan so often points out, "Hey. I married now. I can do what I like.")

This past August, Fomu participated in Boston's Ice Cream Showdown, a fundraiser that showcases local ice cream makers in an effort to raise money to fight hunger. Fomu was the only nondairy ice cream vendor there and initially people only trickled to their booth cautiously. Shortly after, though, the word spread and a long line of ice cream fans waited to sample their flavors. Deena was thrilled to see "an overwhelming response from dairy eaters." An interesting trend many noticed was that after eating Fomu's ice cream, all the traditional dairy ice creams seemed overly sweet.

Fomu is located in Allston, a huge student hub due to the gargantuan amount of colleges and universities. You can't walk two feet without tripping over a university. Here a hungry student gets fueled up before going back to work. (Presumably a student. I'm totally making this up.)

Nice little sitting area. I was there from about 4:30 - 5:30. As I left, the post-dinner crowd started to filter in.

I love the layout of this place. On the left is a freezer full of well-frozen pints to take home. They survived the heated one-hour traffic-ridden ride home on the Pike very well.

Very important to get a hot beverage if you're getting ice cream in winter.

I haven't tried these yet, but I have to believe they are spectacular.

Fomu's been much talked about in Boston. There have been rave reviews from The Boston Globe, The Boston Pheonix, and VegNews. I even came across this random blog entry which mentioned a BEAR going into the store. I suddenly realized I was there at the same moment the blogger was because I remember seeing that bear last summer! And sure enough, you can see me in the background in one of the pictures, with a black tanktop on. Crazy coincidence! (If you are confused about the bear part, as well you should be, check out the blog entry and scroll down to the pictures.)

Anyhow, if you come through Boston, I hope for your sake that you check this place out. If you truly care about your taste buds, you will head straight over to Fomu. Try the aforementioned flavors plus the Salted Caramel and the Dark and Stormy. Mmm...

Go.

Humanity vs. Bovinity

2012-11-29T15:21:00.000-08:00

Humanity. This word has been perplexing me lately. The more I think on it, the more the word is losing its intended meaning.

The other day, Ryan and I were driving into Boston and listening to NPR. A story came on about the crisis in eastern Congo. A man and his family had just buried his young daughter, who had been killed by rebels. After the rushed burial, they fled the city of Goma with thousands of other displaced people. My heart broke for them and I thought, not for the first time, "What is wrong with people? Why are we killing each other?" I imagined what that would feel like. Burying your daughter. Fleeing your home. Not having any safety net. Why I happened to be born here and not in eastern Congo. What that child's parents are thinking and feeling at this very moment.

Morbid thoughts, perhaps. But as much as I like lightness and fun -- and my life is full of both and, in my opinion, both are necessary in order to do good in this world -- I do think it's important that we reflect on these ideas at the very least.

The story of this family is just one of millions happening in the world right now. Human and non-human animals are slaughtered every day. (With animals, though, it is 10 billion per year. And that's just land animals. In the United States.) We humans are capable of awful things. And what scares me a little, as I continue to age, is realizing that these behaviors aren't that unusual. I'd always assumed that, while there might be the occasional person with cruelty in their heart, most people were good. And now I just don't know. I want to believe we're all good, but there just seems to be so much evidence to the contrary.

Humanity, according to my American Heritage Dictionary, means, among other definitions, the following: "the quality of being humane; benevolence."

Humane, in turn, refers to someone or something "[c]haracterized by kindness, mercy, or compassion; marked by a motivation by a concern with the alleviation of suffering."

I don't see many other animals killing their own kind regularly. Sure, it happens here and there. But we don't put those animals up on linguistic pedestals and say, "Here is our model of behavior!" When you think about it, it's pretty audacious to imply that we are models of mercy and compassion. We even refer to mass murderers as "animals," when in fact non-human animals don't typically engage in such self-destructive behavior. We humans seem to have the monopoly on that one, don't we?

Do I think the majority of humans would kill others if given the chance? Not at all. Am I a "people hater"? No. I see beautiful kindness emanating from people every day. People in my life and in the world at large astound me with their gifts and brilliance. My students never fail to give me incredible hope and fill me with pride every day.

But I wonder at people who proudly proclaim they support "humane meat," (or who just eat any old meat) but who are not willing to find out if the treatment of these animals matches the behavior they hope is occurring. I'll save you the suspense. It's not. This is from one who hoped desperately herself that her humane meat came from happy animals. I did the legwork on this one, and the treatment of these beings is not, in my opinion, kind, merciful, or compassionate.

Here's some of what goes on at humane farms, slaughterhouses, hatcheries, etc. Male chicks ground up alive, gassed, or bagged up alive like trash. Animals in slaughterhouses who are very much alive as they go through "processing." Baby calves and goats taken from their mothers, often with their umbilical cords still attached, brought to market terrified, and killed. (We can't have them taking our milk and cheese.) Animals debeaked, detoed, dehorned, branded and castrated without any anesthesia. (Think on that a moment. They have nerve endings like we do. Imagine what that would feel like.) Cows forced to provide milk (while pregnant with their next calf), having their production wane after 5 years, and then being killed for hamburger meat. If this is what "mercy, kindness [and] compassion" look like, then I'd rather not side with humanity.

I could go on and on. And if I sound angry, that's because I am. There's always a bit of truth to stereotypes, and the "angry vegan" is no exception. When you see how awful people are to feeling, breathing beings; when you see the actual joy in people's faces with they do unspeakable things to animals -- you get plenty angry. Sure my life is terrific. And I'm a pretty happy person most of the time. But you can't help but get angry when you see what is really going on. And you can't help but feel angry when people put down one's choice not to participate and then laughingly joke about bacon, veal, and lamb just to hurt you. (And yet those same people would be incensed if you made them watch footage of how pigs, calves, and lambs got to their plate.)

I've talked with people who have gone undercover at slaughterhouses, hatcheries, and dairy farms. First off, these people amaze me. I could not imagine doing such work for so many reasons. But what's most remarkable about their work is that the awful footage they document is not an anomaly. It's everyday stuff. It doesn't matter when they go undercover or where. It's always there. Butterball has been exposed twice in the last year for incredible cruelty but in their press releases both times the company feigned shock and surprise that this was going on. Please. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice ...

I'm always hesitant to write such posts because I feel like I'll come off as thinking I've got it all figured out and that I'm lily-white perfect. If only. As Jo March beautifully stated in Little Women, "I'm hopelessly flawed."

But after seeing the things I've seen, I'm pulling the words "humane" and "humanity" out of my vocabulary for a while. At least until we shape up a bit. Or maybe I'll come up with another word to describe kindness and compassion. Maybe bovinity. You don't hear about cows massacring other cows, do you?

There seems to be an unwritten rule that eating meat is normal and to question it is socially awkward and a little rude. But if we're going to tout the word humanity, shouldn't we be willing to back it up with a good hard look at what we're supporting?

May the coming season of giving be filled with great bovinity for you and your loved ones. :) (Autocorrect is getting very antsy over that word.)

And may the word humanity ultimately reflect its definition.

***

If you want to learn more about "humane" meat, dairy, and eggs, listen to this podcast. It's very well done!

Lucky Winners!

2012-11-18T16:37:00.000-08:00

Update: A week has gone by and I did not hear from the winners below. (Bummer!) So the next two winners are LCSmolcha and Sara. Congratulations! Leave me your email (the one where you'd like the subscription sent) in the comments section below or, if you prefer, you can email me your email address at suburbansnowwhite at gmail dot com.

Short post.

I enjoyed two lovely weekend mornings full of laziness and then brisk, long walks. Then there was mowing endless leaves into mulch to fertilize the grass. Add to that one intense yoga session that reminded me what happens when you blow off yoga for too long. And the cherry on top: one estrogen-filled evening seeing the new Twilight flick with a dear friend.

Sergio, me, and Kaci enjoying morning sunshine. I am reading one of my Sookie Stackhouse books and loving every second. I have a vampire thing, following the lead of almost every teenage girl in the United States. (I never said I was deep.)

I continue to work on my book. Mornings in my pj's with coffee seem to produce the most results. Kaci supervises to make sure I don't slack off.

But this isn't why you tuned in, is it?

It's time to announce our two winners, each of whom will receive one online subscription to Colleen Patrick-Goudreau's 30-Day Vegan Challenge! Once again, I love having giveaways, but I despise not being able to give everyone the prize. I really get bummed out that not everyone wins.

Ryan did the honors of picking out two names (printed on paint sample papers) out of one of his funky hats.


He kind of has that John Edwards mystical look going (the medium, not the politician.)

And the winners are ...

Forgive me, Lessley. I missed the second "s" the first time around.

Congratulations Kara and Lessley! Please send me your email addresses to suburbansnowwhite at gmail dot com so I can forward it to Compassionate Cook. (Be sure to get back to me by next Sunday! If winners don't respond within one week, I'll open the subscription to the next guy/gal pulled out of the hat.)

Thanks to everyone for entering! And for a little while longer you can get a permanent online subscription to the 30-Day Vegan Challenge for $20. (It's going to go up $35 soon.)

Giveaway! Subscription to 30-Day Vegan Challenge. (squeal!)

2012-11-12T14:46:00.000-08:00

Update: See below in giveaway offer!

First off, I have been a very lame Snow White. I did not finish my Vegan Mofo by reaching my goal of 10 posts in one month. (sigh)

And yet, I don't feel too guilty. It's been a chaotic little autumn and one that Mr. Snow White and I were not looking forward to, due in great part to full-blown ninny-ness of forces that have wanted to do us harm. Hopefully this will resolve itself very shortly. (Sorry, can't go into it more than that.) But it's all been stuff that, in the big scheme, really doesn't matter. We have each other, everyone's healthy, Kaci does NOT have cancer, as our new vet suggested she might (the vet was thrilled as were we), we are both employed, we have a wonderful support system, and we both have good skin.

While going through this tumultuous time, though, I recalled some supportive words that had floated from the Facebook status of one Colleen Patrick-Goudreau. After having no luck retracing those pearls of wisdom, I wrote to Colleen, asking if she'd share them with me. Her husband had spoken them to her when they were facing similar ninny-like forces. Just seeing these words calms my heart (which has been beating much too quickly for my own good.)

"Keep breathing. Tell the truth. Be fearless. Choose love. Embrace mystery."

Beautiful, no? I feel so grateful to her and her husband David for sharing that calming mantra with the world. It's done wonders for my mindset.

And speaking of Ms. Colleen ...

She's got an incredible new online program called The 30-Day Vegan Challenge. I heard about it on her podcast and initially thought it wouldn't apply to me, since 1) I was a regular listener of the podcast, 2) I had all her books, and 3) I had already been vegan for a while. How much new stuff could it offer someone like me?

A lot, it turns out.

The program only cost $20 and I originally decided to sign up so I could review it here for any folks here who wanted to try cutting meat, dairy, and eggs from their diet for just thirty days. I didn't anticipate how much I'd get from the experience.

The whole thing is designed to take you from day one, when you have no idea yet how you're going to pull this off, to the last day, when you realize how flippin' easy it is to eat without hurting anyone. You get one email per day, which opens up new parts of the program to you, step by step. I like this, because I tend to be an all-or-nothing gal who reads ahead, jumps in with both feet, and then often burns out. (Hello knitting.) This way forces you to take it slow. The great part is that after that day's content becomes available, you keep it forever and can go back to it whenever you like. (Think of it as an online book you purchased. But a book with videos, podcasts, etc.)

The video section includes the following subjects: Stocking a Healthy Vegan Kitchen, Reading Labels, Getting to Know the Grocery Store, Choosing the Proper Knife, Using the Proper Cutting Board, Tempeh Bacon Cooking Demonstration, Making the Time to Cook, Eating Out and Speaking Up, Rethinking Meat Cravings, Discovering That There is Life After Cheese, Kale Chips and Kale Salad, Plant-Based Milks, Better Baking without Eggs, Drop Biscuits, Green Smoothies, Finding Abundant Food Options While Traveling, Demystifying Tofu: It's Just a Bean, Eating by Color, Black Olive Bruschetta with Cashew Cream, Compassionate Fashion: It's Cool to be Kind, and A Vegan Thanksgiving. As a more seasoned vegan, I was amazed at how much these videos helped me, particularly the ones that addressed the interesting social issues that seem to arise.

There is a whole Audio Podcast section that is separate from her original podcasts on itunes. Like the videos, they cover a wide range of topics.

The Resource Section is a great go-to place for hardcore information, including Finding Vegan Food in Non-Vegan Restaurants, Restaurant and Travel Websites and Apps, and Tips for Making Travel Stress-Free and Fun. She delves into those often asked questions regarding protein, calcium, vitamins D and B12, and iron.

There are oodles of recipes, most of which I have not tried yet. (Did I mention it's been a stressful autumn?) But they sound delicious. Among them are the following: Coconut Red Lentil Dahl, Soba Verde Salad, Truffle Popcorn (!!), Lemon Artichoke Tapenade, and Mexican Chocolate Cake with Chocolate Cinnamon. Yes. Yes to all of that.

And finally, there is a community aspect to the website as well. You can log on to ask questions to other folks. Or you can simply read the online discussions and learn from the expertise (and humor) of others.

Compassionate Cooks was kind enough to offer a free subscription to one lucky Suburban Snow White reader. This, my friends, is where you squeal. UPDATE: They have offered SSW not one, but TWO free subscriptions to The 30-Day Vegan Challenge. Fainting.

If you've ever wondered if Ellen or Bill Clinton were on to something, but don't want to declare you're "going vegan," this is right up your alley. (And if you are totally on board, it's up your alley too.) If you merely want recipes on hand because you have a couple of vegan friends and always panic when they're coming over, wondering "What on earth do we make?" then this is a great chance to get some terrific ideas. Though truthfully, you'll end up wanting to hoard the food for yourself. Maybe you're just plain curious about veganism but have no intention to eat that way. You will learn a ton! So there's no pressure for the person who wins this to commit to an animal-free menu. I promise not to stalk you and peek into your windows to see what you're making. Unless, of course, you want to become my full-time chef.

Colleen is a super relaxed gal who explains things in a very common sense way. You don't feel preached at or guilted into anything. She just shares the information and lets you make up your own mind. But I'm warning you -- you'll want her to be your new best friend. I'm JUST saying.

If you'd like to win this, simply write a comment below. You could explain why you'd like to win the subscription. Or share a tongue twister. Or send a message to Kaci telling her how pretty she is. Whatever. Be creative and have fun. Just be sure to leave an email address where I can reach you!

The Giveaway ends November 18, 2012 (Sunday night). Good luck! (I should mention that I'm not making a dime off of this. Just spreading the love.)

Easy Bebere Kale! Vegan MOFO Post #8

2012-10-21T16:50:00.001-07:00

This picture has nothing to do with the post. But isn't my kitty cute???

My dear friends Stacey and JJ are both adept at creating quick and easy recipes that are delicious and super healthy. Stacey's lunches inspire me every day and one can get oodles of lipsmacking recipes from her. (See JJ's wonderful lemon artichokes to get an idea...)

This recipe is one that has become a staple in our house. And it was really popular this summer, as I planted tons of kale, which we continue to harvest from the garden. You need:

kale
garlic
berbere
olive oil
water
apple cider vinegar
salt and pepper

Berbere is an Ethiopian spice mixture. I've never actually bought it myself, as Stacey got a big stash from a friend from Ethiopia and gave me a couple of containers of it. But I'm sure you can buy it at an Ethiopian restaurant. There's also a recipe here on Epicurious.

First buy one or two bunches of kale. The kale below is Curly Kale, freshly picked from our garden.

Rinse it really well, particularly if it's from the garden. I tend to check each leaf very carefully to make sure there are no visitors.

Then you simple grab the stalk with one hand, and with the other you just rip off all the leaves in one fell swoop. It's satisfying! You can cut the stems up if you like, as they are perfectly edible, but I'm a bit lazy and just compost them.

Rip the remaining pieces up into smaller bits. (But not too small.)

Cut up a few cloves of garlic. (I usually do 2-3, but do it according to your taste.) Saute the garlic in some olive oil on medium heat.

Add the festive kale. It will be take up a lot of volume initially, kind of like the tulle under those wild old-fashioned dresses, but keep turning it over and stirring it into the garlic and oil and it will cook down pretty quickly. I will usually add a bit of water -- a few tablespoons - to keep it from getting dry.

Here's the pretty berbere. Isn't that color gorgeous?

I lightly add it to the kale. I've probably used about a quarter teaspoon or so here.

Keep stirring the mixture around. Here you can see it's cooking down, but there are are still sections that are dry and need to be incorporated. Keep going it until it's cooked down but still bright green.

Take it off the heat. Add a little pepper and salt to taste and about 1 or 2 Tablespoons of apple cider vinegar. Stir it all up.

When you take your first forkful, you will doubtless feel a sense of wonder, as your taste buds begin to sing music you didn't know they knew. At this point, you will want to hold up your wine glass and make a toast to Stacey and JJ for bringing this new incredible dish into your permanent rotation. Life will never be the same. (You think I'm joking? We both crave this stuff and probably eat it every other night.)

Below is a particularly tasty dinner of the Berbere Kale, my invented squash/sweet potato/apple/walnut thing, and Soy Chorizo Black Bean Stew over rice. (The latter is from The Vegan Slow Cooker, a book that has been making walking into the front door each night very rewarding.)

What's your favorite way of cooking up greens fast?