You Don't Eat Asbestos

Yesterday one of my friends called me a food snob. It's not the first time I've been assigned the label. I started thinking about what that means, really, because it does not seem appropriate to me. For instance, I hate caviar. I'd rather have a hamburger than a filet mignon. The very idea of pate or foie gras makes me sick. I am not a great cook. How snobby can I be?

This friend and my other friends, and my family members, and my partner--all the folks who've called me a food snob--do so because I'm unusually particular about what I put into my body. I prefer my beef to be from cows who've grazed on grass (their natural diet) and not corn-fed in a factory doing the bump with the other cows squished in next to them. I prefer my ice-cream to contain milk, cream, sugar, vanilla, and a dash of salt rather than milk solids, corn syrup, artificial flavor, guar gum, carrageenan, soy lecithin, and maltodextrin. I would rather pay two bucks more for my collards and buy them from a local organic farmer than to buy them from a grocery store to which they've been shipped from 1000 miles away after being grown downstream from the above-mentioned cow factory and sprayed with pesticides. In short, I value knowing where my food comes from --when possible-- and knowing that the practices used to grow or raise it and get it to my table are good for the environment, good for the food itself, and good for me. 

Now, if I were a builder, or even a home-buyer, and I told you I'd rather have a house made of brick than one made of asbestos siding, that I'd prefer my foundation to be solid rather than shabby, that I thought the value and livability of the house would improve if the kitchen floor were made of bamboo or tile and not peel and stick linoleum squares, would I be a house snob? Or would I be an astute person with an eye to the future? (Note: Somewhere between two- and three-thousand people, give or take, die yearly of asbestos-related malignant mesothelioma in the U.S. 59 million Americans are obese, and suffer from all the concomitant maladies.)

If you're car shopping and you want a hybrid with great gas mileage and high safety rating over a flimsily built car or a gas guzzler, are you a car snob or smart buyer? 

I learned--and continue to learn--a lot of what little I know about good (snobby?) food practices from my friend Michele. (http://amidlifeisis.blogspot.com) She has her own example of a friend who regularly eats boxed frozen meals containing, among other things, the following ingredients: sodium phosphate, whey, citric acid, annatto color, bleached flour, carrageenan, and cheese flavor, but almost would rather die than use toilet paper that "pills." I won't point out the irony around the points of ingress and egress.

My partner is a vegetarian, which I admire and respect. I tried life without meat once and didn't feel so great. She respects that. But it's interesting to me that if she asks whether there's pork in the collards, that's fine. Yet, if I'd rather my dessert not contain fractionated palm kernel oil or high fructose corn syrup, people want to hit me in the face with a pie. 

Maybe it's my approach. I admittedly can be obstinate, opinionated, acerbic. But at least I'm not artificially sweetened. Or maybe it's that questioning people's food choices is just too personal, like questioning their sexual practices. I don't know. Either way, I'm probably not going to shut up about it completely. 

It's not just that I try to take care of my health. I am fully aware that I could be hit by a car tomorrow or die next week of stress related to my concern over hydrogenated oils. But I do feel better and think better and make better decisions when I take care of my body, when I eat well and exercise. And it's bigger than that; it's about not buying into the practices and prosperity of big agribusiness, which puts small farmers out of business, produces greenhouse gases and bacteriological contamination, and negatively affects human health and the health of the land. And that's just the tip of the melting iceberg. I'd rather not have my potato sprayed with twelve pesticide applications (that's the average number) before I buy it.  

Not everyone can afford to make smarter food choices, which is a travesty that I recognize. Hell, I can't really afford it either. But I'd rather buy wild caught fish than have a nice couch, and if you don't believe me stop by my house sometime. We all have our priorities. But the people who really cannot afford to reject the products of big agribusiness in favor of more healthful choices will never be able to if those of us who can afford it just don't bother. I'm lucky to have friends who are great cooks and share my interest in supporting local farmers, if not my adamancy. I hope they think they're lucky to have me, too--their friend the food snob.

Hump Day Manners and Friday's Poem Merged on a Thursday

I had no time for manners yesterday, and tomorrow I'll be on vacation and unable to post Friday's poem. So today I've turned to one of my favorite poets to help me kill two birds with one stone, as the saying unfortunately goes. Enjoy.

Manners

For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me as we sat on the wagon seat, "Be sure to remember to always speak to everyone you meet." We met a stranger on foot. My grandfather's whip tapped his hat. "Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day." And I said it and bowed where I sat. Then we overtook a boy we knew with his big pet crow on his shoulder. "Always offer everyone a ride; don't forget that when you get older," my grandfather said. So Willy climbed up with us, but the crow gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried. How would he know where to go? But he flew a little way at a time from fence post to fence post, ahead; and when Willy whistled he answered. "A fine bird," my grandfather said, "and he's well brought up. See, he answers nicely when he's spoken to. Man or beast, that's good manners. Be sure that you both always do." When automobiles went by, the dust hid the people's faces, but we shouted "Good day! Good day! Fine day!" at the top of our voices. When we came to Hustler Hill, he said that the mare was tired,  so we all got down and walked, as our good manners required.  Elizabeth Bishop

Friday's Poem

Been thinking today about my feet. I have a blister from running. I need to paint my toenails. And later I'm going shoe shopping. All of which will help explain why today I've chosen to share this particular poem:

Pedestrian

The salesman's shoulder and a silver shoe horn helped me climb

into a pair of red Buster Browns with black trim and laces,

plod around the JC Penney admiring my sublime

feet. I slept in those shoes, dreamed that I was going places.

First week of first grade I got a pair of black canvas Keds

with rubber soles and three parallel white stripes on each side.

I felt balanced, could grip the waxed floors with groovy tread

that left its mark. They never knew I was petrified

of slipping into view, just as scared of disappearing.

At recess I hid in the playground's concrete tunnels,

kicked rocks at the kids playing near the openings, clearing

my escape route, imagining myself running until

the scenery changed. It did. My shoes were different

in my teens, when I tried on sex and higher heels for size,

lost my head in the halls. Still I carried an inherent

need for groundedness, gave up dresses and skinny thighs

for a chance to plant my feet in cleats and take the track,

loved the crunch of spikes striking asphalt, flinging gravel

in my wake, scared of being caught, never looking back

to see what was behind me. Even now when I travel

I watch my feet, sure only that I need to keep moving,

wear neon sneakers to which Phidippides would pray,

live as though quickness were a certain way of proving

worth, like a firefly, whose rapid light protects and gives away.

Jennifer Wheelock, 2006

Friday's Poem

On Collaboration

If you bring an umbrella, I will bring rain.

If you bring a pasture, I’ll be cricket, or cow.

If you bring shoes, I will offer my feet.

If you come with four walls, I’ll have a table, two chairs.

If you plow, I’ll follow with seeds.

If you lay a floor, I will prop palm fronds for a roof.

If you write a letter, I’ll lick the stamp.

If you come with flashcards, I’ll bring my best guesses.

If you have a canvas, I will stretch.

If you read a book, I will dog ear pages.

If only your right leg remains, I’ll hop on my left one.

If you come with nothing, I will throw a vase of clay to keep it in.

Jennifer Wheelock 2009

Hump Day Manners--Trash Talk

It's Wednesday. I think. To be honest, this week Monday felt like I was working on Sunday. By Tuesday I was sure it had to be Friday. But I digress. 

It's Wednesday, and it's trash day. Today's manners post is about not being a jerk to the people who pick up your trash. I was noticing in my neighborhood this morning how people, in general, respond in one of two ways to the men and women who are collecting their rotten banana peels, dog shit, coffee grounds, used tissues, and recycled vodka bottles. They either ignore them altogether, or they act mildly irritated by their intrusion into the neighborhood. Why is this? It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. And you'd be better be glad they do. Anybody in New York during the garbage collectors' strike?

I've always been averse to a hierarchy of treatment toward others. Why should I treat my doctor with respect and my trash collector with disdain? Both offer valuable services. Why should I coo over my hair stylist and tip him lavishly and treat the woman at the dry cleaner with bitter impatience. Oh god, maybe I'm a socialist. Or Danish.

Whatever. I suppose I do have egalitarian tendencies. One of my mother's favorite quotes is, "There but for the grace of God go I." (She's also fond of saying, "If you're too lazy to make the bed, why not just stay in it?") But it's really my father who lives by this creed. He treats everyone--pharmacist to farmer--with the same degree of respect. I worked for a while, when I lived in Hollywood, for a TV celebrity. He used to run out when the garbage collectors rolled up and dole out hundred dollar bills to each of them. And he'd say to me, "No one ever shows appreciation for what they do." Now, I'm not suggesting we all start tipping the trash men. But I do try to remind myself daily that one day I could be the garbage collector, or the waiter, or the person mowing your yard. When I walk through the park, if I speak to my neighbor who owns the local gift shop, I also try to speak to the guy who sleeps on the bench. 

Sure, there are days when I'm rude and impatient. But if it's one of those days, I don't pick favorites. I'm as rude to the banker as I am to store clerk or the garbage collector. 

So spend one day--tomorrow maybe?--paying attention to how you dole out patience and kindness. Do you treat your peers at work with deference and the maintenance workers with indifference? If so, let me introduce you to my dad.

Hump Day Manners

My friend Michele suggested I start a Wednesday advice column on etiquette for the New World. I hate to disappoint her, so today is the first installment. And, in typical fashion, I'm not going to wait for you to ASK me for advice, I'm going to offer it unsolicited. We'll start easy, with just a few behaviors I see regularly that I think--in the interest of living a better life in a better world--should cease and desist:

1. spitting on the sidewalk. Unless you're choking to death on a ball of phlegm or have swallowed a small rodent, wait until you find a toilet, a sink, or an area overgrown with ivy.

2. tossing your cigarette butt onto the ground. It is, apparently a little known fact that cigarette filters are resistant to degradation. They are made from cellulose acetate. They contain the chemicals filtered from the cigarettes, which can leach into our water supplies. And they can start fires. That thing in your car, under the radio? That's an ashtray.

3. waiting until you get up to the drive-through ATM to fill out your deposit slip and count your money. Reasons are self-evident to all but the most self-absorbed.

4. leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the parking space or lot. I mean really. Are you THAT lazy? 

5. not picking up the apples that rolled off the top of the pile onto the grocery store floor when you were fishing for your perfect, unbruised, shiny Red Delicious. Don't make me throw one at your head.

6. talking on your mobile phone while interacting with a store clerk. Okay, I admit to having done this. But it's just so rude. What if the clerk did the same thing? We'd be livid.

7. parking on or over the line and thus taking up two parking spaces instead of one. Your car is just really not THAT special. If you're that worried about door dings, leave it in the garage.

8. showing up empty handed. Do you want to be invited back?

9. not wiping down the gym equipment after you've sweated all over it. Ew. Your mother doesn't work out here.

10. Giving unsolicited advice. OOPS.

For my friend: Friday's poem. Not really Friday. Not really a poem.

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