Thursday, June 22, 2006

Happy Birthday, mixed veggies!

I just noticed yesterday that I owe mixed veggies a belated birthday greeting! I started this blog roughly two years ago. A lot has changed in that time. Back then, I had a cooing infant; now I have a very verbal preschooler who knows far more than I dreamed she would by this point. When I started writing mixed veggies, it was for brain exercise. After quitting my job, I never had a reason to use my mind to write anything but thank you notes. And I certainly wasn't carrying on deep conversations with my baby.

A friend of ours urged me to start a blog one day, and I thought that was crazy. What could I possibly have to say that anyone would care to read? He was a part of a very philosophical blog with quite a readership, and it fueled him. He loved it. He wanted everyone else to start a blog and love it as much as he did. He gave me his spiel about how I could build a readership of moms...blah, blah. But I still thought it was silly to think anyone (strangers, at least) would care about my motherhood stories or musings about life in general. Nonetheless, he convinced me to start a blog. I went into it blindly, not knowing what I would want to talk about or whether I would write for the readers or just say what was on my mind like a journal. I started off aiming to have frequent, reliable content. Just something to read...so my "readers" wouldn't get bored and run off. (Like I had any readers other than him, my husband, and my best friend.) I soon learned that appeasing the "readership" wouldn't be my goal. It was more for me than for the readers, though I kept in mind that "big brother is watching." I try not to say anything that would make waves in my circle of knowing. Life's not worth that. I don't have anything important enough to say to be worth that. Mixed veggies is more about my random thoughts and opinions, and I still can't see why anyone who doesn't already know me would want to read it. And I often wonder if any stranger out there does. The circle is already a little bigger than I expected, having grown from just immediate family and closest friends, to friends' family members and friends and old friends with whom I rarely connect. So knowing someone is checking for a new post once in a while keeps me posting. And that keeps me exercising my brain in a way other than sitting in the Thinking Chair and figuring out Blue's Clues with Steve or Joe every day. So I guess it has served its purpose.

Among my favorite posts:
Love pulp, stirred
Beans
Displayed Taxidermy
Fitting

Sensing September
Remembering Challenger

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Organic Mama

I ran across this article about organic produce on DotMoms tonight, and though I rarely spend time on actual articles these days, I felt compelled to read it. I buy organic now. Not exclusively (it's hard to do that without a Whole Foods Market handy), but primarily. Ever since we moved to hippy-town C'ville, and organic everything became widely available to me, I have been buying organic. If I had had access to quality, affordable organics when I was pregnant with Ava, I probably would have made the switch back then. But Waco was certainly no place for thinking green, beyond keeping up with your curbside recycling regulations. I spent my Waco life thinking organics were manure-laden foods that had to be scoured and cooked so they wouldn't make you sick. Somewhere along the way, I grew up, used some intellect to realize the apples don't grow in the manure-laden ground but on the tree, far away from the manure. Duh. That realization was the start of a refreshingly open-minded outlook to enhance to my long-established (rather odd teenager) health-consciousness. I assure you I was the only sixteen-year-old at Waco High bringing snack bars sweetened only with fruit juice and carob chip cookies to school by my own choosing. No one in my family ate that stuff. At any given time in my home growing up, there were at least three bags of chips on top of the fridge and probably three or more conventional cookie choices. Ding Dongs, Swiss Cake Rolls, and Twinkies were lunch box staples. I frequently enjoyed a bowl of ice cream at night. It wasn't as though anyone made me become health-conscious.

So what happened to me? Why are chips and cookies relative no-no's in my adult home? I'll never really know, but I have a few guesses. My dad had been told on numerous occasions during my childhood to cut back on his intake of certain foods (everything he liked, basically), especially salt. We went through a period of time when table salt stayed in the cabinet and NuSalt stayed on the table. Dad hated it. I didn't care for it. We all tolerated it...for a while. Evidently I had always made it a habit to add salt to my food before this. But the NuSalt decree from Dad's doctor was, strangely enough, also a big red flag to childhood me. I vowed not to add salt to my food and learn to like food that way so that when I got older, no one could make me take away the only thing that made food tasty to me. I would never feel deprived if I never developed a taste for it in the first place, right? (I was an admittedly odd kid.) The health-consciousness ball was officially rolling.

A few years later, I went with my grandparents to visit family in Tacoma, Washington. I was twelve. One evening before dinner, Aunt Sandy made the most beautiful tossed salad I had ever seen. It had dark lettuce I don't recall ever seeing anyone actually eat before, and it was full of big chunks of vegetables other than tomatoes. Before my very eyes sat proof that a salad could look scrumptious. Until then, a salad was iceberg lettuce with diced tomato...and grated carrot when Mema was feeling fancy for me. That salad changed my life. Well, the whole experience of being under Sandy's NutraSweet house rules for a week probably had more to do with it than the salad itself, but I was a changed girl nonetheless. (Of course, I still routinely heaped sugar on my cereal and ate Chips Ahoy cookies by the sleeve for an afternoon snack, so I had a long way to go. But I was just a kid...give me a break!)

Anyway, by the time we got to Charlottesville, I had a nine-month-old veggie lover to feed. And though DelMonte had already come out with a small variety of organic baby foods, I had not yet become an organic Mama. In Waco, we couldn't afford to buy her organics. It was enough that I had quit my job months early to stay home with her and keep her successfully breastfed. But when we entered the land of organic possibilty, I had to indulge in those possibilities! The Whole Foods Market was literally five minutes from my apartment. The produce there looked so inviting, and the promise of learning a healthier lifestyle engulfed me every time I walked inside. I came home from there feeling whole, feeling enriched in body and in spirit, and feeling like I was in control and doing something good for my family.

Why do I buy organics? Not because I believe there are higher antioxidants (though there may be). Not primarily because I want to help the small farmers (though there is certainly some good will in so doing). I buy organics because I believe they contain less chemical pollutants for our bodies absorb. I know our bodies are designed to detoxify, but I also think our world has gotten far more toxic than our bodies were designed to withstand without ill effects (like cancer). I can't control the air pollution my family is exposed to daily, but I can make a good faith effort to control the pollutants that go into our mouths. We are still American. We drink Coke (also known in my home as "chemical water") and eat french fries just like the next guy. But I try to encourage us to do that less than we used to and to stop thinking of it as normal to rely on its convenience. And when we are at home eating around the table together, I can make up for our Whoppers with clean meat and poultry that was not raised on pesticide-ridden feed, antibiotics, hormones, and steroids. Maybe my daughters won't get boobs as early as their friends, but I'll take that parenting challenge if it means even a tiny sliver of reduced likelihood that they'll call me in forty years with the awful news that the big "C" has attacked some major organ. And if it should happen anyway, I'll be a little more likely to blame the environment than myself. Peace of mind should count for something.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Homesick

When we moved to Virginia two years ago, I fully expected to feel homesick. Oddly enough, I never did. (Well, there was that one day this past spring--well over a year and a half after the move!--when I really wanted to hug my Dandy, but that hardly counts as what I'm talking about.) My family was sick that we weren't around anymore, but I was strangely okay with being displaced. I mean, I had my moments of feeling frustrated and lost in a place that was foreign to me, but I never really longed for home. I just sort of felt like a nomad adventurer or something.

Ever since we moved, I have felt like a resident of nowhere. Because our crazy life situation allows us to essentially fall through the cracks of everyone's rules for residency requirements, we never had to establish ourselves as Virginia residents, though Texas would probably be sour on the idea that we carry Texas driver's licenses with an address where we do own a home but do not reside. Our car insurance company is so confused by our Virginia address for Texas insurance on a Texas vehicle that is "garaged" in Virginia. We still get quite a bit of mail in Texas. It's like we fell off the map, and no one knows where our home is.

I think it was two to three years before my maiden name began to feel as awkward as my married name and a few more years before my married name really settled in my mind. I have been going through a period like that with my idea of "home," too. I had never lived anywhere but my hometown for twenty-seven years. We moved to Virginia with the expectation that Texas would always feel like home, and Virginia was just a stop on life's journey. Boy was I surprised this past Spring when I realized C'ville is "home" to me now. This past year brought about more confidence for learning the city, several key people who will be life-long friends, and just general settling-in. That cramped and cluttered apartment is my home now. It is where my daughter has spent more than half her life. It is where our adult selves seem to have blossomed. It is where we have finally started to really grow up and flourish. I'm finally knowing my way around and liking the city more. It is where I take Ava to the library and do daily things like grocery shop at stores I thought would always seem foreign to me because they aren't HEB. It is where our trusted pediatrician is, where our "friend family" is, where we laugh and play and thrive.

Now we are back in Texas for the summer. Notice I don't say we are "home" for the summer. No. We left our home to come to Texas for the summer, and Ava and I are homesick. It is nice being with our loved ones here (or at least close enough for a few good visits), but it's just not home. HEB seems different...not quite foreign, but certainly not familiar. When I shop there now, I miss the silly sound of thunder in the produce section (when the sprayers come on in the Kroger) and the affordable Nature's Promise organics at Giant. I miss having a Whole Foods Market five minutes from home. Even our home church is beginning to feel more foreign than it does familiar, and I never thought that would happen. We have finally found a new church in C'ville, where I think we'll stay for the short remainder of our life there, and I miss going. I miss our routine. I miss having access to our things. I miss having a real bed for Ava to sleep in every night. I miss having the daily opportunity to make our space more functional, even though that usually translates into chasing my tail. I miss chatting with my daily-life friends and watching Ava play at her favorite parks; it's too hot to play outside in Texas much. I may be back where my "roots" are, but I miss the familiarity of HOME. And home isn't here. Several times a week, Ava says to me out of the blue, "Mommy, I just want to go home to our house now." And all I can say is, "Me too, Shoogie."