Voting with your fork (and your dollar)

Here's a little painting I just finished last week. (This painting, like most of the paintings I've featured here, is for sale in my Etsy shop.) The subject of the painting is one of a bunch of awesome Berkshire pigs, which are owned by the fine folks who run North Woods Ranch. I featured this ranch once before, right here, after I had painted a different sow from their growing herd.

Their ranch is home not just to the Berks, but also to Scottish Highland cattle. All the animals at North Woods Ranch are privileged (in modern America, anyway) to live their creaturely lives in the traditional, humane way that was intended for such creatures. They roam freely, eating or rooting in grass, exploring small sections of field to which they're confined for a few days before being moved to another plot to exhaust that space, and so on. Their food is supplemented with natural, non-corn-based feeds. Nothing that goes into the animals is genetically modified, none of the critters require regular does of steroids or antibiotics (because they're not living nose to hind end in filthy quarters, eating food that makes them ill), and the animals are never caged or confined. As a result, the pigs and cows are healthier—and therefore, their meat is healthier in every way.

One of my favorite books of the last decade is The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. I recommend it to people who can handle the truth. (Remember A Few Good Men?) I have read and re-read it, and I'm more and more determined each time I revisit it to stay committed to the task of eating responsibly and with as much awareness as I can. It's not just about meat, though; it's all the food in our industrial system. What most of us are really eating, every day? Corn and petroleum. But I'll let you read it for yourself.

The copy I have right now (having lent a couple of others, and subsequently replaced them) seems to be a signed paperback. I found it at Half-Price Books (love that place) and it sure looks like Pollen's name in the front title page. Whomever it is urges the book's owner to "vote with your fork," and while I agree with that sentiment in an indirect way, I feel as if Americans grasp the idea of voting with dollars a little better. Where we spend is what we value.

Will free-range, homegrown foods of all kinds cost more? Yes. Is it a deliberate choice about where you put your money? About which system you support? You bet. All that inexpensive food in the markets has a different price, really, but you'll never see it because the real cost is under-cut by our government. The people who help keep the sick, limping, oil-dependent system in place. Those people (as if I need to tell you this) don't care about your welfare. They talk a good talk, but in the end, when you need them to explain how all that corn syrup and corn-fed beef and steroids and antibiotic-resistant bacteria got into your and your children's bodies, you won't get any answers—they'll be on vacation in Hawaii, likely. So.

Inform yourself. I'll stop ranting now, but I encourage you, implore you, beseech you to learn more. To become a food radical. Your body will thank you. You'll be doing something meaningful, making a statement (however small). People don't need meat every day, at every meal. It's only possible because of a twisted means of bringing it to you in bulk for very little money. And when the animals suffer, so does your health. It's all related.

In the meantime? Go here and read about North Woods Ranch. Support it, and also other people who are trying to do it right. Community Supported Agriculture buy-ins are another great means of helping the little guys, as are farmer's markets. Or heck, grow your own food! Victory gardens are a fantastic idea all the time, not just in wartime. And stop buying tomatoes in winter, and asparagus in fall. Buy what's in season, from people nearby that you know, if you can. It's better for everyone.

Okay, done now.

Pumpkin... and pumpkin kin

I love the colors of autumn, especially the squashes, gourds, and pumpkins that grace every grocer's shelf and roadside stand. The bumpy orange guy on the right is my favorite; I already used him in some photos last week. So bright, yet humble. And butternut—who could forget butternut? Having tasted one recently, I am reminded of its exquisite golden flesh hiding inside.

I'll put this latest painting in the Etsy shop in the next couple of days; the edges are still drying.

On a side note, I am supposed (she says doubtfully) to have Comcast come install their services this afternoon. Supposedly (eyebrows raised), my service will be better, faster, and cheaper. We'll see. Verizon has made a dubious, bitter, sardonic customer out of me.

Oh well, have a great rest of week/weekend. Hope it's all you need and more.

Saved by a horn

Picture it. A lovely fall day, and me behind the wheel, heading into the nearby Giant Eagle to pick up a few items. I turn down one long aisle, scanning the lot for a good space. About 10 cars in front of me, near the store entrance, a woman is loading bags into her trunk. I see a good spot a few cars from her, and I notice that she is rearranging the bags she's already loaded to make more space. I also notice that the cart from whence she is unloading appears to be very slowly inching away from her. I stop my car mid-aisle, and observe closely through the windshield: yes, the cart is most definitely rolling away. In fact, it is steadily picking up speed.

I hit the horn, except this is the Saturn that I'm driving, the one with the mystery horn location that is somewhere in the center of the steering wheel but never quite in the same place twice. I proceed to strike the middle of the wheel repeatedly, in different locations, to no avail. The cart is moving more noticeably now, and the woman is still gazing in the opposite direction, mesmerized by how to maximize her trunk space, utterly oblivious to the encroaching mishap.

Ahh, finally success on my end—"Beep beep, beep beep beep beep, BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!!!" She looks up and I frantically motion to the cart that is now moving with purpose toward a couple of cars. The woman is quick, unlike many shoppers at Giant Eagle; she immediately senses the seriousness of the situation, and with lightning reflexes she runs full tilt toward the cart, reaching desperately to grasp it before it bumps another vehicle. And of the 3 cars it could have zeroed in on, guess which one it's screaming toward? That's right, a Porsche. Bright cherry red, the curvy Carrera style, lovingly polished to a shine.

Just as the cart is about to bang into that shiny car, the woman manages to grab its handle and stop it, mere inches away from the pricey red machine. I can see her take a deep breath, relax her shoulders, and she waves a thanks at me, then takes the naughty cart, still holding groceries, to her car to finish the job. This time, she keeps a foot (brake) behind one wheel.

I park, get out, we joke about a sports car's magnetic ability to attract danger, and I head inside the store. As I pass the Porsche, I can't help noticing that its vanity license plate details the car's make and the fact that it features turbo power. Yeah, that would not have been a pretty scene: the cart, the dent and/or scratch, the angry aging man who drives it (yes, I'm pretty sure that's who drives it), and the unhappy conversation that would ensue.

The day was most definitely saved. For those two drivers, at least. My work is done.

The shirt that keeps on lying

I'm a bit of a thrift store junkie; if you read this silly blog regularly, you know that already, because I mentioned it here, and here, and here... (I really do lead a normal life, I swear to you—I don't just hang out at resale shops and scan the craigslist page.)

Anyway, I like to shop secondhand. A few years back, I was searching for a replacement sweatshirt to take the place of ol' Esprit. Ol' Esprit was a baggy, grey, mostly-cotton-blend that I had worn happily for years. It was loose in all the right places, had a snug enough neck to actually provide warmth and coverage, and was the perfect neutral shade so it matched nearly everything I own. However, as often happens to favorites, Esprit began to show serious signs of love. When the seams started to split and I could no longer leave the house in it for fear of being jailed for vagrancy, I knew it had to go. I wore it when painting for awhile, but knew all along I needed a shirt to step into Esprit's shoes.

Enter the nearby Goodwill store, which in addition to its convenient location, also accepts debit cards for any amount, no matter how small. I went there to find my new sweatshirt love. I wore a T-shirt, so the try-on procedure would be simple, could be done even without a dressing room (in case they were filled), and would replicate new sweatshirt's most common wearing scenario: over a T. I found lots of options, but only one fit the bill perfectly—the fit was ideal, boxy and wide but not too long; the bottom band was not tight at all, thus permitting free movement and requiring no tugging. Best of all, the arms were not too long! This must have been a true woman's sweathshirt; all the men's versions are always designed for gorillas, or at least it looks that way on me with my short limbs. The only problem with the grey sweatshirt was that it sported a lovely Harvard Business School logo in the top left corner. The logo colors were nice and subtle, dark maroon and navy, and other than that I loved the shirt. So, I purchased it and decided it would not matter that it had writing on it, which I normally shun. (Writing should be on paper. Or a monitor.)

I brought the shirt home, washed it, and have worn it all over the place since that day. But the funny thing is that the Harvard thing gets a lot of attention. I've had a number of people ask me if I went to Harvard. Of course I tell them the truth: "Oh, yes, Muffy and I roomed together and I graduated Summa Cum Laude..." Okay, I tell them the real truth, which is no, I've never even set food in the state, let alone on Harvard's campus. And most people seem to be either happy about it (I'm not such a big shot after all) or disappointed to learn I'm a fraud.

The last person to ask was the chubby, curly-haired young guy working the deli at the nearby grocery. He was a friendly fellow, and I was the only one waiting for cold cuts, so he felt unhurried and entitled to chat. "You said a half-pound, right?" I nodded. He went on: "Did you go to Harvard?"

"No, I bought this at a thrift store."

He was one of the disappointed ones, perhaps looking to meet that one Ivy League person walking around the Shop 'n Save. "Yeah, I guess if you'd been there, you wouldn't be shopping here."

"Well, maybe I would be. Those people have to eat, too," I replied. He handed me the package and we parted ways.

But I thought about it. What are the chances of my meeting a Harvard grad of any kind in my local deli? Would I be buying ham off the bone somewhere in the North Hills of Pittsburgh if I'd walked the halls of Harvard Business School? I only know one person who went to Harvard, and I don't know if she actually attended the school—only that she was accepted. And if she is studying there, will she come back to Pittsburgh to practice whatever she's practicing, or will she likely flock to a bigger, more citified city? If she does live here, will she choose a simple, very affordable neighborhood in the 'burbs, or purchase some mansion nowhere near me? Will she shop for lunch meat, or send a minion? Or are we all really pretty much the same, even the very bright and well educated?

One has to wonder.

P.S. I'm wearing the shirt today. Inside out. I like to get double my money.

P.P.S. This one's starting to look pretty ratty, too... Short-armed sweatshirt donations will be shamelessly accepted.