Eating Your Pet

A few years ago, a student wrote an essay titled "Eating Your Pet." It was about raising cattle for meat, getting particularly close to one cow but not having much trouble eating that cow's meat. The entire class reacted to the title of her essay. I still remember the shrug of her shoulders and the no-nonsense, "What? That's what she's for."

My pet, I've recently learned, is eaten as terrapine soup--turtle soup. She doesn't seem to know this, or I'm sure she'd be less grouchy (winter is not her season). In his book Eating Animals, Jonathan Safran Foer weaves stories about his pet dog, George, throughout his argument for the economic and environmental reasons for eating dogs instead of pigs or cows.

Anyhoo, that's not my point. Well, it sort of is because it's about eating pets, or how a plant can become a pet. It's about a Hubbard squash I grew last summer. I wrote about its freight-train growing speed here, but as enamored as I was by its growing process and beauty, I had yet to taste a Hubbard. I harvested it in October, and it has sat on the shelf in our dining room ever since.


During the last four months, its pale green color and organic shape drew everyone's attention, like sculpture. Most everyone instinctively reached out and touched it, petted it. That's probably why my turtle's in a bad mood. She lives right next to the squash. Not only did the squash get to be outside, it drew everyone's attention away from the turtle.

Repeat visitors developed a relationship with the Hubbard like my man and I did. Admittedly, I was so enamored with its heft and shape that I frequently kissed it, like you might kiss a loved one on the top of the head, admiration and pride.

None of this stopped us from speculating how to cut up the thing. We openly discussed knife options right in front of it, settled on the hatchet stored in the back of our car's trunk (for reasons only my prepared-for-anything man can explain), and even used the Hubbard's stem-end to prop cookbooks open to squash recipes.

The time came, this last weekend, to kill our pet. I carried the Hubbard like a child to the kitchen sink for a bath. Splashing it with water, rinsing it from the head (stem-end) down, then lifting it to drip a little, I realized it probably weighs the same as a child--I'm guessing ten pounds.

The thing is, I knew it was time. It had been admired for four full months, revered for its beauty and sensual shape, petted for its connection to summer, sun, and soil. If we didn't do it, nature would, so, I pulled out our knife, newly returned sharpened from CutCo, and aimed to slice it in half.


Well, it took two of us a good five minutes to saw the first of three parts. Then, those parts had to be hacked into fourths, those peeled and cut in thirds again, and those parts chopped. As the top and bottom halves roasted in our oven, taking more than an hour to soften, I packed raw squash cubes to freeze and filled a casserole dish with more pieces to roast once the ends were done. We filled our freezer with plastic tubs and bags full of squash, raw and roasted, made two batches of Pumpkin-turned-Hubbard Raisin Bread, ate squash soup for four lunches, and scooped roasted squash into our burritos for dinner last night and lunch today.

As much as I admired the look of the Hubbard on our shelf, its generosity impresses me even more. This one squash, not even as large as they grow (I planted it a bit late), is feeding two people and a few guests for countless meals. There is at least enough frozen squash for a dozen more recipes. And, I'm not the slightest bit sick of it. My skin is turning a bit orange from all the vitamin A. I like to think I look tan not jaundiced.

Speaking of generosity, enough thick, white seeds sloughed out of the inside of our Hubbard to populate all of Portland's backyard gardens. Our hacking fed our bellies and confirmed the continuation of our lovely pet's lineage.

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Lacking Motivation?

Since the end of December, I've been in a funk. Totally lacking any motivation. I have desire-a-plenty, just no get-up-and-go. Oh, the things I imagine I'll do: revise my book, update both my blogs, add hand-drawn pictures, crochet the sweater I bought yarn for back in November, edit my colleague's book that I've had sitting here for two weeks, oh--make and mail cards for the new year/Martin Luther King Day. Right. All the supplies to make the cards have been sitting on our coffee table for two weeks. The new year passed four weeks ago, MLK Day a week ago... Well, better late than never, right? Is it better late, or is there a point at which it's just ridiculous?

I guess the thing is this--there are only so many hours in a day, and worse, there is only so much energy in this body of mine. So, two problems. How do I prioritize all the fun stuff I want to do? How do I fit it in around the stuff I have to do? And what with the funk? What with all the time I sat on the sofa reading library books (good ones--Bel Canto and The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie) when I could have been doing all the stuff I don't have time for now?

I love reading about people who follow rigid routines, the ones who get up at the same time every day, no matter what, go for their 5.2 mile jog, never less or more, have their outfit crisply ironed, and are at work at the same time every day. I had a friend who believed he should live each day so steadily that he never needed vacation, that each day would be so balanced that he wouldn't feel the need for a break.

Well, that's all for now. I felt the need to post something, since I've been daydreaming since Thursday night (I'm taking a food writing class) about totally redesigning this blog, making it fantabulous and all that. It's one thing to daydream a creative life, but something totally different to pursue it. The pursuit, at least at this moment, is way less sparkly than the daydream, but it's tangible.

Good night & thanks for reading!
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Bouncing Back like a Blueberry Muffin

Some of you who visit me on Facebook or live with me (one man with infinite patience and one temperamental turtle) already know that I had a truly crappy start to one of my winter term classes yesterday. Some of you also know that I am home sick today, and until about one hour ago (crossing fingers) was a snotting, drooling, hacking mess of a human.

Now that the pressure in my head has receded (crossing fingers again), I am online distracting myself from myself. Maybe it's my tender mood, but I was thoroughly inspired by something I bumped into on Culinate (the website that hosts my other blog; click here to contribute to the food idiom list unless it's not your cup of tea).

This smiling, motivated fourth-grader is writing a blog about cooking and baking. She's adorable! For example, after trying a new recipe, she writes, "It turned out absolutely disgusting." She's even enthusiastic about her failures!

A professional chef, replied to her blog about a failed bread recipe explaining, "mise en place," French for having everything the recipe requires in place before you begin mixing. The two have an exchange about why the Williams-Sonoma books aren't very good (this is a 4th grader and a chef, remember). The chef recommends a better book and this kid, Emma, writes back that she's just ordered it....from the library! I picture her pedaling her bike to the library to pick up this bread book with an attitude of unquestioned purpose like the crisp professionals I see downtown rushing smoothly from one important meeting to the next, no time for doubting or second-guessing.

Emma's life is not without challenge, however. Not only did the Williams-Sonoma bread recipe not work out, but she says, "Some time in my life I would like to make a plain normal white loaf of bread." Some time in her life. Ha! Apparently, this is not possible because "of course 'it will be horrible,' (quoting my brother)." She is not without her critics--at least she can give hers a sisterly punch, mine are amorphous, shadowy demons dwelling in my own heart and mind--but they do not seem to deter her determination. Victoriously, she describes a recent success: "three dozen sugar-cookie cutouts frosted with royal icing. The cookies had just enough butter and flakiness, and the icing looked perfect."

A life lesson from Emma:

Who you are baking for matters: "For example, you're having a party. You make three dozen blueberry muffins, and nobody at the party likes blueberry muffins but you. It just doesn't work."

Here's to navigating life with purpose--at least with more faith than doubt--and to no blueberry muffins unless guests other than you like them.

Thanks for reading!

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Winter Squash and Hidden Lessons

Before I became vegan, I thought I did not like squash. I had no idea how many varieties of squash existed. I’d simply had a few—acorn squash, spaghetti squash, and pumpkin—and found them too stringy.

This is absurd. Just imagine if I treated the rest of life the way I treated food. Paying attention to the way I approach food has taught me a lot about how I approach everything else in life. Who or what else in my life have I uniformly dismissed this way?

As an eater, and as a person, my goal is to stay open to possibility, not to make judgments based on assumptions or fear. Easier said than done, of course, and maybe a little hypocritical considering I have permanently (as far as I can tell) banned animal foods and most animal products from my life. Paradoxically, that limitation opens me up, teaches me how to see what I’d not noticed before.

It’s arrogant that I dismissed squash with so little experience of it. When a butternut squash landed in my kitchen a few years ago, the idea of wasting it seemed worse than the idea of eating it. So, I settled on the first recipe I found, thinking it sounded bland, maybe wanting to justify my expulsion of squash. Instead, not only did the squash soup warm and satisfy us on a cold, rainy night, the experience of peeling and chopping the vibrant orange creature energized me, made me feel exuberant, curious, hopeful.

I don’t know why, except that the bland beige exterior of the squash did not suggest the tropical sunset colors on the inside. The surprise of it thrilled me. Eating the colorful soup felt like eating pure energy, like swallowing spicy magma or sipping the sun’s rays.

It’s like teaching, believe it or not. For the first half of the term, I stayed open and present in class, taking time to notice every student in the room. Lately, however, I realize I notice only the usual suspects—the ones who routinely speak up and offer insightful ideas, and the ones who routinely cause problems. That leaves about 40% of the class invisible. Actually, not invisible, simply not seen by me.

What else do I not see in my day-to-day life? What else have I dismissed without any real experience with it (or him, or her, or them)? What else exists right in front of me, hiding paradise potential if only I bothered to notice?

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Grateful for the Generosity of Artists

I'm trying to write a short piece about gratitude for a reading we're doing at school soon. At the same time, as we continue to defend the arts and humanities at my school, it's art that comes to mind when I think of gratitude. Why? I guess because it's something I've taken for granted. My parents are artists. The smell of paint thinner is as nostalgic to me as chocolate chip cookies. Although I've made arguments for the validity and importance of the arts for the college curriculum, I'm not sure I've really felt their importance in my life distinctly, not passionately the way some of my colleagues do.

This weekend, my man and I attended the Stormy Weather Arts Festival in Cannon Beach for the third year in a row. Also for the third time, I left the weekend with my mind pried wide open, eagerly seeking any chance to be creative, to connect with creative folks, to stretch and see what I might be able to make all on my own. There's something else, too, and I don't know if it's love or gratitude or both. For example, the last two years we saw Lillian Pitt. Do you know of her? She's a local artist with an international name. I think I was in high school when I first heard her speak at a gallery, and the funny thing is that I remember her being very tall and powerful. It's funny because she's not tall at all, but she is powerful. She has dark black hair and deep black eyes that remind me of the stoic and observant clay masks she is most famous for. Our wedding rings were made by her, which is how we were lucky enough to get to know her a little. When we saw her the last two years, she checked on our rings and updated us about her demanding work schedule. Last year, she kissed me on both cheeks when we said good bye. This year, she hugged me and called my man her "kindred spirit."

Last year, her warm goodbye awakened me, made me finally realize that I'd stopped following a path of creativity and art, that I wanted back on the path, that I wanted to be an artist, as in, someone creating, making, rendering. I guess you don't know what you've got until it's gone. It's now that I realize not everyone grows up with a mom who can teach them to paint, to sculpt, to cook, to sew, to embroider, to knit and crochet with a dad who can teach them photography, piano, precise measurements for making frames or cutting paper, and how to draw in proper perspective. Everyone needs this; I'm only now realizing how many only get it outside their home, outside their upbringing.

Also this year, I got to meet Josh Tobey the artist who created Oso, the bear in our living room. My man knew the artist when they were younger and wondered if he'd recognize him at the art festival. Sure enough, a tall, outdoorsy man looking like he walked right out of a Calvin Klein ad greeted us. As we talked, he leaned familiarly against one of his bronze sculptures, one we adore, one that costs almost $20,000! My man and I walked around the sculpture delicately, refraining from touching it.

I realize now that art is not precious. Precious is not really a good thing to be, or at least it should be reserved for miniature dogs and little ceramic figurines. As Josh leaned into his piece of art, I saw strength, both in the artist and the art. Josh talked about working 16 hour days for weeks on end until a piece is finished. But, once it's done, he's out to the woods, to the rivers, to fish and break free. His hands seemed calloused both from the labor of rendering a life-sized elk out of clay and then molten bronze as well as from the woods.

Before we left, he handed us a tiny, heavy sculpture of a bear, the size of a pebble compared to the rest of his boulder sized pieces. It's a worry stone. The coating wears off as the owner rubs it, leaving patina only in the crevices of the bear's curled, anxious pose (he's curled in a ball and biting his own foot as he frets). A generous gift, one not for sale his beautiful wife informs us, "only for friends."

Of course I want to preserve him. I left him nestled in my palm on top of the protective paper he was wrapped in. "You can throw that away," Josh said about the paper, "just keep in him your pocket." All I could think about was a coin scratching him, mussing up his finish. The artist wants the work to be used, to be displayed or worn, touched, even changed by that interaction. This confidence and trust struck me, confidence in the artwork, in the piece's independence.

I don't know how any of this relates to gratitude, but the ideas are attached somewhere. The artists handed us their work like a gardener--not delicately with artfully outstretched palms but pragmatically, tearing the squash off of the vine, hoisting it up, and handing it over with satisfaction that they've just provided you with something useful, something you'll eat, something that will nourish you.

Art is practical and nourishing.

I like generous artists, like the yarn shop owner who sat with me and poured over two patterns, convincing me I could manage their complexity. When I gushed over the dress she'd made out of video tape--seriously, all those old VHS tapes turn into shimmering, soft, draping skirts and dresses; you have to see it to believe it--she simply said "thank you" in a tone that seemed to mean she knew she'd made something unique, difficult, impressive, but no need to gush because that was just one of many days' work, you know?

Okay, well, art and artist as generous, practical, pragmatic, nourishing...as gratitude...???

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Go Slow: Backbends and Compassionate Teaching

This is my long-time pet, OB (or Obie). She's a box turtle. We've known each other for at least 15 years now. I think of her when I practice yoga each morning because there's a pose that means "turtle." It's a strangely peaceful pose, legs under arms, head resting on heels, all tucked away and private. I also think of her because it's taking me so long to practice back bends without my teachers' help. I feel apologetic for always needing them to help me drop back to the floor into a back bend from a standing position.

Today, my teacher insisted that she didn't help me at all, just stood near me, touched my hips when it was time for me to face that split-second of free fall that feels a little like dying might. Seriously. My hands might be just inches from the floor, but it feels like miles of space, like I'm diving backwards into a black hole. It was good that I landed on my head today (you're supposed to land on your hands, in case that isn't obvious. Head landings are not good.). At least now maybe I'll believe it's not a black hole, just the wood floor and my thin yoga mat. (It didn't hurt, just made a lot of noise.)

Meanwhile, at school, we just finished the fourth week of fall term. The calm, present mind that I brought back with me from sabbatical has started to give way to the more familiar "enmeshment." You know, when you're so enmeshed priorities are not clear, nothing is clear, and you spin your wheels in an attempt to get work done, even if you can't name what it is you're trying to accomplish.

Yesterday, thoughts about two students weighed on me, circular thoughts about why they don't try harder, what I can do to motivate them, why it is they don't try... Then, I overheard someone say in yoga this morning, "...such a compassionate teacher..." I heard nothing else, but the phrase has stuck with me, and without knowing exactly what a compassionate teacher is, I know it's what I want to be.

I don't think it means being the "nice" teacher, smiling with infinite patience. No. I think about the phrase my other yoga teacher gave me recently. He said to cultivate a "compassionate wrath." Not anger or vengeance, exactly, more like fierce determination. I think he used the example of shouting at a dog or a child running out into a busy street. You'd shout in a commanding, harsh way. You wouldn't say it elaborately like a nice teacher might: "I sense that you're not putting as much effort into this class as you possibly could, especially with the potential I see in you." You wouldn't exactly shout like a coach might: "Come on Jones. Push it!" Something in the middle. But what is that?

Maybe I don't have much wrath in me. Hopefully enough to keep dogs and children from wandering into busy intersections, but not much more than that. I have strength, discipline, determination. When it comes to yoga and teaching, I keep showing up. Some days, that's pretty impressive.

Wrath, fierceness, these are not my path. Maybe slowness is my path. Like OB, we're cautious but determined. She'll hiss and hide her head and limbs inside her shell (although a dollop of armpit peaks out because summer garden bounty has made her a little plump for her shell), but when she's ready, she comes back out and scales walls taller than she is, pushes dining room chairs out of her way, even opens doors by ramming into them repeatedly, casting bits of white paint chips on her shell. Ha! Well, teaching and yoga practice feel like that sometimes, like ramming into a door again and again and again, doggedly hopeful it's going to open and shed some light.

I don't know if I've ever shown it in the classroom, but I think I do have compassionate wrath. Politeness holds me back from what I say in my own private mind. I am the coach shouting, "Come on Jones! Push it! What are you here for? To flirt with pretty girls or conquer the comma splice once and for all? Come on man. Get in the game!"

If you know me, you're laughing, right? You've never heard me say this, right? But I do say it in my head. Maybe I should let it out?
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