Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: You've got to hug your farmer

Peter and I have a very small weekly food budget. It works out to be about $2.50 per person per meal for three meals a day, 7 days a week—and in weeks where there are very few yoga students, that budget drops even lower. There’s a direct connection between work and food for us, which is, by turns, equally stressful and beautiful. It grounds us, but it also often freaks me out. Finding creative, nutritious mostly vegan ways to feed us is a high-stakes adventure. Like everything in life, it’s a practice.

This spring/summer we have made the decision to dedicate 25% of our food money to fresh, local produce from our beloved local farmers. 20% of our weekly budget will go toward our CSA share in Lally Broch Farm, a compassionate and creative homestead doing really good work in the world. We had to pay in advance, which took some kerfoobling, but I made it happen because it matters; it matters in all sorts of ways. The other 5% will go to farm stand and farmers’ market purchases.

Yesterday, I got very panicky about my decision to write such a big check. What if the weather is poor and the farm’s crops fail? What if I’m too tired or too busy or too confused to find ways to prepare or store all of that beautiful perishable produce? In the past, my farm shares have often wound up being compost shares, because I had to compost so many things that wilted before I could figure out how to eat them. (What on earth does one do with celeriac? How much kale can one person really eat?)

But having taken a few years off from farm-sharing, I spent that time doing two vital things: healing my body and learning to cook. I’m still not 100% well, but I have enough energy and stamina to cook more often than not. And I’ve learned how to improvise with what I have in the kitchen. Armed with a salad spinner, a good knife, and my stick blender, I can make anything into a soup or a smoothie.

My hand shook as I took out my checkbook this morning to write my farm share check, but, like everything in life, eating well is a practice. Having faith in one’s ability to be healthy and strong and creative enough to cook is a practice. And if I know how to do anything, I know how to practice. This is what yoga teaches us. Don’t worry; just practice. So, I took a nice, deep breath. I let it out. I found my courage. And I wrote the check. Two and a half weeks of food money all at once, to one place. I made the commitment.

And I was rewarded by a visit from the kindest, most beautiful farmer you could ever imagine. She arrived as planned on my doorstep this morning, wearing striped tights (my favorite!) and beautiful jewelry she made herself out of eggshells (eggshells, I tell you!) and she handed me my pre-season delights: radishes, chives, fresh rosemary, thyme, & mint; beet greens and bok choy (I think); and a spring salad mix. All washed and neatly bagged and fairly broadcasting the loving energy with with they were planted and cultivated and cleaned and brought to me.

We stood there in the sunshine on this bright June day, both overjoyed. She thanked me for some kind things I had posted on Facebook, just when she needed them recently. Her eyes welled up with tears of happiness and gratitude. And when I opened my beautiful bag of greens and herbs, mine did, too. (She even threw in a welcome gift of lavender soap!)

I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I said, “Are you a hugger?” And she embraced me in the warmest hug you could imagine and then she stepped back and smiled and said with jolly vibes and deep sincerity: “You’ve got to hug your farmer!”

Indeed, my friends, you really, really do.

My first pre-season delivery from Lally Broch Farm.

Tales from Rural Maine: Corned Beef

Today, my grandmother invited me to an Easter/Irish celebration happening next Saturday in Orrington, which features as a highlight, corned beef. She mentioned the corned beef roughly seven times in our conversation. Every time, she said it like it was exciting, like they were offering hot air balloon rides or fresh apple cider. And each time, I cringed. But we were on the phone, so she couldn't see that.

I've been a vegetarian, pescetarian, or vegan for 21 years. I haven't eaten beef, corned or otherwise, since before I could vote. Suggesting to a compassionate vegetarian that she really ought to attend an event highlighting corned beef is not a particularly thoughtful invitation. To be honest, I felt confused, unhappy and uncomfortable. But, I didn't want to be rude. I also didn't understand why she would be advertising corned beef to me. So, finding nothing more clever or graceful to do, I just didn't acknowledge the corned beef. Which is why she kept mentioning it. Finally, my lack of response encouraged her to take a different tack.

"Oh!" She said. "I know! The corned beef is from Wee Bit Farm. I bet you know them!"

I took a deep breath, as yogis are likely to do in these types of situations.

"Yes," I said, slowly. "I know those cows. They are lovely and have beautiful long hair. To be honest, I prefer them when they are alive."

"Oh," said my grandmother. Now it was her turn to be silent while she figured out what to say. I gave her a moment and we paused. And then she said, "It hadn't occurred to me that corned beef was made from cows."

And this, my friends, is the problem with meat-centric culture. I love my grandmother. My grandmother loves me. She was attempting to be kind by including me on an Easter/Irish adventure. I share this dialog not to point out something about my nearly 82-year old grandmother, but because it's just such a clear illustration of how most American meat eaters completely disconnect from what they are actually eating. It's corned dead cows. I don't know what "corned" is, but I know--I really, really know--what "beef" is. And so should you.

Cows are really sweet, gentle beings with simple needs and big, beautiful eyes. They feel fear and hunger and pain. They enjoy comfort and companionship. They experience suffering when their physical bodies are harmed or when their emotional bodies are tormented. If you want to eat them, go ahead. I’m pro-choice. Eat what you want. But do yourself the kindness of making a mindful choice. (And if you’d like to try some vegan food, there’s a vegan meet-up at McLeod’s in Bucksport on Saturday night (3/23)—same day as the corned beef event in Orrington.)

I will also say that the cows in the corned beef in question were not factory farmed. The folks at Wee Bit Farm and I feel differently about how cows stack up in our world view, but they are not out in Orland cramming thousands of cows into hideous spaces. I'm not here to criticize the folks at Wee Bit. If you're going to eat corned beef, better that you get it from cows that have lived a good life nearby before they were ground up to make your dinner.

My point is really this: My choice is not to kill cows (or any other mammal) for food; your choice is your own. Whatever choice you make, I just really think we would treat our "food"--and ultimately ourselves--better if we first treated the animals we kill for food like the living, loving, sentient beings that they are. And one of the ways we can do that is by acknowledging what our food really is and where it really comes from.

This is Christopher, who will never be eaten because he is lucky enough to live at the Maine Farm Animal Advocates  sanctuary in Orland, Maine. Christopher is very peaceful and when young guests come to the sanctuary, he is the easiest friend to pet. His curls feel really wonderful and his size is hard to comprehend, even for grown-ups.

Tales from Rural Maine: Inauguration Day

There are some serious downsides to small-town life--they are numerous and they are onerous--but among the gifts are the following, all of which I received today:

A high school friend dropped by with dinner for me and Pete, just because she loves us; she was making a meal for someone else we love whose father is ill, so she made us something, too, and dropped it at our door;

my neighbor and I teamed up to get an injured stray cat who hangs out in our yards neutered and healed up; he was hit by a car a month ago and developed a necrotic tail; I don’t even know my neighbor’s last name, but I loaned her a cat carrier; and when she rang the bell at 7am—it was 10 degrees outside—and told me she’d managed to catch our stray, I called the vet, put on my clothes and drove our little friend to Orrington, 15 minutes away; 

all of the techs at my vet's office were happy to see me and chatted like we were pals on both my visits there today; 

my dad picked me up at the garage in Bucksport and then drove me to Orrington and back to pick up the aforementioned cat ("Batty") because my car was having trouble and I felt nervous about taking it to back to Orrington in this cold with a kitty fresh from surgery in my care; he dropped what he was doing and came, happily, to help; 

the guy at the garage--who is also a farmer--greeted me by name with a smile and kept me company while I waited for my dad, during which time I actually learned a lot of interesting stuff about cows; 

my pre-school teacher wrote me a beautiful, compassionate e-mail because she knew the poem at the inauguration would have  made me cry; she was right; it all made me cry; I even cried when they introduced, "Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton"; I felt the extraordinary progress of women in that moment and my heart sang for the suffering and triumph it signified; thank you Lucy Stone; thank you Elizabeth Cady Stanton; thank you Seneca Falls; and while we’re at it, thank you Myrlie Evers-Williams.

My pre-school teacher is a poet, so she understands a lot about how the world feels to me, how beauty cracks me open and progress makes me weep; how justice and equality lift me so high my wings sprout wings; and even though I've only seen this teacher/poet once since 1977, she wrote to me today because she loves my heart, always has done, and she knew we were together in our tears for beauty today.

In the midst of cold and darkness; in the midst of strife and lack; in the midst of all the things that are small in the not-good way about life in this particular town, it is the gratitude that fills me up.

I teach my students that we all have "armadillo magic.” We can build a strong physical and energetic armor to protect us, to free us to have boldly tender hearts.

To every person in my life who ever said I was too sensitive--and you are legion--I say to you now, from behind my armadillo skin (my own Declaration of Independence, my own invocation and benediction, my own anthem, my own inauguration speech): You are wrong. 

You may see my gifts as flaws, and for almost all of my life, I did, too; I believed you when you said those things. But I am a teacher now and a healer. I am forty and you can’t fool me anymore.

And if you don’t believe me, there is a poet here in Maine who has known me since before I could write the poetry that is my own name, and she (and my sweetheart and my students) will stand with me, I am certain, when I say, again, you are so very wrong. 

Little me, at New Alderbrook pre-school, 1975.

Tales from Rural Maine: Free range

While on the phone this morning discussing with Smith's career counselor the particular challenges and advantages of launching a new career from rural Maine, the doorbell rang and standing there in the snow, which we haven't shoveled yet, was a smiling high school classmate with the gift of a dozen eggs. She would not accept any money for them and simply said that her mom hoped I'd like them. Regardless of where my career goes while here in Bucksport, at least we shall have fresh eggs. (And another friend dropped off a cord of wood earlier this winter.) Also of note: I answered the door in my long underwear.

Tales from Rural Maine: Sunrise breakfast

I've started hanging out at the senior center with my grandmother recently. Her husband, the love of her life, passed away last year, so she's on her own and I started going to lunch with her because I wanted to do something to help her feel less alone. But I immediately began to love the experience for its own sake.


We eat lunch at 11:30, but other than that it's great. The food's fantastic and it's only $4 for a delicious home-cooked meal. Because we live in a small town, *of course* the meals are prepared by the former stepfather and half-sister of a high school friend/ex-boyfriend of mine. On my first visit, my grandmother took me back to the kitchen so I could say "hi" and while I felt shy about it, it turned out to be wonderful.


I see people there--like my other grandmother and the parents of high school friends--that are so happy to see me, and I them. And I have all these new friends there now. Like Jeannie, who is in her 80s and always brings a container so she can take half her lunch home for later. We say a prayer before every meal, usually something we can sing set to a familiar melody, like Jingle Bells ("Thank you Lord, Thank you Lord, for this food today.") We pledge allegiance to the flag and I always get all teary and choked up during that part. 


I love America. I can never say the Pledge without feeling the beauty and sacrifice that went into creating this great democratic republic. Where some people might keep a Bible in their nightstands, I keep a pocket copy of the Constitution signed by Dennis Kucinich. But, I digress.


I generally drink coffee at the senior center because the meal is so early in the day, but there is always something sweetly kindergarten-like to choose from, as well, like lemonade or sparkly pink drink.


I've started dragging Pete with me to the senior lunches. Because they happen at 11:30, he calls them "sunrise breakfasts."


I finally realized: being unemployed is like being a senior citizen. I'm on a fixed income, but I have all the time in the world. And it feels really nice to have something planned in your day, like a sunrise breakfast, if for no other reason than to have a chance to visit and smile and eat something nutritious, delicious and affordable in the company of friends.

Tales from Rural Maine: "Going Gluten-free"

It's not easy to be gluten-free; particularly if you live someplace where pizza and Italians (subs) are the only viable take-out and the nearest health food store is 45 minutes round-trip and closes before you even get out of work. Since I've only recently returned here after two decades in more...shall we say..."developed" areas, such as San Francisco, Washington, D.C., and Northampton, MA, part of the quest is not just knowing what I need and how to prepare it (big challenges on their own), but where to gather all the ingredients--and then making the time to forage while also working 40+ hours, trying to exercise, having a life, looking for health insurance, and first looking for a house and now owning one that needs work.

I spent an hour in the Shaw's in Ellsworth on Saturday, for instance, looking for non-dairy yogurt. They sell it at Hannaford so I assumed it would be at Shaw's. Truth be told, it took me nearly an hour to remember I wasn't in Hannaford. Nevertheless, even with the help of three determined staffers who insisted it was in the store, we were utterly unable to locate the soy- or coconut-based yogurts for which I quested. (I wanted them because breakfast is one of my real problem areas and since I don't eat meat, gluten, or dairy (mostly), I wanted the alterna-yogurts I'd been used to--the ones I bought in bulk at Hannaford in Brewer.)

Once I learn the ropes, I think the time it takes to acquire things will go down, but for now, there are still a great many hours spent looking for vegan cheeses and miso that could be spent doing something more useful, like painting my laundry room or watching four hours of NCIS on DVD (or actually trying to cook something).

One thing I know for sure: there is no shortage of information. Quite the contrary. If you mention to anyone--even a stranger at the grocery store who spies you loading Bob's Red Mill gluten-free-something in your cart and asks--that you are gluten-free, you will be immediately asked, "Have you read the blogs?" No matter what your answer, you will then be showered with information, suggestions, a torrent of details and stories about afflicted loved ones that is so well-meaning and yet just too much to take.

As I told my friend Mav (in the ancient tradition of mixed metaphor) when she offered to provide copious amounts of great cooking and eating tips in response to my last gluten-free blog post, but first checked to see if I could handle any more input: "I mostly feel like I'm a sturdy little thimble positioned at the mouth of the great Mississippi. Open wide and try to filter *all that information* into something you can eat. So, yes, thank you for the loving restraint when it comes to tips. I DO want them, but my little sponge of a brain is nearly soaked. I'm tired and hungry and frustrated. One meal at a time. Must go slowly. Can't cope with onslaught of advice. You have my e-mail, though: you could drop me gluten guidance there, if you want? And I'll pop in when I can and have a nibble?"

And that's just it. I love Mav for understanding that I couldn't just get battered by tips: because that's what they usually feel like. Battering. No matter how lovingly given, I'm like a plant that's been overwatered. (Hurray! Another mixed metaphor!) I do want help, but first I just really need to absorb what I already have.

I do thank Renee from Hannaford in Bucksport, though, who saw me checking out with Mike's Hard Lemonade this summer and let me know that malt means gluten. Rats! And to Mark (my sweet friend and realtor), who was the first to tell me that Hannaford in Bucksport sells Redbridge, a gluten-free beer. Problem identified. Problem solved. (Want more gluten-free beers. Here's a super site.)

Some tips are really helpful. Other tips, like, for instance, "You can Google it," are not. One is a tiny, well-aimed drop; the other is like turning the hose on me.

I do thank everyone who is trying to help. And I ask you to please poke your hand gently in my soil before you dump in any more water, lest I drown (or catch you with a thorn).

The exception is actual food delivery. Presenting me with recipes or lists of blogs means I have to do more reading, more thinking, more foraging, and potentially more failing at preparation. Then I have to clean up. But, if you want to invite me to a gluten-free, semi-vegan meal--or, say, drop a suitable hot dish off at my place--well, then, my friend, you are always welcome to feed me.

I decided to start blogging about being gluten-free with my own particular parameters (the nearly vegan, onion-allergic, mushroom-averse me) because I do think it's worthwhile and helpful for all the celiacs and gluten-challenged among us to speak up and share on this great cyber river of muddy information we like to call the Interweb. If you are looking for help or hope or company, here I am. I'm glad you found me. Just don't expect me to read your blog.

Here's the latest one-day-at-a-time menu update:

November 17, 2009
1.5 cups coffee w/2 cubes raw sugar
coconut milk yogurt (from Hannaford in Brewer!)
gluten-free granola (I can't remember now where I landed that. Rats.)
soy chocolate pudding (which I think is located either in the dairy case or the produce section at Shaw's in Ellsworth)
1 bowl homemade vegetable soup (You can find the recipe on page 251 of The Kind Diet by Alicia Silverstone.)
gluten-free french roll toasted with raw, organic honey and earth balance margerine
one glass Riesling (I hope it was gluten-free? I don't know. Can wine have gluten?)
Grilled salmon with mashed potatoes and cole slaw (restaurant)
water
Andes mint

November 18, 2009
1.5 cups coffee w/2 cubes raw sugar
water
3 gluten-free waffles with margerine and real syrup
organic applesauce
homemade veg. soup (note to self: make LESS soup next time!)
gluten-free crackers (they're made from nuts!)
vegan cheese (it's made from nuts!)

3 Junior Mints Deluxe Dark Chocolate Mints (both gluten-free and vegan, I think)

1/2 Fuji apple
soy chocolate pudding
Shahi Korma, 3/4 lunch-sized portion (Taste of India, Bangor)
papadam (it's made from lentils!)
basmati rice
Polar orange dry seltzer

That damn soup is finally gone. And I think I might be out of non-yogurt-yogurt. Damn! I should have had Peter get some today when he was in Bangor. See? This is what's hard about it. Stock up and re-supply. It's like planning for a freaking revolution.

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Gluten-free diet: Breakfast, lunch, and dinner

Eating gluten-free is a total pain in the ass, especially when you're first learning. There's a lot of frustration, mix-ups, and starvation. There's a lot of effort and aggravation--and slip-ups.

In my first month of being gluten-free, for instance, I drank non-alcoholic beer frequently, never imagining I was guzzling gluten. Slowly, I'm learning. I try not to beat myself up or worry. I'm doing the best I can. That's my motto. And, about half-way through my third month, I am actually feeling better.

Now that I have my own home, which means my own kitchen, it's much easier to work on eating gluten-free than it was when I was living in the camper. Living in rural Maine, I don't have easy access to gluten-free products or other necessary supplies, but now that I have my own space, I can bulk buy and store multiple loaves of rice-based bread or tofu steaks in my freezer, if I want to.

Because I'm also a vegan-leaning vegetarian who eats fish and "happy" chicken, but who gets sick from eggs and most dairy and is allergic to onions, I'm extra-special pinched when it comes to feeding myself. Most gluten-free cookbooks rely heavily on meat dishes; most vegetarian cookbooks rely heavily on gluten-infested breads, pastas, and fake meat products--or the dreaded hummus or mushroom-based meal. (I don't like most hummus or mushrooms and I can't stand olives, goat cheese, or sundried tomatoes. Gag me.)

With everything that's been going on in my life since the advent of the gluten-free diet decision, I haven't had the energy or time to dig up recipes that are palatable and realistic. Living where I live, it's not easy to find a daikon radish or some ghee. Or seitan? Forget about it. Plus, have I mentioned? I am a terrible cook. No. Really. I am. I burn toast. I under cook and over cook. I make good flavors go bad. It's a giant comic tragedy almost every time I try to make food.

But, I *have* to eat. And I have to eat healthy. So, in a gesture of solidarity with anyone else out there with the same dietary restrictions as me, I offer a sample menu. Here's what I ate today:

1 bowl gluten-free organic cereal with rice milk, sort of a knock-off yet pricier version of Cocoa Crispies.
Lots of water
1 glass water doused with packet of Emergen-C
1.5 cups coffee with two raw sugar cubes
1 bowl homemade vegetable soup, leftover from a surprisingly successful attempt at cooking (by me) this weekend. You can find the recipe on page 251 of The Kind Diet by Alicia Silverstone.
1 gluten-free "french roll" (really more like a biscuit) toasted (so as not to be frozen any more) with organic raw honey and smart balance margerine. (So yummy!)
one large serving organic jasmine rice, frozen (microwaved)
one gluten-free, vegetarian chili meal, frozen (microwaved) ("Helen's Kitchen Simple Health Hearty Bean Chili with Vegetables & TofuSteaks")
dollop all natural sour cream
3 Junior Mints Deluxe Dark Chocolate Mints (both gluten-free and vegan, I think)
1 sandwich made with gluten-free bread (frozen) toasted, with melted almond-based vegan cheese and vegenaise, and a leftover tofu steak (originally frozen, also Helen's Kitchen brand and totally delicious)
Two organic celery stalks
Handful of Lay's potato chips

I'm still hungry, but it was a successful day--the kind of day that makes me think I can actually do this.

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