Slow Eating

Slow eating. 

I am not referring to the Slow Food movement, which was started in the 1980s to counteract the loss of local food cultures and traditions, including preserving, restoring, and promoting heritage stock from apples to turkeys. 

No, this is a movement of one, founded (out of necessity) in our home. I'm the one.

A week ago, meaning to have a healthy snack after a superb walk, I eschewed the easy carbs of cookies and crackers, and made myself a small bowl of popcorn. About seven bites in, I heard a crack. 

I had bit a kernel.

I spit out what I had in my mouth. No tooth bits, no anything. I touched my finger in my mouth. Okay, no blood either. So must have just been a very loud kernel, right?

Two more small portions of popcorn and I realized something just didn't feel right. I went to the bathroom and opened my mouth wide. Everything looked okay. But when I put my index finger on the tooth in the area that felt different, I was able to move the tooth. 

That's never a good sign.

I saw my dentist the next day. He made the very same comment: never a good sign to be able to wiggle a tooth, April. One x-ray later and we had the verdict: I had broken a tooth. Given that I had no pain, no bleeding, and no sensitivity to hot or cold, my dentist concluded that the tooth was dead and this had just been waiting to happen.

Because of the years of treatment and variety of drugs I have had for my myeloma, I have to go to an oral surgeon for any extraction. Fortunately, we have a superb one in town who has worked on my mouth off and on since 2005. While I was still in the dentist chair, my dentist had called and made an appointment for the extraction. It was a week later. In the meantime, he said, watch how you eat.

"Watch how you eat" translates into slowing way down and eating slowly. Really, really slowly.

As I just shared in a letter to my friend Katrina (spoiler alert, Katrina!), eating slowly has been a revelation. First, because I am chewing my food so slowly, I am paying more attention to what it tastes like and what its texture is. Second, because I am eating slowly, I am aware of the feeling of fullness when it arrives. All those nutritionists and dietitians are right: your brain gets the message of fullness from the stomach after you have eaten more than enough, so many people tend to overeat (a little, a lot) because of the delay in the messaging. Having to eat more slowly made me aware that I felt fuller on smaller portions.

Who knew?

The third revelation is a combination of an old memory and embarrassment that it took a broken tooth to drive the point home. I eat fast. Period. I "knew" that, but I had tucked that knowledge away. The old memory is a long-ago lunch with my then boss and mentor at my law school job back in Portland. Don treated me to lunch at a nearby cafe. We talked, our food came, and we started eating. Don looked at me after a few minutes and said, more or less, "Slow down, April! You're not a starving college student anymore!" I turned bright red and we both laughed.

That's the memory, one that makes me smile because I thought the world of Don. (Still do.) The embarrassment is that it is has been 40+ years since we had that conversation, and here I am (or was up until last week) still eating quickly.

The tooth came out this morning in one gentle twist as it was undeniably and reliably dead (and had a very shallow root to boot). I am on soft foods only today and limited in what I may eat for the next few days. 

After that, my goal is to not return to my hectic eating pace in the days and months to come. There is always enough food; I just need to slow down and savor it.

The Slow Eating Movement. You read it here first, my friends.

Fitzgerald Was Not Wrong

F. Scott Fitzgerald in his later years

 Poor F. Scott. Decades later, he is still misquoted. 

We all think he wrote, "There are no second acts in American lives." But he didn't write that. What he actually wrote was, "I once thought that there were no second acts in American lives, but there was certainly to be a second act to New York's boom days" in a 1933 story called "My Lost City." 

And apparently some version of that line about no second acts showed up in his working notes for The Last Tycoon, the novel he was working on at the time of his death at age 44. Some Fitzgerald scholars see The Last Tycoon as Fitzgerald's own second act to regain his stature as a major American novelist.

I know the feeling of the next act. I'm easily now on my 8th or 9th act, maybe more, depending on where I count from and what I count as an act. And 2023 has, for a variety of reasons, made me wonder what my next act is. 

Last week, at an appointment with my PCP, I said to her, "Don't get this wrong, but I never intended to live this long. I mean, I am truly grateful, but I didn't plan on this!" 

We both started laughing at the same time. What a great problem to have!

But that realization—that I never planned on this given the myeloma—has been on my mind all these first 18 days of 2023.

So what does 2023 look like? 

I have stepped away from most (almost all) of the Legal Clinic, a volunteer effort I have spent much of the last decade and a half deeply involved with. I stepped off the steering committee, I stepped away from the day-to-day operations as of the end of the year. Because of some unexpected December problems. I spent several hours in the last days of 2022 working with my friend Mel (who is Executive Director at Andrews House, which has hosted the Legal Clinic for its 19+ years of existence) cleaning up the mess. I left that meeting with a short list of items to take care of by the next day. Later that next day, Warren and I were driving somewhere and I told him I had finished the list and everything was wrapped up with Clinic. He asked me if I felt okay about that. 

Okay? I felt more than okay, I told him. I felt good and I felt done. I knew it was the right decision to step away finally.

One thing that not planning to live this long has done is make me take a long look at my finances. I'm okay financially. I have a small monthly pension from OPERS (Ohio Public Employee Retirement System) from my years at Juvenile Court and, laughingly, my years on the Civil Service Commission (for which I took the modest honorarium as annual pay, causing my years of service to count as OPERS credit, to my advantage when I got hired at Juvie). By my personal standards, I have a good amount in a savings account, mostly funded by my retirement payout and a bequest from a longtime client and friend who died in 2021. I have not started to draw my social security (I am full retirement age) and this is where the "not planning to live this long" financial planning we did several years back comes into play. Warren will switch to my spousal benefit after my death because it is larger than his. If I continue to live on and delay taking it until 70, he will get the largest benefit due me, which would be about $400 more a month than if I start drawing it in this year at any time. When we discussed this several years about with a financial advisor, I had no doubt I would not be here this long.

 Well, here I am. Now what?  

Not the most immediate problem, but definitely a note in the back of my mind. 

 I do not make resolutions when January 1 rolls around. But I do think about goals, as do some of my friends. What do we want to try to do in this coming year? The same words keep coming up: pay more attention to our health, exercise more regularly, gardening (well, of course!), more reading (the same), working on personal projects (sewing, painting, writing). 

On that last one, looking at the changes in my days without the Legal Clinic, I took a deep breath and told myself to start writing. Not "Oh, I'll think about that and get to it later" and certainly not "I'll wait until inspiration hits." Finally, finally, after years of shutting my eyes to it, I am writing every day. Every. Day. I set my alarm for 15 minutes and write. (As I type this at my study desk, I can look sideways and see the words of Richard Wagamese, an Ojibway writer, taped to my wall. "Just write. Every day. Fifteen minutes." Wagamese was right.) Most days, I continue writing after the alarm goes off, but I make sure I get those 15 minutes in.

I have now outlived F. Scott Fitzgerald by almost 23 years. I'm quite sure he did not expect to die at age 44. And I never expected to see 60, let alone be pushing 67. 

Let's see what this next act brings. 

Fourth Quarter Pennies Review: Wrapping Up 2022

 

Well, 2022 is at an end, I have tallied the numbers, and we are both looking ahead to what 2023 holds on the grocery front. Let's just say there were some surprises.

In the 4th quarter of 2022, we spent $704.29 on groceries. $644.70 of that was on food, $59.59 was on household items (toilet paper, dish detergent, parchment paper). Average per month in the 4th quarter? $234.76.

Average monthly spending on groceries for 2022? $240.62.

Food prices continue to fluctuate and baffle. After oatmeal jumped to $3.49 at Aldi earlier this year, it was down a dollar when we did a stock-up shopping in December. A dollar. That was not due to shrink-flation either; those were the prices on a 42 ounce container of old-fashioned rolled oats. Mayonnaise is up another dollar since midyear; it is up over a dollar and a half since early 2022. Flour, which rose 50¢ midyear for a five pound bag of unbleached Kroger brand, came down 20¢ by year's end. Milk has leveled out from midyear highs. On the other hand, eggs continue to be staggeringly expensive.

The egg prices reminded me of a long-ago colleague who took the California bar exam unsuccessfully four times in the early 1980s and finally shelved her dream of practicing law. A single mom, she told me that when she was trying to pass the bar and would have to cut back on her work to study for it, her kids had to live on ramen and eggs because money was so tight, and it just wasn't fair to her kids to do that for her to pursue the lawyer dream. Fast forward 40 years and I'm thinking she wouldn't begin to be able to feed her kids the eggs she relied on for protein during those lean times.

There was a 4th quarter goof that, in the name of transparency, I have to share. In too much of a rush during one morning shopping trip, I reached for and bought not the Kroger ground turkey one pound in the tube (with the special coupon driving its price way down) but the Simple Truth (Kroger's "pure" brand) ground turkey ($5.99) and (again, reaching far too fast and not paying attention) the organic Simple Truth ground turkey (($7.99). I did not realize my error until we were driving home. (Warren to me: Should I turn around so you can go in and fix it? Me: No, I'm embarrassed and it's my own fault.) That was a $9.00 error. (So what did I do the special ground turkey? Divided it into half-pound portions, which I then froze, and have been doling out very slowly since then, that's what.)

Moral of that story? Match the sale coupon item with the RIGHT product!

We (well, especially me) had a much bigger grocery buying discovery (well, shock) that happened just this weekend on the very last day of 2022. The shock came at home, not at the store, and it is all entirely our (again, primarily my) doing. We had gotten several free bread items that would need stored in the freezer so as to not go bad before we could eat it all. I asked Warren to help me with the basement freezer (an upright, 10 cf freezer); I would reorganize the kitchen freezer (the refrigerator freezer) before we tackled the one in the basement. 

The basement freezer was in pretty good shape in terms of organization. We had rearranged it a few months earlier, so much of what we did was just move some items around to free up some space.

The kitchen freezer? Oh. My. God. As I excavated it, I learned just how much GOOD FOOD I had squirreled away in there. Yes, I knew I had hot dogs in there. And some other items like popcorn and buckwheat flour. But bean soup? Diced pork frozen in meal-sized portions? Grated orange peel that I could have used in making biscotti this past holiday season? 

What. The. Heck?

I follow Hope and Larry Ware of Under the Median on YouTube. Inventorying your pantry, cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer regularly is a directive Hope often gives. I always credited myself with doing a mental inventory, although I knew I should be better as our pantry sometimes reveals surprises after we have bought a replacement at the store, but I didn't think I was too bad. Having now gone through my kitchen freezer, I now have Reasons #2931208 as to why Hope says to inventory what you have. 

Facepalm.

After all these, ahem, discoveries, I said to Warren, "Except for perishables, we should be able to go ALL of January with no groceries." That was yesterday. This morning, after thinking about it some more, I said, "Heck, we may make it through February without buying anything except perishables!"

On the bright side, as food waste rightfully gains more attention, we continue to keep ours to a minimum. Except for a very recent loss of about six celery sticks that had gone too long in the fridge to salvage (they hit the compost), and two opened, three-quarters empty jars of salsa that managed to mold, our food waste due to spoilage is about zero. And our food waste due to boredom ("Oh, let's not eat that again...") IS zero. In this country, residential (home) food waste is about 39%, or 21 million tons, of the total food waste a year. In addition to the savings of not wasting food, it really does make a difference. 

Goals looking into 2023?

One is the short-term challenge of getting through January without any grocery purchases except perishables. Looking into the refrigerator right now, that would be milk (me) and maybe orange juice (Warren).

The year's challenge is to bring our monthly spending down to $200.00 a month despite the higher food costs. There will be a garden, of course. And knowing now what I do about my squirreling-away tendency, and knowing that we are well-stocked on all fronts, I think that is doable.

Here's to 2023. 

A Thing of Beauty

Last weekend was the Percussive Arts Society International Convention (PASIC) in Indianapolis. It was my first time being there since 2019 as PASIC 2020 was canceled and I did not go with Warren in 2021. In past years, I have enthusiastically attended a number of the sessions and performances; this year, not so much. I still have Covid concerns, which I will always have with my compromised immune system and, not surprisingly, I was very uncomfortable being in a large-attendance setting. Even without the Covid concerns, I have not socialized for so long "in a crowd" that I seem to have lost some of that skill set. So I was off-kilter for most of PASIC. 

As a non-percussionist, I often drifted through the Exhibitors Hall in years past, looking at all the shiny cymbals and drums and such. I did some of that this year, especially at times when crowds inside the Hall were down because attendees were busy elsewhere. Still lots of shiny objects: fun to look at, of no use whatsoever to me. On the second day, Warren and I roamed through the Hall together, then he went on to a session. I read for a while in a remote lounge then wandered back into the Hall, looking at a few things, talking to some old friends.

And then I found the Turkish crescent that Cooperman Company was exhibiting in its booth. I had not noticed it on my first pass through the Hall, but I noticed it this time. I did not even know what it was called, but I was drawn to it immediately. It was about six feet tall, a tall, slim wooden rod with a crescent on top and then some saucers (my word) with bells hanging on the rim, and a trombone bell and another instrument bell (a trumpet, possible) below that, with more bells hanging off of them. It was brass, it was shiny, and I wanted nothing more than to take it home and put it in the garden (which would be heresy of the highest degree and destroy the instrument in the course of a season).

That's the Turkish Crescent leaning against a support, its top splitting the "d" and "e" of the sign behind it.

I struck up a conversation with one of the booth's attendants, an older man who saw me eyeing it. He explained what it was was, how it was used historically (with Turkish Janissary bands in battle) and in classical music (Mozart and Berlioz, among others). "We could make you one," he said, smiling. "We have one behind the curtain that someone is picking up at this convention. But we could sell you this one."

How much? $3500. But if I bought that one and took it, I wouldn't have shipping expenses (a not inconsequential factor when it comes to shipping percussion instruments because of their sizes, weights, and special needs). 

 I started laughing. "I live on a small retirement pension." 

The gentleman didn't miss a beat. "Eating is overrated." And then we both laughed as I walked away, looking back once over my shoulder at that thing of beauty and joy for ever. (Note: yes, Keats spelled it "for ever" (split) in Endymion. I checked.)

But the Turkish crescent stuck with me in a weird way. Not in my window shopping an exotic instrument. Not in my inquiring how much. No, my weird experience was I spent the next 30 minutes debating myself about buying that Turkish crescent, rationalizing that I could take the money from an account I have that was funded by a bequest from a former beloved client and friend. I went between "I know she would have wanted me to buy something that gave me so much pleasure" and (having known the client and her fiscal habits very well) "I know she would roll over in her grave at the thought of my spending that much money on something of no use to me whatsoever." 

I was still arguing with myself when I met up with Warren coming out of a session. When I told him of the instrument, he at once volunteered that he could make one. (My husband's side business is he is a custom percussion instrument builder, with highly prized skills.) No! I didn't want just any Turkish crescent. I wanted THAT Turkish crescent. 

I got a little teary. And then I let out a huge breath and said, truthfully, "There's no way I am buying it. I just can't spend that kind of money on something I would never use." (And Warren immediately pointed out that the Turkish crescent on display would rot in the garden.)

Warren suggested we walk over and look at it again. He is the one who took the above photo, which I refused to be in. (Although I had made my decision, it still brought out my worst inner toddler: "If I can't have it, I don't want to stand by it.")

But once he shot the photo, I let go of it. It was just another pretty, shiny, way cool object in Percussion Universe, and I was fine leaving it behind.

But I still think it would look way cool in the garden. Indeed a thing of beauty, albeit a joy for only a season.

Those Tomatoes!

 Back in October, I wrote about picking all of the remaining tomatoes in my garden. Between the cooler temperatures and the change in the slant of the sun, the ones still on the vine were not likely to ripen. As I noted a few days later, I gave some away and continued to put the remainder out daily for a sunbath.

What I picked back in October

We are now at mid-November and I am delighted, nay, thrilled, to report that I have continued to enjoy the tomatoes. A few hit the compost pile because they had problems that could not be cut out or worked around, but all the rest have been going on sandwiches and salads or just into my mouth as a snack. (Warren does not eat tomatoes, for the most part, so except for a few that ended up in a skillet dish, I am the one doing all the eating!)

As of this morning, here is my remaining ripe tomato stash:

A few are getting a little leathery, yet are still delicious. (I know, because I just popped two in my mouth while shooting this photo.)

I am not sure the ones lollygagging on the kitchen sill will make it to full ripeness, but they are still intact and not showing signs of decay:

The lollygaggers

Next week my dad will be joining us for Thanksgiving. I am hoping to be able to put some of the very last, if not the last, tomatoes of 2022 on his salad.

What a great tomato year! 

Small Things, Small Moments

This was two weeks ago in Minnesota, but trust me, Ohio has these same colors! 

Back in April, I wrote a small post in which I announced that I was no longer writing on Medium. In my Medium article, I let readers know that I do have this blog, but then warned them not to expect to find any stunning revelations. After all, this blog is "Small Moments of Great Reward."

"Small Moments," not "Great Big Honking Moments." Small moments. I try to write about what I see, what I do, how I manage my days. And as I make more deliberate efforts to write again, I remind myself that writing small is perfectly okay.

I take great comfort from E. B. White's observation about his own writing: "I discovered a long time ago that writing of the small things of the day...the inconsequential but near things of this living, was the only kind of creative work which I could accomplish with any sincerity or grace."

White was 30 years when he wrote those words to his older brother. If White were looking back and commenting on his own work today, he would likely still say that about himself, perhaps adding that even his children's books reflected those "small things of the day." 

If small things worked for Andy White, they sure as heck work for me.

As I noted in a long ago post that disappeared due to operator error (and which I paid homage to in that small April post), a small focus does not mean I have parked my intellect at the door. That being said, for the most part, this continues not to be a forum in which I make pithy, political observations or solve world issues. When I do write about the issues of the day such as hunger or access to justice or homelessness, it is almost always about how those issues play out on a local and personal level.

The last several weeks have been hard at times on several fronts. I learned this morning on Facebook that a colleague from the very early years of the mental health docket, someone whose contributions as a therapist were insightful and gracious and, at times, hilarious, and who had just celebrated his 69th birthday, died suddenly this morning. Thinking of him triggered memories of helping create that docket over a decade ago and then seeing the rewards. Warren's schedule has been beyond packed, straining personal time (his, mine, and ours) and any of our calendars. There are elderly parent issues, there are other matters in our circles of family and friends. The recession is hitting this community hard, which means the number of people needing legal help is hitting all-time highs. 

It has been tough.

But here's the thing: life goes on. Life rolls on despite the hardships and losses and I try to take joy in brighter moments. While the weather continues to shift into deeper autumn, we are still having brilliant days. Today is one such day; I took a long walk earlier just to soak in the colors in the trees, the blue sky, the sunshine.

In my last post, I wrote about the tomatoes and peppers sunning on the deck. Some of them are out there right now as I type this. We had a meal of roasted stuffed peppers a few nights ago; I chopped and froze the rest of them. I have eaten some of the tomatoes; I still have hopes of nurturing the others to eating stage. This morning I texted my friend Pat to see if she wanted any; she and her husband were about to go out of town for the weekend and she was thrilled to have them. (Talk about perfect timing!) I bagged six medium ones for them to pick up as they left When I handed her the bag, she cradled it to her heart.  I have a small bag of cherry tomatoes to take with me tomorrow to a meeting with Amy; she loves cherry tomatoes.  

They are the last tomatoes of 2022. May Pat and Amy enjoy theirs. As for the ones I have, I hope to savor every bite.

This Year's Gardens: End of the Season

The last of the garden

The garden year is over. 

As I wrote in my last post, I picked all of the remaining not-yet-ripe peppers and tomatoes a week ago and have been sunning them since Saturday on our deck in the hopes that some of them will ripen. While we are having a warm weekend ("warm" being in the 70s), the change in light and the cooler days in general spelled the end of them ripening on the vines. I am writing this Monday and there have been good results. We are still having a few more days of warm, sunny weather, so I am looking forward to a few more days for the tomatoes. The peppers, judging by their textures, are ready to call it a year. 

This was not a good gardening year on many fronts. We did manage to get three more cabbages, small red ones, from the Hej garden, much to my  surprise. Small? One was about the size of my fist. Maybe. They made the white cabbages from earlier in the summer look large. I chopped the three up and we had enough coleslaw to accompany our meals for several days. 

Tiny cabbages.

The cabbage crop!

Next year, I told myself as I chopped. Next year.

Next year's gardens have been on my mind a lot. A. Lot. How to approach them, what to plant, how to make sure the gardens thrive. We now have rabbit-fencing for the Hej garden and will roll it out at the beginning of the season. (Ha! Take that, rabbits! I hope the falcons come back and thin you out again.) So that is one small step.

What to plant is more nagsome. I planted a lot (again, A. LOT.) of tomatoes on the promises of friends to take the extras. Well, one friend took extras only if I picked them for her. Another had such a crowded summer that tomatoes were not high on her list of priorities as tomato season waxed and waned. A longtime neighbor across the street, who not only took tomatoes but picked them herself, moved away in September (but not before coming over and picking more tomatoes). So next year? WAY less tomato plants (and unlike this year, that is a vow I will keep). 

By growing fewer tomatoes, I should have more room for the peppers, which were definitely crowded. Those also suffered attacks from the rabbits in the early weeks until we put fencing around the individual plants. I don't know that I will plant more peppers, but I will definitely give the ones I plant more room and respect.

Other probable changes? The four planters are lackluster when it comes to growing lettuce and carrots (finger carrots, which are smaller). Some of that is due to my lack of attention. Some of it I blame on how the soil compacts quickly in the planters. I doubt I will try carrots again in any format and I am not even enthusiastic about a lettuce patch, although I love the fresh lettuce. The planters will likely go to the curb with a "FREE" sign next spring. 

I am planning on growing zucchini again, despite a mediocre season. Again, some of that was rabbit depredation. Some of it may have been (again) lack of care. I pretty much neglected the Hej garden, even after the fencing, so the weeds grew strong and plentiful. They did not overshadow the few zucchini plants that grew large, because it takes a lot to best a full-sized zucchini plant. But the weeds did shove aside the smaller plants. And all the plants seemed to develop a white coating, no doubt a disease of some sort, which hampered the growth. Still, there are quarts bags of sliced zucchini in the basement freezer to eat for the next several months, and I would like to see how next year's crop plays out. 

And of course there will be basil, although to my disappointment the bees did not flock to it this year after the final cutting. They apparently found the cosmos, which grew abundantly from a pack of scattered seeds, of far more interest. Bees loved the potted marigolds on the deck as well. They also loved a flowering plant (coleus, perhaps?) in a large planter that Warren's daughter brought over as a gift and that we kept on the deck for the summer. The planter has come inside for the winter and will make a reappearance next summer.

In the comos

And the marigolds

And on the coleus (I think)

I am planting more cosmos in the kitchen garden next year. They were too bright and too engaging to ignore. I will plant sunflowers again, although they take up a lot of space, just for the joy of watching the goldfinches and other small birds feast on the heads as they go to seed.

In the waning days of the fall, I am bringing down the gardens. For the kitchen garden, that means pulling up the plants, taking in the tomato cages for the year, and first weeding, then tilling the bed. For the Hej garden, I think the only way I can get it under control is to go out there daily, for 30 to 40 minutes at a time (setting an alarm), and take the weeds out bit by bit. It is too overgrown to be an easy afternoon, trust me. (I started this project over the weekend, and soon realized the enormity and the tenacity of the deeply rooted weeds.) Only then we can till. We may spread compost on both gardens for the winter, then till and put down compost in the spring.

As I settle into the late fall, I hope to return to writing on a more regular basis. My health continues to be very stable, but with 18 years of myeloma under my belt, I have no illusions as to how fast the sand in the hourglass is running. Even without the myeloma, we recently had a harsh reminder of how brief life can be when one of Warren's high school classmates, who we'd just seen in September at the 50th reunion, died suddenly of a massive heart attack. Time is precious. I want to spend more time writing; Kaki Okumura, a writer I first found on Medium, recently wrote about being away and then coming back to writing and her thoughts resonated with me deeply. I admire bloggers like Sam (Sam, Coffee, Money, and Thyme) and Kim (Out My Window), who write daily or almost daily. 

And I want to spend more time with my camera. I look at Laurie's beautiful work on The Clean Green Homestead and her photos make me want to also look at the seemingly everyday but infinitely precious world around me.

Like this little one who decided to visit yesterday:

I'll be watching myself to see how I do.