Back from the dead..

Is anyone still out there? Crickets have been chirping on this blog for a long time.

The reason I haven't blogged lately is that I simply haven't had anything to say. And when I don't have anything to say, then I just sit quietly and wait until I have something to say again. 

There are many reasons for my lack of interest in communicating with THE WORLD WIDE WEB, but the main one is that I have a bit felt self-indulgent rattling on about myself and my little world on this thing. Which is strange because I love peering through the windows of my friends' secret lives through their blogs. But for me it feels a bit affected. Maybe because when I attempt to convey my personal life in a short and pithy little blurb, some authenticity is sacrificed.

Another reason is that I am feeling stagnant in my personal growth lately, like I am not sufficiently contributing to the greater outside world in any significant way, and writing about my little inside world further emphasizes that divide. I want to DO SOMETHING. Not that I don't DO a ton, because in addition to being with Taters full-time I am hyper-productive with all of the cooking, sewing, cleaning, gardening, and knitting projects that I have lined up around the house. I mean DO, a la Meryl Streep channeling Julia Child: (Click on the image below twice so that you can see the full picture)

"

But Julia Child didn't have a child.

What a tug-of-war on your soul it is to be a mother to a beautiful child. There is nothing I'd rather do than watch him grow in nuances that most people don't have the opportunity to witness. His joyful expressions, his groovy dance moves, his secret language, his limbs slowly evolving from rigid and flailing to graceful and coordinated -- these are things that we have forged out together, one second at a time. I saw his face the first time he saw a shower of leaves fall from a tree in one big whirly gust, and it was priceless. It was like seeing the first person on earth to ever see the beauty of autumn. He spared no amount of enthusiasm. I know how he likes his eggs, where he wants his blanky, and what his favorite shirt is. I know why he hates his blue raincoat. I know who he likes to hug, and who he'd rather not. I know that trains thrill him and car-washes terrify him. I know what "ra-ra-hallo" means before he falls asleep. You cannot write the list of all of these things down on a piece of paper for a babysitter or nanny, no matter how intuitive they are. These things aren't just learned, they are felt. So it would be such a loss to leave him while I worked.

Not that anyone is asking. I have applied to countless jobs over the past year, and the only thing good that has come of it is that I've gotten nice large doses of humility and thankfulness in the process. Humility that I can no longer march into a job interview and leave with my starting date penned into my planner. And thankfulness that Chad so diligently provides for Tate and I while I restlessly twiddle my thumbs and figure out what's next.

Ideally, I could be productive from home and have the best of both worlds, but I know that to do this and to do it well is a dream that many women have, and it's not so easy. But I have a few things up my sleeve. I'll let you know.

Fall Abundance

We had a tomato forest this year. 

Because Portland opted-out of summer this year, they are just now starting to turn red. 

Tate prefers to pick the green ones. 

Our second homegrown tomato ever! Meeting it's fate on a turkey sandwich!

Apple and plum picking at Sherwood Orchards. 83 varieties of heirlooms!

Page One

We have been searching for a new church home ever since we arrived in Portland last winter. "Searched" is a term I use very loosely here, because our searching was contingent upon the following things happening simultaneously:
1) We all three wake up happy and rested, 2) A church service happening somewhere in proximity to our home, 3) Tate not exhibiting signs that he needs a nap when that service starts, and 4) We actually all get dressed/diaper changed/bags packed and out the door somewhat near the time the service begins. It's nearly impossible. And to be honest, we haven't been that dedicated to trying.

We have tried a number of churches but none seem to quite fit: We like the people but don't get a thing from the sermon, We like the sermon but it's on the other side of town, We like the building but heck we aren't admiring the space, we're worshiping in it. So we have just plodded along, half-heartedly "searching" and hoping and feeling slightly guilty about the whole thing.

Two weeks ago, Chad had another one for us to try: Westminster Presbyterian Church in Northeast Portland.    We have only been twice now, but both times have been exceptionally moving, and I can honestly say that I can't wait to hear the message next Sunday. AND, they have an excellent Sunday School program for Tate ("Sunday School" I also use loosely - they have blocks and trucks and slides..) which allows Chad and I to truly tune in and put down Green Eggs and Ham for just a short reprieve.

What I love about this church, and particularly the sermons preached there, is that it is honest and graceful about our sinfulness and shortcomings, that it emphasizes Jesus's words more than their own words, that it emphasizes unity more than division among religions, and that we are constantly reminded of how rich and blessed we are, not how poor. The last one - about how blessed we are - is markedly different from our last church in New Orleans. Because New Orleans has endured so much pain and is constantly working against the odds stacked against it, its attitude is sometimes that of a scrapper. And scrappers are always trying to get ahead, always trying to get by -- and in New Orleans' case, this was both helpful and appropriate. The church there has recruited literally thousands of volunteers to rebuild hundreds of homes, and is on a serious PR campaign to keep forging ahead. This church, instead, takes the back seat and turns the limelight away from itself, on to the needs of others. (It also is in a city that was not 80% underwater, just to be fair.)

An example of how this church is different struck me last week. While Rev. Terry Jones was planning on burning Korans at his Gainesville church on September 11th, this church took the opposite approach and donated 100 Korans to a local bookstore. This doesn't mean that they preach the Koran, but that they respect people who consider it their holy book, and want to make reparations for hurt that is being caused by other Christians. I was shocked and glad to hear it. In fact, I thought it was jaw-dropping.

(This is a long post. I'm sorry. Wrapping up here.)

The irony of going to this church at this time is that meanwhile, my brother has just left the Presbyterian Church to convert to Catholicism. This church isn't even of the same school of thought as the one that he was originally following, so I feel even farther removed from where his heart is on the matter. Yet, we are in such different places. He is being interviewed by theologians, posting doctoral-level essays in discussion forums, and speaks with the knowledge of someone who fully grasps the history, doctrine, and context of each word. I do not, and I am not.

I am still on page one: trying to absorb directions as simple as "Love They Neighbor As Thyself" and understand concepts as fundamental as love and grace and peace.

Goodnight.

Oh-my-Opal Creek

Last weekend, Chad and I dropped off Tate at our dear friends' house and drove a few hours into the vast wilderness of central Oregon. Past paved roads, past cell phone reception, past wireless connections, past the grid that the rest of the world operates on. We tried a hand at living in the simplest way that humans can.


Jawbone Flats at Opal Creek is an old mining town that was in operation about a century ago. Since then, an organization has taken over its land and buildings and it now operates as a lodge and educational center. Jawbone Flats consists of about ten log cabins that huddle together amidst towering mountains and old growth forests, and uses the hydro power of its streams to generate just enough electricity to allow you to find a match to light your wood burning stove with at night. That's about it. Our modest little cabin stood sturdy and proud above Battle Axe Creek, with twigs and branches used as curtain rods over the windows. It was drafty, housed mice (notice the plural), lacked bedding and "could use a little updating" in Chad's estimate -- yet it was one of the most endearing places I have ever had the privilege to rest my head at. 

There is so much richness in simplicity. We had 2 plates, 2 bowls, 2 cups. This means that when you dirty your dish, you wash it, and it's immediately ready for its next use. And there is no dishwasher to load and unload. Our refrigerator was of the freshmen-dorm-room variety, and could certainly not house an entire load of bread. Yet, this meant that we didn't store more than we needed. We also brought exactly enough food to last us 3 days, which meant that we rationed our portions carefully and savored it. We had to share our limited electricity with others. This meant that we barely, if ever, used it out of consideration for others. This also meant that when the sun retired, we did as well. We didn't have central heat or television. So instead, we sat by the fire and it became our heat and we became our own entertainment. (I was reading Wendell Berry so you know I was REALLY hippie-ing out.) There was calm, there was silence, there was solitude, there was peace. 

There were mountain lions. 

We did not know this until AFTER our 13 mile hike up to the top of Mount Whetstone, which we clambered up for the sole purpose of getting a teeny morsel of cellular reception that would allow me to check in on Tate and Chad to check his voicemail. (We're new at this self-reliant game, so give us a break.) Our technology-inspired trek was probably a joke played on us by the Opal Creek staff boys that wanted to give the city slickers a way to check their cell phones in the mountains. "Just go on up to Whetstone," they slyly advised. When we stumbled back into camp at 5pm, they welcomed us back with warm congratulations, looks of surprise, and tales of other recent hikers that had been "stalked" by cougars for days. "But you should consider yourself real lucky to get attacked by a cougar these days...It's RARE!" one of them beamed. I'm not sure that "lucky" is how I'd be feeling if a cougar sank his teeth into my neck, but I guess in that situation it would pay to be positive. 


But we made it out alive, replenished, necks intact, and with a new appreciation of how much is truly needed to have a happy life (not much) and how so much of the extra just gets in the way. 

One more of Tate and the Cardboard Songsters

Sorry, I must share. He is just. Too. Cute. He has started to play the washboard on his belly using a Tupperware lid and uses a plastic toy vice (only in our house!) for a clarinet. I will change the subject soon.

Tate and the Cardboard Songsters

One of my favorite weekly rituals is going to the Portland Farmer's Market at Portland State University on Saturday mornings. We rise and shine, put on our socks, shoes and jackets, and still half-asleep and with growling bellies, board the Max train to downtown Portland. Riding the Max is an adventure in itself, with all of the hoi-polloi ambling about in their Gore-Tex and sleeping bags and knee-high socks. The train bell rings as it approaches the station, lights flashing, and every time, Tate nearly has a coronary.

But that is only the warm-up coronary to the one that we encounter once we are actually in the market, when Tate sees the Cardboard Songsters. The Cardboard Songsters is this vagabond group of musicians who sit under the same towering oak every Saturday morning, wearing felt hats and skinny ties and old leather shoes with cymbals attached to them. They play wash basins with strings attached to them (quite well) and other instruments made from the garage sale next door, and most of them are working on more than one instrument at once. In essence, they are magical. While they play, Tate rocks out on the sidewalk, clapping and bouncing in and out of beat with their ragtime. People stop and watch, then take out their cameras while I sit there beaming. It's so cute, it's silly.

Tate's weekly date with the Cardboard Songsters has enchanted him with music, and now he has taken up copying Felix with the harmonica. Here is a video of him playing (practicing) before meeting up with his fellow songsters today:

Yes, and in the next video I will try to control my gasping and sighing and clapping so that you just get the full Tate experience.

The Republic of Portland

The other day, after a full evening of peach-picking over at Sauvie Island Farms, my sweet little family decided that we wanted to stop and get a bite to eat in our neighboring 'hood, St. Johns. First, we thought that we'd zip through the drive-through of Burgerville -- which, despite its name, is "Local. Organic. Sustainable.", and serves up a number of adventurous veggie burgers. (If such a thing exists.) Just take a look at my receipt from last month. Yeah. It's a drive-through. They also serve freshly picked blackberries. Oh, and everything is packaged up neatly in compost-able boxes and bags.

Anyhow, upon my request and because I had a buy-one-get-one coupon burning a hole in my wallet, we opted instead to try Proper Eats. We had never been to Proper Eats before, but upon entering we got the vibe pretty quickly about what the place was all about. First of all, it's full name is as follows: "PROPER EATS: You look like shi*t because you eat sh*t." Everything within Proper Eats politically correct walls is not only organic, but ultra-vegan. (Ultra-vegan being that the swiss chard you just ate was kept at at least a 1000 feet minimum from any moo-ing that a cow might make.) The bulk-food bins have warning labels that blast out to its clear-skinned and bright-eyed patrons things like "WARNING!!! This granola contains chocolate chips made with *MILK POWDER!*" Shudder!

The menu, however, looked scrumptious. And all of the people there were super quiet and super healthy and slightly stinky. We placed our order with a girl wearing a long skirt and braids and began wandering through the aisles, waiting for our dinner. It was then that Chad called me over to where he was standing, staring at a wall. On it was tacked up a "DIY Manifesto." DIY are the 3 letters that make up the heart of our neighborhood. DO. IT. YOURSELF. And here it is:

As much of a Do-It-Yourself-ers as Chad and I are - and I do think we are - I think that there is a key ingredient that is sadly amiss in this manifesto and even present in the general Portland population. It's the same thing that was missing from my drill sargeant yoga instructor that called me out and criticized me the other day in front of everyone. Its a gentleness, a tolerance, a kindness for people that DON'T do it themselves, that are NOT super-yogis, that do flip on the boob-tube now and then to watch a Saints game, and that sometimes like their pizza without quinoa flour, thank you very much.  Is that bad? I understand the Manifesto. I do. And I understand the importance of "spreading their cause" of not living lives that abuse our natural resources and of not plugging ourselves into mass media that tells you how to think, dress, and be. I know its important to grow our own food. To support our local economy. To walk or bike or take the Max. To never, ever, ever accept a grocery bag for the rest of my life. I get it, I do it, and I try to live this way. But if to live this way is at the price of being intolerant, angry and cruel to others that are not "on board", well then, I'm not so much on-board. Because even a DIY Manifesto is, in its own way, also a cultural move that requires people to assimilate, which is the very thing that they preach against.

I guess it makes me just want to say, "Chilled out Portland hippies, will you please just RELAX?"

Last night, Tate and I stopped by Green Bean Books to pick up a gift for our neighbor's birthday party. Inside, we learned that families on the block were planning a mass lemonade stand revolt. Yes, a lemonade stand revolt. Apparently, the other day some kids had their lemonade stand out and a public health officer told them that it was not allowed by the Health Department, and they would need to pack up their tin cans and go.  Lesson 1: You just don't tell a North Portland kid to move their lemonade stand without expecting serious repurcucssions from their parents. The mamas and papas on the block all set out their tables and chairs in protest last night, selling gallons of lemonade, to express their opinion that this was, of course, ridiculous.

But, I happen to like law enforcement. And, I like public health. And I'm wondering why there wasn't dialog about where this edict was written? And what could they do to work around it? Could the kids sell iced tea (herbal, of course) instead? Or are their certain hours or places that it is OK? But instead, it was a stand-off between the people and the law.  Maybe it's because there is virtually NO crime here that people have forgotten the value of law enforcement. To them, I say: Go to New Orleans, where coffee is served FREE at any coffee shop to an officer. Because there, they are always glad to see them protecting their block, watching their back. Portland is just so far removed from that reality that most of the world lives in.

People here drive with a bumper sticker plastered to the back of their car that reads, "THE REPUBLIC OF PORTLAND." And it is so true. It is an amazing, beautiful, pioneering type of place where healthy, smart children run free and wild in the streets in their handmade garb and mom and dad till their front lawn to ready it for planting chard and tomatoes. It is truly its own culture, and its beautiful and amazing. It is also super intense, and people seem to be so preoccupied with creating a perfect society that they don't seem to be enjoying life very much. Maybe I really have been in New Orleans too long. At any rate, I am thankful to live here, and I will leave it at that. And I will try to never impose my Portlandness on others.

(And by the way, the fare at Proper Eats is OUT. OF. THIS. WORLD. Tate had black beans, rice, and greens, and licked up every bit.)

Gratitude

There are these little moments that happen each day. When play turns into giggles, which turns into hugs, then sighs, then love, then comfort, and then incredible gratitude. For this moment. 

A Story Requested by Mom

Chad and I have been prioritizing exercising lately, and yesterday morning it was my turn to go while he watched Tate. So, I thought I'd try this special $29 unlimited month pass at the Bikram Yoga studio down the street. Did I know what Bikram was? Oh, no. Nor did I care. I imagined it would be similar to my lovely yoga class in New Orleans where we chanted, gonged, read nice poems, meditated on love and forgiveness, and then kick our own butts in unison with Sean the yogi for an hour. That's what I planned for, that's what I wanted. That's not what I got.

I arrived 15 minutes early as directed on their website and entered the building. It was a bit warm and muggy inside, but I didn't pay much mind to that. The guy at the counter happily took my $29 and pointed me to the mat, towel, and water that I would be needing. Before making my way into the studio, I haphazardly mentioned that I would have to leave a bit early from the 90 minute class, and would that be alright? Silence. Crickets chirping. Glares. A red-headed lady sitting by the window stopped her conversation and  answered, "It's really not OK to leave early. It's looked down upon." The guy at the counter just smiled and directed me to the locker room.

On the way to the locker room, I encountered what I can only describe as a rare and exotic creature. She was more gazelle than human. Over six feet tall, and absolutely no more than 100 lbs. And wearing approximately four square inches of clothing. She had sort of a vacant or perhaps enlightened look in her eyes as she sauntered past me, hip bones leading the way. I looked at my paint-stained yoga pants (yes, mom, the same ones) and stood up a little taller. I had made time for this class. My health is a priority. I would go on.

I entered the yoga studio from the back door, giving me a full view of all fifty-some odd students. Standing tall. Breathing. Staring. Lying down. Almost naked. And just wasting away. Gazelle stood in the front. The temperature of the studio was exactly 104 degrees with 40 percent humidity. Did you hear me? The temperature of the studio was exactly 104 degrees with 40 percent humidity. I laid down and waited for my punishment for making this asinine decision.

The red-headed drill sergeant entered the room and marched to the front, then leaped up on a glass podium and looked down upon her followers, a group of which I was now numbered among. "New rules in class," she announced. "First, no one leaves for 90 minutes." Gulp. Chad had to leave for an appointment in approximately 75 minutes, and I was still 15 minutes from home. "And no one takes a drink of water until Eagle Pose. Let's go." Folks, there was no gong. There was no Enya. There was no smile. Gazelle stood up and a full 12 inches stood between her two thighs. The drill sergeant looked at me and said, "You're going to want to put that towel down over your mat to catch your sweat."

We began our series of 26 poses that is apparently the hallmark of Bikram. With each inhale and exhale, the room contracted and expanded like it was occupied by a herd of dragons. Sweat dripped. Gazelle bent in half. The drill sergeant marched around the room, seething, correcting our poor attempts at executing these ancient postures. No one drank a sip. I started to feel the effects of my early coffee consumption and lack of quality hydration. Dizziness, nausea, and NO I WILL NOT SIP. Nearly naked bodies around the room stank and glistened and breathed fire through their nostrils. Deep inside my own imagination, I rolled my eyes.

Finally, about 20 minutes into this bliss, the blessed Eagle Pose arrived and I chugged my Fiji. I think I may have even let out an AHH, because the drill sergeant glared at me from atop her glass podium. Gazelle stood tall and refused water, instead staring Buddha-like at her own reflection while she awaited for the rest of us peons to finish. She probably wanted to know if I needed some animal cookies and a nap to go with that.

Sixty minutes later, while staring high into the ceiling fans while balancing on my pelvis in a mean Cobra Pose, I realized the time. I had to go. "My commitment is not to this lady, my commitment is to Chad", I vowed as I plotted my escape. "She cannot hurt me. I can leave when I choose. Just pick up your mat, Leslie. Just go." So, when everyone else was making their way into Wind Removing Pose, I scooped up my belongings and skipped towards the door. As my hand reached the doorknob, I heard "Excuse me, but won't you be able to finish the class?" All fifty starving yogis turned and stared at me. "I'm sorry," I stammered, "but I told you that I had to leave early." "I made a rule that no one could leave for 90 minutes," she said flatly. "And I told you before class that I had to leave early." "I thought that you meant like two minutes, not twenty" she snapped back. I was horrified. The 26 poses had stopped suddenly with the Watch The New Girl Squirm intermission at 65 minutes in to the class. I had nothing else to say. So, I just walked out and shut the door quietly behind me. Within seconds, the guy who used to be manning the front desk but who now was mostly naked, sweating profusely, and following me, tapped me on the shoulder. "Please exit through the back door and make sure that you close the studio door and the gate tightly so that none of the air escapes." "You got it."

I sort of obsessed about this whole experience all day yesterday. I got called out by a yoga teacher. Publicly. And I thought that I was going to yoga for peace and serenity and unconditional positive regard. It turns out that Bikram Yoga is a serious discipline that is actually copyrighted by Mr. Bikram himself. And he is quite the stickler on the length of class, the exact temperature and humidity of the room, and the poses. And each studio follows his dictates to the letter. So, for me to leave 60 minutes into would be akin to leaving in the middle of someone's poetry reading and then going "WHAT? Dude, I heard what I wanted to hear and I have to go now..." It was rude.

Tomorrow is my day to exercise again. I might join the drill sergeant and Gazelle and see if I can begin to reap the benefits of Bikram. Or, I may sleep in and then wake up to pancakes and hot coffee. We shall see.

Weekend Happenings

I bought a new Wendell Berry book that I'm super excited about. 

My tomato forest ate our neighbor's cat.

Taters refused to wear his shoes and ate his weight in blueberries at Sauvie Island. 

The salmon ran right past Chad (and waved) on the Upper Clackamus. (That is NOT Chad. I think that's a woman.)

Oh, he knows.

Tate has got my heart wrapped around his little pinky these days. 

Example 1: This afternoon he was sprinting through the house, limbs flying, drool dangling, feet slapping, hands flapping...when suddenly, mid-stride, he STOPPED. A small, single rectangle of sunlight lit up the hallway floor. He bent down, kissed it, and kept running.

Example 2: Lately, we will be in the middle of playing in our tunnel or wrestling on the floor or reading, and he will turn to me and gently put a hand around each of my dangly flower earrings. Please understand that when a toddler whose favorite hobby is throwing rocks puts his hands around your favorite dangly earrings, you are at your utmost vulnerable. You could be VanGogh in a moment's flash. But, no. He holds them sweetly and puts his little cheek next to mine and quietly whispers in my ear, "mama...mama....mama...."

And for extra credit: The Anthropologie catalog came in the mail yesterday. And upon seeing it, Tate exclaimed, "Mama!" To which I agreed, in my running pants streaked with house paint, "Yes, she looks just like mama!" Oh, he knows. He knows quite well. 

So now he can turn on the sugar and I in turn will melt, perfectly content wrapped around his little pinky. 

Chickpeas a la Leslie

Tate, who used to be the fattest and happiest baby on the block has sadly become quite the culinary connoiseur. Where he used to shovel anything that he could fit his chubby little palms around into his mouth at incredible speed, he now prefers a few select items. Avocados. Yogurt. Fruit. Bread (toasted, please, light on the almond butter.) And cheese. Lots of cheese. Or in Tate-speak, "cheeeth, cheeeth, cheeeth."

I figure it's part of his quest to be independent. He wants to pick things up himself and is so over mama feeding him anything on a spoon anymore. Yogurt he can navigate on a spoon himself because it's sticky, but everything else needs to be bite-sized and not too messy. So today I am trying chickpeas. They are small enough to grab but not big enough to choke on. They are protein packed and as fun to pop in his mouth as M&M's. (Not that he's had any to date.) So here's what I put together today, from stuff lying around the kitchen:

Ingredients:

1 TB olive oil

1 medium yellow onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 12 oz can of chickpeas (garbanzos), drained. (Or you can soak, boil, and drain dried beans if you have the time)

1 tsp garam marsala

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/4 cup raisins

salt and pepper to taste
water

OK, so you put the oil in the skillet and get it simmering hot. (Not piping hot.) Add the chopped onion, stir it around, let it "sweat" for a few minutes. Add the garlic. After a pinch of salt and pepper. Now add the chickpeas and the spices. After cooking for a few minutes, reduce the heat to low. Add the raisins. Add a few tablespoons of water so that it won't burn but has a nice sauce to cook in. Cover. Go do something for about 20 minutes. When you come check on it again, your kitchen should smell awesome. Like Christmas mixed with Mona's in New Orleans.

If adults are eating this (or nut-eating kids), add a handful of chopped almonds.

Serve over couscous, or eat alone.

SIDE NOTE, POST-TATE EATING: These beans are also very fun when thrown into the air and squished into the vent.

Flowers for Tate..

Yesterday afternoon as we were driving back from a camping trip on the coast, we entered a beautifully shaded old growth forest. It was cool and green, with tall lovely stalks of purple flowers dotting the roadside. I mean, really lovely flowers. Like I wanted to have one in our car lovely. So, Chad slowed down the car and I leaned my torso out the window and snapped one off. It was so much more delicate than I had imagined it would be. The little purple bells were speckled with white and yellow, and the stalks and leaves were fuzzy and smooth, peach-like.

"Tate! Look!" I handed him this magical wand of a flower. He gave it a half-hearted little wag in the air and dropped it on the ground. Hmm, OK, that's OK, I'll just keep it by me. I stuck my fingers and nose in the little bells, I made everyone peer into it until they agreed that YES, it was a-maaaa-zing, I held it by the tail and let it dangle outside my window, catching air.

About an hour later, after stopping for lunch, we saw something move. Chad saw it first. Then our seven year old car-mate, Mia, spotted it. The most amazingly beautiful and freakish white spider with translucent legs and red splotches creeped its way along the dashboard. I don't like spiders, but it was really actually quite pretty. But who knew what it could be? Was it poisonous?  Sadly, the spider was not so enchanting to our seven year old friend, and she wanted it disposed of, fast, in anything. So, Chad did.

When we got home later last night and all 15 of our household guests were in their beds, I sat down at my computer and researched our little treasures. First, the spider. A very rare Flower Spider. Non poisonous. Totally harmless. Actually, all it wants to do it sit on pretty flowers all day in an attempt to blend in and live to see another day. Like all of us. And we squished it dead in a Brawny after it hitched a ride into our Volvo on a lovely little flower that I plucked from the Oregon woods.

Which brings us to our gorgeous purple flower stalk, which up until recently was sitting on my kitchen window sill. Also known as Foxglove. Or Witch's Glove. Or Deadman's Bells. Or Bloody Fingers. Notice a theme developing here? Like, um, this beautiful flower just might KILL YOU?? Allow me to share:

The entire plant is toxic (including the roots and seeds), although the leaves of the upper stem are particularly potent, with just a nibble being enough to potentially cause death. Early symptoms of ingestion include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, abdominal pain, wild hallucinations,delirium, and severe headache. Depending on the severity of the toxicosis the victim may later suffer irregular and slow pulse, tremors, various cerebral disturbances, especially of a visual nature (unusual colour visions with objects appearing yellowish to green, and blue halos around lights), convulsions, and deadly disturbances of the heart.

Oh, the horror of this discovery! I gave this flower to Tate, to play with while in his carseat. It is a true miracle that he did not stick it right into his mouth, like he does with nearly every other object he encounters. My sweet neighbor actually alerted me to this one when she visited our house this morning and saw that in addition to fresh organic peaches that I was serving up Tate for breakfast, I also had some fresh poison as decor in our breakfast nook.

SO, the lessons for today are:

1. Be nice to strange white spiders that aren't doing anything to hurt you and just might be rare and exotic.
2. Don't give the most precious thing in your life POISON to play with.

Wishing for machines that pushed buttons for other machines.

Last weekend on our way home from Coeur d'Alene, we stopped at an outdoor bistro in Hood River and noshed on salmon burgers with spicy mustard and full glasses of Gerwurtraminer on the patio. In typical fashion, after one glass I was toasty enough to realize that I could no longer drive our little family the remaining 60 miles home, and so Chad and I switched seats. He was now driver, I was now passenger, and our ergonomics were way off. I was laid-back gangsta-style in his seat, staring at the car ceiling almost with cold air blasting me, and he was sitting prim and proper with a straight back, chest pressed against the steering wheel and his knees angled out awkwardly. "Ugh," he moaned. "We sit so differently. I wish that this car had that memory function where it knows who is sitting in what seat and adjusts accordingly." Silence filled the little Volvo. Crickets chirped. Tate burped. We wished that our lovely, brand-spanking-new, company-betrothed Volvo with leather seats, pop-up GPS, Bluetooth capability, blind spot alerts and ninja-like headlight sprayers would be could be a tad more user-friendly. "Did I just say that I wished I had a machine to push a button?" he asked. "Um, yes." Maybe our one redeeming quality is that we know at times just how crazy we are.

I am trying to turn the corner from a lifestyle of dependence on things that are sold to me to a lifestyle of realizing that I can actually do most of it - or at least a lot of it- myself. I mean really, what on earth are we here to do if not live authentically, without machines pushing buttons for other machines for us. Do we ultimately just want to sit on couches and have our lived fulfilled for us so that we don't have to put forth that awful effort of exertion? There is a threshold in this discussion...if you go too far in one direction you risk losing true progress that society has made. But if you go too far in the other direction, then we lose the skills and traditions that men and women have honed over generations. They made things with love, imperfectly but as best they could, because they had to. It's just what you did. It seems that we should continue this tradition even if we don't necessarily have to, but because if we don't then we un-evolve as skilled humans. My great-grandmother knew how to sew a quilt out of old flour sacks. I know how to buy one made in China by going to www.bedbathandbeyond.com. To me, that does not at all seem like real progress. So, there's a choice over what technology to keep, and what to do pass up on. Case in point:

When I was back home in Louisiana a few months ago, I talked to my mom about a sewing machine that I have been saving up for. It's a Singer Featherweight 221, glossy black, made in the '40's, and a blast to sew on. It's beautiful and hums and it just makes you happy to use. "But don't you want a new model?" my mom asked, "You know, that has a button-maker?" "No," I said smugly. "If it has a button-maker then I will never learn how to sew them myself." "Well then," she quipped back, "Why don't you just go spin and dye your own thread, too, so you can learn that too?" Touché, mama, touché. So where to draw the line? Why is it good to learn how to sew a button myself, but ridiculous to spin my own thread?

But then why hand-knit Tate a sweater when I can buy one for cheaper?

Why bake my own bread? Or make my own yogurt?

Why grow my own vegetables?

Or pick and can berries?

Why should Chad make our furniture? Or renovate houses that still have integrity to them despite years of neglect?

Or is this all just romantic nostalgia for a time long since passed?

No, there is value in learning to do these things. An evolution of the individual and a continuation of skills learned and perfected over generations is something that I have to think would be stupid of us to forgo. We saw firsthand during Katrina that technological advances can truly be turned off like a switch and then you sit, in the dark, trying to figure out how in the world to sew a button on.

Wendell Berry wrote an article once on why he would never buy a computer. (By the way, if you don't know Wendell yet, please meet him.) In it, he came up with this little list of how to decide if a purchase is necessary and good. It's something worth considering:

1. The new tool should be cheaper than the one it replaces.
2. It should be at least as small in scale as the one it replaces.
3. It should do work that is clearly and demonstrably better than the one it replaces.
4. It should use less energy than the one it replaces.
5. If possible, it should use some form of solar energy, such as that of the body.
6. It should be repairable by a person of ordinary intelligence, provided that he or she has the necessary tools.
7. It should be purchasable and repairable as near to home as possible.
8. It should come from a small, privately owned shop or store that will take it back for maintenance and repair.
9. It should not replace or disrupt anything good that already exists, and this includes family and community relationships.

--Wendell Berry, 1987, New England Review and Bread Loaf Quarterly

Trucks. Dogs. Balls.

Back in 2005, after Katrina and before Chad and Tate, I found myself in a Cambridge kitchen, reading a poem on a refrigerator. I was visiting a lovely young couple that was expecting their first child, and they had pinned up a reminder to themselves of how they wanted to raise their unborn child. The gist of it was this: do not limit your child's potential by subtly sending them messages of what they can and cannot do, and should and should not do, based on their proscribed gender role. The poem went on to emphasize how not only does this extinguish our children's gifts before they are even recognized, but it also robs our society of finding the best man (or woman) for whatever task is at hand. I loved it and tucked it away in my memory, to save for my child-bearing days. One day, my child would grow up in a thriving, gender-neutral environment where he could safely pursue his life long dream of becoming a dancer, a harpist, a hairdresser, a cook, a whatever, with me and my husband cheering him wildly along the sidelines all the way until he thanked us profusely at the James Beard award ceremony. And then came Tate.

I try, really I do. Tate and I look at flowers and birds every day. I try to limit the number of shirts he wears that have numbers on the back, and introduce him to dolls at our neighbors house. He had a pink rattle. His best friend is a girl. Heck, I even dressed him up as a girl! But, it matters not. I have never told him that a car says VROOOOM and yet I find his standing at his windowsill, rolling his little Hot Wheels along, vroooming. I have never even bought him a toy car, yet somehow he has accumulated a garage full. I have never overemphasized dogs to him, nor airplanes, balls or trucks. Oh, trucks. Trucks, cranes and buses are truly in a category of their own - they send him to the moon.

Take this example: we went hiking in the Tillamook Forest on Sunday, and after Chad and I spent a good thirty minutes singing "The Ants Go Marching" and pointing out all of Oregon's finest flora and fauna, Tate was done. He was ready to get out of the Ergo, back on his feet, and run fast and furious in any direction. We were about to turn back but instead climbed a little further and LO AND BEHOLD we came upon a construction site. Cranes! Trucks! Tractors! Things with huge metal jaws! And Tate's reaction:

This was the first time he had ever said "WHOA!!!"

And then, before we got back in the car, we saw Smokey the Bear. Who, by the way, had jeans on so tight that I almost felt uncomfortable standing by him. Tate thought that he was a giant and very still dog. Here is his reaction:

Notice that he is panting at Smokey.

I don't know if this is a boy thing or strictly a Tate thing, but I'm not going to fight it. I got him a place mat with planes and rockets on it, and he looked at me like I was heaven-sent. If he wants to be a fireman or an ultimate fighting champ or a ballerina or a florist, we'll just stand by and smile at Tate becoming more Tate, every day.

A wonderful father's day weekend!

Stuff I'm thinking about

By PEGGY ORENSTEIN

Published: March 11, 2010

Four women I know — none of whom know one another — are building chicken coops in their backyards. It goes without saying that they already raise organic produce: my town, Berkeley, Calif., is theVatican of locavorism, the high church of Alice Waters. Kitchen gardens are as much a given here as indoor plumbing. But chickens? That ups the ante. Apparently it is no longer enough to know the name of the farm your eggs came from; now you need to know the name of the actual bird.

Data source: The National Gardening Association.

Human Empire

All of these gals — these chicks with chicks — are stay-at-home moms, highly educated women who left the work force to care for kith and kin. I don’t think that’s a coincidence: the omnivore’s dilemma has provided an unexpected out from the feminist predicament, a way for women to embrace homemaking without becoming Betty Draper. “Prior to this, I felt like my choices were either to break the glass ceiling or to accept the gilded cage,” says Shannon Hayes, a grass-fed-livestock farmer in upstate New York and author of “Radical Homemakers,” a manifesto for “tomato-canning feminists,” which was published last month.

Hayes pointed out that the original “problem that had no name” was as much spiritual as economic: a malaise that overtook middle-class housewives trapped in a life of schlepping and shopping. A generation and many lawsuits later, some women found meaning and power through paid employment. Others merely found a new source of alienation. What to do? The wages of housewifery had not changed — an increased risk of depression, a niggling purposelessness, economic dependence on your husband — only now, bearing them was considered a “choice”: if you felt stuck, it was your own fault. What’s more, though today’s soccer moms may argue, quite rightly, that caretaking is undervalued in a society that measures success by a paycheck, their role is made possible by the size of their husband’s. In that way, they’ve been more of a pendulum swing than true game changers.

Enter the chicken coop.

Femivorism is grounded in the very principles of self-sufficiency, autonomy and personal fulfillment that drove women into the work force in the first place. Given how conscious (not to say obsessive) everyone has become about the source of their food — who these days can’t wax poetic about compost? — it also confers instant legitimacy. Rather than embodying the limits of one movement, femivores expand those of another: feeding their families clean, flavorful food; reducing their carbon footprints; producing sustainably instead of consuming rampantly. What could be more vital, more gratifying, more morally defensible?

There is even an economic argument for choosing a literal nest egg over a figurative one. Conventional feminist wisdom held that two incomes were necessary to provide a family’s basic needs — not to mention to guard against job loss, catastrophic illness, divorce or the death of a spouse. Femivores suggest that knowing how to feed and clothe yourself regardless of circumstance, to turn paucity into plenty, is an equal — possibly greater — safety net. After all, who is better equipped to weather this economy, the high-earning woman who loses her job or the frugal homemaker who can count her chickens?

Hayes would consider my friends’ efforts admirable if transitional. Her goal is larger: a renunciation of consumer culture, a return (or maybe an advance) to a kind of modern preindustrialism in which the home is self-sustaining, the center of labor and livelihood for both sexes. She interviewed more than a dozen families who were pursuing this way of life. They earned an average of $40,000 for a family of four. They canned peaches, stuffed sausages, grew kale, made soap. Some eschewed health insurance, and most home-schooled their kids. That, I suspect, is a little further than most of us are willing to go: it sounds a bit like being Amish, except with a car (no more than one, naturally) and a green political agenda.

After talking to Hayes, I rushed to pick up my daughter from school. As I rustled up a quick dinner of whole-wheat quesadillas and frozen organic peas, I found my thoughts drifting back to our conversation, to the questions she raised about the nature of success, satisfaction, sustenance, fulfillment, community. What constitutes “enough”? What is my obligation to others? What do I want for my child? Is my home the engine of materialism or a refuge from it?

I understand the passion for a life that is made, not bought. And who doesn’t get the appeal of working the land? It’s as integral to this country’s character as, in its own way, Wal-Mart. My femivore friends may never do more than dabble in backyard farming — keeping a couple of chickens, some rabbits, maybe a beehive or two — but they’re still transforming the definition of homemaker to one that’s more about soil than dirt, fresh air than air freshener. Their vehicle for children’s enrichment goes well beyond a ride to the next math tutoring session.

I am tempted to call that “precious,” but that word has variegations of meaning. Then again, that may be appropriate. Hayes found that without a larger purpose — activism, teaching, creating a business or otherwise moving outside the home — women’s enthusiasm for the domestic arts eventually flagged, especially if their husbands weren’t equally involved. “If you don’t go into this as a genuinely egalitarian relationship,” she warned, “you’re creating a dangerous situation. There can be loss of self-esteem, loss of soul and an inability to return to the world and get your bearings. You can start to wonder, What’s this all for?” It was an unnervingly familiar litany: if a woman is not careful, it seems, chicken wire can coop her up as surely as any gilded cage.

Peggy Orenstein, a contributing writer, is the author of “Waiting for Daisy,” a memoir.