One Small Change: Why You Should Use Reusable Grocery Bags

Back in college at Wheaton, as part of my Gen Ed requirement, I had to take a public speaking class. I remember being surprised at how much I enjoyed and learned from the class (and I recall giving an especially kick-ass informative speech on Transylvania), but one speech I gave has always plagued me: the Persuasive Speech. At the wise--and childless--age of 20, I chose to give mine on Why You Should Spank Your Children, mostly based on the ever-popular "I-got-spanked-and-I-turned-out-just-fine" line of reasoning. Every time I think about it, I give myself a mental facepalm, for a variety of reasons. So putting all that aside, let's give me a second chance to exert my powers of persuasion. This time I'll choose something I've been wanting to blog about for awhile, something that might actually impact the daily lives of my listeners/readers (unlike turning loose the "spare the rod and spoil the child"  argument on a group of college students), namely….

WHY YOU SHOULD USE REUSABLE GROCERY BAGS!!!!

I'm getting excited already.

Do you use reusable grocery bags? If not, why not? You've probably seen plenty of people toting their cloth or canvas into your local grocery store. You may have even noticed an increase in the practice in the last few years--I personally have noticed a major surge since I first started about five years ago. I used to feel like the poor kid who couldn't afford school lunch and had to bring a ratty old Care Bears lunchbox to school. Now I feel like I'm in the cool crowd. So what's the big deal? Why should you get your hands on some of this clothy green goodness?

Here are a few of my top reasons for making this one small change:

--The obvious: their impact (or comparative lack on impact) on the environment. There are some horrible statistics out there about plastic bags, such as these doozies: 

--One plastic bag takes anywhere from 15 to 1,000 years to decompose. 

--The U.S. alone uses approximately 100 billion new plastic bags a year. 

--Only 1% of plastic bags are recycled world-wide.

--An estimated 1 million birds and 100,000 whales, seals, turtles and other sea animals die of starvation each year after ingesting plastic bags that block their digestive tracts

--Public agencies in California alone spend over $300 million a year on coastal litter clean-up, at least 10% of which is washed-up plastic bags. Just think of how an extra $30 million could be redirected to, say, education. (All stats taken from http://www.reusethisbag.com/25-reasons-to-go-reusable.asp)

--Because plastic bags are made of petroleum, they use nonrenewable resources and ultimately drive up the price of fuel.

--On a (much) smaller scale, several grocery stores/retailers give you money back for bringing your own bag. My local Target and Sprouts give 5 cents a bag, which sounds like peanuts, but hey, over a year, if you use five bags each week, could net you $13. Go get yourself something nice.

--The cuteness factor. Ladies, there are a whole lot of adorable reusable bags out there to round out your commitment to fashion. How cute is this one that folds up into a strawberry? A freaking strawberry! http://www.amazon.com/Reusable-Shopping-Tote-Bag-Strawberry/dp/B002M22C96/ref=pd_sbs_misc_6

--You don't have to figure out where to put all those plastic bags with the vague promise that you'll recycle them someday. If you're like me, you stuff them in a cabinet for months on end until you have an untamed plastic bag beast that spills its guts on you every time you open that door. Then in a moment of weakness you end up just throwing them all in the regular trash.

--Cloth bags don't dig into your skin like plastic bags. Hate those plastic bag skin lacerations!

--Cloth bags (usually) don't break and allow your glass jar of spaghetti sauce to shatter in the parking lot, or that embarrassing box of extra absorbency tampons to roll away.

--You can get everything in the house in one trip with cloth bags. They hold more, so you use a fewer number of them, meaning your forearm can handle it all at one time.

I could go on and on, but they tell me people stop reading blog posts after 500 words. So ask yourself: is there really a good reason not to use reusable bags? Is it really the better choice to use plastic? Because the truth is, it is a choice, and there is a better one available. If you have good intentions but find yourself forgetting to bring your bags to the store, keep them in your car until it becomes habit. It's one small change that will add up to a big impact. Isn't it worth a try?

Doing and Flu-ing

For the last two days I've been sick with the flu. I'm talking about the hard-core, not-messing-around, oh-yeah-this-is-why-people-die-of-this flu. Since I foolishly did not get a flu shot this year, I have been in my bed for the majority of the last 48 hours. Like anyone else, I hate being sick, and in my particular case, my being sick seriously affects four other people: my husband and three small children. After a couple days of doing absolutely nothing (but watching movies and Magnum, P.I. episodes on my computer) I start to feel pretty guilty about not pulling my weight. Thankfully, my husband has the kind of job where he can work from home in situations like this, and has been faithfully doing laundry, making meals for the kids, etc., so I see that things are getting done that need to get done. But even after a relatively short period of absence from my usual wife-and-mother role, my thoughts begin to go down a dangerous path. I start to feel worthless. I start to think that if I can't be industrious and purposeful, I have no value. It reminds me of all the ways I already am not living up to my potential: Why don't I blog more? Why don't I create beautiful things out of household items and Mod Podge and put them on Etsy or Pinterest? Why don't I write songs? Why don't I serve the homeless? There are so many things I'm NOT DOING. When I die, will I have DONE enough with my life? 

I say this is a dangerous thought path not just because it turns into a spiral of shame and self-bullying, but also because I believe this is the kind of thinking that leads to a disrespect for human life. This morning as I was contemplating all my deficiencies, I felt the Lord remind me that my worth does not depend on my activities. Like every other human being on this planet, my worth is rooted in the fact that I am God's creation, made in His image. If I don't believe this--if I choose to believe that my worth comes from all I am doing--then what's to say I wouldn't apply that kind of thinking to others? Wouldn't that make the elderly worthless, or the infirm, or anyone who can't contribute to society? There are those who do believe this, and much evil has come of it. Believing my value lies in my intrinsic humanity, that I am creatura Dei, isn't an excuse to do nothing with my life or my gifts, but it is a deeply reassuring reminder that in those times I cannot participate in my regularly scheduled life, I'm okay. I have value--and so do you. And now back to season three of Magnum, P.I. :)

30 and not 13

This afternoon the Thanksgiving and post-Thanksgiving indulgence was really getting to me, so I decided I needed a long bike ride. My toddler was napping and my older two told me they preferred to stay home playing than come with me, so I set off on my cruiser alone, noticing how shockingly, breezily light it is without the baby seat and trailer. It almost felt like I might rise into thin air with the slightest wind. I made up my mind to bike down to (and through) the neighborhood where I grew up, ages 12 to 18. Though now I only live three miles away, it's funny how I simply never have a need to drive through the old neighborhood, so I haven't been in years. As I pedaled closer, I thought about how for a long time I've spent more time there in dreams than in reality.

I turned down the once-familiar street that passes by my old junior high and through almost a mile of neighborhood before it reaches the turn for my old house, and memories began to surface. I passed houses where I spent sleepover nights and teenage birthday parties, the bench my husband and I would sneak off to to make out, the gated development that used to be a vacant lot I would walk home through. I thought of all those kids who once lived in this unremarkable pocket of Chandler, Arizona, and all they have gone on to do in far-flung places. I biked around our junior high that still looks like a penitentiary, trying my luck at a game of remembering which rooms were where--locker rooms here, nurse's office there, and there the track where I circuited so many forced, unenjoyable miles. Finally I came to the turn for my old neighborhood--a smallish loop of maybe 50 houses. The look of things has remained strikingly the same. Same pink tile roofs, same squat orange trees, same can't-tell-one-from-the-next uniformity so typical of Phoenix. But I know the house. I curbed my pace as I approached and cruised by as slowly as possible, trying to take in as many details of my old home as possible (without looking like I was casing the joint). The screen door was closed but the door behind it was open so that I could almost see inside. I half considered riding up and knocking, saying, "I grew up in this house. I remember when it was built. I stood right there when it was just a foundation and a few beams. My mom picked out those terrible blue laminate countertops. Want to see where I spent summers laid out by the pool? Want to see where our hammock used to be, and our trampoline? Want to hear the story of the time a SWAT team surrounded this place?" But I knew today was not the day for that, me sweaty on my bike with no ID and the signature uncoolness of helmet hair. Still, that cloudy, wistful sadness of nostalgia whispered and tugged at me and threatened to overwhelm my heart with images of all the good and wonderful, bad and terrible things that happened in that house.

I felt so strange and sad.

Exiting the neighborhood, I figured I would spend the rest of the long ride home turning over these many memories in my mind and dwelling in the bittersweetness of nostalgia. But then a funny thing happened. I started to think of all those fantastic '90s songs I used to sit in my bedroom listening to on my boom box. I remembered Dave Matthews Band and Duncan Sheik and this band called the Longpigs who had one really great song on the Mission Impossible soundtrack. And I started singing--feeling silly and free and totally uninhibited like I didn't care who saw me (helmet head be damned!) I pedaled as fast as I could to see if the speed limit detector signs would report my speed to passing cars. And the whole way home I felt so relieved to be 30 and not 13.

Confession Time

Allow me to just say a few words about why the sacrament of confession is a truly wonderful thing.

I went to confession today. I'm not the type of Catholic to go every six weeks, as I've heard prescribed by the Church, but I do try to make it a handful of times a year. Seeing as how I could throw a hamsteak out my window and hit my church with it, I really have no excuse for not going more often than that. But today I knew it was time. There were some particular sins on my heart that needed to see the light of day, so when 3:30 came around, instead of going to Target to buy black tights and a gallon of milk like I wanted to do, I headed on over to the church basement. Whenever I walk to confession, I feel nervous and (frankly, sometimes) a little bit resentful that this is something I "have" to do, and there suddenly seem to be a thousand reasons why I don't really need to go. But then of course I always do, and like everyone tells you, I always feel better afterwards.

Today was a little different, though. Because of my burdensome sins (and no, I'm not going to tell you what they were…but, you know, feel free to speculate) I felt extravagantly nervous. It's a good thing there were only two people in line ahead of me, because my heart was pounding like a jackhammer and instead of praying about my sin, I was praying that I wouldn't throw up all over the church basement carpet. Somehow I'm always afraid someone's going to hear what I've done and treat me ungraciously, despite all my prior experience to the contrary.

So thank God for Father Charlie, the pastor of our church, St. Timothy's. He was a key player in our journey into Catholicism, and it is a huge blessing to have him leading our congregation. Going to confession today, I was actually hoping he wouldn't be my confessor because he knows me fairly well. (There's something to be said for anonymity when you're exposing yourself at your worst.) Well, God knows best, and lo and behold, when I walked into the confession room, there he was. But the moment I saw him and recognized the grace in his face, I knew things would be okay and I wouldn't be vomiting all over his priest-y closed-toe shoes. It's a funny thing, but uncovering my most hard-core sins actually led to the best confession I've ever had. Father Charlie's response to my sin was compassionate and real, just like Jesus' response to our sin. He neither minimized nor came down too harshly on my wrongdoing, but talked to me fairly and honestly about it. He gave me practical counsel for resisting and overcoming these sins.

We all want to hear God's voice, especially in the midst of our own guilt, and God isn't always going to speak in an audible voice. So often I believe he uses humans as his mouthpieces, and that's why (when done well) confession is so helpful. It allows a seasoned counselor to speak words of wisdom and comfort that we might not otherwise hear, even in prayer. And in the end, it gives us the promise of hearing an audible voice assure us that we are forgiven, that God's grace is greater than any of our sins.   

I am always so sorry to hear about the negative experiences some people have had with confession. Stories of shaming and harsh, useless penances break my heart because, especially after today, I know what a comfort and a sweet relief confession can be. (Sort of like when you hear stories of terrible parenting and you think, "But these are the people who are supposed to love this child!") When I think of an experience of confession like today's, though, I am reminded of the definition of a sacrament: an outward sign instituted by Christ to impart grace. That's a pretty awesome gift.

Maybe you should give it a try. ;)

Snatched-from-the-Grave Cilantro -- Serves 6

Tonight, as I frequently do when trying to use up extra barbecue pulled pork from a dinner earlier in the week, I made barbecue pulled pork pizza. It was a tasty delight, as always. (I'm becoming more and more convinced of Dr. Andrew Weil's belief that "our homes should be the best places to eat"…which could be its own blog post.) In addition to the requisite slow-cooked pork, barbecue sauce, and mozzarella, I always add thinly sliced red onion and a generous dose of fresh cilantro. But no matter how much cilantro I use to top the pizza, I never come close to using the whole bunch. So while I wait for our garden's cilantro plant to grow enough to provide me just as much or as little as I need for a given recipe, I always encounter the same problem: a 3/4-full bunch of cilantro that I don't want to throw out but which takes up space in my vegetable crisper. Inevitably, I end up pitching it in the compost once it's sat long enough to become a washed-up, old maid-y version of its fresh, spicy self. But it's always a shame, as food waste necessarily is.

About now I bet I know what you're thinking: "Really? A few measly strands of cilantro and you're whining about the shame of food waste? What are you supposed to do? Make a cilantro sandwich? It's not like you're throwing out some perfectly good all-purpose food like bacon, you hippie!"

I used to think the same way. Who cares about a random perishable smidgeon of food you can barely make use of? The obvious, only reasonable thing to do is toss it--or if you really want green points, put it in your compost. But then last Christmas (yes, actually on Christmas Eve, not sure why) Anthony and I watched a powerful documentary called Dive. Incidentally, the film is *mostly* about dumpster diving, not something I necessarily recommend and have never had the guts to do, despite the fact that the stuff these people get from Trader Joe's looks incredible. Long story short, the movie chronicles not only the director's experiences with dumpster diving, but the reasons he does it: food waste in this country and around the world is shocking. Appalling. STAGGERING. According to Dive, something like 50% of the food supply in the United States either spoils or is discarded rather than consumed. And still every day in this country people go hungry. One of those just-doesn't-make-sense social problems.  

Watching this movie really made an impact on me. Previously I had never cared much about conserving food. Really, in our culture of excess, do most people? The clean-your-plate-sonny-jim! attitude always seemed a relic of the Depression generation. If you don't want it, throw it out. You paid for it; it's yours to do with what you will. It doesn't matter; there will always be more. But since last December I have found myself much more attuned to my responsibility to my food, so to speak. If I dispose of perfectly good food, what does that action say? That I take God's provision so for granted that I can just chuck it? That I don't take my family's finances seriously enough to save the expense of eating out "just because" when I could have made something abundantly edible at home? I won't say I now wouldn't get takeout when all there is in the house is ketchup and a can of tuna, or that I save every jot and tittle of extra enchilada sauce, but I do give these daily decisions much more thought in the last ten months or so than ever before.

So tonight, as I was lamenting my cilantro bunch's progress to its grave, Anthony suggested I do something with it. Like what? I thought. Cilantro cookies? Cilantro chips? Then I remembered that our basil plant, the garden cilantro's overachieving older sister, has been calling me to make pesto with its plentiful leaves. While I haven't gotten around to that yet, it reminded me that pesto is one of those vague terms (like "splartch" or "glüg") of which there are endless variations. Guess what one of them is? Bingo: cilantro.

Cilantro pesto it is. In about 15 minutes, I was able to whip up this recipe: http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/cilantro-pesto-10000000524120/index.html (with the addition of some parmesan, according to the classic cooking acronym CGWWC: Can't Go Wrong With Cheese). It gives us something to snack on with crackers over the next few days and just might make my Christmas party menu this year. 

There are probably a million other things I continue to waste without even knowing it, but it does make me feel just a little better knowing that my doomed cilantro bunch met with none other than a gustatory end. And now I feel all fancy because I made a food as trendy as pesto. Fifteen minutes well spent.

Angry Young Woman: My Thoughts on a Fiona Apple Concert

When Fiona Apple walked on stage, I leaned over and whispered to Anthony, "She looks like a meth addict!" Because it's true. Fiona Apple does, unfortunately, look like a meth addict--her long, stringy hair, gaunt face, and impossibly thin frame make her look like she should be on a poster with an 800 number on it. But she's also one of the most enigmatic and experimental artists I've ever seen, and while her show last night was raw and angry and at times left me wondering if I should be praying for her soul, I enjoyed it.

And how could I not enjoy it? From the time I was 15 and picked up her debut album Tidal, listening to it lying morosely on my bed in typical 15-year-old fashion, I've been a fan. Tidal, in fact, has only gotten better with time. As I've aged, I've found new nuances and truths in it, which is surprising since Apple was only 18 when she recorded it. While I've never been as devoted to any of her subsequent albums as much as Tidal, I've owned them and listened to them often. Certain tracks seem to come back to me like musical homing pigeons--their insights striking fresh chords each time. 

I think what appeals to me most about Apple and her music (and probably what appeals to most of her female fans), in addition to her totally original songwriting, is her unflinching Angry Young Woman vibe. As someone who struggles with anger, I totally get where she's coming from. I think we all need music for those times when we hurt, when we want to claw someone's face off, when we want to flip the world the bird. For some that might mean death metal. For me, it has meant Fiona Apple. She's certainly got enough vitriol to go around, and from some self-evident sources: her brutal rape as a child, her complicated relationships with acrimonious ends. So watching her last night, I could feel myself letting off some angry steam with her.

The thing I believe about anger, though, is that it's not meant to be a permanent state. While I resonate with Fiona Apple and will probably always enjoy her music, I have to say that I left the theater last night with some questions. Like how long can you stay angry? How long should you? If you keep if up for years at a time, won't it eventually start to make you look like a meth addict? (Or maybe Apple actually is on drugs, I don't know. The only words she spoke from the stage were a weird diatribe against her record label and the unusual fashion tip of using bra padding to cover up her open-toed shoes.) If Fiona's niche is the Angry Young Woman genre, what happens when she's not so young anymore? Is she still going to be on stage writhing and banging the piano and shouting out her lyrics when she's 40? 45? 50? Don't get me wrong: she's great at what she does. And I think there's always a time and place for angry music--in fact, I wish someone would have the guts to make some angry Christian music. But the angry stuff, sustained on a constant plane for the last 16 years since Tidal, has to stop somewhere or she'll either destroy herself or just stagnate. How powerful would it be if she came out with an album about forgiveness? 

A Brief History of Meatloaf

Meatloaf and I go back a long way. My mother, of sturdy Midwestern stock, seemed to view meatloaf as a catch-all cloaking device for whatever bits and scraps remained in the refrigerator or pantry at the end of a given week (month? year?). I can remember watching with mounting distaste as carrots, spinach, rhubarb--was that oatmeal?--disappeared into her Pyrex mixing bowl, and wondering why a raw egg needed to be part of this process. Just observing the assembly of my mom's meatloaf had me convinced before my first bite that this was quite likely the most disgusting food ever invented. And then it came out of the oven--a craggy, rectangular meteorite from the part of space where they stare you down with unflinching meat-and-spinach eyes. I may have only been five years old, but I knew I was 

NOT. GOING. TO. EAT. THAT.

Well, you can imagine what happened next. In the classic parent-child food battle maneuver, I sat at the dinner table and refused to eat a single bite. Mom, not to be outdone in battle strategy, pulled the parent checkmate of you'll-sit-there-until-you-finish-it-even-if-it-takes-all-night! I really thought I could stick to my guns on this one, but around 2 AM (okay, it was probably only about 7:30) I was getting pretty sick of banging my heels on the rattan seat of my chair while my brother played. I grudgingly accepted defeat and picked up a piece of (now cold) brown meteorite and willed myself to eat it. And it was indeed wretched. 

Being the kind of kid who loved to make lists of favorites and least favorites--favorite color: pink, favorite stuffed animal: Puffalump--I quickly placed meatloaf at the very top of my LFFL, least favorite foods list. (Move over, lima beans.) For the remainder of my years at home, I gave my mom so much grief every time she cooked it that she eventually caved and stopped making it altogether. Still, over the years, meatloaf has remained the unshakeable king of my LFFL. Even as an adult, if forced to eat meatloaf under social duress, I have always made sure to spread it around my plate as much as possible to make it look like I've actually made a dent in the stuff.

The problem with meatloaf now that I am an adult, however, is that my husband loves it. So recently, motivated by wifely devotion, I decided to take a chance and try a meatloaf recipe I found in one of my favorite cookbooks, The Cleaner Plate Club, which incidentally focuses on getting your kids to eat healthy foods. How ironic. All the recipes I've tried from this cookbook have been great, so I thought I'd give it a go. Plus, it didn't call for anything revolting, which helped ease my trepidation. In fact, the ingredients actually looked appealing--parmesan cheese, fresh rosemary, garlic, homemade roasted tomatoes. I ended up using tomatoes and rosemary from our garden, some good quality ground beef, and yes, the requisite raw egg. And much to my surprise, the end result was…dare I say…delicious? I could barely believe my tastebuds. This fresh and fragrant comfort food was endangering meatloaf's long-held number one position on my LFFL. I even had seconds.

It may sound strange, but I feel like meatloaf is teaching me a lesson. Meatloaf seems to be whispering (with its meat-and-spinach mouth) that things are not always what they seem, that it is possible to change our minds about even the most white-knuckle-gripped opinions. Granted, my cookbook's recipe is drastically different from my mom's everything-but-the-kitchen-sink concoction, but if I can change my mind about meatloaf, what else can I re-think? My attitudes about people, places, things? I don't ever want my opinions to become so calcified that there is no room for change. Because how boring is that? I'd like to think I will carry the meatloaf lesson with me as I go about decision-making and opinion-forming in my daily life. 

Though I do promise I will not be carrying around any actual meatloaf. No matter how good it tastes, that would just be gross.