Food, Glorious Food

Musing on why I didn't find that Whole Foods blog funny...

Last week I read a satirical blog in the Huffington Post Comedy section entitled "Surviving Whole Foods."  I found the link in my facebook feed via numerous friends that day.  I eagerly clicked on the link.  As someone who enjoys a monthly shopping trip to Whole Foods, I got ready to laugh knowingly, maybe even at myself.

But I did not laugh.  So I reread the blog, twice... then again.  I thought I must be missing something.  But I just wasn't laughing.  So I slept on it.  But when I woke up, I felt even less like laughing.  Had I become humorless?  Could I no longer take a joke?

So I'll try to put what's bugging me into words.  I think that good satire is rooted in a healthy dose of truth.  But reading this blog just felt like a blow by blow of one over-the-top misguided observation after another.  I cringe when the author casually states that "poor people" don't have "special diet needs."  I disagree.  Diabetes immediately comes to mind... it actually affects people below the poverty line at a higher rate.  Here is Dr. Mark Hyman's thoughtful blog from a few years back that addresses the link between poverty and diabetes.  I suspect that poor people likely have just as many, if not more, special diet needs when compared to society at large.  These special diet needs were likely caused by the fact that they didn't have access to good, real, whole food in the first place.  Maybe they were deterred by the high costs, or more likely because a place that offers quality food doesn't even exist in the neighborhood.  This does not make me laugh. 

The author continues to ridicule Whole Foods as she makes her way through the beauty and vitamin aisles.  Somehow she is "tricked" into buying things she doesn't need, including hundred dollar face cream.  To use her own phrase, talk about "rich white people problems."  Talk about finding a way to factor personal responsibility out of the equation, and to let Whole Foods take the blame for you spending too much money, you having no self control, you being too preoccupied with the size of your pores to make the choice to not max out your credit card.  Maxing out credit cards is still responsible for having ruined the financial lives of countless Americans and played no small role in the economic downturn we so often like to blame on the government.  This also does not make me laugh.

Unlike the author of "Surviving Whole Foods," I didn't grow up shopping there, as she states in an on camera interview.  In fact, I'm pretty sure my parents never step foot in the place because they've also heard that you'll spend your "whole paycheck" there.  Maybe they are intimidated because they've heard of the snooty, unfriendly, pretentious staff members.  This has not been my experience.

Avocado - Natural Whole Baby Food

The parking lot at the Chicago South Loop store has great big parking spaces (it's a perk to living in the mid-west I suppose!).  I'm wearing my baby as I cross the walk, and a nice lady smiles and waves me through.  I have a lovely conversation with the butcher behind the counter, he helps me decide what the best cut of meat would be for a recipe I'd like to try.  He's knowledgeable, friendly, and talks with me about how to get the most for my money here.  I sample delicious cheese; I learn where it's from.  The whole wheat bread is in the bread aisle along with all the other bread; I am empowered to choose a loaf that's in my budget.  The signs in the produce section help to highlight what's in season, so if I want, I can make the decision to provide my family with food that's growing optimally and nearby.  I learn about a local farm I didn't know about before.  I buy an organic avocado from California, it makes us think fondly of Los Angeles.  I try a sample for a bath scrub, I smell amazing for the rest of the day.  I decide not to buy any, because it's out of my budget right now, but the scent on my wrist makes me smile.  I check out, providing my re-useable bags, which I now store in the car.  I used to forget them all the time, and sometimes I still do.  But I'm glad that this store is trying to help me remember to use them. 

It is not my intention to be a spokesperson for Whole Foods.  I can't deny that prices are high there.  And maybe on occasion you'll run into a grumpy staff member, but who doesn't have grumpy days?  The truth is, good quality food simply costs more than food that's bad for us and bad for our country.  It's a problem that we've made highly processed, sugary, empty calorie-d food so cheap that we expect all food should be cheap.  And the cheaper bad food is, the more it costs to provide healthy options, such as fresh grass-fed meat, a wider variety of whole grains, and support for small local farms.  Whole Foods is not here to solve all our problems, but they are a forerunner among national supermarkets when it comes to providing customers with with good, healthy whole options.  I would like to argue that an occasional, well thought out trip to Whole Foods can be a really enjoyable experience, that does not need to result in breaking the bank.  

If we're ever going to make a dent in our country's food problem, we need to demand better food from better quality sources.  We can ask this of our local farmers' markets, or grocery stores.  I'm lucky to have this opportunity.  Unfortunately, not everyone has the access or the means to do this.   But if people with relative privilege, like the author of "Surviving Whole Foods," spent a little more time making smart choices in the food aisles, and a little less time maxing out her credit card on ridiculously priced beauty products, we might have a chance at changing the status quo. 
I promise, I'm the same fun-loving gal I've always been.  I haven't lost my sense of humor or my appetite.  I just spend my laughs on stuff that's funny, and my money on food that's good for my family.
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Food, Glorious Food - this week's blogpost title is the opening song from Oliver! in which the orphan workhouse boys fantasize of food while collecting their daily gruel.  I hope I see the day when the dream for all Americans to have access to good, whole food, becomes a reality. 

[Miss] America

Musing on how to combat the hateful ignorant tweets...

Uh, you guys, why is Miss America green??? 

Today's news stories were filled with reports on Nina Davuluri's Miss America win, as well as the aftermath explosion of unspeakably hateful and embarrassingly grammatically incorrect, ignorant tweets.  I am mad.  I am sad.  I want to meet one of these tweeters, and then I want to punch him/her in the face.  I have had a lot of dark thoughts in response to these tweets, not the least of which was imagining a beautiful day in the future, on which the last of these hateful, stupid people dies out. 

I let myself go to that comfy dark place, where I vigorously spew out equally hateful energy back at the tweeters, for a good 10 minutes.  But then, I stop.  Because if any of this is ever going to stop, it has to stop with me. 

And I’m inviting you to join me, all you people like me - all you loving, thoughtful, open-minded, progressive citizens of this beautiful country we call the United States of America.  I'm inviting you to first spend whatever time you need to punch a pillow, scream atop a mountain, stab a few needles into an ignorant racist doll... and then I'm inviting you to stop, lose the hatred, let go of the anger, and instead use all the energy to fuel something better.  Because if it is even possible for a time to come when a good day for a non-white American doesn’t result in an explosion of hateful tweets, it has to begin with us.  We have to change the way we think and act in reaction to this kind of ignorance and hatred.

I don't blame the news for reporting on the tweets.  I'm grateful that they are shining a light upon the darkness, and I'm glad it’s given me the opportunity to see how there are so many people who are infuriated just like I am. 

But I believe for every sad story, there’s a happy one.  For every hateful ignorant tweeter, there is another kind of person.  A person who after watching Miss America may have chosen not to tweet his/her thoughts, but who came to see America in a new light.  Maybe it was a little white girl who saw for the first time that beautiful American women come in all different colors from all different backgrounds.  Maybe it was a little Asian American girl who got to see an American who looks like her on television.  

If this story has a happy ending, it has to start with us, and our children.  The only way to reduce the number of ignorant hateful people, is to increase the number of well-informed loving people.  It means we don't just pass on this anger we feel to our kids, we pass on our love for all people.  It means we share our history, good and bad, and we talk about how we're a country made up of people from all over the world.  It means we have a globe or a map in our homes, and our families grow up knowing the names of different countries, but seeing that we’re all a part of the same world.  It means that we choose not to only surround ourselves with people who look just like us.  We stop using words like "us and them."  We stop calling people who are not like us “weird.”  We stop rolling our eyes when we talk about the importance of diversity, and we seek it out.  We seek out people who are unlike ourselves; we acknowledge and celebrate our differences, and allow beautiful friendships to grow out of our commonalities. 

We stop the people we love when they say things that are fueled by hatred or ignorance, and we lovingly correct them, we let them know humbly, that we don’t have room for statements of ill will in our homes.  We stop laughing at hateful jokes; we clarify misunderstandings.

And I'm not just talking to my white friends right now.  I'm calling upon my friends of color to stop the cycle.  I'm calling on you, my Asian American friends, because you know that our parents are culprits.  I’m picking on you because I can only speak from my own experience.  Let’s not sacrifice our children and the future of our country by allowing hatred to perpetuate, for the sake of “saving face” and “respecting elders.” 

I am going to put these hurtful tweets behind me, and I am going to move forward firmly in love.  If my daughter has any chance of growing up in an America where "our children will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character" (thank you Dr. King, I realized that what I was trying to say, you had already said perfectly), then it has to begin again with me.  I hope you'll join me.
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America - today's blogpost title is a song from the musical West Side Story, the lyrics of which may be apropos.

Climb Ev'ry Mountain

Musing on why my minority family loves the great outdoors...

Glacier National Park - from our trip there in 2010

Last week, I read about how The National Parks Service is trying to make themselves more appealing to non-white Americans.  And I thought to myself "Hm, for as long as I (non-white American) can remember, I have found National Parks to be quite appealing."

Then a couple days after that I read about why outdoor activities are appealing to white people and not to minorities.  And I thought to myself, "Hm, why are outdoor activities appealing to me?

And so today I find myself reflecting on the circumstances that lead my own family to become the nature-loving, yearly-camping, National Park visiting, mountain hiking, despite being non-white Americans that we are today.

My family is ethnically Chinese, but my parents immigrated here to the United States via the Philippines.  Ethnically Chinese people make up about 1.6% of the Philippine population, and about 15% if you include people of mixed Chinese/Filipino decent.  I didn't know that before, I just learned it from a wikipedia page about Chinese Filipinos.  I have more to say about being Chinese from the Philippines, but maybe I'll save some of it for another blog on another day.  For now, I'll just muse on how I think it played a part in how my family came to love the great outdoors.

I think it began with my dad, who moved Iowa to begin grad school in 1972.  He was 23 years old.  The thing about Iowa in the early 70s is... there were not a lot of Chinese guys from the Philippines.  Actually, there probably still aren't very many.  But back then, my early-20s-dad landed in Iowa and was immediately surrounded by people unlike himself. 

I note this because it seems like basic human nature to notice when you feel out of place.  If you're used to being around people who look like you, you notice when you're surrounded by people who do not.  The NYT article opens with this implication, that few minorities choose to visit National Parks because they don't perceive it as something that minorities do. 

But what happens when you aren't used to being surrounded by people who look like you in your daily life?  What if, like my dad in 1972, you're the "only one," the only person from where you're from, who speaks your native language?  At first, I think you start to find the similarities you have with the people around you, similarities beyond your background and language.  And second, I think you begin to acclimate to a new status quo.  You no longer need to be surrounded by people who look like you in order to feel comfortable.  And so, I think it was this ability of my dad's, to find comfort in uncomfortable situations, that led him, and the rest of my family into the mountains.

And it didn't stop with our nuclear family.  When my grandparents came to live with us in the mid 80s, we acquired an additional tent, and an air mattress to accommodate their elderly backs.  When our aunts and uncles and cousins visited from the Philippines, we borrowed a family friend's Dodge Ram Van, piled in, and hit the State Parks of Michigan.  And in the following years, we acquired a canoe, a kerosine lamp, a bug zapping lantern, a portable stove top, better flashlights.   We figured out how to put tarps underneath our tents so we didn't get wet during the night.

And it's this quality in my dad that kept us going back each year.  He's genuinely curious to try new things, and stubbornly patient when trying to figure something out.  There might have been times when a tent was unruly, or was missing an important piece.  There were times when it rained the entire day and he had to set up our tents and start a fire while getting completely drenched.  He never got discouraged; never hinted that something couldn't be done.  He looked at each problem and calmly found a solution.  And we kids internalized that.  We've all grown up to look for solutions, to never assume that something can't be done.  I don't think this was even intentional on his part.  He didn't create "teaching moments."  He never sat us down and said, "when there's a problem, look for a solution."  We just watched him figure out how to do stuff, and one day found ourselves doing the same thing. 

We love National Parks.  We've visited nearly 40 of the United States, as well as much of Canada, all by car.  Traveling to our country's most beautiful spots, and standing and staring in wonder and awe, is something we've been doing for as long as I can remember.  And there's no question in my mind, that it's something our family will continue to do, for generations to come.  

So I guess if I were going to share my two cents with The National Parks service, I would say... try to appeal to people's innate curiosity and sense of adventure.  This curiosity can be found in people of all colors and backgrounds, universally.  Get kids (all-the-colors-of-the-rainbow kids) into a national park to witness something mind-blowing, and those kids, whatever race they are, will want to pass on the experience to their own families and friends.  The truth is, there are also plenty of white people who are completely intimidated at first (my husband may or may not fall into this category) by traveling in the great outdoors.  How do we make National Parks more appealing to them?  I think if there's an answer to that question, it will likely increase the number of people, from majority and minority backgrounds, to climb mountains, ford streams, follow rainbows, 'til they find their dreams.  ;-)
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Climb Ev'ry Mountain - today's blogpost title song encourages a young and curious Maria (pre-Von Trapp) to follow her dreams in The Sound of Music.

L'Chaim

Musing on Rosh Hashanah (and the sweetness of life)…



I am not Jewish.  But I married a man from a Jewish family.

The thing about marrying someone from a different background, is you have an excuse, obligation, opportunity to become a part of something that you otherwise would not have explored.  Instead of quietly watching as the Jewish High Holidays float by, and wondering what they are observing, and how they are celebrating, suddenly I am a part of they, and the questions become, what are we observing?  How are we celebrating? 

Having a baby makes people think about holidays.  Some of the reason for that probably comes from within - our personal desire to “pass on” something worthwhile and meaningful to our child.  But another part of the reason definitely comes from everywhere else.  An interfaith union sometimes has the power to strike fear, concern, and bewilderment into the hearts of those who know the couple.  “But what will she be!?”  “How are you going to raise her?”  “What if she is confused?”  And my answers to those three questions are “Whatever she wants to be.”  “With love and care.”  And “She will absolutely, most definitely be confused.”  Because childhood is confusing.  Life is confusing.

I think all parents, and not just those in an interfaith relationship, are asking themselves the same questions too.  And really, how many people are raising a child with someone who believes THE EXACT SAME THING that they believe?  I don't think that exists.  That’s kind of like marrying yourself.  It might be easier, maybe, but it sounds boooooooring!
 
I know that there might be some people who will think to themselves (or sometimes not just to themselves) that my daughter is not Jewish because I, her mother, am not Jewish.  But today I’m choosing not to focus on official labels, and instead I’ll be taking this opportunity to explore how this time can be meaningful to my family.
 
So as I muse on Rosh Hashanah, I’m looking forward with hope, and good intention toward the year ahead.  And I’m reflecting on the year that has passed.  There’s a ritual that some Jews practice called tashlikh (sorry about the wikipedia link, I know there's probably better info out there), where your sins from the previous year are symbolically cast off into the water (a river, stream, lake, etc.).  Since we live just a couple blocks from the shore of Lake Michigan, I think it might be the perfect place to spend a little time in the next few days.  I’ll be thinking of ways in which I can be more loving, more patient, more generous, and more kind in the coming year.  And I’ll be reflecting on the times that I’ve been hurtful, impatient, selfish or ill willed… and casting them off into the water (I will likely dramatically mime this action, which will cause my husband to lovingly roll his eyes at my demonstrative nature).  With my baby and husband by my side, and family and friends in my thoughts, I’ll make a little promise to the world to nurture the sweetness in life for the coming year.  Then we will come home and will eat apples and honey (everyone except the baby!  Don’t worry, we’ll wait on the honey 'til she’s at least 12 months), I will make sweet raisin challah french toast for dinner, and we wish you all L’Shana Tovah (for a good year!)!
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L'Chaim - today's blogpost title is a song from Fiddler on the Roof, it means "to life!" which is not what people say to each other on Rosh Hashanah, but is as close as I could get :)

Nice Work If You Can Get It

Musing on labor...

Yesterday was Labor Day, a day dedicated (the United States Department of Labor website informed me) to paying “tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country.”

I’d like to take this opportunity to muse on a special contribution of mine and my husband’s to our world.  Going back nine and a half months, I recall a day that may never be recognized as a national holiday, but will forever be the day that first comes to mind when I hear the word “labor.” 

I’ve heard it said that no one gets a medal for having a baby without drugs.  “You know," the triage nurse said to me in a ho hum tone while I breathed deeply through another intense and painful contraction (I found out later that I was likely in what some people describe as transition at the time), "you can have an epidural right up until the baby's here."  We had just gotten through telling her I was going to try this without an epidural.  "Please don't offer me an epidural unless we ask for one" I had handwritten in very friendly penmanship in my "birth plan."  But even in the midst of labor, the look on her face was unmistakable to me, the sound of her voice was clear.  She was annoyed that I was exerting energy, that I was experiencing pain.  

It felt kind of like if someone saw you biking up a hill on your way to work one morning (maybe this is a choice you'd made to get a little exercise, or because you liked the way you felt after a rigorous bike ride up a hill, or because you wanted to reduce your carbon footprint, or save gas money) and someone yelled at you out their window while driving by “You know, no one gets a medal for riding their bike to work!”

I've also seen the opposite happen...  Someone says to an expecting mother, “You’re not going to use drugs during labor are you?”  Revisiting the biking analogy, it’s as though you’re driving to work one morning and a person standing outside your car yells at you, “You really should walk to work you insert judgmental adjective (Lazy jerk!  Fat ass loser!  Wasteful scum!)” 

We don't tell people how to begin their work days.  We don't make critical comments to people who make a different transportation choice from our own.  We don’t make people feel bad for trying to do something they perceive as good.  Or at least, we shouldn't. 

I would like to propose that we honor all the ways in which women labor babies into the world.  And I’d like to do it without negative commenting.  I’d like to allow women to celebrate their own experiences of labor without needing to put them down. 

I’d like to celebrate my own labor.

No, I did not get a medal for laboring our daughter into the world without pain medication, but I didn't need one.  Actually, I reject the notion that any person needs promise of a medal to motivate her to do something difficult.  My labor was a rigorous, fast-paced, intense, and at times painful ride.  With my loving husband by my side, as well the reassuring calm of my doula’s voice (see below), I felt every contraction, deep breathed and counted, moaned and shouted, and even “hee hee hoo-ed” just like in the movies.  As I pushed, I asked for a mirror, and got to watch the most beautiful, perfect, glorious baby fly out of my body and into the world.  It felt amazing.  I felt accomplished.  I felt proud.  I didn’t need a medal.  I would have chucked that thing through a window.  It’s presence would have felt like a ridiculous belittling token next to the living, breathing, cuddly piece of love that we received instead. 

In my view, that’s pretty “nice work, if you can get it.”
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If you're looking for a calm, cool, comforting doula with a lot of heart in the Los Angeles area, please look up Kate Zachary.  She's precisely the kind of marvelous, Midwestern, (someday) mama, we wanted right by our sides.

Nice Work If You Can Get It - today's blogpost title is a song by George and Ira Gershwin