Oct 16 2007
Caspar: A retrospective….
He turned 1 today! See his year in pictures, from his first moments on earth to today. I’m sure you’ll agree that he is perfect.
Oct 15 2007
Don’t eat that. You don’t know where it’s been…
Yes. The day is finally here. No, not Caspar’s birthday - that’s tomorrow. It’s Blog Action Day and if you’ve been paying attention you’ll know that today over 15,000 bloggers are writing about what we can do to take care of the environment.
So let’s talk about Food Miles.
Food Miles are a calculation of the distances travelled by our food before it reaches our plates and the harmful emissions caused by transporting it over those distances. They are one reason why more and more people are becoming Locavores; people who prioritise eating local foods, people who follow a 100 Mile Diet. But Food Miles have been getting a lot of criticism in the media lately. From New York to London, they are being discredited as a useful measure. Top New Zealand chef, Peter Gordon, went so far as saying, “if we’re talking about global warming it’s totally irrelevant”, and the Times dismissed it as, “the latest Western obsession” before all but saying this fad would cause starvation in Africa.
As with most media coverage, the whole debate has been sensationalised and mischaracterises Locavores, who are far more intelligent and environmentally aware than the media gives them credit for.
Obviously, transport is just one of the elements of our food chain which contributes to the carbon footprints we leave. Obviously, production, processing and packaging methods need to be taken into account to get a full picture. Obviously, there are some food items which cannot be supplied locally due to climatic and geographical limitations. But let’s give credit where credit is due.
Those calculating Food Miles are very aware of its limitations. Take for example CERES Community Park’s recent preliminary study of Food Miles in Australia
“Food miles is one important part of a larger complete life-cycle assessment required to compare the sustainability of individual items in food systems.
As at the time of this report, the authors know of no Australian-specific food miles research. This report seeks to contribute some preliminary research to encourage Australian dialogue on the growing issues of sustainability within our food systems.”
The dialogue has to start somewhere and without the impact of the Food Miles debate, the funding just beginning to become available for more complete life cycle analyses would not have appeared.
Food Miles dramatically highlight the huge redundancies in the supply chain. They reveal how often countries import massive quantities of the same items they are exporting. They reveal how much additional fuel is spent by the centralised, near-monopolies of the supermarket chains. They expose the industry practises which destroy the quality of our food.
So think about becoming a locavore. A locavore is not a one-eyed fanatic. They’ve got a handle on all the environmental, and social, and political ramifications of our food chain. Consider the reasons to prioritise local food sources. Consider not just the emissions impact, but the impact on global biodiversity. (Did you know that over 30,000 vegetable varieties have become extinct in the last century and another one disappears every six minutes?) And consider the diversity of your diets. Eating seasonal food is healthy.
These are some locavore guidelines for how to buy food with a your conscience as well as your appetite:
If not LOCALLY PRODUCED, then Organic. This is one of the most readily available alternatives in the market and making this choice protects the environment and your body from harsh chemicals and hormones.
If not ORGANIC, then Family farm. When faced with Kraft or Cabot cheeses, Cabot, a dairy co-op in Vermont, is the better choice. Supporting family farms helps to keep food processing decisions out of the hands of corporate conglomeration.
If not FAMILY FARM, then Local business. Basics like coffee and bread make buying local difficult. Try a local coffee shop or bakery to keep your food dollar close to home.
If not a LOCAL BUSINESS, then Terroir, which means ‘taste of the Earth’. Purchase foods famous for the region they are grown in and support the agriculture that produces your favorite non-local foods such as Brie cheese from Brie, France or parmesan cheese from Parma, Italy.
Hit the farmers’ market before the supermarket. Plan your meal around local ingredients you find at the market.
Branch out. Maybe your usual food repertoire could use some fresh ideas. The farmers’ market provides a perfect chance to try a new ingredient when it’s in season, and lets you talk to its grower to find out the best way to prepare your new food. Flirt with your food producer!
Feed the freezer. Can’t cook every night? Worried about your fresh produce going bad? It’s easy. Make lasagna with local tomatoes or a soup packed with fresh veggies and freeze it! You can also make personal size meals for a brown bag lunch.
Go out! Many… restaurants emphasize local foods in their dishes. Ask around, you might be surprised how many options you find that serve up local flavor. from Locavores
It’s worth thinking about. Do you know where your food has been?
RESOURCES AND ADDITIONAL READING
- The Ethicurean - A blog on food ethics: Chew the right thing!
- Eat Local Challenge - A group blog well worth reading, a good place to start if you want to do a test run on eating locally. Has area specific resources for the USA.
- Low Mileage Food- A blog of one couple’s journey toward eating locally, including their food costs.
- Book: The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals - Thanks to Urban Hennery for this recommendation. I’ll be trying to get my hands on a copy.
- Australian Farmers’ Markets Association - Find a farmer’s market near you.
- Seasonal Produce Diary 2008 - Buy this diary. Seriously. I have used it for years, and adore it. It has recipes and food/wine festival information as well as seasonal guides. And functions as a diary, of course.
- Going the extra mile… -Newspaper article on one family’s experience of the 100 Mile Diet in Melbourne. It’s a really good read.
- 100 Mile Cafe - The new Melbourne restaurant from Paul Mathis (who I used to work for) which sources produce within a 100 mile radius. Restaurant review from Epicure
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Oct 14 2007
Elevated reading…
I knew it was coming. There were some valiant attempts earlier in the week. A white knuckled grip, a face mashed into the the upholstery, one knee high up against his side and one foot almost lifting off the ground. And two days ago he made it.
Yes, Caspar can now climb up onto the sofa. I’m impressed. I’m proud. I’m thrilled. But I’m also horrified. The logistics of the descent still seem a long way off. He thinks a head-first dive-bomb is the way to go and I can no longer leave the living room, even momentarily, while he is in it. Who will be there to catch him?
After a morning spent at the house I am selling, dragging old furniture and a pond and a pool table out to the nature strip for the annual hard rubbish collection, I actually spent some of my afternoon on the couch watching TV. Caspar is very good at entertaining himself. He likes patrolling the house, inspecting the floorboards, opening and closing doors and poking at whatever he discovers along the way. But he also likes his Mummy & Me time. And that means books.
So there I was, watching episode 3 of Grey’s Anatomy’s 4th season in a fairly half-assed way, perking up a little when Really Old Guy… No, better not mention that. It hasn’t aired here yet. Anyway, there I was on the sofa when Caspar came over and handed me one of his favourite books before clawing his way up and snuggling in to just the right spot for me to read to him. Needless to say, I turned the television off.
Let’s just dwell on that image for a minute, before I go on with my story. I can’t remember exactly when he started snuggling in by himself for story time, coming over with book in hand and sitting himself down on my knee whenever I was cross-legged on the floor but it still moves me each time. It is probably the clearest communication I have from him.
(When he shakes his head, no, he won’t hit me any more, does he really know what he is agreeing to? When he nods, yes, he’s finished his dinner, does he really understand what it means? Actually, I’m, pretty sure he has that one figured out. When I asked yesterday he had hardly eaten a thing but I let him down anyway so that he would learn. He promptly picked up his dinner so that he could continue eating while toddling off to say hello to Big Sis. Finished obviously means Get free. I think I got played.)
But I don’t think it’s the clear communication that puts butterflies in my stomach and a lump in my throat when he comes and claims his space, even though that is something to be proud of. It’s not even that he loves reading so much. I think it is the trust expressed - his trust in me, in my attention, in his place in my world - which is so very beautiful that it almost moves me to tears. I think it is in moments like these that you know you are doing a good job of being a mother.
But, being a mother, Caspar’s choice of a more elevated book time (elevated to sofa level) today seemed like a good opportunity to provide some instruction. Like any addict bookworm, one is never enough for him and his usual method of obtaining another fix more books when we are on the couch is to lunge over the edge to reach the bookshelf which doubles as a side table while I grab at his ankles like a bungee cord, trying to avert possible brain damage. Today, with a lot of patience on my part and very little on his, we did a some manoeuvring between stories to show him how to go down backwards. I’m not sure the message sank in though.
He’s right, after all: Head first is quicker.
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Oct 13 2007
3 reasons to be here…
A while ago I wrote a post about why I started this blog. At the risk of being redundant, I think it deserves some expansion. In the last couple of months I have learned some things about blogging. I have learned why I do it and I have learned what it can do.
Chris Garrett wrote an article for the Blog Herald today, 3 Non-Financial Reasons Why Anyone Should Blog. It unified some of my thoughts and gave me a sort of framework through which I could express them.
The last but not least of Chris’ 3 reasons was the joy of writing. This is obviously an important one for me. I have talked about my need to write over and over again, but I have never mentioned that thing which drives it: My need to be read.
I know there are people out there who “write for themselves”, or I am told that there are, but I cannot relate to them. For me, the need to write is a need to communicate.
This is a polite way for me to say what many writers feel: That what they have to say is worthwhile, that their voice should be heard, that they have something to offer the world. Orwell said there were four motives for people to write: The first was Sheer Egoism, and the following three contained that egoism within them. Writing requires arrogance. No matter how meek, how insecure or how neurotic writers are in their daily lives (and I, myself, can be all of those things), when it comes to their work - published or unpublished, paid or unpaid - there is nothing diffident about them.
In the first sentence of the paragraph above I used the term “writers feel”, but that was coy. Writers know. Even in the depths of despair, even when they go back over what they have written and loathe it, even when they loathe themselves because of it, there is still something in them that is assured.
How much contradictory arrogance did it take to say, as Sartre did in Being and Nothingness, that “Man is a useless passion”? How much authority did Anais Nin assume when she wrote,“The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say”? Writers are secure in the privilege of their voice. I am secure in mine.
My arrogance in this respect may not be the most attractive quality, but there would be no literature in the world if this quality did not move writers to create it.
Blogging feeds writers. Immediately. One push of the button and there are faceless, nameless people all over the world reading what you have written. Your voice is no longer lost in the wilderness, waiting on rejection letters from publishers, hoping for people to hear you. Eventually. When you’re dead. That audience writers know they are entitled to is suddenly, actually, there. They encourage you and they challenge you.
And sometimes, they are moved to speak.
This brings me to Chris’ 1st reason to blog, networking and making friends. Before I started this blog, I had never read a blog. I had written poetry, short fiction, essays, parts of film scripts and half a novel. This was a new medium and I needed to learn. So I dug around and I found voices I wanted to hear, voices I wanted to respond to. I fell in love with blogging, not just because I love the sound of my own voice but because I love the richness of everybody else’s. If all of the arrogance I have written about so far seems a little repugnant, think of this: The humility to be moved by other people’s words is the other side of that coin.
I am a terrible “networker”. I find it difficult to slow myself to the pace which is required to build friendships. I do not have the patience to mine the archaeology of character and I struggle to connect when the cores of us are are covered in the dust of our social boundaries. In the physical world, it is difficult to see inside the vessel and it is difficult to be seen. In the blogosphere, such a synthetic world, there is a visible reality more truthful and more raw than we can perceive in real life.
I once wrote to someone dear to me that if we were able to see all people as they are we would be blinded by the light. So we see our few; we see our “bright, particular stars“ and it is the rarest of joys. Here in cyberspace, the skies are so much clearer.
I have seen so many bright stars in these three months of blogging and the brilliance of their light astounds me. I have seen strength and generosity and sensitivity and integrity. Not everyone I have met through blogging will become my friend in the traditional sense of the word but my contact with them has enriched my life and my mind. And I am so grateful for it.
Just as I am grateful for the opportunities blogging has brought to me, which was Chris’ 2nd reason, and my final one. I have had the opportunity to interact with people I would never have come across in real life, I have had the opportunity to write and to be read. I have received support for my feelings, my thoughts and my work. The enthusiasm I have found here has given me the impetus to return to my novel and I have been asked to join a small writers’ forum where I can work toward finishing it, no longer in a vacuum.
While Chris’ example - a published book on the shelf in Borders - is more concrete than those I’ve listed above, blogging is drawing me, step by step, closer to that goal.
I really need to sign off now. Once again, I have spent the evening at my computer when I should have been packing boxes and doing dishes. And sleeping. And yet… I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of why people should blog and what blogging can do. There is so much more to say.
But not tonight.
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Oct 11 2007
On fatherhood…
One thing that you will not see me writing about here is the reason why Caspar is “fatherless”. This is not because I have any qualms about airing my laundry. You’ve probably noticed already that self-censorship is not one of my strong points. The reason I won’t discuss the details is out of respect for the privacy of others. Well, one other.
A while ago now I wrote about a scene I witnessed at the park; a father picking up his kids and the mother walking away alone. I do not have to go through that. While being a single parent and having a fatherless child would not have been my first choice, I was able to accept the way things were when I found out I was pregnant and when my expectations were confirmed. I was not overwhelmed by a sense of rejection and I did not feel daunted by the prospect of parenting alone. I never considered not doing it, regardless of the circumstances, and my anticipation of Caspar’s birth was an unadulterated joy.
I know many women in more ideal situations (on the surface, at least) are not as lucky as I was in that respect. Possibly, I was just another example of a fool rushing in where angels fear to tread. I am often an example of that. In fact, you could carve it on my headstone. But I digress…
I believe (and read that as, I think, considering all the knowledge I currently have at hand which is subject to change, and very aware that I am generalising) that the nature of fatherhood is fundamentally different from motherhood. Not qualitatively different, but different nonetheless.
Motherhood is physical from the outset. There is physical relationship with your child before they are even born, for better or worse. For a father, things are not so concrete. For a father, the path toward parenthood begins theoretically. I have known men who were highly involved in the pregnancy, who were fascinated by every change, who attended every appointment. I have also known men who were completely disconnected from the process, focussing solely on the logistics (dealing with the physical world), until they physically held their child in their arms. I have even known men who did not feel really attached until their child was older and capable of more sophisticated interactions with them. All of these types of men have an equal capacity to be great fathers. It’s just that fatherhood can sometimes be a slow burn.
There is some science to back this up. A man’s hormonal responses* - his production of prolactin and cortisol which assist with bonding - are dependent to a certain extent on proximity, both during the pregnancy and once his child is born. With work often taking men away from home for long periods of time, it is not surprising that, for some, the connection comes more slowly.
Motherhood is an amazingly powerful thing. It is immediate, it is a fait accompli. It has physical presence and if by some awful twist of fate there is a disconnection, a woman has a long, hard road to travel. Society does not allow a woman time for her motherhood to be a journey. But for men… There is something so very beautiful in watching a man evolve into a father, seeing him mentally shift from his theoretical role as protector and provider and start taking pleasure in the scent of his child’s hair. There is something beautiful in watching a man fall in love.
Fatherhood is also an amazingly powerful thing.
When Caspar arrived, I really wanted his father to meet him, newborn, and breathe in his scent. I did not want this in order to change the way things were (biology has its limitations) but there would have been something symbolic in that physical act of holding him, even for just that one moment, before returning him to me. I would have liked to have been able to tell Caspar that his father fell in love with him and entrusted him to my care.
His father lives with Caspar’s existence only theoretically and I ache for him. I think that the idea of your child is perhaps a harder burden to bear than the reality of him when you cannot be there, or have chosen not to be there. Especially for a man. Without having experienced that physical presence, Caspar’s father has nothing to hold on to. He is left only with his theoretical role as protector and provider, a role he will never play. Knowing him, I imagine this is difficult. I imagine that he sometimes feels torn between his choices and his sense of moral obligation. I imagine that he will have a long, hard road to travel in order to resolve this conflict within himself. I imagine that one day, when he evolves from a man into a father, he will feel that connection for the first time and there will be a sense of loss alongside his joy.
Perhaps if he had held his son, he would have had something concrete to sustain him. There would have been action on his part; entrusting him to me would have been a physical act. Symbolism and psychology and physiology are not so very separate. I would have liked him to have the memory of Caspar’s newborn scent to carry with him on that road.
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Oct 10 2007
Sleep is calling…
Yes, she is. And I don’t like the sound of her voice. She’s a nag.
Three nights in a row I have fallen asleep on the couch after putting Caspar to bed at 7pm. I think Sleep is trying to tell me something. But I hate sleeping. I always have. It’s not something I have ever been good at. As a child, I had an early bedtimes. Today it seems like children don’t have bedtimes at all but back in the day… So I went to bed. But not to sleep.
Growing up in north east Victoria we had long, hot summers, hot enough to melt the roads and it seemed like the sun never went down. I would read and read and read, squinting at the pages in the half-light until I had to admit defeat, no longer able to make out the words. Then I used a torch, which was confiscated from me regularly. I recall one night waiting until my parents were asleep before going outside to crawl under the house and retrieve it from it’s hiding place. And I remember hours spent overnight in the toilet with a book, working on the theory that if my parents awoke and discovered me, I had an excuse at hand.
I also remember waking early, around 4am, and reading some more. I would leave the house before 7am, still reading as I walked the 15 minute walk to school. School didn’t start until 9am.
So I didn’t sleep but I spent a lot of time in bed. With my books. In 40°+ heat ( that’s 104+ in fahrenheit for my American friends) I would be snuggled under the doona with Enid Blyton or Judy Blume or Jane Austen. Lost in their worlds, I had no concept of time or what was going on outside. The day I read R.D. Blackmore’s Lorna Doone, in the year of the Ash Wednesday fires which wiped out half the state (I was nearly 11), it was hot, really hot. When I finished it, in bed with my electric blanket on in the middle of the day at the height of summer, I was surprised to look outside and see it wasn’t snowing. That the air, sweltering, was a burning jewel.
After leaving home, there was no longer any bedtime and my sleepless nights continued. Sometimes, I worked late at a McDonald’s in the city, a 17 year old girl working her way through her last year at high school. Occasionally I went out to a club, stumbling from the early tram into my school-funded apartment for a long bath before classes. But mostly I read, now grown into Plath and Sartre and Camus. And I wrote.
As an adult, I succumbed briefly to the 9 to 5 life but continued living without sleep, spending dark hours at the computer working on my novel. Sleep is boring, I would say. I started working nights on top of my day job, just to stay awake, before doing away with the day job altogether and surrendering once more to my vampire life. I closed my eyes only when I could keep them open no longer.
Now I am not working at all and I am unable to sleep whenever my body wins its battle with me because of that small, warm, perfect boy now peacefully snuffle-snoring in my room. Still, I find myself again and again at my computer at 3am, writing this blog. My body is fighting me for its time; it’s time to recuperate, to rejuvenate my mind, to replenish itself, rebuild itself. It is not winning. It is ten minutes to one and after a restless nap on the sofa, I am here writing.
I confess, O nagging Sleep, that it is my bedtime. I will submit to that much.
But I am taking a book with me.
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Oct 09 2007
First birthday freak out…
Yes. He’s turning one. It’s wonderful. And it’s too fast.
A party date is set. The 21st. I’ve let people know but it’s time to get those invitations out. I ditched my picnic idea - it is too inconvenient to get us to a location convenient for everyone else. If only a few people come, well, that’s a bit depressing but it is the way things are until we move.
So a yard and a barbeque and a birthday cake. Home made, of course. And no balloons. Caspar is terrified of balloons. It is the first thing he has ever really been afraid of. He cries and clings and buries his head on my shoulder briefly before turning back to make sure that round and colourful air monster isn’t coming for him.
So definitely no balloons.
I bought some invitations yesterday and some 90 cent crayons as his present. Today I’m off to get some nice paper to print off as Wishes to send along with the invitations so that everyone who can’t make it can fill them out and send a birthday message for him. I’m hoping that I will also find a secondhand, Caspar-height table for him to sit and scribble at and I will get some colouring paper. After that, and the beer and the meat, all the preparations are done. It’s not the best party I have ever planned (And a generic invitation pad? Who does that?) but it will do.
So now I just have to deal with the fact that this first year almost over. Just the other day when I dressed him, I thought I’d try on one of the oversized polo shirts that my Mum had bought for him in July. Contrary to my expectation, it fit perfectly. It almost made me cry. Some of the welling tears were of pride. (Pride that he is growing? Does that count as an achievement? Well, yes. When you’re a mother.) The rest of the tears were for being forced to acknowledge that there is not a lot of baby left in him.
I remember when he was a baby and I went to the the supermarket and placed him in the infant seat as I usually did. Looking at him there and trying to do the straps up, I realised he was far too big to be in the infant seat any more and was ready for a real trolley. But I felt so silly for not realising this that I left him there and did my shopping with some chagrin. And it was just the other day that I realised I no longer have to carry him from the car to the house and then go back for my shopping bags.
He can walk, stoopid!
I can carry my bags and he can hold my finger and we can walk into the house together. Change just happens in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it takes me a while to catch up.
So on his first birthday he will wear his big clothes, feed himself cake, put his hands on his head, clap, dance, say dah-gah, play catch, lead everyone else around by the hand and tear the paper off his presents himself. As he should.
It freaks me out and bring tears to my eyes.
And that is how it should be as well.
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