Some life changing events are born from something as common as a book. Not often do we read them anymore, which may be a reason why so many of us are uninspired. Often, I find the source of my adventurous concepts to be cloaked in the bindings of a book, hidden in a story, or declared across the page in the form of a pronounced headline. (Though most often the former(s).) I can’t pretend to know what inspires most people, yet I love sharing the tiny miracles that inspire me.
The source and cornerstone of my new-discovered passion would be “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” by Barbara Kingsolver, which chronicles her adventures in eating all things local while shunning the embellished options in the grocery store aisles. She packed her bags (and her kids) and trucked it country wide to get really, really dirty growing her own foods for a full year. Along the way she and her family explain why we who shun “regular” grocery stores yet flock to Whole Foods are missing the bigger picture. And missing it we are, although she can explain why with much more eloquence than I. I’ll spare you the book review and leave you with the idea that inspiration is yours, should you decide to get a copy of that book as soon as you can and read it.
Maybe many of you have read it, enjoyed it, and yet remain partial to the convenience of the drive-thru or the grocery store. If this is the case, it only begs the question: have you tried it? Have you drawn a line around the edge of your kitchen and refused to allow anything processed (or anything that’s not local) cross it? If you are still schlepping over to the Publix (or even Whole Foods) then maybe it’s time for a change.
After reading above referenced book, my husband and I decided to start our own vegetable garden/local food challenge. Soon after we tilled our sun-filled patch of rented backyard, Michelle Obama broke ground with her organic garden on the White House lawn. This made me feel (I must admit) a little bit cliché, (which is irrational), and also very proud. It seems high time - if not quite late - to get people back to their roots via planting, growing and eating roots. This is a good thing. Yet, why must we wait for the ever-looming cloud of an economic depression to scurry us like frenzied bunnies back to our gardens? Why do people give up such rewarding work and trade it for lackluster, borderline poisonous (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRicUInkYQM) and certainly tasteless food? Will people abandon their shovels and tillers when the Nasdaq tide is high? I wonder if that White House garden will survive past the next 4 to 8 years. I hope it will, least of all as a reminder.
Yet I digress. I am rambling. What I wanted to tell you was a little story about my ever craved after, ever struggled for, ever imaginative thing I like to call my French Dream. Please don’t gag yourself (on a baguette).
My French Dream is my ideal lifestyle. In my eighteenth year of life I visited “suite Françoise” with my father who is now dearly departed. Paris is divine, yet it was the miniscule, faint little town dotting the border of France and Germany that captured me with all its subtle, remote charm. It’s a dreamy town called Hagenau. My heart felt fit to erupt there. Every sight: cottage, windowsill, lady or gentleman’s image was fit to be photographed and sent to a loved one on a post card. I fell in love. My first four+ hour-long meal was spent as a guest to a family, the husband springing up every half hour or so to rummage his selection of olives and oils to dazzle us with, eager to please. We sat outside, our hair tousled by sweet breezes and our hearts calmed by smooth wines. If I wouldn’t have terrified my generous hosts with oozing tears, I would have shed them into my tapenade from pure bliss. When I returned to America my eyes were opened and my heart was devastated with the sight of the concrete mess of buildings, electric neon signs, advertisements, billboards and blech. Why do we deface our country with countless eyesores such as these? When did we decide to plow over aesthetics with concrete and cement? How right Joni was! I hate to repeat the line now for fear of getting the song trapped in my mind but oh dear, here it comes…no stopping the truth... we paved paradise and put up a (gazillion) parking lot(s). And I don’t like it, not one bit.
I savored every sight in France and penned them into my secret semi-mature journal and declared the means by which I would (someday) live my precious little life. The list is blowsy, juvenile and perhaps a tad trite. Yet it is my French Dream, and I’m somewhat pleased that it is the antithesis of the corporate American dream:
1. I want to have a beautiful garden. I want to grow my own food and eat it straight from my own yard.
2. I want to always have fresh flowers in my windowsills – never fake, and plant them myself.
3. I want to drink wine every day, learn to be somewhat of a connoisseur of it, developing with a very rich(and snobby) palate.
4. I want to learn how to bake fresh bread, grow herbs and make my own soap.
5. I want to be surrounded by marvels of nature, not marvels of man.
6. I want to walk or bike to the places I visit most.
Not on the list (yet), but something life has shown me that I want, is the ability to stand in the kitchen with wiry hair in a flour-covered apron wielding a wooden spoon and swatting one of my naughty children while I bake slender and crisp baguettes. You know her, the kind of mother that is quick to mend a stinging swat with a kiss on the forehead and a homemade cookie. I want that to be me: bustling in my kitchen, windows open, birds singing, delighted to relish in my own messes… it’s a true prayer.
The joy it has been, finding I can incorporate this dream into my American life, in my Athens town. Thanks to the local genius-lady “witchdoctor” down the road I am learning how to make organic soap. Thanks to an upcoming move, I’ll be biking to the co-op, and many a heartfelt thanks goes to my husband, who delights my silly heart every time I glance out the kitchen window and discover him pulling weeds from our garden. I can dream and live my French dream and be all the healthier and happier for it. Am I a walking cliché? Yes. Aaah, c’est la vie: I dream in French.
The source and cornerstone of my new-discovered passion would be “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” by Barbara Kingsolver, which chronicles her adventures in eating all things local while shunning the embellished options in the grocery store aisles. She packed her bags (and her kids) and trucked it country wide to get really, really dirty growing her own foods for a full year. Along the way she and her family explain why we who shun “regular” grocery stores yet flock to Whole Foods are missing the bigger picture. And missing it we are, although she can explain why with much more eloquence than I. I’ll spare you the book review and leave you with the idea that inspiration is yours, should you decide to get a copy of that book as soon as you can and read it.
Maybe many of you have read it, enjoyed it, and yet remain partial to the convenience of the drive-thru or the grocery store. If this is the case, it only begs the question: have you tried it? Have you drawn a line around the edge of your kitchen and refused to allow anything processed (or anything that’s not local) cross it? If you are still schlepping over to the Publix (or even Whole Foods) then maybe it’s time for a change.
After reading above referenced book, my husband and I decided to start our own vegetable garden/local food challenge. Soon after we tilled our sun-filled patch of rented backyard, Michelle Obama broke ground with her organic garden on the White House lawn. This made me feel (I must admit) a little bit cliché, (which is irrational), and also very proud. It seems high time - if not quite late - to get people back to their roots via planting, growing and eating roots. This is a good thing. Yet, why must we wait for the ever-looming cloud of an economic depression to scurry us like frenzied bunnies back to our gardens? Why do people give up such rewarding work and trade it for lackluster, borderline poisonous (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRicUInkYQM) and certainly tasteless food? Will people abandon their shovels and tillers when the Nasdaq tide is high? I wonder if that White House garden will survive past the next 4 to 8 years. I hope it will, least of all as a reminder.
Yet I digress. I am rambling. What I wanted to tell you was a little story about my ever craved after, ever struggled for, ever imaginative thing I like to call my French Dream. Please don’t gag yourself (on a baguette).
My French Dream is my ideal lifestyle. In my eighteenth year of life I visited “suite Françoise” with my father who is now dearly departed. Paris is divine, yet it was the miniscule, faint little town dotting the border of France and Germany that captured me with all its subtle, remote charm. It’s a dreamy town called Hagenau. My heart felt fit to erupt there. Every sight: cottage, windowsill, lady or gentleman’s image was fit to be photographed and sent to a loved one on a post card. I fell in love. My first four+ hour-long meal was spent as a guest to a family, the husband springing up every half hour or so to rummage his selection of olives and oils to dazzle us with, eager to please. We sat outside, our hair tousled by sweet breezes and our hearts calmed by smooth wines. If I wouldn’t have terrified my generous hosts with oozing tears, I would have shed them into my tapenade from pure bliss. When I returned to America my eyes were opened and my heart was devastated with the sight of the concrete mess of buildings, electric neon signs, advertisements, billboards and blech. Why do we deface our country with countless eyesores such as these? When did we decide to plow over aesthetics with concrete and cement? How right Joni was! I hate to repeat the line now for fear of getting the song trapped in my mind but oh dear, here it comes…no stopping the truth... we paved paradise and put up a (gazillion) parking lot(s). And I don’t like it, not one bit.
I savored every sight in France and penned them into my secret semi-mature journal and declared the means by which I would (someday) live my precious little life. The list is blowsy, juvenile and perhaps a tad trite. Yet it is my French Dream, and I’m somewhat pleased that it is the antithesis of the corporate American dream:
1. I want to have a beautiful garden. I want to grow my own food and eat it straight from my own yard.
2. I want to always have fresh flowers in my windowsills – never fake, and plant them myself.
3. I want to drink wine every day, learn to be somewhat of a connoisseur of it, developing with a very rich(and snobby) palate.
4. I want to learn how to bake fresh bread, grow herbs and make my own soap.
5. I want to be surrounded by marvels of nature, not marvels of man.
6. I want to walk or bike to the places I visit most.
Not on the list (yet), but something life has shown me that I want, is the ability to stand in the kitchen with wiry hair in a flour-covered apron wielding a wooden spoon and swatting one of my naughty children while I bake slender and crisp baguettes. You know her, the kind of mother that is quick to mend a stinging swat with a kiss on the forehead and a homemade cookie. I want that to be me: bustling in my kitchen, windows open, birds singing, delighted to relish in my own messes… it’s a true prayer.
The joy it has been, finding I can incorporate this dream into my American life, in my Athens town. Thanks to the local genius-lady “witchdoctor” down the road I am learning how to make organic soap. Thanks to an upcoming move, I’ll be biking to the co-op, and many a heartfelt thanks goes to my husband, who delights my silly heart every time I glance out the kitchen window and discover him pulling weeds from our garden. I can dream and live my French dream and be all the healthier and happier for it. Am I a walking cliché? Yes. Aaah, c’est la vie: I dream in French.
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