We’re off to the Strawberry Music Festival. It’s rare these days that I feel pure excitement, but I’ve got it for this weekend…in spades.
I’ll be back next Tuesday and in the meantime, thank you for all your thoughtful, wise, and passionate comments on my last post. I will take the time to respond to each next week.
Have a great week!
Dead animal, that’s what. In my stock pot.
If you were with me way back in 2009 (Holy crow, 2009? I’ve been doing this here thing for that long?) you may remember this post. The dilemma I wrote about then has not abated, and neither have my health issues.
I have been vegetarian for 22 years. Happily, proudly, peacefully vegetarian. Please read the above post for deeper insight (and to nip in the bud any questions about my naivety), but in brief…my reasons have never been righteous. My decision to not eat animals felt less like a choice and more like a necessity. At that time, at the age of 18, my truth was that I could no longer deny how eating sentient beings felt utterly wrong for me. Not in an intellectual way. In a heart and soul way. When I look into the eyes of an animal, I do not find difference or alien otherness. I find commonality, I see the ability to suffer and love and I feel connection. I cannot make a distinction between human animal and other creatures. I would just as soon as eat my dog or my child as I would kill an animal and eat it. As in, I wouldn’t. This ability to find communion with animals is a blessing and in this world of perceived human omnipotence, it is also a curse.
Fast forward all these years later, and another truth is staring me in the face in the form of health conditions that have become chronic and too pesky to ignore any longer. One of the greatest gifts I discovered on my journey through developing body consciousness, was that of using diet as my foundation for wholeness. Learning to listen through intuition to my body’s needs, I have always known what foods I need (or don’t) to stay in balance. The bitter pill to swallow these past few years is that I have begun to feel malnourished, which is pretty ironic since I eat “better” than anyone I know. How then to reconcile my low blood sugar and feelings of constant hunger? Why is my gut so unhealthy and why do I belch like a 500lb man? I began searching for answers, and I found them, but I have been plugging my ears and going “Lalalalalalalala I can’t hear you”.
I’d been hearing the stories for years. The folks who hit the 20 year mark on being vegetarian and began to notice the diet just wasn’t cutting it anymore, so they started to eat meat again. I would think, “Oh, they just weren’t doing it right, or maybe their reasons were more political than heartfelt.”. Because I had been thriving (or so I thought) on my way of eating, a way of eating that initially had eliminated health problems at the time…acne, FMS symptoms, mood swings…I felt I was living proof of just how viable a vegetarian diet could be.
But the information kept surfacing. The former vegan turned enthusiastic meat eater who wrote a book about it. The naturopaths and herbalists who blanched at how long I had been vegetarian and advised me to look into adding meat protein. The hard admitted truth of the unsustainability of the vegan diet and the self knowledge that eating more cheese would help me pack on the pounds while keeping me hungry. All the friends I trust and admire who look to traditional ways of living off the land and eating whole foods, including their animals, and who exhibit vibrant health. And then there was this book, which I initially hated. Now, it has become my new bible. Everywhere I turned, I began learning about just what my body was missing, and I could no longer “get away” with ingenious substitutions.
But what to do? I still could not and will not kill my own animals for food, and I know too much about animal husbandry to fool myself into thinking that “free range” label means anything. This issue alone could keep me from ever facing a hard shift. But there is one thing that trumps all else, and it is for this reason alone that I am embracing a truly whole foods way of eating.
My daughter. I understand enough about the body and nutrition to know that my former diet could hurt her.
So what am I doing? Did I run out to whole foods and buy a pound of Neiman Ranch? Did I rush to a local cafe to try a maple bacon latte? Did I try a piece of fish and the clouds opened up and my cells sang hallelujah in a chorus?
No. What I am doing is going very, very slowly. Here is what I have done so far.
I am a new convert to the importance of eating bone broth and chicken stock. So far, we have bought Mary’s Chickens and I have made stock, using it in soups and feeding the meat to Jeff and Fern. Just this step alone has been quite gnarly, from my aversion to the taste and smell to the nightmares of fowl play (sorry). Not to mention the blood that seeped out of the bones when I tried cutting it up to put into the soup pot (Jefffff!!! The bird is bleeding!!! Can you come do this?!). With the stock and bone broth, I am experimenting with making it twice a month, and for two weeks a month eating soups and grains made with stock. We’ll see what the long term effects are. Right now, I am noticing that I do feel more nourished after eating it, but I can’t rule out psychosomatic causes.
But an even bigger shift is my new obsession with eating fermented foods several times a day. Even more than the trace mineral and animal proteins and fats, I have been worried about the apparent inability of my stomach to do its job. So I’m fermenting like it’s going out of style and introducing helpful flora at every meal. And folks, I can’t tell you how much better I feel. I’ve stopped burping. My blood sugar hasn’t been as crazy. My skin is more glowy. As far as lactobacilli is concerned, I’m converted.
Otherwise, I am also soaking my beans with whey or lemon and am forgoing the canned shortcut. I am also soaking grains, since this seems to clear up what I have guessed for years…that grains are indigestible unless you get the protective enzymes off of them. Finally, I have said bye bye to my old friend Earth Balance and canola oil and hellooooo goat butter, olive oil and coconut oil.
In regards to fats, my biggest concern has been weight gain, and this is the last point I want to touch on.
I am beginning to suspect that I was functionally anorexic for years. Well below “normal” weight for my height, I felt pride in being rail thin. I also got major accolades from society on this point, often being told how “lucky” I was, how my body was “perfect”. But I look at old pictures of myself, and I look skeletal. Still, I have shirked from eating more fats because I couldn’t stand the belly or the plump cheeks. I won’t lie and say I’m stoked about the latter. But I look at photos of myself now and I look robust. I look womanly. And girls, I am so fucking sick of worshipping at the altar of self hatred. Time to burn it to the ground.
For the immediate future, I am looking into small farms like Dinner Bell and Green String to source my chicken and beef bones, and am going to see if fermenting, eating good fats and eating stock can clear up my issues. Beyond that, I may look into finding ranchers who engage with their animals on a spiritual level, creating a convenant with them and slaughtering them with love. (I know of two locally.)
Plus, I get to enjoy things like beet kvaas, which tastes like the blood and salt of the earth.
Do you have a similar story to share? I’d love to hear about your personal issues with such matters. xo
Brigit was in the Bay this past week. Perfect reason to make a third trek of the week up North.
Brigit’s kids, plus Missa’s little clover, our own Fern and Leo and then more wee ones as the evening wore on made for a quintessential childhood experience. I want this to be the norm for my little gal…not the exception.
While we spend lots of the time at the playground with other children, as well as time spent with her brother and other friend’s kids, Fern has not had prolonged exposure to social situations with her peers. Instinctively I haven’t been too concerned, since at this age she is just barely coming out of parallel play, and I trust that as long as we provide opportunity, she will begin to develop friendships on her own time. On the other hand, it’s difficult in high achieving parenting climates to not be fretful…At the park or museum, I catch snippets of conversation, “Is he in daycare yet? You can tell he’s going to love other kids” “We’ve only done three play groups this week and I’m worried he’s not getting enough socialization…”. I keep my eyes open for good introductory experiences into the world of shared play, helping Fern to navigate invitations to join in. What I’ve noticed, is that when she’s into it, she’s into it. When she’s not…forget about it.
Turns out on Friday evening, she was WAY into it. My heart warmed up several degrees as I observed her interacting and joking with other kids, completely sure, completely comfortable, and also completely okay with doing her own thing.
There was a little creek on the property, and much of Fern’s time was spent going “plop plop.”. As her explorations took her further downstream (and out of view) I was hard pressed to get her to come back. At one point, after I asked her to turn around she said, “No! Go back to the party!”.
Man, she is not going to be an easy teenager.
Leo, also sometimes reticent, made friends with Brigit’s eldest. They got on like a house on fire.
So I did “go back to the party” where there was a lot of this:
Missa in a skirt sent by Teeny. Ms. Sparkles, there was lots of excited chat about your impending visit!
As the light grew warm in the evening, we all picked up our cameras like the documenting nerds that we are.
I love these girls.
(Aw Missa, that dang shadow!)
I especially appreciate seeing these mamas in action with their kids, since this is the majority of our lives for each of us, yet the part that is mostly invisible online.
In action was the operative word of the evening, as the number of viable pictures is far outweighed by the blurry action shots.
Jeff, who is unable to say “no” to cats on his lap, or children on his back, was definitely the hit of the party.
Thank you all SO much for your beautiful wishes. They were so heartfelt that I believe we should get that place on their merit alone. And if you’re wondering whether we got the place in Petaluma, well…we’re wondering too. We have no idea when we will find out, the decision making process is not clear to us and they are being pretty opaque. My hope-o-meter is going down, and I’m surfing craigslist again. This elusive househunting experience is beginning to fracture, with the core of the matter becoming more apparent. As the moon eclipsed the sun yesterday, what has been in the shadows was easier to see in the dim light. More on that later this week, as I am again out of time.
Happy Monday!
Dear Friends,
After three long (heartbreaking) years of looking for a new home, we have finally come across a candidate that feels like a dream come true.
Even though my entire inner world was shouting “Yes!” with glee, it is by no means a sure thing. There are Other People in the running. The decision is not up to us. And my credit report looks spotty from processing delays with Student Loan holders and trying to implement the appropriate payment plans. I don’t want these things to stand in our way, but the path is not totally clear.
So this is where you come in. Would you take a second right now, and close your eyes? Well, not yet…please keep reading. Close your eyes and send out a wish…a prayer…a blessing. Nothing big. The simpler the better. As long as it is heartfelt, and speaks to us finally nestling into the home of our dreams. Imagine Fern on a grassy hillside, looking out over the fields and hills of Petaluma, as she swings through knee high grass and a train with a bright red caboose chugs by softly in the distance. Imagine 1000 sq ft of optimal space to garden, on the side of the most perfectly quaint cottage built in 1915 (it has a root cellar already built in!). Imagine a picnic table in our new front yard, where we can celebrate Fern’s 3rd birthday in September. Imagine our hearts, glowing and buoyant from finally being able to say “We’re Home”.
Are you ready? One….two….three…make a wish!
If you have a hard time getting in the mood, just give this a listen. When you stop sniffling, save enough breath to wish upon a star.
(Thanks Gianna. Muah!)
Sunday morning…
We tripped up to Sebastopol, since we are wanting to get a feel for the place. Would we want to live that far from SF? Doubling up agendas, Jeff made reservations at Peter Lowell’s West County Organic for brunch.
A decadent second cuppa (and an almond milk mocha, at that!). I recently did a three week macrobiotic cleanse, and I cut way down on coffee. I’m intending to keep it to just one small cup in the morning, since I’m discovering that any more kills all my intestinal flora and turns me into a bloated, gassy, jittery mess. (All kinds of dietary changes going on with me, and y’all are gonna be surprised. To give you a hint, I finally picked up a copy of Nourishing Traditions. But more on that later).
We strolled around Sebastopol for a while, visiting downtown and the farmer’s market. We liked it, but are actually still feeling partial to Petaluma. Frankly, we’ll take what we can find in the general vicinity.
On our way back south, we stopped at Green String Farm. I scored on some plant starts and veggies, and Fern found a little cottage for her own.
Continuing with our exploration of potential new places to call home, we visited the watershed of the Petaluma River.
Mustard.
There was some foraging involved.
More Wild Oats.
Sea Beans. (But let’s call them Marsh Samphire, because it’s way more awesome-er).
(The shirt was a Mother’s Day present from Jeff, from Gangs of San Francisco).
Once we got home, I beheaded my prize jewels of the day.
Elderflower!!!!!! If you have been with me for a bit, you’ll know that my finding Elderblow is A Very Big Deal. I’ve been looking for a good wild source for three years. (I know they are more prolific in the East Bay, but I’m never over there). I’ll share more about this on Friday.
Once home, it was time for more good food.
Baby Artichokes from Green String. Oh how I adore ‘chokes. Do you like them? I think they are ambrosia. I tried something new and braised them, then made a reduction of lemon water, olive oil, lemon zest, garlic, thyme and bay. Be like Eeyore and eat your thistles.
I received this card from Jeff in the morning (delivered in bed with a vegan donut, coffee and a wee bouquet).
So nice to feel seen.
Well kids, I had intended to wax poetic about motherhood and my daughter and my own Mom, but our internet provider is slow as death this morning, and I’m out of time. So instead, please do some waxing of your own, and tell me how your Mother’s Day was?
Love!
This week:
Wild Oats! (Avena sativa, Avena fatua and Avena barbata).
During our visit with America last Saturday (see previous post), I walked into her kitchen and was taken aback by the large bowl of something on her counter. I knew what it was, and yet I didn’t, and while my brain tried to turn around the puzzle pieces I asked, “What IS that?”
America happily chirped “Milky oats!”.
I flipped through my internal glossary, even more confused. “Wait…like Wild oats, right?”
Right!
One of the reasons I couldn’t place them immediately, is because seeing such a large quantity in a bowl threw me off. But I know this plant well, and so do you…it’s (fortunately or unfortunately) widely distributed across the U.S. as an invasive weed. Each year I mean to harvest some, and then forget. Still confused? Think a meadow with high grass in the late Spring…ah…now you’re catching on.
Slender wild oats (Avena barbata). (via)
Of course you recognize them now, dangling prettily from their long, hollow stalk. I bet you have some childhood memories of them too. As a kid, I used to day dream about how to build a fort in their midst, since after wet winters they grew enthusiastically, towering over my head. I would then scheme on who I could invite over for sticker wars.(Run your thumb and forefinger up the stalk and the oats come off in a little bouquet, which is then perfect for throwing at a friend. The little darts will stick all over their clothes and whoever is the most covered, uh…wins?). Perhaps you have another relationship with them, a costly visit to a vet involving a dog and his nose. But I bet you didn’t realize that all this time you were amongst friends…and very nourishing ones at that.
From left to right: Avena sativa (milky oats), Avena fatua (wild oats), Avena barbata (slender wild oats)
Speaking of nourishing friends, since America was my inspiration for my own foraging this week, I invited her to be a guest author for today’s post. America is one of my very favorite people in the whole world (as she quickly becomes for anyone who meets her) and she also has this amazing combination of smarts…heart smart, head smart, soul smart. I have purposely not edited the thoughts she sent me in an email (sorry Meri) because even when she self-confesses to a run-on sentence, you don’t even realize it…it’s just that much fun to trip along her neural pathways. I find her an unending source of delight and I’m excited to share her with you. Please welcome…America!
I’ve been trying to think of something clever to write about oats, but my brain feels like oatmeal! Here’s what comes to mind: I think of them as just a really supportive plant, one that “sticks to your bones” as my grandfather used to say (which sort of freaked me out). They’re good for our whole systems as a general tonic, and especially for the nervous system. For me, they have a kind of “I’m here for you” embrace going on: a combination of inner-peace-inducing and skin-strengthening. That’s a pretty great combo… resilient on the outside, and calm on the inside. I find that in teas they taste like really watered down grass, which is not my favorite flavor, so I mix them with chamomile and honey for tea. My personal best oat practice is a big handful of them (whole) in a bowl of hot water as a seriously happy feet foot soak.
Also, while we’re on the subject of oats, if you want a cool recipe to put in– even though wild oats require an insane amount of work to process into a grain (and if you did use them as grain, you’d want them when they’re fully mature and dry, not in the half-mature “milky stage” you pick them in for medicine)– I was recently at my lovely friends’ house, and they made drinking oats (which doesn’t sound weird in their heartland of Columbia) that were so insanely yummy: it’s basically oatmeal, but with one part oats three parts water, and a bunch of cinnamon, and a little sugar/honey. Then you blend that and drink it lukewarm or cold. It’s like oat horchata and strikes me as a very fabulous way to get picky little peewees to eat their oats. You can try it for dessert tonight and see if you want to rewrite that run-on sentence of instructions for your blog patrons.
Sassypants.
I love that she leads with the embrace of wild oats…”I’m here for you”. I had that exact experience as I picked my own (twice!) this past week. Frequently when foraging, I feel a bit guilty or timid about picking too much, and when I sense into the energy of a plant, I often get the message “Take a little, ok, that’s enough”. Not with wild oats, however. Already having loved this plant for a long time, I found myself bonding to it even more as each time I checked in, I got the message, “Please, take more! Take as much as you want! Let us support you!”. Indeed, this is what milky oats offers…support for your nervous system, mending nervous exhaustion and soothing anxiety, as well as healing for your skin (eczema, psoriasis, dryness, itchiness). Wild oats also boost fertility, and Susun Weed warns of this effect saying, “if you don’t want to get pregnant, watch out when you’re taking oats!”.
So how do you get these benefits? (Don’t worry, this will not involve becoming The Little Red Hen, where you are begging everyone and anyone, “Who will help me thresh these oats?”. Please don’t worry yourself with processing them into grain…a small bowl will take you approximately 8,000 hours and I like you too much to lose you to insanity.)
This is also not the way to do it.
The first thing you want to determine is when the oats are in their milky stage. This is easy, and once you know what to look for, you will spot ripe oats everywhere.
When oats first come out of their sheath on the stalk, their little “legs” are stuck together. As they become milky, the legs separate…
Avena sativa.
Finally, in their last stage, they begin to dry out and become golden brown (ripe oat). For our purposes, you want to harvest them when they are milky. For us best coasters, this is the beginning of May. America had been watching her little patch of oats, next to her driveway, ripen, each time thinking, “I really should get to those soon”. On May 5th, just before we arrived, a farm hand had approached with a mower. Giant bowl in hand, Meri frantically harvested, and I imagine her as Ceres incarnate, oats and hands flying, capturing all the abundance before it was lost.
If you are not sure if it is milky, here’s how to tell.
Pull apart the legs (maybe this wasn’t the greatest metaphor to use…)
Extract one of the little oat seeds from the middle. You will notice it is soft.
Gently squeeze. If it is milky, a creamy substance will easily come out. It tastes mild and sweet and…oaty!
I decided to make a tincture from the fresh oats, and saved another harvest to dry for tea. You can also follow America’s suggestion to steep them for a foot bath, or if you are feeling adventurous, you could juice them! (Please check out this wonderful post from The Medicine Woman’s Roots for a more in depth conversation around the medicinal and energetic properties of wild oats.)
How to tincture Wild Oats
First, harvest your oats by using the aforementioned childhood method (run thumb and forefinger up stalk, collecting all the seeds in a “bouquet”). Fern and I harvested Avena fatua and Avena barbata, as I’ve never seen Avena sativa around these parts. (All three are safe to use).
Next, determine the amount you need by placing them in a quart jar.
Next, fill jar to the top with vodka. Then, dump it in your blender.
Blend the sh*t out of it.
Pour it back in the jar and label it with the date it was made.
A menstrum is a tincture while it is…tincturing. It is the plant material, all macerated, and steeping in its solvent…which in this case is vodka.
Every day for at least two weeks, give the jar a really enthusiastic shaking. If you want to be extra careful, open the jar up after you shake it to push all the plant material back under the liquid, and to wipe down the mouth of the jar.
After two to four weeks, strain the oats through cheesecloth into another container and then do a final strain through fine mesh colander. Ta da! You have a green best friend to support you every day. (I am not telling you how much to take, because I’m not an official herbalist. Consult your naturopath, or favorite trusted book to determine what you need).
This is also Not the Thing to Do. Oat seeds have barbs that help them wiggle their way into clothing, animal fur and skin and the throats of persnickety little girls.
Last Saturday during our visit, our conversation about oats turned to…Mairzy Doats.
A kiddleydivytoo, wouldn’t you?
The Disclaimer
Think with your stomach! Do not ingest wild plants unless you are sure you have identified them correctly and are willing to take responsibility for using yourself as a guinea pig. It is SO not my responsibility if you eat the wrong thing and get poopy pants, or die. You’re an adult. you can make your own choices.
Happy Mother’s Day!!
Saturday: A trip to Petaluma to see America and Adam.
Ready to start truckin’.
You who choose, to lead must follow.
Reach out your hand if your cup be empty.
If your cup is full, may it be again.
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung.
I would hear your voice come through the music…I would hold it near as it were my own.
If I knew the way, I would take you home.
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine.
Between the dawn and the dark of night. (via)
Sunday: Sunday Streets on Valencia.
La dee da da da, La da da da da da. (Semi-Secret Square Dance Society). (BTW, want to know my definition of pure torture? Only getting to watch, and not do, one of my favorite things in the whole world, because my kid’s being an a**hole. Oh the humanity.)
A friend of the devil is a friend of mine.
By the way, the title of this post is not to be confused with the movie. I’m referencing this. Which is one of my favorite, but rarely listened to, summertime albums. This past week I have fallen in love with this song, again.
How was your weekend?
