Lift Up Your Hearts!

It's no secret that I like Michael Pollan's food books, and I'm fifth in line for his latest, Cooked, at our library.  In the meantime, here's a chance to hear Pollan speak on the nutritional value of home cooking.  (H/T DSTB)  I'm sorry I can't embed the interview; you'll have to click on the link to hear it.  Here are some quick excerpts:

Why don't people cook at home anymore?  Skills have been lost over the last two generations, and people are intimidated by culture of cooking they see on television.

Time is not a valid issue:  "people make time for things they've decided are important."

Neither is demographics:  "poor women who cook have better diets than wealthy women who don't."

"Built into the very nature of cooking at home is a curb on consuming the worst possible food."

The best diet for an American today?  Pollan, quoting a marketing researcher in the food industry itself:  "Eat anything you want, as long as you cook it yourself."

Pollan's final recommendation leaves me scratching my head, however:  Cook at home, and get soda out of your house, and obesity is taken care of.

It sounds great, but reminds me of the facile advice I heard years ago that an easy way to gain more time is to cut down on television viewing, or that you can save a lot of money by quitting the smoking habit.  What if you don't smoke and don't watch TV and still find yourself short of time and money?  What if you already cook at home and don't drink soda?

If that depresses you, take a moment to enjoy the story of Rowan Jacobson's (author of Fruitless Fall and and Chocolate Unwrapped) attempt to break all of Michael Pollan's Food Rules in one day.

I can venture more with Davie than with another:  he obeys in a moment.

Thus the tutor in one of George MacDonald's novels explains how he dares take his young pupil on dangerous explorations to the roof of an old, crumbling Scottish castle.  Davie was allowed the exciting and perilous adventuring because his tutor knew that when he said, "Stay here until I return," Davie wouldn't go wandering and possibly falling off the edge.

Anyone with even a passing familiarity with Lift Up Your Hearts! knows I am a fan of Free-Range Kids and Lenore Skenazy's movement to restore for today's children some of the freedoms enjoyed by previous generations.  Parents are hovering over their children as never before:  they're afraid to let them out of sight, to walk to school, to ride bikes with their friends; afraid to let them risk getting hurt, even a little, whether they be infants negotiating stairs, children using knives, or teens travelling to a foreign country.  (Yet we expect teens to be sexually active, drive a car, and serve in the military.  Go figure.)  However, manageable risks and small hurts are necessary to growth.  Without them, our children don't learn to tell a reasonable risk from a ridiculous one, and we find that sparing them the lesser pain has made them exceptionally vulnerable to serious, even fatal, wounds.

Why do we bubble-wrap our young people?  The reasons are many and complex, but one of the greatest surely is that we no longer trust our children.  And why don't we trust our children?  Primarily, I would say, because they have not learned to be trustworthy.

They are not trustworthy because we have not given them the opportunity to learn obedience.

Obedience is an unpopular concept these days, perhaps because it conjures up images of harsh punishment, restricted lives, and children who go wild at college when released from their parents' strict rules and constant monitoring.  Or of totalitarian societies and blind adherence to evil laws.  ("I was only following orders.")  But no matter what ugliness it has been deformed into, obedience to a trustworthy and legitimate authority is a beautiful thing.  It's what makes society work.  From traffic to taxes, from banking to environmental protection—when enough people decide that the rules don't apply to them, disaster is not far off.

The Connecticut Science Center has ruled that children under the age of 16 must be supervised by an accompanying adult at all times during their visit.  Why such a ridiculous restriction?  You can blame the lawyers, of course, but what it boils down to is that the museum has learned that it cannot trust that demographic to obey the rules of the house, let alone the rules of common courtesy.  When that happens, people—and expensive equipment—get hurt.

Similar restrictions have sprung up all over, ostensibly for the safety of the children.  I'm not sure I entirely believe that excuse.  When our children were young and energetic, people would sometimes tell them not to do such-and-such a thing, explaining, "I'm afraid you'll get hurt."  Well, maybe; it was pretty clear to me that what they were really afraid of was that the children would break, not their legs, but some material possession.  Be that as it may, young people—at an age when some of their ancestors were supporting themselves, raising their own families, fighting in wars, and even commanding ships—cannot, apparently, be relied on to walk through a museum without damaging something.

Thus the free-range childhood movement has two major fronts on which to fight:  (1) Convincing society that our children can and should be trusted to handle themselves at least as well as children did a generation or two ago, and (2) Preparing our children to be worthy of that trust.

As we explored Volcanoes National Park in Hawaii, I noted that there were no age restrictions on the trails; it was up to parents to decide how much to involve their children.  The trails themselves were safe enough, but often a sheer drop or a boiling spring was only a few feet away.  A child of any age who could be counted on to stay on the trail, and to freeze at a parent's, "Wait for us!" command, would have the freedom to enjoy an unforgettable experience; one who was accustomed to thinking of rules and restrictions as flexible could easily end up dead.  Too many of the latter will cause doors to slam shut for the former also.

"The world has changed," is the spell invoked to justify increasing restrictions on young people.  By this is mostly meant external changes, such as more sexual predators, more kidnappers, more terrorists.  (I'm absolutely convinced that the problem actually is more news coverage of these very rare crimes, but that's another issue.)  The world has changed, indeed, but what has changed most is closer to home:  our children are no longer growing up knowing and following the rules of proper use of stoves, knives, guns, hammers, saws, ropes, candles, campfires, boats, and other items they used to encounter—and be required to use—in everyday life.  Parents are also more reluctant—perhaps in fear of the evils that have become associated with distorted ideas of obedience—to teach their children respect for authority, and the importance of following legitimate rules.  If we want our communities to accept that our children are competent and trustworthy, it's up to us to make sure that they are.

(There is, I acknowledge, the opposite failing—teaching our children never to question authority, never to ask if the rules are legitimate.  But that is a different issue.)

Political action can pry open society's closed doors for our children, good publicity can pry open parental fingers from a death-grip on their children's leashes, but only deliberate parental effort can prepare those children for freedom.

This is so cool—and I'm not just saying that because it was done by IBM, even though they do put food on the table and finance trips to visit the grandkids.

I've often wondered why tolerance is considered such a high principle these days.  Granted, I have many qualities that cause those around me to exercise forbearance; nonetheless, I hope for more in even a casual relationship than mere tolerance.  I'd rate our various neighborly relationships, for example, as great, good, casual, and tolerant, with the last being better than "nasty," but nothing to brag about.

Perhaps the preaching of tolerance comes because we have failed so badly at love.  Tolerance—at best—says, "I disagree with you, but it doesn't matter."  Love says, "I disagree with you, and it does matter, but I love you, and I choose to believe the best of you.  I will pray for you, encourage you, and seek out ways to work with you that do not violate my conscience.  I will be alert to any lesson God wants to teach me through you."

Lowering the bar is not the solution.  Redefining a C as an A rarely inspires higher performance.  Besides, we're not doing so well at tolerance, either.  With a hat tip to VP via Facebook, here's a lighter moment dedicated to all who have been slammed by the unloving who preach love, or by the intolerant who preach tolerance.

I hate using sunscreen.  It's sticky, it stinks, and if I get the water-resistant kind—what other is of any use?—I can't get it off my hands.  I try to avoid using it myself, and am, shall we say, less than generous when asked by someone else to "do my back."  As in "You want me to do what?  Can I walk across hot coals instead?  Please?"

Our trip to Hawaii may have changed my mind.  Advised by friends who had been there to invest in some SPF 50 sunscreen, we picked up some Ocean Potion.  I'd never heard of it, but it appeared to be the best choice.  I think so!  It turned out to have the most pleasant scent I've encountered in a sunscreen, and though it was water-resistant, did not feel oily, sticky, or any other kind of icky.  I found I didn't mind at all donning it for our beach or crater-crossing days.  Well, to be completely honest, I didn't mind as much.  But it was a great improvement.

I've been hoarding the remainder, assuming it was a brand local to Hawii, which was the only place I'd seen it.  But recent research has revealed that it is now available here, at Wal-Mart of all places.  Considering that Ocean Potion is made in nearby Cocoa, Florida, you'd think I would have run into it somewhere before.  Perhaps I had, but didn't "see" it because I didn't recognize the brand.  They also have an SPF30 version, which I plan to try out for latitudes more northern than Hawaii.

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion....

(from To A Louse, On Seeing One on a Lady's Bonnet at Church)

Robert Burns assumed that we hold higher views of ourselves than others do, but for many of us, especially women, the opposite problem can be devastating.  Here's the latest from Dove's effort on behalf of all the young girls—and older women—conditioned by airbrushed and photoshopped media to see themselves as ugly.

You can see the sketches, and learn more, at Dove's site.

You can criticize Dove for choosing women who are all good looking in the first place.  You can figure that the sketch artist let his knowledge of the program influence his sketches.  You can complain that Dove's message still assumes that "real beauty" is physical.  But even a small candle illuminates when the world is dark.

There's no use pretending:  60 is not young.  To say, "sixty is the new forty" helps a bit, but not much, because 40 isn't young, either—except to those of us breathing the rarefied sexagesimal air.

For anyone, at any age, life may be more than half over, but young people don't think about it much; perhaps that's part of what keeps them young.  But at 60, it's not just a possibility, but a certainty:  there are fewer days before us than behind us.  Still, that's not necessarily bad.  The days behind us are filled with experience, and through each one of them we have gathered knowledge, experience and wisdom.

Young children look forward to their birthdays, and it's not primarily because of the presents.  "I can't wait to be five," exclaimed my granddaughter recently.  The young know that the passage of time represents growth:  new knowledge, new abilities, new privileges.  As we age, we begin to forget this, because healthy growth is no longer so obvious and so apparently effortless.  I say "apparently" because close observation of little children reveals that even if we don't remember most of our own childhood efforts, growing up is very hard work indeed.

I suspect the crucial difference is not effort, but attitude.  Somehow—perhaps through years of compulsory schooling, the daily stresses of earning a living, or the distractions inherent in tending to our children's health and growth—we stop looking forward to each new day as the opportunity to learn, to grow, to acquire new skills and hone existing ones, to become more loving, patient, kind, gentle, and joyful people.

Aging brings limits, that can't be denied.  But it brings freedoms, too, that youth does not have, such as more resources, increased options, and a greater awareness of how we learn best.  We have a lifetime's worth of experience to build on, and a lifetime's worth of acquired wisdom to guide us.  "We're not getting older, we're getting better" is trite, and wrong.  We are getting older.  Nonetheless, because we are getting older, we can be getting better.

So, after all this, you think I'm turning 60?  Nope.  Passed that landmark already.  But someone I love very much is, indeed, turning 60 today.  For you, dear one, I wish a

Happy Birthday!

and many, many years of living, loving, learning ... and growing better.

Our choir anthem for April 21 was Lord, Listen to Your Children (Ken Medema, Jack Schrader, Hope Publishing, GC 850O).  Here's a recording.  (Just a reminder:  Unless otherwise noted, these performances are never us, but thanks to the wonders of YouTube, you can hear the song anyway.)

What made this anthem especially fun was our guest director, Carl MaultsBy.  My introduction to Carl MaultsBy came at the bishop's consecration, where he played the piano as we sang one of his compositions, so I was looking forward to this Sunday.  I love the way he worked with us, and if we never quite got the spirit he was hoping for in the piece, the joy in his piano playing more than made up for it.

To brighten your day, here's a brief look at Fred Rogers, of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, by the Menopause Guy.  (Yes, I know it's really Mental Floss.  But I hear what I hear.)

Here's my favorite picture of Mister Rogers, because he's with one of my favorite people.

You all know I'm not a sports person.  Would you believe me if I said that spending all day (more than 12 hours) at a sporting event last Saturday was an absolute blast?

Believe it.

The sport was Quidditch, and last weekend was Quidditch World Cup VI, held in Kissimmee, Florida.  As much fun as I had, I doubt I would have bothered to attend had not our nephew's University of Richmond team qualified for the event.  His parents came down for the occasion, and we had a great visit.  It was too short, but included a first:  conversing over dinner, just my sister, her husband, and the two of us.  It's not that we don't get together—but quiet dinnertime conversation is quite different from the usual lots of people of all ages, with lots of things going on.

For those who have not read any of the Harry Potter books, or for those who have, but are puzzled as to how the players learned to fly, here is a brief explanation of how the earthbound version of Quidditch is played.

A bald eagle stops to watch the game:  Hrmph.  Silly people, flying so low to the ground.  I'd put those hoops a lot higher.  Why didn't they ask me to play?  I can outfly the best of them!  At least they didn't charge me for this great seat.

Having watched the documentary on GMO foods, which reveals that those in charge of food safety in this country have treated with scorn the simple request that products made with genetically modified organisms be labelled as such, I have little faith that the Food and Drug Administration will not grant the request of the dairy industry to to alter the definition of "milk" to include chemical sweeteners such as aspartame and sucralose without putting "Low Calorie" or "Reduced Calorie" on the label.  The artificial sweeteners would still be included in the ingredient list on the packaging, but the main label, that which most people read, would give no hint that the product was artificially sweetened.

I say that even "low calorie" is disingenuous.  "Artificially Sweetened" or "Contains Sucralose" (Aspartame, whatever) ought to be in large, bold print on the package.  Once upon a time, "no sugar added" was synonymous with "unsweetened." Now we must drill down to the small-print ingredient list to find out this important information, and more than once I've been caught and ended up at home with a useless product.  It is as if the surgeon general's warnings were printed on the inside of cigarette packages.

Yesterday, Porter saw a male American redstart, in our backyard.  He was on his way to the West Indies, no doubt—they don't live here, only migrate through. I've never seen one—nor had I heard of one before yesterday, for that matter.  Roger Tory Peterson calls it the most butterfly-like of all birds, which is what caught Porter's eye from his office.

I know that's not earth-shattering news, but I'm finding this blog to be the best place to document things I'd like to be able to find again.  To save me from, "Um, what was that new bird you saw in the backyard a few years (months, days) ago?"

In the spirit of Fruitless Fall, The Omnivore's Dilemma, Food, Inc., Everything I Want to Do Is Illegal, and similar stories about problems in our food supply, I present Genetic Roulette: The Gamble of our Lives (H/T DSTB).

I'm always a bit skeptical of one-sided documentaries, especially of the scary and countercultural kind.  But this look at the unforeseen consequences of the introduction of Genetically Modified Organisms into our diet, environment, and social structure is well-done and contains much food for thought, including the rise of herbicide resistance, decreasing yield, suppression of academic freedom, and the devastation visited on third-world farmers.  I had to watch in bits and snatches because the film is an hour and 25 minutes long, but I found it well worth the time invested.

Here's hoping my nephew will accede to the suggestion that he take on, as a school project, a balanced investigation of both sides of these claims.   If he does, and gives his permission, I'll report the results here.

Recently we bought a gauge for our propane tank.  I'm tired of guessing, especially during hurricane season, how much propane is left for our barbecue grill, and figured the gauge would soon pay for itself through more accurate fill-ups.  (The cost for filling a tank is the same, whether it is empty or almost full.) 

Usually the odd or outrageous statements that come with a product these days are found in the Warnings section, but this was in the instructions themselves (emphasis mine):

• If the needle is in the GREEN AREA (GAS) - the fuel supply is sufficient.
• If the needle is in the YELLOW AREA (LOW GAS) - the fuel is running in short supply.
• If the needle is in the RED AREA (REFILL) - the fuel tank should be refilled promptly - usually within 10 minutes of cooking time.

Huh?

For your amusement only, since I don't know the details of these tax numbers.  Highest bracket?  Average tax rate?  What other taxes do citizens pay?  But you can be pretty sure that other people have worse tax sitations than we do. (Click image for a clearer view.)