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I used to think we were really green in our lifestyle; now I realize we’re actually just cheap.

We got off of oil partly for environmental reasons, but we were really just tired of paying a bill that seemed increasingly out of control.  We garden partly because we like organic food, but I really get the most satisfaction out of having dinner makings 20 feet from my door rather than 15 miles away at the grocery store.

But, whether we do what we do because we’re charitable or cheap, an appetite for spontaneity has been the key to sustaining our sustainability.  Sometimes the appetite didn’t need whetting – like when a neighbor drops by with bucket full of acorn squash.  But other times – when the bucket is full of the same zucchini that we’ve already grown weary of – serendipity is an acquired taste but one that we both try (and try to force our kids) to appreciate , even when it takes some effort.

Most people my generation were raised by parents with their own childhood memories of the Depression, and I doubt even my kids and their friends have escaped hearing a chorus of  “There are starving children in…. “.  I only began to understand that refrain – and to appreciate the flavor of fortune when my parents briefly moved us to Peru when I was in the fourth grade.

We had lived there once before when I was five.  My parents rented both times, and both times they continued the employment of the housekeepers who had worked for their landlords.  They stayed in touch with both women long after their stay in South America, even corresponding with some of their children and extended family.  During our second extended stay in Lima, our first housekeeper invited us to her house for dinner.

We had been there before, but I hardly remembered the  first visit, and I still remember being shocked when we drove to her village and walked into a house that consisted of a few semi-finished walls of brick and several woven walls.  The entire structure was not much bigger than an American living room, but it housed her entire family and their chickens.  We knew any inappropriate comments would result in swift and severe reprimands, but we also loved this woman (she had taken care of us when we were much younger), and her chickens fascinated us.

My sister was going through a noodles and ketchup phase that year, but my parents had (and still have for their grandkids) a  rule that you had to try at least one bite of everything on your plate (which they loaded of course).  We had had mostly good experiences with Peruvian food, and we were usually – but not always – happily compliant.  For this visit, however, my father quietly made it abundantly clear that the one bite rule would be expanded to cover everything on our plates.

As it happened, she served us a Peruvian version of Arroz con Pollo, made with one of their freshly-killed chickens, and I remember easily cleaning my plate. Later, as we drove home we talked about the house and the chickens and of our hostess’s kids.  And when the conversation turned to the meal itself, my father mentioned that the food she had prepared for that one meal was more than most families in that village ate in a week.

Thinking back on it now, I realize their efforts weren’t just about expanding our palates and our world (although our stint there definitely did that).  They were trying to teach us not only to take advantage of opportunity when it presented itself but also to fully appreciate it when we did.  I took that lesson with me wherever I traveled.  And, while we will never know the level of poverty we saw in that village, being able to appreciate opportunities of all flavors has helped us sustain our lifestyle and, sometimes, our family.

When I was a kid, my favorite side dish was my mom’s make-ahead salad.  Covered in mayo with apples and bacon, the only thing healthy abut this special-occasion recipe was the word salad in its name.  Then came the eighties and, with it, the nutrition and fitness craze (which I obviously avoided), and the parties were over.  At least, the ones with make-ahead salad were.

My parents – usually healthy eaters to begin with – joined the Fiber Festival and  began making healthier salads part of their routines.  They weren’t as good as my favorite the peas and lettuce mingled with bacon and mayonnaise, but the change did prime my taste buds (and my psyche) for a recipe I like to call Make-Do salad.

I used to think this recipe had its genesis in my garden – I make with whatever I do find that’s ready to pick.  Now, however, I realize that mine is one of millions of versions that all parents and people living near need (most people at some point in their lives) have created over centures.

I inherited the basics from my parents – both children of the depression – and honed it during layoffs, healthcare-induced cashecotmies, and new-parent panic attacks.  It’s probably pretty similar to yours, but I thought I’d share it.

 

Make Do Salad

(Serves as many as needed)

Ingedients

1 c. Patience

2/3 c.  This, too, shall pass

1 c. loyalty

1 healthy dose of skepticism

Season with salt, pepper, dash of sarcasm

(Optional ingedients)

3 c. lettuce

1 Zucchini or Summer Squash

2-3 tomatoes

Dressing

Dress with as much Humor as needed

Directions

Pick and rinse whatever you have in your garden.  Dice small portions to make them seem larger.  Toss. If you’re out of everything but lettuce, add more dressing.  (Calories – varies)

The veggies in this recipe may vary, but I think the most important ingredient is the dressing.  That is the one part of the recipe that each chef has to concoct on their own, and it has taken a long time to develop mine.  But when the salad days are short, it goes a long way toward stretching my resources and sanity.

Yesterday I did something that I haven’t done for almost 2 months I. I never thought I would go this long without doing it either. But, almost accidentally, I have abstained from almost any news almost two solid months. And to my surprise, not only have I not missed it, I’ve enjoyed my life so much more without it. The irony of this discovery is that I have been a news junkie since I could crawl.

My parents were both academics, and, worse, my mother is a historian, so current events and – gasp – politics were not only mentioned at the dinner table, they were served with the main course. Then I joined the Writer’s Project in May. On the first night our mentor mentioned that he had started shutting out media that didn’t contribute to his life. It planted the seed.

My already busy life became even more scheduled as school let out and the workshop ramped up. But the increased activity nurtured that seed, and I accidentally discovered a life without internet news or Sunday morning noise shows. I only noticed the change a few days ago when, blessed with a few precious minutes of downtime, I checked my TV site for what was happening on my soap. After catching up on who might be coming out of a coma and who was really adopted, I switched over to a news site for a quick dose of all-depressing-all-the-time.

Fortunately, the politicians and the media that covers them didn’t disappoint – or maybe they did. After a month away, more had changed on a fictional soap that depends on slow story lines for survival, than in a political media landscape that is, theoretically, supposed to serve ‘the people’. The politicians and their echo chamber still seemed more intent on feeding into and off of fear and discord. The only themes were what was wrong in the world and why it’s that person-you-should-be-against’s fault. In short, the song was the same as it was a month earlier.

So after a few minutes, I consciously shut off the news blogs and came back to my own blog and doodles, determined to make my own music. I’ve been nurturing it already by writing and doodling and reading, responding to comments here and in our group, and so far, I like this tune. Writing is cathartic for most people, so it could be seen as a completely selfish endeavor. But as I see more comments and emails from people I’ve never met (sometimes around the world) I hear notes plucked from the common threads that the media, so often it seems, wants to drown out. I hear from other mothers who are frazzled and imperfect but still trying. I hear from our group of artists no longer content to see themselves as wannabes (I wasn’t the only one). And, in the absence of fear, suspicion or jealousy, there is the freedom to grow and, in turn, to foster growth. And this music is much better.