“And that’s it.” Eliza spreads her arms the width of the bus. After months of waiting for them to arrive on the West Coast, I’ve just been given [...]]]> This post details  rowdy times with my friends from Sol Food Mobile Farm. Their whole shtick is here, explained much more clearly and correctly than I’m about to.

“And that’s it.” Eliza spreads her arms the width of the bus. After months of waiting for them to arrive on the West Coast, I’ve just been given a full tour of the Sol Food Mobile Farm. Eliza is just one of four salty farmers taking the country’s sustainability to the mat. They’re traveling the US teaching everything from growing to composting with a re-engineered, bio diesel school bus as their chariot.

The bus is divided purposefully: greenhouse, bunks, kitchen, seating, etc. There isn’t an inch to spare and the little available space has been maximized. Wire baskets, Velcro and bungee cords keep things tied to walls and roofs. Hooks, tape and magnets secure the rest. More pirate ship than Magic School Bus; the space is cramped, worn and permeated by a sense of wonder.

I can’t put my finger on it initially, but as I see the crew of Sol Food get their vessel underway, I realize it’s the sense of purpose that is so striking. From the trapdoor worm farm, to the roof garden, to the people themselves – everything has a direct and clear purpose. This type of tangible passion and focus is a rare treat for the Internet obsessed, iPhone urchin I can become. I can’t get enough.

Eliza and I glance at a map with the full tour plotted out in black ink. After months they’re about 60% done. “And you’ll be finished in December?” I ask. “Yeah, we’ve got a long way to go.” Eliza rubs her arm and looks at the long twisting line ahead. She’s tired. They all are. Instead of just traveling across the country these four fighters are going around the perimeter. It’d be difficult to think of a longer way around and there’s barely a state they aren’t driving through. Countless farms, markets, parks, people –- It’s more than a little dizzying, but their forward momentum is palpable.

Their mission, as best I can tell, is to save the world. Maybe stating it that way is too dramatic, maybe it’s exactly right – either way, only time will tell. The amount of plants and planet knowledge they’ve spread is staggering. Because they are sowing these seeds so widely it’s giving each bit of influence entire towns to grow. They’ll be in New Mexico before the dirt from California leaves their boots. But starting a movement takes breath, and there’s nothing they’d rather be doing. They have to sail on.

The bus is home, office, lounge, garden, show room – everything. The space becomes public park, as every stop for a drop of bio diesel brings people who want to climb aboard. I quickly find these guests annoying; each asking the same questions, looking around with the same cautious wonder and always reminding them “You have a long way to go.” But the crew gets energized. They never seem hampered by having had the same conversation a thousand times previous – because with each chat the mission of the Sol Food Mobile Farm grows a little wider. Like I said, purpose.

We keep moving. The bus itself does little above 60 mph, but chugs along with all the necessary spirit. We sail to steady percussion; the engine and the constant patter of things falling off shelves. We pull out instruments and sing old songs. The engine hums with us. The wind takes the harmony. We howl like wolves. Baskets and cases strapped to the ceiling swing back and forth in time, something falls down in the green house. The road stretches a long, long arm ahead, but right now there’s music.

That evening the motley crew is stretched across corners of my apartment. I pretty much bated them here with the promise of showers. (Those are few and far between on the road.) I feel selfish for it, but wanted so badly to see them lay down arms, relax. “Leave the bus.” I urge, as we climb on trains and bolt into the city. I make pizza, pour wine and spread blankets. Even here, they can’t leave the bus. I see wheels spinning directly behind their eyes. But I’m happy to have such inspiring guests. In the morning, I roll dough into cookies and pass coffee around. I wish I had more to give, but they wouldn’t take it even if I did. We all hug goodbye, they head back to the bus. No rest for the weary.

They welcomed me aboard for that weekend, a vacationer coasting on their nobel quest. Getting to ride along put enough wind in my hair to keep me wild for a few weeks. It was a blast, but a hard life too and I just wouldn’t have the metal for it. Their mundane tasks – keeping the roar in the engine, scouting a 40ft parking space, just finding a damn place to pee — were quickly taxing. But again and again I was amazed by watching the four work as this focused, patient organism that could very possibly save us all.

They’ve got a lot more plants to place, but nurtured soil lays in their wake. I don’t know how to start a revolution, but the Sol Food Mobile Farm has picked purpose and plants. It seems like a pretty good place to start.

Honestly, it’s a little inconsiderate of you to be here. I come to yoga for me; for my peace, serenity and to justify a gym membership. Sure, I’m overly [...]]]> Dear Sultry Stretcher,

Don’t tell me you aren’t feeling it too. I’m watching you. You, with your shorts and your shirt, and your deep, honest eyes.

Honestly, it’s a little inconsiderate of you to be here. I come to yoga for me; for my peace, serenity and to justify a gym membership. Sure, I’m overly vocal about my practice. And, yes, I love that carrying my mat to and from yoga tells all the less centered people around me that I’m going to or from yoga. But you’re getting into my head. Normally, I only have to battle thoughts about what I’m going to eat after class or which Disney Villain I would be, but now I’m just thinking about you and what side of the room you’re on and if you think my pose is good or if you think it’s really good or if, maybe, you wanna take this yoga thing off the mat.

That ankle tattoo? Is that Sanskrit? Because I know what that is. Are you going to ask me out? I’d say yes. We could go get other tattoos or maybe some Gogi berry smoothies. I don’t even know if those exist, but they totally should, ya know? You know.

You’ve come over and gently, purposefully adjusted me several times with strong, wise hands. You’ve also adjusted everyone else, but I think I’ve had you one more time? At first, I thought it might be because I had bad form – but c’mon, LOL.

You hold my thigh and say, “Man, you’ve got some tight hamstrings.” Does that seem like a challenge to you? Can I be your Everest? No, too unattainable. Can I be your finding-a-parking-space-when-it’s-busy?  (Not, that I would EVER drive a car, haha, no! Not when we could just travel deeper into ourselves.)

Maybe we could get together and open your chakra? Ha-ha!

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, that was crass and you would never be crass.

Namaste.

You tell us to go into half moon and I’m pretty pumped. I mean, as a yogi, it’s my absolute best pose. Not that people do yoga to be good or competitive, right?! Haha. I slip into the pose like a dream and know you’ve got to be impressed. Until you adjust my hips and slip me a block for assistance. Umm, ok? But surely you don’t think I need these? It’s a game. You’re playing a game. Because you know how I love our little games. Let’s get tea.

Respectfully,

Half Moon, Full heart

I can’t think of a better way to explore a new city and [...]]]> My recent move has not disappointed in being an exciting, fresh chapter. And I promise to wax poetic on all my new feelings and Ikea furniture soon. But for now, I want to tell y’all about how many desserts I’ve been eating.

I can’t think of a better way to explore a new city and I’ve never been above commuting for pizza. After only a month I had followed my stomach through most of San Francisco and this week, standing firmly on two months, I saw the last few major neighborhoods get scraped of my plate. But if moving across le country has taught me anything it’s that shit gets hard when you’re alone, so it’s especially important to celebrate each victory with something that reminds you of home (lard).

After much CraigsListing, emailing and lying to people about how clean I am, I did the impossible and found a nice apartment in a cool neighborhood that I could afford. Only moments after getting the enthusiastic “I guess you can live here” text I rounded a corner and saw this:

You really can't make this stuff up.

Immediately, I knew what it must be like to score the winning goal, get the big promotion or find the perfect table lamp. After weeks of scrounging, pounding the pavement of San Francisco and asking it to love me – it had opened up it’s big foggy heart and said, “Sup.”

Lemme break this place down:

“Pie” is on 15^th and Church. They serve pies sweet and savory, so you may grab a personal chicken pot pie for lunch or snag a blueberry cobbler for sad times/weekdays – whatever, they’ve got you. It’s small, charming and not even on Yelp yet. Go there.

But here’s the goods, people:

Pie serves “Chilly Pies”, a signature concoction where they make you a delicious milkshake from their homemade ice cream selection, then you pick a slice of warm, gooey pie and they BLEND IT INTO YOUR MILKSHAKE — you’re getting twice the dessert intake WITHOUT EVEN HAVING TO CHEW.

Here is my Chilly Pie:

(stickers added for emphasis)

It’s a Mixed Berry Cobbler gracefully civil unionized with a Lemon Cookie Milkshake. I picked a milkshake that already had a “cookie” element because you have to be the change you want to see in the world. (That’s three desserts, for those playing at home.) Paid with cash. Tipped my change. Double guns. Out.

I put in the PVC pipe they call a straw, exited paradise and started seeing how many calories one can consume while walking. I had no idea what street I was on, but I didn’t need to. When you’re on your own you do a lot of making it up as you go and I’d been doing a pretty solid job of building a life out here. I was daily taking down obstacles and learning my strengths. I was finding underground restaurants that sold a menu in a cup. I felt like Lance Armstrong or Mary Tyler Moore. What could I not do?!

Chew.

Chewing is what I couldn’t do.

Where there’s pie, there’s crust. And sucking down a glory shake like you’re a shop vac will always send that proverbial piece of crust straight into your humble pie. The un-masticated crust lump stopped right in the middle of my throat, horizontal like prom night.

I tried to swallow and could not. I knew the worst thing to do was panic. I mean, when is it ever the thing to do? I tried to breath gently through my mouth to no avail. I tried to breath through my nose — Jordin Sparks status, no air. The humbling realization that I was about to die drinking a pie alone in the streets of San Francisco drifted through me. But I’m not one for regrets and certainly couldn’t scold myself for the fatal flaw of being too excited, too excited! to chew. I mean, that’s what killed the Dinosaurs.  I took another, unrewarded attempt at breathing and thought to myself, “At least I died the way I lived.”

Evenly, I took a hard shallow, then another, then another and slowly I felt the crust demon yield and slip into my bread box (stomach). I took a full, gracious breath in. I realized how precious life is. I finished the rest of my shake, wiser.

Risk vs. reward can be a hard duel to watch. But I can say that when it comes to making a drastic move, the reward is staggering. If you are thinking about trying a new scene, you should do it. I can’t express how much I have personally grown in just a short period of independent, improvised living. I’ll talk more about that later, but for now – celebrate your victories one dessert at a time.

So “Freedom” was a really big deal in 2010, when I got it. But then [...]]]> This month, I was lucky enough to be on a beach. I had a week there, so I decided to pound out April’s book in one, 7-day stroke. Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom” was my ammo. 526 pages; ready, aim, fire.

So “Freedom” was a really big deal in 2010, when I got it. But then I was too busy pretending to read books for class to charge through a moderately paced novel for pleasure. Finishing the work, I can see how it made such an impression. We begin the story with Patty and Walter Berglund watching the last train of the life the planned pull out of the station. The Berglunds were the couple that paid more for organic, smiled a ton and actually donated to public radio. Their children, Joey and Jessica, were as bright as their futures and Patty was a diligent stay-at-home mother. Seemingly, nothing should have gone wrong. Unfortunately, Patty’s abled prowess as a mother to small children doesn’t translate to teens. Trouble with Patty creates trouble with the children, amplifies trouble with Patty, crates trouble with the neighbors, creates trouble with Walter and before the gentry of Ramsey Hill knows it, a family of its founders are moving out and running away.

The greatest compliment I can give this work is that it is complete. Now, when I say “complete” I don’t mean that no storyline takes place outside of the frame. Some novels end with every piece secured so tight the storyline can’t breathe. “Freedom” doesn’t bundle to this annoyance. It is complete because halfway through the book I could have easily ordered for the characters off a menu, picked out outfit they would hate or planned their surprise birthday party. You truly know these people. Franzen’s presentation of Patty and Walter Berglund is thorough to the atom.

I was surprised by very little in the book. Because the reader crawls so close, the suspense in Freedom comes not from surprises but rather the fulfillment of anguishing destiny. I knew Patty would say something like that and knew Joey would make that choice. The suspense came from waiting; waiting patiently for the characters to rise to their calling or their doom, and affirming how familiar the two of you are.

While the story of Patty and company is being told, the tale of their ancestry is also spun. You understand why they are the way they are, by seeing them survive their parents. You understand why their parents are the way they are, by seeing how they survived their parents and so on. The family history and flashbacks were as well written and fully complete as the rest of the work. One can see how this level of detail and familiarity compounds. It adds to the weight of the guilt, obligation or freedom that gets thrown around the novel. By seeing where everyone came from it makes each character somehow justified. (“Her mother made her that way!”) This makes the reader feel all the more empathetic when they, despite generations of failing, try to be good people.

The microscope strokes are what make “Freedom” stand out among other novels. You see the characters so extensively that you can find yourself with-in them. Unfortunately, I found the immensity of detail to also be the weakness of “Freedom.” Despite how much I enjoyed knowing everything about Frazen’s world — it could have been done In 200 less pages. I did pick-up on the intricacies that trickled down from earlier generations to affect the people both Patty and Walter became. But by the time these qualities showed their faces they were so diluted I felt knowing the origin was unnecessary. Additionally, because the accounts of the Bergalund ancestry didn’t saddle the plot I found these sections to be the most boring of the novel. If I hadn’t had a solid week to plunge into this work, these additions, lumbering out of the family tree, might have made me give-up on the book – which would have been a mistake. There was a lot of joy in reading “Freedom,” but it became a meditation instead of a rocket-powered read; not negative, just steady.

“Freedom” is a force. It’s a book that will completely wrap around you. You’ll be invested, laugh, cry and wonder why you don’t read enough. I’d be lying to claim that “Freedom” was anything but satisfying. It was satisfying but not in the fashion of a cool drink of water or after work beer. “Freedom” is a slow brewing tea, steeped with guilt but sweetened with forgiveness.

On freedom in “Freedom:”
“What does freedom mean?” I kept asking myself. “Who in this book is free, who is not?” The characters are certainly not free from themselves, their pasts or each other. They aren’t free from their jobs, mistakes or flaws. In fact, all of these things come crashing down especially hard on the victims of “Freedom.” But the work is decorated with graceful gestures of the characters occasionally freeing each other. Each main character burdens him/herself as if they have an obligation to it, like a spider spinning a web it sticks to. But each one is at some point cut free, making me feel that freedom is not a feeling or concept based on where you are, but who you are with.

*Instructions below this little rambling

I get extremely competitive with things that are not even remotely a competition. Video games, pick-up basketball, corn hole, miniature golf and other extreme sports just don’t get my blood boiling. I’ll enjoy myself playing, but if you get heated I’ll just start laughing and

I get extremely competitive with things that are not even remotely a competition. Video games, pick-up basketball, corn hole, miniature golf and other extreme sports just don’t get my blood boiling. I’ll enjoy myself playing, but if you get heated I’ll just start laughing and go fix a drink. (Look around. Are you in a driveway? Yes? Then calm down.)

 My gaze for competition is narrow, and focused. I have a few competitive non-competition outliers; yoga, emotional food story-sharing and dressing. But the arena, in which I thrive, is holiday crafts. I love themes, parties and holidays. But I adore making them more difficult than they need to be. Being so stuck on holiday crafts comes with struggle. You get jealous ridicule and feared admiration from those who are lesser (buy things from a store.) The hardest part about being competitive at crafting, is having to tell your dad you’re gay.

 If you too, want to make more enemies than friends at an upcoming Easter party, then put on your sunhat and lets make some pretentious eggs!

I dyed mine with silk then baked a tye dyed cupcake inside each. Your move.

For the feared admiration of your “friends” you will need:

1 box cake mix*

vegetable oil

3 tablespoons applecider vinegar

30 large white eggs (3 of the yolks will be used in the recipe, you can just hang out with the other 27, the shells are the valuable part)

muffin pan

aluminum foil

wine corkscrew

quart or galloon Ziplock bags

100% silk ties for dyeing **

scissors

string, twist ties, etc.

a good baking playlist

*Any flavor will do, but because egg cakes have no icing I choose one of the sweeter options.

**One tie can cover 2-4 eggs.

 

To Prep the little darlings:

• The recipe can fill 30 eggs, naturally you should make as many as you want and use the rest of the batter for normal cupcakes. Begin collecting the shells early for less pile-up. Just start draining the eggs you use for cooking instead of cracking them. And then you can say this project took you days; I’m certainly going to.
• To drain the eggs a wine corkscrew works best, even though I just pulled it out of the drawer as a reflex.
• Gently poke the tip of the corkscrew into the bottom of a large egg. Once the tip is inside, twist the corkscrew down, like you would into a cork. Get two rotations in then slowly pull the corkscrew straight back out. This will leave a pencil-sized hole.
• You can easily peel away additional shell. A nickel sized whole is ideal. The corkscrew can also be used to burst the yolk, which will help it slip out. Once drained, submerge the shells in saltwater for at least 30 minutes.

*If you do not want to dye your eggs skip ahead to “Cake, Cake, Cake, Cake” but that’s something someone who didn’t consider art school would do.

 

Making them to dye for:

 Adjustments for hollow eggs: These are extremely easy to break with your big strong hands, be careful. You will not be able to wrap the silk as tight. Additionally, hollow eggs float so you will have to fill them with water then do the wrapping in the pot, while they are submerged. If they aren’t filled with water the eggs will  float to the top and the designs wont be as bold. If they were still floating I turned the culprits periodically and left them in for longer to think about what they had done.

• Snag your ties from a thrift store. They won’t be more than $2 each. If the label doesn’t say 100% silk, the images will not transfer. Look for deep colors and darker patterns. This country has a booming ugly tie industry and the uglier the tie, the bolder the design will be.
• Cut the seams and flatten the ties. Then cut the cloth into square and wrap the eggs as tightly as possible, placing the vibrant side against the eggshell. Wet silk will wrap tighter. The lining from the ties can be cut into strips to secure your bundles, but twisty ties work best. Anywhere the silk does not directly touch the shell will leave a whitespace.
• Place the eggs in a saucepan and cover with at least an inch of water, add vinegar.

• Bring the eggs to a rolling boil. Then turn off the heat and let sit, covered, for at least 25 minutes.
• Be careful getting the eggs out and unwrapping them as they are filled with (previously) boiling water.
• For a little extra shine, rub the cooled shells with a touch of vegetable oil.

You can see the differences here, the ones on the left were not submerged.

Cake, Cake, Cake, Cake

• Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
• Mix cake batter as directed. To create a marble or tye dye effect inside the eggs, separate your batter and dye different colors.
• Place an aluminum foil square (mine were roughly 3×3) in each spot on the muffin pan. This will keep our eggs upright during filling and baking.
• Add a drop of vegetable oil to the inside of each shell before filling. Roll the oil around inside the empty egg to ensure the cake won’t stick. A spritz of cooking spray also works.
• Leaving a few inches, turn a Ziplock inside out. This will become your piping bag for egg filling. Spoon ¼ of your batter into the bag. With scissors cut the very corner of the zip lock off and begin pushing your batter to the opening. Cut small at first – you can always make it bigger.

• Insert the tip into each egg and fill 5/8 of the egg. While baking, the cake will expand out the top of the egg. You don’t want overflow. For tye dyeing, alternate the colors of batter in each egg.
• Bake your new egg offspring for 18 minutes. Check with a toothpick to ensure the cake’s center is firm and allow eggs to cool.

• You will likely have some overflow. Peel and eat most of the excess. The rest can be scraped off with a butter knife or damp cloth, but you will be removing the dye as well. Sux.

NO LOOK AT THESE so young and filled with hope! (cake) Like a little egg pride parade.

The egg carton works best for transport, but I’m sure you can think of something overly elaborate to display them in. Happy Easter!

 

Special thanks to Brooke of Simple Pleasure for a little photo snag.

“My birthday is coming up.”

This phrase is self consciously worked into conversation the world over. If it’s a human you’re talking to, they’ll understand when you say “my birthday is coming-up,” you are also saying “and you need to give a shit or I’ll hate you.”

For some, her/his birthday is “just [...]]]>

“My birthday is coming up.”

This phrase is self consciously worked into conversation the world over. If it’s a human you’re talking to, they’ll understand when you say “my birthday is coming-up,” you are also saying “and you need to give a shit or I’ll hate you.”

For some, her/his birthday is “just another day” and they don’t expect special treatment, fuss or a parade route. These people are protected from crushing birthday dysphoria or being completely annoying. These people are wrong. It’s super fun to tempt fate/your emotional stability, put your birthday expectations impossibly high and see what happens.  Lolz.

(My birthday was about three weeks ago and I was only kind of a jerk, you guys!)

It’s tough stuff. Your friends could worship you and make the day glorious or ruin every moment of the coming year. In planning, you ping-pong between how big the occasion(s) will be. One minute you’re looking-up prices on event tents, the next minute you’re looking-up prices on bigger event tents. Then you have to deal with the people who, for some reason, don’t want to cancel their plans to come watch you wear a fun hat and drink more than normal. “People,” apparently have “a lot going on” and sometimes “can’t be bothered with an intricately planned, you-themed bar crawl.” People.

Just conjure some birthday magic, be polite with these misguided souls and respond with one of the following example texts:

1) “If you can’t make it to my birthday I totally understand. It’s fine, really. I don’t care at all — kind of like how you don’t care. Funny.”

2) “That’s fine. Everyone at my party is going to genuinely care about me, so you probably wouldn’t fit in.”

3) “You can go shave your back now.”

4) “k”

*Only respond with “k” if you actually want them to die.

If at some point you plan to have a birthday, then I have some advice to help it along.

“Get over yourself.”

I know. That was even hard to type — and that advice is coming from someone who is very under himself. (I mean, I have a blog; that’s pretty much Internet masturbation) But last week was also someone else’s birthday and someone will have a birthday next week. It’s even possible that someone is having a birthday right now. I know — where do they get off?

The excitement of your birthday is appropriate, but diluted by all the other exciting birthdays in the world. The possible worshippers you are trying to corral have “better” things to do. It’s totally selfish for them to pass on your plans, but my guess is you have missed a birthday at some point too. And what did you do instead? You stayed home, ate Gouda out of your hands and stressed over what Vitamin C has done since “Graduation,” if her hair is still orange and is she OK?! Well, that sounds lovely;  but you missed your friend’s birthday which makes you normal/the problem/an asshole.

All that being rambled; if someone does actually find it in himself or herself to care about the miraculous little day and plans surprises and gets other people excited and feeds you cake at a circus, then you are very fortunate. That person is very special or wants to sleep with you and either way, you should hold hands very tightly as you walk through life.

So, if you are looking at a calendar with “MY BIRTHDAY” written in blood, on a fast-approaching square, try to get over yourself and your reservations. Hold on to that little stone of bravery, deep in your gut — the same one used to mentally puff up before an interview or complicated Starbucks order. Realize that no matter how much your friends try to ruin birthdays, a perfectly choreographed you-fest isn’t necessary to prove you’re the pretty much the Coors Light of fun. Because you are. You SO are.

Realize that people’s indifference is only vaguely personal. It may be scary to take a leap and make your day a big deal but there’s no reason to play “just the tip” with your birthday festivities. Make peace with what could (will) go wrong; then jump headfirst into an icing-rimmed-you-cocktail and lull in the golden pulsations of how much everyone is pretending to care.