You Are What You Eat: Are my Kids Turning into the Hamburgler?

I recently found myself praising my daughter for eating a spoonful of peanut butter. Later that day we were jumping up and down while she ate some Gorton's fish sticks. I recently bought a 64 oz. bottle of ketchup and I am not sure if it will last three weeks. I am beginning to wonder, what happened to the nutritional visions I established while my babies were in the womb?
Shortly after my son was born I realized that eating does not always go the way we plan. I had to stop nursing my son after four months because he was allergic to dairy and anything else slightly abnormal in my diet. He still cried even when we switched to soy formula, but things were much better. I had dreamed that my kids would eat food that would nourish their minds and bodies; I had hoped that they would ask to eat raw carrots as a snack or plead with me for a second helping of delicious beans at dinner. But when I began scanning the tiny glass Gerber jar choices in Bi-Lo when my son was six months old, I realized we were both in for a long and scary journey.
My pediatrician recommended starting with bland vegetables: squash, carrots, sweet potatoes. I remember gagging when I opened the first jar and I remember my son gagging as I attempted to make him eat a few bites. As a first time mom I was persistent, semi-patient and in time he became a good eater with the help of dipping everything in ketchup or eating one bite of pickles for every bite of meat.
Although my son eventually ate his baby vegetables, my daughter was apparently born the arc-enemy of anything grown in the earth and a champion to all vegetable haters. She was a happy and content baby, she was compliant and even-tempered and I nursed her until she was one. I thought she was going to be my easy kid and my good eater. Shortly after I started her on solid baby food I decided to make my own food for her from organic fruits and vegetables, just like my heroes (the pioneer women) did. I excitedly made some baby carrots and applesauce and sweet potatoes. It was not hard, I was saving money and I thought it would be better for her since all the store bought jar-fillers were absent.
At first she was eating well and a few weeks passed, but suddenly she didn't want anything to do with squash or carrots and eventually turned her head from my applesauce. I started to panic. She was supposed to be eating almost 75% solids by that point and I could barely get her to eat applesauce, let alone chicken or beef. Long before she turned one, I finally resorted to serving meals that she could eat along with us, and she started gobbling up tacos and chicken with rice, and bananas. As I reluctantly scraped untouched beans or sweet potatoes into the garbage I started to wonder about this battle that is surely as old as time. Did Moses eat his chick peas? Did Napoleon turn up his nose at asparagus while asking for crepes? I have a feeling the pioneer mothers did not cater to their toddler's picky eating habits, but I was already caught up in the downward spiral.
I always heard people say, “if they're hungry enough they'll eat,” and I really try to present healthful options to my kids, but if they are eating some meat and some dairy and some fruit, is that good enough? I give my kids daily vitamin supplements, but I wonder sometimes—does any of it really matter? My Aunt once told me that as a baby she was fed Carnation canned milk with Caro syrup instead of milk or formula and she became a very intelligent woman who was actually a lobbyist in D.C. for many years. How much smarter would she have been if she had been raised on Similac Advance with DHA/ARA? I have a hard time with this question and sometimes I feel like I've been sucked into a baby nutrition conspiracy.
I want to do what's best for my kids and I want them to eat their vegetables, I want them to be prepared to be polite when faced with a “new” meal at someone else's home, but I don't want eating to become an obsession for any of us. There are obviously very serious things to consider when feeding our children, especially since childhood obesity is such a huge problem in America. According to NACHRI, “Nearly one-third of U.S. Children aged 4 to 19 eat fast food every day, resulting in approximately six extra pounds per year, per child. Fast food consumption has increased fivefold among children since 1970.” Those statistics are frightening and make me regret the Chick Fil-A we had for lunch and the Hungry Howie's Pizza we had earlier this week. Feeding toddlers is a balancing act just like everything else in parenting; I want them to eat food that is good for them, but at times I just want them to eat—period.
I have been feeling guilty the past few weeks for letting my kids eat more chicken nuggets and hot dogs than usual, for being hit-or-miss with my organic produce purchases, and for allowing everything to be dipped in mass quantities of ketchup. However, it is hard enough to come up with a meal for two adults to eat, let alone picky kids who are happy to play with their fork and stare at the ceiling. And when I hear stories about great and intelligent men and women who were raised in poverty without many vegetables or any organic produce, I realize that although nutrition is important, it probably isn't everything. In the meantime please don't ask to see our collection of Happy Meal toys, because it is frightening even to me.

When Dog Hair Took Over The Apartment.

I am happy to babysit or cook or clean; I am here to serve and flexibility is my middle name, but please don't ask me to watch your indoor pet. I will gladly recommend a few great people for the job, but the combination of pet dander and drool is not for me, and I'm sure I fall into the category of “horrible person” for kicking my husband's best furry friend to the yard six years ago.
In order to redeem myself, let me explain that I was born into a family that never owned an indoor pet. We were taught early on that animals belong in the barn or the woods or the zoo. We lived on a large farm in South Dakota until I was five, so there were animals everywhere; I remember playing with cats and dogs and riding our Shetland pony, and there were pigs and cows in the fields. I wasn't particularly an animal lover, but they were a part of our lives, and most of them were serving a purpose: chasing mice, scaring strangers, bacon.
When we left the farm and moved to Ohio, I started school and heard rumors of friends who had pets in their houses. “My dog sleeps in the bed with me.” “My cat wears doll clothes.” Soon my brother Chad and I began asking for a pet. Although we were hoping for a dog, we were living in my grandparents' basement at the time and settled for a few goldfish in a tiny bowl. When the goldfish died and we moved into a small house in town my parents eventual let us get some hamsters. We were more than disappointed to learn that hamsters are boring, stinky, and don't do tricks.
In 5th grade my parents bought a house on 12 acres with a creek and a red barn and my dad decided we could finally buy a dog—an outdoor dog, and the stipulation was that we would breed her and sell the purebred puppies. We did some research and finally found a beautiful purebred Golden Retriever puppy named Megan. She became my constant outdoor companion and we spent countless hours roaming the woods and creeks around our house together. I don't remember being disgusted by her breath or worrying about her having worms, I just remember being outside and running fast in the overgrown weeds. We would shoot down our creek when it flooded in a tiny raft and we were always up for an adventure. She gave us many litters of beautiful purebred puppies before she died; she was the closest thing I ever had to an actual pet.
Although I loved Megan—my hiking, dirty, burr-stuck-in-the-fur outdoor dog—I noticed that I still wasn't fond of indoor animals when I visited other homes. The dog hair that somehow wound up in my brownie, the cat fur that got all over my pants when I sat on the couch. It grossed me out. I had a hard time petting strange cats or dogs, and I had a particularly hard time when a hyper dog jumped in my lap or barked my ears off. I think my entire family feels the same way; once when we were visiting my Great-Aunt Dot her wiener dog peed on my sister's lap shortly after we arrived for our visit. On the two hour drive home after that experience, I think we felt more justified than ever about our disgust with house pets.
Hopefully some of this background information will explain why things got a little hairy in our two-bedroom apartment with my husband, his dog, and me during the first 9 months of our marriage. Shortly before I became engaged to my husband Steve, he excitedly bought a cute purebred Golden Retriever puppy that was only a few months old. My husband is an animal lover and had been wanting a dog very badly for a long time. He named her “Max”–which is subsequently why I am allowed to name all our children. She was cute, and I was genuinely happy for him and this little puppy that would soon be ours.
In the beginning, I turned a blind eye when my soon-to-be husband kissed Max's nose and let her lick his face. He was cleaning up after the messes and taking care of her and it was all very paternal and sweet. The wedding day moved closer and Steve eventually moved into an apartment with an almost full-grown 50 lb. Max. I was nervous from the start about our set-up, but we didn't have any alternatives at the time. Before I knew it I went from a single girl in a clean and quiet environment to a married girl in a semi-bachelor two bedroom apartment with a guy and his Golden Retriever.
Because Steve knew I had never owned an indoor pet, we tried to establish some guidelines for our co-existence from the start. Max was not allowed in our room, or the kitchen. I thought I would be able to contain the dog hair if I could keep her out of my room and away from the food and dishes. Steve, who had been letting Max sleep in his bed at night up until we were married, was being a good sport; married life was blissful and wonderful and everything I had imagined it would be. My husband was almost perfect and our apartment was cute and full of mish-mashed hand-me-down furniture and lots of candles and Glade-Plug ins--just in case there was any hint of dog smell. And also to cover the smell of curry from our neighbors downstairs.
A few months passed and I noticed the walls began closing in on me. It was late Fall, and we were trapped inside the two-bedroom apartment staring at each other and listening to the dog panting behind the couch. We didn't have cable and 2/3 of us enjoyed romping around on the living room floor every evening after supper while 1/3 of us cleaned up the dishes. Large puppies and new husbands seemed to have extra energy to burn in the winter; in the meantime my energy was being spent vacuuming at least once daily and going through bulk quantities of lint roller tape on the couch. The winter grew cold and bleak, and I grew more and more annoyed and resentful toward the other female living in our apartment.
I am typically a laid back person, but by the end of 8 months in that apartment I was ready to pull my own hair out and let it blend in with the other blond fur that had permanently ground into the fibers of our carpet. Thankfully we closed on our house before our 9 month lease was up and moved into our current home on 2.5 acres before I went bald. I was back in the country and everything seemed familiar and peaceful and right. I assumed immediately that Max would permanently move to the back yard, but there was no fence and too many new acres to explore. Max took up her places behind the couch and in the guest room, and I tried to keep her out of the newly renovated kitchen.
I feel I should clarify that I've never thought she is a bad dog. She is a good dog, and as a Retriever is constantly seeking my approval. In the beginning we were equally jealous of each other; we both wanted Steve's attention, but I was determined to only have one girl in my house, and it was going to be the girl who cleaned up after messes and not the girl making the messes.
After one month in our house the fence was complete, and Max was finally free to chase squirrels and bark at the neighbors and lick herself in strange places. She began looking fit and happy and I was elated by our new set-up. Suddenly I was able to watch Max running in the yard without worrying how much hair was falling off along the way or if she had eaten a dead bird earlier in the day. At first Steve would bring Max back inside in the evenings and at night, but once she became accustomed to being outside with the birds, squirrels, ticks, mud, etc., he agreed that she was officially an outside dog. To this day she sleeps in the garage at night (on a heated pillow in the winter) and has had a comfortable 7+ years of life so far. I retired my couch lint roller and special hair-sucking vacuum, and other than the replenishing of disposable fish in my son's fish tank, I am confident we will not be visiting Pet-Smart for an indoor friend anytime soon.

When I had Braces in College.

In the summer of my sophomore year, after suffering from horrible headaches and jaw-locking episodes on a fairly regular basis, my orthodontist—whose name is Bucky Schmelzer—told me I had two options to correct the problem. The first option was to have my jaw broken and wired up for several months while everything healed and corrected. The second option was to wear a sort of retainer that had giant plastic blocks that literally pulled my jaw forward and allowed my teeth to shift and grow together. Then I would need braces and the process would take approximately two years. Neither option had me jumping up and down, but I went with plan B simply because I'm not very big on liquid diets or the inability to talk. I was still under my parents' insurance, I was ready for the pain to stop, I wasn't dating anyone, and I had always wanted straight teeth, so what did I have to lose?
When I received my first retainers, which my friends called “the chompers” and “tainers,” I thought Dr. Schmelzer must be kidding. They were HUGE and barely fit in my mouth, and I couldn't talk without mass quantities of drool and spit shooting out. The worst part was that I had to eat with them fastened in my mouth. Evidently my TMJ would only be corrected if I kept my chompers in at all times, including during meals and while sleeping. I looked around at my supportive friends, tried hard not to eat sticky foods, and hoped the next few years would go by quickly.
Since I couldn't talk in my chompers without slushing my “S's” and slurping the extra spit from my mouth, I avoided speaking up in class for a while. And because my retainers were in my 98 degree mouth 24-7, they quickly became disgusting and required much brushing and cleaning. I began wondering if I'd had braces back when I was 14—like everyone else in my class, if all this spitty humiliation could have been avoided. I finally adopted a “better late than never” attitude, although somewhere along the way I became more excited about the prospect of my teeth being perfectly straight. I forgot that I was putting physical appearance on the back burner for a few years to fix my jaw; it wasn't supposed to be a cosmetic overhaul .
Whenever I went home on breaks from class I visited Dr. Schmelzer; he poked and twisted and shaped my jaw like a piece of bony, gummy, slobbery clay. I would sit in the waiting room with the pre-teen girls and boys and skim through the “Bop” magazines featuring pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio from Titanic. The girls would smile at me with a look of sympathy, and I would smile back showing them what the Guinness Book of World Records retainers looked like.
After a series of changes and adjustments to my horrible retainers, almost one year after my re-construction began, I was fitted with semi-normal looking braces, and only had to wear the chompers at night to keep my jaw in place. I was 22, in my senior year of college, and I had a mouth full of metal complete with numerous rubber bands, but I was excited about having a lovely jaw and picket fence teeth, and Bucky promised we would get the braces off by my college graduation.
Dr. Shmelzer pulled through and my braces were scheduled to come off just in time for me to receive my diploma. Surely I had become the beautiful butterfly that had been hiding inside my slobbery dental cocoon for the past two years. Surely the modeling agencies would be asking, who is this girl, and where has she been hiding? Surely Dr. Schmelzer was going to get hundreds of recommendations from many other female college students.
But when I looked in the mirror, expecting the perfectly straight teeth to match my perfect new jaw, I saw the same teeth that had been there before, only there were noticeable gaps all around each of them. When he asked, “What do you think?” in an excited voice, I could only say, “Thank you for fixing my TMJ.”
Then he handed me my new, very normal looking retainers and told me I needed to wear them at all times for the next 6-12 months, and eventually only at night. He went on to explain that my teeth were still moving, and the retainers were going to bring them all together, back to the picket fences I had envisioned. I was relieved to know that we weren't through yet, even though it meant another year of waiting. I decided that dental beauty was painful, and required a lot of patience.
My teeth did come back together, and although I don't know if they were ever award-winning, they were straight and I was smiling more. Unfortunately, one night while I was folding laundry I discovered my priceless retainers, the retainers that were supposed to last forever, half-melted in a ball of plastic in the pocket of my robe. There was nothing I could do so I threw them away and made an appointment with a local orthodontist the next day. I was soon fitted with new retainers and was smiling again.
Shortly after I received my new retainers I got married, and in 2005 my son was born. I had been consistently wearing my retainers at night for almost 5 years by that time, and my teeth had not moved at all. Then I did something really stupid. My son had colic and I was on the verge of insanity anyway when all of a sudden we both had infections, so I began sanitizing everything in sight. I was caught up in a boiling sanitation frenzy and threw my retainers into the pot with everything else. Although I almost immediately pulled them back out, my retainers had instantly been twisted beyond recognition.
As a stay-at-home mom with minimal dental insurance, I decided it was time to end my quest for picket fence teeth and a jaw that doesn't pop like there is a bottle rocket in my mouth. In less than a decade my teeth and I have come full circle, and although many celebrities (e.i. Tom Cruise and Gwen Stefani) have paved the way to make adult braces more glamorous, I think for now I'm going to stick with what I have and hope for the best. And as soon as it becomes more cost effective to get dentures, then I'm giving Bucky Schmelzer a call.

When you run poopy pants through the washing machine, none of the clothes get clean.

So, if you opened this hoping to find a political metaphor or a symbolic story, then you might want to stop reading now. Unfortunately, the title of this blog is a very literal statement about what just happened to a small load of laundry that is currently enjoying a 3rd soak and rinse in extremely hot water.
As a stay at home mom to two active toddlers, my life is rarely dull. Just when things start slipping into some sort of routine, I like to shake in a dash of something or other to keep us from getting bored. When Christmas ended and we rang in the New Year, I thought it would be the best time to introduce my 22 month old to a lovely diaper-free world. A world of cotton, toilets, rewards and being a “big girl.” It was all very exciting.
I started out using many of the same methods that had worked with my son when he was about her age, and everything was progressing beautifully. New Princess underwear? Yippee! A Pez in my Sleeping Beauty Pez dispenser whenever I go on the Potty? Hooray! Flushing the big potty all by myself? Oh, the joy. With only a few minor setbacks in the first 4 days, I began feeling confident. I could hear the extra cash already coming in from the money we would save from diapers. We would be able to pay for college. We could cut back to only eating 2 meals a week off the dollar menu instead of 3. I might be able to afford a drink from Starbucks. I was free of the bondage of changing tables and diaper rash, and my daughter was walking around with a new diaper-free swagger.
Just when I thought I would be receiving my award for “Best Potty-Trainer 2009,” we began to hit a series of set-backs that involved wet pants, mysterious spots on the floor and couch, and little things that fall on the floor that nobody wants to touch with their bare hands. I did a lot of laundry and used some SPOT SHOT--which I should really advertise for, because that stuff is amazing—and we were learning from our mistakes.
After several great days in a row, we were on track and moving forward again. Then yesterday she had a tough little accident; we were both disappointed as I dumped the mess in the big potty and threw the dirty underwear in the laundry. Since I had just done two loads earlier in the day, I left them in there, waiting until there was a full load; I have two toddlers and typically need a Sherpa and supplemental oxygen to reach the top of my clean laundry pile.
Now my story gets ugly and confusing. When I passed through the laundry room on my way out with the kids this morning, I noticed the laundry room smelled rather raunchy, but I knew there was messy stuff in there and hoped the Spray-N-Wash was working. When I returned this afternoon, I decided it was time to run the wash, whether or not the load was full, so I put in a few random dirty things and turned it on.
I finally got the kids down for a nap and heard the washing machine beep that it was done, so I went out and opened the lid. Let's just say the lovely “Tide” aroma that I was expecting was not there, and I couldn't believe what was scattered all over the bottom of my washing machine and mixed in with my “clean” laundry. As I quickly grabbed an old bag and some wipes and did my best to get rid of everything that wasn't an article of clothing from the wet wash, I realized that I had not only kissed my “Best Potty-Trainer” award goodbye, but I must be a horrible housewife and mother. Who runs a load of laundry with poopy pants???
So, as I sit here reflecting on all that has happened this afternoon, wondering how many times I will have to wash the clothes before they are truly clean, if they are in fact ever clean, I can assure you I will be checking multiple times before casually throwing anything into washing machine from now on, and laughing at myself for thinking that something like Potty-training could ever be simple and clean.

Why I Hate Running So Much.

Sometimes when I'm at Target, or the mall, or driving next to a sidewalk, I see a shirt that says, “I love Running” with a big red heart, and I fight an overwhelming desire to scream... “LIAR!” I'm sure many of you, especially those who own some type of “love-running” paraphernalia or those of you lanky folks with lungs of steal and disproportionately long legs, are mentally defending yourselves at this very moment, but let's be honest; except for a small minority of genetically mutated people and maybe cheetahs, the act of running should simply not be categorized as fun.
I would appreciate it if runners would wear a more honest T-shirt, such as I love Endorphins, or I love to be outside so I put up with the torture of running, or I want to look good in jeans, have more energy and overcome fatigue and depression, so I endure everything awful that goes along with the act of running. That one might need small print on the front and back of the shirt, but at least it would be more sincere, in my humble opinion.
I admire the dedication and commitment to a “sport” that is being “enjoyed” by millions of people of all ages. I actually spent a few minutes reading comments, stories, and advice on runnersworld.com the other day. It was very entertaining. My favorite section contained a discussion on how to run in freezing and icy conditions. The runners were telling each other about special metal spiked pins to put in their running shoes to keep from slipping on the ice, along with ways to overcome the burning sensation that accompanies running in sub-zero temperatures. I resisted the urge to comment on the discussion, but so many thoughts were running through my head. Do these people truly "love" running enough to drive spikes into their Saucony's and/or "work through" the burning and freezing pain in their lungs? Or, more appropriately, is it those pesky addictive Endorphins and the guilt and motivation of going 3 days without a run?
These thoughts are not coming from someone who dislikes all physical activity. I played sports competitively from the time I was in grade school through my 4th year of college. I put in as many hours playing basketball to maintain my college scholarship as most people who had part-time jobs. I loved scrimmaging and some of the competitive drills and anything that had to do with shooting, but during the first few weeks of conditioning every season I had to create a happy place. My teammates and I fought for positions by racing around the outdoor track and running from baseline to baseline on the court until we were physically sick. Everyone hated conditioning—running until we couldn't breathe, spraining our ankles and tearing our ACL's among other things.
I did not play basketball because I loved running and sprinting and jumping rope for two or more hours, only to scramble across campus to shovel large amounts of food in my starving body before the cafeteria closed. I played because I knew that in October we would have our first scrimmages and games and we would all be in good enough shape that we would only need to maintain everything that we had worked so hard to accomplish. And more than that I played because it was fun. It was fun to play a competitive team sport with close friends who played hard and made each other better players, and better people; I still consider many of those teammates some of my closest friends today.
After graduation, when I moved South and was officially done with competitive sports forever, I thought I would take up running as a way to stay in shape and be healthy. It was a lot easier and quicker than the other athletic alternatives, and everyone I knew seemed to be training for a Triathlon or at the very least a Half-Marathon. I had always hated running, but this was going to be a new beginning—a new alliance between us.
I bought some new running shoes and found a few running friends. It was August in South Carolina and the first night I thought the humidity was going to drown me and my new shoes in a thick, spongy cloud of H2O. I scampered to keep up and make conversation while all I could hear was the pounding of my lead feet on the blacktop. I kept running on a fairly consistent basis outside for a few years although I never adjusted to the humidity, and I don't think I ever will.
Eight years and a few arthritic knees and ankles later, I accepted the fact that a buoyant, forgiving treadmill is probably the best way to go for me, which is the first sign that I am not a true runner at all. I bought the treadmill over a year ago and have been running on a fairly regular basis ever since. However, the treadmill takes away one of the only enjoyable things about running from me: fresh air. So why do I do it?
I believe that I am running for the same reason as everyone else out there, unless I have it completely wrong. I need some type of physical activity, and 12-15 minutes on the treadmill is about all I can afford right now. I don't want to look completely gross. I appreciate the way my blood flows after running, and yes those Endorphins are great. But from the moment I lace my shoes and turn the key until the moment I can finally hit the bright red STOP button, all I can hear is the pounding of my shoes and the screaming of my heart in my eardrums. There is nothing pleasant about quickly slamming my feet down in front of each other while the belt is rolling underneath me, and all I can do is look at the timer and count down the seconds until it will all be over. And that is why I hate running so much.

You Say You Want a Resolution...?

Webster defines resolution as a formal expression of opinion, will, or intent: the act of answering or solving. A New Year's Resolution, according to Wikipedia, is the “reforming of a habit, often a lifestyle change that is generally interpreted as advantageous. The name comes from the fact that these commitments normally go into effect on New Year's Day and remain until fulfilled or abandoned.”

To the best of my knowledge, I have never made a New Year's Resolution, and according to most sources, the odds are against me. More than likely, anything I resolve to do will go unfulfilled or abandoned in the upcoming months, but for some reason this year, I'm putting it in writing. Maybe it is because I turned thirty and the grim reaper is suddenly saying “howdy” in the form of crinkles around my eyes and mouth. I prefer “crinkles” to “wrinkles” because “wrinkle” sounds so permanent, like something that can only be removed with a boiling hot iron and steam.
Maybe it is because the kids are currently very preoccupied with playing together and I am finding a wonderful few moments of precious time on my hands, even though it is time I could be scrubbing my baseboards or removing greasy fingerprints from shiny places. Maybe it is because I am slightly bored with TV and current events, and I sometimes question why I spent so much time in school, only to be under appreciated by toddlers who don't care much about iambic pentameter or the perfect contrasting balance of chiaroscuro or sfumato.
I recently finished editing and illustrating a project for my grandmother, which provided a lovely creative break from my normal daily routine. We were able to print the stories from her 1940's childhood; stories that only someone who went through a great depression in a coal-mining town without a father can tell. Even though I've heard the stories a hundred times, I can't help being impressed all over again by the optimistic strength of their spirit, and a faith in the God of a future where food is already on tables and shoes are already on feet.
I also walk away slightly discouraged with my own poor memory. How can my grandma remember her first day of kindergarten at age 78? If it weren't for pictures, I doubt I would remember the color of my first bedroom. (It was Pepto-Bismol pink with a Holly Hobby border in case you were wondering). I envy the ability to store mental pictures and words down to the smallest detail. I am convinced that one of the most important characteristics of a great non-fiction writer is the ability to remember—not just the things we do, but the way the air smelled and the song that was playing in the background. The tiny details.
Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life. I believe this is true; especially if Paris Hilton was able to fill 192 pages with words and semi-complete sentences. Certainly I should be able to write a few pages in a blog at least every other week, even without the help of an assistant or 20 editors. So, along with other resolutions in this new year, including cutting back on coffee and ice cream, etc., I am vowing to read and write more.
When I was 21, I googled Annie Dillard, my favorite writer and arguably the best creative non-fiction author of our time, and sent an email to what turned out to be a legitimate address. She not only took the time to send me a page-long personal response, but her general advice on life, specifically writing, impacted the way I think about creativity tremendously. Annie, I can call her that because we are friends now, stressed the importance of not only writing daily, but reading any and all books, no matter what the genre. She talked about the intertwining of the many worlds of art, saying that most writers are artists—whether or not they ever put paint on a canvas, and vice versa. I lost the soft copy of her email or I would paste it here, but in the meantime I will suggest reading at least one Annie Dillard book this year. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, the 1975 Pulitzer Prize winner, or if you really want to be blown away by her power of recollection, try An American Childhood. (http://www.amazon.com/American-Childhood-Annie-Dillard/dp/0060915188)
According to Annie, “A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time.” I love the illustration and I know that it's true, but I also have trouble with this creative paradox; in order to become a writer I must schedule time in the day to consistently do it, whether or not I am feeling particularly inspired or imaginative. Most if not all great writers have talked about the importance of writing, writing in a way that treats it like work, until it becomes natural, and in spite of the fact that it will never be effortless.
If it is true that the “best time for planning a book is while you're doing the dishes,” then I should have written at least 1000 essays by now. And as another great writer (Anne Lamott) says, “Start with your childhood. Plug your nose and jump in, and write down all your memories as truthfully as you can.” So here we go, one week into the New Year and I'm already behind. I'm hoping that this tangible goal will somehow keep me accountable in the other abstract areas of my life, and who knows, perhaps 2009 might even be the year of calorie-free-good-for-me ice cream, doctor prescribed coffee, and miracle “crinkle-reducing” face cream. Here's to plugging my nose and jumping into something.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1850

A bit of brewed history.

My Dunkin’ Donuts coffee has been tasting particularly good these days, and while I sit on a couch between sippy cups, Cheerios and Pop-tarts waiting for my eyelids to pry apart with every sip, I have been thinking about my personal coffee history, as well as the history of coffee itself.
Among other things, I discovered that I have something in common with Pope Vincent III, and I think he deserves a shout-out. Evidently when Christians dubbed coffee the “devil’s drink,” Vincent III took one swig and decided to have it baptized instead of banished saying, “coffee is so delicious it would be a pity to let the infidels have exclusive use of it.”
Whew.
Coffee was most likely discovered by a sheep herder in Caffa, Ethiopia. He tried a few red “cherries” to see if he would become as hyperactive as his sheep after eating them, and he did. The story goes on to say that monks told him not to eat this “devil’s fruit” until they realized the beans could also help them stay awake for prayers. It is an interesting history worth reading.
My parents were not coffee drinkers, sheep herders, or monks, so I didn’t have my first sip of the so-called “devil’s” java goodness until I was 18. It was a Frappaccino and I probably would not categorize that as coffee today. I drank a little coffee in college, but it wasn’t until grad school that my dependancy went from decaf to double shot espresso.
I lived with my aunt and uncle for a few months before moving into grad housing; they made coffee every morning and they were the first die hard coffee drinkers I had ever met. I quickly learned that they took coffee very seriously and I had to drink it the “right way” or not at all. It was a black Starbucks French Roast and my sensitive little taste-buds were screaming for sugar, milk, cream..anything. But when I saw the looks of horror as I asked for something to calm down my cup, I realized I would either adapt to the brew or fall asleep driving to school.
I have been a black coffee drinker ever since.
For me, there is nothing better than drinking coffee that someone else has made for me. When the honeymoon was over and I realized that this was not going to happen on a daily basis, we invested in the next best thing. A Cuisinart with programmable timer. Now when I wake up to the smell of Dunkin’ Donuts in the morning, I imagine that tiny little bean-shaped elves--as opposed to technology I don’t understand--were busy at work in my kitchen preparing a perfect brew just for me. If only they would unload the dishwasher.
I wouldn’t be a true Coffee enthusiast if I didn’t briefly attempt to drag Coffee’s mortal enemy–herbal tea–through the leafy mud. With all the bad press lately about coffee, it is surprising that I haven’t noticed a decline in Starbucks or the millions of other little Java Huts on every corner. So, tea has half the caffeine and more than just anti-oxidants as a positive selling point. There are lots of great things about tea.
(http://www.alkalizeforhealth.net/Lbattleofbrews.htm)
But come on, tea? This is America Have we forgotten what happened in Boston, Stephen Sinatra, M.D.? I don’t want a Chai-ppuccino thank you very much...
I know there are many tea drinkers who prefer the taste, and I suppose you are entitled to that. But I have become somewhat of a coffee snob. I have noticed that many coffee drinkers are very particular about their brew, their mug, etc. And I am always impressed by my 75 year old Grandma. I will never forget when we went to dinner at 8pm and she ordered caffeinated coffee, and if it is anything less than scalding hot she has them refill it.
In case anyone reading this has forgotten that even I like two lumps of sarcasm with my black coffee, please don’t be too offended, especially if you simply prefer the taste of leaves to the taste of beans. And if you have something in common with Pope Vincent III as well, you might want to do some additional fun reading:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_coffee