creative.mother.thinking

explaining my life to strangers

Archives for May 2008

Why I mostly eat organic food

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There are a lot of reasons to eat organic food, one of the biggest being that it’s more environment friendly, especially if it is produced locally. My own personal reason for buying and eating organic food has mainly been taste, though. The minute I bit into my first organic apple, and tasted it I just couldn’t go back. I have had people say that it’s all in my mind but when my mother took an apple out of the fruit bowl in my kitchen, bit into it and exclaimed, “That’s good! What kind of apple is this?” she didn’t know that this was an organic apple.

So, my main reason for spending just a little bit more on groceries was mostly taste, and also the fact that I like my food better when I know that there is only food in it. I tend to forget about additives when I’m at home because I always buy the same things, and don’t have to check the labels anymore. I was reminded about all the stuff that gets added to regular food though when shopping in an unfamiliar grocery store two weeks ago. I was looking for ham and salami and such and had to put back most of what had looked appealing at first glance.

Last week I went and bought a little booklet about “E numbers”. E numbers are codes for food additives in the European Union. (And I just found out that these numbers are used all over the world these days, without the E.) So when I check a food’s label there might be “E 216” listed there. Since I never know what those numbers mean I tend to stay away from all of them. In fact there are some additives that are not that bad, or downright harmless, but most of them in my little booklet are deemed unhealthy in some way.

What does that have to do with organic food? Well, currently there are 316 additives food manufacturers are allowed to use in the EU. In 1993 there were “only” 265 allowed in Germany. Their number is getting bigger and bigger. In organic food there are only 47 food additives allowed. Interestingly, when I check labels in the health food store there is never something like “E 412” listed on the label. If it’s in there it’s called guar flour.

I’m really happy that nowadays additives have to be listed on the label. I remember a time when you just didn’t know what was in there. Still, with everything labeled it is hard to shop for people with food allergies. I have a friend who can’t have anything coming from an animal, no nuts, no sulfur, and no preservatives. She has to avoid everything that’s canned or comes in a glass.

All this is doable when you’re at home and preparing your own food, even if you end up just cooking plain vegetables most of the time but you run into trouble the minute you want something more complex than a banana, when you buy bread or buns, and none of the salespersons knows if the products contain milk, eggs, or butter, and eating out can become quite the adventure.

So, in buying and eating more organically produced food I try to minimize my intake of weird chemical stuff. Like many people I started thinking about this in a more detailed way when my son started eating real food. But then, having thought about it, I couldn’t just go on eating the regular junk anymore. And, as I mentioned before, most of it doesn’t taste good anyway.

What about you? Do you know what’s in your food?

Things I learned last week

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You might have noticed that I read and commented even less than usual last week. The reason for this was my trip to my parents. As you know, “Reisen bildet.” (Travel gives you an education.), and so I present you with the things I learned through that trip.

  1. When your taxes are due to file in the week when you’re away it might be a good idea to do the taxes slightly earlier than the day before you have to leave.
  2. When you finish your taxes the afternoon before you have to leave it’s not a good idea to think, “I’ll just put together my new desk chair before I pack.”
  3. It’s a good thing to have all the clothes laundered before leaving.
  4. It’s also a very good thing to lay out everything you want to take with you in advance, and pack the bags the day before.
  5. When you have washed and dried and laid out the only pair of jeans that currently fits you and, upon putting them on, you think, “These jeans are awfully tight, I can’t have gained that much since Tuesday.” it might be a good idea to check if these are indeed the pants you intended to wear instead of the other pair that’s a size too small.
  6. If since last year you have gained weight enough to need bigger pants you might also consider to buy new pantyhose for the skirt you brought.
  7. When you decide not to take your bathing suit this time because you haven’t needed it the last thirty times that you visited your parents, this will be the time you’ll go and do aqua fitness with your mother for the first time ever. (In a bathing suit borrowed from her that while being the right size (she had three sizes to choose from) might be suiting a, well, slightly different fashion sense.)
  8. When you go on a thirty minute hike with your child, and your child has spent some time playing in the sandbox beforehand it might be a good idea to empty said child’s shoes before going on the hike, not after. The hike will be much more pleasurable for all parties involved.
  9. When you’re staying in the middle of nowhere for a week it’s a good thing to stack up on sock wool beforehand. Especially since the middle of nowhere doesn’t contain a yarn shop.
  10. When you’re visiting smokers who think that a slight draught in all rooms is the best way to make sure that the rooms don’t reek of smoke, it’s a good idea to take an extra layer of clothing or two.
  11. When somebody pays for highspeed and wireless internet access it doesn’t mean that any of those have to work. You might have to fall back on stealing bandwidth from a neighbor so you can at least check your e-mail.

I’ll resume regular blogging shortly (I hope), also I will be reading your blogs in the course of the next week…

Story of the Month: The Ultimate Party

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The Ultimate Party

Looking at herself in the mirror Myra thought about what to wear that night. It felt like a day for red. The red dress. The dress that made her look voluptuous, and curvy; the one that hugged all the right places, felt good, and was easy to wear. The only question was whether to go the vamp route this night or more punk-like. High heels or army boots? A hat?

She’d probably regret high heels later in the evening, she always did. She thought of putting a pair of flats in her handbag but that was for sissies. Boots and a leather jacket would tone it all down a bit.
She’d be overdressed either way. Though she wanted this to be the ultimate party it probably wouldn’t be.

But what better place to meet new people than a party? So she put up her hair, put on the big dangling earrings, the red lipstick, the red pumps, and went out in a cloud of perfume.

…

There weren’t that many people at the party when she arrived. She frowned; everybody came late the days until there was hardly any time left to party. She said hello to everybody, fetched herself a beer, and joined a group of people she didn’t know to make new friends. If possible.

…

There she was again, thought Laura. This Myra. Always the same. She entered the room like she owned it in her terrible clinging dress. Laura would never have worn something so tight, so short, so clinging, showing so much cleavage. Horrible.
Wherever this woman went there was a whirl in the crowd. Squeals, laughter, disturbance. She talked all the time, as if anybody was interested in her stupid stories, she went from group to group, on to the buffet, loading her plate with food, not waiting for anybody.

Laura was glad that she at least knew how to behave.
…

Phew, this is boring, Myra thought. Maybe it’d get better later when there would be dancing. Maybe.
So far there were a lot of familiar faces, and as usual, people were stiff and as mute as maggots. She already got tired of her own jokes.
She saw Laura sitting on the other side of the room. In the corner as always. Such a beige girl. Short beige hair, beige face, all her makeup in pastels, and wearing black. Again. That woman looked like she could use some fun. And makeup. Nice earrings though.
And, Myra thought to herself, I don’t know how she does it, already most of the men in the room are drifting towards her. Drawn in by the pale, obviously.

Well, at least I can choose whom I speak to, Myra thought, looking for the promising looking guy she’d seen earlier, going after him, isolating him from his companions, and dragging him on the dance floor. Dancing was always a good way to determine whether someone had potential. Or not.
This guy didn’t look that good on the dance floor. He slinked off as soon as he could. He didn’t like to dance; neither did anybody else. Apart from Myra, that is. So she went right to the middle to dance alone.

…

Laura barely heard what that huge blonde guy standing by her side was telling her. Despite the fact that he was practically yelling in her ear she had forgotten it the minute she heard it. The nerve that woman on the dance floor had. Starting to dance even though everybody was looking at her. How embarrassing. And she wasn’t even dancing properly. No, she had to twirl all over the place, waving her arms about and grinning at people. Laura shuddered. Suddenly she wanted to go home. It had been a mistake to come in the first place. It was boring. She just wasn’t the type for parties, parties were for outgoing, extrovert people not for shy people like her. Inwardly she cursed the friend who had persuaded her to attend. She should have known better. A party was not a good way to meet somebody new. She promised herself to go as soon as she could without drawing attention to herself. Then she would go home, despite what her friend would be saying, eat some dark chocolate, have a glass of wine, and watch “Singing in the Rain.”

…

Boring, boring, Myra thought. At least it was better to be bored while dancing than while standing around next to boring people making boring conversation. The others didn’t look, they never did. As if dancing were only possible without any eye contact at all. Nobody looked interesting. She had checked. Twice. She had even talked to the group of musicologists in a corner between the buffet table and the piano. Dull as dishwater.
There had to be exciting people somewhere in the universe but certainly not here. Should she stay a bit longer? There surely would be more people coming in later.

On a sudden impulse she picked up her handbag and jacket, found the host in the kitchen, told him a big story about how she’d love to stay, how sorry she was, and that she had to get up very early the next day, so sorry, great party, ciao.
She walked home all the way, through the drizzling rain in her spiky high heels. An hour later she opened her door, changed into her pajama and woolen socks, opened a beer and a bag of potato chips, and stayed up late to watch “Funny Face” with Fred Astaire.

Story of the Month: The Man I Love

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The writer’s group I’m in has gone from writing really short pieces once a month to writing a story before each meeting. We’re posting the stories on the net so that everybody gets a chance to read them before the meeting. (Well, in theory anyway.) Since this means I’m spending two or three days a month on writing that is not blog-related I thought you might like it if I posted them here too. The following story was written for April’s meeting, and I have linked to it before.

The Man I Love

Maybe a story. With love in it.

Someday he’ll come along the man I love,
And he’ll be big and strong,
The man I love,
And when he comes my way,
I’ll do my best to make him stay…

Sandra took a sip of her red wine and continued staring at the singer. What a stupid song. How does one make somebody stay anyway? By buying the right lingerie? Applying the right makeup? Cooking meat and potatoes? What if you were in love with a woman?
What was love anyway?
“Did you say something?”, Kevin asked.
“Um.” She wasn’t aware of having said anything. But sometimes Kevin could pick up her thoughts. That probably meant something.
“I wondered about the song. The lyrics.” He gave her a blank look. All of a sudden she wished she were here with Matt. He’d get it. “All these words about ‘the man I love’. As if one suddenly looked up and saw the one and only. I don’t even know what love is, anyway.”
“Well,” he hesitated a bit, and looked at his wineglass, playing with its stem, “well, it’s what I feel for you.”
In defense she gave him the warmest smile she could muster. “Kevin, that’s so… I really don’t know what to say. You know I like you very much.”
“Liking isn’t love.”
“I honestly don’t know. Maybe I do love you. I’m still not sure where liking ends and love begins.”
He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, “I’ll show you. Later.”

He’ll build a little home,
Just meant for too,
From which I’d never roam,
Who would, would you?
And so all else above,
I’m waiting for the man I love.

That’s what they all did, Sandra thought to herself. Waiting for love. As if love made everything perfect. Like in fairytales. And then they lived happily ever after. That seemed to be Kevin’s idea too. Putting the two of them in a little box, maybe with a white picket fence, and then keeping her there.
She was weary of “I love you”s. She could deal if somebody wanted sex. Or companionship. Or friendship. But love? Life wasn’t like the movies where two people set eyes upon each other and were committed for life, or more often, beyond death. And then they always gazed into each others eyes and started kissing right away.
In the last year alone four men had told her she were the love of their lives. That obviously couldn’t be the case, and at least two of them had found other love interests since then. Even the deepest affection seemed transferable eventually. At least she hadn’t heard about anybody wasting away from unrequited love lately.

She went outside for a bit of fresh air as the singer crooned yet another love song. Love. It was everywhere. Like dust. Or bacteria. As if it were the most important thing in life.
She checked her cell phone. A message from Matt. He was back early. She dialed his number.
“Hi. – Yes, I’d love to see you too but I’m out with a guy. – Kevin. – I could dump him but that wouldn’t be very nice. How about breakfast? – Breakfast in bed? – I’ll bring the croissants then.”

She went back in. Maybe it would have been better to dump Kevin after all. But then he was a pleasure to be with. It was a pity that he had become that moonstruck. She would have to get rid of him eventually just because of that. This love-thing really made things complicated.

……….

Matt thought that maybe he should have called Sandra a bit earlier. He liked her company. At least she didn’t talk about “commitment” all the time. He thought about going out and finding another girl for the night but then he would have to explain why he had a date for breakfast.
This was one of the moment where he regretted not loving in the late sixties. Who would have thought that the 21st century would make people that uptight. With a bit of caution everybody could have much more fun. There was enough love to go around. No need to ration it out. But no, it was like being back in the fifties. You almost needed to be engaged to get a little cuddly these days.

……..

After the concert Sandra and Kevin went to his apartment. Kevin believed in romance and candlelight (and foreplay of course) so it took a while until Sandra finally could have some sex and sleep. Making love with Kevin was like eating a nice ham sandwich. Wholesome but only mildly exciting. Already she was looking forward to a nice bowl of chili so to speak with Matt.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, I have to get up early, I’m meeting somebody for breakfast.”
“Whom?”
“You don’t know her.”
She had given up telling him the truth because he always got so upset when she was meeting other men.

………

When she left Kevin’s apartment the next morning she felt elated. She hated lying. But she didn’t want to hurt Kevin either and she knew she had hurt him enough by not speaking of love. Lying by omission all the time. Another reason to dump him. But he was nice. He even tried to make her breakfast. But she shouldn’t have to lie to him.
A bag of croissants in hand she went to Matt’s place. It was a good thing she had her own key, he usually slept like a log, and wasn’t exactly a morning person.

What was that commotion in the street? Was there smoke? Fire? Her heart beat wildly in her chest even before she started running. Matt, what about Matt? He’d be in there. Sleeping. With all that smoke. And fire. She ran as fast as she could, the bag in her hand forgotten. Racing along the street she saw the fire engines. People. No Matt.

……

Matt had woken up uncommonly early and found that he didn’t have any coffee or butter left. He came back from the grocery store to find that there was smoke everywhere. His apartment was burning. Oh my. Oh. Sandra. She had her own keys. What if something happened to her? The line in the grocery store had been tremendously slow. She probably had been waiting for him.

…….

Both of them felt distinctly unreal when they spotted each other in the crowd. It was exactly like one of those movies where everybody needed a lot of tissues. But of course they didn’t care.

From within and from without

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I have been thinking a bit more about the feeling of not fitting in I wrote about the other day.

A day later I went to another one of Rhiannon’s fabulous improvisation workshops for singers. (I’ve been to quite a few and have written about a few of them in these posts). I was early. (That’s the beauty of going by train, you’re either too early or too late.) By the time the workshop was supposed to begin there was a small cluster of singers standing around in front of the building. Since this was a different location than usual I didn’t know anybody. The other workshops I had attended were all held in the big city, and over the years I have come to know quite a few of the regulars. So, there we stood, nobody quite sure what to do or say. Then Rhiannon arrived by car. She emerged from the car, carrying a basket full of strawberries, greeting me enthusiastically. And that was the first moment where I found myself both in the situation, inside myself, feeling slightly lonely and a bit scared about the workshop and my singing, and outside myself, seeing the scene through the eyes of the other singers who hadn’t met Rhiannon before, who probably were feeling even lonelier and more scared. What they saw was that I was the only one getting a hug. That I was the only one whom the teacher knew.

It didn’t stay that way though. Later there were more singers who had been to workshops before. Most of those I knew. And they knew me. And I’m still surprised when that happens. I’m very used to not being recognized by people. Maybe it’s because I changed my look so much, I don’t know. The workshop itself by the way was marvelous. I had had my doubts before because I have been to so many of these workshops but I went home inspired and much clearer about what I want to do.

A few days later it happened again. I went to the concert Rhiannon gave with two other singers. I was very early because I wanted to have something to eat there before the concert, and I wanted to write the story I had to finish the day after for a writing group assignment. That I went there alone is nothing unusual for me. When I came to the venue I was greeted by a woman coming towards me from the other side. (I think that maybe singers are especially prone to greet people from something like 20 meters away.) It took me about 15 meters of going towards her to realize that she hadn’t greeted somebody behind me. And that I know her. (I’m sorry, she used to be blonde, and now she’s brunette. Also I couldn’t see her face at first.) But the same thing happened to me three or four times in the course of the evening. Somebody was saying hello to me and every time I’d think they meant somebody behind me.

I entered the jazz club where the band was doing soundcheck. As I went down the stairs I heard, “Hi! It’s Susanne!” from the stage. Amplified. I sat down, I had my dinner, I wrote about half of the story, and I met a lot of singers that I know. It was the same thing over again. I knew about a third of all the people in the room. But to me I was there alone, spending a lot of time sitting at my table with nobody to talk to. To the other people sitting at my table I probably was part of the “in-crowd”. Going here and there, hugging people, and talking. Telling stories of other concerts and other workshops. This seeing myself from the inside and the outside at once confuses me. The images don’t quite match. What’s the truth, me being part of a group amidst friendly faces, or me sitting apart, taking something to read with me because I’m on my own with nobody to talk with?

Two days later I went to a meeting of my writer’s group. Again, a group that I know, people that I like. And then there were the many nice comments on my blog. And I realized that though I feel as if I never fit in I am part of this friendly little corner of the blog-world nonetheless. And I had another moment of seeing myself from the inside and the outside at the same time again that week when I stayed in front of kindergarten to chat with another mother. I suddenly realized that I looked like those mothers I had seen standing there before, the ones of whom I thought they were big friends and had known each others for ages. Well, it seems that if you just stay somewhere for a bit of time you’ll get to know people and then you look like you have friends.

So, I’m not as lonely as I often feel. But then I still don’t have many friends. I’d still love to find a friend who loves the same things I do but that might be a little difficult. Even my husband has interests different from mine. When we first met we were pleasantly surprised about the similarities (of course). We both love Brazilian music, jazz, and the same piece of Anton Webern that nobody else loves. (Op. 22, you know, the saxophone quartet. What, you don’t know? Well, never mind, nobody does.) Even other Webern-lovers – of which there aren’t that many – regard that to be one of his inferior pieces.

I remember, back when I still studied musicology, how much I longed to have a friend to share everything with. Webern, classical music, Brazilian drumming, jazz, rock music, science fiction novels, and baking. But now I think that maybe that’s a bit too much. (And in all this I really shouldn’t forget to mention my real life friends who are reading this blog. All they hear me yammer about is how I don’t have friends. But they aren’t living nearby. And our interests only intersect so far.)

This whole thing might be a case of unrealistic expectations. But then I really long to find people loving the same things as I. And through the internet that has become much easier by the way. These days I’m spending quite a bit of my time over on ravelry (where I’m creativemother, by the way) discussing various aspects of sock knitting.

So I learned two things: 1) Other people might feel as lonely and isolated as I even if they don’t look like it, and 2) my quest to find people interested in the same things as I has been more successful than I thought. Only there weren’t any interested in exactly the same things or in all of them.

And now all of a sudden I feel the urge to make a list of the things I’m interested in. It might be a long list. And a bit unfocused.