and so i was summoned for jury duty at phoenix municipal courthouse a while back. those are some nice digs, let me tell you. the jury assembly room has movie-style seating, flat screen tvs, a fancy coffee machine (free brew!), WiFi, newspapers, the works. and all the court people are nice folks who work efficiently and seem appreciative of your time. our orientation started promptly at 8 a.m. we watched a video about the court system and our jury coordinator gave a presentation about what to expect, plus a judge provided an overview of what was on the day's schedule.

then we all settled back and watched "national treasure" on the flat screens while slamming our free coffees. actually, i re-read a 1992 Comics Journal interview with dan clowes, my comic book artist hero. here's classic clowes: "all the other kids were listening to what i found to be obnoxious rock music like santana and genesis and yes. i decided that i would listen to something that was the most opposite of that that i could find, which resulted in john phillip sousa 78s that my grandfather had. it was a pretty pathetic time in my life." brilliant.

anyway, after about an hour, our jury coordinator returned to the cushy jury assembly room and announced that the first panel would be convened. out of a group of about forty people, 18 of us were chosen randomly by the computer. for some reason i knew i was going to be on that first panel so i finished up my coffee and packed up my Comics Journal just in time to hear my name called. we were ushered to the lobby of the jury assembly room and given a briefing about jury selection before being introduced to our bailiff. from watching "night court" back in the day, i was expecting a burly bald dude with a gun but ours was a middle aged woman wearing a cardigan sweater. she whisked us up to the fifth floor where we were seated one-by-one in the order we were initially called. i was number 15 so i sat in the last row between an older fellow with a cane and an elderly woman with an umbrella that she kept accidentally poking me with.

the judge entered the court and we all stood up, just like on "judge judy," but without the tv cameras and commercials. our judge was a soft-spoken guy who was a master at explaining the trial process and keeping the proceedings orderly, efficient, and polite. turned out we were hearing a DUI criminal trial. the defendant and his lawyer sat at a table in front of us while the prosecutor sat at another table to our left. from time to time, each of them would turn around and look us over. it was kind of like being sized up by the kickball captains before the teams are selected.

each of us had to stand and state our name, our profession, our spouse's profession, if we had children under the age of 21 and if we'd ever served on a jury trial. our panel included a chef, a couple of engineers, a marketing professional, a lawyer, a few retired folks, and a cool breezer student at NAU. then as a group we were asked a series of questions including: if we knew someone who was a member of law enforcement (yes); if we were morally opposed to drinking (no); if we knew any of the parties involved (no); if we knew someone who had been arrested for DUI (yes); if we knew any of the witnesses (no); if we were court watchers for an organization (no); and, finally, if we had bumper stickers on our cars (yes).

then we were sent out of the courtroom to wait while members of our panel were called back individually for questioning in the order that we were seated. being number 15 i had some time to kill. i read a little more of the clowes interview, i thought about my comic book, i secretly sketched people in the group as they waited, i eavesdropped. a lot of talk about the economy. also, religion. and more religion. we had a fairly religious panel. i'm guessing i was the token heathen.

when number 12 was called, i went to the restroom and combed my hair and applied some lip gloss. hey, i wanted to get asked to the dance! i wanted to see the judicial system in action and hear the evidence and be a part of the process and ...

our group was called back into the courtroom, without the rest of us being individually questioned. this time we were allowed to sit wherever we wanted. the judge explained that the seven-person jury had been selected and began reading names. i waited and waited and waited, watching person after person walk to the jury box, but my name was never called. the judge thanked the rest of us for our service and then sent us home since we weren't needed for any other trials that day.

i'm free and clear from being on a jury for the next 18 months, at the least. even though my "service" lasted a whopping four hours, i was glad for the brief peek into the justice system. i'm not a flag-waving, god-fearing american patriot by any means (oh ho ho, no) but, at least in the phoenix municipal court, you do gain a real appreciation for the legal rights we have in this country and the free coffee you can partake in as a juror. sitting in that courtroom, each interested party from the prosecution to the defense to the jurors, was equally represented and respected. the judge was so very careful with the group question and answer session in order to create as fair a situation as possible for the defense and prosecution. he often politely interrupted those who went on too long with answers so that our opinions would not be prejudiced in any way.

but i'm still a little curious about the selection process. anyone who raised his or her hand about having a bumper sticker was not picked for the jury. hey, what?

what's been going down at The Coop of late ...
• so the fledgling gets his driver's permit this afternoon. what? i keep telling him, "get back in the stroller, mister" but apparently he's way past that stage. when did this happen? how can he be old enough to operate anything other than a tricycle? he has been counting down this day for two years while i have been in complete denial. but the moment is now at hand. for my three loyal readers who live here in phoenix, if you see a large white truck with a dented front bumper tooling down the road, i suggest you give that truck as wide a berth as safely possible. you've been forewarned.
• ciara, The Coop's resident pooch, has been ordered to wear shoes by the emergency animal clinic vet (more about this visit in a future blog). ciara can no longer lift her back paws enough when she walks which has worn the nails down, sometimes to the point of bleeding. profusely. like all over. we're talking crime scene material. the rooster and i did a little canine shoe shopping independent of each other. here's the deal: there are a lot of niches to be filled in the doggie footwear market, if you're so inclined. the rooster came home with a black rubber pair that would work better as oven mitts because they're completely worthless as shoes. they didn't stay put on ciara's paws at all. fortunately, they were on sale. i found a mesh bag of "paw protectors," also on sale (regular price: $50--that's criminal, btw). they're made of thick nylon and have a velcro band at the top to secure them around the dog's legs. unfortunately they're bulky and make ciara trip over herself. also, they didn't stay on her paws much longer than the oven mitts. the best solution so far has been a pair of infant socks with non-slip soles. oh, she's styling now ...
• it appears that i have a sulfite sensitivity. i always thought that was some condition that wimpy people made up, until i started puking bile on a regular basis, feeling like someone had stuck a knitting needle through my forehead clean through to the back of my skull, and engaging in whole body prickly fevers, among other reactions. the diagnosis came courtesy of the rooster who asked a wine store sales dude why i might have such violent reactions after drinking a glass of wine. and the wine store sales dude said a sensitivity to tannins or sulfites were the most likely culprits. i drink tea on a regular basis without problems so i ruled out tannins. then i did a little research about sulfites and discovered all the sulfite-intensive stuff i consume aside from wine: cheese, eggs (yeah, the irony!), beer, tuna and, basically, most any food or drink that i like. this weekend i concluded my dietary experimentation when i bought a bottle of sulfite-free wine (wine is never sulfite free but at least this wine didn't have sulfites added to it) and drank a glass without adverse side effects. woo hoo. i'm back. only now i'm sans preservatives.
• and, finally, i've been called for jury duty in december. stay tuned. i may have some stories to tell ...

yeah, so, wes the rat catcher visited The Coop the other morning for a roof rat round-up in the garden. as wes was gathering his traps, he invited me, the chick, and helen keller our ancient deaf/dumb/blind dog to come over to his truck. "i got something for you to see," wes said. there in the back was a big cage and inside the cage was the single most beautiful coyote i've ever seen: his coat was full and glossy, and his eyes were amber colored.

"what kind of dog is that," the chick whispered to me.
"uh, honey, that's a coyote," i told him.
"oh, i'm glad you told me that. i was just about to pet him," the chick said.

the coyote was calm and stared cooly at us, especially helen keller who didn't notice him because, well, she can't. the warranty on her five senses expired about three years ago. the coyote had an expression on his face that seemed to say, "oh yeah, look at me, trapped in this cage for now. but i'll be back. i know where you live. revenge is mine--muhhaha!"

i walked the chick to the bus stop then went to the garden and watched wes set three traps: two by the tomatoes and one by the eggplant and squash. he placed the traps on the edges of the garden beds and underneath the two layers of bird netting that the rooster placed over the plants in an unsuccessful attempt to keep the rats at bay. wes told me that rats are nocturnal and that we wouldn't need to check the traps until the next morning. as i walked him back to his truck, i noticed some objects scattered across my front yard. i said, "hey, wes, what the heck just happened?"
there in the astroturf we found a fluffy white bunny tail, a bloody bunny foot, and an assortment of entrails. "we've seen owls around here recently," i told wes.
"well, that's going to help with your rat problem," he told me as he pulled a plastic grocery bag out of his truck. "do you want to keep the foot? it's good luck, you know."
"no thanks. it wasn't very much good luck for the bunny," i told wes as he gathered the remains.

later that day, the flock and i decided to check the traps just in case. inside one placed near the tomatoes we found a baby rat. oh, he was angry. he threw himself against the sides of the cage. he hopped up and down. he squeaked rodent expletives at us. wes had told me to call him right away if we found a trapped rat but we figured we'd call him the next morning just in case another member or two of the rat pack ventured into the other traps.
so the next morning we went out, expecting to find angry ben, or willard, or whatever the rat's name was, and a couple of his peeps. instead, we found three empty traps. the cage that the baby had been in was turned on its side. the door was still sprung closed and the two layers of netting still covered the trap.
"what the?" the rooster asked.
"ok, wait a minute," i said.
"jail break," the fledgling said.
"call 911," the chick told us.

wes swears that the rat could not have escaped on his own. his theory is that some way, somehow, a predator slipped underneath the bird netting and pulled the rat out of the trap. hey, i'm no marlin-perkins-animal-expert-of-the-wild-kingdom but no, i don't think the situation went down that way because there was absolutely no evidence left behind, like a long thin tail or a tiny claw. even the netting hadn't been disturbed. rats can flatten themselves to fit through the narrowest of cracks and crevices. i figure he slithered between the wires, or maybe the coyote slipped him a file, or perhaps he's the rodent equivalent of magician david copperfield and he made himself disappear into thin air. whatever the case, i know for sure that before he split he flipped us the bird because he was just that pissed.

so our year of eating locally is going along A-OK. i've learned how to make the easiest loaf of wheat bread on the face of the planet. instead of buying bottled salad dressing, each member of the flock has become expert in whipping up our own salad dressing using ingredients from our garden. we no longer use prepackaged mixes. instead we buy bulk ingredients for baking, and some of us have bulked up a bit as a result. but c'mon, until you've eaten our sunday morning chocolate chip yogurt pancakes, you haven't lived! however, compared to barbara kingsolver whose book, "animal, vegetable, miracle," inspired this conversion, i think we'd be considered reasonable rather than militant locavores. i've become less mussolini-like if one of the chicks wants, say, a Clif or a Klondike bar or if the rooster and i have a chance to imbibe in an australian wine now and then; i figure we're doing pretty well overall so what the heck.

a big fat assist in purchasing local produce has come from buying into a local farm share. every thursday we receive a new delivery of fresh vegetables (and a few fruits too) from our queen creek farmer, kelly. have i mentioned that i have a small hen crush on farmer kelly? and who wouldn't? she not only runs her own farm but she drives the delivery van and includes an easy recipe every week. she's introduced us to easter egg radishes, hakurei japanese turnips (oh so very tasty with curry!), and green black-eyed peas. also, she owns three goats. she's the coolest farmer since mr. green jeans.

about the only downside to this whole "eating food produced within a 250-mile radius" deal is that the neighborhood rats have decided to go local, too. they've figured out that our garden is a locavore rat's dream. so far this fall, they've savaged the eggplants, crooked neck squash, lettuce and tomatoes. but, you know, for every action there's an equal reaction and recently a family of owls moved into a tree across the street. apparently they're interested in eating local as well ...

for several days after sarah palin was nominated as the GOP's VP, i felt a little low. i had no giddy in my up. my mellow had been harshened. my sun had gone down on me. and i couldn't figure out why. on the face of things, here was a woman who had been nominated to run for the second highest office in all of the land. even if i'm not a member of her party and have little in common with her, i thought i should feel happy for her and for me and for all of us chicks. but i didn't. no, not at all. and it's not because i worry she might have to stay up all night with a sick child, or grandchild, and then roll into the office the next morning for a meeting with the vice minister of phosphate mining for the federated states of micronesia, which she might be able to see from her home state of alaska if she squints a lot. and uses a large binocular telescope. it's not necessarily the fact that she's ventured to fewer foreign lands on official business and less often than i have unofficially, even though i'm agoraphobic with a slight-ish fear of flying. it's not exactly her lack of government experience because, in reality, she has some. a little bit. kind of, sort of. it's also not because she has a tendency to invoke god's name from time to time to justify war, or her nomination, or her kid's hockey team's double overttime victory, even though i think it'd be refreshing to have an athiest or an agnostic leading our land who respects the rights of others to believe whatever the hell they want to believe. finally, it's not because of her completely inexplicable updo. the great state of arizona was once governed by rose mofford who sported an incredible beehive that, if my memory serves me correctly, actually broke her fall once, preventing a more serious injury. of course, there's a good chance i could be making that up, but what a great story.

no, my problem is this: of all the thousands of people--men and women--serving in various capacities in this majestic nation, sarah palin was The Pick? really? are you sure, john mccain? she's the one? our country is in a complicated economic crisis, entrenched in not one but two wars, hopelessly dependent on other people's oil, our good friends russia and north korea have the diplomatic wobbles and are in dire need of some foreign policy lithium, the diamondbacks completely blew their playoff chances, and your foam finger Number 1 VP pick is a former small town beauty pageant sportscaster with a penchant for firearms, smartass comments, and choosing nouns as her kids' names? seriously, this is the best you can do? please tell me this is just a bad funky mistake, like that awkward oscar moment when an aged jack palance read marisa tomei's name as the winner of the 1993 best supporting actress award over the likes of dame joan plowright, vanessa redgrave, miranda richardson, and judy davis. only in this case are we sure an aged john mccain didn't mean to say, "christie whitman"? or "kay bailey hutchison"? or maybe "condie rice"? but no, he didn't. he's assured us that not only is sarah his running mate but that she's entirely qualified for the job. when asked in an interview what experience palin has in foreign policy, mccain said this: "energy. she knows more about energy than probably anyone else in the united states of america."

what? the question was about foreign policy, big guy, not energy. turn up your hearing aids. better yet, answer the freaking question, mr. straight talk express.

mccain's string of garbled post-VP nomination responses is what really sent me to the depths of my dank, dark personal basement. this country has endured eight painfully long years with an administration that never answers a question, constantly obfuscates the truth, and flat out lies. for just a teeny tiny amount of time, mccain seemed like he was going to stake a new course for the republican party but it appears that his posse of former washington lobbyists and karl rove disciples got in his ear and convinced him that the only way to beat obama is to pander to the far right and exploit the real bush doctrine that is "you're either with us or against us." and mccain, who never misses an opportunity to tout himself as a maverick, broke as if the horse whisperers in his inner circle had finally tamed him. or maybe he just fell asleep. he is 72 years old, after all. either way, it seems to me that he's not in charge of his candidacy any more.

at a time when the united states needs leaders who will act in a non-partisan, moderate fashion to solve many very real and thorny problems for the greater good of our country and to reach out to a world that george bush has mostly alienated, except for a couple of the pitcairn islands, palin's pick was a condescending, manipulative, and calculated selection to further divide us every whichway. her views appeal to the far right, her record is questionable at best, and her national and international experience is far too limited qualify her to be just one breath, one heartbeat, one hangnail infection away from the presidency. plus anyone called a "babe" by rush limbaugh cannot hold a public office. i'm sorry. it's part of the constitution, or it should be.

up until the palin announcement i wasn't fully onboard the obama bandwagon for a number of reasons including his chicago-style politics, his support of old school labor unions, and his reliance on taxation, taxation, taxation, which i don't view as "change." palin's pick, though, has completely changed me. the mccain/palin ticket is a bridge to nowhere, the same one that we've been on for these last two presidential terms. i'd like to travel a different path, thanks, and since there's only one other option, i now know how i'll be marking my mail-in ballot.

but there is one bright side to palin's addition to the campaign trail: it might spur a tv writer to develop a sequel to one of my favorite shows, "mary hartman, mary hartman," called "sarah palin, sarah palin." this evening soap opera could focus on the life of a rifle-toting alaskan governor/housewife named sarah palin, her snowmobiling husband todd, their five home-schooled kids, and an assortment of townsfolk including her former state trooper brother-in-law, the non-book banning local librarian, and a couple of polar bears who have concerns about waxy yellow buildup ...

i received a phone call yesterday from the Democratic National Committee. a very enthusiastic and wildly young woman (are there labor laws regarding 11-year-olds volunteering for political campaigns?) informed me about the 33 (or 36, i forget because i'm a lot older than she is) senate seats that are up for grabs this fall and then began reciting a laundry list of Republican failings over the last eight years, which immediately sent me to my bottle of st. john's wort and a sleeve of Klondike bars. wow, how totally depressing. ugh. and so i kept listening to Very Enthusiastic Call Center Girl because, you know, i'm interested in any alternative to the current state of our nation's affairs. i mean at this point i think our government could be more capably administered by scientific test rats on wheels than another farty old guy with unresolved father issues.

anyway, i was listening to the young woman right up until the point when Very Enthusiastic Call Center Girl added, "three eggs short, we need your help now to ensure that the Republicans don't steal another election from us." and then all i heard her say was, "blah blah blah-dy blah blah," because i realized that she was trying to use The Fear Card on me. i hate The Fear Card. The Fear Card is the main reason that we are in the messes we're in. we've been feared into iraq (omg, omg, weapons of mass destruction!). we've been feared into immigration sweeps (omg, omg, clean my pool, mow my lawn, take care of my house, tend my children, serve my food, bus my table and then leave this country right away, you illegals who i've underpaid for 25 years and suddenly just might turn out to be terrorists ... or something ... or other!). we've been feared into botox (omg, omg, i might look my age!).

so i interrupted Very Enthusiastic Call Center Girl and told her that i couldn't help her out, nope, because then i'd be buying into The Fear Card, which the Republicans have mastered. yeah, there's bad shit going down, right now, all across the board--a steadily rising cost of living, natural disasters, war, the diamondbacks' losing skid. in a nutshell, life. but we as a country seem to have sold ourselves short--very, very short--in our ability to deal with adversity. come on. look at our past. we're a land of fine minds, frontier spirit, and frigging cojones. we used to encourage ingenuity and invention. i mean, what other country could have come up with the personal computer, the iPod, and the Pet Rock? but no longer. we seem stuck in the mud, or frozen in time, and i think that condition is partly due to fear, and partly due to stiffening joints since we are, in reality, also an aging nation. instead of looking for innovation, which is kind of scary and risky, we rely on the same old, same old, which is easy and safe and comfortable. and which is why Cher continues to stage Final Tour Concerts and the shows sell out, and at outrageous ticket prices. take, for instance, proposals for a revamped national energy policy. a certain candidate whose name rhymes with "mclame" comes up with--ta-dah--pushing to build more of what we already have, nuclear power plants. and then he harps on drilling for oil in alaska, which will do basically nothing in the large scheme of things to lessen our dependence on foreign oil. plus oil is such a dinosaur, literally and figuratively. it's finite, it's running out, it really screws up the air, and it smells bad when it gets on your hands, ok? and for that reason we should be doing ourselves a little long-term brainstorming about how to be, to use The Term of The Moment, self-sustainable within the limitations that we have. the mother of invention loves times like these!

but have we as a country lost our ability to think outside the box? color beyond the lines? play guitar like a mofo-ing riot? no, man, i don't think so. because we're the home of the free thinking and the freaking brave. we just need to start rejecting the nay-sayers, the fear mongers, and the it-is-what-it-is-ers. let's tear up our national Fear Card. tell ann coulter to stick it. and if anyone talks to Very Enthusiastic Call Center Girl, let her know that we got nothing to fear. except maybe for a revival of the musical "Cats" ...

so earth day was yesterday. ironically yesterday was also phoenix's first ozone alert day. to celebrate both occasions, macys ran a double-truck ad in the arizona republic. let me quote the ad copy for a moment: "the world is turning over a new leaf." oh, eco-cleverness! "because today we see our environment more clearly than ever before ... " really? because i'm actually having a hard time seeing our environment due to the haze of poisonous pollution that's fouling our air and obscuring our view. " ... and realize it's time to turn our thoughts into action." and how does macys propose turning thoughts into actions? by giving away saplings to the first 100 customers at each store as a means to "inspire awareness of the world around us." speaking of awareness of the world around us, i wonder what kind of saplings they were giving away. the picture in the ad looked like some sort of pine tree. so if the saplings were non-indigenous to the desert, then the whole effort is moot because the trees will need to be watered a lot more than a native variety, thereby defeating the environmental purpose. "plant the tree, grow the concept," the ad copy concludes. evidently part of growing the concept includes hawking certified organic t-shirts with slogans like "save our planet" for a sale price of $18 (discounted from $24). because nothing says "i'm concerned about the health of the earth" more than wearing a t-shirt with the image of a green light bulb on it (and it's not even a CFL bulb) and further supporting the mass consumerism of goods manufactured in sweat shops in malaysia by 9-year-old kids. macys is also holding an eco-sweepstakes to give away three trips to national parks. air fare and car rental is included. and our collective carbon footprint expands further.

was i just using my cynical and sarcastic outside voice? sorry. i'm all for ecological awareness, really, and i applaud every valid effort. but yesterday's macys ad had little to do with conservation and everything to do with snake oil marketing and public relations spin. i hate that because people are generally good-hearted and want to help and will literally buy into an ad that features $42 origins certified organic nourishing face lotion in the belief that purchasing such a product helps our world in some way when purchasing such a product pretty much only helps macys' and origins' bottom line.

so, yeah, i'm skipping the earth day sale at macys and i'm throwing out the ad and the newspaper. in the recycle bin, of course.

scottsdale, arizona, likes to bill itself as "the west's most western town" which is kind of funny because about five residents still ride horses, most of the ranches and horse farms have been bulldozed for mcmansions, and the vast majority of "cowboys" you'll run into at local watering holes are actually bankers and lawyers and doctors by day. yet the cheesy "west's most western town" designation seems to govern a lot of the city's decisions. witness last week's city council meeting when the issue of police uniforms came up. the current uniforms are tan and made out of a heavy material which in the summer are hot and can, you know, bring on a wicked case of prickly heat. and the last thing a scottsdale cop needs is a skin rash. they have other, more important matters to worry about like lots of bank robbers, loads of stupid drivers on the 101, and that one mom who left her sleeping toddler son with a valet parking attendant so she could shop at nordstrom.

the police department requested a change to lighter-weight dark blue uniforms, which most police departments across the country wear. the cost for the dark blue uniforms is $200 less per officer than the tan uniforms. but according to the arizona republic, even with the cost savings and the police chief's personal appearance at the council meeting to make the request, one city councilman claimed that his constituents were fretting that the change in uniforms is one more sign of the demise of the west's most western town. "they are concerned about changing from desert tan to a more urban blue," councilman tony nelssen was quoted as saying.

who knew that blue was strictly an urban hue?

so what's next on the council's agenda? debating how the west's most western town don't need no stinking traffic lights? proposing to tear up all the paved streets so the citizenry can drive their mercedes, porsches, and hummers on frontier-like dirt roads? deciding city matters with card games instead of votes? stay tuned, dear reader, stay tuned.

so i’m four months into my new year’s resolution to eat more locally, reduce packaged food consumption, and clean up my grocery carbon footprint in general. the results are mixed:
1. at first there was a lot of complaining around The Coop about the lack of Fritos and Frito Lay bean dip. but chickens are like dogs--they’ll eat whatever is around when they’re hungry enough. so the fledgling has been powering down more fruits and vegetables, the chick has gotten hooked on bell peppers, and the rooster is still eating Fritos and Frito Lay bean dip. but hey, like meatloaf proclaimed in song: two out of three ain’t bad.
2. lettuce is sprouting in our garden. herbs are flourishing. peppers are peppering the plants. the tomatoes are teasing us. we’ll have a bounty of our own home-grown fairly soon. can’t wait to make salsa with 100% of the ingredients from our garden. (note to self: must learn to make salsa first)
3. i want to bake my own bread and bagels, i really do. but i haven’t managed to work the time into my schedule. same goes for cheese. also, yogurt. at least i’ve found a local source for bread and bagels. but not for cheese or yogurt. i’m working on that.
4. speaking of which, my local market--which was bought by a large chain last year--shut down yesterday. a few weeks ago when i learned the news, i almost started crying right there in the produce aisle. i managed to keep a stiff upper beak but it was hard. i’ve been shopping at the store for almost ten years so i know the employees, most of whom have worked there nearly the whole time i’ve been a customer. fortunately, they’re being reassigned to other locations. but even though the store was part of a smaller chain before it was acquired by the larger one, it never felt like a corporate endeavor. dang it, there was community there: we counted down the days until jeanne the cashier had her baby last year; we heard stories about manager dan’s kids while he bagged our groceries; we talked to jason the butcher about his college classes. and there was always local organic produce available before the organic locavore movement ball started rolling. so for a few days i was sent into a tail feather spin trying to figure out where i’m going to shop now. and then i decided that i’m going to flip the bird at the large grocery chains and use this situation to explore the local farmer’s markets in more depth ...
5. which leads me to my visits to several smaller farmer’s markets. they’re very enjoyable to stroll through with pretty but petite $4 heads of broccoli. and lots of candles. also, aprons. but if you’re looking to buy for food for the week, you’ll need to shop elsewhere unless you’re into eating potpourri. i’m going to hit the bigger markets over the next few weeks and see what i can hunt and gather outside of refrigerator magnets and beeswax lip gloss and ...
6. i also signed up as a shareholder of a community supported agriculture (CSA) farm. my first produce delivery arrives tomorrow. part of the program involves saving The Coop's food scraps for the farm's compost pile so i'm hoping we'll be able to make significant cuts in our garbage load. i'll report back on the results in a month or so. until then!

spam emails entertain me. i save them for the juxtaposed randomness of the subject lines and the nonsensical kookiness of the sender names. here are a few that i’ve received recently, with a description of what the messages are about ... or at least what the messages should be about:
* ebony pendleton, "promiscuous bracken" (a missive from eliot spitzer’s hooker promising to meet him at their love shack)
* selena pryor, "intoxicant cemetery acceptor locale" (evidently selena wants to get drunk with amenable dead people in the nearby graveyard)
* gracie foster, "patriarchy textual" (gracie, a women’s studies graduate student, has written a thesis that explores the literature of dead white guys)
* jennifer waddell, "presume furniture inherent brought" (jennifer’s uncle is yoda, yes?)
* antone neal, "heresy lingual trichloroacetic" (antone, a fallen catholic and retired translator, owns a weed control service)
* donald ivey, "tinge transpiration loudspeaking antebellum" (yeah, say it loud and say it proud, donald!)
* gerardo mccullough, "paean chalet" (gerardo, a former vegas lounge singer, now runs a little bed & breakfast in sedona)
* vincente santana, "beman hyman fetter radices o’leary ballard harem" (poor vicente forgot to take his tourette’s meds this morning and had himself a little t-syndrome screed)
* elias rainey, "callous armillaria loge" (elias’ date with armillaria went southern hemisphere fast; try match.com next time, elias)
* liza mcghee, "thwack choral deplete" (liza is the new publicist for tcd, a thrash electronic hip hop emo christian band coming soon to a county fair near you)
* lucinda ziegler, "glutinous convention" (in other words, a meeting of lard producers)
* cecilia cruz, "asleep arthritis" (the title of cecilia’s screenplay for the sequel to ’sleepless in seattle,’ which catches up with meg ryan and tom hanks 40 years later, when they’re well into their 70s and both quite tired and achy)
* chad reese, "latera munch glitch temperature" (i, too, hate it when that happens, chad)
* reinaldo hearn, "divide durham" (reinaldo is an avowed anarchist living in durham, north carolina ... or maybe he’s a city planner, i forget which)
* burt goss, "awesome papoose wheezy amoral" ( you’re welcome, burt. it was nothing, really babe.)

so i don't mean to dog the usps because the organization takes enough guff but i did have to deal with the postal service today, all day long, about a little matter of concern for me. when my mom died last summer, i filed a temporary forward to send her mail to my address, which was good for six months. the mail arrived promptly and regularly, no problems, and i was able to pay her bills and read her u.s. news and world report magazines, and daughters of the american revolution journals, and missives from her insurance company. a month before the temporary order expired, i filed a permanent change. everything seemed in place until last saturday when my mom's mail stopped arriving all together. i mean, nothing. not even credit card offers from aarp and donation solicitations from john mccain. so i waited a few days but zip, nada, nil. so yesterday i called what i thought was the phone number for the post office in my mom's old neighborhood. i talked to a nice man named travis who offered me condolences on my loss and tried to assess the situation. he couldn't find a single piece of information about the transfer--neither temporary or permanent--in the computer system, which was ... um ... kind of distressing only because this is tax season and i'm trying to gather tax forms for my mom's last tax filing (you know, death and taxes). so he suggested that i go to the post office in my mom's old neighborhood today. i said, "but aren't you there?" and he said, "no, i'm in a different location so i don't know exactly what's going on." and, like, he wouldn't specify where he was so i'm thinking: maximum facility in leavenworth. (sigh)
so today, i stood in line for 30 minutes at the post office in my mom's old neighborhood. when i finally reached the counter and told my tale of woe to the clerk, she scratched her head with her pen and, wordlessly, went to The Back to find a supervisor, leaving the other 20 people standing behind me enraged because, with her absence, there was only a single clerk to help every other happy postal customer in the joint. yeah, i felt like i was being stabbed through my backside with dagger stares and deep sighs and possibly even some voodoo pinpricks to my heels. ouch. anyway, after about 27 minutes of me standing at the counter, shifting my weight, and trying to figure out what to do with my hands so i didn't look uncomfortable even though i really, really was, the clerk returned and said, "fill out this temporary forward order." i said, "but i want a permanent forward order and where is my mom's mail from the last five days?" and she said, "a temporary order will work. don't worry about it. and five days isn't that long. also, i don't know where the mail is. you'll have to go to your post office. maybe they have it there."
but i went home first. i was hungry from standing in line and being nervous from thinking that someone might go postal on me, or that i had toilet paper stuck to the back of my pants in public. so i ate a couple of quesadillas and then i called my post office. here's how i imagine the woman who answered the phone: verging on retirement, tightly permed hair, chain smoker at the loading dock during her breaks, and card shark. she had this great raspy voice and a no-nonsense approach that i appreciated. first she assured me that my postal carrier is one of the best. and i told her, "yeah, i know, ken is aces." and then she said, "we don't have your mother's mail. and your forward order is good until september. and i don't know what they're talking about at the other station. get back there and talk to a supervisor about where your mother's mail is. maybe it's being delivered to her old address." (heavy sigh and a sliver of panic ensues)
that old wonderful battle ax did provide me with the direct phone number of the post office in my mom's old neighborhood and the name of my contact, supervisor 5-8 (not fifty-eight but five-eight), so i called and asked for him. honestly, i felt a little like i was a cia agent investigating an international mail theft ring. until the woman who answered said, "i'm sorry, he stepped out. call back in 20 minutes."
i bet real cia agents don't get put off like this.
in 20 minutes i called again. the same woman said, "i'm sorry, he just stepped out." and i said, "but i called 20 minutes ago and he had just stepped out back then and i was supposed to call back now." she said, "oh, well, yeah, a truck broke down. call back in 20 minutes."
so i did. and the same conversation ensued. another truck broke down! call back in 20 minutes!
so i did. and now supervisor 5-8 was, "out on the street." and i was instructed to call back in 20 minutes.
my future as a cia agent was looking quite bleak.
i called back in 20 minutes and the same, same, same woman answered. she said, "he's not available. i think i'd better take a message." so i gave her my contact information and explained, for the fourth time, my tangled tale and she told me that he'd call me back.
i'm thinking, "as if."
but supervisor 5-8 did, indeed, call me back. we had a lively conversation during which one of his "guys" called him and he said he had to put me on hold but in reality he disconnected me (is supervisor 5-8 a bookie or what?). oh, but i would not be thwarted. i had his number on caller id! so i called him back and he said, "that was weird. your line went all wacky." and i said, "that's funny. your line went dead." so we chatted some more and he basically told me everything that everyone else had been telling me all day: the temporary order was good through september, he didn't know where my mom's mail was from the previous five days, and i'd need to fill out another temporary order just in case.
and then he mentioned, "by the way, your mom's old route will have a new carrier starting on saturday."
"what did you just say?" i asked.
"your mom's old route will have a new carrier starting on saturday," he said.
"so the old carrier is leaving, like, tomorrow?" i said.
and he said, "yes."
and all i could think of was that seinfeld episode where newman, the postal carrier, hordes his route's mail because he just doesn't feel like delivering it. and, apparently, supervisor 5-8 had somewhat of a similar thought because he suddenly said, "oh my, i think i need to check into this further."
and i said, "excellent. i'll be following up with you in a couple of days, supervisor 5-8."
proof, once again, that all those episodes of seinfeld weren't about nothing. no, no, no. on the contrary! nine solid years of "seinfeld" viewing can help you solve a postal mystery. and that, my friends, is another festivus miracle!

joe, the really good dog, passed away recently at the age of 8’ish. by all accounts he was born in phoenix. he spent his youth foraging on the streets and subsisting on refuse and rocks until he ran over to The Coop one day and never left. he was something of a renaissance dog, excelling in the arts of laying in the sun, digging holes, eating, slobbering, wagging his tail, and serving as an excellent floor pillow for watching movies. in joe’s world, there was never a bad day and everyone was his friend. he leaves behind his gal pal ciara and a sad, sad flock that loves him dearly and misses him greatly but is thankful that he wandered into our lives for the time that he did. a wake will be held at a later date. in his memory, please drool before each meal. run free, sweet joe.

hey, if you live in the phoenix area, take note: the kerr cultural center, that cool-io little adobe arts center in scottsdale, is up for historic preservation status and needs some support before somebody (whose first name is michael and last name is crow) makes a royal decree to sell the property, probably to a developer who would likely raze the structure for condos because what the world needs now is more and more condos. and this would be sad. not as sad as the war in iraq and the atrocities in darfur, mind you, but culturally our valley would lose another small but important piece of its history as well as an intimate arts venue where you can hear some Grade A Choice Cut jazz or take in a local photographer's work or listen to a lecture by an ASU professor on the brief history of the structure of the universe. that was a good one, with explanations about lookback time and doppler shifts and hubble law. science rocks!

anyway, all you need to do in order to help is: type your name, street address, phone number, and email address and fax the information to 480-451-0322 or email it to kathy.howard@att.net

and if you have the time and can attend, there's a public hearing scheduled on thursday, march 13, at 5:30 p.m. at one civic center (7447 e. indian school road) for a vote by the scottsdale historic preservation commission. long may the kerr cultural center live!

the this and that of late:
• update on joe the dog: i'm learning from the chick and the fledgling. they see life as it is. like the other morning, when joe the dog wouldn't get up from his pillow as he normally does no matter how much i called him, i immediately determined that he no longer could walk, was dying on the spot, somebody needed to get the gun and we'd put him out of his misery immediately. it's a really good thing we don't own a gun. because when i looked at joe i saw only portent, doom, and death, but when the chick and the fledgling looked at him, they just saw joe, who was slightly tired that morning. and can anyone blame him? he's been through a lot lately. but he's holding steady and the nose tumor is no longer bleeding. nope, it's just growing internally so the left side of his face looks like he's gone the distance with tyson, ali, AND foreman (both the man and the grill). but joe is a champ, i tell you, a champ.

• going loco for local: the garden has been put in for spring and is growing nicely thanks to recent rains. and the pantry has the staples i need to make the basics from scratch, like bagels. they were easier than i thought they would be. you boil them first, then you bake them, and then they're eaten in quick succession, and then it's time to make more. and that's the problem. in barbara kingsolver's book, "animal, vegetable, miracle," she doesn't make self-sustainability sound easy but she seems to be able to feed her family a lot more seamlessly than i'm able to. lately i'm having a righteous locavore week followed by more and more not-so-much ones. you get hit with the stomach flu and don't want to even think about food so a call to Domino's becomes a survival mechanism for the flock, or you need to drive the chicks north to practically south montana for three baseball practices a week and suddenly a couple of Kids Cuisine frozen dinners seem like a reasonable meal. i'm pressing on, but reality has definitely begun to overcome idealism.

• reason 5894637467251423 i like music: there's so much of it and it's not bad for you. just think: if music was chocolate, i'd probably weigh about 3,674 pounds from listening to it all the time. and a certain relative of mine who likes everyone to be perfect would force me to go on Dr. Phil and tell the sad tale of my music addiction and how i ballooned to my current size by listening to a steady diet of the carter family and ella fitzgerald and the spanic boys and dead or alive and then i'd cry a lot, so much that my mascara would run into my mouth and i'd look like marilyn manson, only a lot, lot wider and shorter. and then Dr. Phil would lecture me about my musical gorging ways, especially the dead or alive part, and ask me if i was ready to get real with my life or not. and then he'd offer free stomach-stapling surgery for me but only if i gave up music for once and for all. the studio audience would wait, pensively, for my answer, and so would that certain relative of mine who likes everyone to be perfect. she'd probably shake her head back and forth a little bit and wiggle her foot, too. and then there'd be a commercial break. after that Dr. Phil would sum up the situation, explain the free surgery option, then ask me again for my decision. and, you know what? in the words of johnny paycheck, i'd tell Dr. Phil and that certain relative of mine who likes everyone to be perfect to take their stomach-stapling surgery and shove it. in fact, i would happily OD on dead or alive, which spins me right round, baby, right round. how some people find comfort in food or meth or re-runs of "the golden girls"? that's me and music. and writings about music. if you haven't read "love is a mix tape" by rob sheffield, what are you waiting for?

• check out scott bateman's animated video of the day, 365 days a year. you will so not be sorry.

• finally, here's how the seasons of the year work for me: summer, fall, winter, and spring training. and spring training has arrived, it's here, right now. time to return to those smaller ballfield chapels, sit on the grass with the masses, and while your skin is soaking up the sun, watch the interactive ballet that occurs between the players and the fans: the chatter, the cold beer, the chance to catch a ball or snag an autograph, the crack of the bat, the snap of the ball hitting the glove, and the timeless nature of a game that has no shot clock or two-minute warning, just a wide expanse of potential and possibility within nine innings or, you know, maybe more.

here at the coop we have two mutts, ciara and joe. ciara is kind of an australian shepherd, was "pet of the week" at the arizona humane society, and we won her in a lottery. she's as old as camelback mountain and as deaf as the chair you're currently sitting on. nevertheless she still barks with gusto and runs around with great joy until she falls over. because she has some herding dog in her, she’s rather, well, bossy. she nudges us with her nose and keeps all of us, including joe, in line. joe came to us via the streets. he followed the fledgling back to the coop from the bus stop one day, ran inside, and never left. well, except for the time he fled in abject fear during that thunderstorm in 2003. when joe joined our flock he looked like a mangy coyote. his ribs were a topographic map of his sort of german shepherd frame, he had a bad case of fleas, and his teeth were so ground down that it appeared he'd been eating anything he could find on the street, apparently mostly rocks, concrete, and bricks. joe is the definition of the word happy. he is never anything but happy especially at meal time when he stands at the door and stares at the door frame (more about this in a moment) while drooling long ropes of slobber. by the time the fledgling brings him his food, his mouth is as frothy as a head of beer and so is the door and the patio and ciara. he loves to eat. in fact, "eat" is the meaning of life for him. when he looks at you, he seems to be saying, "is it time to eat yet? well, personally, i think this is a perfect time to eat. actually, anytime is the perfect time to eat. eating is a good thing. in fact, i am a tool for eating. what’s more i am a moon to the sun of eating. why say ate when you can still eat? where’s the eat? got eat? c'mon, let's eat!"

here's the thing though: joe has this heinous tumor in his nose now that causes him to bleed and bleed and bleed. when it first started, i thought he was bleeding from a cut to his left nostril after a little foray in the trash where he found a tin can of dog food and licked it clean. so i did what i always do for the fledgling and the chick when they cut themselves. i rubbed a little neosporin on his nostril and put a Sponge Bob bandage on his nose. please note: you can't put a Sponge Bob bandage on a dog's nose. they pretty much swipe the bandage right off with their paws. so after a week of trickly bleeding, i took joe to the vet. and thus ensued a three-month odyssey of blood work, x-rays, a biopsy. the vet ruled out valley fever, tick fever, bacterial infection, and cancer although a nasal tumor is difficult to biopsy so there’s still a big fat chance that joe has bad cancer. but so far every test has come back clean. joe has been on antibiotics, steroids, arthritis medication, nasal sprays, and sedatives. nothing has worked. and in the interim we have all become expert at cleaning up what looks to be an ongoing crime scene: blood splatters on the walls, clots on the furniture, puddles on the floor. ciara is our Head Janitor and Florence Nightingale. she does her best to lick up the messes, even going so far as to regularly clean joe’s nose as best she can as well as his paws, ears, and eyes. in the process her coat becomes matted with blood. but what are you going to do?

joe has spent weeks holding his own but this past weekend, our guy started hemorrhaging from both nostrils. his breathing became labored. he sounded like darth vader. i called the vet and told her that i thought we’d reached “That Time” and we made an appointment an hour later to put poor joe down. i woke up the fledgling and the chick so that they could say their goodbyes. criminy. it was awful. the chick being a good little Catholic school bird began weeping, “but he won’t go to heaven! he won’t go to heaven!”
“oh, come on,” i told him. “how does anyone know that animals don’t have souls? is there a soul test? a soul x-ray machine? and why would the church have a patron saint of animals anyway if they feel that animals are souless? how come the church calls established beliefs ‘dogmas’? and how is it that ‘dog’ spelled backwards is ‘god’?”
oh, the chick liked that last one. but i wasn’t done yet. i talked to the chick about joe at meal times.
“remember how he used to stare at our old door handle when it was on the right hand side of the doorframe?” i asked him.
he sniffed and nodded his head yes.
“he sat and stared at that door handle as if he were worshipping at the foot of the food god door handle,” i said.
the chick nodded again, then wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.
“and remember when we replaced the door and put the new door handle on the left side?” i asked.
“yeah, joe still sits and stares at where the handle used to be on the right,” the chick said.
“that’s right, pal. that’s because joe has faith and complete trust in the food god of the old door handle. and you can’t have that kind of belief without a soul. and when he dies, his spirit is going to live on. especially at meal time, around 1:30 in the afternoon. he’ll be jumping and drooling in heaven. so don’t let anyone tell you that joe doesn’t have a soul. joe has serious james brown soul.”
my conversation with the fledgling was a little bit more to the point because the fledgling is a teenager and the fledgling is also the fledgling.
“this sucks,” the fledgling said.
“yeah, it so does,” i told him before joe jumped into the rooster's truck for the ride to the vet.
on the way i sobbed and sobbed and told joe what a good dog he was, how he was such a gentle spirit, how much we all loved him, etc., etc. once we reached the parking lot, i realized that joe was awfully quiet. i turned around, expecting to find him dead, but instead he looked like a million bucks. the bleeding had finally stopped and he was moving air in and out more easily for the first time in days. i mean, he still sounded like my great uncle harrison clearing phlegm from his throat, but he was breathing. i took him into the vet's office anyway. i'm pretty sure they think i'm one crazy m-fing chicken because the vet said, "um, you don't want to put him down now, do you?"
and i said, “uh, no.”
and then the young vet tech, who loves joe like we do, finally stopped crying.
so the vet gave me some nose drops to staunch the bleeding, some sedatives to calm him (and/or me) down, and a spray for dermatitis on his back, which the vet had shaved. while we were at the reception desk checking out, an older woman walked into the office, took one look at joe with his bloody legs, paws, and nose, and his hairless back, plus his gargly breathing, and said, “was he in a fight? he looks vicious. is he?”
“yeah, viciously sweet,” i assured her.

so joe received his reprieve from the governor. we know it’s temporary, though. we know what’s coming. but last saturday was not his time, not yet. we continue to enjoy him, all of him: the gallons of slobber; how he encourages us to pat him by nudging us with his big thick head that seems to constitute most of his body weight; those hound dog barks that originate at the tips of his claws and propel him backwards; and--most of all--watching him wag his tail in his sleep. because joe is just that happy.

so i'm in a little bit of a spiritual crisis. it's been going on for a while now. i have faith that i'll get through it, god help me. or higher power help me. or shiva help me. or buddha help me. or whatever. anyway, i still try to take the chicks to Mass in the hopes that 1) we might somehow continue to wander along our spiritual paths; 2) we might learn something together; and 3) we might catch up on our sleep. the little chick always selects Number 3. one sunday at Mass he turned to me and said, "we haven't been to church in a long time." and i told him, "we've been here the last seven weekends, buddy, but this is the first one at which you've remained conscious." it's hard for him because the priests drone on and on and on and begin to sound like a sharper image white noise sleep machine. or the teacher in the peanuts movies. you know, the one who says, "wahwahwahhh." and the "wahwahwahhh" of the homily is almost always about how 1) we've all deviated badly from our spiritual paths; 2) we're know-nothing sinners; 3) and we have, in general, fallen asleep. my teenage fledgling has a habit of elbowing me during the homilies and whispering quite loudly, "way to state the obvious, padre. now tell me something i don't know." where did he get that attitude ... oh, wait, he sounds just like me. so anyway, he and i agree that the homily is pretty much a lost art at our parish, unfortunately.

i would fall asleep like the chick if i didn't get so worked up by the yammering priests. part of my problem with organized religion is that so many are 100% certain that they Know The Way. and that Their Way is The Only Way. yes, i know that faith is based on a belief in something for which there is no proof. but couldn’t we go about all this a little more humbly? isn’t the spirit of deference an important quality during a spiritual journey? otherwise when you have an unyielding outlook and you bump up against another religion or an entire nation with Their Own Way That Is The Only Way, well, things go to hell fairly quickly (and especially for hens, which is a whole other blog). for an endeavor that could provide us with peace and unity and help for the least of us, we sure have made a mess of things on a religious global level.

so i spend most services doing my Doubting Chicken thing and having arguments with the priest in my head: "dude, how can you quote that biblical passage and tell us that it's The Truth when the protestants don't even include that text in their bible. what's with that anyway? if we’re going to get all technical, shouldn't the word of god be, you know, the word of god consistently for everyone? and make an announcement that the woman behind me is hereby ordered to go lighter on the jean nate bath spray. she smells like a fricking vat of lysol. oh no, oh no, oh no! you're hitting us up for money again? what is it this time? the society for the preservation of the sacred vision of the almighty in wheat toast? i will pass and plead gluten intolerance on this one. and whose freaking hearing aid is turned up too loud? it's driving me crazy. oy! and ... "

last weekend, in the middle of my interior mental rant, a heavy thump echoed through the church. i recognized the sound right away because in their younger days the chick and the fledgling did their share of this: falling off the pew. the toppled toddler was not either one of them this time. so i checked my bearings to make sure that it wasn't me who had fallen to the floor. no, i was still seated. there was a collective pause in the church. even the priest stopped nattering. everyone was waiting for the subsequent wail of pain. instead, a little girl said loudly and happily, "I OK!"

at which point my hardened, cynical, and sarcastic heart softened just a bit. i'd like to think that small, confident voice was a tiny message from god. and even if it wasn't, it was a reminder that even when we fall hard, we can still be ok. even if we happen to be a cranky chicken who's trying to find her way.

so i had to clean out my pantry the other day. not just because there was old food taking up space but because there were freaking FOSSILS in there and anthropologists from arizona state university had set up a dig. i found bottles of spices from 1985 that had, like, calcified. i'm not kidding. and boxes of raisins that were like tiny petrified poops. and i'm not so sure what was in that tupperware container but it looked like there were petroglyphs etched into the surface ...
anyway, i needed to clean out the pantry to make way for bulk containers of fresh 21st century beans, flour, oats, and nuts, plus locally grown olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and honey. i ended up donating a full trash bag of ancient food that the ASU anthropologists are currently marveling over ("look what people ate in the 20th century!" i heard one anthropology student say).
while i was tossing out the old, i decided to keep a few semi-new things that i could use to make "nutrition for sustained energy," which is what the Clif bar label says. here at the coop we've spent an inordinate amount of money on these sports bars because we tend to go here, there, and everywhere and sports bars tide us over until we can get back to the coop and the chicken feed (by the way, those chickens in the movie "Chicken Run" ain't got nothing on us). each sports bar costs at least 99 cents and a certain brand of sports bars (not Clif bars) contains 46 separate ingredients.
ack.
that's a lot of ingredients for one little food item. and some of the ingredients sound like components of nuclear warheads--lots of poly-, phospho- and mono-. not a lot of oats, honey, and walnuts, even if that's what the bar is called.
so i checked out the Clif bar label and made up my own recipe:
2 cups rolled oats
2/3 cups raisins (the 21st century kind, which are a bit softer than the 20th century ones)
2/3 cups walnuts
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 1/2 cups applesauce
1/3 cup honey

grind up oats, raisins and walnuts in a blender ... or a cuisinart if you're a fancy cooker person. mix everything up in a bowl. preheat the oven to 325 degrees. oil a 9 x 5 pan and pour in the mixture. bake for 25-30 minutes, until the edges are golden. cut into bars. wrap in wax paper. refrigerate if you don't eat them right away.

for the next batch i'm going to experiment with adding peanut butter and protein powder. and i might try to make my own applesauce to use as an ingredient ...

... which brings me to another issue. you could go c-r-a-z-y with this locavore movement, that being the quest to eat fresh, locally produced and in-season food stuffs. at first, i was bound and determined to stock my kitchen with arizona-only produce and products. but, c'mon, we don't grow bananas here, which the fledgling brought to my attention today.
"mom," he said, "are there any locally grown bananas?"
"not unless the valley of the sun has suddenly become tropical," i told him, "and that's not likely, even with the whole global warming thing."
"but i'd really like a banana," he said.
and it was then that i realized this little goal of mine had gone, well, bananas. i can't in good conscience deny the fledgling a banana. he's a growing fledgling. bananas are good for growing fledglings. but what i can do is buy an organic, fair trade banana and hope to goodness that the dang thing is actually organic and that the banana farmer has been paid a fair rate for his produce. one can never be sure of these things. but one can try. so i went to the grocery store today and i bought organic, fair trade bananas. the fledgling is happy. the chick? not so much, because bananas make his tongue itch. what he really wants is cotton candy. dream on, chick.

next up: bagels. and once i get the makings by mail-order: cheese.

p.s. i made my own tomato sauce the other night. very good, if i may say so myself. also, i made refried beans for a meal tonight. truly awful. the worst. blech! even the ASU anthropologists gagged and they'll eat anything, what with being in the field night and day. this is one of the few instances where good old fashioned lard is a necessary ingredient, although i'm committed to finding a substitute. however the substitute is not canola oil, i'm just telling you.

the phone rings today and the caller id says, "angel voice network." so i'm thinking, "smokers! an angel is calling me! maybe it's my guardian angel! cool!" so i answer.

ok, like, it's actually a recorded message from hillary clinton's campaign.

huh?

the recorded lady says, "we'd like to conduct a brief survey. if the election were held today, press 1 if you would vote for hillary clinton; press 2 if you would vote for barack obama; press 3 if you would vote for john edwards."

so i press 2 although i'm not decided about any of the candidates unless Undecided is actually a candidate for president. but i do like repeating, "barack obama, barack obama, barack obama," really fast until my tongue gets all tied up and i sound like barbara walters saying, "bawack obawa."

anyway, the recorded lady says, "thank you. we're finished," before hanging up.

we're finished? that's it? it's over between us? no questioning why, if the election were held today, i would vote barack instead of hillary because i like saying his name really fast instead of hers? no attempting to bring me back to the clinton camp? no wooing me? no flowers? no candy? no nothing? i feel so abandoned, so used, so monica lewinski ...

i did it. i baked two loaves of bread from scratch today. granted, billions of people have done so over thousands of years but not this chicken, not until today. the kitchen at the coop was quite a sight: i had a half dozen cookbooks out and opened up to various "breads made simple" recipes; i had bulk flour at the ready; i had salt and canola oil standing by; and i had really sweaty palms. i was nervous. i didn't want to screw up and waste perfectly good ingredients.

so the first step went fairly smoothly, although i kept checking the different cookbooks for support. as i mixed everything together in a glass bowl, i read lori colwin's reassurance that, "unlike most things in life, this bread adjusts to you." diana shaw advised me that "good bread requires two things above all: patience and good flour," as i placed a towel over the bowl to allow the dough to rise. and rise it did. i watched it puff up, lifting the towel with it. the dough smelled fresh and rich. but making bread is a lot like an episode of vh1 Behind the Music: band rises to the top of the charts; develops puffy egos (and drug/alcohol addictions, history of bad relationships, and is involved in an occasional vehicular mishap); and consequently is punched down, only to rise again. and that's essentially breadmaking too, but without the rehab and the bitter divorces and the amputated arm. so i punched down the dough, scraped it into two bread pans, and watched it rise again before sliding the pans into the oven to bake.

the rooster stopped by the coop and said, "what smells good?" the chick came home from school and said, "what smells good?" the fledgling came home from school and said, "do i smell like drugs? this meth head sat next to me on the bus and stunk up my sweatshirt." ok, so if a meth head didn't sit next to you on the bus and stink up your sweatshirt, the smell of that baking bread was like sweet incense. it sent me on something of a spiritual experience. i'm a falling away catholic but i think i could believe in The Church of the Risen Bread.

the loaves of bread baked up, as the recipe said, "slightly golden." but as i started to remove the loaves from the pans to cool, i found the crusts to be crustier than i anticipated. in fact, the crusty bottom of one loaf decided to remain in the pan. the other loaf came out of its pan without a problem, however. they came from the same dough, were baked in the same type of pan yet one ended up bottomless, which could be a new TV reality show: bread gone wild. that writers strike better end up soon or, seriously, the networks are going to be fighting over this concept.

anyway, the loaves taste the same. dipped in olive oil, the bread is hearty and chewy and a good start on the road of bread baking-dom. next up on the cooking to-do list: homemade sports bars. them suckers are needlessly expensive and the ingredients, for the most part, are ridiculously simple.

growing up, food and cooking were never a focus of our family's life. my mom had a handful of different meals that she rotated during the week: a pot roast with vegetables; chipped beef on toast; a chicken and rice casserole, made with minute rice and onion soup mix; chili, made with canned kidney beans, ground beef, and ketchup; and spaghetti, pretty much the same recipe as the chili but substitute pasta noodles for canned kidney beans. she always served a meal with an iceberg lettuce salad. even when we ordered pizza, we had to have an iceberg lettuce salad. one time my mom got a wild hair and made peanut butter soup for my dad, who loved peanuts. it took her all weekend to grind those peanuts and simmer them in a crock pot. while the effort was sweet and dear, the end result--with a dollop of sour cream on top--was inedible. we filled up on the iceberg lettuce salad. my mom came by her cooking abilities honestly. her mother's repertoire consisted of a pot roast with vegetables, minute steaks, liver and onions and, on occasion, brains with scrambled eggs because my grandmother truly believed that you are what you eat and she wanted us to be smarter. i'll tell you, i may not be a genius but i'm plenty smart enough not to eat cow brains ...

so my effort this year to eat local, unprocessed food is a stretch for me. take last night, for instance. i decided to prepare a spaghetti squash. needless to say, i never had spaghetti squash when i was growing up. we had some old dried up squash that decorated our dining room table during the thanksgiving holidays but we never ate the stuff. therefore i had a little bit of a learning curve when trying to cook the squash last night. it was a pretty thing from nogales, bright yellow and weighty, with the density of a cement sidewalk curb. i had to microwave it on at least eight separate occasions to soften it enough to cut. each time i went at the squash with my big butcher knife, the alarmed fledgling said, "you do know what you're doing, right?" i told him i could manage, but to have the phone at the ready just in case he needed to dial 911 in the event that i impaled myself. after a half-hour, the squash was soft enough to cleave open, remove the seeds, then simmer in a pan of water. in twenty minutes we had ourselves a cooked spaghetti squash. the chicks marveled at the way the spaghetti squash fibers separated with a fork. i mixed in some shredded parmesan cheese and we had ourselves a tasty side dish.

ok, so now we've demystified one foodstuff. onto the next: making bread from scratch.

and for those who are interested, here's the recipe for my grandmother's "brains with scrambled eggs": 1 cup cow brains (oh yeah, easy, just ask the butcher at safeway for a cup of cow brains and see what he says); 1 tablespoon butter; 2 tablespoons minced parsley or celery, optional (optional because you know how you don't like to camouflage that delightful cow brains flavor); 4 slices toast; 3 eggs; 2 teaspoons salt. soak brains in cold salted water one-half hour. skin and remove all fiber (if you can do this without throwing up, you're either one brave sumbitch or a serial killer). cut or chop into small pieces (see prior comment). put into frying pan in which butter and parsley or celery have been heated. stir until brains are cooked, ten to twelve minutes (thirteen minutes is, evidently, really pushing the cooking envelope). stir in eggs beaten with two tablespoons cold water. cook over moderate fire and stir until set. season and serve on toast. garnish with parsley (because it's always about the presentation). for four (if you can get that many people to sit down with you for this meal ... ). serve hot (because no one likes cold cow brains, silly) and with an iceberg lettuce salad. happy eating!