bearing blog

bearing blog


bear – ing n 1  the manner in which one comports oneself;  2  the act, power, or time of bringing forth offspring or fruit; 3 a machine part in which another part turns [a journal ~];  4  pl comprehension of one’s position, environment, or situation;   5  the act of moving while supporting the weight of something [the ~ of the cross].

  • Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.

    Christmas and Thanksgiving and New Year’s too.  And all the holiday travel.  And all the holiday meals…

    From the limited site statistics Typepad gives me (darn you, Sitemeter!  why did you go all buggy and make me delete you?!?)  I can see that this month I have a lot of traffic to my weight loss posts.  Yeah, I’m still working on formatting a printable version, when I have time.  It’s a long term plan…

    Anyway, I wanted to toss out a suggestion for folks who are viewing the upcoming holidays with trepidation.  Because it’s so much harder to eat moderately when you are with the extended family, isn’t it?  Partly because of the company, partly because the food is extra-appealing, partly because you don’t have control over the menu.  I have written about this before (and recently dredged up some old links for a friend).

    This might not work for everyone, but why not try a moderate-sized, balanced-plate plan to get through the holidays or the vacations or the visiting?  It’s a very simple set of rules governing meals and mini-meal-type snacks, but one that is highly adaptable to restaurants, buffets, potlucks, and feasts at other people’s houses.

    I’m definitely not the first to come up with the “plate method” (here is an example of a published version), which is, as far as I am concerned, a tool for filling up on vegetables.  The idea is to create a “mental model” of a balanced meal like this:

    The “ideal plate” is not too large and is mentally divided into four quarters.

    – At least two quarters is meant to hold non-starchy vegetables.

    – Up to one-quarter of the plate may hold a source of protein.

    – Up to one-quarter of the plate may hold starchy vegetables or grains.

    – And you don’t get to let stuff hang over the edge of the plate or stack it too high.

    – You can fill your two-quarters with salad if you like, but salad greens are so fluffy that as far as I am concerned you can have them for free in a bowl on the side.  Watch the dressing though.

    – Yes, your dessert must fit on your plate.  Have it bump some of the starchy stuff out of the way.

    – Yes, your fresh fruit must fit on your plate.  Just remove any of the other stuff to make room for it.

    Obviously it’s easy to figure out where everything goes if dinner is chicken, broccoli, and rice.  Half a plate of broccoli, a quarter-plate of rice, and a quarter-plate of chicken, right?  So what do you do if dinner is vegetable lasagna and minestrone soup,  or mixed beans and rice and coleslaw?  The key is not to think too hard about it, do your best to approximate the proportions, and to remember that Americans rarely suffer protein deficiency.  When I was following this guideline, I would keep stuff like lasagna to a quarter-plate.  I might let something like beans and rice be a little bit larger than a quarter-plate and fill the rest with vegetables.

    But it doesn’t hurt, when you get started, to be kind of strictly literal about it.  Like, if it’s spaghetti and red sauce and cheese, literally measure the pasta by placing it on a quarter of your plate before moving it to the middle of the plate and adding the sauce.

    You know, right, that “starchy” vegetables are peas; beans like kidney or pinto or black beans; corn; potatoes; sweet potatoes, right?   Don’t fear carrots, turnips, and squash; they can be piled high on your plate.  The low-carb people have given root vegetables and squashes an undeserved bad reputation.

    If you stick to a single plate and use these guidelines, you don’t have to worry so much about WHAT the stuff is you are eating — it will be moderate, almost automatically.   I’m not saying it will be low-calorie, but I am saying that you will be reinforcing moderate, healthy habits without having to be excessively picky. It really takes care of the excess associated with holiday gatherings.

    What if the plate is handed to you already composed, as in a restaurant or a dinner party?  Chances are that the plate is overlarge, so you probably have everything you need to make a balanced plate in front of you, plus a little extra of some of the things.  Transfer extras off the plate if it is possible to do so without being a weird guest.  If you can’t do that, discreetly move stuff around and draw mental lines around things.  Remember that the four-quarter plate is a helpful MENTAL model; it doesn’t have to actually exist in front of you to help you out.  Of course, some practice with physical four-quarter plates help.  But really, the point is to control what you put in your mouth, not what you put on the plate; the plate is only a tool, and an imaginary one at that.

    (And by the way, if you are used to smaller plates and you are given a BIG plate:  Big plates usually have a wide rim around them.  If you only use the center of the plate and pretend the rim part isn’t really there, you are generally left with a more manageable circle to work with.)

    One more note.  Occasionally you will run into the “corn-potato-peas” dinner when you are a guest at someone’s house — you know, the meal that consists of a piece of meat, plus the “vegetables” are corn and peas and potatoes.  In that situation, you have two choices, and I think either of them work.

    (1) Suck it up, count the peas and corn as vegetables, and put them on half your plate (not piled up huge though).  They do have a lot of fiber and other good nutrition in them, which is the main reason to eat vegetables. Be a gracious dinner guest.

    (2) If you are certain that maintaining lower calories is crucially important, and if you think you can do this graciously:  Count the corn and peas together as part of the protein, and just figure that you don’t get any vegetables on this plate.  Your vegetable quarters are metaphorically blank.  Don’t literally scrape all the food to one half of your plate though!   Remember about not being a weird guest.  Do the math in your head, smile and say thank you.

     

     

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    4 comments on Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.

  • Cleaned up a bit.

    For commenter Kelly.

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    Still a lot of mail in the in-basket, but better, no?

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  • Procrastination and the “extended will.”

    Interesting article about procrastination in the New Yorker, one which goes into the idea of separate “selves” with different desires.  So, tangentially related to some of the stuff I’ve written on gluttony.*

    Here’s an excerpt: 

    The idea of the divided self, though discomfiting to some, can be liberating in practical terms, because it encourages you to stop thinking about procrastination as something you can beat by just trying harder. Instead, we should rely on what Joseph Heath and Joel Anderson, in their essay in “The Thief of Time,” call “the extended will”—external tools and techniques to help the parts of our selves that want to work. A classic illustration of the extended will at work is Ulysses’ decision to have his men bind him to the mast of his ship. Ulysses knows that when he hears the Sirens he will be too weak to resist steering the ship onto the rocks in pursuit of them, so he has his men bind him, thereby forcing him to adhere to his long-term aims. Similarly, Thomas Schelling once said that he would be willing to pay extra in advance for a hotel room without a television in it. Today, problem gamblers write contracts with casinos banning them from the premises. And people who are trying to lose weight or finish a project will sometimes make bets with their friends so that if they don’t deliver on their promise it’ll cost them money. In 2008, a Ph.D. candidate at Chapel Hill wrote software that enables people to shut off their access to the Internet for up to eight hours; the program, called Freedom, now has an estimated seventy-five thousand users.

    Not everyone in “The Thief of Time” approves of the reliance on the extended will. Mark D. White advances an idealist argument rooted in Kantian ethics: recognizing procrastination as a failure of will, we should seek to strengthen the will rather than relying on external controls that will allow it to atrophy further. This isn’t a completely fruitless task: much recent research suggests that will power is, in some ways, like a muscle and can be made stronger. The same research, though, also suggests that most of us have a limited amount of will power and that it’s easily exhausted. In one famous study, people who had been asked to restrain themselves from readily available temptation—in this case, a pile of chocolate-chip cookies that they weren’t allowed to touch—had a harder time persisting in a difficult task than people who were allowed to eat the cookies.

    Given this tendency, it makes sense that we often rely intuitively on external rules to help ourselves out. A few years ago, Dan Ariely, a psychologist at M.I.T., did a fascinating experiment examining one of the most basic external tools for dealing with procrastination: deadlines. Students in a class were assigned three papers for the semester, and they were given a choice: they could set separate deadlines for when they had to hand in each of the papers or they could hand them all in together at the end of the semester. There was no benefit to handing the papers in early, since they were all going to be graded at semester’s end, and there was a potential cost to setting the deadlines, since if you missed a deadline your grade would be docked. So the rational thing to do was to hand in all the papers at the end of the semester; that way you’d be free to write the papers sooner but not at risk of a penalty if you didn’t get around to it. Yet most of the students chose to set separate deadlines for each paper, precisely because they knew that they were otherwise unlikely to get around to working on the papers early, which meant they ran the risk of not finishing all three by the end of the semester. This is the essence of the extended will: instead of trusting themselves, the students relied on an outside tool to make themselves do what they actually wanted to do.

    I like the concept of the “extended will” — a much more positive term than, say, “crutch” to describe some of the self-control techniques I’ve developed to deal with gluttony…

    *[Editing note.  Years and years later, I wish I’d done a better job distinguishing gluttony from other problems with food, like clinical eating disorders and other kinds of compulsiveness.  

    I want to emphasize that, whereas I identified some behaviors in myself that probably qualified as self-centered gluttony in the technical sense, I am not and never have been qualified to make that distinction for anyone else.

    I hope to add some commentary to all the posts that have this problem as I find the time to review them.  Here’s a more recent post where I acknowledge some of the problematic material I wrote and set new ground rules for myself going forward.]

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  • Under-utilizing my kitchen, on purpose.

    Hasn't it been a long time since I wrote a Homemaking for Engineers post?  Since late summer, I think.  

    Once a new baby arrives in the house, it takes quite a while for me to feel I've got the time to methodically tweak my systems.  No, for the first nine months or so my system-tweaking is strictly frantic and ad-hoc.

    But I must be feeling in control of myself again, because I started thinking about the work triangle in my kitchen. 

    A side comment first.  Who on earth started the idea that the "three main work sites" in the kitchen — the vertices of the "work triangle" — are the sink, stove, and refrigerator?  Sink — check.  That's where you are working when you wash dishes, run water, deal with raw meat, or clean vegetables.  Stove — check.  That's where you are working when you sauté in a skillet or stir a boiling pot.  But unless you're putting away groceries, which isn't "cooking," who "works" at the refrigerator?  The third vertex of the work triangle needs to be a prep station, not the spot that the fridge door swings through.  But I digress.

    This is my kitchen, designed by Mark and me:

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    You can tell that we read about "the work triangle" before we committed it to blueprints.  It's kind of a classic peninsula shape.  You see where the stove, sink, and refrigerator are.   And you see that there are several expanses of counter for prep work.   There's plenty of room to spread out.

    This is nice when I am cooking with another person.  Which happens at least a couple of times a week.  It's a great kitchen for two cooks to maneuver around each other — one chopping vegetables on the peninsula, another standing at the stove stirring.   You can have three people working at the peninsula alone.   It really works quite naturally and hardly ever feels cramped (until children start parading to the refrigerator in search of cold drinks — a major design trade-off.)

    I'm very grateful to have such a nice, spacious kitchen.  I used to cook in a much smaller one.  Before that I cooked in an even smaller one.  Before that I cooked in a truly tiny one, with about four square feet of counter space.

    And yet it seems that my cooking mess expands to fill the space I have.  When I am done cooking dinner, I have generally strewn messes all over the entire kitchen.  

    Here is a picture from about a year ago (heaven knows why this picture was taken):

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    You can't see it, but I'm sure the mess extends to the left all the way across the peninsula and to the right all the way past the dishwasher.  Since our dining table is in the same open area, this (or something similar) is the sight we are treated to while we have our dinner.  Every night.

    Anyway, I got to thinking… how much space do I actually need to cook in, when it's just me that's cooking?  What if I tried to do as much work as possible in a very small part of my counter, and left the rest of it clear?  How would that work?

    I decided to try it, on several nights over the last couple of weeks.

    I started by clearing and wiping down the entire peninsula top and the countertop over the dishwasher, to the right of the sink.  Why those places?  Purely on aesthetic grounds (though you'll see it was a happy choice for practical reasons too).   These two surfaces are the most visible ones in the kitchen, especially in the view from the dining table or when entering the kitchen area from the front door.  I wanted my kitchen to look nice even to a guest who walks in on me when I am in the middle of dinner.

    I chose to work chiefly in the back corner, by the coffee maker:

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    Here is what the back corner looked like tonight while I was in the middle of assembling an egg bake:

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    Normally I take up the whole peninsula for this.  It still looks quite crowded and messy.  But if you take a step back you can barely tell I'm using the kitchen:

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    (You can tell that the baby's been using the kitchen, though.)  

    So what's it like working in such a small space?  Well, I could definitely streamline it a bit if I had fewer items taking up space on the counter.  The bread boxes and cutting board sometimes live on top of the fridge, for instance.  And I could have put that little green teapot in the dishwasher before I started cooking.  I probably could get the coffee maker into a cabinet if I worked at it.

    But even with those things in the way, it is not as cramped as you might think.  After having cooked in this spot over a few different nights, I notice that I do more clean-as-I-go.  I have to.  And that I am remembering the chef's art of mise-en-place:  getting all the ingredients lined up and ready before diving into assembly.  By restricting myself to this tiny corner of my kitchen — much as I was restricted  to a tiny kitchen in my college days — I'm forcing myself to adopt habits that are adapted to a smaller space.  And just as I did back then, I'm finding that I can work in a smaller space, quite well.

    One advantage became clear right away:  The less I move around the kitchen, the less stuff I drop on the floor.  And the less risk I'll spill something hot or raw on an underfoot child.  The spot I picked to prep in,  though small, turned out to be pretty convenient for that use.  It's right between the sink and the stove; it has lots of electrical outlets; and it's within reach of knives, spices, and several drawers and cabinets of useful prep items.

    After I finished assembling my egg bake and popped it in the oven, I started on a carrot salad.   I had to put the mixing bowl and other items into the dishwasher before there was enough room on the countertop in that corner to set up the food processor and a sheet of waxed paper to catch the carrot peelings.  But while all that was going on, my peninsula still looked beautiful from where I was standing:

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    (See the little dry-erase board?  I'll post about that another time.  It's another idea I'm testing.)

    Eventually, I had finished the carrot salad and started on the last two dishes, a pot of brussels sprouts (frozen from the grocery store) and a bowl of corn (frozen for us by my wonderful mother-in-law).  That wasn't a big deal, of course — just had to open the bags.  The carrots went onto the peninsula and were out of my way.  The egg bake was almost done.  Remind me to give you the recipe.  Everyone loves it.

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    Sprouts are on the stove.  Corn is in the microwave.

    My dear husband set the table, we moved all the dishes over there, and sat down and had a relatively peaceful dinner.  Here is the view from my husband's chair (minus me):

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    There's still mess in the corner, but you can barely see it!

    The dishwasher was still running when we cleared the table, so all the dishes you see in the foreground of the previous photo (and more you don't see) went to the sink and the counter.  Quite a lot of dishes.

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    And yet, if you happen to be seated at the table enjoying your wine, the kitchen still has an air of overall peace:

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    I mean, compared to how it usually looks.  Maybe you'll have to take my word for it.

    (The rattan tote bag hanging from the wall is where we keep cloth napkins.  The other shapeless stuff on the wall is baby bibs hanging from a hook.  I am on the lookout for nicer-looking, but inexpensive, tote bags.)

    Now, some important notes.

    It seems as if I'm under-using the kitchen this way.  Why have all that beautiful counter space if I'm not going to use it most nights?  But actually, the "clear" parts of the counter are  being used.

    – The bar stools next to the peninsula make a great place to sit and talk to the cook, if the bar part is kept clear and welcoming.  Why do you think the bottle of wine wound up there during dinner?  Because my husband came home, opened it, and sat down there to chat with me over a glass of bubbly while I made dinner.  When we have friends over, the adults usually wind up sitting or standing around the peninsula while children eat at the table.  It's so much nicer to use that area when it's not covered with food-prep mess.

    – The peninsula surface is a great spot to collect each serving dish as I finish it.  Notice that's where the bowl of carrot salad turned up?  If I want to serve from the kitchen instead of pass dishes at the table, it makes a fine sideboard.  But it's so much more convenient (and food-safety-conscious) to place the serving dishes on a clean surface instead of one that's been used for prep.

    – The bit of counter above the dishwasher — to the right of the sink — is an obvious parking spot for dirty dishes being cleared from the table.  They'll be scraped into the trash can under the sink and maybe rinsed in the sink before being put into the dishwasher; right by the sink is where they should go, so that when the clearing is all done one person can stand in front of the sink, with the dishwasher open, and process those dishes from countertop to trash can to sink to dishwasher, all without having to take a step or move a drippy dish over any expanse of floor.  But for a person to stand at that work space, the dishes first have to be collected on that countertop, and to make room for the dishes, that countertop has to be clear.

    Now, of course, there are going to be times when I will want to prepare food on those other expanses of counter.  I will want to use the peninsula if there are two or more cooks in the kitchen.  I might want to do prep on the peninsula if there is a friend seated at the bar stools, so I don't have to turn my back on my guests.  The peninsula, being bigger, is best for rolling out dough or topping pizzas.  And raw meat should be dealt with on a separate counter, without a lot of extra stuff on it, to avoid cross-contamination.

    But by restricting my work, and my mess, to a smaller spot in the kitchen, I've opened up plenty of space for other uses, and a little more beauty.

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    11 comments on Under-utilizing my kitchen, on purpose.

  • The difference between a job and a vocation.

    Never assume that someone else can, should, or will treat his job as if it is a vocation.

    A job is a job.  And that's fine.  But when someone tells you he will treat what is essentially his job as if it were his vocation — only at your own peril would you assume it is true.

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  • Introduction to the Devout Life 4-14 and 4-15: Troubleshooting spiritual desolation.

    (An index of all posts on St. Francis de Sales' work Introduction to the Devout Life is here.  A post outlining part 4 of the book is here.)

    In the last post, I wrote about St. Francis de Sales's guide to the problems and temptations of consolations.  It may seem counterintuitive that spiritual consolation can be a problem, but Francis makes a case for it.

    It shouldn't give anyone trouble that desolation can be a problem.   That's the subject of the next two sections.  

    The "desolation" discussion, like the "consolation" discussion, is largely arranged in bullet points.  They're both very bloggy all by themselves.  Let's recap the points about dealing with consolation:

    Preamble:  Our circumstances and emotions change all the time, so we have to keep our superior will fixed on God.

    I.  Devotion does not consist in our feelings, including spiritual consolations.

    II.  But our "devout" feelings and spiritual consolations are useful to us, and worth much more than worldly pleasures.

    III.  Q.  How can we tell the difference between spiritual consolations and useless pleasures?  A.  By the fruit they yield.

    IV.  How to receive consolations:

        (i) Humble ourselves and be aware that our consolations are not evidence of our goodness

        (ii) Realize that God probably gives us consolations because we're so darn weak that we need them

        (iii) Be thankful to God for providing them

        (iv) Use them as God intends

        (v)  Detach ourselves from them by protesting to God that we want Him, not His consolations

        (vi) Tell your confessor if you get a lot of consolation so he can help you deal with the abundance.

    OK, what does the desolation one look like?  I won't paraphrase these nearly as much because they are wonderful examples of Francis's gift for analogies, especially from Scripture.  The bit about the Canticle of Canticles is especially good — it makes me want to go back and read it over…

    Preamble:  "[Consolations] do not last; …you will sometimes find yourself desolate and deprived of all feelings of devotion…What must we do at such a time…?  The first thing is to discover the source of this evil…"

    I.  "[O]ften the cause of this desolation lies in ourselves."

    1. "A mother refuses sugar to a child subject to worms; so God withdraws his consolations when he sees that we take pleasure in them and are subject to the worms of vanity."
    2. "When, through sloth on our part, such consolations fail to bear fruit, he punishes us by taking them away.  We find ourselves like those Israelites who, having failed to gather the manna before dawn, found it melted away after sunrise."
    3.  "Like the bride in the Canticle of Canticles we sometimes rest on a bed of sensible consolation and when the spouse of our soul knocks on the door of our heart and calls us to the practice of devotion, we delay, unwilling to deprive ourselves of our false feeling of contentment and satisfaction, so that he passes on, and leaves us to our laziness; then, when we wish to seek him, he is hard to find."
    4. "Lack of frankness and sincerity with our confessor often causes spiritual desolation… If you are not simple and sincere as a little child you will not receive any sugar plums."
    5. "If you have sated yourself with worldly pleasures it is not surprising that you have lost your taste for those of the spirit.… He has filled the hungry with good things, says our Lady, and sent the rich away empty-handed." (Lk 1:53)
    6. "Have you carefully preserved the fruits of the consolations you have already received?  If so, you will receive more."  [N.B. This point is distinct from number two; that refers to consolations that don't bear fruit at all because of our sloth.]

    II.  "Examine your conscience and see if you have been guilty of some such defects as these… if, on the contrary, you can find no particular cause for this dryness, spend no more time on further examination, but carry out the following advice in all simplicity:"

    1. "[H]umble yourself profoundly before God… 'See what I am, my Saviour, left to myself…'"
    2. "Pray that God may grant you his joy… My father, if it is possible, let this chalice pass me by. (Mt 26:39)"
    3. "Open your heart to your confessor… then follow his advice with great simplicity and humility….  God…often renders such counsels fruitful even though they may not appear very likely to prove useful, just as he cured Naaman by using the waters of the Jordan in which Eliseus had, seemingly without reason, ordered him to bathe."
    4. "Beyond all this, the best thing you can do is remain indifferent to deliverance from your spiritual desolation.  This does not mean that you may not wish for this deliverance, but you must not set your heart on it….  Let us say to God, My Father, if it is possible, let this chalice pass me by; but let us add courageously:  only as thy will is, not as mine is;  (Mt 26.31)… We must say… The Lord gave me consolations and the Lord has taken them away; blessed be the name of the Lord." (Job 1:21)
    5. "Finally… let us remain courageous, and… preserve the even tenor of our way, omitting none of our spiritual exercises, but rather, if possible, performing even more.  If we cannot offer our Lord a devotion that is sweet let us offer him one that is dry."

    III.  In an example from the life of St. Bernard we find a sort of a pattern of dryness following on richness of consolation:

    1. "God usually gives a foretaste of heavenly delights" [i.e. consolations] "to those who enter his service to detach them from earthly pleasures and encourage them in the pursuit of divine love, like a mother who honeys her breasts to entice her child."
    2. "[I]t is this same God who sometimes, in his wise providence, deprives us of the milk and honey of consolations so that, having been weaned, we may learn to eat the dry but more solid food of a vigorous devotion…"
    3. "[S]ometimes great storms arise in the midst of such desolation.  At such times we must fight constantly against temptations, for these do not come from God; but we must bear patiently with the sense of dryness as ordained by God for our advancement."  (Distinguish between temptations within dryness, and dryness itself; dryness is not itself a temptation, but an environment in which temptations may arise, just as consolation is an environment in which temptations may arise.)
    4. "[W]e must never lose courage… or say… 'I shall never be happy again'; for in the night we must await the dawn. On the other hand no matter how fair the weather in our spiritual life we must not say, 'I shall never experience sorrow again'."
    5. "[T]he best remedy is to reveal our trouble to some spiritual friend who can console us."

     

    Now I want to point out something that Francis adds almost as an afterthought, but that I would rather put at the very beginning of the possible interior causes of desolation:  we may have tried to "do" too much devotion.  It is indeed possible to overdo it.

    "Sometimes these feelings of distaste, dryness, and desolation arise from some physical indisposition as when, for example, we find ourselves oppressed with tiredness, drowsiness and fatigue through some excess in watching, labouring or fasting, which not only weary the body but the soul as well, by reason of the intimate relation between them."

    Francis does want us to make valiant acts of virtue when we're spiritually exhausted like this, because God finds them pleasing; but he wants us to remedy the dryness at its source:

    "The remedy on such occasions is to refresh the body by some lawful recreation and relaxation."

    So there you go:  Yes, it is possible to do too much fasting, adoring, and good works.  Take a vacation once in a while.

    Now, let's look at a couple of the themes in this section.

    First, asking why:  yet another example of Francis meeting real people where they really are.

    I like that Francis starts right out with the question that's on everyone's mind when bad times come:  "Why?"  Far from chiding us for asking such a question, he knows that faith in the Christian God requires a trust that there must be some reason, even an inscrutable one, for dark nights of the soul; and yet, that our trust is weak and is aided by pausing to consider the many reasons that might be.  He's helping us, through use of our reason, to give God the benefit of the doubt.

    And why might we have lost our consolations, our "feelings" that God is there and loves us?  I can almost imagine Francis counting them off on his fingers.  Maybe God took them away for our own good.  Maybe we have wasted them or their fruits.   Maybe we were stuck in a rut of self-satisfaction.  Maybe we made a bad confession and this is the fruit of that.  Maybe we are too involved with worldly pleasures to notice the more subtle spiritual ones. 

    But an even more fruitful theme can be found in Francis's plays on the word "dry."  I like very much this sentence:   

    "If we cannot offer our Lord a devotion that is sweet let us offer him one that is dry."  

    We have all heard the word "dry" used to describe the soul, or the emotions, of one suffering spiritual desolation.  "Spiritual dryness" is almost a technical term in the language of devotion.  I have always thought of "dry" meaning "arid," that the opposite of spiritual "dryness" is necessarily lushness, swelling rivers, greening land.   But here St. Francis puts "dry" as the opposite of "sweet," which (maybe because he's French?) immediately puts me in mind of wine.  

    Perhaps spiritual dryness is not dry like a desert, but dry like a champagne brut nature.

    Something to think about.

    Later, having surprised us once by setting "dry" in opposition to "sweet," he does it once again by setting "dry but more solid" food opposite mother's milk.  Babies eat food like milk — not at all dry.  Grownups eat food like bread.  

    So our dryness is dry like a desert.  It is also dry like wine, dry like bread.

    Hm.  Clever.

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    1 comment on Introduction to the Devout Life 4-14 and 4-15: Troubleshooting spiritual desolation.

  • Vegetable recipe placeholder of the day.

    Coconut collards — I will make this as soon as I get more coconut milk.  Yum!

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    1 comment on Vegetable recipe placeholder of the day.

  • Waste not, want not.

    This post at Tara Parker-Pope’s NYT health blog points out that 40% of food waste occurs in the home, and the average home wastes a quarter of the food they buy.

    She makes the obvious point that this wastes our money.  I’m surprised she didn’t also point out that it’s wasteful from an environmental standpoint too.

    You know the whole locavore movement, the one that tries to shrink the transportation carbon footprint of your food?

    Well, if you are a typical household, your transportation footprint is likely less than half of your food waste footprint.  Start cutting where it really counts:  buy less, cook less, and waste less.

    I’m convinced, after struggling to reduce food waste in my own house, that a lot of the problem with food waste really does come from two gluttony-related subtopics.

    (1) Worry that we won’t have enough food, or enough variety of food.  This is utterly ridiculous.  You should see my pantry.  We are stocked to the ceiling.  And my family, far from being disappointed in me if I made chili every week for a year, would probably cheer.  Nevertheless, worrying that we don’t have enough food, or that our food isn’t interesting enough, appears to be a symptom of my inner glutton.

    (2)  Refusal to engage with the reality of what my family really likes to eat.  Yes, it’s fine to make things that are new to us, to try new things.  But once I’ve discovered that some dish is a loser with most of us, I shouldn’t repeat it except in small quantities.

    I have often thought that one way to cure myself of this tendency might be to deliberately skip going to the grocery store from time to time, forcing us to eat down our stores.

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    12 comments on Waste not, want not.

  • The Catechism, pot, and California Prop 19.

    Joe Hargrave at The American Catholic makes a case for California's Prop 19 (state-level legalization of marijuana for recreational use).  I participated in the commentary and thought I'd crosspost here.

    One of the commenters (Chris C.) pointed out:

    Recreational use of drugs is prohibited by the CCC [Catechism of the Catholic Church]. That alcohol and tobacco are used legally is hardly a valid argument in favor.

    I responded:

    I don’t live in CA, but I’d be voting yes on 19 if I did. I hope it passes, if only so we can find out what the consequences will be. One of the benefits of having 50 states is that we can have 50 laboratories of laws.

    About the CCC — I’ve always found the wording of the English in that section (#2281) bizarre. It says baldly that the use of “drugs” is gravely wrong, without qualification — and that would seem to mean that we can’t use alcohol or tobacco either, period. Are alcohol and tobacco not drugs? It would strike me as extremely odd and/or convenient that the teaching of a universal Church that knows no boundaries of nation or state would correspond exactly with the controlled-substance laws of the U. S. of A. Cigarettes are peachy keen as long as you don’t abuse them, but joints are inherently evil? This makes no logical sense.

    The Latin is “stupefactivorum medicamentorum usus.” Anyone want to take a stab at that one? Does the term “medicamentorum” imply that naturally occurring substances (alcohol, tobacco, and various psychoactive plants) aren’t included?

    The second part of #2281 [correction:  #2291] makes reference to illegal drugs only (and it makes sense that the Church would want us to obey local laws even regarding substances the use of which is not INTRINSICALLY evil).

    I hope someone can answer my questions about the Catechism's wording on this one, because I honestly don't get it.  I seriously cannot see a logical reason why it should be inherently wrong to use pot, and yet not inherently wrong to use alcohol.  I have heard people say that it's "impossible" to use marijuana moderately, but have never seen any data to that effect.   I have never seen any data that indicates there are any special arguments against marijuana use that could not be levelled equally (or worse) at alcohol.

    (And I write, by the way, as a regular consumer of alcohol who has never used either marijuana or tobacco and probably never will regardless of legality).

    For reference, here're the Latin and English texts of the passage in the Catechism.

    2290 Temperantiae virtus ad omne genus excessuum vitandum disponit, abusum mensae, vinolentiae, tabaci et medicamentorum. Qui in ebrietatis statu vel propter immoderatam velocitatis voluptatem, securitati aliorum vel suae propriae periculum afferunt in viis, in mari vel in aere, graviter fiunt culpabiles.

    2291 Stupefactivorum medicamentorum usus gravissimas infligit valetudini et vitae humanae destructiones. Extra indicationes stricte therapeuticas, gravis est culpa. Clandestina stupefactivorum medicamentorum productio et mercatura operationes sunt scandalosae; cooperationem constituunt directam, quoniam ad usus legi morali incitant graviter contrarios.

    2290 The virtue of temperance disposes us to avoid every kind of excess: the abuse of food, alcohol, tobacco, or medicine. Those incur grave guilt who, by drunkenness or a love of speed, endanger their own and others' safety on the road, at sea, or in the air.

    2291 The use of drugs inflicts very grave damage on human health and life. Their use, except on strictly therapeutic grounds, is a grave offense. Clandestine production of and trafficking in drugs are scandalous practices. They constitute direct co-operation in evil, since they encourage people to practices gravely contrary to the moral law.

    Comments on the morality situation?  (Feel free to comment on the legality situation if it interests you, but what I'm really interested in here is why the Church would distinguish between the morality of marijuana and tobacco, because I don't see why it should — and I'm not positive that it does.)

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    18 comments on The Catechism, pot, and California Prop 19.

  • Obesity in a land of starvation.

    Had a busy weekend and not much time this morning, but here's a quick link:  People losing weight for charity.

    Annie Retter was so shaken by the hunger she witnessed on a recent trip to Africa that she slashed her food budget — and consumption — to send her savings there. Her sister [Linda Clute] did the same.

    Each has dropped more than 60 pounds thanks to the "Africa diet" they started in March. They now send $400 to $500 a month to a children's meal program in Namibia….

    Retter has traveled to Namibia every year for the past four years to support the project and/or do research. But this year's visit with her sister really broke her heart. Sitting at the kitchen table at her sister's house last week, she opened a photo album showing children lining up in front of a corrugated tin shack offering free meals.

    Both Retter and Clute weighed more than 200 pounds at the time….

    The article also describes some "lose a pound, donate a pound" type programs.  

    Of course, food shelf donations are good, so don't take this as advice not to try such a thing.  I have to say I'm a little skeptical about the weight loss effectiveness of programs where you link how much you donate to how much weight you lose.  I think you might be setting yourself up for nothing more than a higher-stakes guilt cycle, and one where (if you happen to reach your goal weight) the motivation disappears right when you need it most.  (Though maybe you could vow to donate 40 lbs of food every year that you keep off your 40 lbs.)

    But linking food donations (and an awareness of the plight of truly hungry and malnourished people worldwide) to your daily behavior — as the sisters in the above quote do — now that seems like it could be motivating, effective, and the trigger for a lifetime of healthy eating and community activism.  Eating very simply and sparingly as an act of solidarity, and/or donating the cost of the excess food you're not eating anymore (or even donating that volume of food directly to a food pantry)?  Well, there's an ongoing motivation.   

    A lot of what turned things around for me was sheer revulsion at my own behavior.  Mine was not triggered by any specific experience, but it's easy to imagine that revulsion and embarrassment being triggered by being a (relative) glutton in a land of starvation.  Perhaps we should all imagine ourselves there, once in a while.  

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  • The “maintenance algorithm” as it stands today.

    Rebekka asked me a couple of days ago to write about the weight maintenance algorithm some more.  I already mentioned it pretty recently, but I'll do it again.  As always, I find there's a difference between the ideal and the reality, and that difference changes over time too, and I'll try to show that.

    Okay, so in this post long ago I explained some me-specific context, a few habits I have all the time that set me apart from the average person.  I don't drink a lot of caloric beverages, I eat a lot of vegetables, I use small plates at home, I'm habitually wary of sugar and white flour, I don't buy much snack food (lately this has slipped — I can at least say, "not for me"), I keep almonds in my car, and I chart my weight daily.  

    That's pretty much the extent of my self-control as long as my weight stays within range.  I would like to say I don't eat kids' PB&J crusts, or that I don't take seconds unless I'm actually still hungry, but it's not true.  I don't eat like I used to, but that's largely because I'm used to a different level of eating, not because it requires a lot of self-denial.  The small plates are a big help.

    So, if I get seven measurements in a row above my target weight, that's what triggers my "oops, I need to lose weight."  And then I don't get to go back to maintenance until I bring the five-day average down at or below the target.

    So while I'm in that "oops" mode I am mainly working on reining in the sloppiness that may have developed since the last time, a surprising amount of which consists of "eating things I don't even want to eat." Often, getting rid of that is all it takes, and I'm back to my usual weight in a week or two.

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    4 comments on The “maintenance algorithm” as it stands today.

  • Surprisingly relevant suggestions.

    You know, I've been blogging about Introduction to the Devout Life, getting an overview of the whole book, and tentatively trying some of the ideas in it; and I'm hoping that by the end of it I'll have an idea of how to follow its suggestions more thoroughly to attack a pressing problem, namely, undue attachment to my time. 

    I've been following Gretchen Rubin's blog The Happiness Project for some time now, off and on, and today she posts "9 surprising mental exercises" that she bills as, oh, productivity- or creativity-enhancers.  But I found them fascinating because for weeks now I've already been pondering some of them as spiritual exercises for becoming more cheerful and positive about interruptions and schedule changes, all in order to detach myself from a firm grip on "my" time and cultivate an attitude instead of Omnia pro Te.

    Here are the exercises out of the nine that struck me as exactly relevant:

    1. Spend an hour each day without saying anything except in answer to direct questions, in the midst of the usual group, without creating the impression that you’re sulking or ill. Be as ordinary as possible. But do not volunteer remarks or try to draw out information…

    3. Talk for 15 minutes a day without using I, me, my, mine….

    5. Keep a new acquaintance talking about himself or herself without allowing him to become conscious of it. Turn back any courteous reciprocal questions in a way that your auditor doesn’t feel rebuffed…

    9. From time to time, give yourself a day when you answer “yes” to any reasonable request.

    The other suggestions struck me as neutral or contrary to the changes I would like to make for myself, but still interesting and maybe good for others — check them out if you like.  

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    3 comments on Surprisingly relevant suggestions.

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