Hallmark Hell

Father's Day is coming up this Sunday, which means that I recently spent a significant amount of time in Target's card aisle searching for the perfect card.

Now, I happen to share many traits with my father, including a general ability to get worked up about things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Those of you who know me personally can attest to this: I can get worked up about almost anything. My father would call it "allowing myself to get annoyed." I like to think of it as "Poignant and Passionate Observations about the State of Things."

So it was not a huge surprise that there in the card aisle I got worked into a lather about the state of the greeting card industry. Mostly I was annoyed that I could not find anything that I felt would appropriately express my affection. Most cards seemed to simply reinforce antiquated gender stereotypes, which is fine, except that none of them apply to my father.

Here is representative sample of what I did find:
Hey, Dad! You're fat and love golf. Happy Father's Day!
It's Father's Day. You deserve time to sit on your ass, watch TV and let mom cook and clean.
Dad, you didn't really parent me that much. But what'd'ya say we drink 25 beers together, watch sports and fart at will to celebrate? Happy Father's Day.
Dad, I love that you fix things with your manly tools. Happy Father's Day.
Dad, thanks for all the hard-earned money you spent to get me this far in life. Happy Father's Day.

Seemingly, the only alternative to these more "humorous" options are the overly sappy poetic expressions of an unbelievably perfect father-child relationship that doesn't actually exist anywhere. Something that goes like this:

Dad, when you used to bounce me on your knee as a child, I always felt warm and protected by your manly father-ness. I knew you would always provide for me as was your genetic duty. Thanks for all the fishing trips and bike-rides and ball tosses and afternoons in the workshop building toys and laughing together that made me the (wo/man) I am today. Happy Father's Day to the best man who exists IN THE UNIVERSE and probably all nearby galaxies. You change my life.

I mean, this is great and all, and I do love my dad and think he is the best ever, but I'm not sure this is what I want to say to him on Father's Day in large script on a pastel background with abstract but manly swirls of silver overlay. (BTW, Dad, did you ever really bounce me on your knee?)

(Note: This problem is not one that only happens on Father's Day, but really on all holidays. Last year, for instance, I had a devil of a time trying to find a Mother's Day card for my grandmother that didn't make reference to the many cookies she had baked for me as a child. My grandmother is quite an incredible woman and an important part of my life. Unfortunately, though, I don't think she ever baked me any cookies and is therefore left out of the greeting card industry's idea of good grandmotherhood.)

So, I've decided that once I have saved the church, started my pizza joint, bought and managed an organic farm and vineyard, and finished saving for retirement, I will use what's left of my days to start my own greeting card company which will only print on recycled paper and express more straightforward sentiments such as:

Dad, you're an absolutely great guy. I'm glad you're my father. I love you. Happy Father's Day.

But until that day comes, I'll give a shout-out to my own dad here in the blogosphere:
Dad, you're an absolutely great guy. I'm glad you're my father. I love you. Happy Father's Day.
Love, Me


p.s. Dad-In case you're worried, I did send you an actual card, which I hope arrives on time. :)

Makeover!

What's Up, Jesus? has got a new look! What'd'ya'think?

I'm a Farmer!

When I recently decided I was ready to become a farmer, Mr. LIOLI suggested I combine this commitment with a desire to spruce up our building for summer (Redirection: the sign of a true enabler!). So, after 28 years of DESPISING gardening of any kind (Sorry, Mom!), I finally did it. And guess what? It worked! (Oh, and those little tags that tell you things grow to a certain height, those things are for real. Lesson learned.)
Here are the outdoor pots when I planted them about 2 months ago:

And here they are today:
We've got daisies and snapdragons, pansies and a ton of other things I don't know the name of:

Amazing what a little sun and rain will do! And we're beautifying the neighborhood, too:

That Mel Gibson's Got Passion

I recently realized that I don't really have a passion. Now don't get me wrong, I'm passionate about many things, but I just don't have a passion, something I feel completely and utterly dedicated to as a single issue. Like Bob Barker and neutering pets or Mel Gibson and Jesus (or being crazy depending on how you look at it.)

The way I arrived at this realization was that someone asked me what my passion was and I just stared goofily at them and had nothing to say. (Note: This is something that happens frequently in the ministry. People will ask you what your passion is. This usually confuses me as I thought being a minister was my passion but apparently not. I've often thought that I should develop some witty and sarcastic response such as "Saving the World" after which all other passions listed by those present will seem silly and trivial. Either that or I'll look idealistic and vague.) Anyhow, the long and the short of it is, I don't have a passion.

The tough thing is that many of the people around me have passions. For instance, my co-w0rker RM has a passion: ecology. He lives and breathes and preaches and thinks about and reads about and travels to conferences on the earth. It informs who he is and what he's doing, and it is one of the things I admire the most about him. (Though I often tease him about some of his more over-the-top ideas about how to save the environment....No, RM, we're still not going to use the wood from the old pew backs to build bookshelves and garden boxes.)

But I've realized that I'm just not that good at having passions. I am more of a passion polygamist. Or maybe we can call it serial monogamy. I like to have one thing at a time that I am worked up about and then move onto the next thing before long. At different points in my life, I have been fixated on:Water Polo
Civic Education and Political Participation among young people in the US
Kickboxing
Health Care Access in Latin America
Pi Beta Phi International Fraternity
Spanish Literature
Dave Matthews Band
The Oregon State Legislature
Evolutionary BiologyDog Agility Competition
Canning
Djembe Drumming
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Localvorism/Food Culture

Unfortunately for our small living space and limited storage capabilities, each one of these passions has come with a variety of "must-have" items that the Beloved has sometimes provided sometimes tolerated, such as about 500 books, a djembe drum, and the following "energy-saving" purchase from the Cambridge Antique mall that came during a bout of passion about eco-stewardship:

What is it, you ask? It's a hand-operated coffee-grinder from West Germany. So I can grind my own coffee without having to waste precious coal-powered electricity. It took searching about 25 antique shops to find it. Now you see.......this is the problem. This is the silliness that happens when I have a passion. (By the way, to LW and AH whose response to this was "You know you only buzz the coffee grinder for, like, 3 seconds, right?" I say: "I'm doing the best I can.")

Do you think I should leave the passion to Christ?

The Price Always Seems to be Right

What is it with "The Price is Right"? I have ALWAYS loved this show and I think I will always love it. Even though I understand it is simply an extended paid advertisement for household goods that I don't care about, interrupted by more paid advertisements for Medicare Supplement coverage and Hoverround motorized chairs. (Which makes me wonder, am I THE only person under 70 years old watching this?)

I guess there is just something really awesome about people in homemade t-shirts playing ridiculous games like Plinko in order to get lots of free stuff they don't need and money.

The F-Word

I've just been exposed to a strange and mystical world that I have never before been privy to: the life of the Feline (No, not that other f-word....sinners.). Anyhow, we are cat-sitting for a friend who has left the country for a month. And I can already say that I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about cats. I feel like a wildlife biologist most of the time watching this strange creature and wondering what the HELL it is thinking....or why humans ever bothered to try to domesticate them in the first place.

Now I've read all the email forwards about the differences between cats and dogs, but I never knew they were this true. Dogs, I know from 5 years of having a large dog as part of our family, are categorically 1) interested in what you are doing, 2) committed to doing what you want unless completely distracted, and 3) desirous of your affection at all times. (See left.) Cats on the other hand don't seem to give a rat's ass what I am doing or what I would like them to do and about my affection.





Also, I've learned that cats spend about 22.5 hours a day doing this:




























Except for select periods (usually around 5 a.m., 3 p.m. and 10 p.m.) when they suddenly transform into huge fuzzy pinballs zipping around the house as though they are having some sort psychotic episode fueled by a video-game-esque turbo boost. During these periods, they may be prone to engage in any of the following d:
1) Attempting to climb pieces of furniture not designed to accommodate the weight or movement of a living creature.

2) Perching atop said furniture in order to swat at the dog's head and face.

3) Digging in the dog's food bowl.
4) Jumping into the sink and bathtub.
5) Bulletting in and out of a small vinyl tunnel apparently designed for this purpose. (See below.)











6) Meowing for no apparent reason.
AND 7) Knocking things off flat surfaces including, but not limited to, framed photos, keys, small trinkets, cosmetics and other items made from breakable material (Note: If you want to make sure your adrenline system is still working, try being woken up in the early hours of the morning by the sound of several cut glass decanters FULL of various liquors crashing to the floor and spilling everywhere. Then run out into the living room to find the cat sitting, unassumingly in the window as if nothing has happened....yes, I KNOW.)

All that said, I am glad to have had a glimpse into the life of my cat-owning friends. Perhaps now I understand them a bit better (Cat-lovers: Can you corroborate any of this?). Because they can be pretty damn cute. And it's been a good character building experience for the LIOLI hound.















But overall, I have to say that I think I'll be ready to head back to being a dog-only household when the month is over (to say nothing of the dog's readiness to go back to a single pet household!). At least until I give up drinking, framed photos, dogs, anxiety and a clean sink.

Basil Shout-Out

About a year ago, our friend RT gave us a small basil start in a red plastic solo cup (the kind you used to drink cheap beer out of in college). We had high hopes for the future bushels of basil that would yield enough pesto to keep us in pasta and paninis until Jesus came back. But unfortunately, for the entirety of the year, it remained a stem about 2" long with only two small, pathetic looking leaves. In fact, it never grew beyond the rim of the cup in its long, sad life. We couldn't bring ourselves to harvest the two sad leaves lest we leave the plant no means by which to photo-synthesize itself into 2 new leaves (NOTE: I don't know anything about science.), so we left it be. But recently, in our whirlwind of local sustainable obsession, we replanted it into our "urban-window-herb-garden" (READ: A pot on the window sill.) and it took off! It's hibernation ended in kind of a ugly-duckling type transformation. You can see it here on the left, tall and spindly but sprouting leaves like crazy!


So we decided to carry out our first harvest. Though I suggested we observe an 8-day celebration in which we would sleep in an outdoor lean-to like on the Jewish harvest festival of Sukkot (See, a degree is theology IS relevant! Take that, world.), we decided we'd just take some kitchen sheers and go at it. And we did. Here is our first harvest: (Praise God for the abundance of blessings!)


We thought pesto an appropriate use of this radical abundance, so we started to make preparations. Unfortunately, we did have to supplement our crop with the teensiest-weensiest bunch of additional basil bought at the farmer's market and show here in the right:


But overall, I thought our home-grown stuff really made the difference. So shout out to RTT for helping us on our first steps to becoming urban farmers. We hope to have you over for pesto soon!

Local MADNESS

Being the minister in our family, it is no surprise that I do not have much trouble believing in things. Whenever I hear a good idea or a clever ad or a captivating story, my tendency is, more often than not, to believe it. It's not because I'm gullible (though my beloved might disagree....actually he would say that I'm a "victim of advertising."), but just that I have an easy time having faith in things.

So it makes sense that when I recently read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, that I bought in, hook line and sinker. The book chronicles Kingsolver's attempt to spend one year eating almost exclusively things that were grown or raised within 100 miles of her home. It weaves together her tales of small-scale farming, chicken raising and bread baking with sobering commentary on what she would call the American "food culture." The main conclusion is that what most of us are eating isn't good for us or the earth and that a return to local, sustainably produced goods is a necessary step to save the earth and our waistlines. To me, it sounded like the gospel. And so it was that I boarded the localvore bandwagon and set off to save the world and a few pounds through local eating.

I decided that from now on I would only buy local, sustainably produced goods, no exceptions. I researched CSAs: regular farm, meat CSAs, fish CSAs and flower CSAs. I even researched GRAIN CSAs and dreamt about baking all of our own bread. I tried raw milk. I signed up for cheesemaking class. I looked online for canning manuals. I insisted that we plant a window herb garden. I proclaimed that I was ready to become a farmer.

Now, unfortunately for me and for Mr.LOILI, I had this literature-induced epiphany in the middle of March. In New England. And do you know, dear readers, what is grown locally in March in New England? Not a damn thing.Now I should admit that when I first tried to sell Mr. LOILI on this new lifestyle, his response was "What kind of local food are you going to eat in the winter in New England?" But instead of taking his suggestion into consideration, I received it as I usually do: with a childish expression of deep annoyance at his overly rational thinking and inability to drink the koolaide of my ultra-liberal, sometimes mercurial passions. "DON'T YOU THINK IT'S IMPORTANT THAT WE NOT RUIN THE ENTIRE WORLD?!??!??!" I bellowed, "DON'T YOU THINK WE SHOULDN'T WASTE GAS SHIPPING STUFF ALL OVER THE DAMN WORLD, KILLING THIRD WORLD ECONOMIES AND POLLUTING THE EARTH JUST SO WE CAN EAT WHATEVER WE WANT?!??!?" I then subjected him to listening to sections of the AVM book on tape, at which point, I think he went back to reading Consumer Reports magazine, hoping it would blow over.

But it did not. The next evening, when we had nothing for dinner in the house, I said, "Let's go to the store to get something." (Seeminly innocuous invitation.) "Okay," he says." "But" (now I've got him), "it is really, really, really, REALLY important to me that we only buy local ingredients." I said this with a specific tone that I sometimes use which means: If we don't do this, I will probably die, because you will be rejecting the one thing that is most important to me in the world. Or at least the one thing that is most important to me in the world today. I think Mr. LIOLI has learned how to identify this tone by now, because his response was a cautious: "Okay, but you should know, there might not be too much." Yeah right, I thought.

Well, needless to say, it was an exhausting 30 minutes. The Mr. had been right. NOTHING was local. In fact, when I asked the produce clerk if there was any local produce to be had he just stared at me blankly and then after a long pause, said, "From here?......It's winter....." and then continued stacking Brazilian peppers and Israeli tomatoes in the bin with a mystified intensity. Damn. We went home disappointed with a pizza crust from Connecticut, a $17/pound chunk of mozzarella from Vermont (is Vermont more than 100 miles away? Must google that) and the only can of pizza sauce in the store that wasn't made in Italy. Maybe we'd wait a few more months.

All this is to say that I am particularly excited this year that SUMMER IS HERE! This week we made our first trips to the farmers markets and my dream was realized. On the menu this week:
Spinach and Asparagus Quiche (w/ local fresh eggs and local, organic asparagus and spinach)
Local and Sustainably Produced Italian Hot Sausage with a side of sauteed Kale
BBQed Shrimp with Mint Pesto and Orzo SaladMozzarella and Basil Panini with Fresh, Homemade PestoLocal, Small-Batch Ice-Cream with Fresh, Local Strawberries

I owe a major debt of gratitude to Mr.LIOLI for putting up with this tomfoolery and put a shout-out to anyone who has any canning advice for me. It's going to be a great summer!

Here's a picture of our quiche (first one ever...Mr.LIOLI was responsible for the crust which was about 78% butter and PERFECTLY cooked...hey, didn't I say this was supposed to be healthy?):


And here's a pic of the mojitos we made with the truckload of fresh mint we bought (Hint: We've tried many recipes for mojitos and been sorely disappointed. But these were great. The trick: double the mint, lime and rum. Yumo! I LOVE localvorianism.)


And some fresh flowers from a local farmer. (I came home delighted and announced, "I also got these beautiful LOCAL dahlias," to which, the beloved responded, "That great. They're really beautiful, except that those are peonies.")