Guacamole Salad

Recipe below

Sometimes I'm nervous to call myself a vegan. In fact, I have a big confession to make: in the past year I have eaten four glazed donuts, two butter-laced pancakes, and a bite of cow's milk ice cream. But I'm grasping my vegan card with an iron fist because I eschew animal products 99% of the time. As Colleen Patrick-Goudreau once said, "Veganism is not about perfection; it's about intention." In other words, gimme a break.

But my epicurean sins are not the reason I bite my tongue in front of waiters. I hesitate to identify as a vegan because, frankly, I'm afraid they won't believe me. You see, according books like Skinny Bitch, vegans are supposed to be runway-model thin. The big names in veganism - Patrick-Goudreau, Kathy Freston, Ellen and Portia DeGeneres - are all quite slim. I've definitely lost a bit of weight since converting, but I am neither skinny, nor a bitch, a fact a playfully pointed out to my mom when when we were back in Indiana visiting my parents two weeks ago. Ever the concerned mother, she was worried that she didn't have anything vegan for me in the kitchen (she did):

"Sweetie, I just want to make sure you're getting enough to eat."

I grabbed my belly and laughed, "Does it look like I'm not getting enough to eat?"

I eat 2000 calories a day of tasty food and am proud to be an immutable example that it is possible to indulge on a vegan diet.

I'm pretty sure all that cute belly pudge I shook at my mom comes from one dietary source: avocados (...and peanut butter...and chocolate). I love that mushy fruit so much that I put on my pasta, on my potatoes, and I'd spread guacamole on my breakfast toast if that wasn't weird.

I've even discovered a way to make a delicious guacamole-like salad. With no added oils and only 4 primary ingredients, this salad is so easy, so quick to prepare, and so tasty. Suffice it to say that if the Muppet's Christmas Carol fruits were talking about me, they'd sing: "If she became a flavor you can bet she would be guacamole."

Guacamole Salad
A big bowl of salad greens (1 serving)
1 avocado, peeled and chopped
1 tomato, diced
2-3 Tablespoons rice vinegar
salt and pepper to taste

Add ingredients to large bowl. Mash avocado with spoon or hands until salad leaves are coated.

Father Time

In the darkness of our little bedroom a few nights ago, Ian had one of his hands wrapped cozily around his pillow, and the other around my waist.  He was close to falling asleep, but I was still awake, my mind flooded with philosophical nighttime ponderings as I gazed at the popcorn ceiling.  My eyes eventually drifted from the ceiling to his pillow-obscured face, and my voice punctuated the silence of our bedroom as I asked him a most inappropriate bedtime question:

“Baby?”

“Yeah”

“How often do you think about death?  Like, about you or your loved ones dying?”

“I dunno.  Not much.”

“Oh.”

“Why, Annie? How often do you think about it?”

“All the time...”

It’s true.  I feel like Father Time is always looking over my shoulder.  But before you check my body for pagan symbols and ship me off to live with the Addams Family, I should clarify that that I don’t think about death in a scary way.  I’m not walking around in constant fear that I’ll be hit by a bus or bitten by a poisonous spider.  Nor am I emotionally depressed at the ever-presence of suffering and death in life, a la Emily Dickinson.

On the contrary, I’d characterize my “thinking about death” as “ruminations on mortality,” and I believe that my daily ruminations are a good thing for my life.  A really good thing. Father Time may be standing right behind me, but I welcome his presence.

The first time I remember thinking acutely about death/mortality/life was on a cold street corner in London when I was studying abroad in early 2006.  It was winter, it was raining, and I was miserable as I waited for my big red bus to come pick me up to take me to Ealing Broadway station.  The winter rain pricked my hands and feet, and the wind blew against my face, stinging my cheeks red and challenging my little H&M umbrella.  I wiggled my toes around in my soaked shoes and swung my shoulders from side-to-side to stay warm.  I wiped my runny nose and cursed the germy buses for giving me my second cold in two months.  I looked at my watch to track the passing time, and then up at the dripping wet houses, and down at the slick stone sidewalks.  And then, in the midst of my cold misery, I paused as a profound thought crossed my mind: When I’m dead, I won’t be able to feel the cold rain.  Or the biting wind.  Or my damp skin.  Or a stuffy nose...  

So as I waited for my big red bus, I took one of my hands off of my umbrella handle and jutted it out away from my body.  I held my palm up to the wet sky and felt the icy rain collect on my freezing fingers, and I felt the glory of Life, of living.

Six years later, I gladly let Father Time walk beside me everyday as a reminder to bring levity to my beautiful life.  As the weight of two heavy shopping bags and a purse dig into my shoulders during my mile-long return from Trader Joe’s, I refuse to focus on the discomfort of walking home; instead, I marvel at the beauty of my body’s ability to carry such a load and remind myself that One day, I will not be so strong.  When the summer weather is oppressively hot and makes me sweat through my clothes, I turn my face towards the sun and tell myself that someday I won’t be around to feel its radiance.  When Teddy makes me trip upon exiting the shower because he’s napping on the bathmat, I give him an extra hug once I dry off because I know that all too soon, he won’t be here to follow me around.  And every time I hear my mom or dad’s voice on the other end of the call, I say a little prayer of thanks, because one day they won’t be there to pick up the phone.

After I surprised Ian by responding that I think about death “all the time,” he asked me why I think about it so much.  
“It helps you appreciate the present,” I said, “Because one day one of us will be lying in this bed alone.”  
His opened his eyes and sat up.  “Annie, no!”  Ian didn’t want to think about that eventuality, but he managed to lighten the conversation with some self-deprecating humor, “Well, it’ll probably be you.”
He squeezed my hand, lied down, and we fell asleep together.  We held each other a little closer that night, and maybe Father Time smiled in contentment as he saw us over my shoulder.  

Sheddy Teddy and the Fur Broom

In loving memory of Tobey.  We’ll all miss you, especially Sheddy Teddy.

Mercury was in retrograde at the end of July, so I’m going to blame that stupid red planet for all the problems I’ve been having with modern technology lately.  First, our laptop slipped out of my fingers and landed clumsily right on its power adapter, royally screwing up its charging system.  Then, two Fridays ago, Ian and I played a quick game of “Should we go the emergency room” after my screaming, leaking blender really hit me below the belt. WebMD and aloe saved the day, but I’ll sum up the dramatics with the following equation / warning:

Soup recipe that calls for blending - Immersion blender = First-degree burn

My blender is such a diva.  But that bee-yotch makes good smoothies, so whadyagonnado?

However, my blender ain’t got nothin’ on my vacuum cleaner.  Excuse me, EX-vacuum cleaner, I should say. After repeated attempts to distress my respiratory system following manual filter-unclogging and once almost catching on fire, my relationship with this particular household appliance is dunzo, kaput, nada.  And who’s to blame for this one?  Not Mercury.  Not even the manufacturer.  Mr. Vacuum Cleaner Breaker is sitting two feet away from me.  Behold the face of guilt:

For shame, Ted!

Don’t let the cuteness fool you, folks.  That adorable pooch is a DESTROYER of vacuum cleaners; the Loki of filtration systems.  I don’t even think that the best-designed, most-efficient vacuum cleaners could survive the wrath of Teddy.  In fact, shortly after I eulogized our old vacuum with anger and profanity, someone told me that we should “just get a Dyson.”  Meh, no.  First of all, I’m much too risk averse to spend a gzillion dollars $400 on a vacuum cleaner even if there’s only a 5% chance that Teddy would make it catch fire.  More to the point, I refuse to support that smart man on those Dyson commercials because I think he is wasting his precious mental energies designing easily maneuverable vacuum cleaners and highly-efficient airport bathroom hand-dryers instead of devoting his brilliance to, I don’t know, fusion power or something.

I may blame Teddy for breaking our vacuum cleaner, but I know it’s not his fault.  He never chewed or scratched at it, and he certainly didn’t do it on purpose.  No, my heffalump is just so. friggin. hairy.  Sheddy Teddy leaves little cottonball puffs of black fur to gather dust in the corners of our apartment.  And when we sit down for our brushing sessions, I regularly collect basketball-sized piles of fur from his body.  So, after a year of dealing with pipes clogged with puppy fluff and filters choked from hair, it’s no surprise that our pet-hair vacuum cleaner waived the burning white flag of surrender.  

I haven’t bought another vacuum since.  I have a compact apartment one for our little weekly needs, but I use something else to pick up after Teddy.  Pet owners take heed!  I think I’ve found the ultimate in pet-hair solutions.  It’s not a Dyson, it’s not even a vacuum cleaner.  It’s better, and it only cost me $10: The Fur Broom.

Fur Broom and a small pile of Teddy fluff

Oh sweet, sweet Fur Broom.  You gather Teddy’s fluff balls off of the floor and furniture so efficiently, and you take up such little space next to the washing machine.  You even sweep up leftover food and dust off of the hardwood floor.  And you can’t catch on fire!  I’d kiss you if I didn’t know where your rubber head has been.  

Technology usually feels like a blessing; but more acutely - when the computer breaks or when the blender explodes all over the kitchen - it can feel like a curse.  So sometimes it’s nice when the low-technology option turns out to be the better choice.  Maybe that’s what Mercury was trying to tell me all along.