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.

Good Jeans

**Life changes alert**: Ian is interviewing for new jobs, and it appears that he is highly employable.  So we've been driving to and from interviews for the past ten days or so, both in-state and out-of-state.  The logistics of the interviews and the emotions of the impending job change have kept us quite busy recently, which is why I haven't erased my chalkboard shopping list in over a week.

I've accidentally eavesdropped on some of Ian's phone interviews and listened happily as his industry knowledge melts away his insecurities, even during pointed questions.  I love how he looks after it's over, his face covered in a smile and his body relaxed in a big sigh as he tells me "Well, I think that went well!"

But as much as I love the way he looks after he's done with his phone interviews, I get a little butterfly in my stomach every time he gets dressed for his in-person interviews because he's wearing the sexiest ensemble in his wardrobe, second only to the birthday suit: the business suit.  Swoon.  Plus, we're going to a wedding at the end of the week.  Combined with the job interviews, I'm getting a year's worth of suit-wearing in one-month! Lucky me.

I'm not sure that women have a business-suit equivalent.  I don't think there's a particular item in my closet that I could wear (in public) that would immediately attract a different kind of positive male gaze.  Indeed, men always seem interested in the mere shape of our bodies, not necessarily what's covering them.  So it could be a curve-hugging dress or a plain shirt with the perfect pair of jeans.

I've always had trouble finding a great pair of jeans.  Sometimes the color is too light (mama likes her dark wash), the fabric is too stiff (I'm looking at you, Gap), or the low-rise is a little too low.  In the last instance, I usually don't realize the low-rise tragedy until I'm on the floor grooming Teddy and Ian walks behind me and says, "Hey, Annie, crack kills."

Crack is whack, y'all.  But I don't have to worry about it anymore because I think I may have found the holy grail of women's blue jeans:  Levi's Perfectly Slimming Jeans (Check out those Zappos reviews - clearly I'm not the only fan.)  I'm in love.

No, I'm not sticking it out.  Baby got back... and a little bit of front, too.

Apologies for the Eva-Longoria style over-the-shoulder pose.  Standing in the corner with my back to the camera was just a little too Blair Witch Project for my tastes.  I digress...

These blue jeans come in a variety of shades; they have a higher-waist that closes up shop in the back while locking up everything in the front; and the soft stretchy fabric gives a boost to posteriorly-gifted individuals like myself.  And if you didn't read this post about my new-found cheapness is clothes-buying, have no fear: I got these jeans on sale at Kohl's for $40.  Score.

So while Ian interviews in his business suits, I'll be hanging out in the background in my uber-comfy, uber-sexy new jeans. And if we end up moving again, these jeans will be the first thing I toss into my suitcase. 

My Soft Skin Secret

I'm all for self-acceptance.  Even though I know I don't turn heads walking down the street like a Victoria Secret model does, when I get ready for the day I look at at my 170 pound self in the bathroom mirror, stretch marks and all, and I stick my tush out an tousle my hair, pout my lips and murmur to myself "Ooh I look good!"  It's like I have reverse body dysmorphia.  


So, most of the time, I like my body.  But when I tune into Downton Abby on Netflix and PBS, I find myself in unabashed admiration of Lady Mary's alabaster skin.  This past week I played "I-Spy" with her freckles.  Among a pale sea of perfectly smooth skin, I counted just two of them.  Someone sign that girl up for a Neutrogena commercial!  


I'm sure I should credit the makeup and lighting teams for such envy-producing skin because I know that most of us fair-skinned folk have a rough go of it.  I sunburn easily, have the oh-so-common little red bumps on my upper arms called keratosis pilaris, and my feet are so pale during winter that it looks like I'm wearing bleach-white socks.  Once when walking by Wrigley Field before a Cubs game in early Spring, some bro-dude scalping tickets said: "Anybody selling tickets or need tickets or need...[seeing me walking by in my shorts] a tanning salon?"  I'm a White Sox fan now.


I don't go tanning, and I'm not so great at applying bronzer, so I'm stuck with my fair and sensitive skin.  But I have found a way to make it much softer in texture and appearance: homemade body scrubs.


I learned about using an olive oil and sugar scrub from a natural spa workshop in Chicago.  But I didn't start keeping a jar of it in my shower until I became vegan.  Books like Eating Animals, Skinny Bitch, The China Study, and movies like Food, Inc. and Forks Over Knives - they all imbue an acute skepticism towards the government and industry's marketing of food to the masses.  For example, the famous Got Milk? campaign told us that milk helps us build strong bones.  But permit me to drop this fact bomb on you: did you know that countries that drink the most cow's milk have the highest rates of osteoporosis in the world?  


This consumer skepticism spread quickly from my kitchen to my bathroom.  I started questioning the claims on the bottles of my shower gel and moisturizers.  It turns out that natural oils do an astounding job of moisturizing my skin, especially against dry winter weather, and I don't have to worry what "cyclopentasiloxane" is.  Now I love my homemade body scrub so much that I divvied up a big batch of it into individual jars, and gave it out as Christmas presents.  


I still make the occasional shopping trip to CVS for the products I'm not ready to give up yet, like my tinted moisturizer and benzoyl peroxide (hello, adult acne!). But I sure like being able to shop for my shower scrub in my pantry.  And no worries my skin absorbing weird chemicals - I eat both of the ingredients everyday!


I also use a 1/4 teaspoon of sugar to exfoliate my face a few nights a week.  If you find it to be too rough, you can also use baking soda.  And, if you are good with bronzer/self-tanner, the oil leftover on your skin from this scrub will make application a breeze!  

Soft Skin Hand and Body Scrub
2 cups sugar
1 cup olive oil
10-20 drops of essential oil like lavender (optional, available at Whole Foods)

Breaking My Paper Towel Addiction

Whoever said “ignorance is bliss” was probably thinking of environmentalists.  I minored in Environmental Studies in college, and now a thick coat of green guilt pollutes many of the everyday activities of my Western lifestyle.  When I accelerate too quickly after I get the green light, I think of the excess gasoline I'm burning; when I go the grocery store, I feel bad whenever I forget my reusable bags; and I often turn down the thermostat to 55 in winter, covering up in sweatshirts and blankets before upping the heat.

The upside of all this guilt is empowerment and purpose.  I’ve donated to help hunger relief efforts in Somalia, and I’ve signed petitions to defend human and animal rights, but I act to protect the environment in the choices I make every single day.  

Yet there’s one place where I haven’t been so environmentally diligent: paper towels.  I’ve been known to reuse a tissue after wiping off a smudge of mascara, and I even started buying less-soft toilet paper after reading this New York Times article, which says that the really plush, cozy T.P. is much worse for forests than recycled paper alternatives.  But I love me some paper towels.  I use them as napkins, dish scrubbers, microwave covers, and general de-messers.  I’ve even used a whole paper towel for a scant drip of juice or oil on the counter - even to clean up water spills.  

They may be convenient, but paper towels are not very “green.”  Here’s a few not-so-fun facts about the paper industry from Carbonrally.com:

• The United States consumes 30 percent of the world’s paper each year.
• Of the 741 pounds of paper used by the average American each year, close to 55 pounds is tissue paper (which includes paper towels, napkins, facial tissue, and toilet tissue).
• Even with recycling programs, a little more than one-third of the trash going into landfills is paper products. Paper towels are not recycled.

And a couple more for good measure from The Daily Green:

• Paper accounts for 25% of landfill waste (and one third of municipal landfill waste).
• Municipal landfills account for one third of human-related methane emissions (and methane is 23-times more potent a greenhouse gas than is carbon dioxide).

So on Friday night, after years of keeping a stray dish towel dangling off of the oven door handle, I made the full paper-to-cloth switch.  I bought $10 worth (meaning, a lot) of old dish towels and cloth napkins from Goodwill to supplement my current stash.  I reorganized my cabinet space and two of my storage bins - one for clean towels and one for dirty - and dusted off my crab-shaped napkin holder (which we fondly named “Crabkin”).  Finally, I put away my paper towels and their little upside-down-T-shaped holder away in a hard-to-reach cupboard, intending to use them for emergency “biomaterial” spills only.  

"Crabkin" with our collection of cloth napkins and nice, hand-drying only, dish towels

  

 
The environmental benefit of choosing cloth over paper towels will be diffuse - I won’t get to see the trees I save.  But the financial benefits will be concentrated squarely in our diminished grocery bills: According to Green Matters, the average family uses around 104 rolls of paper towels each year, at at annual cost of $180!  And that’s the best thing about caring for the environment: while Mother Earth will give you a karmic nod of gratitude for choosing cloth towels over paper, driving slower, and turning down the thermostat in winter; your bank account will thank you, too.  

(Check out the NRDC’s ratings of the most environmentally-friendly household paper products here.)  

Teddy Treats

Teddy and I gave these treats away as Christmas presents to our four-legged friends

Teddy loves everyone he meets.  Almost.  Mysteriously, whenever he is spooked by someone, it is almost always a man wearing a hat.  For example, as I sit down to write this post, he is barking quietly at at the TV because Leonardo DiCaprio is wearing a pilot's hat in Catch Me If You Can.  That, or he's upset that Leo didn't get an Oscar nomination for J. Edgar.  Me too, Ted.  Me, too.


Just as confusing for us as Teddy's fear of hatted men, some people are downright terrified of Teddy.  I know, he looks kind of like a black bear, which can be scary.  But, true to his breed, he has an incredibly sweet disposition and never meets a stranger (unless he's wearing a hat).  Admittedly, I take advantage of his intimidating appearance.  I feel comfortable walking in dark alleys in Chicago late at night with him by my side, and I'm happy that he acts - in appearance alone - like a built-in security system for our car and home.

What would-be burglars don't realize is that, if they just gave Teddy the most modest of dog biscuits, he'd probably unlock the door for them.  And if they gave him these homemade treats, well, Teddy would help them hot-wire our car or carry our television out the front door.


I love these treats, too, because the main ingredients are extra nutritious for dogs according to this article.  Plus, they're so easy to make and cheaper than store-bought alternatives.  


Teddy Treats
2 1/2 cups rolled oats
2 eggs
1 cup canned pumpkin
2 Tablespoons peanut butter
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon


Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix ingredients together.  Scoop in 1/4 teaspoons onto cookie sheet.  Bake for 30-40 minutes until golden around the edges.
Let cool and serve to your pup!

Computer Smarts, Money Smarts

I’m not tech-savvy.  Comparatively of course: my parents and some of my more aged brethren think I’m Kevin Flynn in Tron because I can use Ticketmaster to purchase Pacers/Bulls preseason tickets online. I enjoy the praise because deep down I know that, when compared to my own generation, I’m pretty gosh darn average about technology.  

Often below average.  I can’t use PhotoShop; I don’t have a smartphone; and when my iPod Nano stopped working a few years ago, instead of trying to fix it / update my iTunes / buy a new one, I resigned myself to listening to 12 outdated Rascal Flatts songs in the order my iPod dictated.  (In my own defense: a. I didn’t want to spend lots of money on something I thought might break easily again, and b. I love me some Rascal Flatts.)

But I refuse to become technologically crippled like my mother, who has never once attempted to compose a simple text message to me.  I’d rather end up like my husband’s grandma, who, after Thanksgiving dinner, gave me detailed instructions on how to sell something on eBay.  

So I persevere in the face of my technological left-handedness, compensating for my ignorance with hard work and good ole’ fashion learnin’.  Thanks to some research on the Google Machine, I've been making some big technological strides lately. Here's a brief list of some of my e-commplishments in the past month:

• I fixed my iPod and transferred iTunes from my old computer to a newer one,
• I started using Google Reader to organize my favorite blogs,
• I downloaded my first podcast: NPR’s Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me,
• and I backed up this here blog by exporting the contents and saving the xml file to DropBox.

(Pats self on back.)

But the biggest technological step-in-the-right direction came from Facebook earlier this week when I saw this stray status update:  “Mint.com spoiled my Christmas present!”

Intrigued / hungry, I typed the web address into my browser expecting to see a collection of state quarters or a lovely box of the oh-so-delicious Andes mints.  It’s hard to beat those festive brown and green rectangles of tastiness, but what I found was better.

And here I thought I was cool using a Google Docs spreadsheet to organize our spending.  Pssshtt.  Mint.com makes spreadsheets look like Gordon Gecko’s brick-sized mobile phone.

I realize that my just-learned-how-to-take-a-screenshot self may be the last one to arrive to this party as well, and that maybe everyone’s already using this personal finance tool.  Nevertheless, I feel overwhelmed at this website’s coolness / helpfulness / ease of use, and I want to spread the word in case it’s new to you, too.  

Because what’s even more important than computer smarts?  Money smarts.  Tracking your spending might ruin Christmas presents, but it helps you save for them, too.  And momma wants a smartphone.

Nighttime Granola

Two packages of shredded coconut have been sitting by their lonesome on my gray kitchen counter since Sunday, looking sad next to the cheerful bananas. They've been staring me down every time I go to the sink to grab a glass of water, "Won't you please open us up and make the granola like you promised?"  I'm no promise-breaker, so I gave in to their tropical demands and made my first batch of homemade granola tonight.


Chalk up one more victory for homemade over store-bought.  My granola is so crisp and sweet that even the bulk bins at Whole Foods are waving their white flags of surrender.  Plus, it smells divine.  I just pulled it out of the oven an hour ago, and the warm scent of coconut and brown sugar is still hanging in the air, battling with the apple-cinnamon Glade candle for scent dominance of our apartment.  Granola wins.


Now if only I could transfer smell through the internet.  Work on it, Google. 


Almond Maple Granola

3 cups rolled oats

• 1 cup blanched slivered almonds
• 1/4 cup wheat germ
• 1 (14 oz) package coconut - shredded or flaked
• 1/3 cup unsalted sunflower seeds (optional)
• 6 tablespoons pure maple syrup
• 6 tablespoons packed brown sugar
• 1/4 cup vegetable oil
• 2 tablespoons warm water
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup dried cranberries or raisins
• 
  
• Preheat the oven to 250 degrees F (120 degrees C). Lightly grease a cookie sheet with sides or a cake pan.
• 
  
• In a large bowl, toss together the oats, almonds, wheat germ, coconut, and sunflower seeds. In a separate bowl, whisk together the maple syrup, brown sugar, oil, water and salt. Pour the liquid over the oat and nut mixture, and stir until evenly coated. Spread out on the prepared cookie sheet.
• 
  
• Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes, stirring occasionally until evenly toasted. Mix in raisins. Cool, and store in an airtight container at room temperature.

The Cost of Cohabitation

I caught the bouquet at my friend’s wedding in June 2008.  Call it maid-of-honor luck, but I didn’t really catch it; it literally fell into my hands in the most beautiful bouquet toss of all time.  The bride tossed it high and fair in the air, and it arced so perfectly towards me that I only moved one foot forward to catch it squarely in my hands.  I jumped up gleefully and held my prize in the air.  Everyone cheered and the photographer snapped my picture.

Grainy picture of the Bouquet Toss

 

But one person watching the bouquet toss wasn’t so happy:  the groom’s conservative grandmother.  As I heard on the wedding video a few months later, in the moments leading up to and immediately following my grand performance in the bouquet toss, Grandma was shouting in panic right next to the videographer, “No, she can’t catch it!  She’s married!  She’s married!”  Her panic made us all laugh uncontrollably because A.  Why was she taking the bouquet toss so seriously?  And B.  She was wrong.  I was not married.  But I was cohabiting with Ian at the time, and the groom’s family had told Grandma a little fib about our marital status to avoid upsetting her because she’s a traditional-values kinda gal.  I think the father-of-the groom confessed our living situation to her privately a few moments after the toss, letting her quietly stew in her renewed disappointment at “kids these days.”  

Chalk one up for the Bouquet Toss’ prognasticative powers because Ian and I were indeed the next couple to get married.  Of course, we had been practicing for awhile.  After our college graduation in 2007 we lived together for three years before tying the knot.  (Parenthetical confession: I should also include our senior year of college in the count because, as his roommates and mine - the bride - can attest, we were playing house then as well.)  

Many couples treat the Move-In question with careful consideration and planning.  I’ve cooed at the preview for the Valentine’s Day movie The Vow where Channing Tatum asks Rachel McAdams to move in with him by spelling it out in blueberries on her pancakes.  Adorable.  But there were no fruited move-in proposals for us.  In fact, I don’t even remember making the decision to move in together.  Without a peep of objection from either sets of parents, we signed a lease on a cute Hyde Park apartment in Chicago.  After a shop-til-you-drop Saturday spent marvelling at the prices of whisks and wastepaper baskets at Ikea, we U-Hauled ourselves into our first apartment and realized quickly that we loved living in sin.  We shopped for groceries together, split household chores, and learned the delicate diplomacy of sheet-sharing in our cozy queen bed.  Ian enjoyed my cooking, and I settled comfortably into never having to take the trash out again.  We fell easily into our cohabitation experiment.  

And it was very much an experiment.  During our cohabitation years, whenever anyone asked about our decision to live together before marriage, we gave the standard metaphorical rationale: that we were taking marriage for a test-drive.  Even if you’re sure you want to buy the all-new Honda Civic, you still test-drive it around the lot, right?  That’s how we felt about marriage:  we were sure we wanted to be with each other, but living together before marriage just seemed like the practical thing to do.  So we test-drove marriage for two years before Ian put a ring on it; three years before I put a ring on him.  It did make the transition to married life very smooth, practically indistinguishable.  In the months following our wedding, whenever folks asked that common courteous question, “How’s married life?”  I felt boring answering, “The same.”  I guess that’s better than responding “We just love filing a single tax return!”  

But there’s one thing I regret about cohabitation:  our money.  

You see, before we got married we kept all of our money in completely separate accounts.  We never considered opening joint accounts during those years because, if cohabitation was an experiment, then we didn’t want to join our assets in case we called it quits.  Plus, I reasoned, some married couples keep their money separate anyway. Joint accounts aren't even a given in marriage anymore. So we spent our money separately, and we saved it separately.  And it’s the latter that I now regret.  Mutually blind to each other’s bank accounts, we did not plan or save as much as we could have had we pooled our assets while cohabiting.  Of course, I say this with the benefit of hindsight.  I'm sure some long-term living-in-sinners and those who suffer from marriage inequality do pool their money and start financial planning early in their relationships. But we didn't. Joint accounts just weren't something we ever considered before marriage. But now that we’re married and share access to all of our money, we do organize our finances much more efficiently.  

Financial planning is inherently forward-looking.  Yet, with my green visor over my eyes and my checkbook in my hand, I can’t help but look back on those three years of cohabitation with a bit of regret.  Then I remember that, while we can get more money, we can never get more time.  I am lucky to have already had so many loving years with my special someone.

Amish White Bread

For thousands of years people made bread every day.  From the long crusty slices of the French baguette to the soft, shiny braids of Jewish challah, bread is not only a staple of the human diet, but also a representation of the world’s cultures and traditions. My personal bread tradition centers around one aisle in the grocery store where I examine the breads like it’s the Spanish Inquisition:  When does this one expire?  Do this one have corn syrup in it?  What does “Natural” really mean?  The last loaf standing goes into my cart and home to my refrigerator, snugly wrapped in its little clear sack with a nice note from the manufacturer telling me when it expires.  Welcome to American Modernity.

Well folks, it’s time to devolve because Pepperidge Farm ain’t got nothing on homemade bread.  It’s fun, cheap, and tasty - a trifecta of awesomeness.

I decided to try my hand at making bread because I thought I would enjoy learning something new and because I’d been getting irrationally annoyed at the endless list of ingredients on the back of the bread sacks.  I mean, surely the Native Americans made bread without “Calcium Propionate,” right?  So I looked up a recipe online, and found one described as “fool proof.”  Perfect because I had no idea what I was doing.  In my mind, bread-making was something only French patissiers and food industry engineers knew how to do.  But I purchased a few ingredients I didn’t already have, and put on my apron.  

Two hours later, with the sweet smell of the baking dough hanging in my house, I pulled my first loaf of bread out of the oven.  It popped up over the edge of the pan, teasing me with its gorgeous golden brown edges.  It was the most beautiful loaf of bread I’d ever seen.  (Bonus: It was also the cheapest loaf of bread I’d ever seen.  The batch I prepared could make three of loaves.  If you had to buy all the ingredients at the store, I’d estimate the cost per loaf to be around $1.)  I nudged it out of the pan onto a cutting board and sliced a small piece off of the end, tossing it in my hands to cool it off.  I took a bite.  Soft, sweet, warm. No grocery store loaf could ever compete.  It was the best bread I’d ever tasted.  No Inquisition necessary.

Here are a few photos of the process followed by the recipe I used. 

Proofing the yeast means "wait 10 minutes until it bubbles like beer"

With the dry ingredients mixed in, time to knead. I put it on a floured cutting board and folded and pushed it
down like I'd seen on TV.

Ready for the yeast do its magic. A la peanut butter sandwiches...

Ta da!  Let's be honest, though, yeast is creepy. The way it grows reminds me of those indestructible dancing brooms in Fantasia.

Split the dough and formed it into loves.  Ready for the oven. Teddy is helping in the background.

Just a peek!

The final product! 

Amish White Bread Recipe:

Ingredients
2 cups warm water (110 degrees F/45 degrees C)
2/3 cup white sugar
1 1/2 tablespoons active dry yeast
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/4 cup vegetable oil (I used olive oil)
6 cups bread flour

Directions
1. In a large bowl, dissolve the sugar in warm water, and then stir in yeast. Allow to proof until yeast resembles a creamy foam.
2.  Mix salt and oil into the yeast. Mix in flour one cup at a time. Knead dough on a lightly floured surface until smooth. Place in a well oiled bowl, and turn dough to coat. Cover with a damp cloth. Allow to rise until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.
3. Punch dough down. Knead for a few minutes, and divide in half. Shape into loaves, and place into two well oiled 9x5 inch loaf pans. Allow to rise for 30 minutes, or until dough has risen 1 inch above pans.
4.  Bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 30 minutes.

Store leftover dough in a flour-coated resealable plastic bag in the refrigerator or freezer.  When you want to make bread again, allow the cold dough to thaw to room temperature before repeating steps 3 and 4.  Expect one loaf to stay fresh on the counter for 2-3 days.

The Meaningfulness of Life, Part 2

Ian and I have been spending less since our transition from DINKs (Dual Income No Kids) to SINKs.  When we both worked, we spent money like we were filming a Lil Wayne video, but instead of Range Rovers and Cristal we spent our money on chocolate molten cakes at Chili’s and 3-D movies at the fancy theater downtown.  And Coke Icees - maybe mixed with cherry if we felt really adventurous.  

Of course we’ve cut back our spending since I left my job.  I still get Coke Icees, but we eat more meals at home, limit our shopping trips, and only go to the movies for a must-see film instead of just as a fun activity. (This summer’s must-see movies have been Thor, Captain America, Crazy Stupid Love, and - coming up next - The Help.  I’m sure you can figure out which ones were my choices.)  

Here’s the thing:  I think that spending less is making our lives more meaningful, maybe even happier.   Like I said in my last post, the rarer the opportunity, the more special it becomes.  Since we’ve been spending less, the times that we splurge are more special.

It makes sense, right?  In a world where serotonin boosts are inexpensive and easily accessible - whether through $1 tubs of soda at McDonald’s or a cheap plane ticket abroad - maybe we can’t depend on our purchases alone to maximize our pleasure.  Perhaps to truly maximize the happiness we get from an experience or an item, we need to withhold it from ourselves because rarefying availability increases desirability.  In other words, absence makes the heart grow fonder.  

Since the recession hit a few years ago, I’ve come across a few articles about the relation between conspicuous consumption and happiness.  I now know that after you pay the bills, you’re better off spending your money on experiences like travel and rock climbing than on new handbags.  I've also learned that anticipation of a purchase is a big contributor to the happiness you get from the purchase itself, as explained in this New York Times article:

Before credit cards and cellphones enabled consumers to have almost anything they wanted at any time, the experience of shopping was richer, says Ms. Liebmann of WSL Strategic Retail. “You saved for it, you anticipated it,” she says.  In other words, waiting for something and working hard to get it made it feel more valuable and more stimulating.  In fact, scholars have found that anticipation increases happiness. Considering buying an iPad? You might want to think about it as long as possible before taking one home. Likewise about a Caribbean escape: you’ll get more pleasure if you book a flight in advance than if you book it at the last minute.

I totally get it.  If you’ve read a few of my other entries here, you know I joke around about loving Chipotle.  I do; I capital L Love Chipotle.  As my former work colleagues can attest, I used to get Chipotle for lunch at least twice during the work week (and then again on the weekends).  I ate there so often that the employees at the Michigan Avenue Chipotle in downtown Chicago - undoubtedly one of the busiest in the country - they knew me so well that they jokingly made me order in Spanish.  Thank God “guacamole” is the same in all languages.

But I only eat there once a week now.  And guess what?   I look forward to that burrito bowl like it’s a long-lost lover I haven’t seen in years.  I sit down with my cilantro-lime rice creation of deliciousness and watch my Real Housewives and I’m so happy that it might as well be Christmas morning.  

Of course, as a red-blooded American, I can’t escape the desire to have more - more money, more clothes, more square footage, more, more, more... So I sporadically get pangs of longing, sprinkled with guilt, to be DINKs again to satisfy those “more” desires.  And maybe we will be someday.  Who knows.  But then I remember the warmth of the bread I made from scratch, the bike riding down the Monon Trail, the couch cuddling watching the DVD at home, planting the garden with our family - all done to be more cost-conscious.  So with less money, maybe we’re richer than before.