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The Minerity Report

If I categorized all of the fleeting thoughts on my mind’s ticker tape, I would probably discover that I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering why the things that fascinate most Americans just don’t capture my fancy. That I actually ponder the delta between the typical American brain and my own specimen is in itself indicative of some sort of mental abnormality and might alarm me if Harper’s Magazine, Atlantic Monthly, and the New York Times magazine didn’t feature at least one article per issue in which the author contrasts the tendencies of Joe the Plumber types with the propensities of college-educated liberal intelligentsia. (All of this is done with helpless awareness of what elitist pricks we are.)

Here’s a sampling of American phenomenon that I just don’t get:  Big houses, big cars, the preference for cars over trains, the preference for low-priced quantity over high-priced quality, microwave ovens, American Idol, Paris Hilton, Oprah Winfrey, Dancing with the Stars, the cult of Ronald Reagan, mechanized one-cup coffee machines, Burger King, Black Friday shopping, the entire sport of baseball, the entire sport of golf, Nascar, panda bears, Dave Matthews, Uggs, Shrek, flavored vodka, deep-fried seafood, Caribbean/resort vacations, Wal-Mart, southern accents, Terry Schiavo, buffets, sending “me” to Washington, paper napkins, salad/fruit beforethe meal, vampire sagas, jet-skiing/snow-mobiling/motocross/gas-powered recreational vehicles in general, Jon and Kate Gosselin, obsession with celebrity offspring, obsession with celebrity diets/exercise, obsession with celebrities in general, Donald Trump, Jay Leno, and when the media becomes fixated on the fate of one missing or murdered white woman.

Today’s quandary: Why is America so enraptured by the formerly-trapped, freshly-freed Chilean miners? I mean, it’s so uncommon that a news story about a developing nation completely dominates American media. When the cable news channels began broadcasting the rescue of the miners, some of my co-workers became so absorbed that they stayed up until 2am to watch the proceedings. All day Wednesday, these bewitched coworkers peppered office conversation with running updates: “15 miners freed. 18 miners freed.”  The whole saga seemed to make them elated, as if it restored their faith in humanity and reaffirmed their belief that everything will turn out alright in the end — the ultimate American principle.

I find myself strangely disinterested in the Chilean miners. Oh, sure, I was sorry to hear of that their mine collapsed, I was amazed that they survived on 2 tablespoons of tuna for a week, and I’m glad they got out, but I was no more curious about the Chilean miner’s plight than I was about, say, Harry Reid’s plight for re-election. The world is filled with tragedy; the world is filled with plights.

Last February, an earthquake ravaged Chile, killing about 500 people and displacing 1.5 million people. Just another tragic blip in the international news section. Yet for 33 trapped miners, we devour every report of their condition and we watch their rescue with bated breath. Why is it that we are more likely to be interested in the lives of a few over the lives of many? Why are we not concerned over the fate of 1.5 million homeless Chileans, but we’ll stay up to 2 am for 33 Chileans? Well, I won’t. I’m not saying I’m better or worse than someone who cares about the Chilean miners, but certainly I’m more jaded. The 2004 Tsunami killed 250,000 people and my world is no different. Paris Hilton could be put in jail for the next 50 years and my world would be no different. Vodka tastes like bacon, bubblegum, and bison grass, and my world is no different.  The miners could have died and my world would be no different; the miners survived, and my world is no different.

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By Meredith – October 14, 2010

Fashion Pug

I was riffling through Clipper Magazine, the publication of local coupons and advertising that mysteriously arrives unsolicited every week in our letter box. Yes, I’m a bit abashed to admit that I have not only taken note of Clipper Magazine’s existence, but I spend about two minutes per week looking at it. I know, I’m totally ruining your perception of me as some superswank hipster who is so preoccupied with reading Rilke sonnets, listening to Passion Pit, and shopping for Diesel jeans that it would never occur to me to clip coupons. Well, in my defense, I’ve never actually used a coupon from Clipper Magazine — the bulk are useless if you don’t own a house, and the remaining are just crap. I don’t know why I look every week, but I’m beginning to suspect that my interest is almost morbid gawking at the lower-rung of consumer aspiration. Witness this ad for Fashion Bug — which, you wouldn’t guess from the svelte model but maybe by the copy, is now exclusively a plus-size store. I’m unpracticed in catty fashion critiques, but if I wanted to make a blunt pronouncement of my distaste, I suppose I’d say something about Peggy Bundy calling and wanting her tunic/capri leggings/big belt back. Despite what Fashion Bug will have you believe, you actually need a pretty good figure to carry off this look without looking like a cinched, well… fat person.

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By Meredith – October 12, 2010

Hiking Sandwich

Sandwich Mountain, also known as Sandwich Dome, stands at 3980′ feet, meaning it’s just 20 feet away from being a 4000 footer and thus a destination for the peak-baggers. You can’t help but to pity Sandwich Mountain for barely missing the geological cut-off to attain this honor, but at the same time, it’s nice to have a formiable hike with decent views that’s not overrun by the masses eager to cross another summit off of their lists (said with the breezy contempt of one who has already crossed all of them off).

The weather was ardently halcyon, with blue skies and a warming sun that beat down on the resplendent foliage that lit up the woods.

From Jennings Peak

From the parking lot, we took the Drake Brook trail — a rather boring trail that mostly kept to an old logging road, so the climb was merciful. Our first real effort came when we took the spur trail to Jennings Peak, where we could glimpse Waterville Valley as well as a fair amount of rust-tinged foliage.

Waterville Valley from Jennings Peak

We reached Sandwich Dome shortly after noon. The most thrilling view was that of snow-covered Mount Washington in the distance.

Mt. Washington from Sandwich Dome

We devoured our sandwiches on the summit and I didn’t even think to comment about how we were eating sandwiches on Sandwich Dome. Obviously the voraciously chilly wind was dulling my wit. It was wonderful to descend the summit and reach Noon Peak, an exposed expanse of granite that was bathed in sunshine, protected from the wind, and garnished with red-colored bushes.

Sandwich Dome from Noon Peak

On Noon Peak

Foliage!

After spending a good hour sunning ourselves on Noon Peak, we quickly descended back to the parking lot, which we reached at 3pm. We were eager to return home because neither of us have Columbus Day off and we didn’t want to be caught in leaf-peeping traffic on I-93. We were a little disappointed with the quality of the foliage this year — the reds don’t seem as red, the oranges don’t seem as orange, and the yellows seem ubiquitous. But maybe, as Mr. P posited, we are just weary of leaves and the empty futures they offer.

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By Meredith – October 11, 2010

Carrot Bottoms

In the garden patch it was a year of extravagant experimentation, with attempts to sow, grow, and harvest a wide array of produce. We had some successes (baby kale, lettuce, swiss chard, cabbage after an initial lag), some disappointments (tomatoes, spinach), and some failures (broccoli, bell fuckin’ peppers). And, we had some carrots, which were arguably all three.

The carrots were my idea. One day last summer I was at a farmer’s market, and I was simply bowled over by the smell of one man’s carrots. I even told him, “These smell great!” He told me they taste pretty good too (just one of dozens semi-awkward small talks I’ve had at the farmers market) so I bought a bunch. And it was as if I was eating carrots for the first time. The taste, the crunch, and the smell were so much more intense than supermarket carrots. These were real carrots, and I wanted to grow my own.

So way back in May, we started about 10 carrot plants from seed and then transferred them outside where they grew in between the broccoli and the tomatoes. The carrot greens began to flourish in July, and I could only imagine all of the carroty goodness that lurked in the soil. When would they be ready? A plump orange root peeked out from the soil, and one day I impulsively dug it up. To my disappointment, the carrot was about one inch wide and one inch long. When it comes to carrots, apparently it’s not the width. It’s the length.

Obviously I needed to be patient. So another two months flew by until today, when I decided today would be a good day to meet the carrots. Wait, are these… carrots? What a seriously odd-looking bunch they were, but they tasted and smelled potently like carrots, and that’s all that matters.

The day is coming when a single carrot, freshly observed, will set off a revolution. ~ Paul Cezanne

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By Meredith – October 9, 2010

A Trip to Lake Titicaca

In a grade-school geography lesson, I remember widespread giggling when learning that the highest navigable lake in the world was called “Lake Titicaca.” I mean, that’s the equivalent of Lake Boobycrap, Lake Hooterpoop, or Lake Knockerfeces. So it was well worth the entire trip to Peru to find out that “Titicaca”  means “puma rock,” because the lake is vaguely shaped like a puma. (Hey, stop looking at my puma rocks!)

After journeying from Cusco to Puno, I could see Lake Titicaca for myself. It was impressively large, expanding well beyond sight onto the shores of Bolivia. Apparently, when you are in Peru they will tell you that 60% of the lake’s shoreline is in Peru. When you are in Bolivia they will tell you that 60% of the lake’s shoreline is in Bolivia and that America is the great Satan. Since we were in Peru, we were assured unequivocally that Lake Titicaca was mostly in Peru.

Our second day in Puno, we took a day trip on a speedboat with a group of around 20 other tourists — an equal mix of Anglophones and Spanish-speakers. Right off the shore of Puno, the boat speeded through a maze of totora reeds:

Lake Titicaca Totora Reed

And we posed in the cool sunshine:

On Lake Titicaca

Not far off the coast we encountered the Uros Islands, which are a series of 4 dozen or so completely man-made islands upon which live the descendants of the Uros, a traditional people who I believe started as fishermen and started constructed semi-permanent islands out of the totora reeds. Nowadays, they continue to live on the man-made islands but make a brisk living in the tourist trade. We stopped at one islands and were welcomed warmly by about ten Uros, mostly female.

Uros Islands

Uros Women Waiting for Tourist Boats

When we arrived at our designated island, we met the “president” of that island, who demonstrated how they constructed the islands out of the reeds with a model. The islands house about 5 families each, and when they need more room they will simply build another one. The islands last about 40 years.

Uros “President” Building an Island

Uros “President” and Extended Family

The Uros offered to take us tourists on a short tour in their reed boats for 5 soles each (about $1.80).

Touring the Uros Islands

Reed Boats

When we were far from any islands, they stopped paddling and demanded their 5 soles. We paid them as they helped us re-board the tourist speedboat. From the Uros Islands, we journeyed about an hour to Taquile Island.

Taquile Island

As we approached the island, the tour guide took great pains to explain some of the customs of the Taquileños, namely about how the single men wear their hats this way and the married men wear their hats that way. That’s apparently all anyone knows about Taquile’s inhabitants, aside from the fact that they make some of the finest textiles in all of Peru, so fine that the prices in the markets are fixed. No haggling!

Married Man on Taquile

Taquile Island

Apparently there are some Incan ruins somewhere on Taquile, but we didn’t see them. We joined the long procession of tourists up a steep trail to the island’s main square, where we were given 30 minutes to browse the markets before lunch. Tourists were besieged by young children offering knotted bracelets for one sole (33 cents).

Gate to Main Square on Taquile

After a very pleasant lunch featuring local fish, potatoes, and soup, we returned to the speedboat for the 2-hour journey back to Puno. I curled up in my seat and reduced my sleep deficit by a few precious minutes, while Mr. P camped out on the boat’s roof deck and took in the sights of Lake Titicaca, including fish farming.

Fish Farming on Lake Titicaca

When we returned to Puno, we packed our bags, for it was our last night in Peru. But the following day would be action-packed before our return flight to America, so we were not too sad. We went out for our last dinner in Peru and really “went to town,” as they say. Yep, we blew a solid $40 USD on dinner — a kingly sum, by Peruvian standards.

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By Meredith – October 7, 2010

There’s No Such Thing As Free Yoga

On Sunday, I dragged Mr. P to a free community class at the local hot yoga studio, which is still trying to ramp up its lukewarm class attendance. About 11 people attended — a record, from what I’ve seen. Before the class, the studio’s owner asked if she could take pictures of the class — “only flattering ones, of course.” No one objected. The class was very relaxing after Saturday’s hike and before Sunday’s football  and afterwards we enjoyed some refreshments as we chatted with our fellow class attendees. Altogether, it was a pleasant experience.

And then today I went to the hot yoga studio’s website to check out the schedule, only to find the following picture all splayed out on the studio’s home page:

Dear lord. Yes, that’s me, the woman smack in the center wearing all black with her blond hair in a clip, in the superlatively unflattering pose of upward-dog. On the Home Page! (I hesitate to include the studio’s URL, as I don’t want them to know I blog about them).

On the Schedule page, there’s:

Which is just horrifying, because you’ll notice the outside edge of my back foot is not pressed onto the mat as it should be, and my right leg barely looks like it’s bent at all, let along at a 90-degree angle. That is one pitiful Warrior I.

On the Events page, right next to the notice about the beginner’s series, there’s:

That’s Mr. P on the right, checking his balance. Though he was mortified to see this, he forgot all about it after he saw the Rates page:

That’s when we realized: there is no such thing as free yoga.

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By Meredith – October 5, 2010

It’s Football Treason

Now that the weather is turning cooler, I can watch NFL football without feeling guilty about forsaking precious outdoors time by becoming a bystander to a ghoulish goulash of athleticism, commentary, celebrity, and advertisement that’s been simmered in a stock of atavistic brutality. It’s football — America’s game!

Yesterday I watched the NY Jets — the scourge of the NFL, if  you want to know my opinion– badly beat a beleagured Buffalo Bills. Initially I was confused by the pink accroutements donned by the football players, because pink really does not mesh with the Bills’ royal blue and orangy-red, but after seeing the Buffalo Jills all decked out in pink cheerleading gear I remembered that the NFL wore pink last year to honor Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And of course I’m not some pro-breast cancer maniac, but the irony of pro-football raising awareness about breast cancer whilst forcefully using their bodies to pummel, clobber, and projectile tackle one another is rather striking. Because I swear these NFL players are getting heftier, stronger, faster, and longer-limbed. And every year, it seems like more and more players get driven off the field on the flatbed cart like some big dumb wounded animal.

Also yesterday, I felt an actual twinge of pity for Philadelphia Quarterback Micheal Vick as he became the cream cheese in a Redskin sandwich. Strangely, I can’t watch boxing because it’s too brute but football doesn’t phase me. Watching Vick’s upper-body getting flattened made me wonder about a society where dogfighting and animal cruelty is taboo but football is the national spectator sport. Here is a man who was disallowed from participating in his savage sport as a punishment for essentially engaging in the canine analog of football. We are the bloodthirsty spectators, ignoring the fact that the men who play football for an extended period of time will almost certainly develop brain damage.

So how is it that I — a shy woman who votes left, listens to and plays classical music, practices yoga and meditation, gives money to Doctors Without Borders, and has the capacity to literally lose consciousness at the sight of blood — can watch football, knowing that these men are battering themselves into a slow or fast demise? Sigh. I honestly don’t know. Football ignites almost a primal emotion within me, and I have no doubt that if I lived in the Roman Empire, I would in an amphitheater, cheering for the pursuit of gore and glory.

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By Meredith – October 4, 2010

A Visit to the Leaves

Reports of peak foliage in New Hampshire’s White Mountains have been filtering down to us via various blogs and message boards. Normally the mountain foliage is in its prime circa Columbus Day, a happy coincidence for the hundreds of innkeepers who eek out an inconsistent existence the rest of the year but can always count on Columbus Day to bring busloads of tourists coming to “visit the leaves,” as Mr. P says.

Us too. Every year, I am tormented by the idea that I will miss peak foliage, so with the weather forecast calling for sunny skies, we woke up at an unconscionable hour on Saturday and jumped into the Honda for a nice cruise up I-93 to the Flume Visitor’s Center, where we would take the Liberty Springs trail up to the Franconia Ridge. It’s the same route by which we first climbed Mount Liberty more than three years ago, and part of the Appalachian Trail to boot, although most of the thru-hikers have long since hiked thru.

From the Flume Visitor’s Center, it is a one-mile walk on a paved bicycle trail to the Liberty Springs trail. We could have parked at a parking lot right off the trailhead, but then we’d have to pay a $3 parking fee. Yes, that’s how cheap we are. Plus, we would be able to avail ourselves of the Visitor’s Center restrooms. The Visitor’s Center was filled with its characteristic tourists: busloads of senior citizens, youth groups, and a smattering of international visitors who come to visit the leaves.

That morning the Visitor’s Center was particularly intense because a large group of women from the Red Hat Society were waiting in line for the restrooms with me. One British woman also waiting in line was flabbergasted. “What is this, some sort of hen party? Why are you all wearing red hats and purple jackets?” she asked one elderly woman, who smiled sweetly and said “Because we’re Red Hatters!”

Indeed, autumn was peaking. The mountain air was crisp, the wind was dominating, and the leaves were warm gold and fiery orange, with smatterings of stalwart green, shocking red, and premature brown. But… I don’t want to call the weatherman a liar, so let’s just say he was optimistic about the bounty of sunlight that would crest the earth unimpeded by clouds. After hiking 2.8 miles on the Liberty Springs trail, we took the Franconia Ridge Trail 1.5 miles to Little Haystack, with the intention of getting a good look at Mount Lafayette, but all we saw was a low-lying cloud. So we had to turn around and head back 1.8 miles to Mount Liberty, where the sun was more visible, and we could clearly see that the foliage was not peaking. It’s better to be early than to be late, we decided, as we descended the trail back to the car and the sun gave its long sigh good night over the mountain horizon.

Cannon Mountain from Mount Liberty

Wind-induced Cowlick on Mount Liberty

Flume Visitor’s Center and I-93

Patchy Sunshine, Patchy Foliage

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By Meredith – October 3, 2010

Hot Yoga is No Match For My Inner Ire

The hot yoga studio that opened last spring down the street has finally amended their ridiculously inconvenient class schedule. Initially, the earliest weekday class was 7:30am-9am and the evening class was 5:30pm-7pm. Since the studio is within a densely-residential but suburban neighborhood, their schedule precluded any 9-5 slave from ever attending a weekday class. I mean, here’s a hot yoga studio that was effectively alienating yuppies. Not sound business!

Some wanna-be students (including me) suggested an early-morning class, so last week they added a 6:15am-7:30am class. And since I championed it, I’ve felt compelled to actually get out of bed and go. I used to be a slightly insane morning exerciser, but life with Mr. P has relaxed/subdued/sedated me to the point where I can’t get out of bed before I’ve gotten 8 1/2 hours of sleep or, at the very least, tranquil prostration.

Luckily, the hot yoga studio is a five-minute walk from my bed, meaning I can wake up at 6am (eek!) and be on my mat in time for the opening om. Helping me immensely is the laid-back teacher, a trained massage therapist who gives spontaneous massages. I can be in downward dog, and she’ll sneak behind me and exert a marvelous amount of moving pressure on my lower back. Ahhhh. Plus, she always explains the anatomical benefits of poses, which means that during the silence during prolonged poses, she does not make vague mystical pronouncements like “this stimulates the green chakra, which will make you more trusting and open to new things” and “the longer we hold this poses, the longer the ego –the little self– starts to grow quiet and still.” Instead, she’ll say “this pose is opening the lower back and strengthening the thighs” — simple, neat, and nondogmatic.

But for me, yoga is not about strengthening or opening or any of the dozens of health benefits that are ascribed to it. It is all about the breath. For the first time in my life, I am engaging in deep, purposeful breathing. (Well, for a purpose outside of inhaling toxic fumes into my lungs.)

All of this breathing melts away my characteristic stress like a iceberg that’s suddenly been transported to a massive hot tub. Those who know me in meatspace are well-acquainted with my edgy, anxious personaility. I can get worked up over the most minute things, and they will consume me to point of utter mental and physical distraction. Like last weekend, when our neighbor parked in front of our house with his big-ass truck, blocking both of the potential parking spaces. “Who does he think he is?” I seethed. “I’m going to write a note and put it under his windshield. And for now on, I’m going to park in front of his house and see how he likes it. No, forget all that, I’m just going to key his car!”

“Relax!” Mr. P will sooth.

“I’ll relax when I’m dead!”

It takes a lot to relax me. A lot of wine, that is.

But yoga works too. So I’ll come home after the morning yoga class at 7:30am, totally blissed out by having pumped my lungs and body full of oxygen and gotten a spontaneous massage to boot. I shower, dress, and prepare my breakfast/lunch box with utter contentment about spending the rest of the day hunched over a computer in a tiny cubicle 20 miles away. It could be worse. I could be, like, a coal miner.

I skip to the Jetta, turn on some upbeat rock music, and head to the town center towards the highway. The congestion is, typically, horrendous. I sit 20 cars back at a left-hand turn signal that has the lifespan of a gnat. Three, maybe four cars can go at one time, then it goes red for three minutes. I reassure myself, “How great that I can be stuck at this light, for now I can replenish my body of liquids!” as I sip furtively from my water bottle.

I watch the cars turning left, feeling a bit irked when I notice that a car didn’t start to turn until the light was yellow. Who can sit at the light for 10 minutes and not be rearing to go when it’s finally their turn? A gigantic trash truck ahead of me is wafting the smell of garbage into my car. When the truck is at the front of the line, it takes so long to start moving that the light turns red by the time it’s halfway through the turn. Freaking trucks shouldn’t even be allowed on the road during rush hour.

I am staring at the Toyota Camry in front of me. By then, it’s been 12 minutes since I joined the stifled procession of left-turning cars, and I can’t stop thinking what a horrible person the girl in the Camry is. She’s young, plump, with cheap brassy blond hair and black eyeliner, and she peers constantly at herself in her visor mirror as she alternately gazes at her phone. When the Audi in front of her moves up, it always takes her a full 20 seconds to respond, so consumed she is with herself and with her mobile device. Soon the Camry is the first car in line, and I watch her peering at her phone, her white thumb flickering as it pounds out a message. The left arrow turns green, and I sit for one. Two. Three seconds waiting for her to move. The absolute nerve of the woman, knowing that there’s about 50 cars behind us waiting to turn left, and she can’t be bothered to maximize the left-hand green arrow because something in her vapid, shallow life is compelling her to react with a no-doubt moronic text message. I lean on my horn — not a tap, but a prolonged lean, a fuck you blast of horn that prompts her to finally look up and move her car forward. I continue the horn for a few seconds longer than necessary, which is my way of saying Bitch, you owe me a yoga class!

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By Meredith – September 29, 2010

Creamy Wheat

I asked Mr. P if he wanted eggs for breakfast. “No, I am having my new hot cereal,” he said, his nose slightly aloft in typical Gallic refusal. He had purchased the hot cereal while grocery shopping the day before, and he was all excited to try it out, which I found very cute. Hot cereal isn’t a typical French foodstuff, but some years ago after an ordeal, I had gotten him to try, accept, and even crave oatmeal as the perfect winter morning repast. It was gratifying to see him expand his breakfast repetoire beyond toast, muffins, and the occasional left-over cake binge. Who says you can’t change your spouse?

“So what’s this intriguing new hot cereal?” I asked him as he stirred his porridge on the stovetop. Mr. P pointed to a huge cellophane bag full of tan-colored, grit-size grains, which I seized upon with no small horror.

“EWWW! Cream of wheat?” I said in disbelief. “Why the hell did you buy all this cream of wheat? Have you ever even tried cream of wheat before?”

“No,” he said, eyeing the contents of the saucepan.

“I loath cream of wheat,” I said frankly. “There’s nothing redeeming about it. It’s heavy mushy texture, worse than oatmeal, like baby food with dense lumps of sand. There’s nothing to chew. It just sits in your mouth until you swallow it and then it sits in your stomach. Eeek. You’re going to hate it.”

“Well, it’s made from wheat, so it’s healthy,” Mr P said.

“Even if I accepted the notion that a bowlful of wheat is healthy, which I certainly don’t, nothing is healthy if you have to put one cup of sugar in it just to make it edible,” I said. “And besides, if it’s wheat you want, why not just have toast? It’s not like you’re going out today to plow fields and raise barns.”

Mr. P seemed a little surprised by my reaction — I usually refrain from passing judgement on other’s meals, as it is beyond rude — but I knew he would hate it. As if determined to defy me, Mr. P grimly spooned the cream of wheat into his mouth. Indeed, I could tell his distaste from the way he glumly stared at the gelatinous cluster of lumps in his bowl, his lips pursed into a pucker, but he made it through half the bowl before pushing it away.  “I made too much,” he said, when I pointed and nodded knowingly.

Americans have the dubious talent of being able to eat anything that is placed before us, no matter how bland or unappetizing. French are quite the opposite. Typically, they will go hungry rather than ingest anything that doesn’t meet their high quality standards. That is why you can get a better meal at a highway rest stop in France than 90% of restaurants in America. Because they will only eat food that is freshly prepared, tasty, and bears a semblance of nutrition (“… and for dessert, it’s peach tatin!”)

Two years ago, we were breakfasting in England with my French in-laws at our bed and breakfast. We were given the choice between cold cereal or a “full breakfast.” We all innocently ordered the “full breakfast” and were presented with heaping plates of eggs, french fries, fatty bacon, baked beans, fried tomatoes, and toast. My mother-in-law was aghast. My father-in-law was disgusted. You could see their repugnance plainly on their faces, like what kind of animals can eat this at 8am in the morning! Not even our hardy, well-made American daughter-in-law can stomach baked beans before noon ! They nibbled at the toast and sipped their  juice, visibly recoiling from the bounty of greasy, heavy food splayed in front of them.

(Me, I was horrified after the waitress asked us if we wanted any “sauce.”

“Sauce?” I exclaimed, flummoxed. I was picturing, like, béarnaise. “What kind of sauce?” I asked.

“Oh, red sauce or brown sauce,” she offered.

“Red sauce?” I asked, voice dripping with suspicion. “Well, I don’t know what that is, but I’ll try it!”

Of course, “red sauce” turned out to be ketchup.)

Anyway, my point is… well, I don’t really have a substantive point, aside from: French people have delicate stomachs, not particularly suited to cream of wheat. Strangely, so do I. Yet Mr. P brought home two pounds of it, and he’s trying very hard to eat it. He calls it “creamy wheat,” as in “The creamy wheat is sitting in my stomach,” as in “The creamy wheat is killing my joie de vivre,” as in “I’ll trade you the rest of my creamy wheat for your eggs.”

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By Meredith – September 27, 2010