My Grandmother’s Voting for Hillary

My 97-year-old grandmother asked for an absentee ballot for the Democratic primary so she can vote for Hillary.

My grandmother has never voted for a Democrat before in her life, but she wanted to “vote for that woman.”

My grandmother was a crack polo player in the 1930s, when polo was a hugely popular public sport (30,000 people took the train up out from Chicago to see the 1938 East-West game, when Will Roger’s team beat the best players from the East coast). Because she was a “girl” my grandmother wasn’t allowed to play — she could play practice matches when someone got hurt, but she never got the chance to compete.

She was also offered a full scholarship to the Northwestern Medical school, which her father convinced her to turn down because she’d be “taking a place from some man who would need to support a family.” Instead, she married my grandfather, and then when he was debhilitated by alcoholism, she supported her family without the aid of anything useful like a medical degree. She was an impatient mother, a woman who would have been much happier running something — a company, a hospital, something other than the Pony and Pet Show she put on with her best friend every summer.

When I was growing up she told me over and over again to stay in school, to get a degree, to go out and make my own money because if you have your own money “no one can tell you what to do.” She told me at about sixteen, long before I even had a boyfriend, that if I ever “got in trouble” to come to her and she’d take care of it. (This from a woman who wanted to abort her fourth child, but couldn’t find anyone back on those days of illegal abortions. My Aunt Molly doesn’t really take it personally, and in fact, she’s the one taking care of my grandmother in her very old age.) And of course, she’s the one who gave me Mrs. Baggot’s ring while whispering fiercely “now you have a really big diamond, and you didn’t have to marry anyone to get it.”

However, there’s always been this weirdly reactionary side to her — I remember her praising Nancy Reagan for walking several steps behind her husband (we mocked her openly for that one). And the only way my mother and two aunts could get out of the house as young women was to get married. But there’s that pissed-off part of my grandmother, the girl who was told she couldn’t play, the woman who had at least two more children than she wanted to, the woman who was convinced not to go to medical school. And that’s the woman who even at 97, is determined to vote for the first woman with a real shot at being the President of the United States. Even if she is a Democrat.

Who knows how many pissed off old ladies there are out there? There’s a group the pollsters haven’t been talking to …

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Joan Dye Grussow, Michael Pollan, Dan Barber …

My love of Joan Dye Grussow‘s work, particularly This Organic Life, is well documented on this blog. Her experiences over the years growing and storing most of her own food was absolutely inspirational to me when I built my garden, and it’s still a book I go back to again and again.

This video has been kicking around the blogosphere for a while now — it’s Joan Dye Grussow, Michael Pollan and Dan Barber of Blue Hill discussing ethicurean issues and trying to figure out how to eat in ways that are good not only for their health but for the health of their communities.
What I found hilarious was Joan Grussow’s grilling of Pollan about what to eat in the winter. One of the points Pollan makes in In Defense of Food is that the western diet has turned almost exclusively to eating the seeds and fruits of plants at the expense of leaves. So, Joan Dye Grussow had taken this to heart and was saying how she’d been really trying to eat more leafy greens, but it was winter, and her garden was now frozen and what is she to do? (I was particularly amused by her wonder at how good chard was for breakfast, since my favorite Breakfast of Champions relies heavily on chard.) I’ve also written before about the prejudice against greens — they’re the food of poverty, they’re food that black people and immigrants eat, they’re slimy and weird — these are the charges. Myself, I learned to love greens in Asia — I spent a few months in Taiwan in my 20s and because they use night soil for fertilizer, you can’t really eat raw greens like salad. But I don’t recall a meal that didn’t have some sort of delicious cooked greens on the table, and I came to love all of them — spinach, tatsoi, gai lan, and a million others I didn’t actually recognize.

As for Grussow’s query about what to do in the winter — either put them up in the summer like I do, or find someone in your area growing leafy greens in the winter — Eliot Coleman has pretty definitively proven that with hoophouses and cold frames, you can grow greens even in the depth of winter in Maine. Personally, I’m all for putting up your own in the summer — it’s not hard. It does require that you spend a hot summer afternoon in a steamy kitchen blanching veggies, which can be kind of a drag. But like anything, the more you do it, the easier it gets — a quick boil in the largest stockpot, a dunk in an ice bath, a spin in the salad spinner, then put them in absorbent clean dishtowels which you roll up and twist to get the last of the water out before packaging them using the indispensable vaccuum sealer. Yeah, it means you spend a Saturday or two putting up food, but it also means that for the rest of the year you get to eat your own clean organic veggies.

I’m a little bewildered by the folks who think that seasonality trumps locavorism. Although yes, I’m eating broccoli rabe and endive and chard “out of season” in that it grew last summer, it was put up at the height of the season and there are no food miles. It couldn’t get more local. Eating my own cherries and plums all winter that I put up, instead of eating fruit flown in from Australia or Chile is, as far as I’m concerned — that’s absolutely seasonal — I’m not insisting on fresh food out of season, but rather, I’m participating in an age-old process of self-sufficiency.

It’s why it was so much fun to see Joan Dye Grussow on that video. Her book was such an inspiration to me, and seeing her in action, watching how Michael Pollan seems to defer to her a little bit as his elder, and hearing her voice which is as straightforward and slightly cranky as I’d always imagined — well, it is one of the few times I was sorry I’d left New York all those years ago — what a fun evening that must have been.

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My take on South Carolina …

Because Politics is in the tag line — all I can say is Wow — Obama not only won it, he won it in a rout. I know there are naysayers. I’ve heard all the “experience” talk. And you know what? I don’t care …

He inspires people across the spectrum — I’m hearing apocryphal stories about independents and Republicans who will vote for him. He inspires me. Imagine if we could have an inspirational candidate on the Democratic side — not a candidate that we know is the smartest person in the room, not the candidate that we know is right about the issues even if he or she does have a personality that turns people off, but a candidate who can fire up a room, fire up a nation.

I said after New Hampshire that I wasn’t ready to send Hillary home, and frankly, I’m still not. The Clintons are starting to play dirty politics, and if Obama can’t win against them, then I’m not sure he can win against the even dirtier politics that are sure to come in the general election. But I have also felt since the beginning of this race that I don’t want a return to the Clinton years. I am not someone who believes in living in the past — it was one of the rules that Patrick and I lived by “no going backwards.” There’s no going back, there’s only forward — and even if Hillary could win over a nation in which she’s enormously and irrationally hated, I think her presidency would be hobbled by the urge to redeem her husband’s tenure. Plus, I don’t like the dynastic implications of 20-plus years of Clintons and Bushes in the White House. And while I didn’t realize this until recently, I’m a little pissed at the Clintons — they had their chance and they screwed it up. And by screwing it up, they paved the way for GW Bush and all the havoc and disaster he has wrought. I’m not so sure I’m ready to give them another chance.

I want a change. I want new blood. I want someone my age in the White House — someone who is not defined by the battles of the 1960s.

Imagine if as Democarats we dared to believe. Dared to hope.

Here’s the entire clip from Obama’s South Carolina victory speech.

Now we’ll just have to see what happens on Super Tuesday.

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Endorphins are Good …

We’ve finally got some snow, and unlike last weekend when it was below zero the whole time, the temps aren’t too bad (although the 40 mph winds are kind of a drag) — but although I’m ashamed to say that it’s the end of January and the first time I’ve made it out on skis, I did make it out for a quick ski this morning –

I’m woefully out of shape, but we had fun — took Raymond-the-dog (Owen needs knee surgery, no deep snow romping for him) and off we went. It’s sunny, there was sweating and breathing hard and a happy dog bounding through the snow and finally some exciting downhill gliding — the snow is all sparkly, and after too long a week hunched over my keyboard editing tech docs for the Big Corporation, it was great to get outside for a change. Yay snow!

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I’m Going to Miss the Cows …

My milk delivery came yesterday. The thing with buying milk from a real cow is that it’s not always the same. This week I pulled nearly a quart of cream off the top of my gallon, and the cream is thicker than it’s been before. Almost like English cream — slightly lumpy. This might be alarming except that I know my cows (well, I know my cow-lady). I took the leftover cream from last week and mixed it in with the creme fraiche I already had going (I bought a tub at the local gourmet store to use for starter). So I’ve got nearly a quart of cream and a pint of creme fraiche … yum.

Since we’re going into a milk-drought for a couple of months, I think I need to make another batch of yogurt. I’ve been making it in pint canning jars, and the seal on the lids means the yogurt keeps really well in the fridge. I’m also starting my annual obsession with green sauce — happens every year about this time — suddenly I want green sauce on everything. And if I can get through the milk-drought on my own yummy yogurt, that might help me get over having to drink commercial milk.

Coincidentally, there’s a piece in the SF Chronicle’s food section about some women who have started a yogurt business in San Francisco. The article emphasizes what Michael Pollan critically names “nutritionism” a little more than I find interesting — eat real yogurt made by a person because it’s delicious, and yeah, it’s good for you, but don’t go getting all hung up on that. I think the obsession with probiotics is as dumb as any other food obsession. And quotes about how eating these ladies’ nice yogurt as a snack makes people feel “virtuous” sort of make me groan — own your eating people. Eat good food, enjoy it, and don’t try to turn it into medicine or make it all about health. Okay. Rant over.

There was also a cool piece in the NY Times food section about eating local in the winter on Martha’s Vineyard. Like all tourist destinations, there’s two cultures — the cash economy and the barter or local’s economy — and this article is a great portrait of how a bunch of people manage to live in the most sustainable way possible by growing and catching their own food and trading with one another. Plus, I want that greenhouse.

We do some of that around here — I tend to pay for things with money, because I don’t hunt enough, raise enough of anything to trade — but the Mighty Hunter does a lot of trading — especially with the Famous Chef — the MH sends him game, the FC sends back wine, or olive oil, or cheese. It works great … it’s not as local perhaps as the Martha’s Vineyard system, but it engenders community nonetheless.

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