Household Blog

When I was fifteen I was passionate about folk music and angry at the world. I was angry at social injustices and centuries-old guilt that had nothing to do with me but still haunted my bleeding heart. I was angry about the damage done to the environment, about which I felt powerless to do anything. I was angry about feeling hurt and weak and guilty and impotent in the face of so much…bullshit. And it probably goes without saying, but fairly often I was angry at my parents.

A favorite teacher at my high school kindly described all this rage as “teenage angst.” Angst! What a perfect word! The “ahhhhhh!” sound, open-throated out only to be choked off by an awkward gaggle of consonants tangled up trying to get through the door at the same time, all knees and elbows. Yep, angst. That about sums it up.

Today, I was reminded today of this angsty period, fortunately with more of a sense of humor than I had at the time. I had dated a boy, the first boy I ever dated in fact, and oh, if I’d known the warning signs then – this boy was a die-hard Republican, conservative to his bones, a fundamentalist hellfire sorta guy, and besides being my polar opposite in every way except age, he loved to get me riled. (I’ve observed this as a recurring pattern over the years. I now recognize it – the people who like to poke at you and laugh when you get mad. I double dog dare you to laugh at me now! *grin*) Knowing how I worshipped at the funky patchwork shrine of Bob Dylan and all his folksy retinue, my boyfriend relished playing that Cracker song that goes, “What the world needs now is another folk singer like I need a hole in the head.” And then that red rage would rise, my cheeks would burn, my eyes would flash, and he’d laugh his scrawny boy butt off.

What was I thinking? This question, by the way, has also been a recurring theme as years go by.

So I was reminded of that today. My mom lent me a book recently. I think my mom and I sometimes speak to each other in books. It’s like a subtle code: “I want you to understand me. Read this. This rings true. Please understand.” Each book shared and opened, more than just a book opens. So my beautiful, patient mother lent me Traveling Mercies by Annie Lamott, and I have been thoroughly enjoying it. It’s a very humorous, wry, and heart-full collection of stories and memoirs from a hilarious, tough ol’ softy kind of dame, dancing around issues of faith and spirituality. I’m not Christian myself, but I am deeply spiritual, and I think my mom knew that I would “get it.” And I do. And I love it, and I love that she shared it with me, and I love what it says about her. It’s passed the great reading test—even when reading it in public, I still get misty-eyed at moments or laugh out loud.

So about two-thirds of the way through the book, this poem by Nanao Sakaki appears:

In the morning
After taking cold shower
—–what a mistake—–
I look at the mirror.

There, a funny guy,
Grey hair, white beard, wrinkled skin,
—–what a pity—–
Poor, dirty, old man!
He is not me, absolutely not!
Land of life
Fishing in the ocean
Sleeping in the desert with stars
Building a shelter in mountains
Farming the ancient way
Singing with coyotes
Singing against nuclear war—
I’ll never be tired of life.
Now I’m seventeen years old,
Very charming young man.

I sit down quietly in lotus position,
Meditating, meditating for nothing.
Suddenly a voice comes to me:

“To stay young,
To save the world,
Break the mirror.”

This was a “woah” moment. I’ve been studying herbalism for over a year now, which led me to permaculture and to ayurveda, which led me back to yoga and meditation, all of which led me to a much deeper understanding and compassion to my own pains and patterns, joys and strengths, and the humility of seeing the road to wisdom disappearing into the distance ahead.

Now I’m laughing at myself for getting so ridiculously riled about that Cracker song lyric. I actually find myself in agreement: “If you want to save the world, shut yer mouth!”

The poem’s last phrase, “To stay young, / To save the world, / Break the mirror!” That’s the commandment. Don’t live in negatives—don’t spout invectives, don’t let rage be your food, don’t let your present life and work waste away for want of nourishment while your soul is mourning things on the other side of the earth: BE PRESENT. Here and now, live in affirmation. Rather than talk about injustice, practice justice. Do something. Live: build create nourish strengthen grow teach learn inspire breathe and be.

A while back, another great teacher told me to make wise choices, because I might be the only bible some people ever read. I still believe in the spirit of that advice. Every choice we make in our worlds matters. Every dollar we spend is a vote. Every bit of love we put into the world, every song we sing, every rift we mend, everything that we learn and teach and learn again—it continues outward, weaving in, passing the thread hand to hand, rippling out until our one tiny moment has touched people in places and times that we will never know ourselves. Our present, our presence, every minute act—positive or negative—has great power. It colors the threads we spin. It stains the fingers of every other person who touches these threads, blending with their own colors, passing on and on and on, under and over and under again.

We are so powerful. Wield with care.

Breaking the fast.

What an experience. Today got intense enough that I’ve decided to break fast a day early. It’s the right time. And since I’m breaking the fast, I can talk about FOOD again! I can smell it simmering in the kitchen as I type. When coming off a fast or any other stringent diet, it’s important to do so gently. Since I’ve been on a liquid fast, my goal is soft super-nutritious foods. I’m making a soup with a homemade bone broth base for protein and CALCIUM, with some small pieces of chicken in it as well, soft-cooked veggies (carrots, sweet potato, celery), a happy blend of balancing spices, a handful of sprouted beans, and (YAY!) sprouted quinoa. Oh, and mushrooms. And fresh ginger. Okay, I think that’s it. So it’s boiling to a lovely soft consistency while I try not to eat my own hand.

And of course small portions to start. Earlier I was trying to convince myself that I should break my fast with ice cream. But good sense won out *grin*

So a last assortment of insights and tips.

1. Expect that you will be a bit of a space cadet, and try to prevent stumbles. For example, my cat played the April Fool’s trick on me this morning of locking me out of the house at 5:00 a.m. No fun.
2. Don’t drink the lemonade right after brushing your teeth. Blech.
3. Rest when you need to rest. Sleep was harder than normal for me. Go with the flow.
4. And lastly, once more, because it always bears reiteration, LISTEN TO YOUR BODY. Do what you need to do, and don’t push it. This isn’t a competitive sport.

Bon appetit!

My kingdom for a straw. One thing I’ll say, I really don’t care much for the taste of the cleanse lemonade. I’m not a big fan of lemonade to start with, and the cayenne kick? Not so much. But I have friends who love the taste. Guess I’m just lucky. But yes, it occurred to me today that a straw would generally make this stuff more drinkable, and since the cayenne tends to settle a bit to the bottom, it’d also help for stirring it up while you’re drinking.

Normally I talk endlessly about food. Now all I have to discuss are the nuances of master cleanse lemonade. I’m going to be a happy girl this weekend—culinary freedom! So the plan is to break my fast Friday evening. Originally I’d thought to break it Saturday morning, but my growing experiences tell me Friday evening might be easier on my system. And here’s why.

This morning, getting up was harder, my energy was slower to rise, and I’m a morning person, so that’s definitely strange for me. However, once I was up I was definitely wide awake. But. When I went to drink my first cup of the day, I realized that the chugging method doesn’t work so well when you’ve been all night without anything in your stomach. So tomorrow morning, I’ll be sipping a bit more slowly until my stomach is “primed” for the day. No big deal, just felt a little bit nauseous, but I just sat with it, and it passed within five or ten minutes.

This morning’s slow start helped drive home another point: help yourself out in advance. It probably goes without saying, but make your lemonade the night before. Set out your clothes for the next day. Put gas in your car before you need it. Anything to cut yourself a bit of a break the next day.

My energy (once I got going) was still really high today, and the clarity of the senses continues. The body-awareness definitely intensified. It’s like I’ve been talking on a bad phone line all this time, and suddenly the static has lifted and I can hear my body so well. Pretty amazing. I did some very light cardio, just a mile or so of brisk walking, which felt great, and followed that later in the day with some gentle stretching.

As far as mindset, I feel very sharp and intense—yes, yes, I mean more intense than usual. Socializing is harder day by day, and brain to mouth filter is virtually non-existent. Once more I reiterate, no business meetings (thank you Kate). Frankly, I’d prefer to just have a whole week by myself next time I do this, just so I could be more fully present in the process and not distracted by work, friends, family, etc.

Oh, and ha! One more little bit of info: if you should decide to fast and use a laxative tea to help with flushing your system, only drink one cup, at least to start. Take my word for it :)   I got the Traditional Medicinals Smooth Move tea blend (I love their teas) and they said to drink before bedtime, no more than 3 cups a day. I drank two cups before bedtime. I was up every two hours. Too much information?

So I think that’s all I got for now. I’m going to go sit in the sunshine, read a bit, and go to bed early. Even earlier than usual. Two more days.

Day two of my fast is almost done, and I’m still alive!

Today I had my herbalism class, which was a blessing. Being engaged in something I find fascinating really helps one not to obsess over not eating. In the afternoon, we went on a short hike to look at the plants bursting forth enthusiastically. It was a beautiful day for it: golden light, a clean warm breeze, the brilliant new green of eager young leaves stood dramatically out against the gray and taupe and beige of the trees, the reddish crunch of fallen leaves, and the blue, blue sky.

I found that walking was very comforting for me. I don’t think I’d have the energy to do anything very strenuous, but just low-impact walking, or stretching, or yoga, it just feels delicious. It seems like I can feel more of my body, and my vision and hearing and (tauntingly) sense of smell all seem sharper. And although I find it more difficult to focus on one thing, like writing this post for instance, I find it remarkable how many things I can observe at one time, like living in wide lens, hearing, smelling, noticing things that normally I would have tuned out or missed entirely.

Still not having a big problem with hunger, though as a foodie I’m certainly missing the comfort and joy of cooking and eating, one of my favorite creative outlets. But I’m redirecting that energy toward the wonderful things I intend to prepare when my cleanse is over.

And my energy is still very good, in fact I seem to be more energetic than normal, which I didn’t expect. There are moments when I want to sit down and rest, but not in a sleepy way—more in a managing-my-energy-resources sort of way. Last night I was even surprised that I was still wide awake when I went to bed and had to meditate a bit to get to sleep.

So in summary, still going strong, definitely feeling shifts in awareness within my body. Walking and stretching are very soothing and lovely activities. Focused activities like reading, not so much.

More tomorrow!

Each spring, along with a thorough house cleaning, I like to do a thorough spring cleaning for my body as well, flush out the toxins and cobwebs of the past year. Not only do I find that this leaves me feeling refreshed and energized physically, but I think it helps me process things emotionally as well; muscle memory isn’t only about remembering movement patterns—our bodies store emotional experiences as well.

For the past few springs, spring cleaning has meant a strict raw foods diet in combination with additional fiber and supplements. However, this past year has been a doozy for me, and my mind and body both have been yearning for a deep cleanse. In a recent herbalism class, we learned about the “master cleanse” system and I’ve decided to give it a whirl this spring. Although most references suggest doing this cleanse for 10 days, my goal is five days, although I’m going to listen to my body in case I need to alter my plans—I’m not an ascetic, after all. Also, since I’m not really trying to lose weight, I followed the advice of Elson Haas’ article on the topic and increased the amount of maple syrup in my blend. See the recipe below, and my notes of the first day of my spring detox.

Master Cleanse Recipe (64 oz. - a full day’s batch)

2 quart Mason jar or other container
12 T. fresh-squeezed organic lemon juice
6 T. organic maple syrup (I used 9 T.)
½ t. cayenne
Pure filtered or distilled water

In your 2-quart jar, add the lemon juice, maple syrup (suggestions range from 6 to 12 tablespoons), cayenne. Add distilled water (about 60 ounces) till jar is full. Shake well to mix, and re-shake it every time before serving (otherwise the cayenne sinks to the bottom). This makes 4 pint servings—I have opted to have an 8 oz. cup of the lemonade eight times a day, about every two hours, to curb my cravings. Another consideration is that the lemon juice can be hard on your teeth, so you may want to opt for drinking your servings all at once at your “meal” times, rather than sipping constantly all day.

Other than the lemonade mix, it is suggested that one drink filtered water and herbal teas or laxative teas.

So here am I on Day One. Strangely, the hunger isn’t a huge issue—the craving for food is certainly there, but it’s not that debilitating “I’m starving!” belly pang. The cup serving every three hours seems to be working to keep me from getting too antsy for sustenance. My physical energy seems pretty good, I thoroughly enjoyed some deep stretching earlier and relished a feeling of being intensely grounded and present in my body. That said, even writing this post is a bit challenging—although I have a wonderful body hum and my sense of sight, smell, and hearing got more clear and pronounced as the day wore on, I think I’ve gotten so grounded in my body that my brain is a little spacey, and both my body and mind seem to be sort of floating through the day, rather than being direct and driven as they are normally wont to be.

So first day’s notes: Make sure you have plenty to do, but nothing requiring deep analytical thought, nor anything too physically demanding. Stretching is delicious. Music is lovely. I’m planning to enjoy an evening at the Barksdale Theatre this evening, but I don’t recommend business meetings while fasting—that bit of advice volunteered by Kate of Charlottesville’s Guerilla Yoga Project, a classmate who did the master cleanse a couple weeks ago, and I concede the wisdom therein. Oh, and don’t plan on any meal dates with friends or coworkers—it’s just taunting yourself. And of course, as ever: LISTEN TO YOUR BODY.

One day (almost) down, four more to go…

Has anyone else done seasonal cleansing or panchakarma? What was your experience?

I’ve been a self-described pacifist for a while now. I think of being a pacifist as sort of like being a member of Alcoholics Anonymous:  being a pacifist means that you admit that there is a problem—a  prevalence of physical and emotional violence in our relationships with people, with animals, with the earth—that you are no longer going to be a part of that problem, and that practicing nonviolence is a never-ending struggle.

My, my, the lessons we learn from our critters. I’m eating my humble pie, and here’s why.

A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine asked me to go check in on his dogs—for the purposes of this story, we’ll call his dogs Audrey and Piggy. He had recently started a new job and it was keeping him late, and naturally he was concerned that the change in schedule might be hard on them. Our dogs had met a couple times previously, and despite his statement that Audrey had aggression issues in the past, Audrey had seemed to do fine with my girl Rowan. So when my friend asked me to check in, neither of us thought there would be any problem with my going over there with Rowan, in fact we both thought it would be nice—they could get in a little play, romp a bit while I checked their food and water.

So Ro and I show up at my pal’s house, let ourselves in, puppies sniff each other like puppies do, and I let all three of them out back to relieve themselves. After a few minutes, I let them back in, and just as I turn around to fill up the water bowl, it starts. I have no clue what set it off, but both Audrey and Piggy were on top of my girl, one on either side of her, and within moments she was on her back, struggling to defend herself. Without thinking I jumped right in and was able to get Piggy back out the back door. But Audrey wouldn’t let go.

Time slowed down like it does in a crisis, and I found myself split somehow. Part of me was shrieking and pleading for Audrey to let go of Rowan. The other part of me was methodically searching through options, trying different strategies:

First, dominance—big voice, strong posture, command. No beans.

Second, trying to pry Audrey’s jaws off of Rowan. No good, plus a few cuts, and I’m lucky I didn’t get worse.

Third, a cutting board to try to stun the big dog, which did nothing but make it worse. At this point I’m pretty clear that I may actually be watching my dog die.

Lastly, my rational part saw a large chopping knife on the kitchen counter. While trying to keep my hands on Rowan to keep her body from being broken, I contemplated how best to kill her attacker. And then it happened. Ro had been screaming the whole time, but now she locked eyes with me, and she howled. At me. In one moment, all of my love and desperation just choked me. I love my girl. There aren’t even words. And she loves me. And I’ve never had children, but I imagine it’s a bit like that. To have someone that depends on you for care and protection, crying out to you for help, and to feel completely incapable, impotent, helpless. And at the same time, they remind you so thoroughly of who you are, who they need you to be.

And I could not kill that dog.

So I reached into my metaphorical toolkit and I asked for a tool. If I were a dog, I thought, what would I do to get Audrey to stop? And even as I reached for it, the tool was placed in my hand, without any doubt. I released both animals, got down on my belly, made soft sounds saying Audrey’s name—I made myself submissive. I don’t know if it was out of sheer shock or if Audrey really recognized my gesture, but regardless, he released my girl. Within seconds I had him out the back door.

Rowan and I were at the animal hospital till just past 2 a.m.

Ro is doing fine now. Stitches and staples are out now and she is mending well, in body and spirit. She’s still a little jumpy, understandably, but it’s getting better every day.

Me, I’m still digesting. I’ve been scared in my life, but I’ve never been as scared as I was that night. I’m still having dreams about it—there are many lessons here. But here’s what I’ve got so far.

1. Complacency is a bitch. Rowan has been a constant source of love and companionship for eight years, and she depends on me. I got sloppy, reckless, and I put her in a situation that could have gotten her killed—the warning signs were there. It won’t happen again, that’s for damn sure.
2. When the shit hits the fan, it’s a real test of what you believe. Being nonviolent is a lot easier when violence isn’t pounding on your door. I never thought it would be so hard to stay my own hand.
3. You can only find and use the tools that you’re willing to ask for. Now, I’m not recommending that if anyone gets into a dog fight they should go submissive. In my case, it worked, miraculously, but if I was looking objectively at the scenario I’d have to say it’s probably a really bad idea, harebrained, and reckless. But in the moment I was certain it would work. I asked for the tool, and I got it. Our rational, cynical minds can often forget the strength of intuition, instinct, clarity. Faith.
4. And lastly, Rowan is unequivocally the bestest pup ever. Period. No contest.

I’m a very grateful girl.

I was recently listening to an interview on NPR’s Fresh Air in which Terry Gross spoke with Bishop Gene Robinson. Fascinated, I listened as Robinson spoke of the role of prayer in his everyday life. His words were honest and simple when he spoke of how he had grown in prayer, that he (and most people) had started praying at first with words and requests, often repetitive, but as he aged and matured spiritually, his prayer grew into a deeper, non-verbal experience. I’m certain I’m not doing justice with my paraphrasing, but how he described this experience struck a chord…

Now I’m not a Christian, though I was raised in a Christian household, have studied it in-depth, and find it to be for the most part a noble philosophy. I have been struck time and again by the common experience of those walking a spiritual path. By spiritual path, I should clarify, I don’t necessarily mean a person who goes to church or temple or whatever motions designated as devout by their chosen religious group. A spiritual path, to me, is a commitment to challenging oneself and one’s ideas, of not taking anyone else’s (or any book’s) word for it, of living spiritually within this life, this world.

Such a path often leads to a common experience, and regardless of whether one calls it prayer or meditation, it is described with the same evocative images by people of all religions and paths: to be surrounded by a sensation of lightness/goodwill/peace/contentment, to feel that you are more expansive than your physical body, to rise above the mundane chatter and discomforts of the worldly moment, to gain a simple sense of clarity and objectivity and wordlessness, a sense of unity. One of my favorite authors, Phyllis Curott, describes it as a process of “unnaming.”

This led me to a thought: If so many have had this similar experience (putting aside the variations of vocabulary), why are so many convinced that theirs is the one True or Right way? Here’s the conclusion I drew.

We all start somewhere. Most of us got some early spiritual notions from our families, either conforming to or rebelling against their beliefs (or both!), but either is a reactive development. Our first independent spiritual experience is a coming of age, our first moment of being filled up to overflowing through prayer or meditation or just looking up into the vastness of a starry sky - it wells up, and we are changed. I’m certain there are people who go to church and never experience this bliss (to use Joseph Campbell’s term), as I’m certain there are people affiliated with no religious group or belief system that have nonetheless experienced it as profoundly as anyone.

Where we are when we have that first experience shapes our footsteps from that moment on. If we are in church, well, it stands to reason that it’s because of the Church or because of God’s love. If we are walking through the woods, it must be the encompassing energy of Mother Earth. Whatever we are doing, whomever we are with, whatever our affiliations or beliefs at that moment of lightness, like a duckling we cry out in recognition of that as our Mother (or Father), assuming that this is the reason this wonderful gift has been bestowed on us.

I think that everyone who attains this bliss, in that moment, is walking a True path, their personal True path, because it is what led them to that moment in the first place. Their path is not necessarily going to work for anyone else, and there is a beauty in that thought.

What a delightful thought, all these roads circling a globe and yet, in an impossible feat of physics, finding the same space and time, time and again!

Declaring a particular philosophy or dogma or religious group to be Right and True (generally to the exclusion of all others) is like plucking a flower. It is beautiful when first picked, but the very nature of the act separates the flower from its life force, its connection to that moment; it must be forced between the pages and trapped in time rather than continuing on in its own vital and vibrant cycles and seasons. Let the moment be. Nurture it gently, prune it occasionally, but let it grow, roots reaching deep into the earth of experience, leaves thrilling in a spontaneous wind.

It’s a long-standing rule of exchange that a thing is only worth as much as someone is willing to pay for it. As necessary or prized commodities grow rare, they correspondingly increase in value. A few easy examples that come immediately to mind are oil, gold, corn, saffron, or art. And for some of us, touch.

This thought came to me yesterday when I went to see my massage therapist. It seems that our society, our culture, is increasingly becoming one of alienation. Our media overwhelms us and largely replaces what previously would have been gleaned from personal interaction or the expansion of our imaginations by (gasp) reading a book, gardening, creating art, or making music. A trip to the doctor’s office for many of us consists of sitting and waiting for an absurd amount of time, flipping with disinterest the pages of some similarly mindless magazine, trying not to draw attention from the restless natives. The payoff of this purgatorial penance is a cold, bright room, a doctor who rarely if ever looks up from his chart, a minute or two of rapid interview and a piece of paper to cure (or mask) your affliction.

How much I cherish the healing arts, those practices of wellness that thrive on essential human nurturing. The massage therapist, the chiropractor, the acupuncturist, these are vocations that focus on curing the cause, not just treating symptoms, and maintaining wellness and health, preventing dis-ease (a concept I wish, with all my heart, the insurance companies would embrace) - all of this through personal attention, intention, and touch.

Of course these interactions are professional and clinical, but also deeply comforting. There is a therapy that goes beyond kneading tissues and manipulating spines, a therapy of knowing the comfort of someone else’s hand on your body with healing intent. We open ourselves, we let down our defenses, we accept and are accepted. Such acceptance, that kind of touch, is a highly valuable commodity. Whether in the massage room or on the acupuncturist’s table, my meager funds are willingly traded for this deeper healing, with great gratitude to a person with such a calling.

Too many times have I withheld touch from someone, or when it’s been withheld from me, and the resulting and intense need that follows can be suffocating. On the other hand (and happily a much more common occurrence in my life), being welcomed warmly into a friend’s arms, being kissed fully by a loved one, the spontaneous and frank expression of fondness is a beautiful and simple joy. Touch, to me, is priceless.

Moo. I want to meet my cow.

I’m a person with a mission people. I recently got my very own cow share, and I want to meet my cow. For those of you who don’t know what a cow share is, it is an arrangement in which I legally purchase a share in an animal, thereby entitling me to a portion of its raw milk. My specific arrangement is with Avery’s Branch Farms, a family-run operation out of Amelia, Virginia. The family gets a secure long-term investment covering the costs of keeping their cows, and every week I get a sweet, creamy gallon of raw milk from a grass-fed happy (named Sunshine), plus raw butter, happy chicken eggs, raw cheese, etc., upon request.

And I want to meet my cow.

Think for a moment about what you eat in a week. Can you pronounce most of the ingredients? Does it come in a disposable package? How many hands working for how many companies and corporations have touched it? How many miles were driven and how much gas was consumed moving the product between the original ingredients, the suppliers, the distributors, and who knows how many other middlemen, before it reached its spot in your supermarket-of-choice? How much are the farmers paid, at the root of any such equation? How do they treat the land, or their animals? These questions, and the fact that I cannot answer most of them, disturb the hell out of me.

So many of our consumables (is that a word?) end up in our cupboards or refrigerator in packages bearing no resemblance to their original source. Beef comes from cows people, it doesn’t just grow into steaks like cabbage patch kids. And I like to eat meat sometimes, but I also like to know my food comes from an ethical source.

So I’ve made a decision. As much as possible, I want to consume responsibly. I want to know exactly where my “stuff” is coming from, that my money is going to support sustainable farmers, not brand-name “organic” and “free range” mega-farm monstrosities that make a mockery of those very ideals. I want to shake the hand of the person that cultivated my food, and know that we are supporting each other, that the money I spend with them to nourish my body is in turn going to be recirculated within our local community – that’s sustainable.

Beyond that, I want to be able to pronounce all the ingredients in my food and not eat anything with corn syrup in it unless I’m adding it myself (mmm… caramel corn…), to know how my eggs and veggies and rice and meat get to my table, exactly where they come from.

So here’s what I’m doing. I’m going to the local farmers’ markets. I’m trying to eat whole foods, in season, sustainably farmed right here in Virginia without use of chemicals, hormones, antibiotics, pesticides or the like. For those staples that I cannot garner from local farms directly (such as rice or olive oil), I’m seeking out companies directly, informing myself and choosing whom I want to support. I will continue to enlarge my garden year by year and learn more about growing my own food and herbs. I learn to make other foods myself – cheese, yogurt, wine, kombucha, etc. I will eat food that is tastier, healthier, fresher, and I will bask in the goodness and wholesomeness. Or I’ll just say “yum.”

So I’m going to meet my cow. I’ll keep you posted…