Archive for the ‘Eco’ Category
yep. i am trying *that hard* to come up with visuals.
So my wife has declared that we are embarking on a new adventure entitled “The Master Happiness Project”. The outline of it is vague to me still, but it appears to involve not being the yuppie scum my sister declared we had turned into when we showed up for Thanksgiving in a Prius and I stopped wearing concert tees.
She cites a few examples of what changes we’ll make: not using plastic storage bags and walking more. I have reason to believe it ultimately involves not using paper towels, since this all began after she had watched “No Impact Man”, a documentary about a young family in NYC going carbon-zero for one year.
I adore paper towels. I spent my childhood as the obedient daughter of conservationist naturalists who baked their own bread and eschewed hotels for campsites. Part of the joy of turning thirty was the realization that regardless of my heritage, I was not required to stare at the ocean and contemplate eternity, and that fashion could be artful, brilliant and life-changing, rather than just vapid, soul-killing consumerism. I LOVE hotels. I can’t wait until my next bite of artisanal French chocolate. What can I say.
She ultimately wants to bump our life quality up a few notches in a permanent way, which is obviously awesome. And I’m down with walking to the library and riding a bike (assuming said bike is chic, weathered and light blue. A girl has a right to make her mark.) But it’s very hard to jump on board a train going into the fog, especially when your life is already crammed full of activity and you just want to make it stop and spend two days in bed watching Almost Famous. And clean up with an eco-friendly cleaner and the quick swipe of a paper towel.
I am down for this plan and I trust my brilliant wife who is, in the end, the one everyone feels cool just knowing. And I’ve been kicking her ass for YEARS, making her stay up late, drink coffee, go to acoustic shows while she was secretly gagging and plotting her escape. It’s time for her to kick my ass for awhile. But if you see me walking around in clogs and carrying a weathered copy of Walden, please come and hand me a glass of mind blowing Pinot Noir. ‘Cause I’ll need it.
There is a humongous two-story flax plant in my front yard that threatens to envelop the neighborhood. It eclipses the Volvo. It sits like a giant pineapple next to the front porch, providing a misshapen privacy screen between our front window and the sidewalk. Its eight-foot leaves whack you on the head when you’re pulling the recycling can out, and the snail population that lives within its folds (an overachieving variety that seems to not understand the concept of a “snail’s pace” but rather hauls it en masse from one side of the sidewalk to the other while I’m grabbing a grocery bag out of the car) is healthy to say the least. The gardeners must whack it back weekly along the sides, so that it has a little upside down mullet: short spikey on the bottom and long and lovely on the top.
When we bought the house years ago, the flax plant was a three-foot, decorative feature among what I considered to be a fashionable assortment of grasses on a landscaped mound. I envisioned that the stark modernity of our slate grey stucco and blue-black door would eventually be softened as we added in structural, tropical greenery: reeds, elephant ear, papyrus. We would update the fencing around the house someday with the ultra-cool horizontal slats of eco-friendly Ipe that we used in the back. All of this would provide the perfect setting in which to screen black and white art films along the side of the house as we entertained and cocktailed hipster neighbors and recalled tales of backpacking through Indonesia. A Mazurka band would play ironically in the background as platters of amazing food were enjoyed. It would be the art that we feel in our hearts daily, manifested into a warm, vibrant and intelligently curated space.
In actuality, the yard was never updated with well-placed tropicals but rather with unwanted leftovers from a client’s landscape installation, and sparingly. We meant to have tall bouganvillea fluttering along the porch grate by now but somehow ended with three inch rockroses and a repotted houseplant that grew too outrageous for the kitchen. The mulch badly needs re-doing. That dark cool-kid black paint is peeling off the sidewalk and front door.
Life, just plain life, has been complicated these last few years. When we bought our house, our child then two years old, the gods seemed to smile down on us. Problems and solutions were syncopated. We felt things solidify and developed family goals (a fun and mysterious concept to two adults from dynamic single-parent households). Our careers stretched out and expanded and the sun just seemed to shine on everything we touched. I loved that time.
But, as the our child grew, the economy collapsed and our professional challenges mounted, we became stressed out about the things we were expecting to enjoy. I regularly returned home from work after the baby had been put to bed, having missed her entire day. I began to use my creative energy for work projects, rather than personal ones. The rented upright piano I had once relied so heavily on for late-night therapy did not fit into the 1940’s living room with the needs of the family, and off it went. We tried desperately to keep up with things: making time for each other, cramming in trips to the coast (during which I was eternally checking my blackberry and running off to make phone calls) and find the drive to stay interested in the world, but we ended up learning how to just buckle down and grind it out. It felt horrible to divest in my family, even though it was the right choice. We did not thrive, but we survived.
One morning several weeks ago, with the sun beginning to travel a stronger path across the backyard, I wandered outside, still my in pj’s and very much pre-coffee. I found myself suddenly, maniacally, pulling every houseplant I could find out on the back patio and pulling each out of its dry and cracked plastic liner, and too-tight pot. For several hours I filled new, bigger ones with sweet, healthful soil and a long drink of water, placing each shallow tangle of roots deep and tight. The sun grew stronger and I tossed my slippers into the bushes and rolled up the legs of my pants. The dogs wandered in and out of my workspace, hungry for breakfast but curious enough about my odd behavior to hold off on begging. I realized I hadn’t spent this much time outside by myself in, literally, years.
Since that afternoon, I have fantasized daily about taking a machete to the monster flax plant in the middle of the night. Some new neighborhood mandate about plant height will leave us with no choice but to dig all 300lbs of it from the earth and put it on craigslist. Or we may just get to the point where we just can’t stand it anymore and something has got to change, no matter how irrational it seems. And plant an olive tree where something overbearing and ill-fitting once stood.
I simply adore making a single drip cup of coffee in the morning. It allows me such control (too much, really) over the acidity, temperature and strength of the brew that I can make it to my exact perfectionist standards.
So every morning while my wife brews a regular old pot of coffee for herself, I turn on the kettle and grind the beans for my single cup. This involves, currently, your basic plastic filter cone pictured here, which fits directly on top of my cup:
There is certainly nothing wrong with this practice.. it's economical and easy to clean since the paper filter one inserts is removed when the coffee is ready, and is just tossed into the compost. A quick rinse on your cone, let it drip dry (and I love mine so much it has a permanent hook on the side of the kitchen cupboard) and you're done!
Or so I thought. Bodum has gone and made a mockery of my little plastic filter cone.
The "Dripper" is made entirely of glass and consists of a jug, and a separate filter cone that seals when pressed onto the base. One would place a filter (this one comes with the pictured gold filter, no pedestrian paper used here) into the cone, add the grinds, pour in the hot water. Once the coffee is made, the filter cone is lifted off and a glass lid seals the heat in so one can enjoy the coffee without having to gulp it down while it's hot.
The lines are intentionally simple, and it seems almost 1940's with its lack of flourish. I really like utilitarian kitchen design items and always worry about how overkitsched things will age with my kitchen. I have fears of someday being surrounded by country bear platters and fleur de lis(es), and wondering how I wandered so far astray.
My friend Rich the Triathlete loves coffee as much as I do but is infinitely more concerned with heat factor. He can't stand to drink warm coffee and wants every sip to be as piping-searing hot as possible (the latte bowls I use for special friends obviously don't go over well with him as they cool the coffee before you can say "good morning"). The Dripper would surely have a fan in Rich and, likely, the rest of us.
It's dishwasher safe, won't absorb the good coffee oils, and is practical, blah blah blah.
I feel again as though I'm finally wearing my fresh pair of Esprit jeans, only to find out they went out of style yesterday.
We recently went to the Oakland Lakeshore Farmer's Market after nearly a yearlong absence. It's always been a pretty big deal, with the kid entertainment, produce and fruit purveyors from one end of the Bay to the other (and far beyond- Rainbow Orchards from ElDoradoCounty has a booth!), live music, loads of specialty booths like the rotisserie chicken guy and the oyster guy, and of course great food booths where one can find amazing snacks such as a Himalayan chicken pita, a vegan soul food plate, organic beef tamales or fresh samosas.
These things all in check, I felt at home again. We grabbed a macaroon (family fave, and it better be for $3 a pop) and settled into the grassy hill among the natives. But slowly, the crowd evolved and it became clear that something had changed. Once a cute meet-up and coffee spot on a Saturday morning, it is now a bonafide scene, with hot girls of all persuasions, shirtless toned dads, rasta families, college kids, cool grannies, hipsters and yes, moms with strollers. It's like a rainbow celebration of humankind and the best of Oakland all at once. The music used to be a simple guitar based trio. Now, it's a full-on multi-culti dance party (last week started Soca and turned HipHop in a matter of minutes and ended up Reggaeton) with folks bouncing and shaking it on the cement music area to the point that the musicians were completely obscured. All hands in the air, sweaty good old fashioned dance party. It can best be described as going OFF. And in broad daylight!
I was tempted to join the party but had bumped into an old friend who apparently goes weekly with her hipster friends, and we had just settled down for a coconut espresso on the shady grass where my daughter was doing laps around us to burn energy. The water fountain was shooting away and kids were stripping down to panties and sandals while the parents cruised other parents. You know how it is; checking their presentation on some sort of point system.. the less of a "parent" you look like the better.. women all bespangled with cool calm hip Oakland vibe, young men who could obviously be out playing but are attentively pushing their baby stroller instead (and even a happily married dyke such as myself is not immune to the sex appeal of that occurence).
So instead I people-watched in amazement. Clearly, this is where the beautiful people come to buy their organic produce and then stick around to see and be seen. My wife, clad in a tshirt that proclaims the name of our daughter's preschool and a basic pair of shorts and converse felt incredibly underdressed. Or maybe just under-hip. It occured to me, watching these packs of incredibly cute looking dykes strolling the venue (single and childless for sure, but not all that young and still looking tight!) that we don't even have the wardrobe anymore to front like the farmer's market crowd. A Power Look for interfacing with some snobby real estate broker? Check. Casually comfortable done with luxury labels and a handbag that makes the Marina chicks drool? Check. But Oaklandish-cool we don't really do. I'm pretty sure I don't even speak that language anymore. But I see it, and I recognize it and I kinda sorta think I need to at least remember how that feels, so I'm sure that I'm not just getting old and cranky and selling my uniqueness short for a Max Azria sundress (and oooooh how I love them).
In the end I was thrilled (slight ego bruise aside) to see such great representation of what Oakland consists of. This incredibly communal feeling energy and such beautiful representation of every possible color of skin, all mixed families from every possible background coming together. I love it here. Now if I could only remember where I put my edge. I think it's buried somewhere under a pile of skinny jeans.
This hotel spotlight goes to Costanoa Resort, which lies along Highway 1, just North of Santa Cruz. Beautifully landscaped and simply but elegantly outfitted, this sprawling retreat aims to encourage visitors to take in the gorgeous locale (situated next to four state parks and 30,00 acres of undisturbed coastal land) and take a damn walk (something we rarely plan into our travel itineraries, no?)
The approach to Costanoa, a eucalyptus-lined meandering drive just a few hundred feet from the shore, indicates a peaceful and unique experience ahead. Costanoa’s lodge-style restaurant and modern wood cabins, visible from the main road, add to that effect. By the time your room key is in hand, you’re smelling the sweet foggy air and pulling out your hiking boots. You can check your business-casual at the door: the restaurant happily serves fine meals and cold beer to patagonia-clad guests just back from a day at the beach or an afternoon exploring nearby Ohlone Ridge.
Accommodations are happily varied. Those seeking creature comforts stay in the lodge. Rooms are appointed with unbleached cotton and eco-friendly touches are evident throughout. Design is best described as modern organic, with smart resource-saving details such as closets covered with cotton curtains rather than wooden doors, waxed paper-lamp shades and deck chairs made from recycled milk jugs.
Alternately, there are the formerly mentioned wood cabins, which overlook a soft meadow filled with trails, wildflowers and local fauna.
For the more adventurous, several styles of decorated and well-appointed tent cabins dot the Northern end of the resort, each with a campfire pit, grill, and easy pull-up unloading (one car per site). The high maintenance camper will feel at home here with heated mattress pads, reading lamps, and daily maid service. A “comfort station” is situated closely to each cabin, containing showers, a sauna, and a large outdoor fireplace, perfect for uncorking a bottle of wine and taking in the sunset.
It’s not a roughing-it experience Costanoa aims to offer, just in case you’re rolling your eyes. Sure, it’s not camping, and there is certainly much to be said for (and learned from) a weekend in the quiet of the woods where we can’t use our BlackBerrys or read the paper. One will not need to consider whittling sticks into daggers to hunt for dinner here, or roast said dinner on an open fire while chanting “hakuna matata”, dancing in war paint made from wild berries.
Costanoa just wants you to relax, and come back down to earth a little, with the least bit of effort. And for a weekend outdoors within short driving distance from the Bay Area, where I throw jeans and a few tees in my bag and head off down the glorious coast, I’ll take it.