Steroids in the Fields Not Just on Them

From headline about Michael Phillips smoking pot to Alex Rodriguez taking steroids, drugs continue to be a focus in our society. Yet I rarely see any of this put into a societal context, let alone a culinary one. Why shouldn’t athletes do “performance enhancing” drugs?

Usually our society is all about performance enhancing. If “the clear” or “the cream” increased bushels of corn per acre rather than Barry Bonds’ home runs BALCO would still be in business. Ball players are not supposed to take human growth hormones, but it’s ok to give our cows bovine growth hormones? From corked bats to greased balls baseball has a long history of doing whatever to get an edge. Football players bulk up to hundreds of pounds without anyone questioning what the long term effects of that size will have on their health. Certainly the new swimsuits and pool design influenced the record number of new world records set in the Beijing Olympics. No one seems to be advocating that everyone should ride the same bike for the Tour de France. So it can’t be just about level playing fields, or not using whatever technological improvement is out there. In some convoluted way the issue of health must be a part of it.

My objection to steroid use is rooted in health. I don’t think the short term benefit in performance justifies the long term health damages. It’s the same reason I’m opposed to chemical agriculture. Although my concern in our food system is not just with the health of the plants, or even just those who eat them, I care about the health of the whole planet.

Saint Louis isn’t just the home of Mark Maguire’s Cardinals; it’s also the home of Monsanto, one of the largest agricultural chemical and genetically modified seed companies in the world. We don’t know for certain that Maguire used steroids, and we don’t know for certain all of the ramifications of gmo seed. With individual people I’m a big advocate of innocent until proven guilty (I try to follow that in my personal relationships besides wanting it to be a cornerstone of our justice system.) When the outcome is of more than just some sporting event, but instead the well being of every plant and animal on the planet, I’d employ the precautionary principle--if an action or policy might cause severe or irreversible harm to the public or to the environment, in the absence of a scientific consensus that harm would not ensue, the burden of proof falls on those who would advocate taking the action.

There is scientific evidence that Monsanto’s Round Up causes abnormalities in the reproductive organs of amphibians, increased rates of miscarriage in agriculture communities where it is widely sprayed, and yet I rarely spend a day in Sonoma County where I don’t see the tell-tale sign of yellowing dying vegetation from it having been sprayed. While Round Up Ready gmo seed is the largest segment of the gmo market.

As the highest paid athlete in baseball, A-Rod makes millions and his taking steroids might encourage youngsters to put their own health at risk, and that is a shame. But it pales in comparison to the milk board which has paid hundreds of celebrities to wear milk mustaches and promote milk from cows raised on bovine grown hormone. It pales in comparison to the billions made on chemical agriculture that is destroying the bios. And it pales in comparison to a culture that always seems to advocate for more home runs or more bushels of corn without at least stopping to think about the long term health consequences for everyone. What I’d tell Alex is what I’d tell society and large multinational corporations: Just because you can do something (and perhaps never get found out), doesn’t mean you should do it. I’ve found it takes more strength to control my urges than it does to just swing for the fences.

Drought

As I type this I can feel the sunshine streaming through the window behind me warming my back. After a clear cold night, with lots of stars visible, which led to a hard frost in the morning, we are on our way to another 60 degree day. As one who suffers from SAD and likes to be warm, part of me feels happy. Yet I also feel like I’m in the beginning of some strange disaster movie, or Twilight Zone episode. Climatic patterns are changing and becoming less stable. In northern California we are having one of the lowest rainfalls in decades.

Last week I was pruning roses at OAEC and discussing the situations with Dougo whose been gardening on that amazing piece of land for nearly thirty years. The pond which normally irrigates all the gardens there is at about 1/3 of capacity. The community is working on a strategy. Best case is that we get lots of late season rain, but with each passing day that becomes less likely. Instead large sections of the garden will probably not be planted and what water there is will be used to keep the perennials alive and healthy.

All of this has led me to think about priorities in gardening and in agriculture. Where I live we have a well and hopefully I won’t have to overly restrict my gardening usage. But irregardless, the concept of water shortages is something we will all need to come to terms with in future years. After urinating in your toilet, the water there is cleaner than the majority of the world’s drinking water, and most Americans flush it away without so much as a thought.

Choosing what to plant is always a challenge for those of us who don’t need to sustain ourselves from own land. I’m always struck by the multitude of tomatoes grown in people’s backyards, my own included. For years, and probably still in some locations, when all that was available in stores were tasteless mass produced tomatoes I easily understood why to grow your own heirloom variety. Yet if we look at gallon of water per nutrition it would be hard to make a case for tomatoes. They are a nightshade of questionable nutrition value, although what is nutritious is a whole subject unto itself.

Currently agricultural policy focuses on bushels per acre. Looking for quantities that can be increased and easily measured, to instead look for qualities such as nutritious would be far more challenging. Health in all its forms is hard to measure, kind of like happiness. Our cherished Declaration of Independence tells us we have the right to pursue happiness but doesn’t offer many clues, let alone detailed instructions, on what happiness is. The USDA food pyramid’s concept of nutrition is far different than my own understanding but it would at least offer us a starting point.

I don’t know the answer to our growing water shortages, and am fairly certain there are no easy answers. I would however be delighted if people just began to reflect on water usage. The policies we each implement are important although in California residential water usage pales compared to industrial agricultural use. When there is a problem the first step is realizing and recognizing its existence. Then we can begin to contemplate changes, and hopefully eventually implement them on large scales. While preparing for the upcoming growing season lets all start thinking more about water. Let’s realize we have a limited amount of water to spend and spend it wisely. Let’s give thanks for the this big blue ball of mainly water and realize that water allows all of those other colors, flavors and nutrition to grow in our gardens.

Ordering Seeds

As I wipe away my tears from watching Obama’s First Inaugural Speech, I reflect on this time of year. As a gardener it is when I look through the seed catalogues. I dream about what my garden will be like in the full glow of summer. I choose what seeds to order, still fantasying that they will all germinate, all grow up beautiful, all be bountiful.

My country and my friends seem to have that same dream for our country. Since this is not my first season I know that won’t happen. I remember that sometimes the most beautiful flower in my garden was not planted by me. It might be the volunteer plant returning from a forgotten previous planting. Sometimes it is some “weed” brought by a bird or perhaps which has laid dormant there for years.

For those seeds which I do order, I don’t know what the weather will be like. When I used to be a caterer at almost every wedding I would be asked if it was going to rain. To which I’d sassily answer if I knew that, or could control it, I wouldn’t have to work as a caterer. We never know what the future holds, but we can make some assumptions based on past experience. It will be warm, sunny and dry during the northern California summer. How wet the spring will be varies, but I can somewhat influence that with my watering habits. In these conditions many if not all of my seeds will germinate.

Currently my compost is ripening. Some of my beds have been prepped and others need more attention. I have to plan out not only what seeds to get but where they will all go. All too often I’m unrealistic in this, thinking somehow I will be able to fit in all the plants that strike my fancy. I’ll have to make decisions about how many flowers to feed my soul versus vegetables to feed my belly, while leaving room for the herbs which will maintain my health and season my meals.

Despite my best efforts and years of practice the current dream garden of winter will not be found in the real garden of summer. Over the years in some ways they have grown more alike, but more importantly I have grown able to enjoy both. The failures have become my friends, opportunities for learning, a chance to embrace the serendipity. I have learned many new steps in my dance with nature. I have learned that sometimes I lead and sometimes she does. I have learned not to step on her toes (too often), and delighted in having her between my own.

I have lots of hope, I’m not sure how much virtue. My commitment will ebb and flow, but I will show up regularly if not daily. I will leave my little rental yard, better than it was when I found it. Filled with dreams and flowers. Healthier soul, and many healing intentions planted for later occupants. Monocultures of grass lawn replaced with herbs and vegetables. New seeds buried for others to discover. It will be a garden of dreams in all seasons—some realized and some waiting to express their potential. Hopefully four years from now, in his Second Inaugural, Obama will be able to tell us about what has flourished in our nation.

New Year

As one year winds down and another begins a familiar line of prayer from my youth echoes in my head; “We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things we ought not to have done.” Although it can take on the feeling of guilt I instead see it as a simple statement of fact, a true statement of the human condition. It can be applied to the too much candy I’ve eaten in the last few weeks and the too little fresh vegetables which have left me sick from my trip to New York to see family and friends. Yet it also seems to me a way to clean the slate. Just lay the truth out there and ask for forgiveness so one can try again.

I’m often struck by the word practice and where and how often it crops up. I have my yoga practice and I’m a practicing Christian. In both of these I see why practice works so much better than perfect. And in both I feel what is most important is showing up and trying.

So that’s what I’m going to do with my writing and this blog too. I’m not going to promise what I won’t deliver. I’m certain that I won’t post 365 times but 52 is possible as is somewhere in between those two. And I hope to write something somewhere every day, if it sees the light of day or not—if no one else reads it or not.

Last year at this time I was in India for a yoga retreat and ayurvedic teacher training with Shiva Rea and James Bailey. After that I attended the Yoga Journal Conference and then spent the most intense four months of my life in Laughing Lotus’s teacher training. I feel like in my ways I’m a different person a year later. Every morning I look in the mirror and see a new person. Sure in many ways the changes our subtle and sometimes, somehow sneak up on me. When did that vertical wrinkle over my left eye start? And why can’t I just relax it away? I also see the same twinkle in my eyes that I see in baby photos—same cow lick too.

In many traditions the rebirth of the light is celebrated at this time. In Christianity the birth of Jesus—the light of the world-- is honored. When I was back East I got to spend time with one of my best friends who is currently pregnant. I’m excited about the possibilities literally growing inside her. I also got to see my beloved niece who I hadn’t seen in over two years, actually got to see both of my nieces. (My friend intends to have her baby in the same hospital my niece was born at, as was my other best friend’s baby.) The difference between a 12 year old and 14 year old is startling. I feel sorrow about not having seen her in so long, trying to figure out what has changed and what remains the same.

It is that understanding of what remains the same which comforts me in both my yoga and Christianity, as well as when I look in the mirror. I know that my love of my niece is unwavering. Her presence fills me with a joy I doubt she understands and I’m certain as a teenager she’d have a hard time expressing—I know I did at that age.

One of the things I learned, or relearned, in India is how much of what we take as a given, as reality is just a cultural construct. For example, the concept of a fixed price is a firm reality in many transactions in America and hardly any in India. When the year begins or ends is also just a construct. I started writing this in the end of December and now it is almost the end of the first week of January—either day could be considered the end of the year, as could any day. Which reveals to me that I can try today to do those things left undone (like finishing this post, along with more significant tasks) and I can stop doing other things (which I won’t get into now.) I hope you join me in beginning anew. Eat better, do more yoga, love with an open heart and whatever else calls to you. Find the Divine in 09!

Randy S Golland

Randy had a smile that could light up a room and he knew how to use it—that impish look which had him perpetually seeming too young to even buy cigarettes. He came to work for me when I first opened Evangeline’s in 1991, one of the first people my partner Andrew hired. He quickly became a cornerstone of our team, and we both learned from him as he learned with us. Randy was the one who dragged me reluctantly out of the kitchen to talk to our guests, which became one of my favorite activities. He’d whisper their name in my ear and tell me some tidbit about them, making me look better than I was—a skill he manifested in many situations. Over time he became not just my friend and roommate but truly although it sounds cliché, one of my soul mates. We had an intense relationship and we saw each other’s shadow side as well as our better sides. We not only had each other’s backside, we needed each other too. After Andrew and I parted ways, I made Randy my manager.

No night of work was complete without going over service, working to improve ourselves and the guests’ experience. I always considered it a point of pride that after every shift all of the Evangeline’s krewe still wanted to be together and we’d all sit enjoying a shift drink and playing dice. I was glad that even after a hard day and night of working together we all still enjoyed each other’s company and Randy helped set that tone. Not to mention joining me in taking much of the tips from that night into our pockets with our “skill” at ship, captain, crew. That money rarely made it to the next morning for we’d head out into town. People looked out for the Evangeline’s gang rolling into their establishment, it meant things would get lively and that there would be activity—something those of us in the service industry thrive on. There was a point in time when the two of us knew how to do the “z” and close for every bar in Telluride. A decade since working in restaurants I still miss that part of the night after the guests leave, counting money and telling war stories—at our place and then again wherever the night ended. With Randy it never was about the money, it was about doing the job right. He really knew it was “the service industry” and not only took personal pride in his ability to serve but brought it out in others too.

Randy and I always teased each other along that classic front of the house/back of the house divide but we had one of the least divided restaurants. I’d go out and sell an expensive bottle of wine to a table and tell him I could do his job but he couldn’t do mine. One slow night my Sous chef, Suzanne and he changed places. Randy worked at my side on the line without burning me or any of the food, and although many guest didn’t get their bread Suzanne held her own in front too. But anyone who ever saw Randy work a room knew that was his calling. He had an ease and grace working tables the way great athletes are playing their sport. I saw him evolve and become a great manager, hopefully teaching him some skills in that area. He was always more of a natural than I am in dealing with people, guests and staff alike. I think he was born flirting. I’m pretty sure regardless of what Saint Peter’s ledger on his life looks like, he’ll be able not just to sweet talk his way past the Pearly Gates, but will find a choice spot, close to the action.

His ability to flirt also led him to always having beautiful girlfriends. Yet it was with Kate that he finally seemed to find what he been searching for. They made each other better, and I was proud to be able to be at their wedding. Although it startles me to think that Fourth of July five years ago was the last time I saw Randy, and now saddens me to realize it will always be the last time. At least it leaves me with happy memories. Through phone calls and emails we tried to stay in touch. I felt connected with them as they struggled to have a child, and could feel their joy when Cole was born. With Kate, her family and then their son Randy seemed to have found a family.

Although I want to dwell on those good points, I can’t not mention the dark side; it too was a place Randy and I went together. None of us know what goes on in the other’s head, even the head of those we love. There was a hurt and hurting side of Randy. Hopefully he’ll be able to find a place past that pain on the other side. I hope that his tragic death can help me and others learn not to avoid the pain—I think it’s part of the human experience—but find a way to get past it in the here and now. A way that unfortunately Randy seemed to have found but then lost when he needed it most.

It is unclear how he ultimately died, but there were several suicide attempts and a long battle with Jose Cuervo. Alcoholism and suicide are subjects we aren’t supposed to talk about. But I wonder if that taboo was part of what doomed Randy. I don’t think he was ever able to make peace with his own father’s suicide. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in America has a suicide only a degree or two away. Keeping silent about these tragedies hasn’t stopped them from reoccurring. Instead it seems to just eat away at our happiness more trying to suppress their memories and hurt.

The music I love most and which I shared with Randy is music that shines light on the wonderful world and the dark one as well. We all suffer, sharing that load with each other and with a power greater than us individually is the only way I’ve ever found to be free of it. It is through my tears that I’ve found the Lord far more often than when in fits of laughter. The greatest change I’ve experienced since Randy and I were in Telluride together is being willing and better able to shine light on all parts of myself—all those dark corners where my pains hide. They don’t seem to like the light, and they do dissipate when we truly deeply examine them, when I can overcome my fear and really face them. Hopefully Randy’s pain and suffering can help us all find peace and joy.

His joy will always reside with me. To invert and paraphrase Shakespeare, I offer the prayer that:

“The good (and beauty) of Randy lives after him,
The pain will be interred with his bones.”
Amen

Nawlins

The heat and humidity rolled down the aisles towards and then over me, it had surged into the plane as soon as they opened the cabin door. I was standing in my row nervous and excited. As I walked out of the airplane the sounds of good music was the next thing to engulf me—good music in a public space seemed strange. As the golf cart bar rolled by a sense of being somewhere different certainly filled me, and yet I felt like I had come home. It was my first trip to New Orleans and although I had never been there before, in this life, the sense of New Orleans as my spiritual home remains to this day some twenty seven years later.

The first concert I ever went to had been some six years before that—the Meters (from New Orleans) opening for the Stones at Madison Square Garden. When I went to New Orleans for my college interview at Tulane, I didn’t know that New Orleans music would become the sound track to my life. I certainly did not even have the glimmer of the idea that New Orleans food would become a central part of my career.

I’m a very different person, fortunately, than I was at Eighteen and went for that first visit. Different than I was a year and half later when I started Tulane. Yet the house mate I moved off campus with in the fall of ’82 I’m honored to still consider my best friend. We’ve had our ups and downs but I’m glad she still puts up with me, especially since my cooking put 15 pounds on her that first year we lived together. I don’t use butter and cream as my two main ingredients any more, although I think pure pasture raised organic dairy is a key to true health.

After becoming a Sous Chef in New Orleans I moved away to chase my culinary dreams. Yet no matter how far I wandered or how far my cooking evolved, I still do know what it means to miss New Orleans. And right now I hope I won’t miss her forever. I haven’t been able to visit this year, and as with an old relative the fear that you won’t get to say that last goodbye is with me now.

Perhaps it is crazy to build a city that averages six feet below sea level. It certainly is crazy to not do everything in our collective power to save the most unique culture in America. It is crazy to have our most famous river upon which New Orleans sits so dysfunctional that pre-Katrina Louisiana was losing 18 square miles of land annually.

When I go to bed I will say a prayer for my darlin’ New Orleans. The place that has led to more of my dearest friendships than anywhere else; the place that has led to more of my biggest smiles than anywhere else; and the place that has led to more of my greatest culinary creations than anywhere else. I’ve changed a lot since even Katrina three years ago, yet New Orleans will always be one of my homes!

Boxed In

The NY Times recently had an article about drinking outside the box. The article touted how higher quality wines, especially in Italy, were being released in boxes. The writer, Tyler Colman, saw this as “going green” and I hear that green is the new black.

Yet I don’t wear a lot of black. I like the cacophony of multiple colors. Black as a wardrobe color gained prominence because it was easy, no need to figure out the mood just slip on the black outfit. With me the mood it creates is somber and I can already wake up feeling somber I want to throw on a color that energizes me—something which cheers me up, makes me feel joyous about leaving the warm, comfortable confines of my beloved bed.

But I digress—something I also like to do and which I intend to do frequently in my blog. I try to teach a non-linear understanding of the world, but often I’m forced in a class or a piece of writing to express the curvilinear and circular understanding in a formal linear manner—not today! Going green is complex. It is a process and not a destination. THERE CANNOT BE ONE THING THAT IS GREEN. The numerous responses posted to the Times article indicates some of the complexity. Yes putting wine in a lighter weight box will require less energy to transport it long distances. But how is the plastic made? What health effects are there from putting an acidic liquid in a plastic lining? And the list goes on. This is an issue I see all the time. As a chef, gardener, ecologist and educator frequently people ask me what is the most green thing to eat. Still trapped in the box of looking for “the” answer, and there are many answers. It is a complex matrix with different variables at different times.

I favor local over “certified organic”. I think relationships are more important and more reliable than any stamp being issues by the government. Being able to go to a Farmers Market and have a conversation with the person who grew my food is important to me. I do eat some items that have been shipped from far away, but I try to do so consciously and in moderation. I’m about to go down to San Francisco and pick up a case of 2005 Chateau Beaucastle, one of my favorite CDPs. There would have been less energy used to ship it to me in a box rather than in glass but I’m planning on waiting several years to drink it. In fact I’ll derive pleasure, and a certain amount of discomfort since patience is not my virtue, from the waiting. Anticipating and fantasying about how it will taste when it’s ready. Likewise I only eat local strawberries. So in the spring I get excited when I start seeing the plants in my gardens start to flower, knowing they will eventually bear fruit. It becomes tempting to buy a pint of local organic strawberries when they show up in the store before mine are ready, but I wait. And nothing tastes as good as the first one; it’s like a first kiss. Later ones are often better but the first holds a special place—as St Pauli used to proclaim you never forget your first girl---mmmm, short, brown hair with blue eyes, freckles, kissed her on a stoop in the 60’s on the Upper East Side. Can’t for the life of me remember her name but I remember the kiss!

Back to the box. In America most wine is consumed the day it is bought. I once read in less than an hour after it was bought. We do live in a land of immediate gratification. (Post your thoughts to a blog before you’ve even finished thinking them out.) As you can read, I think there is a time and place for that. There might be a place for wines in a box, even if not a place left in my frig. There is certainly a place for thinking outside of the box. But drawing the box in the first place defines what is inside and what is outside. We also need to question if we need a box at all. I have lots of friends who have decided they don’t need wine at all, and some who have painfully realized they cannot have wine at all. So I try to remain grateful that I can partake of a glass of wine, and I’ve also drunk wine out of a plastic Mardi Gras cup. I’d rather have my glass say “Riedel” in small letters on it then “Bacchus” in large purple and gold lettering, but I’m glad both exist.