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Posts Tagged ‘fabric’

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Help me out here. Something’s not making sense to me, it hasn’t for a while, and I want to pick your collective brains to try to get back on the trail.

I went to a restaurant a couple of weeks ago and ordered ‘carrot cake in a jar.’ It was a charming presentation, cake layered with icing, but the cake was dried out and the icing tasted like really sweet chemicals.

Last week I met a specialty foods store owner who apologized for the way some of his multi-grain loaves looked. The oven was acting up lately, he said, and was turning out loaves that were browning unevenly. None were burnt. He was just worried that I’d be upset that some parts of the loaf I’d bought were mahogany while others were tan.

Many local, hardworking farmers I know don’t set out produce that has so much as one flaw—a nick, natural russeting, a lopsided bottom—because they say the public won’t touch it. Some stores wax their organic apples to make them look more buy-worthy.

My favorite ice cream shop sells artificially dyed green chocolate chip mint ice cream. I asked the owner why he didn’t seek out a variety that didn’t, since I know they’re out there. He said he did, and set it out, ‘but no one wanted it. They won’t buy it if it’s not green.’

The affluent parents of the nursery schoolers I used to teach chose Go-Gurt—those brazenly colored tubes of chemicals—instead of pure yogurt for their kids’ lunches.

My local bakery makes luscious, three-layer chocolate cakes with Jamaican rum. But if one comes out of the oven with a crack across the top, no matter how slight, the proprietor doesn’t put it in the display case because she says it won’t sell.

Yet.

We pay top dollar for low-quality supermarket-made cakes, and we feed them to appreciative partygoers who gasp over the design but don’t pay attention to the flavor or to the fact that they are poking forkfuls of powdered head fake into their mouths.

We buy massive, brand new houses in developments in the middle of farmland, bells and whistles from the sun room to the butler’s pantry, but the basement floods as soon as it rains because when the mason was given instructions to make sure the foundation was tightly sealed, he just shrugged.

We spend $45 for a shower curtain at a big box store, so enamored with the cute embroidery at the base that we don’t actually FEEL the fabric to be sure it’s good quality, and it begins to fray after a month.

We pay six men to haul out the vintage cast iron clawfoot tub that came with the house, consistently holds its toasty water temperature for the length of time it takes to read Eat, Pray, Love, and has never leaked in all of its 80 years, then we install a five-figure plastic Jacuzzi (in ‘Creme Brulee’) whose finish begins to peel by the end of September. And after each use we see little pools of water at the corners.

So it goes.

What is UP with us? Why are we so preoccupied with perfection, even if it’s—absurdly clearly—just the look of perfection, a solar system’s throw from the real thing? Why don’t we see the manipulation that’s going on here?

And a more insidious thought comes to mind: If we DO see it, why don’t we give a flying Wallenda?

We used to care, I know we did. I have cookbooks that prove that people wanted, and ate, honest, delicious food made from real ingredients. I’ve seen old-time ads touting goods made with care and attention, with ‘family-owned’ splashed across them. But when I wrote for radio (18-35 demographic) a few years back I was told not to include ‘family-owned’ in my spots. ‘This generation doesn’t care about that,’ the head sales rep told me.

But I can’t shake the image—and the flavor—of farm-fresh chard so full of rainwater that it snaps apart when bent…of a funkily shaped Sugar Baby melon that’s so ripe that at the gentlest prick with the top of a chef’s knife it cracks and splits open in two on my counter top. Real tastes better than perfect.

I’m not saying there’s not a time and a place for convenience; I’m not saying every restaurant serves chemicals for dessert (and to be fair, the carrot cake was at a chain restaurant, so I wasn’t exactly surprised); and I’m not saying there aren’t notable exceptions to what I’ve outlined here.

I’m saying there seems to me to be a dismaying prevalence of choosing fancied-up crap over quality, and it’s a behavior that does not seem to be changing. There have been staggeringly positive advances in the food industry; maybe we all just need time to appreciate foods grown and made with integrity over ‘perfection’, or eating locally and in season, or what have you. And there will always be those who don’t care what they buy or eat. I get that.

But barring those who don’t know better or don’t care, I’m wondering where our predilection for mindfully choosing crap over quality comes from, and when and how the change took place. Thoughts?

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There’s a cyclone of ambivalence going on within and between women these days. I don’t even know why it started, but that’s beside the point. The media started it, though.

Should women be skinny, what half of the media (who must have been car salesmen in another life) calls ‘slender’ or ‘willowy’, like knobby-kneed Victoria’s Secret models or that beautiful misguided 84-pound Romanian model, Ioana Spangenberg, who says it’s impossible to be too thin? Or should women be what the other half of the media calls ‘healthy’ (what my mom would call ’round’) like the women in the Dove soap campaign? Whatever is a girl to do?

Now, the media dictating what women ought to look like is no new box of Jolly Ranchers. Every generation has a different arbitrary (so it seems) set of requirements when it comes to women and size. Curvy Marilyn and Elizabeth in the 50s. Skinny Twiggy and Audrey in the 60s. If you happened to be born looking the way the media said you should, hooray. If not, you took it in the shorts, because the media Harpies (your newspapers, magazines, tabloids, glimmering girls at the cool table in the cafeteria) were going to remind you of it at every turn, every day of your life.

In case you’re wondering if I’m speaking in generalities—no. I was a size-14 teenager (back then that was pretty chubby). I secretly loathed girls who had flat stomachs and depressed myself looking at photos in Seventeen magazine (regrettably, before airbrushing was publicized). I stuffed myself full of Heavenly Hash, the most delicious ice cream on the planet at the time, and then wrote in my diary, ‘I did it again 😦 now what?’ Once I was late to a wedding because I thought my arms looked fat in the dress I had on (for real). I had drunk the Kool-Aid just like old Ioana did. It was bad.

Except.

And this is The Whole Point.

It would be very easy to say it’s all the media’s fault, that they’re mean and we’re victims. But we are the ones who decide to drink the Kool-Aid or not. And we have to remember: they can’t sell it if we’re not drinking it.

To wit: I remember reading about women and corsets in the late 1800s in the Little House books. The goal of this almost-24/7 torment with corsets was to make your waist teensy (and thus make you more likely to snag a man). You were even supposed to wear it to sleep every night. You’d put this thing on, made of fabric, laces and actual whalebone—and you can bet that was plenty comfy—and your sister would take the laces in her hands, brace herself with one foot on the floor and one foot on the edge of the bed, and pull within an inch of your lungs. Laura Ingalls’s mother, Caroline, proudly tells her daughters that her waist was so small when she married that her husband could span it with his hands. Laura, heroic girl, wouldn’t wear her corset to bed, causing her mother untold distress. But she wouldn’t back down. There are others as well, I am sure, who wouldn’t have any of that—100 years before the women’s movement, I might add. If they can tell the Harpies where to stick it, we can too. We choose what works for us and what’s a crock.

I’m not a size 14 anymore, but I will never be skinny skinny 1) because I’m not supposed to be; I am small and round by nature 2) I love food way too much. Yes, for sure, sometimes I still worry that I look fat (old habits die harder than cockroaches). But most of the time I’m able to shake it off. It didn’t just hit me that I look fine out of nowhere last Thursday at 6:30 or anything. It took me most of my life to get that through my head. I balance eating and moving and get on with my life. Usually.

Food isn’t just supposed to be something that you put in your mouth and chew and swallow so you don’t die. And you’re not supposed to be afraid of it, the way I was. It’s supposed to be a joy, and a solace. It’s supposed to evoke, in different turns, nostalgia, pride, celebration. We shouldn’t overdo it or underdo it. Balance is key.

We women need to remind ourselves that we aren’t victims. I need to decide for myself what’s the right weight for me, and so you do. If we have that squared away, it won’t bloody well matter what anyone else says.

The same idea: when you hear about women who take offense at men who hold open doors for them, calling it sexist and getting all worked up, saying men are trying to keep women down. But it doesn’t even matter what his intention is. Why? Because any woman who knows her own power is not going to be threatened by a man holding a door.

So while the media started this nonsense, I won’t say that’s where it ends. You know as well as I do that it ends with us. All we have to do is say so.

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