Day 10 | 5x5 Challenge | The Secret to Super+

5 Minutes:
I have history of overproducing, making everything more complicated than it could—or should—be. What results are 75-minute recorded interviews with scientists who will contribute a quote or two to a 1,500 word story—and hours wasted transcribing notes that "will come in handy" someday. (Though sometimes they do.)  Or a meticulous organized closet shelf in a room that now appears as if a shit-tossing tornado blew through. A brilliant idea so "perfectly" planned it never gets executed.  But in the last couple of years—thanks to kids and colleagues—I've learned to see the beauty of a MVP. That is, minimal viable product.

Peonies are beautiful—but so are wild flowers. Making a new recipe is fun but chopping up whatever veggies came in the CSA share and boiling rice actually gets dinner on the table. It's OK to sneak a pre-packaged snack into a backpack, and special one-on-one time time doesn't have to be spent at the beach. When you do it well—owning whatever "it" is (a quick, pointed call; a simple chicken stir-fry; a one-on-one walk)—Regular truly can be Super +.


5 Snaps: 

We'll start with the CSA.

Two years ago, two of my favorite BTV people suggested that a bunch of us band together to support each other in an initiative (The Compact) that would help us all to reduce crazy consumption, cut clutter and waste and simplify our surroundings. It sounded really hard, but Jon and I were game. No, we could not commit to making our own laundry soap but, yes, we'd try really hard to not buy any new "things" for a year. With some exceptions. The effort was somewhat successful. (You can read about it here). 

Fast forward almost exactly two years to a couple of weeks ago when I started feeling super overwhelmed by "stuff." There were 9 kinds of snack crackers in my cabinet. The shelves in our basement and guest room were (and still are) stacked full of packed brown boxes never opened after our move. Which occurred 10 months ago. My closet and drawers contain loads of clothes I don't necessarily like anymore, jackets that I don't wear because they have missing buttons and ripped pockets, underwear from 2001 and two pairs of jeans that will never again fit unless I stop eating carbs, start nursing an 8-month old baby or begin running a half marathon each day. And I plan on doing none of these things. Our kitchen is overrun with potatoes from our CSA because we can't keep up. Because we keep going to the store to get the ingredients for recipes that "sound good." 

I wanted all of that extraneous stuff to go away. I craved The Compact. Or, at least, a Compact Lite. I* am planning to start again on March 1. I'm still nailing down the details—including "am I in for a whole year? 3 months? 6?"—but, so far, here are some of the things on my list of to-do's for March:

1. Start meal planning with food we get in our CSA; supplement with grains and, a couple of times a week, fish (sustainably sourced) and/or meat (local or organic). Buy in bulk. Slow-cook beans instead of buying cans.
2. Clean out drawers and closets: donate, repair, swap. (Don't buy anything new—at least for myself—for defined period.) 
3. Ditch crappy old cosmetics, toxic cleaning products, paints, etc. (disposing of them properly, of course). Use more natural cleaning products, making them whenever possible.
4. Stop buying convenience items like counter wipes, face cloths, etc. 
5. Establish plans for a 2014 garden.
6. Switch from a credit card that encourages unnecessary spending on "things" to one that provides kickbacks that can be used toward experiences.

Tonight, we started planning what meals we'd make from tomorrow's CSA pickup, and Jon made carrot/parsnip soup and roasted beets from previous Pete's Greens bounties. Our shopping list for the week is quite small. 

How do you simplify? 

*Jon, who has far less trouble with accumulating "stuff" than I do, is supporting but not necessarily fully participating in this effort. 

Rice bowls are the "low-hanging fruit" of dinner.

Over here, dinner is my deal. Generally speaking, it's my job to plan, chop, cook and serve everything my family eats. I know how this sounds but it's not about gender roles really. It's about me having gone to school to study food and eating, and then taking a job that pays me to think about food and eating. It's about me enjoying the process of planning meals (as well as cooking them) and about Jon hating this chore—the planning part—with all his being.

Yet there are some weeks when I don't participate in this enjoyable process of planning meals. When this happens, behold The Rice Bowl. Simple, customizable and lightening-fast, this fail-safe dinner solution will please the pickiest of eaters. It will easily accommodate your favorite vegans and gluten-free friends. Think: taco bar with much, much more flexibility. The recipe is essentially rice (or "rice" - quinoa, farro, bulgur also work great) topped with whatever you can find in the fridge, the freezer or your pantry.

But I always appreciate a "recipe" so I'll share tonight's rice bowl spread and I'll give it a fancy name and a proper hednote. Enjoy!

Low-Hanging Fruit Rice (or "Rice") Bowls 
This completely customizable one-dish dinner is inspired by the absence of a dinner plan. Every ingredient is 100% interchangable with whatever you have on hand.

Ingredients:

• Black rice
• Canned white beans (cannellini), rinsed
• Napa cabbage (CSA share from a few weeks back), shredded 
• Avocado, cubed
• Red onion (CSA share from at least a month ago), diced
• Cheddar cheese, shredded (by Julian)
• Pepitas, toasted (taking 3 minutes to do this makes a huge difference)
• Frozen veggies (the gross-looking weird ones with unnaturally square carrots - my boys love them), nuked.

Directions:
Cook rice, according to package instructions. Put everything else—rinsed, shredded, diced and nuked—into small bowls and let anyone eating pile on what they want.

Tip: If you have a five-year-old, or a greedy eater of any age, remind him (her) that it's not polite to serve himself (or herself) ALL of the avocado.

Lowering the bar can make you healthier, happy and richer.

Maybe I've had high standards. Or medium-highish standards that have offered an easy out, an excuse, for accomplishing... nothing. If I couldn't do it "right."

If I couldn't run at least 3 miles, then I might as well not even lace up the shoes. What was the point? 

If I couldn't do runs with my friends, then snowboarding wouldn't be fun. I'll just stay home and make the chili.

If I didn't make a really amazing family calendar then I might as well just let everyone hang the free ones they got from their bank/car dealership/alma mater.  Or just use their iPhones. 

You know what I did in this fancy gear? I remembered, after a 6-year hiatus, that I ride regular, not goofy.
I practiced heelside and toeside turns and perfected hockey stops. On the kids' hill.
And then I had a beer with my riding partner to celebrate our progress. 

But, these days, there's no reaching the bars set where they've been. I can't always find time to run 3+ miles—but I can fit in 2 miles on the treadmill after the boys get off to school, before I shower and leave for work. I'm never going to ride like my past-pro (for real) snowboarding friends—but I can relearn the basics in lessons while my little guys are in their own classes so that I don't dread the family trips to the mountain that inevitably are going to happen for the next decade. 

And my 2014 calendars are going to be filled with the first 12 high-enough-resolution sorta cool photos I can find in the next 24 hours (or two, because then I'm going to bed). I've slacked just the right amount on this one: Shutterfly calendars are 50% off till January 7. 

What I've somehow finally started to learn in the last month or so is this: Lowering the bar is making me happier, healthier and richer. I think I'm becoming wise at 38. 

It's time to put down the coffee.

It's not like I was checking Facebook. It happened while I was attending to the little guy—who was shouting through the window to shut the door "so mosquitoes wouldn't get in." Mosquitoes only would have gotten into the mudroom, plus it was 7:30 am, but that's besides the point. I wanted him to feel he was being heard. (And I wanted reinforce this way of thinking, in a house that typically has at least one door totally ajar.) I stood up and shut the door.

It was an awkward half lounge/left-handed door shove, and I was gripping a canary-yellow coffee mug (that I don't even like very much) in my right hand. And what happened as a result was that drops of my cafe au lait showered down onto Julian's Fossils of Lake Champlain coloring page.  My heart skipped a beat. But Jules started laughing (an automatic reaction, it now seems) so I thought we were good. I expected bad—after all, my autopilot coffee-sloshing had ruined his work—but all seemed good.

So I said this: "Let it dry. You'll have tan spots but it will be okay. I'm sorry. It was accident. It was my bad - but totally an accident." 

It was the apology that seemed to stoke the reaction I'd first expected: cry, following by rubbing (which ripped a hole into a yet-to-be colored coral creature of some sort), followed by accusations and demands that we go to back to the museum to get another page to color RIGHT NOW.

We couldn't go now -  the bus was 2 minutes away. He had school. I had work. We would go on Friday when I was taking the day off, when he was off of school. The promise did not placate. Jules was pissed. With good right. I mean we all make mistakes but it doesn't seem okay that a careless coffee-splashing door-slammer should be able to get away with ruining your art in a single sloppy lunge. And without any apparent consequences.

It was a wake up and smell the, um, coffee moment. I move mindlessly from moment to moment of my day, coffee cup in hand. It's sort of ridiculous when you think about it. So I'm imposing a penance: Only 2 cups of coffee today. Sitting and savored. I'm sorry, Jules.

I go through phases.

I bought baby carrots today. And wipes that allow me to disinfect a counter without having to exercise a single spray. I've been washing my face with a similar convenience product okay for sensitive skin. This is not typical. Or has not been—until recently. And there's more.

These days, if I invite you over for dinner (which I love to do),  you can pretty much expect to be served hot dogs and burgers, often purchased pre-pattied from the Shelburne Meat Market, just down the street. Corn on the cob might be served on the side. Or potatoes that require only slicing and oiling before they hit the grill. If you ask what to bring, I'll tell you a salad. I appreciate your chopping. If I make it myself, it'll be a compilation of pre-washed greens, baby tomatoes, slivered almonds and olives. If I'm feeling generous, I'll slice up some scallions. Dessert will probably be a couple of pints of premium ice cream—or maybe a "fancy" dessert (see below) made by layering pre-made pound cake around a half gallon of cookie-d ice cream. (Mary McCartney told me to do it.)

If you look closely in the corners, or you help me to clean up the bins of Legos that the kids have dumped around the house throughout the night, you'll notice tufts of cat hair and dog fur (this actually always has been typical). I don't change out of my bathing suit when I get home from the beach (it's not wet). I lost my makeup bag for most of the weekend (nbd).

I know some friends will say that this is the start of a slippery slope but this caring less about little things—letting them drop to make way for more space to fill with people and parenting and work projects, I think, is a good thing. For now. Because I don't think it's the start of anything. I can only sustain this sort of living for a short time, and then I'm back to chopping pounds of (locally grown) plants for new vegan recipes and railing against all of the wasteful paper products 'round the house and wasting time changing my nail polish. It's sort of a seasonal cycle. How 'bout you?

I can live without an itinerary. Sometimes.

August has been amazing: it's the first we've been home with no where to go. And after so many full or partial weekends away, two days of no-real-plans felt luxuriously spacious.

Maybe we should be working on the house (starting with the floor pictured, above and below)... or spending long, epic days on the lake (we've managed to fit in just a few short situations). But all I really want to do is meander and socialize. I want lazy, laid-back days but ones that feel rich. And this weekend, that's just the way things worked out.

A surprise (it'd been raining all day) Friday-night dinner at the truck stop meant not having to cook, running into lots of friends and happy boys.

Saturday morning, Kai and I were scheduled for a date while J & J kayaked. I'd planned to do something, um, awesome (you gotta work hard to stay competitive in the cool-parent game when you're married to Olin) but as it turned out, neither Kai nor I cared about leaving the compound. So we sat around in PJs (and costumes) watching Care Bears on the iPad, reading books, and painting our toe nails. An old friend, in town from Providence, stopped by. I met Ri to run along the water, then we grabbed iced coffees and took a spin around Anjou. We went to Shelburne Farms - twice - during off, peaceful hours. Jules and I made a cherry pie. There were two delicious dinners with amazing friends... ones where the whole fam had fun. And none of this—NONE  of this—was planned by Friday at 5.

It unfolded and we rolled. A beautiful thing.

(Update: I just realized, when I hit publish on this post, that my Grandpa Bill passed away 25 years ago today. I have so many great memories of these sorts of simple-spent days—baking, hanging, talking, eating—with him.)

Blogging keeps me accountable.

Anymore, I'm not sure how to keep myself accountable without a blog. 

My goals for my 37th year (still shaping up) will be both bigger and smaller than the goals of my 36th year. I will focus (in the unique way that I focus). I will simplify. All in the name of living a bigger life. 

For one, I will stop the Sunday catch-up work sessions. Effective immediately after I wrap today's essential editing. 

I'm serious. Committed. (Now... back to it, this final Sunday catch-up session.)