giz a job

I’ve got another mini-job, and every time I manage to locate yet another sad little role in corporate London, I can’t help but remember that my life’s ambition is to ahem ahem ahem teach ungrateful adolescents wild tales of community studies at a university in the middle of nowhere while maintaining my own happy plot of land and bla bla bla bla bla…

Time to break out the suit. Again.

Oh, and, the Oyster Card.

When I crossed the ocean back to America in November, I was gifted with a guide to growing vegetables in small, precarious spaces, not to mention an epic, Meryl-Streep-prefaced tome about green living that my mother has had for years. Now, I am of the school of thought that anything The Meryl says or does may quite possibly be infallible, so I was giddy when I saw she had written a preface to this book. My love for her may now soar to even greater astronomical heights. Shazam.

Anyway, the vegetable growing guide, while not as thrilling as I had originally anticipated, contained a handy dandy vegetable grower’s annual calendar. Twelve months of the year with everything that a gardener should be thinking about. It hadn’t occurred to me that there were real tasks to be managed in your garden in the month of January. It’s true, I’m in a different climate now, with my own arable land. I could be thinking about January. (January in Boston is basically Doom Hour. With a lot of ice. )

This all being said, I really need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my bit of earth.

I’ve got a couple of built in raised beds… and that big ol’ corner bed. It’s still going to be tough deciding what to plant where with this persnickety seasonal sunlight.

The most certain element of this garden thus far, however, is that seemingly innocuous rubbish bin. That bin is going to give birth to all of the possibilities for my garden. Sort of. It is full of rotting food that hopefully will turn into some potent, potent compost – and not just because HZD has had a wee in it. Compost, as Planet Green will tell you, is the elegant solution to food waste and toxic fertilizer. I defaulted to Planet Green for information on the various chemical layers and subsequent processes necessary for composting. And oh my goodness are they ever full of resources.

I started out with a layer of soil from the garden and then plunked in the food waste we had left over from the last two weeks or so — which mostly consisted of coffee grounds, pasta and the outer layers of garlic and onions. On top I added a thin layer of leaves. I need to add the next round of food waste to the bin pretty soon… this time, with some tea bags. I hadn’t realized that you could compost tea bags! Here is a crazy list of all the items you can compost — from toilet roll tubes and cooked pasta to latex condoms and used tampon applicators. Uh.

Most of my friends live in pretty tiny apartments. We’re urbanites, I think, who generally live in closet-sized apartments. (I have only recently upgraded.) I think that this is all a function of being over-educated and in our mid-twenties… and having had a taste or three of the good life in Paris, London, D.C., New York. I have been trying to come up with good urban solutions to gardening and composting if only to help my extended kinship network live their best lives. A huge worry when it comes to composting seems to be the smell. Doesn’t rotting food stink? But it turns out, if your compost system smells, it just means that the chemical balance is off.  I recently thought our compost bin was stinking up our garden and forced visitors to stick their faces in it to try it out — turns out it was actually the rubbish from the pub next door. My compost bin just smells like leaves when you stick your head inside. …Ahhh.

So, it’s possible that composting is not as unfriendly to urban living as we all previously thought. My local council provides a food waste bin and while HZD has pointed out that they perhaps did not anticipate those bins being used for small-scale composting, it seems that it would work just fine in our kitchen if I didn’t have that massive bin going in the back garden. In fact, I keep it a quarter full of food waste generally and there isn’t any stink. It just depends on what you’re identifying as compostable food waste.

O Crimbolina O Crimboliiiiina

One of the big ol’ sacrifices I knew that I’d have to make in order to be at peace with my increasingly green self was a real Christmas tree. (Or, Crimbolina tree, as I have taken to calling it.) It wasn’t just a matter of killing a poor old tree, but of buying something unnecessary that was the product of forest farming, complete with a big old carbon footprint after its drive down from Maine or flight over from Norway or. Whatever. HZD had a plastic monstrosity in his attic and seemed to consider my suggestion that all would be merry and bright with a dying plant farmed for consumption a bit… tasteless. But whenever I’ve mentioned our fake tree to others, they’ve sort of nodded and said that they’ve thought of a fake tree, but won’t plastic be similarly harmful? I thought maybe we could pot a pine tree and just bring it inside for a month every year, but that will probably be full of bugs and generally unwieldy and where the eff are we going to keep a pine tree eleven out of twelve months of every year…

Seriously,

I’ve been fretting.

But oh my goodness have I ever found the solution for those of you with a more significant disposable income than mine. The vendor greenbough on Etsy sells an EcoFriendly Plywood Christmas Tree. You can have the height custom altered and.. maybe they’d even be willing to change the color. I’m a bit too much of a traditionalist to stray from green, but can you imagine the majesty of an errant magenta Christmas tree? Its awesomeness is only beginning to crest the horizon in my mind’s eye and.. it’s pretty great. Sigh.

So I heard a gingko tree is a possibility

The Local Food meeting that I wrote about a few weeks ago resulted in a number of sub-groups, sub-meetings, the works. There has been loads of community interest in the Transition Movement, and I went along tonight to chat about a potential community garden project. I was initially pumped for this meeting because it isn’t just about allotmenteering. I would love to one day have my own allotment, but, between me and the entire internet, I don’t got no moneh. And I don’t have enough experience just growing things in pots on my windowsill yet.  Our community garden is more of a teaching project than anything else – a place for people to come and not only share experience, but show borough residents what they can grow. It will be partially educational and partially inspirational, hopefully with an end goal of contributing to a greener, more self-sufficient London (and eating loads of fresh produce, too).

Still in the planning stages, we’re honing in on three separate properties. Somehow I volunteered myself to draw up our budget proposal for a grant from the local government. I’m going to spend the next few weeks pricing the hypothetical cost of raised beds, shovels and stump grinders…

I came home from this meeting totally pumped. After a pint of Honey Dew down the pub (of course our meeting was at a pub), I’m feeling a little bit less capable of finding a better term than “pumped.” Is there a better term?

Booze booze all around

There is a Victorian primary school just over the common from our house. We live in a historic conservation area to begin with, so any kind of open house is kind of exciting for historical speculation’s sake. And today they were having a Christmas market! Advertised on a big ol’ banner on the school gate. After buying a wireless doorbell at Wickes, we headed over. I wanted to buy a wreath made by an eight year old and HZD was “quite keen” to see the interior of the school.

It was packed with kids who clearly went there, accompanied by their parents. I felt a little awkward not having a child as proof that I belonged there — much less HZD, with his scruff and single-man-ness. (Does the Daily Mail run my brain?) But we live over the road and dig supporting our neighborhood, so we went in and cruised the cupcake and mince pie stands. I had a pink cupcake covered in glitter. I hope it was edible glitter.

Anyway, the fair was bizarrely boozey. Certain elements of British culture make me squirmy just as a result of my own American prudishness, I think. I find it a little awkward when a mum sits her kid on a bar stool while she orders another drink at our local pub, or when the place next door is overrun with children until ten or eleven o’clock on weekend nights while parents give their kids mocktails and booze with their friends. But I keep writing this off to my just being, err, out of touch, or something.

But the British news media and even the government is singularly obsessed with the social problem of binge drinking. Taxing alcohol to keep people from drinking excessively? Really? Certain stores are now carding anyone who remotely looks under twenty five. I was carded while buying shortbread, mince pies and two bottles of Christmas ale before heading home to America. ..And then again, about twenty minutes later, when I tried to order us a beer and a burger at Wetherspoon’s. I didn’t have my driver’s licence on me, so HZD had to go back up and order for us. Two veggie burgers, a Guinness and a Strongbow. They didn’t check to see who the second beer was for, however, so they’re not as obsessed with this new policy as America, I smugly declared at the time. (Our prudishness is more exacting than yours! Na na na na na!)

But at this Christmas fair, which was clearly there to entertain little kids and their parents and raise money for the school, the whole thing was overtly sponsored by a pub, among other local businesses. There was a tombola for an entire table of booze. (We entered that one, of course, and when we lost, HZD smirked to the woman selling the tickets, “Guess we won’t be getting drunk tonight.”) It wasn’t just wine. We had set our sights on a whole honkin’ bottle of Jagermeister. What’s more, there is a permanent mural in the school hallway of a grandmother… listing her accomplishments (five grandsons, ugh) and noting how compulsory a “tipple of sherry” was in her life. In the hallway of a primary school.

I think I’m probably just being a prude.

Am I?

More than saying this is wrong, I’m mostly saying it was strange. And I’m not sure what to think of it. Admittedly, I think I’d need a stiff drink or five on a night if I had children running around the house. But if it’s such a problem (and it kind of is over here), shouldn’t there be greater compartmentalization? I mean, there’s a difference between waving Jagermeister under a six year old’s nose and apparently expecting no one to consume alcohol before the age of twenty one. Where is the middleground?

Coming in for a landing

I’m back in London and feeling quite pleased about it. There was once a time when I would feel irrepressibly sad every time I left home to come back to whatever European city I happened to be living in at the time. I would be in a funk for a couple of weeks. I remember my friends in Nancy actually kind of dreading the idea of my return if only because they knew I was going to be verklampt for awhile. But now, I just feel zen. It’s the cat factor, I’d imagine. Not to mention Gentleman Friend and a bunch of projects in the pipeline. Anyway, I’m pleased to see that I can take a trip home without feeling any residual angst upon my return.

My flight ran ahead of schedule, so we circled Heathrow for a bit. And when I say we circled Heathrow, I mean we actually wound a bizarre path around Central London. Our final descent went right along the Thames… and with partly cloudy skies, I had the perfect view of glittery London after dark from Canary Wharf to The City… on up to the Eye and what I think must have been a hideous (but awesome) looking fair in Hyde Park. I remember the first time I ever saw England from above – I was sixteen years old and it was probably eight a.m. We were coming into the airport over green pastures and I was feeling a strange twinge. While cynics will say that the twinge was probably flight-induced dehydration, I’d like to think that on some level it was the recognition that one day I was going to spend a lot of time here… pounding the London pavement and sprawling in bunny fields in the sun. It’s a pretty good life.

The shoe fetish

I’ve been casually looking around for boots that really suit me, and boots that will last. The two characteristics combined would be ideal. Since I live in England, it would help if they actually kept out the ran. My eleven pound boots from Primark do not really accomplish this menial task. Alas. I was considering Clarks, to buy some leather beasts that would hopefully last me a few years. But I’ve seen the light.

Simple sells eco-friendly shoes — shoes for a happy planet, so they claim. (I’m sure they’re right.) Every single part of my new Shoe Love is made from recycled materials or a renewable natural resource. A beeswax coated hemp boot!

When you realize the degree of ingenuity that went into the creation of these puppies, it kind of makes up for the steep price tag. A lace loop made of recycled plastic bottles? A bamboo heel wedge? AN ORGANIC COTTON FLEECE LINING? In much the same way that I enjoy measuring everything, I also enjoy having my life lined in fleece…

Maybe I will gift these to myself for my birthday in February, as it will be my quarter century.

Urban gardening will save your soul

A big part of getting into the grow-your-own groove is simply reshaping the way you look at your surroundings. Instead of bemoaning a plot of derelict land, try to turn it into something useful. Work with your government, work with your own property. After a couple of decades of chilling out and letting the sprinklers water the lawn, a lot of people are beginning to recognize the need for transformation, for action, in order for us to establish a sustainable (and yummy) existence. And whether or not you have large swathes of arable land is less of a problem than you might think.  Planet Green has posted a suggestion list of five books for urban gardeners and they all explore the simple reimagining of space. Instead of seeing a fireplace, see an opportunity for potted vegetables. Instead of think of what you can’t grow in a small area, think of what you can. Instead of grumbling about a derelict plot of public land, get a group together and lobby your local rep for the permission to put it to good gardening use for awhile. Or forever.

The oldest book on the list was published in 2002, so the information is current and no doubt on point with contemporary concerns about sustainability… as well as contemporary hope for a greener future. I was flipping through a book at Barnes & Noble about how to survive the total implosion of global infrastructure… complete with handy hints on survivalist dentistry and what to stock in your larder. The author conceded that urbanites probably wouldn’t make it through the dark ages. But maybe that’s not really true! If I have some kohlrabi I can survive anything. I know I can. And maybe this list of books on Planet Green can begin to reshape our urban self-sufficiency if applied to everyone.

I already want to read Food Not Lawns. And possibly have that slogan tattooed across my face. Well, not really. But you get the point.

Gadgets gadgets

Society’s obsession with electronic gadgetry has escalated to such a fever pitch over the last few years that in many ways it seems doubtful that we will ever be able to contain our use to a reasonable extent… and quit having to charge so many of our darn accessories. It is undeniable that the way we communicate with not only loved ones but the entire outside world is now bound up in the use of energy resources. The article that I detailed a few days ago with regards to the 10:10 pledge in Stoke-on-Trent cited a pensioner’s worry that it would be the young people who had such a hard time coming around to the idea that they had to do rely less on electricity. The man noted that he himself would be able to just switch all of his appliances and energy consumptive belongings off at the source at the end of the night. It was young people he worried about, with their addiction to electronics. How many of us just leave our phones on all day, without a thought to how often we unnecessarily charge them as a result? How many people leave their laptops plugged in all day long when they aren’t in use? How many gadgets are sucking up energy in a room occupied by a twenty something? Or, a teenager? ..A lot. ..Lights, television, laptop, Xbox, mobile phones that will soon need recharging… And that’s all I could come up with in our relatively Luddite living room.

But WePC is running a feature on green gadgets this month! Kicking off the list is the Kill A Watt Electricity Usage Meter, which will measure the efficiency of any gadget you plug into it. I might be slightly partial to this one as I enjoy measuring pretty much anything. (The little distance and heart monitor screens on work out equipment are the only things that can make going to the gym even remotely fun, as far as I’m concerned.) But beyond the Kill A Watt thingamajig, there is also an energy saving laptop made of bamboo and a washing machine attachment that uses oxygen and peroxides to clean clothing rather than contaminating detergents.  They also discuss a plexiglass spiral that amplifies sound from the iPhone – acting as a travel speaker that you don’t have to charge.

A lot of these gadgets prove that if we had enough time we probably would be able to adapt and evolve into a less wasteful species. We can do pretty much anything when we put our minds to it.  The gadgets on WePC are probably the tip of the iceberg and it would be a pretty exciting development if green gadgetry became totally fetishized. I could dig it. Even if I barely know how to use my mobile phone.

Science is the devil’s mistress

This is one of the best articles I’ve read yet about the roots of global warming skepticism. I occasionally have a hard time explaining their existence myself — as noted a couple of posts back. But David Aaronovitch roots their beliefs in a pretty visceral, scared place. Combined with defending the interests of old-fashioned industry, you have quite the healthy explanation. Here’s a fancy dancey excerpt:

They are only sceptical about what they don’t want to be true.

They somehow believe that the whole global warming schtick is an amazing confidence trick performed upon the peoples of the world by a group of scientists and socialists, and pursued by politicans keen to get their hands on green taxes (though for what nefarious purpose we do not know), and which has taken in almost all the governments of the world, from the US to China.

They suggest that they are open-minded, but their foundations and articles are designed to reassure the witless that their attachment to their Porsche Cayenne Turbos and their hatred of recycling are somehow acts of non-conformist courage. The Lawson argument is a masterpiece in disingenuousness. A Magic Flute of guile. A Mona Lisa of chutzpah. Don’t buy it.

Enjoy.