Not the Farm Life I Imagined
Author: jill
•12:37 PM
Have you ever slowed your reading pace as you came to the end of a book? Because you didn't want it to end? It happened the other night; as I read, I realized there were not enough pages left for there to be the happy ending that I crave, and so I slowed my reading pace. I was not ready to say goodbye to my friend in A Thousand Acres, by Jane Smiley. I wanted to make sure she would all be all right, but I'm not so sure she is. I actually fought back tears, feeling Ginny's loss. Her many losses. Okay, I didn't have a break down like when I read Marley and Me, or My Sister's Keeper; when tears streamed down my face, dripping onto the pages as I read; and I couldn't talk because of the golf-ball sized lump in my throat. Caiden had a small panic attack because he thought something was wrong with me. It wasn't that bad. But I was overwhelmed with emotion, feeling remorseful and heavy-hearted.

If you have not read this book, and you plan to, please stop reading now and come back to this post when you are finished. Please. I do not want to ruin the story for anyone, but there are things to discuss. So, you've been warned ... proceed with caution. I thought this was a story about taking over a farm, and the funny mishaps that the kids encounter along the way to mastering the farm life. That is NOT what this novel is about. At all.

A Thousand Acres is the story of one farming family in Iowa. And, from the outside, Larry Cook's family appeared to be like any other farming family. In fact, they may be considered luckier than some because they have one of the largest farms in the county and it's mortgage-free. Apparently, in the farming community (in the 1970s, anyway) a man's worth was determined by the number of acres he farmed minus the amount of the mortgage he owed. And, everyone knew what everyone else owed to the bank. There are no secrets in the farming community. Well, maybe a few, but we'll talk more about that later.

These men live and breathe farming. Smiley refers to "the farmer's catechism" ...

"What is a farmer?
A farmer is a man who feeds the world.
What is a farmer's first duty?
To grow more food.
What is a farmer's second duty?
To buy more land.
What are the signs of a good farm?
Clean fields, neatly painted barns, breakfast at six, no debts, no standing water.
How will you know a good farmer when you meet him?
He will not ask you for any favours."

And so there it is ... the rules to follow if you want to be a good farmer. The only thing not listed is that it is very important that all your neighbours know that you are a good farmer. Otherwise, it's all for nothing.

The story begins with a community gathering to welcome home Jess Clark, after a thirteen year absence. He had been drafted in the 1960s, but instead fled to Canada because he did not believe in the Vietnam War. No one, including his parents, had heard from him until a few days before his return. Jess' return is not the only surprise that night because Larry Clark announces (to his family) that he is going to transfer ownership of his one thousand acres to this three daughters - Ginny, Rose and Caroline.

The motivation for Larry's actions is never clear. He is an unhappy man, unsociable to the point of almost being reclusive, and the only thing that brought him any joy was his farm. And yet, seemingly out of the blue, he signs over his life's pride to his daughters. When Caroline questions his actions, Larry denies her and divides the land between Ginny and Rose. There could be many reasons for the transfer ... perhaps he really thought he wanted to retire ... perhaps it was a financial move to avoid inheritance taxes, as he explained ... perhaps he knew he was in failing health ... perhaps he was looking for repentance. We'll never know the reason for the initiation of the transfer, but once it is done, no one's life is the same.

Larry finds himself without purpose any longer and feels removed from the daily operations of the farm by the girls and their husbands, Ty and Pete. The boys have lots of ideas to expand the farm and update some of their equipment; unfortunately, because they don't need his approval any longer, Larry feels excluded. Ty, born of a different generation, was not frightened at the prospect of taking on some debt in order to further the (farm) business. He was certain that once Larry saw the new buildings in place and the expanded livestock filling the property with life and movement, he would feel content with the knowledge that his farm would flourish long beyond his years. But instead of engaging him, the new plans to expand the operation had the opposite effect and Larry spiralled out of control.

The role of women is an interesting one in A Thousand Acres. Ginny is the narrator and she evolves right before our very eyes. Women on a farm cater to the men on the farm. It's just a fact. They cook for them, and keep a clean house. That is their job. That's it. In some respects, as a group, the women on the farm remind of the Kirshner women in Kaaterskill Falls - all the same (from outside appearances) but quietly individual.

Ginny's mother died when she was fourteen years old, and Ginny took on the role of parent to the two younger girls, especially Caroline who was only six years old. Ginny has always been timid and reserved, keeping her opinions to herself. Obedient, I think would be the word to describe her. Before Jess Clark returned, her biggest act of defiance comes when she just pretends to put in her diaphram. Jess Clark intrigues Ginny with his stories of his life in Vancouver and his modern way of approaching farming. She is drawn in by Jess and thus, he is a catalyst for the change in her.

But Ginny has a secret that even she does not know about until her sister, Rose, tells her. Larry Cook sexually abused Ginny and Rose; and while Ginny has pushed the memories away, Rose lives with it every day. She deals with the abuse by spending her entire life bitter and angry. Rose is suspicious of everyone and always takes action on the defensive. She does not enjoy anything, and she actually takes pleasure in bringing Ginny down with her. Leading her astray.

Ginny has no recollection of the abuse ... she denies it even happened when Rose confronts her with the truth because she cannot remember it. The brain is a very powerful protector. It works in many ways to shield us from traumatizing events ... like a car accident or abuse or a super hard test you had to take. I do not remember anything about my brother's funeral. I know I was there ... that's about it. Sometimes, the brain will create an alternate personality to deal with the emotions associated with sexual abuse, commonly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. MPD is not something one is born with, it is a defense mechanism invented by the brain; and it is not just used in cases of childhood sexual abuse, but can be used as a coping mechanism for any traumatic event. Sometimes the brain will just block it out, as in the case of Ginny; and it is not unusual for the brain to protect itself in this manner. Returning to her childhood bedroom triggers memory recall, and Ginny does come to remember the abuse. Then, it is she who is spiralling out of control. She is no longer protected, washing away adrift and in search of stability and refuge. What she does find is her voice and the way in which she protects herself is to leave the whole situation. She literally walks away. And in the end, the farm itself is alone and desolate.

In some stories, things evolve slowly; gathering momentum until a decision is made/a secret is revealled/a death/an accident/ - some sort of climax in the story. In A Thousand Acres, the main stimulus happens in the first pages (the transfer of the land), but there are several catalysts that determine the direction of the story. Dictionary.com defines a catalyst as something that causes activity between two or more persons without itself being affected. There are pivotal moments in the story that require the characters to react and their reactions determine the path the story will travel. It's like real life, where you are confronted with choices, different ways in which one could respond; and the way you respond will determine where you will be headed - the Sunday Church Potluck, in which Harold makes his condemning speech to the congregation; Ginny's adulterous affair with Jess; Rose's drunken confessions to Ginny; the return of Rose's cancer.

You know, I just wanted so much more from Ty. He and Ginny had been married for seventeen years, and at the beginning of the story she said that stilll had a smile every time she saw him. It seemed as though he really loved her, and I just wanted him to put his arm around Ginny and tell her that everything would be okay. But he doesn't. He just watches her spin, losing control. But he cannot help her. I don't think he knows how. The only thing he knows how to do is farm. And essentially, he gives up on her.

Soil is suppose to be the giver of life. Life originates beneath the soil, and then it nourishes the plants as they grow. Bringing them to maturity and sustaining them for the duration of their life. There is a subtle irony in the fact that the soil, on these farms in Iowa, was actually killing the families that depended on it. Jess Clark speculates that there are dangerous chemicals in the run-off water, which are consumed by the farmers and their families. I'm sure it accounted for Ginny's repeated miscarriages, Rose's and her mother's cancer, the illness that killed Jess' mother, Harold's strange behaviour, and Larry Cook's dementia, which I suspect was Alzheimer's Disease.

"The body repeats the landscape. They are the source of each other and create each other. We were marked by the seasonal body of earth, by the terrible migrations of people, by the swift turn of a century, verging on change never before experienced on this greening planet." -- Meridel Le Sueur ("The Ancient People and the Newly Come")

The quote above is found at the beginning of the book, and I didn't understand it when I first read it. Remember? I thought A Thousand Acres was an account of daily farm life. I understand the quote now. And it is absolutely perfect.

This is not an uplifting, feel-good story. It is a great read, if you don't need to feel good at the end of a novel. It is thought-provoking, and I couldn't put it down. Maybe because I am drawn to sad stories; I am not afraid to explore the full spectrum of human emotion. What does that say about me?

I realize now that there will be no bad books on the list I selected. Lucky me ... it will be one great read after another. The only problem is that I don't really get any time to absorb and appreciate one book before I move on to the next. I guess that will be one of the challenges of one hundred books in one year. On some occasions, I have finished one book and started the next one a couple of hours later. More on that another time, I'm sure.

For now, I'm off to the Bronx ... and gangstas!!
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The Evolution of a Momoholic
Author: jill
•1:02 PM
I was ironing clothes the other day and my mind began to wonder. It - my brain, that is -  had a long time to ponder the questions of the universe because the pile of ironing had accumulated to an embarrassing mountain in the laundry room. I loathe ironing Jonesy's dress shirts clothes and usually keep up with it so that I do not end up with a large pile, like the one that has been staring at me for a week now. But, I'm trying to read one hundred books in one year ... so something has got to suffer. Anyhow, while I was ironing, I was wondering ... how does one become a momoholic? Because, not every mom becomes one. Maybe there is a gene? Maybe ... it's a virus?

What is it about the momoholic that sets her apart from the well-balanced Mom?

I think if we look closely at this momoholic, we'll find a Type-A personality mixed with a little (okay, a lot) of perfectionism and some tendencies that point in the direction of anxiety-ridden behaviour. Is that a word ... perfectionism? Anyway, you get the idea ... I like things done in certain way, things that only I can do properly. And I worry a lot. When Caiden was eleven months old, we went to Florida for one week. Now, most parents would enjoy the break from routine, experiencing new things with their little boy. Not this momoholic. The first thing I did was go to the local grocery store and buy all the ingredients I needed to make Caiden's food. Then back to the condo, and an afternoon in the kitchen supplied me with the majority of his food for the week. Because Caiden never ate food from a jar. Ever. None of my babies did. The people at the baby food factory could never make food good enough for a momoholic's child ... of that, I am certain. The thing is that I enjoyed doing it. I never complained about having to do it. Not ever. I loved doing it because it was important to me, I guess. But how did I get like this? Crazy ... like I was? Because making your own baby food while on vacation in Florida is crazy. And I'm thinking that if I had little baby now, and we went to Florida ... I might do the same thing. So, I'm still a little crazy ... still recovering. One day at a time ... isn't that the addict's mantra?

I have always been a control freak and a perfectionist. Always. Even as a tween, I can remember having things just so in my bedroom. Consider my desk ... pencils (in a pencil holder, of course) at the top right-hand corner, calculator positioned next to it, fresh stack of paper on the left, small organizer tray with an eraser, paperclips, etc. in the centre. My brother would come in and move everything, just to watch my reaction ... because he always got a reaction.

When I had my first "big-girl" job, I was obsessed with getting it right. I am not comfortable not knowing the answers ... which by default makes me a know-it-all, I guess. I was working a contract with the County of Kent, in the Social Services Department, completing applications for General Welfare Assistance(GWA), as it was known then. All of the other Caseworkers would go home at four-thirty but I would stay until eight o'clock in the evening, leaving only because the janitors would ask me to. I guess they wanted to go home or something. I completed GWA applications and calculated budgets in my sleep for weeks until I felt like I had a handle on things. I created my own system for the application process, organizing all the paperwork I would need before I even left the office, a certain way of collecting the information required for the file.

When I bought a sewing machine, I could hardly wait to get home from work and get down to business on whatever project I had dreamed up. Quilt, crafty project, curtains, whatever. And I would stay home for a weekend, just sewing, because I wanted to. It did not matter that the party of the year was taking place; I wanted to finish my project. I didn't feel like I was missing out on anything.

When I was struggling to get pregnant, I educated myself on reproduction and the female hormonal cycle until I was a self-proclaimed expert. The infertility specialist that I doctored with exercised a great deal of patience with me, and once he confided that our monthly meetings were like discussing a case with a colleague instead of a patient. I was determined to figure out what the problem was and there was no way someone was going to tell me I could not do something. Not even Mother Nature.

And when I finally got that baby I wanted so much, he was born premature and spent the first six weeks of his life in the NICU, attached to machines and monitors. I arrived at the hospital by eight-thirty in the morning and was pushed out of the Unit by the staff around eleven at night. I spent my time educating myself about prematurity, the hurdles and milestones my baby would overcome until I was throwing around terminology with such ease that some of the staff asked if I was medically trained. Every time I had a question (and I had many), I would consult a book from the stack I kept at our station. The Nurses called it my library and they consulted it a time or two themselves. It was ridiculous, to be honest. But it helped me feel like I was doing something; because when you have a preemie, there is really very little you can do for your baby. And, it helped me feel like I was in control of a situation that I could not control.

But, why could I not just accept what the specialists told me? Why couldn't I just accept that Caiden would come home on iron and sodium supplements? I had to know the acceptable levels, and why his were low and what would happen if they got any lower. Why did I always have to have an opinion? On a couple of occasions, when our Nurse was otherwise occupied, I would give report to the Doctor on rounds. They trusted me because they understood nobody knew more about my baby than me. The Doctor could gauge what kind of day Caiden was having by whether his mother had tears or no tears. The Neonatologist that we dealt with was the first one to bring my momoholism to my attention. Caiden was five years old and in the latter part of Junior Kindergarten, and while at our annual follow-up meeting, I made mention of the fact that he was having a very difficult time separating from me and going to school happily.

"When you are ready to let him go, he will be able to let you go," the Doctor told me. I stared at him in disbelief, not understanding what he was saying. I understand now. I don't know if I can do it, but I understand.

Although funny and embarrassing at times, these glimpses into my life provide some important insight into the momoholic. I work at something until I get it right and become comfortable with it. I don't just "do" things, though; I become lost in them. And that, I think, is the problem. In those weeks that Caiden was in the NICU, I had no knowledge of what was happening in the "real" world. I did not need to be in the Unit all the hours I was, and the Nurses would encourage me to meet a friend for lunch or got to the mall, just to walk around. But, I couldn't. I would have a panic attack at the thought. Truly.

And then I brought him home from the hospital. Think about when you first brought your little bundle home from the hospital. Everything was new and you were finding your way - perfecting things, testing your skills, trying not to make a mistake. Everything is a challenge, sort of in the same way that starting any new job is.  Except you do not get a ten-minute coffee break, there is no training manual and there is absolutely no chance of getting sent home early because it is a slow day. I would wait all day to have a shower, until Jonesy arrived home from work. Because then I was assured that someone was nearby should little Caiden move or cry or stretch or yawn - 'cause you never know what can happen in the ten minutes it takes to have a shower!

And then just about the time you get comfortable, the next baby comes along. In fact, that is probably why the next baby came along at my house. I felt comfortable and less challenged; I was ready for the next assignment. I love infants and ache for them ... I am fighting the ache now. And then it starts over ... finding your way, that is. Because now you have the needs of two, and then three, to satisfy, and a new set of circumstances to organize.

The important thing to remember is that I truly loved doing all the things I did for my children. And, I still do ... most of the time. Sometimes, I think women stay home with their children because they feel like they should. Maybe because of pressure from a parent, or friends. And so, the things they do for their children are done with a heavy heart at times. Because they wish they were somewhere else. I never felt like that. But, I do now sometimes.

So, perhaps I am on the road to recovery. I'm ready for a new challenge. Now, if I could just figure out what that new challenge might be ...
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Legally Easy ... to Read
Author: jill
•9:42 PM
"No one here is bored."

Rusty Sabich says this of his own trial, in Presumed Innocent, by Scott Turow. And he is right - this book is not boring for one minute.

I loved this book and I think (at least) part of the reason is that I love the law. I love everything about it. I love that we have laws. I love that the law evolves. I love that the law is not definite and can be shaped to work for you. I would love to be a lawyer. I mean, I would really love to be a lawyer. If you like the law, even a little bit, you will love this book. I could not put it down, constantly having to choose between one more chapter and those annoying "mother" responsibilities, like bathing children and preparing meals. I stayed up until well after midnight, finishing it ... then I was left ... wide awake on Sunday night with no Anderson Cooper to lull me to sleep... going over the facts again, figuring everything out. I know, I have issues ... and they are many.

The book begins with an Opening Statement, and ends with a Closing Argument. I love that. It is clever and slick, in a legal sort of way. In fact, the whole book is entertaining. After reading two books (in a row) about the food industry and all the horrible things we are doing to our bodies, I was ready for a good old-fashion novel, with characters and a plot. This novel did not disappoint. There were times that I was so engrossed in the story that I was oblivious to my surroundings ... like when Addie C. took every single piece of clothing she owns off its hanger, and proceeded to them try on (apparently). Because I found them covering her bedroom floor, some turned inside-outside, others just crumpled up. Now, if I did this, it would amount to a very small hill of clothes, maybe not even as big as a hill (unless you count pyjamas, of course). But Addison has been the recipient of many hand-me-downs, as well as bags of new clothing from Gramas and Nanas. Once, I counted ten pairs of jeans ... and she doesn't even wear jeans because they are not "pwetty." But apparently, while I was sitting at Rusty Sabich's defence table trying to figure out our next move, she was trying on many pairs of jeans and shirts to match. And when those did not meet her fancy, she decided to try on all the dresses and skirts, too. But I'm not going to worry because I have a plan.

Presumed Innocent centres around a Prosecuting Attorney, Rusty Sabbich, who is accused of murdering his co-worker. A co-worker with whom he has had an affair. There are many twists and turns in the plot. He, of course, is innocent; and the manner in which Turow reveals the real killer is brilliant.

Carolyn Polhemus is our victim, and she is beautiful (of course), and very smart in her lawyering ways. She is also manipulative, and sly, and motivated, and wants to be successful. She wants to be recognized and she will stop at nothing to get what she wants. She uses people and discards them when they are no longer of use to her. Yes, you can say it ... she is a bitch.

Rusty is so likeable, it hurts. He is second-in-command at the Prosecutor's Office; he is well-liked, respected and good at his job. But, he makes a mistake when he becomes involved with Carolyn.

Why do people cheat? In Rusty's case, he was completely "in lust" with Carolyn. Almost obsessed. He describes his marriage as dull and his wife, Barbara, as a recluse, with no friends and no interests outside Mathematics. Mathematics? Who considers math an interest? Anyhow, Rusty does love Barbara and he acknowledges the excellent mother she is to their son, Nat.

"As a family, we are bound together by this symmetry: in the world, I love Nat most, and he adores his mother. Even at this scrappy age, full of the furious energy of a person of eight, he softens for her as no one else. She alone is allowed to hold him at length; and they enjoy a special sympathy, communion, a dependence that goes deeper than the unsounded depths of mother and child ... She equals his devotion. He is never out of her imagination."
I understand this because this is how it is for my Caiden and I. We enjoy an understanding of one another, and we certainly share a dependence ... but that is a discussion for another time.

The legal case in Presumed Innocent is exciting; this is the type of criminal case I would love to be involved with. But, are there really cases like this? Maybe the Bernardo case, certainly the OJ Simpson case ... those lawyers must have had their hands more than full. High media scrutiny, pressure for conviction, twists and turns along the way. I suspect that the average day in Windsor Criminal Court has more to do with petty crime, domestic assault, and drug-related offences. But, still, I would love to be (legally) involved in a big murder case, or a high-level corporate scheme ... something really juicy. However, I think I would have to move to a big city, like Toronto, or Montreal, or Calgary to get the kind of action I crave.

Even Rusty wishes he was involved in his own law suit as a lawyer, instead of as a defendant. He describes his attorney, Stern, appearing "almost jaunty. His flesh is invigorated by the high excitement;  ... he is about to give the opening statement in the most noted case of his career. Suddenly, I am full of envy. I have not thought in all the months about how much fun it would be to try this case, an understandable omission. But those old inclinations suddenly surge forth amid this supercharged air."

Have you ever been "invigorated by the high excitement?" Or the excitement of the high? When I worked out there ... in the world ... I was a Supervisor with the Social Services Department in Sarnia. We would make decisions (based on Regulations and Legislation), and our clients had the ability to appeal those decisions. An Adjudicator would come, and we would have a Hearing. The Supervisors had to defend the decisions they made. At first, I was terrified - for a couple of reasons. I was not accustomed to the procedure itself and, often, the client would retain the services of Legal Aid. Which meant they had a real, live Lawyer to assist them in their appeal. I would become almost sick, with worry, as the Hearing drew nearer. But as time went on and I gained some experience, I really enjoyed it - thinking on my toes, matching wits against one of those real, live Lawyers. We would leave the Hearing excited, talking a million miles a minute, going over every detail and feeling confident in what the outcome would be. Okay, I always talk a million miles a minute, but still ... understand that there was excitement in the air. The decisions I made were good, and certainly within the Regulations; I had nothing to fear ...but fear itself. Plus that is probably the closest I'll ever come to becoming a real, live Lawyer myself!

Could I be a Defence Attorney, though? Very difficult question to answer. I can say, with confidence, that I would whole-heartedly throw myself into defending someone whom I knew was innocent. Especially, if I felt they had been wronged in some way ... I'm a helper, remember? But what if the defendant was accused of sexual assault? Or child pornography? Or animal cruelty? Could you?

Everyone is entitled to a legal defence. That is the law around here. And, if you are assigned to represent this "bad" person, you must represent them to the best of your ability. That is law, too. It would be difficult in some cases, but also a challenge. Maybe that is why they do it ... because Defence Atttorneys are the thrill-seekers of the litigation world.

Presumed Innocent was written in 1987, and many noticeable things have changed since then. There are the obvious things ... nobody had a cell-phone or even a cordless phone, computers were new and not all information could be found on all computers, forensics were ridiculous. And, they all still smoked in the office. Turow makes mention of the media presence ... but it does not seem to match what the media presence would be today. I feel sorry for people who have to go through difficult times in the public spotlight ... Elin Woods comes to mind.

And so, Rusty Stabich is right. There is nothing boring here. There are so many surprises in this book, and I don't want to give them away. Don't watch the movie ... Go ... read this book because you won't be disappointed.

I am going back to farm life apparently ... A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley is next.
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In Defense of Food
Author: jill
•9:51 PM
My Grampa was born in 1913. He was an incredible man, a staunch conservative with an entrepreneurial spirit, who loved his family the most in the world. He liked to talk politics (...groan...), and he loved to entertain in his backyard, around the pool; and as he aged, he liked to reminisce and talk about the old days. He died, in his ninety-third year, in October 2005. I have found myself thinking about him a lot these last few days, while reading In Defense of Food, By Michael Pollan. Because, like most things, Grampa had some strong opinions about food and I wish I could talk to him about what the typical meal was like when he was a little boy. And I'd love to hear him tell about the changes he observed in the food industry.

However, I am not talking about the stories of Mabel the Pie Lady, who could pound out seventy pies in a day to prepare for a typical Saturday night at his banquet hall, The Pyranon Ballroom. 'Cause we (in the family) have all heard those stories too many times (... rolls eyes, like typical granddaughter). I'm talking about how he probably moved from buying meat and eggs locally, to having them delivered from a central warehouse. The thing is ... I understand now why Grampa was so amazed by Mabel being able to prepare seventy pies in a day. He knew how much work went into making a pie from scratch and he must have been amazed at how "progress" had brought things to the point where one woman prepared dessert for a party of one hundred and fifty guests in one day. He probably grew up listening to his mother complaining because she didn't have time to get more than one or two done in a day, and now his baker could pound out almost one hundred.

Grampa thought it was ridiculous to spend money on spaghetti in a restaurant ... because spaghetti was for poor people. He enjoyed prime rib, or roasted chicken, with squash and parsnips, and lots of potatoes ... with homemade stuffing and gravy. No Kraft Dinner or frozen food at his house. Food indicated status for a gentleman like Grampa. He enjoyed a salad, as long as it accompanied a big, thick steak.

His sweet tooth was never satisfied... no meal was complete without dessert. No afternoon was complete without a coffee break, either. Grampa made his food with love and I think that I learned to appreciate food from him. I mean, truly appreciate the taste of good food ... because he did.

In Defence of Food, Pollan talks about the three myths of eating: (1) what matters most is not the food, but the nutrients in the food, (2) because nutrients are invisible and incomprehensible to everyone except scientists, we need experts to tell us what to eat, and (3) that the only purpose of eating is to promote a very narrow concept of physical health. Food is also about community, and spirit, and togetherness. It can promote conversation and it can be about pleasure ... with no guilt attached. No people on earth worry about the consequences of their food choices more than North Americans. But if you eat real food, there is no need to worry. Have a chocolate cream pie, and make it from whole milk, free from hormones and steroids and antibiotics. And then, enjoy it.

The premise of the book is to make you think about where your food comes from and to encourage the reader to think in terms of food instead of nutrients.  Because a vitamin eaten in its natural state, in a actual fruit or vegetable, is worth so much more than a "vitamin-fortified" product. Pollan explains that the fact of the matter is the chronic diseases that now kill most of us can be traced directly to the industrialization of food. Highly refined grains, the use of chemicals to flavour and colour foods as well as to raise plants and animals in large monocultures, the abundance of cheap calories in sugar and fat, the narrowing in the diversity of foods available to us. The human diet is now based on three main crops ... wheat, corn and soy. What? You don't eat tofu? Think again, because soy products are used in all types of manufacturing, just like corn. In fact, I once spoke to a gentleman who had taken an interest in food production because of a food allergy in his family. He told me that after much reading, he predicts the next big food allergy to be to corn. Because it is used in all areas of food production and soon our bodies will begin to reject it and fight against it.

It is difficult to let go of some of the things we all learned growing up. I know this because it was difficult for me. About ten years ago, I was not feeling well. I mean, I was fine but I didn't feel good. I was working until seven or eight o'clock almost every night. I was leaving my house at six-thirty in the morning, headed for testing in order to monitor my infertility treatments; I was worried and stressed out and exhausted. I had put on some weight and did not feel good. So, I took a step back and started to read, and I learned about a different way to eat. This was NOT a diet; it was a lifestyle change, based on the book, Fit for Life by Harvey Diamond. The basic premise is to eat foods in combinations that would allow for easy digestion, while eliminating some well-known toxins. For one year, one month, and two weeks I did not consume any refined sugar, dairy products, red meat, or caffeine. Then, I had a little baby boy growing in my tummy who wanted some sugary treats and would not take NO for an answer. The hormones made me do it ... and I eventually abandoned all the things I had learned. For convenience, if you want me to be honest. And I have felt guilty about it a lot of the time.

When I was Fit for Life, I lost twenty-three pounds and I felt great. Not once did I count a calorie, measure fat intake or look for a particular nutrient in a food. I just ate whole foods and when we made these changes in our life, I threw out an entire black garbage bag of processed food. Within a few weeks, I had a ton of energy, my skin was flawless, and I felt healthy. And after a little less than a year of truly healthy living, I got pregnant ... without help from anyone but the man I love. Shortly after Caiden was born, we were arranging for some insurance, and my bloodwork came back as above-average healthy. The way I felt was a reflection of the way my body was functioning.

Guess what else Pollan dares to attack? Fat. Fat is not bad for you; in fact, you actually need fat in your diet. Your brain is sixty percent fat and each neuron is housed in a protective sheath of it. Did you know that? I find this information particularly icky, but I guess I'm just going to have to deal with it ... maybe even use it to my advantage somehow. The point is that if there is some fat marbled into your meat, enjoy the tenderness if brings to your steak. But eat it with other whole foods, like green salad and roasted potatoes and fruit. There are several cultures that live on diets that rely heavily on meat and they have been found to be some of the healthiest people in the world. But they don't eat at McDonald's or Pizza Hut very often. And, they probably sit down, with their families, to appreciate their meals. 

For me, there is one study that says it all. In 1982, a researcher in Australia returned a group of Aborigines back to their traditional homeland, which was a remote and isolated region in the northwest (of Australia). This group of ten men and women had all developed Type II Diabetes, they had signs of insulin resistance, and elevated levels of triglycerides in their blood since leaving the bush for "civilization" some years before. The group were to remain in the bush and rely exclusively on foods they hunted and gathered themselves. They had knowledge of these methods, and were comfortable in doing them. They were also monitored for health and/or safety issues. They had access to coastal waters and inland locations and spent seven weeks surviving on fish, birds, crocodile, yams, figs, bush honey and much more ... natural food. At the end of the study, they had lost (on average) seventeen pounds; blood pressure dropped; triglyceride levels fell into the normal range; and all of the Type II Diabetes issues either greatly improved, or fell to within normal levels. When they ate "food," they became more healthy. It's easy, don't you think? On a lighter note, I can't help but wonder if this is where they got the idea for the Survivor reality show. These Aborigines were the original Survivors!

When I was younger, I wanted to be a farmer's wife; but then I fell in love with a Business major. I was always intrigued by the farm ... humans and animals living together, growing food for others to eat. Living off the land. Big machines, vast amounts of land, and family. I think maybe that is what drew me to the idea of farming ... the idea of a large family, working together. Feeling part of something, belonging. In any case, I could not talk Jonesy into farming for a living, and so we drive by farms instead. But I think we are going to start looking for the farms where we can stop and pick up some food for tonight's supper.

However, it is probably a good thing ... that Jonesy does not long for life on the farm. According to Eric Schlosser in Fast Food Nation, the suicide rate among ranchers and farmers in the United States is about three times higher than the national average. Just last week, I read about a dairy farmer in the state of New York who first shot each of his cattle and them himself. Something in the farming industry has been lost and in my opinion, I think it is important to get it back. We should be praising these families, not stressing them out.

Do you know where your food comes from? Maybe it's time to shake the hand of the one that feeds you. I have recently found a flour mill near my house. They took my kids and I on a tour of their facility, explaining each step in the process; and the kids got to grind some wheat into flour themselves. The older kids enjoyed learning about how flour is milled; that is a much better way to learn than reading about it in a book. I had no idea that flour was milled around here ... it's not bleached and it has all the parts of the wheat. It is ultra healthy and full of fiber; and the kids don't know the difference. A cookie is a cookie ... unless your mother replaces the chocolate chips with raisins. Then, that is not a cookie. If you live in Southwestern Ontario and visit Windsor sometime, check out the whole grain difference that Sartaj Flour offers.

You should know where your food comes from and you should know what you eat, has eaten. It's okay to ask questions. If the soil is in some way deficient, then the grass that the cows eat is not meeting their needs and the milk and meat they produce are sub-standard. It seems to me that the food industry is coming under question by many and hopefully, that means that change is coming, too. I saw Michael Pollan interviewed once, and he was asked what he thought would force the food industry into making the changes it needs to. Pollan responded by saying that the mothers would change things. They will become frustrated with the quality of the food offered to them to feed their babies and they will not stand for it any longer. So, I say let's unite and demand that change. For our children and our selves.

Pollan makes the suggestion that going backwards to the dietary lifestyle of our ancestors may be the answer. So, that is what I am planning to do ... enjoy food, like my Grampa taught me, but know where it is coming from. Eat it for fun and pleasure and don't rush through it; sit, enjoy. Lingering around the table to chat and munch on vegies can be therapeutic and relaxing.

It will involve making some changes in our house and doing a little research, but it will be worth it, to know that I am providing my family with the best food I can find. But, we're not perfect, so we might still see you at McDonald's on occasion ... Grampa Jones says everything in moderation ... so we'll apply that principle, too.

And, while I am enjoying my food, I will enjoy moving on to a book that does not involve food or food production in any way. Whew ... can't wait to start Presumed Innocent ... which is presumably about the law.
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