Amish

   

Myth Busting:  The Amish

     The United States is such a mindbogglingly intricate melting pot of various religious sects and beliefs, that some certain strains are left to the imagination, with a foundation of knowledge that is misguided and fed with misconceptions and misinterpretations, and I am wholly guilty of that sin, myself.  Up until recently, the basis of my knowledge has been from wearing out an old battered VHS copy of Harrison Ford's Witness, a typical Hollywood depiction of the Amish lifestyle with a healthy dose of gun fire and forbidden romance, and a liberal sprinkle of impressively maintained white beards and straw hats.

    So, when the chance to pick the brain of a couple of people in Pennsylvania came up, one of them being actually Amish, I felt a bit giddy to actually have that tourist delight imagining riding in a horse buggy, or even raising a foundation for a wooden barn and having a massive cook out of Amish goodies with wives in bonnets and non offensive skirts, pouring out some homemade apple cider.  The tourist in me was having a grand old time stumbling across the possibilities, but I kept those thoughts to myself once the talking started.
 
      However, before we briefly interacted with a local Amish farmer, we were granted the opportunity to talk with a local dairy farmer.  During the past ten years since owning and operating the dairy farm with her husband, she has had plenty of opportunities to interact with them and to get to know them, even allowing a couple of Amish boys to help around on the farm.  As we picked her brain a bit more, her general outlook on the Amish lifestyle was of bewildered, if slight, annoyance with them.  Gradually, she let loose her opinions on various aspects regarding the Amish lifestyle, ranging from the lack of suitable clothing they wear even in the Winter months, to the seemingly devious skirting of certain rules when in regards to electricity and the use of automobiles, and even the topic of what certain taxes they do or do not have to pay.  As she kept talking, it was apparent that her opinions were not without basis, lending itself to be one sided in its outlook, which left me asking questions in my own head.  When the time came to actually talk to the Amish farmer, we were met with a polite stand offish nature that seems inherent with the culture, and the questions we had for him were brief, at best.  Ultimately, I avoided asking the same inane questions that would be common with the typical folk who do pick the brains of the Amish, and we left him to work in peace as he labored up the ladder to his roof.

 
   
 Way back in the 16th century, during the Reformation in Europe, the anti baptist movement resulted in the creation of the Amish, Mennonites, and the Brethren, with the Amish being the most conservative and emphasizing a major cut off from the outside world.   In the early 1700's when these groups relocated to the Pennsylvania region due to rampant religious persecution decimating these religious groups, it resulted in a blossoming culture that is still thriving to this day.  A common error the general public makes is mistaking the Amish with Mennonites or vice versa, because of how similar they dress and other factors. This has lead to an understandable confusion regarding the rules and guidelines these various sects and communities follow.  Most of the misconceptions mentioned below deal mostly with the Old Order Amish, which is the most traditional subset.

     With that out of the way, I suppose it would only be fair if I just resorted to a list of basic misconceptions that are rampantly common where Amish are concerned, since a multi page essay on the subject is not at all appropriate for this medium.  Plus, I like making lists.

Misconception #1:  THE AMISH DO NOT PAY TAXES

     The Amish are an interesting bunch, partly because they are sufficient enough to not have to rely on Social Security.  The pooled wealth within each community and their support of their elderly population means that they pay for medical expenses out of their pocket, which eliminates their need for Medicaid and/or Medicare.  To this day, their emphasis on being self sustaining and supporting their elderly population is as strong as ever.  Now, like everyone else, they are also subject to paying their taxes, including property, school, and income taxes.  It's really as simple as that.  In 1965, when the amendment to the Social Security Act was passed, there was a clause that exempted the Old Order Amish from paying into the system, but that only pertained to Social Security. 

Misconception #2:  THE AMISH ARE ANTI-TECHNOLOGY

In general, the use of electricity in Amish culture is not prohibited, but rather limited to a certain extent.  In their view, the public grid in which we generally obtain our electricity is highly frowned upon, even outright banned.  The philosophy behind it is that reliance on such technology would lead to laziness and a lack of cohesion within Amish communities.  With that being said, they do acknowledge the legitimate usefulness and occasional necessity of such technology.  One notable way that electricity is harnessed is by utilizing diesel generators to charge appliances that are battery powered. as well as using 12 volt batteries.  Also, as long as they do not own any standard electrical appliances themselves, they can use items like computers, phones, and various other electrical machines.  Pneumatic tools are also utilized in their work.  Again, this ties back into their resolve to not own anything that would be detrimental to not only the work ethic of their community, but also their relationship with God.  To circumvent
   

Misconception #3:  THE AMISH DON"T UTILIZE MODERN MEDICINE/HOSPITALS

     The situation varies depending on certain Amish communities, with traditional medicine and modern medicine being common throughout the many families.  In general, however, major surgeries and complicated health problems are left up to modern medical professionals, in which the Amish are more than happy to utilize.  Since they do not collect Social Security, these families pay out of their own pockets to fund these medical emergencies and procedures.  At the same time, they do trust their own medical expertise for some of the more minor ailments, and utilize homeopathic remedies and such.

   
       These three misconceptions are just a sampling of the confusion regarding the Amish, and hopefully this will be a good starting point for those who wish to learn a bit more about this unique community.  After doing my bit of researching, it's become clear to me that pre conceived notions are rampant throughout the many facets of this country, and the Amish are not immune to an assortment of fallacies and certain social stigmas.  With that being said, I don't 100% gel with the Amish and their guidelines on every level, but that's for another time.  In the end, the debate will be healthier and more constructive with these myths out of the way.   

Playing Devil's Advocate: Busting Monsanto Myths

   




     Before I even start off, let me assure you that, despite what I'm about to say, I am not a shill for Monsanto.  Now,  people that know me may laugh at that and say that's pretty obvious, but for that rare person that does visit this blog and doesn't know me, I just wanted to make that clear.  I put this disclaimer here because I've been researching Monsanto, particularly its business practices and the media surrounding the company, and I believe my findings are necessary to put forth into the digital ether.
      These days, when anyone even utters that name, a shiver runs down our collective spine, and we scoff in disgust at the image of such a company, what with their desire to spread genetically modified seeds and ideas across the globe.  However, after spending more time than I originally thought I would on research into court cases and the actual nitty gritty details of this company without the political and social spin that is usually attached to that name, I compiled a sort of highlight reel of some of the common misconceptions about Monsanto, particularly regarding their seeds and the food grown from them .
     By no means am I justifying their company as a whole, but instead am trying to paint a not so black and white image so that you can make an educated judgement for yourself.  With that said, let's talk GMO's.

   

     Let's Talk GMO's

     Although the debate regarding Monsanto and genetic manipulation is a hotly contested topic, I feel that it's imperative that I restrict the focus on a particular aspect of that discussion, and that is the seeds themselves that are being produced and distributed by Monsanto.  By now, I've been pounded over the head with all sorts of horror stories concerning lawsuits against local farmers and the ill affects of such seeds, and honestly it's a bit suffocating with such a one sided barrage.
      As I mentioned earlier, viewing things as black and white can be a dangerous catalyst for any particular side, leading to spreading of false statistics and facts that are in actuality just fibs.  "Fear mongering" is what comes to mind, but at the same time even that stems from a very understandable concern for the human race's well being, and our country's track record for looking out for our health and best interests is less than stellar.  Still, it'd be only right to squash the rumors and misinformation so that we can all be on relatively the same page.

MISCONCEPTION #1:  GMO SEEDS ARE ALL STERILE/ CANNOT REPRODUCE

Subtle...

     This pops up very typically in many rants and discussions regarding GMO crops.  And, like any myth, there is a grain(no pun intended) of truth to pick from the mess.  The riot inducing named "Terminator Gene" is a genetic modification to a seed that would eliminate the ability to reproduce.  Obviously, this is just a clear cut evil thing to try to spread around the world, which is why this modification was, and still is, never commercialized.  It never even made it out of its respective patent office.
     Admittedly, it's a bit unnerving to think that this actually exist, however I am not qualified to say whether or not certain properties of such a modification, (for instance switching off certain genetic hindrances to crops to produce better yield and increase fertility,) without the ability to test such a thing over many life times.
   

MISCONCEPTION #2:  THE "SEEDS BLOWING OFF A TRUCK" DEFENSE

     Percy Schmieser was a canola breeder and grower in Canada, and his name came into the spotlight when a lawsuit was filed by Monsanto regarding the presence of Round Up Ready seeds that had grown accidentally in a select section of his own crops.  Initially, Percy was approached by Monsanto in order to remove the seeds from his crops, the alternative being that he would pay for the licensing fees.  Percy refused, stating that because the seeds were on his land that he shouldn't have to pay for the fee.  Lawyer hand wringing ensued, and the lawsuit was born.
     A rallying cry of sorts from countless people stems from the idea that if seeds blow off of a truck containing Monsanto seeds, or that pollen from said seeds crosses from a neighboring crop and contaminates a non Monsanto seed crop, then Monsanto will swoop down and steal the rug out from under you and leave you penniless because of a freak accident.  In actuality, Monsanto will replace the crops that are of their seeds on their own dime, as long as you weren't purposefully violating their right to their seeds, because of that licensing fee. To this day, lawsuits have not been filed for any accidental cross pollination, but have been filed for deliberate use of the seeds without paying the licensing fee.
     In Percy's case, although the initial seeds were indeed a genuine accident, those weren't what made Monsanto sue.  It is widely believed and generally accepted that in the following season, Percy planted with those found Monsanto seeds, yielding a much more than "accidental" output; more than 60% of his canola crops containing the Round Up gene, from multiple independent tests.  If logic is of any relevance these days, it should go without saying that seeds falling off a truck or pollen from neighboring Monsanto crops cannot in the realm of reality produce such a yield.   It is through the deliberate planting of such seeds that would result in such a high percentage.
     Lawsuits are always a nasty business, but it needs to be said that, although the patenting of seeds seems irksome, it is Monsanto property, and they are entitled to the profits that fund further research into creating higher yield and robust seeds.  However, if it'll make you feel better, the patent on the seeds has an expiration date of 20 years, which will end in 2015.

MISCONCEPTION #3: GMO's Cause Cancer/Growths

     One case that comes to mind the most with people concerned about the health risks of GMO's is the Seralini study.  Gilles Eric Seralini is a professor of molecular biology in France, and he spear headed a group that conducted a two year study which involved feeding Sprague-Dawley rats a type of corn called NK603, a product that is produced by Monsanto.  In this study, 200 of this particular breed of rats was used, 100 being male and 100 being female.
     Ever since the release of this study, the parameters and guidelines surrounding this study have been heavily scrutinized and refuted on multiple occasions.  For one thing, the Sprague-Dawley breed of rats is highly susceptible to cancer by itself, so from the very start the testing was flawed.  Breast cancer is common in this breed, considering that there is a very troublesome type of fungus on the corn that makes them susceptible to such growths, and the study failed to factor that into account.  When you conduct a study that falls within the lifespan of an organism that is already highly prone to cancer growths, you are manipulating the outcome and perception of the results.  Secondly, the test groups for these rats were not large enough to factor out inconsistencies, and typical guidelines for conducting such a study were not followed or adhered to.
     However, since this was a report that was sensationalist in its publication and media outreach, it created a fervor amongst anti-GMO organizations and the public alike.  Interestingly, when this report was released, members of the press were forced to sign a confidentiality agreement of sorts to have access to the study, which stated that they could not contact outside sources of information from other professionals to cross check with the claims of the study.  At the same time, Seralini announced a joint release of an upcoming book along with a movie that stemmed from the study, which seems a bit pre mature, considering that the data wasn't even given time for duplication and analysis before his media outreach.

   
   

THE FUTURE OF AGRICULTURE

Left: Beta Carotene  "Golden Rice" enriched rice compared to regular white rice

      Now, with all that set aside, I feel I need to re assure those who are reading this that I am still skeptical about how prevalent GMO's are becoming in our country.  Quite simply, I believe studies have not been conducted long enough to track any potential adverse effects of such genetic manipulation, especially effects that could harm many future generations, despite the lengthy history humanity has had with genetic modification.  However, with the rapid increase in population throughout the world, the need for more food is a continuous burden, and companies like Monsanto, despite the fear stimulating surrounding them, are teaming with human beings; people with good intentions to bring more food into the world.
     Yet, like any business, they are in the business of making money, and that is an aspect that often overshadows the potential good they bring into this world.  Take the product "Golden Rice", for instance.  Golden Rice is a genetically modified strain of rice that is enriched with high levels of beta carotene, which is used to supplement the lack of Vitamin A in hundreds of thousands of diets in underdeveloped parts of the world.  Some argue that this is a ploy to take control by Monsanto to have a sort of corporate choke hold on agriculture, despite the number of lives this product has saved, and will further save in the future.  As long as their is no complete dependency on this product and there are efforts to keep biodiversity high, then a happy median will be reached by saving people's lives, while at the same time funding these companies that are continuously researching into these products they are creating.

     There are other fears, as well.  Inevitably, the bugs and weeds that are being eliminated from these crops will start to develop an immunity to such genetic tampering and use of herbicides, resulting in the potential dependence of more potent chemicals and unsavory methods.  There are ways to avoid such immunity in invasive species, but that requires methods that are time consuming and would result in not as much yield as this world requires.
      Ideally, more involved tests on individual GMO's should be conducted over a more satisfactory length of time in order to determine their safety before being commercially available.  Ultimately, with so many unknown factors and unintended consequences, I can not stress enough how important it is not to simply paint the other side as pure evil or good, but as someone who is part of the bigger solution, as long as we recognize our faults and utilize the best of our abilities and combine them to tackle this problem in unity.  

The Answer To Life And Everything Is Not, In Fact 42

    Scores of people persistently keep reminding me that we only have a fraction of time left before we pull into Maine, so I'll put my faith in those numbers.  Yet, despite what seems like a lifetime ago since we set out onto the paved ice of January, I do recollect a moment after about a couple of months into this trip where I was contemplating our mission while walking on a random sidewalk.  I realized that the task of trying to eliminate the epidemic of hunger couldn't be simply boiled down to one solid universal answer to treat the ill effects.  To tackle such a mind fumblingly monstrous problem, all avenues like affordable housing, efficient energy, job security, and many other factors have to be attacked with the same fervor and commitment as is being afforded to hunger.  That's good, I say to myself.
   
     An hour later, though, I'm still meandering down the street aimless, still brainstorming for something that is festering.  What is it?  For what seems like countless days I've wrestled with this thought process as we trudged on through the states, meeting wonderful people with fantastic ideas that could certainly be utilized back in Maine, yet that thought continued to nag at me.  I continually fought with how to word it in a way that didn't de value the work being put into ending hunger, yet at the same time highlighting the reality of tackling only one aspect of the big picture.  Then, in a laughably cliche chain of events,  this all came to a head in a combination of picking up a copy of the Hitchhikers Guide to The Galaxy, a gauging of a food bank associate's views on the futility of the work he is doing, and an enlightened discussion with a food pantry operator who understood the intricate issue of tackling more than just hunger to help bring his clientele out of their poverty slump.

     If you've ever read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, you'll no doubt remember the sensational punch line of the big question that is asked in that book which is, "What is the answer to life and everything?" The odd answer to this wholly broad question is the number 42, and after reading that segment something clicked in my brain.  For those who constantly ask that question of what is the definitive solution to ending hunger, I'd like to refer them to this part of the book, because it highlights the single minded track that people tend to follow down, as if everything in life is clear cut and part of a formula.  In reality, when combating something like hunger, it's important to realize that regarding the problem as something that is paint by numbers is ultimately not only disheartening when it doesn't turn out positively, but also unrealistic in its lack of acknowledgment of the complexities of the world in which we live in.
   
     When we visited the 2nd Harvest in Portland, we ran across a situation that was all too familiar.  This food distribution center is headed by Drew Meuer and is pulling off a staggering job of providing food for the numerous counties in and around the state.  The range that they travel is a record in itself, and the facility is in a league of its own.  We talk for a bit and are given a tour, and we see the fruits of their labor.  And yet, with all this going on, there is this lingering question that keeps jabbing away in my mind, and eventually I turn to our Drew and ask him if he thinks if there is an air of futility around the whole affair, what with the still increasing food insecurity problem and decreasing resources.  In response, his exacerbation comes forth as he vents about the constant struggle and how even to this day he struggles to come up with a definitive answer. For me, it's a sobering sight to see that wall come down and see a compassionate person like Drew become sort of disenchanted by the whole affair.  It takes a toll on him, and he doesn't see any definitive solution.  It's a reaction that comes to mind as we make our way to Idaho.
   
     Mark Haberman of the Community Action Partnership in Idaho is a man with realistic ambitions. Per usual with people we meet for the first time, we exchange stories about what we've seen and experienced.  Once the formalities were out of the way, however, Mark treated us with a spilling of his thoughts and his experiences in the field of helping out the impoverished.

     "Our charge from the very beginning was to work on the causes, and conditions of poverty," he started out.

     "We serve people that will probably always have some need of us; people who are either elderly and have lived beyond their ability to really create more income, don't have family, disabled, and folks who are just really deeply caught in generational poverty, who just really don't see a way out, haven't found a way out."

     After saying this, perhaps the most important quote that I've come across from someone working in this field came to light.

     "...We recognize that direct service, whether it be food, help with home heating, home weatherization, all of that, in and of itself, does not have the capacity to move a person out of poverty."

   
Mark's words from the start further emphasize how there needs to be a more sound foundation in understanding the plight of the impoverished.  A priceless resource for Mark stems from an author named Ruby Payne, a woman who married a man from generational poverty, and her insight leaves a lasting impression.

   
     "She married a man who was from generational poverty, and she pretty quickly came to understand that they view the world in very different ways, and they functioned in the world in very different ways; not because she was better than her husband, or he was less than she...there is a kind of non biological DNA, that we are kinda wired with.  Whether it's issues around culture, or economics, we talk a lot about economic diversity, that just wires us with a certain way of understanding and living in the world."

     "If I want to get to another economic sort of experience, from being under resourced, (in poverty), to middle class... that maybe just beyond my reach, and so if I want to get there, I'm going to want to work to shift kinda the way that I am a part of the world, or all of my piece meal efforts, in and of itself, will not get me there."

     "Some people have never had the opportunity to dream about tomorrow, because it's always today's flat tire, today's sick kids...if someone is well resourced, those resources help us remove barriers...and we realize that that's just not true for a lot of folks...poverty removes the capacity for a future story."

So what happens when a person in such a situation makes it into the job market, and yet is not prepared for such an alienating environment?  It's really a mind numbing shift for a lot of people who are struggling with employers who do not understand their constant daily battle, and especially for those trying to find out that secret formula that will bring them out into progress.

     "One of the big, big things is the knowledge of hidden rules...and that's essentially the set of constructs: this is the life I want, here's what that life looks like, and here are ways that it will be helpful for me to re path my thinking to get to that life I want."

So, with that knowledge in mind, now it's a matter of reaching the employers.  It's absolutely imperative that they are incorporated into the dialogue to engross them in their employees' situations.

     "This is what some of your employees are experiencing.  What's the outcome of that?  It doesn't mean that they change their standards, and it doesn't mean that they change their expectations for their employees, who are maybe under resourced, BUT, rather than a 'You're written up, you're written up, you're fired', maybe it's a, 'how does that become a coachable moment?"

Eventually, the conversation turned towards the typical things one is used to hearing from more well off people, who question the choices and actions of the impoverished.  Even I have had moments where I judge the intentions and material purchases of the impoverished, and yet what Mark said next was spot on with a gut feeling of mine for a while.

     "Here's why someone who is under resourced would have a big screen TV; a primary value in middle class, a primary value is achievement...Where are you going to college? What's your career track going to be? Where are you gonna retire? Where's your kid going to go to college? Achievement is just woven into the very fiber of who most middle class people are. And, in poverty, it's relationship and entertainment.  That's the primary driving force.  And why? At the end of the day, it's just one day of struggle one after the next after the next after the next, and personality is a big thing, connecting personally with one another, entertaining one another...just plain entertainment, you know?  ' I'm just gonna kick back.' at the end of the day."

With so much information swirling around my head at this point, I can't even manage the struggle Mark has endured for most of his career, and yet with each word I can tell that his enthusiasm and fervor for making a difference is unwavering.

     "Integrity and trust: we can work to build that.  That doesn't cost a nickel."

     "Will we end poverty in Cour Da alene, before I retire in 12 years?  Probably not.  Can we bring about change at the community level, at the family level? I think we can.  We can, and we need to want to do it."

Since the start of this journey I've always held the belief that this nationwide epidemic can only be potentially remedied when it is attacked at a political level, where all the bureaucratic red tape and beating around the bush is blocking any sort of permanent progress.

     "We need to develop some political backbone, too.  You know, we can't lobby, because we receive federal funds, but public policy does not support the under resourced person, it just doesn't.  The tax code, in my opinion, doesn't...we can educate, we can't lobby."

  But, most importantly, at the root of the problem, the very core of this inflamed turmoil, is the complacency of those who are without struggle of this magnitude, and especially those who have the means to permanently mend the lives of their fellow impoverished man.  Across the nation there is unified cry for equality and prosperity that is being stifled through the gag that is the disfigured American Values.

     "We need to change the mindset of the community. We need to help people find a voice; those who struggle are without voice, usually.  And that voice needs to be a voice that's unified, that has people of all income levels saying that this just isn't right."

There's a duality to everything we struggle with in life, and this is no different.  Where will that spark come forth?  Who knows, really?  Maybe in Mark Haberman's lifetime, or perhaps in mine.  All I know is that I am changed because of his words, and that allows me to spread that word across the digital ether, in hopes that it will reach somebody who genuinely cares.

     Whenever I revisit that staggering statistic about how around 40 million pounds of food are wasted on a yearly basis, I rack my brain over how wasteful large corporations and businesses are as they toss portions of perfectly edible food into their nearby trash bin or dumpster, and what can possibly be done to remedy this situation.  Meanwhile, as I review the ideas and possible solutions we've run across during our past few months on the road, I find myself rummaging through one of our food bags, my fingers digging and shoving aside an array of condiment and ingredient bottles.  As I'm rummaging and contemplating, searching for something to munch on for the morning, my fingers graze past a bottle that my eye catches on to; our mustard bottle...from five months ago...oh dear.

     Now, my immune system has taken a beating since we left back in January, and sudden bouts of food poisoning act as my "Achilles Heel" in a lot of these situations.  But, seriously, I put on the table the "common sense" of any man who encounters the reddish hue of a neon sign at a gas station promoting "75¢ Onion Rings" and NOT take up that tantalizing offer.  I don't know; maybe I just have a soft spot for fried slivers of vegetables in highly questionable oil.   I don't know where it's been, but I do know where it will end up, as I rummage in my pockets for some loose quarters.
   
     In a series of unsurprising events from that one time in West Virginia, I make a mad dash from the carpet of the gas station where I had wolfed down the onion rings, straight to our motel room that night which is a stone throw away, and finally to our complimentary in room toilet, where I elect to hunker down beside for the remainder of the night and the following morning as my insides are torn out, along with my stomach, which is actually eerily reminiscent of the demolishing phase of an episode of Extreme Home Makeover.  Honestly, this is the best I can do to describe what happened without using some abhorrently, albeit more accurate, wording to convey how impressively addle brained my decision was to buy those "in the moment" delicious onion rings.
   

...I still love you...

     Anyways, back to present day.  So here I am, radioactively vibrant yellow bottle in hand, my face stretched to one corner of my mouth as I concentrate on the pros and cons of actually...having a taste.  At this point, I'm in utter confusion as I raise my eyebrows and nod my head from side to side one minute, cooing to myself "Go ahead, give it a taste", and then suddenly being hit with PTSD from my aforementioned bout the next, my face scrunched up in horror of what could be growing in this bottle.  The last phase of my decision making didn't last for long.  With a clearing of the throat, I give the bottle a good shake, pop the cap, squirting a dollop onto my thumb, and give it a lick.  I like to think that the words "Oh God, why?" were reverberating among my recently scabbed over stomach walls as I swallowed the smearing.

     A handful of minutes pass, all the while I keep the out house in the area in my line of sight.  Preemptively I prepare for my meet and greet with the toilet, already cradling my water bottle and paperback for another night of kicking my insides out onto the curb.  So they pass, and I am still tasting it.  The mustard had that surprising after taste of being very mustardy.  That's a good sign, I suppose.  My stomach hasn't put up a fuss yet, except for the fact that it felt a bit perturbed that this wasn't the oatmeal it was expecting. "Am I in the clear?" the little voice cautions in my head.  I squirt another dollop in my mouth in answer.  Now all I need is a cracker, or something.

     So, as I digest that bit, flipping over the bottle and scanning for some sort of expiration date, I flit over the date stamped on its back side.  Yikes, my little voice says, in which I promptly tell it to go stick its head in the sand.  Obviously, this loop hole I've come across should be looked into.

     Coming from someone who eats months old Kimchi on a consistent basis, my stupefying adventurous tasting spirit has gotten me past quite a few expiration dates, and for a time I considered that a sort of super power.  My stomach lining is testament to a scientific breakthrough, I'd reason; if only they would accept my invitation to prod at me for the answer.  Yet, as I sat there with that salt rich, vinegar tang in my mouth, I came to terms with a much simpler fact that I had mulled over before: the labeling system for food across the board is laughably inadequate.

     Tour your local grocery chain, and scan the dates on all those containers, and you'll find something rather interesting.  Words like "Use By" or "Best By" are typically found stamped on items that are generally considered "shelf stable".  In layman's terms, it means that these food items will muscle on through a nuclear fall out and keep on trucking for years after the store has been blown to bits, that is if the container is unopened.  These printed terms refer to the optimal color and taste of the product that stores prefer for their product to look its most appetizing, and doesn't refer to its safety.  So even after it passes that date, it is still perfectly edible, despite the vibrant yellow of that mustard turning a bit pale in its complexion. Typically, a product like some ho hum, run of the mill mustard can last for up to two years, thanks to its salt and vinegar concentration.  Even if you open said bottle of mustard, that sucker will stubbornly hold on for at least a year, if properly refrigerated.  Heck, if you're feeling testy, you can run my unintentional experiment of keeping an opened bottle of mustard in a bag that has been through the Death Valley heat waves of 100+ degrees with little to no refrigeration, but then I would be liable for your potential hospital bills, so please don't; I already did that experiment for you.

     On the other end of the spectrum is the "Sell By" stamp you typically see on all kinds of refrigerated milk, eggs, meats and poultry products, and other perishable food stuffs.  Even for an idiot optimist like myself, I still realize that the shelf life of these products are drastically reduced to the point where keeping them on an actual shelf for a year will be surprisingly comparable to a fermenting corpse that your land lady will undoubtedly call in due to stench complaints, followed by the replacement costs of your door hinges when the police drop kick it open to investigate the assault on the nostrils.

At least it will air out the place...

     Yet, although it is important to adhere to these "sell by" dates more stringently, the life of these products can still be perfectly extended for a considerable amount of time after the date passes, most notably for milk, eggs, and other dairy products.  For meats, it's roughly about 2-3 days after the date, and extended to quite a number of days if plopped into a freezer.  If you cook these perishables and keep it properly covered and contained in your refrigerator,  that will essentially even double the lifespan, and make for an awesome array of left overs for future meals.  In the long run, that will cut down on preparing every single meal and cut down on waste of leftover food.  Comparatively, the perishable's life spans are drastically stunted compared to your shelf stable items, but the trade off is that they are consumed more frequently than the jars of post apocalypse ready peanut butter or Tabasco.

     As for the gibberish you occasionally find in the form of a mash up of letters and numbers on the top of cans, for instance, that is just the store's way of keeping track of and rotating their stock, in case another pesky strain of salmonella finds its way into a batch of peanut butter and they have to issue out a recall.

Side note: if you happen to catch word of a recall on some of these items I've stated, feel free to disregard the safety concerns and potential health safety outbreak and plop some of that infected sandwich spread on a piece of bread.  Be adventurous, imminent death be damned; this is America.

Additional side note: Please don't do that.


 


       In the end, it's all about the individual looking into this themselves and educating themselves and others about this slice of potential food waste, and researching the life span of the contents of their refrigerator through various other sources.  With no federal oversight regarding a consistent system for food labeling, states can, and do, create their own labeling and dating of their goods that only aggravates the consumer and provides false information.  One obvious yet curiously little circulated source is the Food Safety and Inspection Service page, as well as sites like stilltasty.com, which even has its own smartphone application so you can save any potential harm to your dietary tract on the fly.  If this epidemic of food waste is to be fruitfully diminished, then information like this has to be transmitted to the consumer, whether it be from the direct word of grocery chains and the total remodeling of food labeling by manufacturers, or from the select few who sacrifice their own bodies to bring you this often overlooked information.  I'll still be your gastric guinea pig for many years to come, but I do hope you refer to the links before tasking me with testing out the shelf life of, say, wasabi.

Eh, who am I kidding, really?  I'll do that one pro bono.  I think I'm sick in the head.


stilltasty.com

http://www.fsis.usda.gov/

http://www.nrdc.org/food/expiration-dates.asp

Jerry

     Allow me to paint a hypothetical scenario to cement a long fermenting idea of mine.  First we need a person to start off the formula.  Let's call this first piece of the puzzle Jerry.

     Jerry is a weathered old man.  At one time, however, Jerry was a declaration of health and vitality.  Jerry knew this, and knew of somewhere he could put it into good use.  So, one day, Jerry took a trip down to the local recruitment center, and soon was on his way to fight in the name of the colors of red, white, and blue. 

     It soon became apparent that Jerry was flourishing amongst his ranks, and he loved that his soldier's heart was being recognized and rewarded.  Laboriously, Jerry steadily rose in the ranks until he was commanding others into battle, and they loved him for it.  He was a shining beacon for others to emulate.  Jerry's spirit was infectious, and it spread like wildfire amongst his people.

     Then one day something decided to smother that fire.  On that day, Jerry's destiny collided with the cruelty of the world when he stumbled across a lurking IED, and in turn, robbed him of one of his legs and also that precious vitality. 

     Jerry did his best to recover that spirit, in the days that he recuperated and grew accustomed to being only partially whole.  For him, it was as if a sliver of his spirit had been dissolved away, and he soon began an achingly steady downward spiral.

     When he returned to his past life, Jerry ran into many problems.  He discovered for himself that same spirit and vitality he utilized wasn't sought after in the declining job market, and his handicap certainly didn't help matters, and after many hazy mornings combing over coffee mug rim stained classifieds in the local paper, Jerry was aimless.  And, in this aimlessness, he moved in with his parents for a time, and they loved him.  But love just wasn't enough for aimless Jerry, and he spiraled into a self reflective despair as he rolled the laces of his pair of battered track and field shoes between his fingers, his mind tumbling over the long gone days of feeling the asphalt underneath him.  In time, Jerry could not bear the pitying love people looked at him with through their furrowed brows, and Jerry suddenly left with out a word. 

 
      We are greeted with a sobering sight.  There is a ragged assembly line of souls bordering the sidewalk outside the town's local soup kitchen, and the doors are a few minutes away from opening to the lunch rush.  We see a man roll up to the back of the line with his right wheelchair wheel dragging slightly from lack of proper lubrication, and there he waits silently for the afternoon's meal.  In a few moments we find him with a tray in his lap as he propels himself towards the nearest table with the least amount of onlookers.  Mechanically, we find this man spooning apple sauce into his mouth with a piece of crushed bread clenched in his other hand, all the while staring blankly at the speckled blue of the tray.  There is a robotic sterility to his motions and his hunger. 
     He feels a faint tickle where the folded up pant leg is brushing against the grown over stump that was at one time his left leg, and he drops the piece of bread momentarily to scratch at the phantom itch.  He continues like this until the last morsel is eaten and he drops his plate at the dishwasher window, and rolls towards the exit.  He does not remember leaving the building, and rolling down the sidewalk towards his usual nook sandwiched between a sub shop and an ATM kiosk.  He is in a routine, at this point; a routine that his routinely filled belly is accustomed to as he sits in his chair, disturbing his melancholia only to painfully reminisce.  It had been a cold winter, and the sprinklings of a dark hue emanating from his coughing confirms what he already knows.  He pulls his quilt tighter to his chin, and he thinks of the days of vitality.  He thought of the laces on his old track and field shoes. 

    
     Thankfully, Jerry is fictional, yet his circumstances disturbingly ring true for many.  Millions of people like Jerry face a deadly hand of cards in the form of unemployment, housing insecurity, and/ or lack of support for those who have been scarred by warfare and left to rot in the streets.,  As a most basic need, we fill their bellies to the best of our abilities, and we nourish them to a certain extent.  But it is only a surface hunger we cater to, and it is making little gain.  In the end, it fatigues me to even contemplate: how can we as a nation even hope to combat an epidemic like hunger if we can't even reign in the other injustices in our system?  For Jerry, food only delayed the inevitable, and that rings true for millions in a similar situation.

     Admittedly, I do see the efforts to change this.  I applaud the charisma of organizations who employ the hungry in community garden efforts, and also the charity of those who dish out millions of meals to feed hungry families across the globe.  Their humanity is not in question, yet their is an air of futility that permeates our atmosphere.  In our morally tarnished society, with its hand wringing politicians and reign yanking mega corporations dictating the flow of life, abolishing hunger is sadly something that results from a chain reaction of other reforms.  Despite our innovative ideas and best implementations, we are in need of a catalyst in the form of a societal revolt.  And, to combat the symptom of hunger, we must collectively drain the disease of corruption from the nation's arteries, or else our efforts will forever remain fruitless, no matter how many hungry bellies we fill or gardens we sprout from any number of corners.  For Jerry, we have failed him and countless others in feeding their hope and trust in the system that they fought to protect and glorify, and it's a hunger pang in which we unfortunately can't quell for them, at least not for a long while. 
    
     But I guess that's what makes us so stubbornly righteous;  plowing ahead and patching up what we can and salvaging what's left over before the inevitable revolution. 

A Gentler Crusade

    


     The longer I dwell on it, the more I realize that religion (no one in particular, just the persistent general hold it has on its population), is mindboggingly integral in the struggles that taint the way of life for millions of people, especially hunger.  From the blistering few months we've been on the road, we've run into a myriad of religious organizations who are making real and meaningful contributions to ending hunger in their own communities, and it has that unique duality of being humbling while at the same time provoking a reaction in us to follow suit.

     I was never an advocate for religion personally, in my younger days, and still to this day I'm still not.  For me, it's almost akin to a hobby that I simply weened my interest away from.  I do remember fondly my days in youth groups, mucking around with my church buddies while at the same time laboring through the otherworldy Mojave Desert dryness of sermons we had to succumb to in order to advance towards the church potluck.  Of course, even that was a double edged sword; the newly expectant mothers with their pre natal taste buds and cold war era geriatrics felt it their duty to experiment with new fangled ways to prepare Spam and packaged soy meat substitutes that would make even the most gut wrenching hunger pangs vanish in a wisp of vapor.  A word of advice: soy dog casseroles are an abomination, and a war crime in any other part of the world. 

     That being said, I truly did appreciate the earnestness in the people I was surrounded by that were determined to make a saint out of me, which made it all the more awkward when I couldn't keep up the facade any longer, essentially abandoning my faith altogether. 

    I still to this day can't really pin point that exact moment that prompted my abandonment.  Perhaps it was that general air of pompous stuffiness I snatched a whiff of from the white suburban house wives , (or maybe that was the cheap Sunday sermon perfume?), and some of their snotty kids who had already racked up a check list of truly horrifying and sinful acts of debauchery that would make their priest blush.  Or maybe it stems from those nights in my household where I took up my usual post aloft in my bunk bed, whispering hoarsely under my breath with my clenched shut eyes burning white hot, pleading for more than just the typical one sided spiritual exchanges I had in my head as my ears pricked up at the sharp, sound barrier crack of skin colliding with skin emanating from the adjacent room.

     In any case, I've been generally dismissive of religion since then, and as a result I regarded it with a sort of blackened amusement as I come in contact with more people who put it in the center of their lives.  I pitied them, in a way that is borderline juvenile in its narrow mindedness and sickeningly asinine in its condemning.  At the time, however, I though of myself as a self sustaining force of nature; someone who didn't need a crutch to vault over my demons to achieve what I strived for.  And, I was in this blissful state of arrogance for a large chunk of time, at least until Dan and I passed through the Salt Lake City area. 

     When we heard about the Welfare Square in Salt Lake City, we new some basic little factoids about the organization: run by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and essentially a hub for the impoverished and needy.  Reflexively, a part of me recoiled when I discovered the religious affiliation, and I braced for the teeth grating on my part.  Our scooter ride over to the complex was fairly brief, and we eventually found ourselves in their main lobby, where we happened across a convenient tour group.  After exchanging brief pleasantries, we were corralled into a large conference room of sorts with a projector screen, where we were informed that a brief movie would be shown to highlight the mission of the church and the facility, at which point my brain was screaming in my ear, "It's a trap!"  Too late, I inwardly flexed, as the projector flickered to life and we patiently sat through the usual religious montage of smiling children and soaring brass and string sections.  Actually, not to bad compared to others I've sat through. Eventually, we were finally led through the actual facilities, and it was then that my jaw finally started to scrape the floor.

     To me, the whole complex seemed like one massive shopping center with top of the line appliances and furnishing.  Every where you turned the fluorescent lighting glinted off of the polished floor underneath us and the stainless steel walls and machinery tucked in a multitude of corners.  For the next couple of hours we were led through a grocery store packed to the brim with canned goods and fresh produce, a bakery with spotless machinery and massive stores of food neighboring it, a scientific facility to test for food quality and safety lined with beakers and gadgets I couldn't even fathom their purpose, a thrift store with the clientele of GoodWill and the selection of major name brand chains, and even a facility where they make their own cheese and dairy products, free of preservatives and unnecessary additives.  With my head still swirling in overwhelming scope, we were made aware that everything, EVERY SINGLE THING in this complex is entirely funded by something called "fast offerings".  Essentially, members of the church are encouraged, (however not required ), to donate money that they would otherwise spend on a couple of meals on one Sunday of every month. This is completely separate from the standard tithe.

     As I absorbed all this information I still could not fathom the astronomical support this community was lending to this institution, and the almost fanatical fervor I saw in the people trying to make a sizable difference for their community was quite possibly the most evident when we finally reached their employment center.  There in front of us was a smattering of volunteers, buzzing away diligently as they pecked away at keyboards and shuffled papers across desk and cabinets, all the while chatting away pleasantly with each other.  As if prompted by our questioning gaze, our tour guides informed us that these volunteers were all primarily from the church community, and that they all held separate jobs themselves; they just do this on their spare time. 

     Up until that point, I never truly understood the implications of being part of a church going community that truly embraced the divine message they govern themselves around.  I've always had this degrading sympathy for anyone who chose the religious path; a sign of weakness on their part, to put it bluntly.  With my troubled past, coupled with my stubborn resolve to improve myself with divine intervention, I diluted the surprisingly pungent effects the Word of God can have on a struggling community, and now I find myself questioning my narrow minded mentality.  Who am I to dismiss His word, when it has provoked those to create so much for the good of their community?  They have no monetary gain to follow in the divine scripture; only a reassurance that their contributions will better the lives of their fellow man.  Sure, I could continue with the usual argument over discrepancies  regarding the Word of God, as is my antagonistic nature towards a subject I have a certain stigma towards, but then what would be the point?  Perhaps I'm jealous; to witness a positive change in people through the influence of something I hungered for long ago. 

     Regardless of my lack of "faith", I concede that this world is plagued with a Pandora's Box of problems, especially in our own country.  There was a time when I advocated the separation of religion from any possible solutions that would benefit our troubled citizens, but I realize now that it is not only a necessity for the combination, but also an inevitability.  It is a crutch for that family that hasn't eaten a decent meal in weeks, and a banner for those who are willing to devote their time and energy to make sure that aforementioned family is satiated.  In this day in age religious affiliation is met with leers of disdain due to some of it troubled past, but it's time that I respect its influence and the potential social progress it can promise.  In essence, religion is that secret dash of spice that one tosses into a bubbling pot of nourishment that ties the whole ensemble together.  Without it, the whole presentation is liable to fall apart.

     That being said, I think I'll still sleep in on Sundays and forgo any sermons, for now.  Baby steps. 

    

   

A Balancing Act, Of Sorts

The hiking pack fell off the scooter for the 3rd time in the past 15 minutes.


     I'd spit out the dirt and grime kicked up by the wheels on this dirt path leading to our next camping spot, if I had any saliva left.  The day started out innocent enough; a steady breeze kept my shirt from adhering to my back as the sun sulked behind a waning sheet of clouds.  It was persistent, however, and inevitably I found myself cursing every bone rattling second on this haphazard road through the mountains as if it were carved out with a jagged ended trowel, all the while that heat lamp up in the big blue giving me a nice crisp on the skin.  Eventually, I started to classify the bumps in the road to avoid boiling over with rage: there are the craters, the boulder graveyards, the stretches of traction robbing loose gravel and dirt, the squiggles which are shaped like the surface of a riffles potato chip, and of course, the scooter swallowing trenches that are unavoidable and crunch up your spine like an accordion.
     Thunk!  I don't even bother checking the mirror, at this point.  I squeeze out of my cramped throne and notice the tent bag and my hiking pack sprawled across the narrow road, again.  I look for a second, and I chuckle a little "Of course!" as I realize I've lost my third water bottle, which is probably rolling  maniacally away as it escapes down the mountain.  Doesn't matter, you have to console yourself.  Slamming my pack and tent back onto the creaking backside of the scooter, I shimmy back into the seat and start her back up, all the while shoving desperately with my legs to get her past the next big hill.
    Maybe this is the last hill.  Of course, I know better, and my scooter groans in answer before I can even muster a response.  I'm not even sure I can even bring her to  our customary 5 miles and hour on this one.  I try my best, however, and eventually come to a stand still on the middle of the hill, prompting me to jump off and give the beast a push, now that my weight wasn't added to the load.  Scorching thighs from the exertion further fuel my frustration, and the nagging thoughts crash my brain uninvited behind my migraine clouded eyes as the sweat droplets pool down the bridge of my nose to the red cushion seat under my head.

 These debilitating thoughts,

Loathe, repulsed by, addicted to,

Thoughts, crippling,

Fraying of nerves...

     An hour of this and we miraculously pull into a spot, and I slump out onto the grass and gravel and mechanically start to tear down the baggage and plop them carelessly onto the ground.  I go through the motions as I strain to continue the thread of conservation with my traveling buddy, yet my heart isn't into banter and it shows through my body language and my almost comic frowning mug.  I curse myself for it, yet I can't shake my gut instinct, immature gloom because it's so sickeningly satisfying,so satisfying, satisfying in it's deceptive warmth.  

     The migraine drives in that final ice pick into my consciousness as I desperately try to bring myself out of this idiotic self paralysis, and I strain to play the fun loving, joke cracking travel buddy I used to be a mere couple of months ago, out on a noble quest, and I succeed only partially.  But with each passing minute the thoughts and feelings continually slam into the inner wall of my brain, berating me for the inconsequential and revolting me in the mistakes of past, and the onslaught rolls over in waves as I make my way to the tent, and the dirt and grime from days of build up saturate my skin and clothes as I slink into my sleeping bag and let sleep take on its nightly shift, praying for some sort of reprieve until morning...

No images, no wait, definitely images, images of shapes, 

shapes of words and words shaping images, they're whizzing by, 

slashing by like a highway in my aching head, 

head overflowing with trivial, inconsequential, 

no wait they are important STOP IT they're not,  

outlines of words, 

words in bold print and angry coloring,  
RAGE in crimson red   
Melancholia in oppressive shades of shadowy tones sometimes blue sometimes that same red but always blue 

a color that finds its way into my thoughts, thoughts of past and present and the 

unknown and the past I slave over with my mind as I comb over my mistakes 

and my faults and my fears for what's to come or what won't come Oh God 

what have I done I lament the familiar the familiar sting and soothing 

balm of home and certainty how long can I last CAN. I. LAST I'm in a spiral spiraling in the sprawl of space of my sanity suffocating my sanity severing my psyche

 Stop it stop it stop 
wake up wake wake u-

    The ear splitting ringing in my head cuts out and I'm warped back into being fully conscious, my eyes still shut, but I decide not to open them for the moment, and let the crust in the corner of my eyelids keep them glued together.  I can feel the morning coming on, but it's stubbornly too frigid to crawl out of my cocoon.  I toss and turn, shifting my weight to get some blood flow back into the arm I had been cradling on the entire night.  There's a tingling in my fingers as circulation works its magic and I eventually decide to come top side.  I glance out the front of the tent entrance and notice once again a  mountain side that looms over our campsite, with the neighboring slopes steep with piled logs and loose boulders.  Deep breath, stretch my chest, another deep inhalation.  Dan is awake.  He asks if I'm going to climb that.  You know what?  I think I will.

     The thoughts are still untamed for the first couple of minutes as I stumble on some loose gravel and stones up the mountain side, straddling toppled over tree limbs awkwardly and trying to find hand holds to steady my ascent.  Eventually, though, the chorus dies down to a pitiful whimper in my head as the steady crunch of twigs beneath my boots take shape in my mind, and then it turns oddly quiet.  I can hear some far off bird with its mildly pleasant cackle reverberating around me.  Sweat droplets haltingly drip off of my reddened face, but I don't mind; the breeze is cooling the sheen of sweat on my forehead.  There is a steady fire in my thighs again, yet it feels good; the burn is a welcome sensation in my waking body.  My eyes aren't clouded by any debilitating migraine; the throbbing in my forehead is a faded whisper.  My heart pounds in my chest as I make a last mad dash to the peak of the climb, eventually scraping stone and moss underneath my feet.  I clamor up the last few feet to the ridge of the cliff, and I look over past the edge to the mountain valley that lays before me. 

      Some people label these unfiltered episodes as "anxiety" or "panic" attacks; something that is jarring in one instance and and then a split second later washed away.  But for me they are, as I stated, a faded whisper, yet still ever present, nonetheless.  It'll still be there wherever I go, and I'm changed for it, whether it be for better or for worse.  With that knowledge forever known to me, I guess the only thing I can do at this point is to soak in the scenery, inflate my lungs with that pine tinged air, and methodically make my descent back to the now tamed madness below.