Cattywampus. For those of you who weren’t raised on fried green tomatoes and syrupy sweet tea, that word means off-center, askew, lopsided. It’s how I thought I’d feel after moving with my darling Yankee husband to his home town, State College, Pennsylvania.
On previous visits, I’d gotten over the stereotypes that we southerners tend to hold about our northern neighbors. No, they don’t scowl and flash a middle finger when you ask for directions. Believe it or not, they can cook a heck of a dinner (their love for steak and potatoes might just rival the southern passion fried chicken and biscuits—both in ardor and in calories). As shocking as it may be, there are churches here, and people actually go to them. Still, on the brink of our move, I couldn’t help but envision myself getting trapped in a blizzard, mowing down the horse-drawn buggy of an Amishman as I crested a hill in our ’92 Ford Escort station wagon, and choking down unsweetened (God forbid) ice tea. Would I ever be able to feel at home north of the Mason-Dixon?
Yes. A resounding yes. I love it here, despite the glaring absence of “y’all” in the local dialect (they say “yins folk” instead). One of the neat things about moving to a new place is getting to give your identity a makeover. You get to start with a blank slate—choosing how to live, what to get involved in, and how to interact with the people around you. Old habits (the bad kind) die easily. New resolutions (the kind that usually don’t last past late January) fall into place effortlessly.
I thought a lot about this during the 28 days I spent hiking the John Muir Trail this summer, and what I decided was that I needed to live life more conscientiously, deliberately, and consistently. The things I say I value—like loving people and caring for creation—need to actually be reflected in the way I spend my money and time and talents. State College has been a wonderful place to make my ideals my existence.
One area of my life that I’ve given a major overhaul is my relationship to food. After reading Barbara Kingsolver’s “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” this summer, I realized I’d become dependent upon a seriously dysfunctional food culture—one that values variety over seasonality, transportability over taste, accessibility over the environment, and economy over decent treatment of both farmers and animals. Sure, that system has benefits, such as being able to buy tomatoes in January—no matter that they are mealy and flavorless and have left a trail of CO2 from south of the equator to my grocery store. The same system provides me exotic items (which, let’s be honest, have never seemed exotic), such as coffee and bananas—no matter that the plantation workers who picked those items can’t afford to feed their families or that my local farmer can hardly afford to feed his.
All of this is to say, for the past month, I’ve survived by raiding compost piles and gnawing on my Birkenstock straps. Just kidding (though I know that’s what a few of you were thinking). In reality, I’ve simply tried to be more conscious and intentional about the food choices I’m making. Since Brandn and I got married, we’ve planned all of our meals for the week and taken just one trip to the store to avoid monetary and food waste. Now, I go to the local dairy and then the farmer’s market and cross as much as possible off my list before heading to the grocery store. And though it’s tempting to drive to Wegmans, a gourmet behemoth with aisle and aisles of ethnic and organic products, we’ve opted to shop at Weis Market, which is just around the corner from our house. Not only does this Pennsylvania-based chain offer a variety of produce grown by local farmers, it manufactures its Weis brand foods just 80 miles away. For these benefits I’m willing to overlook the strange marketing choices it has made for its brand name products. Who cares that our pretzels say “unique tasting” (it’s true!) or that I eat “Nutty Nuggets” (the generic version of Grapenuts) every morning? And I think it’s positively glorious that our friend Martha, on a visit to State College, said with consternation, “We is Market? That’s not correct.” Now I can stroll around the store, putting “We is fresh from the field” products into my basket.
Our new food ethic has also led to a couple of major projects. The end of August marked the peak of tomato season, when all of the farmers were practically begging you to take the sweet, red orbs off their hands. We bought 30 pounds of Romas for just $10 at the Amish farmers market down the street. With these juicy delights, Martha and I made a terrifying quantity of tomato sauce, which we canned in 17 half-pint jars and sealed in a pressure cooker. The same week, Brandn and I picked 85 ears of corn, which we blanched, stripped, and froze. This is our very small contribution to eating locally during the winter. I’m hoping to add apple sauce (made from local apples, of course) to our stockpile in a few weeks.
All there is to say about my time in State College is, so far, so good. Of course I haven’t experienced one of Happy Valley’s infamous winters yet. I’ll keep y’all posted.
On previous visits, I’d gotten over the stereotypes that we southerners tend to hold about our northern neighbors. No, they don’t scowl and flash a middle finger when you ask for directions. Believe it or not, they can cook a heck of a dinner (their love for steak and potatoes might just rival the southern passion fried chicken and biscuits—both in ardor and in calories). As shocking as it may be, there are churches here, and people actually go to them. Still, on the brink of our move, I couldn’t help but envision myself getting trapped in a blizzard, mowing down the horse-drawn buggy of an Amishman as I crested a hill in our ’92 Ford Escort station wagon, and choking down unsweetened (God forbid) ice tea. Would I ever be able to feel at home north of the Mason-Dixon?
Yes. A resounding yes. I love it here, despite the glaring absence of “y’all” in the local dialect (they say “yins folk” instead). One of the neat things about moving to a new place is getting to give your identity a makeover. You get to start with a blank slate—choosing how to live, what to get involved in, and how to interact with the people around you. Old habits (the bad kind) die easily. New resolutions (the kind that usually don’t last past late January) fall into place effortlessly.
I thought a lot about this during the 28 days I spent hiking the John Muir Trail this summer, and what I decided was that I needed to live life more conscientiously, deliberately, and consistently. The things I say I value—like loving people and caring for creation—need to actually be reflected in the way I spend my money and time and talents. State College has been a wonderful place to make my ideals my existence.
One area of my life that I’ve given a major overhaul is my relationship to food. After reading Barbara Kingsolver’s “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” this summer, I realized I’d become dependent upon a seriously dysfunctional food culture—one that values variety over seasonality, transportability over taste, accessibility over the environment, and economy over decent treatment of both farmers and animals. Sure, that system has benefits, such as being able to buy tomatoes in January—no matter that they are mealy and flavorless and have left a trail of CO2 from south of the equator to my grocery store. The same system provides me exotic items (which, let’s be honest, have never seemed exotic), such as coffee and bananas—no matter that the plantation workers who picked those items can’t afford to feed their families or that my local farmer can hardly afford to feed his.
All of this is to say, for the past month, I’ve survived by raiding compost piles and gnawing on my Birkenstock straps. Just kidding (though I know that’s what a few of you were thinking). In reality, I’ve simply tried to be more conscious and intentional about the food choices I’m making. Since Brandn and I got married, we’ve planned all of our meals for the week and taken just one trip to the store to avoid monetary and food waste. Now, I go to the local dairy and then the farmer’s market and cross as much as possible off my list before heading to the grocery store. And though it’s tempting to drive to Wegmans, a gourmet behemoth with aisle and aisles of ethnic and organic products, we’ve opted to shop at Weis Market, which is just around the corner from our house. Not only does this Pennsylvania-based chain offer a variety of produce grown by local farmers, it manufactures its Weis brand foods just 80 miles away. For these benefits I’m willing to overlook the strange marketing choices it has made for its brand name products. Who cares that our pretzels say “unique tasting” (it’s true!) or that I eat “Nutty Nuggets” (the generic version of Grapenuts) every morning? And I think it’s positively glorious that our friend Martha, on a visit to State College, said with consternation, “We is Market? That’s not correct.” Now I can stroll around the store, putting “We is fresh from the field” products into my basket.
Our new food ethic has also led to a couple of major projects. The end of August marked the peak of tomato season, when all of the farmers were practically begging you to take the sweet, red orbs off their hands. We bought 30 pounds of Romas for just $10 at the Amish farmers market down the street. With these juicy delights, Martha and I made a terrifying quantity of tomato sauce, which we canned in 17 half-pint jars and sealed in a pressure cooker. The same week, Brandn and I picked 85 ears of corn, which we blanched, stripped, and froze. This is our very small contribution to eating locally during the winter. I’m hoping to add apple sauce (made from local apples, of course) to our stockpile in a few weeks.
All there is to say about my time in State College is, so far, so good. Of course I haven’t experienced one of Happy Valley’s infamous winters yet. I’ll keep y’all posted.
5 comments:
Woohoo! Lucy has a blog! I enjoyed reading about your new home and I am happy that you are enjoying it there. Sorry we never got to get together before you moved. At least we can check up on each other every now and then here on the blog. Take care! :o)
Let me know when you want to have an applesauce-making party! :)
Lucy, great to read about your nice new identity, however, W-S misses your smile! Thanks for including us. Now, about that coffee; given it up or growing it yourselves???
Easiest way to make applesauce: in the crock pot. Seriously. Peel, chunk, throw in w/ some cloves and a cinnamon stick, let sit all day. Don't even need sugar! So yum!
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