to live content.

"To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony. "

—William Henry Channing

via my friend, Peleg

learning a valuable lesson.

By nature, I am a) generally very accommodating and b) prone to think I can do most things better than most people. Both traits are getting me into trouble at work.

I'm finding myself spread too thin, working on too many tasks, a number of which are really someone else's job (or should be). I tend to say, "I can take care of that" or "I can help with that" ... and then, bloop! Too much on my plate, and I'm doing things others should be or could be doing. Since the beginning of the year, I've been feeling overwhelmed. And, frankly, taken advantage of (though I have to own my responsibility for this problem).

In a meeting last week, one of my colleagues asked—about a marketing idea that we were considering—if it was really worth spending all that time on it. The question was revelatory. Why DO we have to do everything? Why do I have to do everything?

Today, I am practicing the art of the handoff: Doing my portion of a project, and then handing it off to someone else instead of trying to do it all myself. We'll see how this goes.

make music of what you can.

My friend Peleg Top sent me this poem. I had to post it. I'm very good at hesitating. I need to not be so.

AGAINST HESITATION
Charles Rafferty

If you stare at it long enough
the mountain becomes unclimbable.
Tally it up. How much time have you spent
waiting for the soup to cool?
Icicles hang from January gutters
only as long as they can. Fingers pause
above piano keys for the chord
that will not form. Slam them down
I say. Make music of what you can.
Some people stop at the wrong corner
and waste a dozen years hoping
for directions. I can’t be them.
Tell every girl I’ve ever known
I’m coming to break her door down,
that my teeth will clench
the simple flower I only knew
not to give . . . Ah, how long did I stand
beneath the eaves believing the storm
would stop? It never did.
And there is lightning in me still.

reading & writing.

I had a driveway moment (actually, a gym parking lot moment) yesterday listening to NPR's remembrance of J.D. Salinger. The piece included readings from "A Catcher in the Rye," which were mesmerizing. I read "A Catcher in the Rye" exactly once, as required, in high school English class. I vaguely remember its angsty anti-hero, Holden Caulfield, its dark tone, its unresolved ending. After hearing the piece (and finishing my Pilates class), I dashed home to see if I still had a copy of the book ... no luck. (I'll bet that high-school copy is still on the bookshelf in my teenage bedroom.)

Salinger puts me in mind of other writers whose work I love, whose work propelled me toward the career that I'm in. Fitzgerald. Steinbeck. Wharton. White. It makes me want to pick up all those books again and re-experience the marvelous language, the turns of phrase, the ways of seeing and describing the world.

Last night, realizing I didn't have Salinger on the shelf, I grabbed the three-volume set of Junior Great Books that I have from fifth grade. (I'm delighted to see the program is still in existence.) Once a month, a group of advanced readers at Mohawk Trails Elementary gathered in a conference room during lunchtime/recess, where Mrs. Lorton led us in a discussion of a work from the Junior Great Books series. There was an excerpt from "The Wind in the Willows." Part of "A Christmas Carol." An obscure bit from Mark Twain. Writings by Heywood Broun, Chekhov, Bradbury, a few poems. I distinctly remember feeling special (and a bit nerdy) to be part of this group. It was the first time I recall having real conversations about books, not just guided classroom discussion. We didn't talk about the mechanics of the writing, but rather the meaning and our interpretations, guided by our suburban, '70s-era kid worldview.

Last night, I read Bradbury's heartbreaking short story, "All in a Summer Day" and Heywood Broun's "The Fifty-First Dragon." My 42-year-old self was as enthralled as my 10-year-old self had been. I'm planning to pick up "Gatsby" and "Catcher" and create a list of all my old favorites. It'll be my winter reading program.

As a kid, I was a voracious reader. VORACIOUS. I have a high-resolution memory of sitting in front of my kindergarten class, reading to the rest of the kids. I devoured Nancy Drew, E.B. White, Judy Blume. I'd plow through the Carmel Library's summer reading program at warp speed. I loved the library. I have deep and profound recollections of lying on the floor with my mom and brother on summer evenings after supper, reading a chapter at a time of "Charlotte's Web." My dad had perfected the voices of the characters in my favorite picture books, Dare Wright's "Little Doll" series. (He had Mr. Bear down pat.)

This love of words led me to journalism classes in high school and college and, ultimately, to my magazine career and even this blog. I can't NOT read or write. And I think that it's going to point me toward other opportunities in my life, as well.

technology i could get excited about.

Despite—or perhaps to spite—my company's persistent and monomaniacal emphasis on publishing's digital future (i.e., f*** the printed page), I refuse to buy into the hype. For me personally and for the people we make our books and magazine for, the printed object is still relevant and inspiring. It's savable. Many of these items together make a library, a collection. I'd like to see a Kindle user create the same impression of literariness and erudition (ha!) with his onscreen list of titles as a devoted reader conveys with her wall-to-wall-floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. E-books? Bah. Kindle? Humbug.

But wait ...

Anticipating tomorrow's long-awaited announcement of the Apple tablet, I think about how I might use that digital tool. Not for ordinary reading ... but for this: Wouldn't it be amazing to have a digital reader in the kitchen—that houses all your bookmarked online recipes, your favorite food blogs, your preferred online food & kitchen retailers and even, yes, cookbooks and magazines (in full color, with pictures). If a digital device could hold all those resources, and let me search and bookmark them, and perhaps even create a shopping list that I can download to my iPhone ... then, well then, I'd be in favor of this digital publishing thing.

Maybe.

welcome to mooth2.0.

Rob and I have determined that this is the year of Mooth2.0. We don't know what that means, exactly. It just feels like we're keeping our eyes and minds open to new and interesting things.

A few friends have casually observed that I've been slacking on posting to this blog, so as part of Mooth2.0, Rob suggested that we (both) commit to posting more regularly. Now, with a week of the new year under our belts, seems as good a time to start as any.

I'm not big into New Year's resolutions; I don't need to quit smoking or start a diet or anything significant like that. But I have been thinking of what I'll call my intentions for 2010: things I want to pay attention to, to be mindful of, to make an effort toward. I'll share them here so my friends can help (gently) keep me accountable. In no particular order:

Be more correspondent. Lately, I've enjoyed exchanging letters with my 88-year-old grandmother. I love her notes filled with news about the goings-on in her garden or at her birdfeeder, and I like sharing similarly unimportant but meaningful observations from my life with her.

Be more thoughtful. My friend Sam Harrison is a master at sending out-of-the-blue gifts that always make my day. I'm not ordinarily proactively thoughtful like Sam is. But I'd like to be.

Be more present. Mom recently said her resolution for 2010 is to figure out a way for the year not to fly by like 2009 did. Mom, if you do, let me know. But I think it has something to do with 1) being observant and 2) being grateful. Two fairly simple things I fail to do on a day to day basis.

Focus on what's meaningful and impactful in my work. 2009 at F+W was a long slog of budget cuts, additional projects, fewer resources. The focus has been on what's good for the company and not on what's good for our customers or our employees. That makes work pretty much suck. I hereby vow to focus on the fact that the work my little team does has meaning and impact for the people we make it for. That is, our readers/customers, and NOT our executives.

Let go of the unimportant. Nothing more needs be said about that.

My highest priority for 2010: Find some inputs. Nearly all of my creative and mental energy is expended on outputs -- making work for others. And currently, all of my learning opportunities are work-related and, therefore, deeply unsatisfying. (Wow, I can add HTML code to a web page. Yippee.) I desperately DESPERATELY need inputs. I need to learn things, to fuel my brain and heart and creativity. Some initial ideas: attending programs at the Cincinnati Observatory, the Civic Garden Center; learning calligraphy, bread-baking, French, whatever.

Like I said, 2010 feels like it's a time for Rob and me to keep our eyes open to new and interesting things.

moleskine love.

I keep a little Moleskine notebook in my purse. More and more, I'm noting random things via outlets like Facebook or my Twitter feed, but the trusty Moleskine is perfect for capturing things with more heft, meaning and significance. And for stashing found objects like wine labels and four-leaf clovers.

I tend to forget about the Moleskine until I'm in the mood to record something for posterity, and then I remember how much I love making notes in it. But really, the best thing about pulling it out of my purse is leafing through and seeing all the good stuff in there: drunken notes, quotes and booze labels from our 40th birthday trip to St. Barts with our dearest friends; pages where I've used a just-pulled wine cork like a rubber stamp to record memorable bottles; recipe ideas and inspirations; garden plans; little poems like this haiku:

On the Equinox
I see that summer's fading
The garden is tired.

Today, as I was jotting some notes as a creative, self-reflective exercise suggested by my friend Colleen (more on that at a later date), I came across this, which I wrote while I was stuck on the tarmac on some airplane somewhere.

Band Names Inspired by Sitting on an Airplane

Armrest Larceny
Airsickness
Upright + Locked
The Exit Row Seats
The Overhead Bins
Bottom Cushion
The Seatbacks
5CD
Aisle Seat Love
Lavatory Funk
Men with Wings
The Beverage Carts
Turbulence
30,000 Feet
The Mini Bottles
Security Jerk
No Step
The Drop-Down Masks

good at.

During a really terrific catch-up conversation with Mom last night, she told me she'd seen my recent post about the "Hello, I'm good at ..." nametags. So she shared her own "good at" list, and I asked if I could post it here:

I am good at:

Being a mother
Making great meals
I matter
Making a small difference for some people
Feeling gratitude
Being a friend
Loving my children
Loving the space I am in right now
Finding out who I really am

Yay!

september 22.

I will not bow
to seasonal wisdom
and trade geraniums
for mums
… just yet

No sense uprooting
tomato plants;
there’s so much potential
hanging clustered, green
on the vines
... for now

I’ll welcome fall’s bounty
into my kitchen
... soon
corn and strawberries
have not yet
yielded that ground

I’ll avert my gaze
from displays
of costumes, candy
… for at least
another few weeks

Today is
summer’s last day
... but not its end.

good.

At a recent conference that HOW sponsored, I again met up with a fantastic woman named Dyana Valentine, who spoke at the same shindig last year. She's a dynamo (perhaps that should be her first name), one of those people who's completely engaging and thoroughly, genuinely interested in YOU.

Among many things, she helps people connect with each other, and she has a cool version of those "Hello, my name is ..." nametags that she hands out. Hers says, "Hello, I'm good at ..." Which is a brilliant way to get a roomful of people talking to each other. Most people tend to write in something business-related: "I'm good at copywriting," "I'm good at design" -- that kind of thing. But at this conference, some people wrote personal things.

This got me thinking.

Hello, I'm good at ...

finding four-leaf clovers
the very detail-oriented aspects of cooking, like planning and preparation
taking care of Wrigley
teaching
being Rob's partner
balancing (physically, that is, not so much the whole work/life thing)
planting
writing
helping
being diplomatic
keeping score at a baseball game
making focaccia

So there.

in the media.

I was happy to be interviewed by local food columnist Polly Campbell for a story on Cincinnati-area farmers markets in the Wednesday Cincinnati Enquirer a couple of weeks ago.

“We go to Findlay every Saturday with a list to do most of our shopping,” said Bryn Mooth, a devoted farmers market shopper from Mount Lookout. “Then we go to Hyde Park to socialize and see what they have – it’s a little more serendipitous.”

Here's a link to the full article.

And then today, there's a fun Q&A that I did with Justin Ahrens, a designer who runs a studio called Rule29 outside of Chicago. I've gotten to know Justin through the HOW Design Conference and the magazine; he's one of those folks I'm glad I've crossed paths with in my professional life. Here's a link to the interview.

in a nutshell.

These two images from an illustrator in London named Freya pretty much sum up how I feel about Rob (and Wiggy) and the life we've created together:

life dreaming.

Over the weekend, in a fit of wine-induced nostalgia, I dug out a list that I'd made back in the day when Rob and I were dating -- it's a list of things that I imagined for our life together. Like, that we'd have a dog we'd walk together, that we'd drink wine together, that we'd cook together, that we'd leave each other sweet notes and comfort each other after tough days, that we'd live in the city (which, at that time, meant Chicago, since we spent a fair amount of time there).

I'm amazed at how prescient that list has turned out to be. Thinking about it now, I see that many of the dreams I had for the two of us were really just grown-up versions of the stuff we liked to do at the time.

I didn't have to dig too deep to find that list; I'd included it in a scrapbook that I made for Rob in 2000 in celebration of our 10th wedding anniversary. As the 20th anniversary of our engagement comes up this summer, I find myself thinking of what I imagine for the rest of our lives together. Truly, I can't envision it getting any better than it is now.

ever the girl scout.

Bear with me for a little lunchtime rant. I'm hormonal and a bit bothered, so deal with it.

As I've written about here and here, I am hardwired with what I call my Need for Order and Correctness. Which means that I have fairly high standards. Which, in turn, means that I'm usually disappointed.

Simply because I try to be considerate, courteous and helpful, I assume that the rest of the world will, too. Doesn't work that way.

(Note: If you're reading this, consider yourself among the friends and loved ones to whom these broad generalizations do not apply.)

And I end up getting frustrated by the dumbest, smallest things. I'm irate that very few people in our neighborhood shovel their sidewalks like Rob does. I'm beyond annoyed when fellow employees leave their nas-assty dirty dishes in the kitchen sink at work. I fume when I feel like I or my team are the only ones going the extra mile. I want to hit the person who doesn't hold the door open for me, or who doesn't put their weights away in the gym, or who nearly runs me over as I'm standing in a crosswalk. Because I tend to look out for others, to leave a place better than I found it and pitch in willingly, I'm always let down when others don't act as I would.

I recognize that I'm somehow still living by the Girl Scout Law:

I will do my best to be
honest and fair,
friendly and helpful,
considerate and caring,
courageous and strong, and
responsible for what I say and do,
and to
respect myself and others,
respect authority,
use resources wisely,
make the world a better place, and
be a sister to every Girl Scout.

I understand that here lies the path to madness. I'm aware that this is my problem and that this frustration is of my own making. Self-awareness makes you only marginally less pissed off.

a dream of mine.

If we won the lottery and could build a second home, this is exactly how I'd want it: a modern box, a kitchendininglivingroom with a loft bedroom above and all surrounded by glass. I found a picture of this house (who knew someone had been reading my mind?) on NYTimes.com. I would not like my house to be in Idaho, as this one is. But the structure is just right.

Photo below is by Stuart Isett for the NYTimes.

department of food.

On NYTimes.com, columnist Nicolas Kristof has a piece about how President-elect Obama should revamp the Department of Agriculture and rename it the Department of Food. He cites Michael Pollan, noting that U.S. agricultural "policy" subsidizes the production of cheap calories (i.e., high fructose corn syrup) instead of real, healthy food. Here's a bit:

The Agriculture Department — and the agriculture committees in Congress — have traditionally been handed over to industrial farming interests by Democrats and Republicans alike. The farm lobby uses that perch to inflict unhealthy food on American children in school-lunch programs, exacerbating our national crisis with diabetes and obesity.

But let’s be clear. The problem isn’t farmers. It’s the farm lobby — hijacked by industrial operators — and a bipartisan tradition of kowtowing to it.

Can I get an 'amen'?

one thing i've learned about myself.

I suppose that a growing sense of self-awareness comes along with adding more candles to the birthday cake. As I get older, I have a deeper sense of what makes me tick, how I respond to certain people and situations, what stresses me out and what makes me happy. So I've become increasingly aware of this fact: I. Simply. Can't. Sit. Still.

I don't know if I've become hardwired by years of working on deadlines, or if my need for order and organization compels me to keep a to-do list, or what. But I have this primordial need to be busy. Having an hour or three with nothing to do makes me batty. Sitting idly makes me nervous. While lots of people are totally content to just "hang out," I get a bit stir-crazy.

(See the post about taking a day off to putter as a case in point. I mean, really: Who takes a much-needed day of R&R and spends the whole time vacuuming baseboards and sweeping the garage? I needed a massage AFTER my day of rest.)

Yesterday, I spent three hours on the couch reading the Sunday New York Times, working the crossword, watching football, talking on the phone (and, yes, napping).

You know what? I kinda liked it.

why food (really) matters.

I'm a huge fan of Michael Pollan, though I've only read his magazine articles and not his books (including In Defense of Food). Mostly I'm a fan because I buy into what he's saying 100%. His simple philosophy: Eat moderately, mostly local foods, and mostly plants.

So I devoured (pun intended) Pollan's lengthy article in a recent NYTimes Sunday Magazine, written as an open letter to the next president. He cites some jaw-dropping statistics:

• It takes a staggering amount of fossil fuel to produce the U.S. food supply; food is second only to cars in terms of fuel usage.
• As the cost of food has cheapened, what we spend societally on healthcare has gone up by the same amount. Cheap food = less healthy food = a less healthy society.
• Food production used to be fueled by the sun. Now it's fueled by petroleum, from petrochemical fertilizer to the diesel that runs the trucks that carry California strawberries to New Jersey.
• Food production used to be local. Small, independent, regional meat processing outfits that prepared and distributed (locally) the meat raised by small farmers have been replaced by huge contained feeding operations (like the godawful Fair Oaks Farm that dominates both sides of the landscape along I-65 in Northern Indiana), which require the use of antibiotics on the animals (they're kept in such close quarters and fed unnatural feed so they're prone to sickness) and which produce unmanageable amounts of waste.
• Speaking of which, food production used to be a closed loop: Cattle graze in winter on grassy pasture, keeping weeds under control and naturally fertilizing the earth; come spring, the pasture is plowed under and vegetable crops are planted, which need less fertilizer and weed control because of the land's winter activity. Rinse, repeat. Now, massive animal operations and monoculture (i.e., corn-only) farms misuse this natural cycle—the confined animals create a huge waste problem (there's no natural outlet for the manure) and the huge cornfields require fertilizer (there's no grazing). It creates two massive and linear problems of infertile land and enormous waste—no closed loop anymore.

I could go on. But instead I'll sit here and feel smug that we shop at a local market, buy local meat, bread and produce, and support our local agriculture.

Read Pollan. He's way smarter than I am.

goodnight, moon.

Last night, after I'd showered and put on my jammies, I realized that the moon was full and bright and gorgeous, and so I went outside to have a look. Moon and I have quite a thing; Rob sends the moon to be with me while he's away, and I've always loved watching its changing phases, colors and position in the sky. (Last night was the full Hunter's Moon, if you're interested.)

I sat down in the driveway and had a chat with my friend Moon.

"Moon," I said, "I'm tired and stressed and feeling pressed for time and out of control. I'm too busy at work and I've been away from home too much.

"It's hard, Moon."

And Moon said, "You know, you really don't have it so bad. You have a husband you love, and a dog and family who love you in return. You're healthy. Your home is a haven, not a place of tension and anger. You have money in the bank and a roof over your head.

"Imagine if your home life were troubled or if you were sick or fearful of losing your job."

Moon said, "It's not really so hard."

"You're right, Moon," I said.

Today, Moon is not out and it all feels hard again.

Tonight, Moon. Let's talk again. Same time, same place.

things don't change.

Here we are on a gorgeous August evening; we're cheating fate because the weather is stunning, and the moon is nearly full, and we're satisfied and nicely buzzy.

We're two days away from our 18th wedding anniversary, and in toasting the occasion with a freakin' amazing bottle of Italian red (complemented by an equally amazing dinner, which I'll get to in a second). We're recalling those late-summer days when we were newly together, when meeting up back in Bloomington for the school year was an exciting prospect.

I remember the early days of our relationship (does he like me? will he call? will he call AGAIN?) and then I remember that we settled into a comfortable togetherness that was easy and effortless early on, as it is now. I've always felt a rush of excitement on seeing him (like running into him "accidentally" when I knew he'd be studying in the Union), and that translates today, 20 years later (plus a few months). I felt that again on Thursday when Wrigley and I watched and cheered as Rob ran a 5K in the neighborhood. I'm still smitten.

The thing that constantly amazes me is that our home life, as uncomplicated and routine-oriented as it is, is so close to what we envisioned during those early days when we talked about our dreams of a life together. And our vacation time is so close to our everyday life, too. What's more, it doesn't feel like we're working particularly hard to achieve it: Our silly little contented life comes naturally. Something tells me that we might be onto something.

So on our 18th anniversary (and on Wrigley's 10th birthday, and Henry's 13th), we're all feeling content and happy. Which is, I suppose, how it should be.

Oh, so about dinner: A recipe from Beaulieu Winery for fennel-spiced steak: A rub of toasted and ground fennel seed, peppercorns and coriander dusted heavily over a steak, which is grilled, sliced and served atop thick slices of summer tomato. The tomatoes came from our garden, and they tasted like the sun that was shining when I picked them today. It's one of our very favorite recipes, perhaps mostly because it's so rare. It just doesn't fly in February.

Happy anniversary, B. I love you more than I can say. But then, I think you have a good godd@&m idea.