PussycatMagazine

The joy of growing food

By Ms. Ann Leisure

Maybe you rolled your eyes when you read the headline for this post. Grow your own food? What are you my grandma? OK, well, yes. I admit that growing your own sprawling garden of zucchinis and tomatoes seems a bit old fashioned.

My own grandparents dedicated the better part of their backyard to two very popular Depression-era pursuits: air-drying laundry and growing vegetables. And yes, for my grandparents, who were children during the Depression and teenagers during World War II, turning away any chance to save money or build up a surplus of food to feed your family was unheard of. Even though I, at 34, have never known true want like they did, there is real satisfaction in growing food.

If you're already shaking your head saying, "Uh, I'm too busy to bother." or "I don't have the room," pishaw.You don't need any more room than a sunny windowsill, and you don't need any more time than 3 minutes every three days to water your plants. And, you don't need a lot of money to get started. All you need is a plant or seed, dirt, a pot, and water. No need for fancy green houses or other contraptions that claim to help you grow things. Mother Earth has been doing just fine for millions of years without all of that.

It's just a question of motivation.

When I had a small apartment, I'd grow dill and basil. When I lived in a duplex with a flower bed, I planted a handful of other herbs amidst the flowers. And when I bought a house, I turned the flower patch into a tomato patch. I've never had the sprawling garden my grandparents had, but I've found that there is still a lot of money to be saved and joy to be had in growing just a handful of things.

At first, as a young college student living off the tips I made at a coffee shop lean on customers, the herbs I grew in my windowsill saved me a lot of money while allowing me to spruce up the boring yet budget-friendly beans and rice dishes I ate every day.

I don't know when you went grocery shopping last, but if you cruise by the herbs, you'll notice that even small packages are outrageously priced. I know that with a $5 investment in seeds and pots and a little bit of sunshine, I can grow my own and have a virtually limitless, fresh, delicious supply year-round without forking over big bucks. It was and is one of the best little luxuries I could give myself.

Then, as a homeowner, the possibilities really opened up. I could plant in real dirt, outside. It wasn't really about money then, choosing what and when to plant was merely one of the cool things about owning a piece of land. I grew tomatoes and green peppers. I made the mistake of planting one zucchini that took over, spitting out a foot-long fruit every day for two months.

If you have never grow anything before, you have to try it. There is something deeply profound when the tiny green seedling emerges. It's life-affirming in a caveman kind of way. You've turned a seed, a pile of dirt, and plain old water into a living creature that will thank you by either flowering or making food that you can eat. I find that even on my saddest, hardest days, a peak at my seedlings cheers me up and gives me something to look forward to.

Hopefully by now I have convinced you to give it a try. You can save money, make your food more gourmet, and, if you are an eco-geek, reduce your food miles and grow something that you know for sure is pesticide free. It's spring, so it's easy to get your hands on seeds either by taking a trip to the hardare store or ordering online from Johnny's or Burpee. Just remember to use seed starting mix, not potting soil, to start your seeds. The few minutes a day you invest in your own smal garden will pay off in delicious dividends in no time. That's more than you can say for the stock market right now. 

Retro decorating Thursday: mid-century, with rubber plant

Ignore all of the wonderful things in this room: the Case Study sofa, the Armstrong tile floors, the Bertoia chair. No no. Never mind all of those. The focus of this book is that tried and true rubber plant by the fireplace. Huh? Well, what do you expect from the Better Homes & Gardens "Houseplants" book circa 1959?

The caption on this one reads:

India rubber plant grows well in home environment. Most common of rubber plants in the home, Ficus Elastica withstands poor conditions of light, temperature, moisture. But it grows best in bright light or shade-- not sun. A husky plant like this one needs a sturdy base. Set it in a tub or jardiniere that suits the decorating scheme.

Tough times for indie business

By Ms. Denise T.

We all know times are tough and the economy is pretty bleak. All of us are affected. Already, a handful of my friends have lost their jobs. Those are the direct effects of the most serious recession since, gulp, the Great Depression.

But we could-- and probably will-- lose so much more. When the economy tanks, it takes more than just our jobs and savings with it. We lose alternative voices, small businesses and many of the small leisure pursuits we enjoy. Here are only a few examples:

• Bitch Magazine, the feminist indie magazine that has been publishing for 12 years may go out of business. Not because of lack of dedication on the part of its 47,000 subscribers, but because the sad fact in publishing is that advertisers pay the bills. Ads pay for printing, distribution and staff salaries. What we actually pay to buy a magazine isn't a real reflection of the actual costs to produce it. If you don't believe me, just think of Domino. That magazine had almost 1 million subscribers, but it couldn't survive. Bitch said in September it needed to raise $40,000 to publish its October issue. No small task in these trying times.
• Alternative magazines have been closing left and right. Punk Planet, Kitchen Sink, and Clamor all have closed up shop. Craft, one of my new favorite magazines in recent years, has already suspended the print edition and moved to online only.
• Small businesses, including those cool mom-and-pop hipster retail shops, are suffering as well. This New York Times article about hip shops in Eagle Rock, California , illustrates some of the challenges. While the article does address neighborhood transformation, the underlying economic pressures are hitting all small business owners, coast to coast. Yes, more people--even hipsters-- are shopping at discount chains like Wal-Mart now that the economy has soured. We need stores that aren't chains.

Which brings me to the real issue. In these times,more than ever, we in the indie women's Internet community have to think about how and where we spend out money, what businesses we support and what kind of  world we want to work for. Think of this as election season. Every dollar you spend is a vote on what businesses and entities survive this recession. Do you want to wake up five years from now and find that only Wal-Mart survived? Or do you want a more diverse, interesting business landscape? If the answer is yes, use your money wisely. Every dollar counts. Every dollar is a vote. Who are you voting for?

Retro decorating Thursday: gussy up the stairway

We liked this photo because it's not really of a room. We all have weirdo dead spaces in our house that could be really cool, like this one. I mean, when was the last time you put some thought into decorating the stairway, the entry, the weird corner wall between your bedroom and bathroom? Never, well, me either. Here is a little inspiration from 1966 to get you thinking about the weird spots in your house that could be cool. 

The caption reads:

Dead entries, such as the stairway to the basement family room are dramatized by low-budget straw or rattan baskets and hampers (by Danny Ho Fong), plus a big hexagonal paper globe.

My sofa, my self

By the lovely Ms. Denise

It was time. Even my mother knew it. On a Saturday visit last September, she sat down on the sofa next to me, put her hand over mine and in a serious voice said "Honey. It's about time you bought some grown up furniture."

Gasp. She was right. I'm 33. I have a 10 month old baby and have been married for 7 years. I own my house and have a good job. I love painting and home improvement, and yet my living room was a wreck. I had the blue futon, the only piece of furniture my husband brought into the marriage, the green pull out sofabed that was in the guest room when we bought the house, and old blue. Sigh. Blue, my l-shaped 1950s sofa and ottoman, the first piece of furniture I bought as an adult. It was 1998. I was just back from a summer backpacking around Europe and I found that sofa. It came from the City Furniture on Magazine Street in New Orleans. It was my first piece of furniture that couldn't be broken down and thrown in the back of a car for easy moving. It was the sofa that said "I am laying down roots, building a life. I intend to stay."

Maybe that's why I cried when the people from Craigslist came to pick it up. It was more than a beat up sofa with the stuffing falling out, it was the symbol of a major turning point in my young adult life.

But mom was right. When the baby started pulling the stuffing out of the sofa and trying to eat it, it became clear that a grown up life required a grown-up sofa. It was hard to admit that I was, indeed, grown up, even though I had all the accoutrements: husband, baby, homeowner, college degree, career. Yep, grown up. Officially. Like it or not.

I guess I just never realized that being a grown up came with matching furniture. It took me months to find a sofa. I poured over magazines, IKEA catalogs, you name it. Many were just too expensive. My old live like a college student cheapskate ways were not totally thrown to the side simply because I was in my mid-30s. No way. Sofas overall, are a significant purchase. Even the cheap ones are north of $500, easily north of $1,000. And you only buy one once every how many years? Once you get it, unless you want to shell out more dough, you are stuck with it.

I don't make those kind of life-changing major decisions without deliberation. Then, in February, I found the sofa. And to make me feel even more old, lame and responsible, I was at Macy's. And I first saw it in a sale flyer I got from my home-delivered Sunday paper. My 24-year-old self wouldn't even recognize me now.

The brightly-lit Macy's showroom was calculatedly cheerful. The piped-in music and the room montages were craftily engineered to make you spend money, to make $300 nonfunctional dining room table displays seem like an investment. Donna waited on me.

I don't do well under pressure, or in social situations, so I had a list of three sofa model names scribbled on my sale flyer. I wasn't going to stray from the too good to be true sale, no sireee, not on the first day out. I was easy prey. After sitting on all three sofas, we bought two of the first one. They were delivered three weeks later. The color made me laugh: Hampton Pear. It reaks of faux sophistication. No one in the Hamptons has this $600 sofa, they've got the real deal $12,000 models I drooled over in the magazines. I chuckled, realizing I am not the demographic that is impressed by silly color names that smack of class.

Last night, I had some friends over. One, a librarian, 32 years old, married three years, asked about the sofa. I told her I bought it at Macy's, and in hushed tones, she told me that she too had purchased a sofa at Macy's recently.

"Doesn't it make you feel old?", she whispered.

Retro decorating Thursday: yellow naugahyde anyone?

This room jumped out at us not only because it is austere- no clutter here- but because we simply can't resist yellow pleather. Love it. This room is from the 1966 "World of Budget Decorating," a must-own title for all retro decorators. The caption reads:

"Op" artsy stripes of no color with separate checks on the table are arrested in their race down the wall and across the floor by a fat canary yellow T-cushion lounger covered in Naugahyde, filled with latex foam rubber. The walls are textured "Decor" vinyl and the carpeting is knubby "Royal." The lamp, a touch of Magyar madness, is about $25 at Sloane's. 

Midnight Cinderellas at Malley’s Chocolate Factory

By the lovely Ms. Sarah E Tascone

     Last Valentine’s Day I told friends and family I was going to temp in a chocolate factory. They laughed of course. The immediate image in their minds - and yours, probably -  was from I Love Lucy.  Frantic over a runaway train of chocolates on an assembly line, Lucy and Ethel stuff candy into their mouths and chew like bewildered squirrels, until Mrs. Ricardo finally lets loose her famous wail. 

     I’m a life-long chocoholic, so I saw myself turning instead into Norma Rae.  Jumping on the switched-off conveyer belt at the end of the shift, I would shout defiantly, “It’s gonna take you…the police department, the fire department… and the NATIONAL GUARD to get me outta here!”

    But that isn’t what brought me to Malley’s Chocolates. When you haven’t found work in six months, or a boyfriend in six years; you have no money, no car, you’re on food stamps, you’re 36, and Valentine’s day is coming up, and there is an ad in the newspaper that said: CANDY MAKING, THURS & FRIDAY 4am-4pm NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY, it's a no-brainer.

Malley’s, Cleveland’s own Willie Wonka, makes chocolate-covered strawberries for Valentine’s Day only – and sells them fresh.  Four 12-hour shifts crank out the boxes and people buy them as soon as they’re made.

     At 4pm Thursday I’m crowded in with a long line of hair-netted women of all races and ages.   The packing room is enormous, cold, pink, and brightly lit.  I am paired up with “Katya”, who was a draftsperson in the Ukraine but has trouble finding work here.

Our job is simply to place a piece of corrugated wax paper on top of the chocolate boxes and cover each with a red gingham-patterned lid, emblazoned with a strawberry.  Over and over and over again. Katya’s husband has cancer and medical bills. When she goes home, she has to start cooking a big meal for her family, with no sleep.   Suddenly being single doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. 

     A Puerto Rican woman, “Athena”, who leads the crew one conveyer belt over, seems to enjoy being single - raunchy mouths are inevitable in rooms full of working women with no men around.  Her voice rings out over the rumbling machines: “Pick it up, come on now, keep the line going.”  I glance over and see she has a jaunty grin on her face, and it stays most of the night.  She trades good-hearted mock barbs with “Donna”, another crew leader.  Donna is Appalachian; Athena calls her “hillbilly”.  Donna gets her back by calling her a Mexican. 

     I  learn to focus on the “bambambam” of the shrink-wrapper to keep awake. The shrink-wrap girl is about 6 feet tall and looks like a supermodel.  She pulls the bar up and down with jaw-dropping speed. Who needs to get signed with Revlon when you have a talent like that?

     Male employees come and go, to pour more chocolate or load filled boxes on a dolly.  I begin to see this as the ultimate Cinderella experience for a woman on Valentine’s Day: wearing a hairnet and gloves and stuffing chocolates in boxes for the princes to buy for their princesses. A woman laughs hysterically when the PA system announces lunch at midnight.

  By the middle of the second night there are deserters. I stick it out, but my brain doesn’t.  By now I must have put lids on 5,000 boxes. “Foxy Lady” by Jimi Hendrix is on the radio – or is it? Terrified, I stop for a second and prick up my ears, concentrate real hard.  Am I hallucinating music? Oh well, Jimi hallucinated all the time.

     By 4:15 am Saturday, I have not become Norma Rae or Lucy: I have become Papillon, coming out of solitary confinement. Time moves veerrrrrry sloooooowwly. 

     Something strange has happened to my legs: It never made sense to me when people told me to put my legs up during my break when I’ve been standing a long time. Blood goes down the legs, right? Now it hits me that it has to go up too, and can have a hard time of it. The sensation is like being frozen alive. There are unexpected shooting pains, like a fork jabbing. Perhaps those unfortunate folks of the Donner party, the first to drop into the snow as dinner, experienced something like this. 

    Numb, I wait for my pumpkin carriage – the Rapid Transit. Then there’s a long icy road, and then, somehow, I’m in my bed. The four Ibuprofen I  have taken make the pains vanish in no time. Ibuprofen is my new chocolate – and my handsome prince.

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