The Invention of the Farmer's Market

What's great about California is simply EVERYTHING.  I love this state.  I shamelessly refer to myself as a native though I grew up in the midwest and was well into my 20s before I moved to Los Angeles. The veritable wonderland of produce and culinary variety this state offers (or has easy access to) is why I've titled this entry, "The Invention of the Farmer's Market."  When the temperature routinely hovers around 45 degrees (80 degree Februarys induced by global warming notwithstanding) in your hometown of Grand Rapids, MI, it's easy to be fooled into thinking that the only place to find a ripe strawberry in winter is to dig it out of a jar of Smucker's purchased at the local supermarket.  A dozen varieties of apples year round? Sure!  A kiwi or a mango? Forget about it! (fugidabadit). You'll have better luck drinking from a waterfall in the middle of the Sahara.

Which brings me to an even better invention--a farmer's market within walking distance of my house! My excitement can be explained in a few short words:  I live in South LA.

Our Farmer's Market is a charming set-up in the Baldwin Hills parking lot (next to Sears) which opened for business about two years ago. I've tried about everything a vendor shows up with here.  There's the guy determined to sell you six varieties of hummus (unfortunately they're all delicious and at $3 a pop, I'm already nearly $20 in before I hit the strawberries or the farm-fresh eggs).  There is always the tamales vendor who doesn't speak English but offers me a great opportunity to toss my spanglish around like I'm fully bilingual.  Lately, the Toma cheese guy has been showing up.  I bought 1/2 pound of his full-bodied, semi-hard (LOL--yes I AM talking cheese) concoction last week and my family and I loved it.  Apparently, it is only produced in California (Italy notwithstanding) and goes for $16 a pound.  I've spent $36 already and none of these fools accepts credit cards.  It's cool though. I am already relishing the delectable meal born out of my Saturday meanderings through the dozen or so stalls of goodies here.  The only thing really missing from this farmer's market is a good wine vendor.  I'd love to crack open a bottle of Sonoma's finest and announce that I purchased it straight from the vineyard (okay, the vendor who bought it from the broker who bought it from the vineyard) via my local sustainable agriculturalist. Ah yes, another reason I'm sweet on California--homemade potent potables.

My real achilles heel, however, is a vendor called "Mommie Helen's."  She makes this damn roseberry pie which sells for about $5 each.  It's designed to serve two, but if I had to share it with another soul, I might as well slice my hand off, barbeque it and eat it for dinner. Sharing this delicacy is that impossible. She puts 5 different types of berry in the pie, only three of which I can identify: blueberry, raspberry and cherry.  She tops it with a light, flaky crust with just a hint of butter sprinkled with a light dusting of white sugar.  This, of course, is not a dish for the faint of heart--literally.  If you have a heart problem, DON'T MESS WITH THIS PASTRY.  You are a triple bypass operation waiting to happen.  Come to think of it, if I don't stop eating these $#@! pies every Saturday, I'll be wheeled into the emergency room sooner rather than later myself!

Idiot Nation

Michael Moore is frustrated by the American educational system.

Plagiarism

According to Webster's Dictionary plagiarism is defined as ARE YOU KIDDING ME? If I read another English 101 level (Freshman Comp) analytical essay that starts with a hackneyed dictionary definition of a word(s) so common, rife and rampant, I will puke. Actually, let me consult my dictionary for a definition of "puke" in-case the vast population of readers following my blog are having brain-freeze...Yeah, so students routinely rely on trite little openings like the above to "capture the reader's attention" at the start of an essay. But is that plagiarism? Of course not. A source is cited for the borrowed reference. Was the student too lazy to come up with something more compelling to launch the essay, undoubtedly. Still, that's no crime. Lifting wholesale passages from a State of the Union address or entire paragraphs from some psychologist-of-the-moment to explain "forgiveness" is, however, a crime. I don't even need to ask why students do it. A more perplexing issue for me is why they actually turn it in. Maybe my syllabus is not intimidating enough when it reads "Violation of integrity of any type by a student provides grounds for disciplinary action by the instructor or college." I think I will adjust this language (mandated by our college for inclusion on all faculty syllabi) next semester to read something more deprecating and menacing: "STUDENTS WHO RESORT TO EXCERPTING THE THOUGHTS/WORDS/IMAGINATION OF A WRITER SMARTER, CLEVERER, MORE FAMOUS AND PROBABLY RICHER THAN SAID STUDENT AND SHAMELESSLY APPLYING ONE'S NAME TO A PIECE OF PAPER OSTENSIBLY TO PASS THE WRITING OFF AS ONE'S OWN WILL BE TASERED IMMEDIATELY."

Sandusky

I know the Tigers and the Lions are Detroit. I know the Bears are in Chicago. I also know the reverential, salivating and fanatical devotion a good number of Americans--mostly men, but women too-pay to college football. I also know that if I was not a mother (and the mother of a son), I would not be so emotional about this horrendous story as I feel today. Sandusky himself deserves no words and will die in prison --quickly--I am sure of that. I think now and even pray for the helpless victims, most if not all, who came from financially struggling families (which can in of itself lead to low self-esteem) because they, statistically speaking, will never heal from this cruelty, this vile and devouring attack on their humanity. One boy was quoting as saying "you just don't say no" to this abuser who attacked boys in the Penn State football locker room shower. This is deep-seated fear and intimidation a human being, let alone a developing child, should not have to endure. But get this, it went on for 15 f****** years! Who, besides Sandusky, is bereft of a moral compass? The whole f****** program. Who earned money as a president, head coach (Paterno), administrator while boys were being ra***? They shouldn't get sh**. Pay every dime of your salary back from the moment paperwork acknowledges that you KNEW boys were being destroyed. What mother can sleep at night knowing her child endured the humiliation and torture of a person/people lauded for "helping the disadvantaged?" Make these assholes feel disadvantaged by taking away every dime they earned while this monster was on the loose. God bless them all, but God needs to make them all broke. Because one thing I bet they all really love (besides fame) is money.

Watts, California

I traveled to Watts last week for the first time since moving to Los Angeles in 1994. Yeah, I did say traveled, as if to say journeyed, forayed, ventured forth as if I was headed to some war torn middle-eastern outpost like Libya, or worse. I wasn't afraid, and fear is only worth mentioning based on rampant stereotypes, myths, and legends, blended with, of course, documented facts that Watts is one of the poorest areas of L.A., complete with substandard housing (Nickerson Gardens), high unemployment, dismally performing public schools, fast-food lined boulevards and their partner-in-crime, overcrowded and undermanaged health care facilities and, of course, well-documented violent crime rates, the ultimate plague of inner-city urbanites.

So I was there to drop off a rug at Thomas Riley High School 1524 East 103rd Street. This school is devoted to educating women who become mothers while in high school and (I suppose) junior high school. Instead of matriculating at a traditional high school (which they are legally entitled to do), Riley offers more flexibility in classes, more counseling and emotional support for the inexperienced mother, activities for mother and child (though an on-site child care facility is not available yet), and get this a private (well, semi-private) room for breastfeeding.

This brings me to the rug. In addition to a chair or two, a breast pump, bottles, storage containers, breastfeeding dvds, and breast pads, a non-profit organization called "Soul food for your baby" is requesting help to establish a space that encourages young mothers to breast feed instead of bottle feed for at least the first year of the baby's life. Imagine that. How many 16, 17 and 18 year olds have I seen throughout the city using bottles instead of natural breast milk? What role models do they have to set the tone for feeding babies fresh from the womb the all natural way? If they have to leave the baby (to attend school, go to work), do they know about pumping and storing milk? Will they even care if someone doesn't reveal the benefits and mother-child bond that are to be had through natural feeding?

So off to Watts I went to support this community based organization with a donation of a new rug to make the breast-feeding space a little more cozy and modern for the mothers. Yes, the space (so far) is in the fitness room next to a bunch of stationary bikes and free weights. There is nothing there yet to designate it as a private feeding/pumping area, not even a partition to separate mommies and babies from whoever uses the fitness room. But I wasn't there to judge. a program like this starts with the noblest of intentions and certainly some very happy babies and proud mothers are sure to emerge.

Why the name?

The name Writing Grotesque was the name we (okay I) came up with in English 127 Creative Writing class last year to establish the class website I never quite completed. Both Flannery O'Connor and Sherwood Anderson (Winesburg, Ohio) make use of the "grotesque" motif/persona that inhabits everyday life. Consider the misfit in " A Good Man is Hard to find" or Wing Biddlebaum in "Hands." Both are quite ordinary on the outside but a bundle of conflict on the inside which, of course, describes most of us. So these writers were able to capture the odd, the grim and make masterpieces out of that simple madness. Of course, to be a writer is to be a little bit grotesque, maybe delusional, and certainly mad. Wasn't it Doctorow who said, "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia?"

Inaugural Posting

Let's make it clear: My Shakespeare class rocks! It's not that I don't "love" my other classes, but teaching English at an inner-city, underserved, often undernourished (intellectually, academically) institution of higher learning means a teacher is often going to spend more time showing students how to spell "obstacle" (if I see "obsticle" one more fu***** time) and take the s off of the end of "police" as in the "polices are coming" than explore the existential meanderings of Hamlet, but forget that Danish basket case for now...

20 of my students (well, a couple didn't show up, so maybe 18) performed the trial scene, Act IV Scene I of Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice. I cut the scene down a bit for fear that they might not be able to memorize the dialogue within the quick turnaround time we had. Needless to say, the student-actors were ALL splendid! We managed to produce a finished product in 3 weeks, complete with costumes and props which we performed to a crowd of 200 people, open-air, on the grass as Monsieur Shakespeare did over 400 years ago. At some point, I will post video confirmation of this event. Tomorrow is my English 101 midterm. Rest assured that responses on the short answer portion are sure to delight readers of my next blog entry. Unless, of course, everyone in class studies. I sincerely hope that happens this year.