Friday, March 05, 2010
America the Interesting
I was in a health food store the other day, helping my favorite vegan pick up a few meatless, non-dairy, cruelty-free foods, when I realized that America is actually becoming more interesting. Health food stores used to seem exotic and wacky to a good number of us heartland types. Kansas City native Calvin Trillin couldn’t visit a health food shop without ranting about the bizarre products he swore they sold there, things like “soy waste, granola dust, and pure extract of balsa wood.” “You know very well there’s no such thing as soy waste,” his wife Alice would say, but he’d rant on about the employees at the store. “If bumblebee leavings and stump paste are so good for you,” he would say, “why can’t any of these guys grow full beards?” But on our recent visit to the health food store I couldn’t find a single jar of stump paste or even one twisty-tied baggie of granola dust. Apart from a couple of the mineral supplements, I recognized pretty much everything I saw there. In the space of only a couple of decades, we have become accustomed to a diet that is much more diverse and interesting.
And even the neighborhood food shops aren’t as parochial as they used to be. Sixteen years ago, on my first evening as a resident of Michiana, I went to the nearest grocery store to pick up something for dinner. Someone at home had an unsettled tummy, so I asked the clerk to point out a few of the less spicy foods there in the deli case. “Oh, no, sir,” she said, “we hardly ever put spices in anything we make.” But now that same store has torn out the giant Aisle 1 racks of Technicolor jello salads and installed a fifteen-foot cooler of imported cheeses. Remember Monty Python’s Cheese shop skit, where John Cleese asks for several dozen different cheeses, and one after another the shopkeeper informs him that they are out of stock? Well, we can finally purchase them all right here in Michiana.
You gather from the Monty Python skit that in 1970 an English family might be acquainted with a pretty nice variety of regional and even some foreign cheeses. But in 1970 the average American household might have had only cheddar and Swiss and what we jokingly called at our house back then, “some really good Velveeta.” Calvin Trillin, of course, is a satirist, and his 1980 essay about health food shops spoofed a quirky fringe of folks out there inventing a new food and health tradition. But he was also spoofing himself and a broad swathe of Americans who could get a little jumpy and critical around any unfamiliar bit of culture, even if it tasted good. In spite of intervening wars and Patriot Acts and acts of terror, we’re getting better at that too. No longer does a Chinese restaurant supply the most exotic food a Midwestern child is likely to eat growing up. Our kids have classmates with names I never heard of when I was in school; our stores and restaurants are more varied. It’s not unusual to be a vegetarian or to know a vegan. I still love the slightly bitter tang and crunch at the pale heart of a head of iceberg lettuce, but face it – America is a more interesting and colorful place now. I’d be happy to have a plate of Boiled and salted bright green edamame anytime.
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A random pick from more than 400 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- America the Interesting / More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette
Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather
David James -- More essays by David
Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth
Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe
Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise
Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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Recent pieces
Christmas Eve, 1971 -- I ran in for some coffee at a McDonalds, and asked the lady if there was a VW dealership in Indianapolis. She pointed me only a few blocks down, by the bypass construction. We chugged over and turned in; the service bay was open—our first piece of luck. Out comes this short, round, greasy, cross-looking mechanic; working, on Christmas Eve. I explained our predicament; he glanced at her, in the full throes of dazed, dreamy pregnancy, and growled, “Pull it on in.” Dead battery; he and I had to push it on in. She and I moved to the waiting room. I sat and thought, how am I going to pay for this? It was Friday, they would deposit the check that evening and on Monday it would bounce and there was nothing I could do. Fifteen bucks in the bank; me in Atlanta. Overdraft protection was years away. By David James.
Feeding Willard -- Uncle Frank spent a great deal of his daily free time for years caring for my Grandfather. Frank would feed Grandpa Willard at least one meal most days. They would go to restaurants where Grandpa would drink too much and fall asleep before eating much of whatever it was he really liked that day. The whole excursion would take hours because Grandpa Willard was wheelchair bound and needed a special shuttle to travel anywhere. Despite all the trouble to arrange transportation, nurses and equipment Uncle Frank made sure Grandpa also got to his Dreamland cabin in the rocky mountains once or twice a year. He got him loaded onto a ferris wheel, to the opera, ball games and yes, to many, many restaurants. My Uncle took exquisite loving care of him for about eight years before Grandpa Willard died this Spring. By Heather Curlee Novak.
Two Boards (Upon Cold Powder Snow) -- It’s true, the year is ending, but lovers of winter sports know we’re just on the cusp of fun, as well as a chance to burn off some of those one trillion calories from holiday fudge. I’m a bit of a poser, really, in this camp of winter sports fans, since only in the past year have I ventured back onto the downhill slopes after nearly 25 years away. I grew up in Colorado, and downhill skiing is in my blood; it’s the beating heart of my family history. In fact, without skiing, I would not exist. By April Lidinsky.
Model Train -- I won an electric train in a store drawing when I was 7 years old. What a train: a black, green and red American Flyer steam engine with working drive wheels, real puffs of smoke and three long yellow passenger cars. Dad set it up each Christmas and I spent hours watching it clack around the living room carpet on journeys out of town, across the great plains, up into the Rockies. Then each January my dad, a detail-minded rather fussy accountant, sorted the tracks, oiled the engine and wrapped each car in newspaper for storage. When I lost the instructions, he carefully sketched the entire layout on a piece of his office stationery, labeled each track and trestle number and applied a wide piece of masking tape to the end of a sturdy box where he wrote, Electric Train. Jeez, Dad, can I go outside now? By Jeff Nixa.
Farewell, Old Car -- It sure was easy to donate our aging car to WVPE, using the Car Talk web site. We filled out a simple web form, signed the car title, and mailed it off. In a few days a tow truck came to relieve us of the relic that had been dripping oil all over the driveway. Not to mention the car’s occasional demonic impulse to electronically lock and unlock its doors fifty or sixty times a minute. I was very happy to remove the license plate, cancel the insurance, and send it on its way. What could be simpler, and any proceeds go to our favorite radio station. By Ken Smith.
Pollyanna Grows Despondent -- Not to be obscure, I’ll tell you right up front, generally, according to my amused co-workers, I grew up to become a Pollyanna figure. They maintain that I absorbed those positive, plucky characteristics. Until recently, no matter how dark the components, I usually could find a bright, or at least darkly humorous, outlook in any situation. Not so anymore though, I am too besieged! The season of comfort and joy aside, this Pollyanna is growing despondent; the “Glad Game” is getting more and more difficult to maintain. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
The Family Dogs -- Our dog developed a great attraction for the mailman and was always escaping to chase his little step van. The attraction blossomed into affection one day when the man stopped the truck, Peanut Butter leaped in, and with the acquiescence of our mother and the grateful blessings of us kids, they both sped off on his appointed rounds. That was the last we saw of Peanut Butter. By David James.
Celebration -- The thing is, at the end of the day we all could do well with more celebrations. We all will be better people with some extra thanksgiving and a little silliness on top. The dog got a bath; bake some special cookies. You conquered Monday; turn off the TV and have a swing dance contest. The neighbor helped you with the yard work; send a cookie bouquet. You choose to be grateful for the small happiness in your life; throw on a feather boa and pop the four dollar champagne! By Heather Curlee Novak.
Action Heroes -- The ER staff and I are standing in the empty trauma room, nothing to do but make restless bad jokes until the patients arrive. The EMS radio only said it was a house fire, one adult female and two minors. The ambulances are three minutes out. We’re ready. Oh man, are we ready. We’ve got a half million dollars worth of technology in this room stocked like an arsenal with medical supplies: Allegiance gauze pads, Kimberly–Clark face masks, NovaPlus powder-free exam gloves, an Agilent EKG monitor, a Newport HT 50 ventilator and the main attraction, sitting on a shelf like a smug Napoleon, the Philips Heartstart XL defibrillator, green light on, fully charged. By Jeff Nixa.
Telling Stories -- Could there be a more delicious time of year for lovers of stories? When I was a kid, the return of cold weather meant happily slouching near the heat register of my bedroom, rereading fat classics like Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, and puzzling over the one line that never rang true to me – Meg March’s lament that November is “the most disagreeable month in the whole year.” For me, and maybe for you, November holds all the pleasure of holiday conviviality without any of the angst of gift-giving. November is about drawing our chairs close to the fire, tucking into pie, and sharing the quiet pleasures of story-swapping. By April Lidinsky.
At the Circus -- There was wave upon wave of daring carried out with the utter precision that transforms crazy danger into highly polished extravagance. It is not enough that someone walk across the tight rope high in the air; now he must walk back with a woman standing on his shoulders. It is not enough that the trick cyclist ride helter-skelter around the very edges of the stage; now he will ride his two-wheeler as if the front end were a unicycle, with most of the now useless bike circling around him like a wacky ornament. Gymnasts leaped out of windows onto trampolines and then rose back up and passed through those windows again; masters of aerial display swung across the highest reaches of the stage suspended by long flowing sheets of brilliant fabric they had merely wrapped once or twice around their arms; tiny child performers catapulted spinning disks into the air, executed two or even three back flips, and then casually caught the disks on a string again. By Ken Smith.
Feelin’ Cranky, But Trying to Remain Civil -- “Good manners are the grease that makes the wheels of life turn smoothly.” That was a mother-mantra that I endlessly used as my son, Joseph, was in his formative years. Although expressed as a hybridization of the worlds of the prissy and the mechanical engineer, I believed it, and I repeated it: way too many times, he might tell you. I still believe it though. That’s why I am puzzled at the lack of civility which I knee-jerk to exhibit as I age. Even without the excuse of feelin’ poorly, I find myself just getting crankier and crankier. If only I could get that big-eyebrow thing going, I could be Andy Rooney Junior. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
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