Jello Salad and Hamburgers

I truly believe it would be difficult for anyone to find any culture on this planet that didn't associate festivities with food. America is no exception and my family isn't either. There exist two food-associated traditions in my immediate family that would be profoundly missed if they were no longer present on our celebratory family table.

The first dish is the all-American Jello salad. I suppose it is not a traditional Jello salad that most Americans are used to; my mother always simply makes it by layering red and green jello with some sort of lemony cream concoction (the recipe has yet to be passed on to the next generation). However, the custom of its presence at major holidays is the same as in other families. I genuinely cannot remember a Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter when this layered, tri-colored, fruit-filled "delicacy" wasn't always there next to the mashed potatoes and turkey. No one takes more than a small spoonful, but to look down at the table and not see this colorful dish would just be wrong. It would make our holiday celebrations incomplete. For a dish that is never desired or even thought about at any other time of the year, it's amusing to think about the uproar its absence would cause in our family. For us, this tradition seems to bring comfort and familiarity that no other food really does.

The second food-related tradition in our family is the special meal that is made for every child by our mother on our birthdays. For my special day my mom has been serving hamburgers, baked beans, and pumpkin pie since I was seven years old. I really have no idea why a seven-year old would request something like pumpkin pie instead of the more common birthday cake, but I did, and just like Jello salad on holidays, its nonappearance at my birthday celebration would leave a void in the day. I certainly wouldn't say that hamburgers, baked beans and pumpkin pie is currently my favorite meal, but I just couldn't imagine a birthday without it. It is so ingrained in my idea of what makes my birthday special that to not have this meal waiting for me would make me really quite sad. As ridiculously self-absorbed as this sounds, I would feel so upset that a tradition that is completely and totally associated with me had been discarded.

Food makes me happy, but not in the unhealthy I-need-to-eat-to-fill-a-void kind of way. Like I mentioned before, all cultures use food as a tool for bringing people together. Food can be so familiar that removing it from a celebration takes away something that absolutely cannot be filled by anything else. Food can make people feel special, can represent a culture, can be a comfort. There is really nothing else like it.

My Community (one of them...)

Commuting to work is a community. I live in Everett and work at night at a hospital in Seattle. Every evening I climb in my car, stop by my favorite espresso stand to pick up a coffee, and begin my commute. My forty-five minute drive south is nothing unique. I'm surrounded by other motorists commuting as well. There is little interaction between all of us, really. There's very little camaraderie. In fact, while we all are technically part of a community of people who share a daily activity, there can actually be quite a bit of aggression at times between many of us. There is the occasional obscene gesture, although I don't see this too often, thank goodness. Tailgating is a frequent occurrence, though. Weaving in and out of lanes, trying to get home (or to work, in my case) a little faster is common also. These are the things that work against us as a group, make us weaker as a community. The hostility. The irritation. But wanting to just get home already is probably what holds us together too, I suppose. The desire to arrive at our destination, on time and in one piece. Necessity is what compels us to be a part of this community.

While face-to-face interaction is rare, we do have some things in common. We all have a desire for as little traffic as possible. We all hope there are no fender-benders or construction that will hold up our drive. I'm sure most of us would prefer a dry roadway, instead of the steady, fuzzy drizzle that characterizes this area nine months of the year. The radio is often our only company, and it probably brings a smile to most of our faces when we see that one commuter who is unabashed about singing aloud, bouncing their head and playing the air-drums on their steering wheel to whatever catchy tune they are listening to in order to pass the time.

My perspective of this community I'm a part of is a little different than others. I enjoy my commute. Tremendously. When I leave my home for work, I leave behind noise and people wanting things from me. When I arrive at work, again, there is chaos and a constant demand for my attention and help. But when I'm in my car, it's my time. I take my time getting to work; I'm never one of those lane-weaving motorists. I stay at a steady sixty miles per hour in the far right hand lane, savoring every mile. I relax, sip my latte and listen to the soothing sounds of NPR. It's lovely. I'm not sure many in this community of commuters that I am a part of feel this same way, however...

For the last few years I have tried to follow a philosophy called "voluntary simplicity." This is an actual movement based on the idea that the more simple you can make your life, the more freedom you will attain. The idea that this can be reflected in the contents of my wallet seems a little silly, but it really works for me. I don't carry a purse and my wallet is extremely small. It is the size of a credit card and allows for only a very small number of items. The only cultural artifacts include my driver's license, my debit card and my medical insurance card. I never carry cash. I've found that anything beyond this is completely unnecessary. What information could someone glean from these items is pretty minimal. My address. My height, weight, eye color. The fact that I wear glasses. That I'm an organ donor. Where I bank and my insurance provider. That's about it for the major details. The fact that I carry so little in my wallet is probably more revealing than its contents, really. Does my wallet help construct an image of my identity? Could someone make any assumptions about who I am based simply on my wallet? I would hope that it tells people I am fairly organized. It might indicate that I am a private person. For the most part, though, my wallet and its contents reveal very little. It does not tell people where I shop for my groceries, if I belong to a gym or to a library. There are no receipts for clothing, music or book purchases. I carry no photos of my family. As far as anyone knows I could be a single woman who lives by herself instead of someone who is quite the opposite. I have a husband, children and extended family who live with me in my home. My life can be quite chaotic. I believe this is one of the reason I choose to live as simply as possible. My wallet is something I can actually control.

On February 14, 2008, the Santa Clara University newspaper wrote an article about a man named Tom Eichenberg who lost his wallet in 1975. It was later discovered and returned to him. One of the most interesting points in the article was the following: "The wallet's contents weren't just a reminder of how he had changed since 1975, but how much the world had changed in just 33 years." Would my wallet be a reflection of the year 2009? I really doubt it. There is nothing particularly trendy about my hair style or clothing in my driver's license photo. At some point my bank and insurance provider might go out of business. Beyond this, however, without looking at the expiration dates on the three cards I carry, it could be any year around the end of the 20th century and beginning of the 21st.

I really like that I am able to keep the contents of my wallet to just the bare minimum. I think my wallet is a perfect representation of my values - a desire for simplicity and modesty. My life can be unpredictable but my wallet is always there for me and under control.

This is a test

This is a test.