Egg-Eating and Vegan Friends

I have vegan friends. Likely some of you are vegan. Don’t take this post personally, it is about a select few individuals that I do not feel represent the whole vegan community. Deal?

I love animals–all kinds of animals. I have cats, dogs, chickens, and in about a month I will have bees. I have had rabbits, turtles, lizards, and horses.[1]

My folks have had all kinds of animals: goats, pigs, you name it. My dad bred Rat Terrier feists for a while; they were some great American cur dogs.[2]  One of my dear friends currently breeds Champion Pomeranians. No kidding–Westminster champs. She offered me one of her last litter (it wasn’t the “right” color) but I couldn’t bring myself to take her. “Next year,” I said. Good thing I refused. I might be getting, um, saddled with an unwanted Great Dane puppy. I mean, unwanted by the current owner–of course. I have always wanted a Dane.

It’s always one extreme or t’other with me, i’n’t it?

So are we clear that I love animals?

I also eat them.

But I am pretty careful about what I eat. In “Power Hungry” I wrote about grains. Now, I’m going to write about animal foodstuffs.

I’m a witch. My religious practices focus on the earth and her bounty, her denizens, her cycles, her mysteries. I reckon you are too and that yours do to. That’s why the issue of consumption comes back to me so often. In our kindred, we make all attempts to be “conscientious consumers” whatever that means to each and their moral code—so long as there is *thought* involved. As much as I’d like to be a leader in this area, there is one tribe-member that always has something to teach me.[3] And I admit that sometimes I trade off the “Harm None” of Wiccan practice for Heathen pragmatism. I’m thoughtful, but I’m not idealist. I would like to homestead in an Earthship-style home before I turn 50—which is still a good way off. And I like to talk about the promise of our “Heathen Compound” upon which we all flirt with living “off the grid” in sustainable harmony with the planet. We can dream, can’t we? In the meantime, I have to do things that keep my family fed, keep my bills paid, and still manage to keep my soul intact.

But as much as I am a thoughtful consumer (as best as I am educated to be), I still manage to draw criticism from a number of close vegan friends.

About a week ago, my friend posted something on social media about her food choices as a vegan and cited my pet chickens’ eggs as an acceptable deviation from her no-animal-foods diet. Mostly, she was writing about the evils of dairy—so I’m not sure how I got dragged into the conversation. A few months back she came over for breakfast and I served buckwheat pancakes and offered *real* maple syrup and Amish butter from a local farmer.[4] She told me about her love of cows in a childhood story that reminded me a bit of Silence of the Lambs—but with cows.

And I get it.[5]

This week, I sent her this video. It’s delightful. Click it. You should watch. You will smile.

Later in the online conversation, other mutual vegan friends chided her for “cheating” with my eggs and butter. One said something to the effect of, “I would never allow my plate to focus on an animal product.” And I’m totally cool with that. But I didn’t like the tenor of the rest of the conversation. “Meat is death,” and so forth. A lot of, “How dare you”s. It got real ugly real fast is all I’m saying.

Of course I chimed in, citing the plight of quinoa-less Peruvians (in fairness, here is PETA’s response–I think there’s something in between), similar issues surrounding cocoa and Acai, unfair trade in the coffee world,[6] GMOs and Monsanto’s practices, and the simple truth that processed grains are terrible for the human gut. (PS–I’m not that kind of doctor. Research your own diet. Make your own ethical choices.) I said that my human brethren and sisteren and the maintenance of their cultures was as important to me as animals are. Non-vegan “likes” abounded.

In the end, it came down to economics. “If I could afford to, I would only buy local . . . would grow a large garden. . .” yadda-yadda. I get that too. Sometimes it seems like organic is out of reach. But that turns out to really only be true if you try to (have no choice but to) find it at large chain stores. But I’m not talking about organic. Shoot, the way some “organic” farms circumvent regulations is, well, disappointing–we’ll go with disappointing. Things may not be as I represent them in your shopping area–and I get that too–but I just wanted to share with you some of the options I’ve discovered. That way if you are, like I was, looking for some better options, you might find something useful here.

First the bad news.[7] Corporate farms are gross—even the vegetable ones. I find that they are terrible for the environment, they are cruel to the animals, and they provide a sub-par product to the consumer. My husband worked for a food manufacturer and told me some horror-stories that made me never want to buy a mass-butchered turkey ever again. My cousin runs[8] a poultry farm in North Alabama. Y’all know how that goes, right? Even “cage-free’ poultry and eggs fail the humane test, in my opinion. Have a look at this slideshow (graphic) if you want to know more. I won’t post pictures here.

The good news is that there are prolly more options than you think.

See if your town or a neighboring town allows backyard chickens.[9] Fortunately for me, I live in an area where chickens are allowed. Every week, I end up with a massive surplus of eggs and I beg friends to come by and nab some. I tote a few dozen to work, I send them home with magic students, I send them down to neighbors, I make pleas on Facebook, “Who will relieve me of these eggs!?” And still, I have too many for my family to ever consume. See if you have such a neighbor. S/he might want to trade or get paid a little—or might even like a shiny toy for the chickens or a batch of cookies in return once in a while. General protocol is BYO egg carton. But everyone I know with healthy backyard chickens has too many eggs and is willing to part with them.

See if you have an ag-based school in the area. They generally have a poultry division and will be a source of eggs, but they might also be a good source of meat if you are so inclined. I drove past some pasture-grazing cows this morning that may end up on my plate sometime soon. Yes, yes. They have to be slaughtered between the pasture and my plate—and I get it if that runs contrary to your ethic. But I’m OK with it as long as they lived well and died humanely.[10] I’m pretty sure they have antibiotics in their system, but that’s a fine trade-off for me. They have pork, beef, chicken, and crazy amounts of sausages[11] for when I don’t feel like making my own and casings (ew) for when I do. But the thing is, I know how the animals lived—I see them as I run errands.[12] For some that might make eating meat harder—for me it becomes less problematic.

My mom lives across the street from a taxidermist.[13] There are a lot of people who hunt and send the carcass off to be processed—not everyone owns the tools for the job. As part of the payment, some taxidermists and meat processors retain a portion of the deer or whatever and sell it to local consumers. I live too far for that to be a viable source of meat, but many of my neighbors are hunters and have no problem sharing. Ever see a hunter’s freezer? It’s akin to my egg basket. You might live near one. Give that a try.

Now that my refrigerator-farmer is no longer a source for Amish butter, I have had to shop around for grass-fed products. The best I can do for now is Irish butter.[14] If I want ghee these days, I have to clarify it myself. But it’s not hard. And it might seem incredibly expensive, but it’s really not. If I go to, say, a giant box store I can get bulk butter at about $2.35/lb. At my local grocer, grass-fed Irish butter is $3.20/lb. It’s more, but not much more unless I plan on making cookies. Then it’s the raw sugar that will break the bank.

I’m not marketing anything.

And milk? Dang, it costs more than gas these days. Grass-fed pasteurized milk in my area only costs about 75¢ more per gallon than mass-market milk. Plus, because it’s whole and un-homogenized I get delicious cream off the top—if I could only find a spoon that fits the opening.

And, of course, there’s honey. I’m never sure where things like honey and yeast fall on the vegan spectrum. I mean, honey is an animal product and yeast is alive. As I understand it, there are some vegans (particularly of various religious sects) that don’t eat root vegetables because it kills the plant itself.[15] So—to each his/her own judgment, I suppose. As for honey, I live in an area overrun with beekeepers and, therefore, local honey options.[16]

There’s my meat-eater’s soap-box. Next time maybe I’ll give you my two-cents on animal welfare and catch-neuter-release. Or, you know–not.

Hope you are enjoying your weekend!

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[1] The last horse I had met with a lightning storm that left her with a crushed nasal cavity and Sweeney Shoulder. We saved her beautiful face but the shoulder injury was beyond repair. So she was put out to pasture with a wonderful new owner where she was allowed to tote around tiny riders, to swim in the pond (her favorite), to teach “ground” lessons, and to brood. She just threw her first foal and–damn she’s cute. And my old grey mare? Best mama eveh.

I miss her a lot. But she looks so happy, how can I be sad?

[2] Really, curs get a bad name–they are terrifically talented and loyal dogs. I have a Catahoula cur myself. She’s as sweet as can be–‘lessen you mess with one of her people. Then.

[3] From the bottom of my heart (and tummy), I love the things you teach me Daughter RavynStar.

[4] He’s got this groovy “honor box” refrigerator where he leaves raw milk, cream, and homemade butter from his cows–one of which is named “Renee.” You get what you want and leave whatever payment you see fit in a tray he provides. Some people leave cash, others leave traded items. He avoids government control this way and provides a useful service to a community starved for sustainable options. I’ve never heard of anyone getting “bad” dairy from this guy. He’s since stopped trading–I’m not sure why.

[5] Between 1998-ish and 2007, I was a vegetarian if not vegan. Grad school and single-parenting (while my husband lived over a thousand miles away) kicked my arse and I caved to the allure of easy food. Yes, I went from wholesome to um, not, in one fell swoop. It took me four years to rebound, but slow and steady wins the race, no? In our house we called corporate farming “tortured food.” The kids still do from time to time. My daughter, off at college and at the mercy of commissary meals, says her only food choices are “so tortured” whenever she’s vying for a bank deposit. Fortunately, she has a kitchen in her dorm and can balance her enforced meal-plan with what she considers “real food.”

[6] I’m fortunate to have a dear friend who roasts coffee for a living. She buys only fair-trade beans from farmers she knows on a first-name basis. I love to hear her talk about it. I don’t understand her half the time, but her coffee is damn fine.

[7] I’ve mentioned teaching Sustainability for a few years a few years back, right? In our unit about farming and food, I showed my students The Meatrix www.themeatrix.com and had them play the “McDonalds” video game. www.mcvideogame.com You should look.

[8] ran? I don’t even know. My mom won’t talk about it anymore.

[9] backyardchickens. com is a great resource for finding these things out.

[10] This is a reason we will not have meat cows on our dream compound. There is no way to kill a large animal like that humanely with the tools we intend to have. We may have to develop a taste for goat.

Plus, since I no longer eat legumes (beans, peas, peanuts, soy—therefore tofu), I need protein from somewhere. Spinach, seeds, and nuts only go so far—and even almonds are a problem for me. Seitan is made from wheat gluten—sigh.

[11] Every once in a while the sausage-guy will even make real Boudin. I’m on the list of people he calls.

[12] The tradeoff is that the butchers are students—some cuts ain’t as purdy as they could be.

[13] Her dogs bring all kinds of weird and often unidentifiable stuff home.

[14] Ireland has grass. The tradeoff is the fuel spent to get it here.

[15] In non-animal-based food news, See if your neighborhood has a community garden. My vegan friend grows tons of stuff on her little-bitty balcony. It’s possible to avoid the emissions from planes, trains, and automobiles.

[16] When I have gallons of honey this summer, I’m not sure where it will all go. Presents I guess. Mead, of course. There are too many well-seasoned local folk already selling at markets and to retailers and mom-n-pop shops for me to hope to toe-in. I’m doing it for the joy of it and the responsibility I feel we have to the honey bee, not the profit—so that’s OK by me. Plus the much needed pollination. The tradeoff is, you know, bees.

Power Hungry

In that last post, I told you about being half the woman I was a few years ago. Well, more like 85% of the woman I was a few years ago. But whatever.

Last Lammas I gave up grain. Odd timing, I know. It’s a terrible food group y’all—don’t eat any of them. We’ve processed the hell outta anything with high nutritional value, we harvest grain without it sprouting—thereby stripping it of micronutrients, enzymes, antioxidants, minerals, life.

Since then I’ve felt better—seriously better—than ever. Grain, even “heart healthy whole grain,[1]” causes inflammation which sends even the healthiest bodies into a tailspin. (Read this article about “How Grains Are Killing You Slowly” for more details.) So upon what is a body to subsist?

Powerfood.

A few weeks ago I told you about my wonderment at honey and other bee-by-products and how, as a Witch with a close connection to and responsibility to the earth, I feel it necessary to be far more conscientious of my consumption than I was in the past.

Even after teaching Sustainability for a few years (and in doing, falling in love with Earthships in 08), I started a long learning-curve about the origins of American food. It is, ironically perhaps, in teaching Colonial Literature that I have learned the most about what does and what should happen in/on North American crop-soil.

As a result, I’ve looked around at my resources and (hope I’ve) started making more sustainable choices. In doing so, I’ve a new relationship with the body that, as I said, I’d been at odds with for about a half-decade. The body which is my primary magical tool.

I buy grass fed beef and pork (bacon!) from a local meat market; my eggs come from my own backyard; I’ve found a lovely man in the next town who makes grassfed Amish butter from a cow named Renee; and I usually get my vegetables from my own yard—this winter, not s’much; good thing I have some great girlfriends with a bountiful winter garden and a willingness to barter.

I steer clear of anything processed beyond recognition. I try to avoid boxes and bags altogether. (Unless they contain wine.[2])

And I miss bread and cookies on a daily basis.

But I don’t miss feeling like I felt there for a while: magicless.

Gradually I’m discovering what I do and don’t like.

• Farro—Love.
• Amaranth—Meh.
• Spelt—I’ve been using this for years and find that it is a great flour.
• Kamut—Where have you been all my life?
• Teff—The jury is still out.
• Chia seeds—OK, but. . . Can’t I just have my poppy and flax seeds back?
• Agave—Total morning buzz.
• Coconut oil—Use carefully. Usually the taste is neutral but every once in a while things end up tasting a little like coconut. And I hate coconut. Hate the taste, hate the smell, LOVE the water. So yeah . . .
• Coconut Water—Not a new discovery, but since I’m on the subject; when I was about 6, my uncle brought me a coconut and a machete. Love at first hack.
• Hazelnut Chocolate Milk—Best thing ever.
• Buckwheat Groats—Delish (especially with HONEY) and fills in the gap left by no-oatmeal.
• Fermented things like cabbage and Kombucha—Um, we will go with—they are growing on me.
• Quinoa—In all colors! Always been a favorite, but now there’s that whole Peruvian shortage thing and so I avoid it if I can. Sadly.
• Sorghum Beer—No. Just no.
• Apple Syrup—Your counters will never be the same but DOOOOO EEET!

Plus, I have a valid excuse to cook the foods I prefer to the foods my teenagers prefer: sweet potatoes over white, millet over rice, and homemade sprouted wheat pasta becomes a real task so I can avoid it based on arduousness rather than, “Because I’m Mom and I said, ‘No.’”

The kids still get cereal and occasional junk food. The trick is moderation. And I have to make sure I have lots of my favorite snacks around lest I break into the PopTarts. This became a deal-breaker when a “snow-storm” shut down the town and all of its grocers. Out of boredom and more boredom, I resorted to pork rinds—this local guy makes them fresh from his cart and seasons them to perfection. The cart smells like purgatory but the rinds are amazing.

I totally ate like the post-industrial bourgeoisie this week and I have a zit on my chin to prove it.[3] Now that the grocers are open again, I’m back to a guilt-free gut. Or I will be in about 48 hours.

Finally, and I don’t plug products—but this? This! Do yourself a favor and go snag a tub of Noosa yoghurt (Aussie spelling). It comes from Colorado in the U.S. from grassfed cows and it is to die for. The fruit on the bottom? Recognizably fruit. The yogurt on top might as well be custard. I trade in my glass milk jugs just to support my Noosa addiction. It ain’t like that other mass-produced stuff, y’all—and I *like* yogurt.

And, I don’t talk about this much—but the sex.[4]

And the mood.

And the skin.

And, of course, the magic.

My Gods approve of me taking better care of myself, BTW. Whereas I used to imagine self-care as an indulgence, I now see it as an act of spiritual devotion.

I know; I’m slow.

Spirituality doesn’t have to hurt.

Like, Without Tears, and all.

Wæs þu hæl,

~Angela

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[1] My arse.

[2] Not kidding. Bota Box is an acceptable table wine—especially the Zinfandel—and is more sensibly packaged than all that glass.

[3] Wait till I tell you about how I got (mostly) rid of my glabellular wrinkles—a.k.a. 11’s—without Botox.

[4] Without getting too much into it: “honeymoon cystitis.” Yow.

It only happened once as I try to be meticulous. I mean–you DO know where UTIs come from, right? But this one time exhaustion won out. Let me tell you—Uva Ursi and D-mannose. No antibiotics. (Disclaimer: I’m not that kind of doctor—I’m just telling you what worked for me.)

Sticks and Stones

I have a few favorite words; one of them is “tristesse.” Most of my favorites are favorites not because of their definitional meanings but because of their connotation. Tristesse means “sadness.” But it is typically used to refer to the melancholy which attends the end of “involvement”: the end of a sweet love affair, the end of a travel-adventure, the post-climax denouement of a three act play, the feeling one gets upon selling a piece of art or successfully completing a writing project. Closing night of a musical. The day after the prom or a wedding. Selling a house and retiring. When the party ends and the last beloved friend goes home. Tristesse.

Yesterday was a big day around here. All of my favorite kith and kin gathered and made stav. There was wood, there was leather, there were stones and charms, there was wood burning, there was stain made out of coffee beans and dragons blood bark. Yeah, yeah, there were also sacrilegious jokes about “getting wood” for the “volva” workshop. But it’s bound to happen. I know The Ancestors enjoy a bawdy guffaw as much as we do. There was food-and more food!

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Then we learned the most basic of meditative practices in preparation for journeying. We have some members who are old hat at journeying, are on conversational basis with their guides, and can coordinate physical and mental states at will; some that have little to no experience with it at all. So we began with a brief tour of the wells of Yggdrasil. Simple? Well, a necessary first step. This was our “human initiation” phase and Ulfvolk welcomed seven members into the, um, pack. Those of us who have experienced such, shared some stories about our “astral initiations.” I sort of told you about mine a while ago in a post about “Wolf Warrior – The Ulfhethennir.” I can’t wait to hear about the new initiates’ experiences. It’s kinda like waiting for a baby to be born.

Following that (yeah, I know, we had to pack a lot into one night), we had an initiation and elevation ceremony. Three-quarters of OPS “Seekers” were initiated last night and 100% of our Neophytes became Advocates.

And with that, two-weeks of intense “involvement” came to an end and a sweet sense of tristesse set in.

This is not to say that I don’t have anything else to do, but that I have some breathing room, some reflecting room, time to really feel the moment that has just past.

Plus I had an epiphany. I was faced with two choices: push the rest of the book out by March 1 or wait until the next release date in late spring. My typical push-push-push-achieve-achieve-achieve personality took a nap long enough for my rational self to say, “Ten weeks? In exchange for sanity? And maybe a little better writing? We’ll take it.” (Boy-o, “Competitive Me” was piiiiiissed off when she woke up from that nap; but she’s being a lady about it. In exchange, she has negotiated a few episodes of Breaking Bad and new nail polish.)

Today, I am feeling Tristesse. (And eating leftover artichoke dip with my fingers.)

And, like I said: tristesse is one of my favorites.

Waes hael,

Ehsha

Chickens + Corn = Yoga: A Recipe for Joy (and Netflix)

It should be my day off. But having had far too many teenagers in my house this week and having had wind-related power and internet outages all day yesterday and having indulged in my two-hour-procrastination-spree, I still have work to finish today. Loads of it.

When I went to bed last night I committed to rising up early, feeding the animules, and getting right down to business. But when I woke up to the sound of my cat ripping my bedroom curtains, I decided on indolence. “Eff-it. I’m keeping my fancy arse in bed this morning. So there.”

If it’s good enough for Norma Jean . . .

I grabbed my Droid, answered some emails and overnight TMs, looked at my t’do list, and opened the WordPress app. Glancing at my reading list, I saw a post at Lucid Dreams and Saturn Skies by fellow-blogger, Andrew, on Supernatural, a TV show on Netflix which I have gotten sucked into while I grade (and sew and cook and fold socks). And a little ditty: “Ridiculous Moments” by my fellow blogger, Cin, at Witchy Rambles.

In this post, Cin revels in the simple pleasures that surround us each day and encouraged her readers to do the same – and to share. Rather than hijack her comments area, I thought I’d let y’all know what I ended up doing – here.

After spending a little extra time in bed, I grabbed an ear of corn from the basket my neighbor brought me yesterday afternoon. I shucked it as I walked out into my, now sweltering, backyard. Typically, the morning is light and clear in my yard; when the irrigation system kicks in it seems to cool everything off for about an hour. This gives me time to feed all of my yard critters, make sure all of the plants are happy, and meditate/yoga for about a half-hour before heading in to feed the indoor critters (some of these being my own offspring) and do some grading. Having missed that lovely window between 6:00-7:00 AM, the yard was downright hot by 8:30 AM (yes, this is TBW’s version of sleeping in). “Eff it,” I said again, “No way I’m meditating out here today. This RA thing is getting real-old real-fast.”

The Bad Husband had already opened the coop for my little ladies at around 5:00, so they were happily clucking-around in the big run and were happy to see that I had something in my hand.

Chickens are so funny when you give them something new. A squash provides hours of entertainment, spaghetti equals hilarity, and a moth caught in the coop creates a girl-fight unlike anything outside a Lindsey Lohan movie.

Today it was corn. I put the ear – whole – on the ground. They looked at it, suspiciously cocking their heads the way prey-birds do. “It’s OK, Ladies,” I cooed at them. Then one got brave enough to peck at a kernel. It popped a little and corn-juice splattered just enough to make her squawk. She backed up momentarily before re-approaching the ear, one of her sisters in tow. Both girls pecked and squawked and scratched and wiped their beaks on the ground until a third hen, then a fourth, and finally all of my girls were pecking and chirping and flapping their wings and before I knew it, I had been watching my birds for twenty minutes. First in Mountain, then in Tree (how I typically stand if standing for a while): I realized what was happening when I opened my arms to clean out an egg box and found myself in a pseudo-Warrior pose. So I said, “Eff it,” again and went ahead and stretched out with a few postures that wouldn’t leave me rolling in chicken poop.

I had committed to doing yoga this morning. I tried to run to Tarshish again ya’ll and ended up fulfilling that commitment with yet another “Ridiculous Moment” that left me giggling at myself all morning.

I still have work to do – and episodes of Supernatural to watch, Andrew promises they stay good for a few seasons. But I think I just might approach all my lingering tasks from a slightly more joyful perspective. I may turn into a fluffy-witch yet.

Thanks, Cin. You often make my day.

B, Q, 93,

TBW