Row, row, row your boat . . .
This morning I put on a load of washing and went to the supermarket.
Remembering to hang it out when I got home, while the sun was still shining, was probably my greatest success of the day so far.
I broke two eggs into a bowl, but one of them wasn’t quite right. I was gratified to find that, with the help of a spoon, I could scoop it into the sink and break out a third, much more normal-looking one for breakfast.
I used the little cast-iron frypan I rarely use, because the other one needed a wash. The cast iron one is much heavier, but also much more satisfying. The eggs were great.
It started raining, so I ran outside to grab the water-speckled sheets off the line.
Putting on a dryer-warmed fleece is pretty darn pleasant.
The kettle is boiled. Tea is on the way.
Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream.
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Some days are more exciting than others. Like the one where I went down the coast for a climb and caught up with some beautiful friends. Or the one where I bush-bashed into a closed area of the Grose on a search. Or the one where I ran to a local lookout I’d never visited, and walked to a local cave I’d never seen.
Good times!
But I think my favourite days to write about are ones like this.
I went to the supermarket. I did the dishes. I drank green tea. I submitted some revisions for the Antarctica book.
What’s that the zen masters say about chopping wood and carrying water?
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There have been lots of exciting days lately. A little too exciting. Sometimes, when night falls, I’m too excited to sleep. And Chinese medicine say, too much of anything is not good for you baby.
Take Monday. On Monday I harvested my first radish. I was so thrilled it almost hurt. I tried to write about it at the time, but I was too wildly excited to string a sentence together! So here we go, slightly more calm, to try again.
I’d like to start by saying that if you have never pulled a young, red radish from soft, loamy soil . . . The time has come! the walrus said. Go plant some radish seeds!
Second thing: it’s really easy. Seriously. It’s like this big secret, growing food – why don’t they tell us how easy it is? And how awesome? Seeds want to live, and they know exactly what they’re on about.
Take radishes.
A few weeks ago I sowed some seeds and watered them. Within a week or two, little green grassy shoots were bursting through. They set to work unfurling into broad, furry, furrowed leaves. At the same time, a wild and mysterious magic of differentiation was taking place below the surface. A fine white filament was venturing down and down, transforming into a perfect hot-pink bulb.
The other day, as I was watering the patch, I noticed these little splashes of red emerging shyly from the soil. Could it be? A REAL radish?
No intellectual understanding of the process of growing vegetables could have prepared me for this feeling. I was so filled with joy I wondered whether this might be a little of how new parents feel when they see their babies for the first time. The unabashed awe, the swelling joy in your chest, the pride of creating something so wondrous and perfect and seemingly impossible.
Of course, the similarities soon end, because after gently pulling a radish out of the soil I promptly washed, topped-and-tailed and ate it. (I ate the leaves as well, they’re delicious blanched).
Then it was gone, and I was overcome with this nagging feeling. Something akin to guilt, or maybe remorse. Whatever it was, it was a hard emotion usually reserved for more serious transgressions.
The next morning I decided to start the day with Ursula Le Guin’s beautiful book, No Time to Spare. It’s been living on my bed for a long time – I’ve already written about it here – but it’s been a while since I picked it up.
I was up to page 128. The title of the chapter was A Modest Proposal: Vegempathy.
For real. That was the actual title of the chapter.
Regarding vegempathy, Le Guin proposes ‘It is time for humanity to ascend from our primitive condition as omnivores, carnivores, vegetarians and vegans. We must take the inevitable next step to Oganism – the Way of the Aerovore – leading away from obesity, allergy and cruelty towards blameless purity. Our motto must be All we need is O.’
She goes on to explain how this will work. We consume only oxygen (in all its forms, so water is allowed). Her contention is that to live a morally pure life, we should probably avoid eating anything alive, or that once lived. This includes animals of all kinds, and plants. She points out that, just as scientific research once revealed our similarity to animals (they communicate and feel pain, like we do), emerging research is showing the same is probably true of plants. So where do you draw the line? Air, Le Guin suggests, is a tolerable concession.
She concedes that ‘the Ogan movement . . . is fated to be, in each individual case, rather-short lived’, but suggests that the first adherents to the cause will inspire multitudes to follow them, with largely positive outcomes (for the planet, at least).
I smiled wryly at no-one, and got up. Vegempathy. Seems a good word to describe how I felt about the radish.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about food ethics, and how the decisions we make affect animals and the planet – or don’t at all. I thought about the first time I was vegetarian, until I responded to my meat craving with a massive $5 steak at the Landsdowne. Or the time I only ate game for a while (the possum in Tassie was great). I thought about all the times I’ve tried to modify my diet to reflect my values. I wrote a lot about it too, most of it nonsensical. In the end, I came to this.
I think my feeling of remorse over the radish came from the strong sense of its vitality and independence: it was undoubtedly a living, thriving thing, and I ended its life. I didn’t like that feeling. So, ok.
But also this:
Isn’t it kind of sweet, the way we deliberate over food? It’s lovely, really, how we try to express our values through what we eat. And in a way it’s incumbent upon us, really, given how much damage we do to the planet with our extraordinary intelligence, and how deplorable so many of our food industries are. We might as well also use our intelligence to do some good.
It’s nice. At the same time, it’s very odd. And probably unique in the animal kingdom.
Penguins don’t seem to spare a thought for the krill and crustaceans they scoop into their bellies. You don’t see leopard seals choking on the guilt as they fling penguin carcasses around before chomping with those teeth. Killer whales make a game of hunting, teaching their young, coordinating their efforts, sharing the spoils.
For most species, nourishment is a pragmatic affair. It’s about survival. Which makes me think that in a way, our insistence on making moral food choices is another manifestation of our desire to elevate ourselves above the animal kingdom. To differentiate ourselves, Descartes-style, from the natural world, from the world of beasts and brutes that kill and consume without compunction.
But I reckon those beasts are not as beastly as we may think. And, despite our delicate sensibilities and desire not to be so, we really are beasts ourselves. In so many ways.
So? What of all this?
I don’t know. But I think I’m going to go eat another radish.
Thanks, dear, delicious radish, for all you are and all you do!
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Also – I got the celery story! It really wasn’t that strange. It was basically about a guy who got married and ended up in an awkward situation involving his wife, a checkout chick and a celery. That could go to crazy places, but it didn’t. He was forced to reveal, in a public way he found embarrassing, in a supermarket, that he didn’t know what a celery was. Even though he was a grown man. So that’s the story.
In return, I told him I’ve been growing celery in a bowl of water, and I’m quite excited about it. He told me doesn’t like celery