Yesterday afternoon I left my office (in the Pearl district) and walked into the heart of downtown to do a few errands on foot. Within about an hour, I had no less than FIVE people standing on corners with clipboards try to stop me and convince me to get involved in/donate money to their charitable cause.
(Caveat: This does not count the Salvation Army bell ringer I walked past at Nordstrom. I have no problem with the bell ringers, because they don’t actually *ask* you for anything, and they don’t expect you to stop and talk to them. Besides, they are usually smiling, opening doors for people, and wishing everyone happy holidays, so I consider them a net positive. And the Sal is extremely efficient with their finances, so I am happy to drop my change in the bucket.)
But back to the people on the street corner…
Some of them were very polite, and when they asked ”Do you have a minute to talk about global warming?” or some such thing, I just smiled back and said, “I’m sorry, I really don’t. But thank you!” And they smiled and I smiled and everyone was happy. But there were others who seemed actually put out by the fact that I wasn’t planning to stop for an impromptu sales pitch. Even after I said no, one guy kept calling after me, “Come on, it will only take a minute!” Grrr.
To be honest, by the time I had been approached by the fifth person, even though she was friendly I was feeling bombarded. Then, as I walked across the street, even though I was walking determinedly toward my destination, one of those Portland green jacket guys (they are basically roving information booths that answer questions for people downtown) stopped me to ask if I needed help finding something. “Because that’s what we do,” he said, “We give people information.” He actually said it in what sounded like a fake British accent. No thank you, I answered. I know exactly where I’m going.
What does a person have to do to be ignored on the city streets these days?
I consider myself to be a marginal foodie…which is to say that I like trying new things, I have a great appreciation for masterful cooking, I enjoy unusual combinations and I love the art of food. In Portland, though, the whole foodie thing is so mainstream now — I’m not sure I even qualify.
Last night the Arteest and I headed over to a friend’s house for a dinner party. I’m thinking this is probably going to be a relatively simple Monday night in November kind of affair. At first glance, I appear to be right. The menu includes (gourmet) bread and cheeses, salad, and lasagna. However, my first bite of the luscious pasta reveals that it is stuffed with something new: butternut squash, hazelnuts, and sausage. Fantastically delicious.
During the course of conversation, it comes up that the sausage in the pasta is homemade. Impressive. But then I learn that my friends made the sausage from a 330 pound pig that they drove to Philomath to purchase, loaded in a trailer, drove to a friend’s farm, killed with their own hands, cut in half with a saw, gutted and butchered. (Can you imagine butchering 330 pounds of pork?) They have a freezer full of pork, ham, and bacon, a leg of prosciutto hanging in their basement, and some lovely sausage that is just perfect for a baked pasta dish.
So my friends are culinary overachievers. But that’s not all — the quince pie we ate for dessert featured a pastry crust made with lard (you guessed it) that they rendered themselves from the pig. Are you kidding me? Haven’t you people ever seen Crisco? They sell it now in these nice “butter flavored” bricks in the grocery store…
Yeah.
I guess I’ll stop patting myself on the back for the occasional homemade pie…
Over the past several months, we have had three opportunities to loan one of our vehicles to folks in our community who needed transportation. The first two occasions involved families from evergreen who were tight on money and had a car break down…we had two cars and were trying to downsize to one, so we lent out my Corolla for a few weeks at a time.
In August, after becoming convinced that we truly don’t need two cars, we sold the Corolla. We are now what I like to call a 1.25 car family — one car, and one scooter. The scooter only counts as a quarter of a car because while it is fun to ride and good for running errands around town, it doesn’t allow for any passengers, it’s tough to haul anything on it, it’s not legal or safe to ride it on the freeway, and it’s dreadful (and dangerous) to ride in the rain (which counts out much of the year).
Before we left for Italy in September, a friend called to say that she and her husband were considering downsizing from two cars to one car and one scooter, and they were wondering if they could borrow my scooter for a couple of weeks to see how they liked it. We were happy to deliver it to them, and as it turns out they have had it for almost two months now. We’ve been meaning to coordinate getting it back, as there have been some lovely autumn days that would have been perfect for riding, but life got busy and we put it on the back burner.
Last night they called…I figured it was just to coordinate logistics for returning the scoot. But they actually called to say that they had crashed my shiny blue ride. I haven’t seen it yet, but it sounds like the damage is relatively cosmetic and the smooshed pieces can be replaced. My friends are taking care of all of the details to get it fixed.
It really got me thinking about what it means to hold our “stuff” with an open hand. I’d like to be the kind of person who would loan anything I have to anyone who asks, without too much hesitation. I’m not quite there yet, but I think I’m growing in that direction.
Last night, the Arteest and I were walking out of Whole Foods in the Pearl District after hitting their Pho bar for dinner. Across the street, we passed a small woman with a kerchief tied over her head. She was rather old and propped herself up on one side with a cane while using the other hand to extend an upside down hat.
“Do you have any spare change tonight?” She asked as we walked by. I frowned and dug in my purse: “I really don’t think I have any,” I said sadly. (In my purse I found only a ten dollar bill and a penny.) “Well thanks for looking,” she said back. We walked on.
Halfway down the block, I looked at the Arteest. “I have to go back.” We turned around and went back to the woman. “Have you had a good meal today?” She indicated that she hadn’t, and I told her I would be happy to go back into Whole Foods and buy her something. “What would you like?”
“Well…” she thought about it for a minute. “How about a ripe banana…” I inwardly applauded her frugal and nutritious choice. “And some chocolate soy milk? Not a whole quart, but one of the small containers.” Sure, of course. I nodded and headed back to the store, but once I got out of earshot I giggled and giggled and giggled. I didn’t expect an elderly beggar to ask for chocolate soy milk…but in Portland, it’s actually not that surprising.
After attending a lunch seminar today that was a complete and utter catastrophe, I have compiled the following bits of advice for presenters.
Seriously, the only thing that could have made this presentation worse is if the speaker had vomited on himself in the middle of his talk. I would have left in the middle if there had been an accessible escape route.
Sometime last night or in the wee hours of morning, a bad, bad thing happened at our house. Some unknown person(s) descended upon our property and POTATOED our yard, driveway and front walk. Yes, we had a trail of russets leading up the front porch. And even one lone spud on the roof of our car.
Why? Why would you do something so senseless, so cruel? We’re going to be eating baked potatoes for weeks.
(And by the way, if you’re reading this, I’m pretty sure I know who you are. Watch your back.)
