Sweet dreams?

I forgot to mention that as an old lady (at least in this weekend's company), I can be set in my ways. My fellow would-be campers knew ahead of time that I was an air mattress kind of camper … I can handle pit toilets and going without showers, but I cannot sleep on the ground!!

So, Saturday night after the garlic fest, we set up camp (just my tent, really), and I started huffing and puffing (to blow up my mattress). I took a break about half-way through but persevered despite the ridicule I endured from the younglings.
After what seemed like ages, I had done it—blown up the mattress and looked forward to a comfortable night's sleep in the tranquil fields of Four Springs Farm, lulled by the songs of crickets and other little beasties.

Then the valve broke off. Gone. Something that not even duct tape could fix! I was beyond consolation; the prospect of 2 nights on the ground was more than I could bear. I recalled camping trips to the White Mountains when I was a child, when I would try to sleep and just lay awake all night from discomfort. After a few trips like this, my parents broke down and purchased cheap blow-up rafts for my brother and me. But because those rafts weren't made for 8 hours of over-the-ground use, they typically went flat (slow leak) on the first night, sometime during the wee hours. And I would cry and wish for my bed.

Well, the upshot is that I survived. Thankfully, a matted-down hay field is lots more comfy (and I use that term loosely) than the hard-packed tent pads of the national forest parks.

Labor Day

Because a driveway is for parking and a parkway is for driving, because seeding can mean removing or planting seeds, and because of so many other linguistic anomalies that I can't think of right now … it only stands to reason that on Labor Day, we must jump in cars and speed home from wherever we have been doing anything but working!

Today, I drove home from central Vermont with Karin and Ann. We stopped for brunch at a sugar shack near the farm, where "laid-back" didn't begin to describe the quality of service. We were anxious to get on the road, not looking forward to any traffic jams we might encounter. The actual ride, however, was uneventful and swift! Before we knew it, we were back in Salem to drop off Ann, visit my parents, and collect Patica. Just over an hour later, I had transferred my gear (and dog) from Karin's car to mine and arrived at home.

All in all, it was a great day. Not laborious at all.

Fiddles, pipes, and guitars—oh my!

Today's sole activity was attending the New World Festival, which offers a whopping 12 hours of music for just $25—a bargain no matter how you slice it! So after we "did our farm chores" (i.e., followed Jinny around as she watered and fed the fowl, all the while telling us about the heritage breeds she had chosen and answering our many questions), we headed about 20 minutes away to Randolph.

The town of Randolph was all but consumed by the festival. We traded our ticket voucher for hip green bracelets around 11:30 am (a half-hour before the first show was scheduled to begin), then walked down the street to find coffee. We soon came back to check out the fun stuff for sale, bought T-shirts and cool jewelry as souvenirs, sniffed out the food offerings, and settled in for our first show. Atlantic Crossing (a Vermont band that plays local contra dances, Jinny says) played the first of many great sets we'd hear before dragging ourselves out of the dance tent just before midnight.

When all was said and done, I had enjoyed the musical prowess of 11 performers! Some of my favorites of the day were Claude Méthé (an oldie but goodie from Québec), Réveillons! and Raz-de-Marée (also from Québec), Cantrip (not Catnip!; from Edinburgh, Scotland), and Nicholas Williams.

Although all the performers were worthy of a good round of applause, the prize for the most energetic, surprising, mesmerizing, get-up-and-dance sounds came from the McDades. Three talented siblings from Edmonton, Alberta—who play fiddle, various and sundry winds, and double bass (with backup by a percussionist and a guitarist)—have created a unique blend of music that won't let you stay in your seat. Spiced with unexpected twists in instrumentation and arrangements, what might have roots in traditional music is ratcheted up to a whole new level of consciousness. What's more, they make it look effortless! The sound almost defies description, but if I had to, I'd say that the McDades sound like a traditional Canadian-Celtic band that spent a long winter drinking vodka (straight up, of course) with the famous jazz greats in Eastern Europe—or something like that.

Do link through to some of the performers' websites; you won't be sorry. Check out some of their tunes, and buy the music if you like it!

So as not to omit the other catch phrases from the trip, I'll include them here. One of the concert venues was a church that clearly had ventilation problems; even early in the day, the sanctuary was stuffy and hot. After a couple of forays in there, Ann gave it her trademark description: SMELLS LIKE ASS. (So, it didn't really smell like, um, that, but it was unpleasant enough that I avoided that venue whenever possible.)

Also, an interesting outfit (a black bodysuit and skirt with red plaid accessories—including a bra worn over the bodysuit and a sporran over the skirt) prompted Ann to create a special moniker: TARTAN TITS.

And that is all she wrote! Till we go back next year, anyway …

Huge Tag Sale!

For this holiday weekend, I have planned a twofer of themed festivals and a farm camping experience that promises convenient, cheap accommodation with environmental value-added. Dubbed "Garlic and Gaelic," this minibreak is intended to provide me, Karin, and Ann some good food, fun times, many musical interludes, and maybe—just maybe—a bit of relaxation.

After more than our share of delays this morning (surprisingly, none due to the numerous self-professed HUGE TAG SALES that line Vermont's Route 9, which never were huge by our estimation), Karin expertly piloted us to the Garlic and Herb Festival in Bennington (c'mon, everybody say it: "Where Vermont begins!") midafternoon. We all agreed that "Garlic" was a bust—it totally didn't live up to its website description—but the garlic ice cream and garlic kettle corn were surprisingly good. We don't regret attending but wouldn't recommend it or go back.

To round out the anticlimactic Garlic Festival experience, I took uninspiring pictures of the Battle Monument (at 302 feet, the tallest structure in Vermont, sez the AAA guide, but I was too far away), then we piled back into the car. We traveled about 2 hours northeast to South Royalton (about as central in Vermont as you can get), which would be our home away from home for 2 nights.

Four Springs Farm is a working organic farm and CSA (which stands for Community Supported Agriculture—a way for customers to purchase a share of the farmer's harvest before the growing season begins and receive harvested produce through summer and fall) where owner-farmer Jinny Cleland grows vegetables, berries, herbs, and bedding and ornamental plants; raises pasture-raised laying chickens, meat chickens, and turkeys (Bourbon Reds and another); offers educational programs; runs an off-season bakery; and rents space to tenters or even offers "farm vacations" to families or groups. The farm was a nice alternative to the usual campground, and Jinny is a wealth of information!

Ephemera

Thought for the day: Stop to marvel at the ephemeral beauty of a dewdrop as it glistens on a blade of grass in the morning sun, because with every moment that passes, the sun hastens the dewdrop to its inevitable demise.

Living on

What joy! I have one of Bounthong's beautiful plants. It's still recovering from the weekend it spent out in the sun at the apartment, but I have every hope that it will survive. What's more, Koukaï told me that this plant roots easily, so I plan to start some new plants for several people who (not surprisingly) also wish that they had a little remembrance of a special woman who touched their lives.

And today, the Koukaïs are back in Brussels to pick up their lives where they left off 6 weeks ago (or 4 months ago, or a year ago, or even 18 months ago).

One week ago

One week has passed since Bounthong died (notice that I don't use euphemisms)—and finally, I have a chance to write about how the aftermath unfolded. I've back-dated the posts so they're in chronological order (thus shorter and easier to read as installments).

My anger about the plants had not lessened much when I called the apartment today. I didn't want to talk to Seuth, so I asked for Koukaï. I apologized to her for not visiting last night to help her with the clearing out and explained how upset I had been at her father. She seemed surprised, so I guess he hadn't told her what I had said—or maybe he just didn't get it. (He is a guy, after all.)

I told Koukaï that I could stop by any time today, to help her in any way I could, pick up anything she wanted to send to Goodwill, and say goodbye. Because she still wanted to go through her mother's things and many people were expected in the afternoon, she asked me to come in the evening, when we would be able to sit and talk.

When I arrived around 7 pm, Thuy was there. I asked her whether she had been too late for the plants, too, but to my surprise, she said that she had been able to take a few before Seuth started pitching. She said that she had left the plant with white flowers for me, but that she had taken two others of the same type (with red flowers, though) and some Christmas cactus. "I only wanted one of the tall plants," I said, and she replied that I could come pick one up whenever at her house. Not wanting to miss out again, I followed her home when she left.

Back at the apartment, Koukaï and I talked a bit but were often interrupted by phone calls—people checking in or wishing her a good trip home. Tioy stopped by to send a fax, so we visited with her for a while.

At some point the phone stopped ringing, people stopped coming, and we could just talk. Koukaï told me about her mother's last few days in general and her last day in great detail. She explained that she hadn't called me on Sunday or Monday (when Bounthong clearly was nearing the end) because she didn't want to ruin my birthday. She spoke of the intense connection she had shared with her mother during these last weeks, coming to accept the reality of the situation that faced them, and the difficulty in letting go when the final moments arrived. At once remembering the past and thinking to the future, she told me of her plans to go back to the temple in Laos that her mother had helped build, to continue the work that her mother had started.

I know that we will keep in touch, even if her mother is here with us no longer. If Bounthong was my second mother, then Koukaï is my first sister.

Back to the present

I had planned to go back to take one of Bounthong's plants from the living room—Seuth had said that he didn't want to keep them, and I love those plants because they remind me of Bounthong. Thuy and I both thought that they would make great souvenirs, so when we left on Sunday, we both told him that we'd be back to pick them up.

After I finished working, walked Patica, had dinner, and took a shower, I called the apartment to tell them that I'd be on my way soon. Seuth answered the phone, so I chatted with him. Knowing that he is quick to throw away things that he doesn't want to deal with, I jokingly asked, "You haven't thrown away my plant yet, have you?" Imagine my surprise when he told me that yes, in fact, he had. I pressed him on the matter, thinking he was messing with me. "No, I'm not kidding," he claimed.

I started to cry; the lump in my throat left me speechless. Even though I knew that Seuth was grieving, too, and that everyone has a different way of dealing with grief, I couldn't believe that he could have been so selfish as to throw away something I had specifically told him I wanted as a souvenir. I was so angry that I changed my plans for the evening and stayed home.

Later, I thought to myself, yes, I am being selfish, because it was all about me! My pain was about all those times I had been there for Bounthong (and for him, because he didn't understand the doctors and wouldn't ask questions, or so he wouldn't have to miss work)—from the doctor visit in April 2006 that led straight to Exeter Hospital, where I spent all day translating for nurses and doctors; to the Lahey Clinic, where Bounthong had a full hysterectomy "plus"; to later trips back to Lahey, to the oncologist, to the blood lab, to the radiologist, to the pharmacy, to wherever I could find Evian water, and more. All I could think was, I've done all this for you, and you couldn't see your way to giving me something that would make me happy and that you didn't want anyway?

I knew that Bounthong would have given him a good tongue lashing if she were there, because she understood that the sentimentality behind a well-chosen gift imparts positive energy to the object, no matter what it is—and she certainly didn't throw things away that still had a good purpose to serve!

Les funerailles de Bounthong: Sunday

This morning, the monks were brought to the apartment to lead the final ceremony of the weekend. Many people had already gathered to participate by the time I arrived, including Sharon. The Laotian women were all dressed in beautiful silk skirts, and everyone wore a colorful sash. After the prayers, all the guests ate their fill and then gathered up leftovers to take home.

By midday, most people had cleared out, but Thuy and I stayed behind to help restore the apartment to normal—vacuuming, moving furniture back into the living room and bedroom, cleaning the bathroom, and washing the floors, and trying to make the place feel like a home again. A few hours later, we finally were able to sit down with Koukaï and breathe. Little Koukaï happily went off with her cousins for a ride to the airport, and Seuth snored loudly—first from the sofa, then from the bedroom (where he plans to continue to sleep on the massage table), so when Thuy and I left, Koukaï finally had some peace and quiet to be with her thoughts—not to mention the closets that she planned to go through ad clear out before her departure on Wednesday.

Les funerailles de Bounthong: Saturday

This afternoon was the second ceremony. Before going to the funeral home, several of us family and close friends were initiated as "little monks" to help encourage Bounthong's soul on its way. Nephews Bobby and Capitol had their heads shaved in the morning and were already dressed in orange robes like the monks hen I arrived. The Koukaïs, Kong and Biona, Bay, Annie, and I dressed all in white (to signify purity) as if we were Buddhist "nuns."

Many more people attended today than last night. Cousin Annie has arrived from Seminole, Florida, after two snafus with her airline ticket (costing her more than $1,000). Cousin Scottie arrived from Toronto after driving all night, just to stay the day; he hadn't seen Bounthong in more than 30 years! Sharlyn (the hospice nurse) and Sharon (hospice home health aide) came, Paula and Joe were back, Thuy was accompanied by Abby and Sam, and Anne and Jon stopped by. The rest of the room was filled with Laotians dressed in black.

To end the ceremony, we all approached the casket to sprinkle Bounthong with perfumed holy water and place a candle and a flower on her breast. (Note to self: Find out what those were for.) Next, a convoy accompanied Bounthong to the crematory in North Hampton, where we said our final goodbyes.

Meanwhile, people continued to arrive at the apartment, filling it to overflowing.

Les funerailles de Bounthong: Friday

The first Buddhist ceremony at the funeral home was this evening. Several Laotian monks from the temple in Lowell were there, but other than immediate family, only a few other guests attended. I knew Thuy, Paula and Joe, and Jon. Of course, many more people showed up at the house to "share" with the family.

I understood that the point of the ceremony was to pray for Bounthong's soul, that it would detach from her body and depart from this world in peace. The chanting of the monks was quite calming.

Les funerailles de Bounthong: Thursday

Because I was out of town with my car up on a jack on Tuesday, I wasn't able to get to the apartment until nighttime. I know that people (the hospice doctor and nurse, Thuy, and various friends and neighbors who helped with the funeral arrangements, like Tioy) had been in and out all afternoon and evening, but I just wanted to stop and be there for a few minutes—maybe give everyone a hug and be on my way. Koukaï was resting or sleeping and never came out of her room, but little Koukaï came out after a while, full of questions and comments.

"Je suis triste parce que Mamie n'y est plus, mais je suis contente parce qu'elle ne souffre plus" ("I'm sad because Grammy isn't there anymore, but I'm happy because she no longer suffers.") I couldn't have said it better myself! Then she asked me why her grandmother's insides had to be drained, why she was cold, and what the room looked liked where she was now. I did my best to answer, and she seemed happy with my responses. Phew!

First, it seemed like random Laotian people populated the apartment and front yard of Bounthong's place constantly, starting Tuesday afternoon, swinging into high gear on Wednesday, and expected to hit a high on Saturday evening. Apparently, when someone in the community dies, it's OK to just show up a the family's house, eat your fill, waste whatever you want (after all, you didn't have to pay for it), and drink yourself silly (or, say, pissy—see later). Wednesday night, I talked to Koukaï while she worked: prepping, cooking, fetching, and cleaning up just over 24 hours after watching her mother take her last breath. Nonstop hadn't quite stopped yet.

This evening, I figured that I needed to see it all for myself and that I could lighten Koukaï's load a bit and give her a chance to talk if she wanted to. So I went over to help: I washed dishes; cleared trash from the tables; stocked the coolers; chopped onions, chiles, and garlic; washed greens and herbs. I met Uncle Sy, from Las Vegas, who had hoped to arrive to visit with Bounthong but didn't make it.

Although I don't understand the Lao language and couldn't tell whether most people were talking about Bounthong or the weather, I did overhear some 20-something guys yammering (in English) about where they had lived before, New Hampshire, the Laotian community, yadda yadda.

Late in the evening, probably around 10 pm, I was in the bathroom washing out some jumbo mixing bowls in the bathtub. One of those guys stood outside the bathroom for a few minutes, apparently just watching me bent over the tub (um, thanks for that). Finally, he spoke up. "Uh, d'ya think I could take a piss first?"

More than a little annoyed, I looked up at him with the blankest look I could muster and volleyed back another question: "Could you wait 5 minutes?" After all, he wasn't a little kid and surely had control of his bladder. Besides, I was working while he was playing (which clearly was not an issue between Laotian men and women, I had observed), and he probably didn't even know Bounthong or at least had never used that bathroom before. So I proceeded to scrub and rinse.

Before I was quite finished (just a minute or so later), the same guy does a little dance and whines, "I don't think I can hold it!" Geez, I think, aren't you a guy? Can't you take a whizz out back?)

I quickly wiped out the tub with a paper towel, gathered up my stuff, and left the bathroom without looking at him. "Maybe you shouldn't drink so much beer," I joked (not really).

Later, Koukaï told me that a woman she had never seen before told her that she'd make a great house servant! Incredulous, Koukaï had simply stared, then turned and walked back to the kitchen. Then the same woman asked another who "that girl" was. "She's the daughter of the woman who died," replied the woman-in-the-know.

Adieu, mon amie

After more than 18 months since her cancer diagnosis, Bounthong finally let go. She had spent most of the day only semi-conscious; her body had become so weak that she could barely move, and she couldn’t speak. After prolonged best efforts (hers and those of her family as well) to encourage her recovery, she said goodbye to the family at her side with a final look and a smile. She was 57 years old.

I wasn’t there myself, but the hospice nurse was, and she told me that Bounthong died peacefully and quietly—I think dignified would be the right way to describe it, and only fitting to the woman who always looked “put together,” even for her early-morning English classes. Bounthong’s husband Seuth claims he will remember forever seeing her take her final breath. And her daughter Koukaï, grieving, wonders whether she could have done more.

Honestly, I’m just relieved to think that she will suffer no more. I will miss Bounthong, but she remains with me as well. I will prepare pad thai the real way (proud to know that I obtained my certificate from la cuisine de Bounthong), wear my Laotian skirt (to be made from imported silk that she ordered for me from Thailand), say with confidence that the kitchen sink is l'evier (pas le lavabo), and remember many other things that my "Asian mother" taught me.

Spa-licious!

What is spa-licious, you ask? Well, it’s how I decided to celebrate my 40th birthday—by inviting some friends to help me welcome this new year with some sun, relaxation, white sangria, and MYO spa goodies. Spa-licious!

First, I chose the main activities: footbath, face masks, and salt scrubs.

Next, I used Evite to invite lots of girlfriends (no boys allowed!) to come hang out on a Sunday afternoon.

Then, I bought an extra-large footbath and gathered the primary ingredients: different clays, essential oils and herbs, carrier oils, and salts.

Finally, I set up the minispa and welcomed almost a dozen goddesses-in-waiting! Together, we soaked, sipped, slathered, and sloughed—a real treat for everyone!

La ville de Québec

What can I say? On a eu du fun! It was a blast! The weather was perfect, the architecture was amazing, the best music was free, the cheeses were plentiful and delicious, and the people were nice. The city has a very European feel—like France, but without that attitude that English speakers sometimes experience—but with a distinct North American vibe. Still, Marina and I spoke French at every opportunity. I’d go back in a heartbeat. Check out some pix in my Picasa album!

Random pensées:

• You don’t have to ask for fries with that, because ouais, you get frites with everything ... except maybe crêpes. But I couldn't be sure.
  
• The only poutine I ate was the first night, at Le Cochon Dingue (i.e., The Crazy Pig, not to be confused with La Vache Folle/The Mad Cow), with pulled pork on top. Miam!
  
• If Quebec City were a perfume (eau de Québec), it would smell like a warm waft of horseshit (from the carriage rides).
  
• Apparently, en québecois, “kitchenette” means a tower created from a coffee maker, a small microwave, and a dorm-size fridge. (We decided to call it an “-ette.”)
  

Wal-Mart and China get stronger, America gets weaker

I have never made bones about my not liking Wal-Mart, for lots of reasons. The main reason is the effect on the American economy of sourcing most of its goods in China, where labor is cheap, rather than in this country, where people need good jobs. My new complaint is that Wal-Mart is selling "organic" foods that aren't really -- they're factory-farmed lookalikes that can fool people into thinking that they're doing something good for themselves and the environment.

The only way to stop this behemoth is to with our dollars. Just say NO to Wal-Mart! Check out this video ad, then read about Wal-Mart's effect on a country addicted to low prices and join the WakeUpWalMart.com: America's Campaign to Change Wal-Mart.

Instant gratification

Today I took a short break from planting and yard work to taste the first home-grown alpine strawberries of the season. This variety is perennial and everbearing, which means two things: The berries return every year with minimal effort on my part, and they keep coming all summer (that is, as long as I continue to pick—otherwise the plants think that the season is over and start to go dormant). Two great features to have in a garden plant, if you ask me!

Alpine strawberries are known in gourmet circles as fraises des bois, a high-priced delicacy appreciated by foodies the world around (e.g., read an article by Maine four-season gardener and author Barbara Damrosch—you must register to read the Washington Post online, but it’s free). Chez moi, however, alpine strawberries simply are easy-to-care-for plants that give good eats.

Because the sweet, tasty fruits are small (you’d need to pick dozens just to fill your palm), hide under leaf cover, and tend to dry up quickly after harvest, they require careful hand harvesting—hence the hefty price tag. Given these difficulties, I find that the easiest approach to alpine strawberry harvest is to eat them in the garden. Yup, you heard me: plant to mouth, with only the lightest, briefest passage between the fingers. Gratification doesn’t get much more instantaneous than that.

Another nice feature (IMO) of alpines is that they don’t send out runners like full-sized strawberries; however, as the plants grow, you can divide their clumps to expand your strawberry bed or border.

One more interesting tidbit about my plants: They are true survivors. I originally sowed organic seeds from Johnny’s several (5?) springs ago, in black plastic seed flats. However, when I was putting the rest of the plants in the garden, the strawberries looked so tiny and pathetic that I figured they needed more time to grow and should be planted in fall rather than spring. So, I left the flats outside near the garden and watered the spindly seedlings (occasionally, anyway) throughout the season. Come fall, I got busy and never got the plants in the ground, so the flats were left, forgotten, next to the garage. There they passed the winter under several feet of snow.

The following spring, as I was weeding, prepping the garden, planting tomatoes, and so on, I caught a glimpse of something green among the dried-up leaves in the flat. Not believing that anything might have survived a New Hampshire winter in a plastic seed flat—and certainly not the sad strawberry seedlings that I had chucked aside the year before—I guessed that the green must have been from a growing weed, like a maple tree or some crabgrass. Still curious, I examined the greening leaf more closely, and sure enough, it was a strawberry leaf—and many more plants were starting to green up! So out came the water and a bit of seaweed fertilizer, and before I knew it, the plants were looking perky. A short time later, I transplanted the baby strawberries to the garden, where they have thrived ever since.

BTW, if you’re interested in reading more about organic farming and gardening … check out Four-Season Harvest by Barbara Damrosch’s farmer husband, Eliot Coleman, at your local library. It’s a classic! Also check out their website, Four Season Farm, to see that they practice what they preach.

A new take on biofuels

Background: Switching to Biofuels Could Cost Lots of Green, on Washington Post online—you may need to register, but it’s free and worth it.

This article really got my hackles up, because although I believe that biofuels should be explored as an alternative to fossil fuels, this approach is beyond irresponsible in so many ways—not only in how many dollars the federal government will have to cough up to implement its plan.

So, what’s wrong with it?

• Subsidies: The federal costs of paying off growers in the form of subsidies is already a problem for other crops. For example, the American public pays less than “real” costs for conventional milk because conventional dairies get kickbacks from the government. My mother’s cousin who lives in New Brunswick, Canada, used to say that when he crossed the border into Maine, he had three things on his shopping list: gas, cigarettes, and milk. (Thankfully, he has given up his nasty smoking habit, so his list is shorter now.) The subsidies also hurt organic producers, who don’t receive such subsidies, because the price differential between their products and the conventional ones is artificially high.


• Mass plantings: When the federal government subsidizes a crop or a new potentially lucrative market is created, farmers—who have a hard enough time making ends meet as it is—are encouraged to plant massive single-crop farms of the new crop. Mass plantings reduce the diversity of not only plants on the farm but also the flora and fauna that live in the same ecosystem.


• GMO seed: You can be sure that where there are massive single-crop plantings, there are genetically modified (GMO) seeds. Why? Well, the marketing hype is that they’re less risky—hardier, often with built-in pesticide protection. And they simply cannot be contained; it has already be proven that GMO crops can, through the ancient forces of nature, intermingle with non-GMO crops far and wide (not to mention possible effects on insects and animals). And I don’t want no GMOs in my food—they’re bad news!


• Pesticide use: Farmers that don’t use GMO seeds with built-in pesticides surely are going to apply the pesticides to their crops to increase the survivability (and hence the profit) of the crop. Unfortunately, applications of the common broad-spectrum pesticides kill off the good insects (like bees and butterflies) as well as the bad ones (aphids, chewing beetles, and borers). What’s more, pesticides can drift from conventional crops to organic ones, and their negative effects on non-insect populations (from livestock to humans) have been documented.


• Sustainability: Increasing interest in a new crop decreases sustainability in many ways. It is not difficult to imagine a future surplus in corn-for-ethanol crops. In contrast, a program to recover and repurposed used cooking oil (as championed by many biodiesel users, who drive so-called frymobiles because the exhaust smells like a Fry-o-lator) would not only help restaurants (which are obliged to dispose of the stuff in some way) but also create a market for a product that otherwise would be added to an ever-growing surplus of trash.


• Energy use: Offering a replacement fuel doesn’t address the main issue: Americans consume many times more than their fair share of energy on this planet, and substituting one fuel for another doesn’t make the problem go away.

Don’t get me wrong; I think that biofuels can be a great alternative fuel and an important part of a sustainable energy plan! I’ve even seriously looked into the requirements for using used vegetable oil as fuel and converting a car to biodiesel. I just think that using primary materials is unwise, unhealthy, wasteful, and irresponsible when biodiesel could be a secondary product recycled from erstwhile waste.

On second thought ...

It doesn't really matter what you think, as long as Blogger works for me, right? So I'm going to poke around a bit more to find the features I want to use, set up tags, etc. and then start posting away.

My old blog (with all posts from November 2006 till yesterday) is still at my webhost for now, but I'll bring over the old posts, bit by bit. I'll eventually catch up and have everything in one place. How gosh-darned organized and efficient that will be. ;-)

Blogger?

So I’m thinking about moving my old blog to Blogger … where it would be integrated with GMail, iGoogle, and other Google paraphernalia. It also would be easier to find, what with a “real” URL and all. Whaddaya think?