It was in the middle of the fairway on hole 7 at Las Vegas National that Tiffany and I put our fancy sneakers up on the dash of the golf cart. An overcast day, breeze blowing, and slightly tired from the party the day before, I was admiring the 60s aqua and pink houses surrounding the course. Tiffany squinted at a low plane flying into McCarran and took a drink of water. We heckled the group of guys in front of us, taking their sweet time on the green.

"I think," said Tiffany, "That I'm a man sometimes."
"Why?" I responded, "Because we're golfing faster than these guys? And now we're totally impatient that we have to slow our game because of them? I mean, come on, FORE."
"Totally!" she said, and we laughed.

The universal conclusion between the two of us pony-tailed girls in cardigans was that we are too much like men. Exhibit 1: We are the golfers. We own clubs, not rent, and the idea of a Saturday morning smacking a Titleist a few hundred yards is an absolute delight. Maybe "delight" is too frilly. Is "totally boss"?
Exhibit 2: I golf and I have a husband who doesn't want to go golfing, not ever. I ask, sometimes pleadingly and using my nicest girl-ish wiles, for him to set a tee time, and he refuses. What kind of lucky man is my other half that he has a wife that would love nothing better than to golf? Not so lucky that he will join, is the answer.

The girls in the cardigans swear. We probably swear too much. Tiffany likes to swear while flashing an innocent girl smile. I've made men stammer and sweat with some of the words that have fallen out of my mouth, resulting in minutes of silence and throat-clearing anxiety (for them. I'm just raising one eyebrow.)  I don't swear like that anymore, but don't think I can't. It's in my back pocket; a slim and wicked weapon of choice.

It's Tiffany and I watching the World Series together, and again, not one man watching it with us. Who can resist the boys of summer in their final autumn innings? Not us. Take us out to the ballgame anytime.

She and I go to football games together, no football-attending men around these parts. We cheer until our throats give out, or until Tiffany starts swearing because that two-point conversion attempt was a bad, bad idea and I have to elbow her to remind her that we're at a BYU game and the other fans are fast becoming goggle-eyed at the two mouthy brunettes.

We've played a half dozen sports together. When it comes to softball, I can throw and she can run. We're evenly split on the bowling.

Exhibit 8: Relentless pursuits of new and better burger joints. Tiffany takes her steak rare, and I, a medium-rare. I've been known to make fun of the men who order well-done. Cough.

Our careers are technology careers. Boy-heavy in those joints, let me tell you what. We're used to being the only woman in the room. We roll with the barbs and the vaguely sexual references because we know we can give better than we get.

And, really, we're both nerdy boys. We read nerdy boy books. We like nerdy boy TV shows. Tired of me going on and on about Battlestar Galactica? TOO BAD. You should have watched it already, Shirley.

So the next time you see us on the golf course, heckling the frat boys whose short games are approaching triple-par, give us a shout, or the finger, because we'll just slide on our cute driving gloves, flip down our adorable, big-lensed sunglasses, fluff our hair, and flip you a double deuce right back.

MmmmmWHA!

Dear Gentlemen in the Nissan with the Bullhorn,

Yes, you.

As much as I appreciated your request to remove my blouse, climb over the driver's seat, into the back seat, and press my mammary glands to the rear window, I had to decline. You see, although I was at the light, I knew it would change soon and I simply didn't have enough time to accomplish your request and still remain a courteous driver.

I wasn't exactly sure where the extremely loud voice originated as I pulled up to the light. I heard a massive voice snicker, "How was the Slipknot concert?" followed by an oblique reference to a male appendage. I assumed you meant to address the skinny, dejected kid with the black shirt and shoulder length hair that had recently walked past my car. There all four of you were, in your sad, late model Nissan, clad in primary colored polos and sporting slick hair, right behind my car. I heard another disparaging remark tossed at a grandfather in another car.

"HEY, are your windows down?" One of you wearing white aviator glasses boomed in my direction, followed by the request to doff my duds. It's no exaggeration to say that I was rapidly descending into an overwhelming fury.

I contemplated the situation: there was always a bird or two to flip. However, upon further review, I determined that extending that finger would simply please you. If it came to a battle of verbal acuity, you would lose. I may not appear to have mastered the vocabulary of a stevedore, but I worked in kitchens, and have an expansive library of barbed insults at my employ that would leave you gasping with fear and shock. But no, words were not enough. The light changed, we all advanced, and my plan was set.

You see, you harassed the wrong girl.

Don't worry, it happens sometimes.

You think you can toss out such remarks with impunity, and perhaps with any other girl you could. But you don't know me, and you don't know how I despise the kicking of the weak by bullies of any stripe, let alone the disgusting harassment of my gender. You see, I'm not 14 anymore. Nor am I 19. In fact, I'm at an age and of a mind that no one can tender such offensive nonsense in my presence or in my society.

And that is why I called the police.

And why I told them you were driving with the bullhorn out the driver's side window. And why I gave them your license plate, and yes, I did it while boxing you in to your lane. And as you turned into the gas station while informing another girl, this one younger and far more intimidated than I was, that she, too, should consider her clothing optional and her body public property, I told the dispatcher exactly where you were.

Can you imagine my sense of satisfaction to see that cruiser turn left into the parking lot? Probably not. It's probably beyond your ability to comprehend. I can't wait until you have to explain to your mother what happened, because your shame will be overwhelming. And if it's not, maybe you'll just think twice about casting stray comments in the direction of women, because we're not all nice, and we're not all doormats, and we won't all ignore your depraved ilk.

If I'm telling the total truth, it's not just about your callous lack of respect for my gender (which is abhorrent enough,) it's not just that you're yelling at elderly people, it's about that kid.

Oh, you remember, the skinny kid who looks like he doesn't have a friend in the world. Yeah, that kid, because that kid looks like he's been on the receiving end of your punches, your insults, and your jackhole-ness, and you know what? He doesn't deserve that. You're the disparaged male appendage because you use your popularity and social advantage as a cudgel, and I won't have it.

So suck on that, you popped-collar failures of hooligans, I can't wait to meet you at a light again.

I Lose it and Then I REALLY Lose it

source

At the house closing last week our real estate agent made a crack about the president. I laughed and told him to watch it. That, apparently, cued our loan guy to also make cracks about the president. Then I forced a laugh and asked him if he wanted to lose a deal.
Normally I’m not really defensive, but living where I do, you get to hear a lot of knocks on our new president, and I can only take about ten a day before I start getting annoyed. Plus, my emotions were running high last week, like jilted Southern belle high. I’ve been uncharacteristically calm on the whole. I’ve been so calm that I didn’t sleep for most of the week. Selling and buying never go smoothly, and there was a roller coaster at the end that rode over our exposed synapses (see here.) Additionally, there are about 4,000 people who stick their hand into the transaction for their piece. I had a great agent and would recommend him to anyone, but almost everyone involved in the transaction seems to be superfluous; it all seems like such a racket.

Just to be clear:
Presidential cracks
High, yet repressed emotions
Lots of people with hands in the cookie jar

So by the time the title guy jumped in and made his oblique Obama crack, I just about lost it.

“Listen, if it weren’t for YOU PEOPLE we wouldn’t be in this economic mess in the first place and Obama wouldn’t be spending his first term cleaning up after your industry.”

And then there were some cleared throats.

And then the loan guy started in on me again.

And then I brought up that maybe the government should take over the entire real estate industry.

And there were shocked looks from the rest of the table.

And I had to take a bite of cookie to stop myself from talking.

And then the loan guy apologized.

Because really, you need to know your audience, and dude, I am not your audience.

So with my emotions on strong undertow bordering on riptide, I went back to work. A couple of friends asked me about Steve and Catheryn, who died on Strawberry Reservoir a few years ago. As soon as I finished telling them the story I started crying, and kids, I couldn’t stop. It all felt so raw and I missed them so badly. I sat at my desk trying to finish my work for the day and the tears just wouldn’t stop. I kept thinking of walking the shoreline trying to find them. I developed the awesome I’ve Been Crying puffy face with the sniffle sound effect to match. I could no longer concentrate on my pressing work with those stupid tears flowing and had to leave--because nothing says ‘I am fantastic and together’ like crying at work!

KABLAM! Wasn’t that an upper of a blog? Veiled threats, dueling political philosophies, and uncharacteristic emotional displays—the only thing this blog needs is some sort of Whedon/Twilight reference.

No, but seriously folks, you know what I need? You. You have great moving ideas, hints, and pitfalls. We’ve lived in this place for 10 years. We threw out 7 bags of garbage just from the kitchen yesterday. What do we need to know for our big move this week? If you had your last move to do over again, would you change anything?

But no crying on this blog, no one wants to see your puffy face.

I Own One Pair, For Going to the Pool

I know that the tide has really sailed on flip-flops. I know that I am on the other side of a deluge. I’m sure that I could spend the next hour coming up with more water metaphors to use, know why? Because flip-flops are for going to the beach.

Yes, you love flip-flops. You love the thwak-thwak- thwak sound as they pad down the road. You love the cheap price, how easy flip-flops are to put on, and their disposable nature. You love to pretend, against all evidence to the contrary, that you live in Hawaii.

It’s just that I feel like we’re losing the best formal elements to our society. Not the part where we all wear pantyhose in July, but the part where once upon a time the idea of going into public with pajamas and flip-flops would have elicited gasps of horror and the deepest shame. I don't despise flip-flop wearers, or wish they would experience a lightening strike, or am incredibly offended to the point of nausea. I simply muse, are we selling ourselves short?

Look, flip-flops aren’t beautiful, they don’t make you look beautiful, they’re not supportive, or protective, they make your legs look stumpy, and your feet are always filthy afterwards. I guess I don’t see the attraction. I know that you’re going to come back with that they’re comfortable. Really? A Snuggie is probably comfortable, too, but sane people don’t wear them in public. I guess I wonder about sacrificing the chance to look lovely and put together for perceived comfort.

Perhaps it’s part of a general over-casualization that I’m uncomfortable with experiencing. I kind of miss the days when you’d call someone Mister or Misses So-and-so until they graciously leaned over and said, “Please, call me Wanda Sue.” Or the part where people didn’t swear in public, women didn’t vote, and we had to hide pregnancies by confining ourselves into dark rooms for months. OK, so I don’t miss everything. I also suck at writing thank you notes, so I can’t be THAT broken up over the over-casualization of society.

But we all have our lines that we will not cross. So let’s just add wanton flip-flop use to my ever elongating list of silly principled stands that I’ve made. For what it’s worth.

($3.99)

Things I Don't Get : Huge Nursing Covers

Yeah, because NO ONE can tell what you're doing under there.






.

Family Business

I casually mentioned to my cousin that we are thinking of buying a house. If you know me, however, you know that I’m always thinking of buying a house. It has been a singular obsession for seven years. If we actually bought a house I don’t know what I’d do with my time. Cure cancer? Partition Iraq? Watch another episode of Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares?

My cousin took it upon herself to refer a real estate agent to me (I guess cousin gets a piece of the commission if I buy something.)

I got a call from the agent today (and I just love to get calls from agents.) Here’s a hint: if you want to do business with me, don’t call me sweetie on your introductory phone call. That makes me hate you because I am sentient.

How do you feel about mixing family and business?

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Congrats to my sister Jeffiner (not her real name) and Other Half!

They graduated!

In honor of their graduation, may I quote Fred Stoller?

My mom wants me to finish college. I asked her why. She said, "So that you can say you're a college graduate." What, like I can't say that now? I’m a college gagadua; I’m a conalge ganagnera.”

Thanks to Eric D. for the Dr. Katz memory jog

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And finally, you can also catch me today over at Good Mommy/Bad Mommy.

This is not one of those posts. This is not a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) vs Work Out of the Home Mom thing. I think that whole debate is mostly drummed up by people who want to sell magazines and morning talk shows.

The morning I had Guille Other Half called my then boss, Gary, to tell him I wouldn’t be in that day. That voicemail became legendary.

Beeeeep “Hi Gary, this is J. I’m calling to tell you that Azucar won’t be in to work today because she had a baby. She wanted me to call you to let you know because she has this whole ‘work ethic’ thing. Whatever, I don’t get it.” Gary played that voicemail for people for the next six months. It’s kind of true…

When Other Half was putting me through school by working fulltime, I still worked three jobs. It was hard to not work (lest you think I’m supergirl, ‘work ethic’ does not extend to ‘housework ethic.’) When it was time for Other Half to finish school, after many fits and starts over the years, we decided that I would work and he would go to school and be the dad. Lots of people can work AND go to school; Other Half is not one of them.

The arrangement let both of us grow. I realized that someday it would be nice to stay at home and be a mom, an idea that I’ve struggled with since being a teenager. It gave Other Half a chance to be a fulltime dad and experience the hard work of parenting all day. I loved hearing him say things like, “Every time I clean something it’s just undone immediately!” Yes, he understands with complete empathy what it’s like being a stay at home parent. He’s a much better spouse because of the experience, and he’s a great dad. It’s been two years since he had a fulltime job. He’ll be graduating soon and is now interviewing for work.

As for me, my job used to be pretty awesome. Even though I was working fulltime, I got to bring Baby Guille with me to work for half the day. He would take his long afternoon nap under my desk while I worked. There was a little room for pumping. If there was a problem at home, I could leave. It was ideal.

In our case, as much as it was a choice, it also wasn’t. Other Half needed to finish school as quickly as possible. I made more money than him. I’ll probably always make more money than him. It wasn’t about buying jet-skis or trips to the coast; it was about being able to pay the mortgage AND tuition. I’ve never had to put my babies in day care thanks to creative school schedules and an incredible extended family.

One day I got into the elevator at work with Guille in his car seat. He was just a couple months old.
“Ooooh,” crooned a woman already on the elevator, “Who do you belong to?”
I said, “I belong to me.”
She said, “No, I mean who are you visiting?”
I said, “No one, I work here.”
She gave me the strangest look. I was a touch annoyed. You know, sometimes women with babies work, I wanted to say to her.
I didn’t want to tell her that sometimes we feel conflicted about working: it’s awful to leave the house; it’s great to leave the house. You don't get to wear aprons to work, but you do get to wear these.

We’ve come to a strange place. Even though J will be working, it won’t be enough to cover our really basic living expenses for several years. Don’t get me started on what they pay public school teachers in this state because it MAKES ME ANGRY. Let’s just say that one day we were driving down the road when we saw a sign on a fast food restaurant advertising for a night manager. J could make more money flipping burgers than teaching your child quadratic equations.

This is my last week on maternity leave, it’s hard to even type that phrase. I’m going to have to keep working for a while. Working breaks my heart into rough pieces; it makes me free and happy.

Baby's First Protest

Everyone has heard "Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it." I guess the corollary is that those who have learned from history are doomed to spend their lives as Cassandras; telling the truth and never being believed.

I was watching a documentary on RFK and heard him say this on a Face the Nation interview back in 1967 about Vietnam:

“Do we have the right here in the United States to say that we are going to kill tens of thousands; make millions of people, as we have, millions of people refugees; kill women and children, as we have? I very seriously question whether we have that right.

Now we’re saying that we’re going to fight there so we don’t have to fight in Thailand, so we don’t have to fight on the west coast of the United States, so that they won’t move across the Rockies. Our whole moral position changes tremendously."

Sound familiar?

Let’s fight in X place so that we don’t fight here.
The places change, time advances, but our argument remains ludicrously the same.

As his biographer pointed out, RFK questioned whether our national security interest in Vietnam was outweighed by the incredible human suffering that we were inflicting by waging war in that country. Now, keep in mind, Bobby Kennedy was an architect of that war. However, after seeing the reality, he knew that he had to accept responsibility for his part in creating the war.

Dick Cheney has not and will never because of his awful pride accept his responsibility in waging war.

He has not and will never call himself by his true name: Warmonger.

He has not and will never admit that his pockets are lined with gold from profiteering while women and children line the bloody streets of Baghdad.

It is OUR arrogance that has led us down this quagmire.

Well, our arrogance and the failure of the Fourth Estate.

I love what Lee Iococca, a former prominent Bush supporter, said in his book.
“Stay the course? This is AMERICA not the damn Titanic.”

So, with that in mind, Proximo and I went down to campus to protest the visit by Vice President Dick Cheney, to Provo.

Baby's First Protest:

Proximo wasn't the only baby there. It was fun seeing other moms with their babies and children at the protest.

Some of the nice people I met at the rally. There was a good deal of media there as well. You might be able to spot us on the news tonight!


Look closely, I don't know if he's police or Secret Service, but it was funny seeing a security presence. We all know that BYU students are a riot-some lot given to much civil disobedience.


This was right before the conclusion of the protest. We sang the Star Spangled Banner...



I'll admit that I totally cried while singing the National Anthem. I vote. I vote my heart and my conscience. I celebrate the Fourth of July. We live in the most wonderful place on earth. Our opportunities are endless. We can do so much good.

I love this country and I hate seeing a bunch of jerks wreck it.


As George Bernard Shaw said,

“We learn from history that we learn nothing from history.”

Today it's all about the chips and salsa...

I promise that this is not turning into My Pregnant Blog. There are other interesting things about me, I swear. For instance, I like enchiladas; also, Toffifay. However, the purpose of today's entry reverts to an easy topic: That Which Resides Inside.

Even after a reasonably good birth experience with El Guille, I decided that I would change the things I didn't like about it by changing my doctor. In fact, I gave up my doctor. I decided that a midwife might be more my style.

Now, if you'd of asked me ten years ago if I would consider going to a midwife I would have laughed in your face. This super spacy girl, "Sally," I grew up with wanted to be a midwife. She was one of those earthy freakazoid girls with the pasty skin of a die-hard vegan and the intellect of a concrete block. Sally was going to apprentice and then attend births with her accumulated experience (so the idea of her attending my birth was enough to put me off for a good long while.)

The other part of me knows the history of midwives, romanticizing the idea of women who served their communities. I understood how those women had been pushed out of the delivery rooms in favor of doctors with medical training--essentially medicalizing the birth process. Putting women under general anesthesia and then feeding their babies evaporated milk and corn syrup all in the name of modern progress. Modern OBs have come a long way, but they are still incredibly busy and incredibly unwilling to wait for the process--favoring control and routine over specialized needs. I am very aware that women used to die, like, a whole lot more than they do now. I also know that c-section rates approaching 30% is absolutely ridiculous. When my OB threatened me with a c-section after two hours of pushing, I knew our relationship was over. I could have gone much longer, but he was eager to make his appointments.

Our confidence in the ability of our bodies to do as they were designed has been undermined.

I decided the least I could do was to meet with one to see more of what they were all about. I went to the website of a clinic I'd heard about and actually found a picture of a friend of mine who is now a practicing midwife. It's a sign! I said while J laughed at me. I made an appointment and met with my (possible) midwife this week.

Here is what I learned:

1. My midwife is an R.N., a nurse practitioner, an additional medical masters in midwifery, is licensed by the State and board certified. A far cry from dippy Sally.
2. Midwives deliver in the hospital and also have OBs attached to their practices just in case.
3. While Utah average c-section rates are nearly 25%, my midwives are at 8%. EIGHT FREAKING percent. Even their OBs are only at 12%. Are you kidding me? It makes me want to punch Doctors and their tee-times.

4. Whatever I want goes. Epidural, sure. No medication? Sure. Change your mind in the middle and need something, anything? No problemo. Move around, take a walk, hop in the tub, why not?
5. No routine anything: significantly lower rates of episiotomies with none being done just because, less 'tearing' (you know what that means,) less internal monitoring by route (you know, where they literally screw a cord into your baby's head while he's still inside you).
6. How about a health care practitioner who LISTENS to you. I spent half an hour talking to my midwife in addition to my physical exam. My OB had, at most, ten minutes to spend for everything. I have a family history of gestational diabetes. Although my OB knew this, he didn't test us early to catch a problem. My midwife already has three tests scheduled to monitor me along the way.
7. The midwife told me that I can be the first to hold the baby and I can hold it for as long as I want. "You did all the work, you should be able to hold it as soon as possible." Sounds like a simple idea right? Well, when El Guille was born they took him away, cleaned him, suctioned him, wrapped him up, showed him to me, and then removed him from the room. Everyone else followed. I was left alone. Totally and completely alone. "I guess I'll take a nap," I thought, and promptly did. I didn't get to even hold the kid for probably 45 minutes. I didn't realize how much that bugged me until she mentioned their Mom First philosophy.
8. There are other things but this list is long enough for now.

Needless to say, I'm on board. Why did I even go to an OB in the first place?

Temper, Temper

Years ago I put an extremely long fuse on my beast of a temper and let it dwell deep below. Other Half has only seen me really lose my temper a couple times in the decade we’ve been together. My father is fond of saying that a pregnant woman is more true to herself than at any other time in her life. If that’s true, then I am a fearsome creature.

Gestation makes my fuse thisshort (that’s very short.) In normal life I am willing to let a lot of things slide. I’m able to hold my tongue, at least in front of the person in question, let my blood simma down now, and chill. In my current state, the slightest perceived injustice, the merest indication of stupidity, unleashes my wicked tongue. Once the child is out I never cuss in front of it, but when it is in utero the poor defenseless creature may, at any time and for the most specious of reasons, be subject to swearing like a stevedore (I am currently pissed because the word document I’m using to write this thinks I misspelled UTERO and I DIDN’T, no I don’t mean “utters,” son of a…)

On Tuesday I went to Mates of State and Death Cab with ~J and cjane. I’m in the stage of “eat every two hours OR DIE from emptying the contents of your stomach.” Near the end of Mates, I had to get something to eat from the miserable commissary. I was a little annoyed that there was a huge line, but I stood on line anyway. When I finally got up near the front Mates was over and all of a sudden there were a whole lot of people who decided to just saunter up and plant themselves at the beginning of the line. AW HELL NO. “HEY, who DIDN’T stand in line?” I said, only moderately loudly. “YOU, you didn’t” I accused a pimply faced 17 year old boy. He blushed and left the line. The guys in front of me turned around and said, “We were here, we swear.” “I know,” I said, “It’s just that I’m pregnant and I can’t take these fools.” Those guys were so sweet and kicked all kinds of people out of line for me, the dears.

Later that night cjane told me of someone who was vexing her life. You have NO IDEA how much I wanted to drive over to that sucka’s house and give them the kind of verbal lashing that would loose their bowels in fear and terror. I still might. Watch it.

The KUTV anchor Ron Whatshisface was covered The Storm of ’06 a week ago. He started his news cast with “Lots of damage down in Happy Valley tonight.” REALLY RON WHATSYOURFACE? HAPPY VALLEY? I hate when people call it that. The expression is patronizing and inane. I can’t imagine something more asinine than referring to an actual county as “Happy” when in fact there is a woman inside it that will gladly rip your sad, strangely elongated head off.

At The Jolly Porter’s birthday party the topic of Raechaelaer Ray from Food Network came up. The Jolly Porter blinked a little when I announced to him that I’d like to find that food-orgasmic freak, take her by the neck and punch repeatedly. “You should ask the locals for restaurant ideas,” is her ONE AND ONLY piece of advice on her food travel programs. OH REALLY RAY? That’s your advice? I’m with Tony Bourdain here: she needs to stop her ascent to monopoly before we’re facing the REAL New World Order.

Yesterday I had my first appointment with the mid-wives. For those of you who’ve never been knocked up enough, your provider will usually give you a big bag full of pre-natal vitamin samples, magazines, coupons—corporate sponsored crap, basically. You all know how I feel about formula marketing. Yet, I couldn’t help but be surprised and instantly furious when I saw both of these items in my bag:


YES, that’s a copy of BabyTalk magazine with the cover story entitled “Why Women Don’t Nurse Longer” right next to a big freaking box from Similac with a free bag and samples. HMMm with that kind of implicit endorsement from a medical establishment it’s no wonder why women doubt the capabilities of their bodies and are undermined at every turn in their attempts to nurse. It’s been proven in studies that some women thought that because hospitals and doctors handed out those samples they endorsed formula over nursing. So screw those formula makers and their @$^#$#@ marketing tactics.
Poor Carrie heard the kind of double-deuce language over IM yesterday that would make Tarantino shake in his boots. I seriously wanted to go ape-@#$ all over their !@#$. Similac can kiss my grits.

Then I thought about things and decided that instead of being angry I should donate these things to people that NEED them. So if any of you formula girls (it’s your decision, not my business, you know best) and would like the samples/coupons/ etc, I’ll be thrilled to mail them to you, REALLY and TRULY (consider it an act of guerilla consumerism.)

I may have lost my temper, but I haven’t totally lost my mind (yet.)

Real Food

I don't get sick, I don't get headaches, I rarely get food poisoning (I think maybe 3 times in the past dozen years, and all from eating out.) I have bested every other girl in our office in arm wrestling, I have an incredibly high energy level. I know that if I were to have to, just to pick something, walk to Missouri, I would have the reserves to pull it off.
My problems come from portion size, not what I’m eating. Ask Tiff-fay-fay. (We are in a good-natured tug-of-war over what we each of us will eat and what we will feed our children: She is quite proud that she gave my son his first french fry, his first “fruit” snack, and his first cheet-o. I got her kid to eat a green bean once.) I believe in eating healthy, REAL foods.

I believe in whole eggs, cream, and plain yogurt. I believe in making cakes and cookies from scratch. I believe in unbleached flour and grinding your own wheat. I believe in lard in my refried beans and pie crusts. I believe that buttercream should have BUTTER.

I believe in buying organic, or at least local. An apple tastes better the closer it grew to you. The imitation of strawberries sold in stores can’t compare to the thumbnail-sized warm beauty from the garden. Unless corn is put into a stockpot within 48 hours, it loses its sweetness. Don’t eat a pea from a pod unless you know its provenance. It’s no wonder so many people hate tomatoes when all they can buy are the red-cotton varieties from the national chains. I don’t believe in putting a tomato in a fridge.

“In season” should be a mantra, just because you can get an orange in July doesn’t mean you should eat it, same with strawberries in December. Produce stands by the side of the road should be a regular stop.

I believe in the avocados that were picked from a friend’s tree in Texas and driven on the high dusty roads without stopping, to my table within 24 hours. Guacamole should consist of: lime, tomato, onion, kosher salt, a dash of pepper sauce and/or freshly minced jalapeno. I do not believe in sour cream in guacamole.

The best cantaloupe I ever had was in Hermosillo, Mexico, a hop, skip, and a jump from the melon fields. It was so intense, sweet, and flavorful; I have never again eaten its equal. That was also where I ate my first homemade tortilla. I can still recall the flattened dough, made by hand everyday, cooked on the stovetop flame. Little crusty bits and a flaky, chewy texture.

A good dark brown bread beats a fluffy white. Baguettes are an exception. They must be crusty and consumed the day they were baked or they are no good. Croissants in plastic containers are an abomination. A soft croissant is disgusting. Bread in plastic bags is a CRIME.

My enemies are varied. High-fructose corn syrup is evil and it is in everything. It must be avoided at all costs. Red number 40, Blue Lake 50, Yellow number 5, with all their cousins and colleagues, are pollutants. Recombinant Bovine Growth Hormone has been outlawed in other countries, but continues to be used in our milk supply. Antibiotics given as a 'precaution' to our animals is harming us. Pesticides are scary.

I believe in pastuerized milks and raw cheeses. My grandfather was a dairy man. He warned us to never drink raw milk, I believe him. I think cheeses should taste like something, not like rubber. If your cheese has a coloring in it, look elsewhere. Make sure you buy organic if at all possible.

Make friends with your butcher or your fish monger. DO NOT BUY PRE-COOKED SHRIMP. If you can’t smell your fish before buying it, don’t buy it. Your fish shouldn’t smell ‘fishy,’ it should smell of the ocean. If your mussels or clams don’t close when you tap them, don’t buy them. If you can, buy straight from local fishermen. Where is your meat from? How was it raised?

Food in boxes is tricky, sauces in jars, too. Food in cans can be fine (tomatoes being the best example) and frozen foods are the best alternative to buying locally. Easy-Mac is terrifying. I am fine with my co-workers eating it, but it is so highly processed I can’t eat it without gagging. At least I know I could use it to find my way out of the building in a power outage. Processed foods are frightening. They have taken everything that is good, wholesome, nourishing, and removed it on behalf of shelf-life. Trans-fats are lab created fats that ruin your body.

I am Spanish, so I also believe in strange foods. Bacalao, the cod preserved in salt, is delicious heaven. Olives stuffed with anchovies, a treat. I believe in grilled sardines, Jamon Serrano, octopi over rice, and paella in the summer, sopa caldo in the winter. I believe in blood sausage, eating chicken hearts, turkey necks, and beef cheeks. If an animal lays down its life for us, it should be treated with respect and we should discard as little as possible. When I am done with them, chicken bones are DRY. I think the best tortillas are made from potatoes and eggs. Employ olive oil and saffron. The best ingredients in the world should be used everyday for your friends and family.

I have never met a healthy vegan. Every vegan I have ever met seemed to have a constant nasal drip, succumbing to colds, flus, allergens, etc., at far higher rates than their peers. Every vegan I have known has had weird hair and pasty skin. I do not believe in being a vegan. I believe in eating meat sparingly: being a vegetarian is fine by me. But please, eat the honey, use butter sometimes; it’s OK to have some yogurt.

The best foods in the world have simple, fresh ingredients. That is the secret to cooking. All things found in nature are here to fulfill the measure of their creation. Revere them, use them, and respect them. Listen to your body and soul, what you take in affects them both.

I believe in being balanced and I believe in eating REAL FOOD.

They're Not Here To Be Our Friends, Michael

The worst job I ever had was at a temp agency. I interviewed people and found them work. This agency was not a good place. They aspired to fill clerical positions. In the meantime, the dregs of society would pass by my desk. Drunks would stumble off the bus and into our waiting room, cursing us out for not finding them jobs. There were the child molesters, the itinerants, the addicts, and the lazy. And then there were the immigrants. If I send a Hispanic or Filipino immigrant to a job, they showed up everyday, on time, and worked the whole day. If I sent a run-of-the-mill-American, there was no guarantee they’d get there, that they wouldn’t be late, or take off at lunch never to be heard from again.

Time after time, the only workers I could depend on were the immigrants. They wanted to be here so badly they would take any job, at any time, and work their fingers to the bone (sometimes literally.) I remember one man who had been a banker in his native Peru. A banker. What did he do here? He worked loading and unloading cardboard boxes at an industrial plant. This country is so amazing that people would work the most difficult of manual labors to be here. We need those people. We need people who are so driven, with the extraordinary desire to make a better life for their children; they are possessed of the entrepreneurial spirit that will benefit all of us. We all have that in common; our ancestors took great risk to their fortunes and their literal selves to make it here.

When my mom came to this country, after the 1965 Immigration Act that did away with the racially based immigration quotas, she did not speak a word of English. She was sponsored by a family in Phoenix that she had met in Uruguay. She came to live with them and discovered that she was not being ‘sponsored’ as much as being kept as a type of indentured servant. Her story of exploitation is not uncommon. After a few months she escaped that situation and made it to Salt Lake. She spent a year working and learning English. My mom was highly educated before she came here, having attended University and law classes. She learned English by watching I Love Lucy and The Andy Griffith Show (they spoke slowly enough to understand.) After that year she was accepted into BYU and continued with her education. She has earned advanced degrees and is now a Professor.

Don’t listen to the hype—this past generation of immigrants has learned English faster than the past 100 years of immigrants. This notion that people come here and don’t bother learning English presupposes a couple arguments: one that they are skilled enough in their primary language that the acquisition of English would be simple; two, people just don’t want to learn English. Both of those assumptions are incorrect. 90% of surveyed immigrants insist that English is “necessary and crucial” to succeeding in the U.S. The previous assumption is more difficult. Some immigrants are not even literate in their primary language, making the learning of English all that more difficult. Imagine trying to learn a second language when you didn’t know how to read and write English or were functioning on only a primary school education. You see the problem.

The other nonsense I hear is that people just don’t melt in like they used to. Again, this generation of immigrants has integrated into American life faster than any other. It used to be that it would take two, sometimes three, generations for people to learn English and start intermarrying. First generation Americans these days are regarded in the same way as people whose ancestors have been here longer. Did you know that the average African American’s ancestors have been in the U.S. longer than the average Caucasian’s? There are so many perceptions and polemics, that it's hard to see the bigger picture.

Fewer Americans major in the sciences and mathematics. Our scientific research and mathematical fields have been saved by granting student visas and green cards to foreigners. Since 9/11, student visas and green cards have decreased, both in the granting and in application. Our government agencies are more reluctant to disperse visas and green cards, even to industries and specialties (like bio-medical or electrical engineering) that are desperately in need of more bodies. As foreign students decide where to go to school, and they hear about the level of hostility to immigrants in this country, they don’t want to come here. This is disastrous. Yes, we invented the A and H bombs, but much of that work was done by immigrant refugees from Germany. If our native-born children wish to avoid the hard sciences, let’s make sure we’re opening the door and welcoming those immigrants that will help us fill the gap.

We need guest worker programs and better visas. We need more green cards granted. We need people who are willing to come to this country and work to make it a better place. We need immigrants.

So to any of you who have forgotten what it’s like each time we have a wave of immigration that people think is responsible for all that’s wrong with the country, let me remind you of something:

The Chicago Post: "The Irish fill our prisons, our poor houses...Scratch a convict or a pauper, and the chances are that you tickle the skin of an Irish Catholic. Putting them on a boat and sending them home would end crime in this country."

Sound familiar? We hear the same nonsense bandied about with each wave of immigration. they bemoan a melting pot that never was. The reality is that the new people eventually integrate, they inter-marry, they join our faiths and our chambers of commerce. Don’t let the blowhards tell you differently: we all become Americans.

On this day, Independence Day, I am proud to be a child of immigrants. I am proud to support the rights of people who want to make a better life for themselves and their children—it can only better all of our lives.