The holiday season rolls around and I tend to feel jolly and fine. I’m no Christmas superstar or a gift-giving extraordinaire by any means (in fact, I’m quite the opposite: I’m a shitty gift-giver. There, I said it.), but I manage to enjoy the festivities anyway.

There is, however, one thing that will push me to the edge of insanity. One thing alone that can make the difference between happy mom and going postal.

Gift wrapping.

Have you seen toys lately?

Whatever happened to good ol’ squared and rectangular boxes? Tell me you, oh internets people, is it absolutely necessary to shape packages like a pagoda?  And examples like this abound! Star-shaped, semi-circular, half-mooned, strangely-angled bullcrap. Did the packaging designers even think or care how much the average parent like moi would cuss and wish them painful death? Surely they’re all young, single and childless. It’s the only explanation.

Don’t even suggest using gift bags instead of wrapping paper because there’s no tearing and ripping involved in that, and who cares about a gift if you can’t open it like a raging, rabid lunatic? Socially approved violent destruction is half the gift, imo.

Next year I’m boycotting any flashy sons of bitches that show off with inventive and innovative packaging. I’m looking at you, Mattel.

Beans are generally considered poor people’s food, and little do we know about the wealth of goodness they provide. Poor beans, so misunderstood by now they’re half emo.

My friends Amy and Caroline (both born and bred Canadians) had been nagging requesting I teach them how to cook beans. Unlike Mexico, beans are nowhere near a staple here in the great white North. In fact, when I volunteer at my local food bank I’m always astounded by the amounts of people who, upon being offered a bag of dry lentils, reply “Dry lentils? I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”  Whaa..?

This is a modern-day tragedy, considering they skip out on the lentils and all their fiber, folate and magnesium, but do go for the canned raviolis and sugary Kool-aid drinks. It isn’t anyone’s fault, though; it’s all just lack of information.

If I must be honest, I was more than a wee bit thrilled to have my buddies want to learn how to cook the legumes. I’m lucky to hang out with a rather health-oriented bunch of people here, and knowing they understand the benefits makes it all so rewarding.

Plus, I get to boss people around. Who doesn’t like that.

Before we start, this is a really cool link I found in which the soaking and cooking methods for beans are explained. It’s super easy! Basically, always soak your beans overnight before you cook them, and never add salt while they’re cooking; wait until they’re soft inside.

We began with a Hoppin’ John salad, recipe borrowed from the Food for Life series, by the Physicians Comitee for Responsible Medicine (PCRM).

Delicious!

And finally, they learned how to make a Mexican lentil soup. It’s all in the recaudo poeple. THE RECAUDO.

There are as many versions to this soup as there are grandmothers in Mexico, but I’ll share with you how I do it. My kid devours this soup, and to me it’s like comfort food without any fatiness or cream. Heaven.

Mexican lentil soup- a la Caro

1 C of brown lentils

2 C of water

2 tomato

1 green bell pepper

2 small onions

tiny bit of olive oil

Place the lentils in a sauce pan with the water, heat to a boil and then lower heat. Let them cook, approximately 30 minutes (they should be soft on the inside, without turning to mush on the outside.) Check them constantly to make sure they don’t run out of water.

Make the recaudo– the sauce that will be the base of your soup and bring all the flavor to it. To make the recaudo, heat the olive oil lightly in a pan, add the tomatoes, peppers and onions cut in quarters and fry them. Once fried blend them all with a bit of water or vegetable stock. Add this liquid to the cooking lentils. Then add the oregano, cumin and chilli powder to taste. I go crazy with these spices because my family loves them, but you may want to start by adding half a teaspoon of each and gradually increase amounts until you like it.

Once the lentils are done cooking all the flavors will be meshed together beautifully. Salt to taste and enjoy.

In conclusion, beans totally rock and you should be eating them.

P.S. When I was taking the above pics outside, on my deck, my neighbor was out doing yard work. He stared at me as if wondering why the heck I was putting food on the floor and taking pictures of it. FOOD PORN. That’s why.

It was a beautiful day: scalding hot and high in humidity; I felt like a fish in the water! Everyone else, not so much. I guess Newfoundland weather is a bit different than Mexico’s. Go figure.

We headed out to the highway to look around at the little shops, grab a bite to eat, and look around some more. As we were driving by a tiny shack “Oh my gosh, stop!” I shouted. I was so sudden that Stephen’s mom actually got frightened thinking there was something wrong, some kind of emergency.

Well, there obviously was an emergency. My treasure hunting sixth sense was tingling; my shopping bone was hurting. Totally qualifies as one.

There it was, in all its majesty:

‘Antiques’ is usually code for ‘overpriced old useless shit’.

If you looked at the picture and immediately thought WTF, you’ve obviously never been shopping with me.

This is what dreams and stories are made of. Behind those doors lays Wonderland full of unicorns and fairy dust, except instead of fairy dust it’s just plain dust and mildew, and instead of unicorns it’s broken chairs. It’s fucking Narnia, but more cluttered.

Patina on lumber and metal that glistens
Cute little teacups and plates shaped like chickens…

I looked at eeeeeverything. Old radios and scratched plates, dirty lamps and rusty kettles, vintage tools and broken mirrors. Or as anyone worthy of starring in their own episode of Hoarders would call them, treasures.

Brown linen napkins held up with rings
These are a few of my favorite things

We’re lucky I’m not one of those who thinks everything must be bought, loved, re-homed and saved ‘for later’. Most of the stuff there is just trash.

However, there was something that caught my eye.

I was about to leave the (store? junkyard?) when I found a box full of cutlery. Upon closer examination I decided that a few of the items there, all part of a same set, were actually quite pretty.

They were monogrammed: an ‘L’ engraved on their handle. The design on them intricate, delicate.

Also, I noticed the maker’s mark on each piece. My heart went pitter patter and I didn’t even know why, because I’m no expert when it comes to cutlery. But, not one to question my intuition and inner voices, I asked the owner how much for all the pieces.

This all happened many months ago and so I can’t exactly remember what he initially wanted for them, but what I do remember is I haggled. And I haggled good because if not what kind of a junk shopper would I be? I mean, I’m short of a professional thrift shopper and a Mexican. Haggling is like breathing, really.

We agreed on a price (something like .75 per piece, I believe) and a total of 17 of these babies came with me.

By now everyone was in the car with the AC cranked all the way up (because there’s something wrong with Canadians and their ability to enjoy heat), waiting for me.  I was excited about my purchase and I showed them.

“Junk” said Stephen, followed by “What do you want them for?” and “They’re old and dirty.” You say dirty, I say personality. Also, may I note my junk occupies exactly one glass jar on top of our fridge, as opposed to other people’s junk, which occupies, oh I don’t know, a basement. Moving on!

We got home and I used my super advanced technological prowess (google) to find out more about my latest acquisition.

According to one page: William Hazen Rogers (1801 to 1873) was a well-known American silversmith whose work and name have survived to the present day. Rogers–together with his two brothers and, later, his son–was responsible for more than 100 patterns of silver and silver-plated cutlery and serving dishes.

Something has drastically changed, and I can’t point my finger as to what exactly was the trigger. I think it all dawned last week when Stephen, Anna and I went out for dinner and I ended up crying there, at the table, in the middle of a busy restaurant.

The tears caught me off guard, but they grounded the jumble of thoughts flying around in my head, like neatly stacked bricks forming a solid, strong wall– a foundation where beauty can be erected. I knew somehow that there would be no turning back, and yet I found comfort in this knowledge. Catharsis, perhaps? Possibly that’s the way to describe what I felt.

“Maybe I haven’t been very good at explaining myself. Maybe I’ve come across with the self-righteousness we see in others. I really am sorry if that’s what I’ve done.” I said.

“But let’s pretend that part of it isn’t true, that everything is safe and fine, that there’s no health risk at all. Still, I can’t….” This is when the tears came, catching both Stephen and I by surprise. “Look at the state you’re in,” he pointed out, not angry nor worried nor reprimanding; simply noting.

My truth became evident.

“I just can’t go on eating animals, knowing well what had to happen for me to have it. I just can’t.” More tears and sobbing. Composure means so little when a tidal wave of feelings and understanding washes over.

I think this conversation needed to happen, not only so that my husband could comprehend the reason for my choices, but also so that I could fully comprehend myself. It wasn’t until I said it to him that it all became so clear: I cannot pretend like I don’t know the things I know. I cannot turn a blind eye and act like I have nothing to do with what happens behind the curtain. I cannot continue to shield myself from the crudeness, the cruelty, the suffering, the devastation, the violations, and the absolute despair that animals go through for the sake of our egotistical gluttony.

Yes, catharsis.

About five years ago, while still living in Mexico, I found a box in which my mother kept school work and projects of ours. In this box was a questionnaire I answered in the fourth grade. Which is your least favorite food?, question which my nine year-old self responded with a vehement Meat. I hate it.

I did hate meat, for many many years. I recall dinnertime being a battle especially when there was steak: It was too thick, too greasy, too hard for me to chew and swallow. I couldn’t find the taste to it if my life depended on it, and mom would sometimes give up in frustration because I would -intentionally- take so damn long to finish eating. On the other hand, I remember a particular day when it was just mom and I eating together, and  I happily took a tiny bushel of broccoli, held it up as something precious, and recited a made-up ode to it. “Oh broccoli, just like a miniature tree…” Mom laughed, and it was by far a more enjoyable meal than it would have been if steak had been served. This is one of my favorite memories I have with mom from my entire childhood. It seems like such a simple one, and yet right now it feels to me of astonishing importance, almost transcendental.

I feel that in these bits and pieces of memories lays the secret of me. For so many years I  turned my back to what I instinctively knew was right for me, ever since my earliest recollections and without anyone having to tell me.

It’s almost like I had to turn that part of me off. I had to ‘get over it’ because of course meat was ‘necessary for proper growth’, and without it ‘you’ll stay short for the rest of your life’. The uniqueness of a child gets consistently trampled under a parent’s desire to choose for them what’s ‘best’, to teach them what’s ‘right’. All done with the greatest love in their hearts of course, but sadly assuming that there is never wisdom in a child’s strong will.

In acknowledging these memories, which I’ve kept to myself for two decades, I feel like pieces of the puzzle slowly come together. It’s like a coming back home of sorts, and I’m welcoming myself with open arms.

Sharing this story isn’t about me choosing to define myself for your labeling pleasures; it isn’t my intention to take one word of description and plant it on my forehead. I remain the same that I’ve always been– now more than ever as I reconnect with my own innate values, which I had shut off and ignored for society’s convenience.

With this new alignment between what I know, what I feel, and what I do, my heart feels peaceful. It is my wish for you that you find your peace, wherever it may be.  You may want to ask your nine year-old self.

Hereon I reject to be blinded by the commodity of selective ignorance, regardless of how uncomfortable the truth may be. I refuse to cloak myself in the superficial contentment of chosen disassociation. Sentient beings have suffered to pay the high price of my insensitivity, ultimately with their lives.

Never again.