It
has been a little lively on Twenty First Street this June—one neighbor had
THREE issues requiring police intervention this month and the police were out,
investigating our neighbors, for several hours last Sunday. Add the usual
people wandering around as students leave, poking through the trash (something
I also engage in!), and its’ just been a little weird. My friend who studies astrology assures me
that the planets are shifting, however, and things are going to calm down by
the end of the month. We are all glad.
Despite
the constant flux of short-term residents, Twenty First Street is a
neighborhood. We watch out for one another, quietly, in a live and let live
manner. We exchange gossip and tidbits of local information and the occasional
knitting pattern. We roll our eyes collectively at the fraternity on the
corner, who went through a phase of thinking everyone wanted to hear them all
the time, every day. (They learned—we don’t.) Food moves up and down the street—eggs
and plums, breads and cookies, tomato plants. We know each other’s pets; a few
days ago, a ten year old boy showed up at my door. “Do you have a bunny?” he
asked. I do. “Well, it’s in the neighbor’s back yard.” He told me. He was
right. Bunzilla had escaped, once again. I herded her back. His cousin feeds and waters the animals when
we are gone for a few days. We live
here; Mark and I moved in 18 years ago, and most long term residents were
already here. Although a few have left (several died) we are a stubborn lot. We
stay. We like it here.
I
call our house a “homestead” because of what it evokes—a combination of moving
into a challenging place and transforming it from barren to prolific, and the
idea of a self-sustaining piece of land. I know enough American history to know
that a self-sustaining farm is and always has been a myth, although it is one
we, as a culture, love to embrace. But the dream of transforming a piece of
land---we have done that. The back yard was a sea of false dandelions when we
moved in. Now it produces much of our fruits and vegetables during the growing
season and functions as the center of a complex network of community
connections. Goods, ideas, and information flow in and out of our home every
day. We are deeply rooted in this community and on this street.
And
this rootedness seems to me to be an essential component in our struggle
against Climate Change. We all need to claim our homes, to value our spaces,
even if they are not perfect, to take a stand and say—no, you are not going to
destroy this street, this town, this planet. Greed knows no boundaries— we need to
recognize that the motivation which tears down affordable homes to throw up
expensive student housing, destroying neighborhoods is the same motivation that
is tearing off mountain tops in West Virginia, pushing for oil trains through the
Pacific Northwest, and lobbying against any sort of carbon tax in Congress. Greed
is greed. Extraction of resources is extraction of resources. It is all connected.
We can fight this—and we need to start by protecting our own homes, streets,
and communities.
Think
globally—but act locally.
Humus: The perfect summertime spread
Cook a couple of cups of garbanzo
beans. I usually through three or four cups of Sunbow’s beans into the crockpot
and let them cook all day. What I don’t use for humus will find their way into
soups or pastas in the next few days. They need to be really soft!
Throw the garbanzos into the food
processor along with three pealed cloves of garlic, about a quarter cup of
olive oil, half a cup of tahini, some salt, cayenne pepper, juice from one or
two lemons, and some parsley, if you have it. Process. Add some bean cooking
water if you need it. Taste, adjust, and store in pint canning jars in the fridge.
Humus and flat bread, along with some garden salad, make an excellent summer
dinner.
No comments:
Post a Comment