I've been thinking about food waste, and now here's Tamara's Monday newsletter to really gin up my thinking. I was raised to clean my plate. No regard for whether I was already full, no regard for whether I liked the dish--I had to clean my plate. When I was about 14, my mother made a dessert of pound cake and chocolate sauce. I loved chocolate so I poured a hefty slug of sauce on top of the cake. It was beautiful, the rich, dark color soaking into the yellowish cake. I took a big forkful. And gagged. The chocolate in the sauce was from Droste's, very dark and very bitter. I was used to Hershey bars, so this didn't say "chocolate" to me at all. I could not, for the life of me, force it down. The meal over, the rest of my family--three other children and my parents--left the table. I wasn't allowed to. I hadn't cleaned my plate. I don't know how long I sat there staring at my plate and wondering how I'd ever finish. Gathering my resolve, I took a forkful, held my breath, chewed, and swallowed. And promptly vomited. That sauce tasted so bad to me that I threw up after the second mouthful of it. I tried to clean up, but left some vomit behind on the table, for which Mom chastised me the next day. Today, my relationship with food is a hot mess of a battle between not wanting to waste food and learning to listen to my body. But one thing is very clear, and food waste concerns be damned: I will NOT--not now, not ever, NEVER again--eat Droste's chocolate.
Mar 27, 2023·edited Mar 29, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
I run down the hall at school, late for the class I'm teaching, no time for anything except hellos and hand-waves in passing. Like the White Rabbit, I mutter, "I'm late, I'm late! For a very important date!" I'd like to think this was an isolated event, but unfortunately that was my normal. The number one word in our household during those work-kids years was "hurry." Why? I was raised in New England and inculcated with the horror of material waste. Use it up, wear it out, make do, or do without. The horror of waste also included time. Add that to the Puritan work ethic and a high value on productivity, and who have you got? Someone who doesn't waste time on pleasantries. But after my children left home and my husband and I retired to the mountains, I wondered if any of my racing around had mattered. Had I wasted my life? Or was I using a flawed measuring stick? A slower pace can be amazingly productive. Waiting, thinking, listening patiently for someone to tell you their joys and sorrows, abiding in silence. I discovered what the world might see as waste can be a wonder.
She’s so much prettier than me. Are my thighs too big? Everyone else has a boyfriend, what’s wrong with me? I think I should have majored in something more practical. I want a baby so badly, will I ever find a partner? Or will I have to do it alone? Can I possibly support children on my own? My oldest is so shy; will she ever make friends? My youngest has so many tics, will they ever go away? Should I apply for that job I don’t want? I could really use the money. My children are so anxious and unhappy; is it my fault? I feel so old and frumpy. Will I ever be in shape again? I’ve gained 20 pounds since menopause; will anyone ever find me attractive again? Should I be taking Ozempic?
Will I regret every decision I’ve ever made?
Women are wasting their lives worrying, me among them.
For many years, I was the queen of haste and waste--why measure at all was my mantra, cut haphazardly as many times as necessary, my modus operandi, and crying out with dire frustration, cursing all I assumed was arbitrary and unfair -an oft repeated refrain -when things didn't turn out. My life was so clouded, for so long, by anxiety and living in a state of chronic chaos and haste that wasted time, energy, emotion, and money. Now, moving through the world more slowly, more measured, and more mindfully has resulted in an economy of thought, of movement, actions, words, and behavior that amplifies the opportunity to really take in, engage with, and notice people, places, and things.
One of the things I’ve really been absorbing is how incredibly invisible labour has been made to soothe our consumption and consumerism. Hospitality, healthcare, education, retail, public works employees... the list goes on. We buy, we tire, we discard. All these labour actions that go to that product, make the disposal easy. What if we recognized the labour? Really knew it? Understood the human and Earth response to our consumption? My feeling is , when we REALLY know something or someone, appreciate it beyond, and deeper than gratitude (I don’t think gratitude is authentic until appreciation) , we would not only be aware of its lasting and impactful discard, but we would never harm what we know and appreciate. I have become more and more aware of labour, of the need to keep most invisible, and what that asks of me in my treatment of systems of being- why is it hard to have that visible? The question I try to ask myself is not how I am experiencing the earth and all her inhabitants, but how are they experiencing me?
The pace determines the waste. In more ways than one. The level of toxins, the kinetic energy, the mental drive. I only wanted to complete the race, unconcerned with the competitive side of things. A finisher medal from the Ronda 101km, a foot race organized by the Spanish Foreign Legion, was accomplishment enough, place be damned. The key was not to waste too much energy in the first 70 kilometers. A delicate balance of pacing and nutrition requiring discipline and concentration. I tried to follow the plan, didn’t, and paid a price. The lactic acid laid waste to every muscle in my body, but I kept going. Willpower propelled me across the final 31km of the course as I shuffled over the finish line into the waiting arms of my love. I made it! Fifteen hours and forty-five minutes in motion capped off by the moonlit Ronda gorge, a favorite view of Rainer Rilke, Ernest Hemingway, and Orson Welles.
After my ‘experiences,’ I spent a long time trying to make sense of what happened. I trawled every moment, every decision, trying to find that one crucial mistake that could be blamed for all the awful things that went on. I grieved for everything I lost or missed out on in those years: my favourite records left in an attic in Lewisham; my childhood teddy bear thrown in a skip in Valencia; my most-loved dress, a designer sample, given away in Madrid. All discarded without my consent. Returning home, I was so impatient to make up for lost time. My 30s when I should have been progressing my career, getting a mortgage, having kids, helping my sister with the boys… were gone. Nostalgia saturated my thoughts. If only I’d not smoked so much weed in the ‘90s. If only I’d taken the leap and bought that little flat overlooking Well Common. If only I’d asked for help sooner. For whatever reason, the fact is, I didn’t do those things. Were they wasted opportunities? I like to think they were choices I made that contributed to bringing me to the place I am now: The place where I belong.
I have two putty colored file cabinets. The tall one holds papers. The short one, legal sized, has extra household items like those IKEA cotton kitchen towels. They each take up a lot of room, but luckily just in two hall closets. Still, I want to get rid of them, because they’re as annoying as they are useful. They remind me of how annoying I am, clinging to paper, always disgusted by how digital and phone reliant things are now. Plus I want my hall closets emptier. I like having less stuff, so I have to get rid of the papers to get rid of the file cabinets.
Tired of shredding, I soaked a pile of papers in water for a few days. This morning I tore, scratched at, crumbled, whatever else needed doing to remove identifiers that didn’t get washed out, and brought two paper bags of mushed paper downstairs. So annoying. So tiring. My head is still heavy trying to figure out a better way, which I know is just shredding the papers to make room for more, but less.
"Ground control to Major Tom" - The astronaut Major Tom from David Bowie's song Space Oddity floats lost through space, with no connection to earth. For many years, this figure has been representative of my life. So I float from planet to planet, docking, losing the connection or the connection is too weak. Many stars shine so beautifully, but they seem to be far away in another galaxy. And I float dreaming again - READY TO PAIR.
And this is where the term waste comes into play. For, by driving to work every morning and feeling like I'm on the wrong planet, I keep wondering if it's all just a big waste of time. The solution seems obvious, I need to leave the galaxy behind and enter a new one. It is a long way that requires courage. But I float purposefully to the galaxy, hoping for a soon docking - CONNECTED.
I just saw a notice about printmaking and open artists’ studios in Pontiac, Michigan. “Wow,” I thought, “how wonderful to see an idea I pioneered some 30 years ago finally come to pass.” It had been one of the most ambitious projects of my career.
I was Dean of Cranbrook Academy of Art and once again was searching for a large studio space that could accommodate me and another artist. In Pontiac, I discovered a ghost town created by the construction of a highway to bypass it, and a building could be purchased very reasonably. The town government was enthusiastic and receptive to my idea, granting a 10-year moratorium on taxes for the purchase of buildings for cultural projects.
I presented my idea to an enthusiastic fiber artist and colleague. We bought a building and renovated it, trying to engage others to join us. After several years, we still had no takers, and I moved on. In the intervening years, the idea has gained traction. Pontiac has become the community of artists and art related activity we envisioned. Looking back, I thought my efforts had been wasted. I’m happy to be proven wrong.
Over the years, the dining room became a repository for free gifts from the casinos: cutlery, glassware, a toaster oven, knife sharpener, hair dryer, branded towels…
She used to mention hopefully that I could use them when I finally moved back to the city. When that didn’t happen, she invited me to take something with me at least. Eventually she stopped asking.
The casino visits continued drawing her back with cheap bus rides, hotel rooms and variety shows, all-you-can-eat buffets, more free gifts, and a community of friendly multicultural strangers all trying their luck at the slots. Even if you leave a small fortune behind, at least you have some steak knives as consolation.
When I ask why she doesn’t get rid of the stuff so she can have her dining room back again, she says it would be such a waste to simply throw it away. But if something is never used, what is its worth? Is it so hard to part with all these things – neatly stacked on the table and against the walls in their original packaging – because of what they represent: the promise that consumption leads to happiness?
I've been thinking about food waste, and now here's Tamara's Monday newsletter to really gin up my thinking. I was raised to clean my plate. No regard for whether I was already full, no regard for whether I liked the dish--I had to clean my plate. When I was about 14, my mother made a dessert of pound cake and chocolate sauce. I loved chocolate so I poured a hefty slug of sauce on top of the cake. It was beautiful, the rich, dark color soaking into the yellowish cake. I took a big forkful. And gagged. The chocolate in the sauce was from Droste's, very dark and very bitter. I was used to Hershey bars, so this didn't say "chocolate" to me at all. I could not, for the life of me, force it down. The meal over, the rest of my family--three other children and my parents--left the table. I wasn't allowed to. I hadn't cleaned my plate. I don't know how long I sat there staring at my plate and wondering how I'd ever finish. Gathering my resolve, I took a forkful, held my breath, chewed, and swallowed. And promptly vomited. That sauce tasted so bad to me that I threw up after the second mouthful of it. I tried to clean up, but left some vomit behind on the table, for which Mom chastised me the next day. Today, my relationship with food is a hot mess of a battle between not wanting to waste food and learning to listen to my body. But one thing is very clear, and food waste concerns be damned: I will NOT--not now, not ever, NEVER again--eat Droste's chocolate.
I run down the hall at school, late for the class I'm teaching, no time for anything except hellos and hand-waves in passing. Like the White Rabbit, I mutter, "I'm late, I'm late! For a very important date!" I'd like to think this was an isolated event, but unfortunately that was my normal. The number one word in our household during those work-kids years was "hurry." Why? I was raised in New England and inculcated with the horror of material waste. Use it up, wear it out, make do, or do without. The horror of waste also included time. Add that to the Puritan work ethic and a high value on productivity, and who have you got? Someone who doesn't waste time on pleasantries. But after my children left home and my husband and I retired to the mountains, I wondered if any of my racing around had mattered. Had I wasted my life? Or was I using a flawed measuring stick? A slower pace can be amazingly productive. Waiting, thinking, listening patiently for someone to tell you their joys and sorrows, abiding in silence. I discovered what the world might see as waste can be a wonder.
She’s so much prettier than me. Are my thighs too big? Everyone else has a boyfriend, what’s wrong with me? I think I should have majored in something more practical. I want a baby so badly, will I ever find a partner? Or will I have to do it alone? Can I possibly support children on my own? My oldest is so shy; will she ever make friends? My youngest has so many tics, will they ever go away? Should I apply for that job I don’t want? I could really use the money. My children are so anxious and unhappy; is it my fault? I feel so old and frumpy. Will I ever be in shape again? I’ve gained 20 pounds since menopause; will anyone ever find me attractive again? Should I be taking Ozempic?
Will I regret every decision I’ve ever made?
Women are wasting their lives worrying, me among them.
For many years, I was the queen of haste and waste--why measure at all was my mantra, cut haphazardly as many times as necessary, my modus operandi, and crying out with dire frustration, cursing all I assumed was arbitrary and unfair -an oft repeated refrain -when things didn't turn out. My life was so clouded, for so long, by anxiety and living in a state of chronic chaos and haste that wasted time, energy, emotion, and money. Now, moving through the world more slowly, more measured, and more mindfully has resulted in an economy of thought, of movement, actions, words, and behavior that amplifies the opportunity to really take in, engage with, and notice people, places, and things.
One of the things I’ve really been absorbing is how incredibly invisible labour has been made to soothe our consumption and consumerism. Hospitality, healthcare, education, retail, public works employees... the list goes on. We buy, we tire, we discard. All these labour actions that go to that product, make the disposal easy. What if we recognized the labour? Really knew it? Understood the human and Earth response to our consumption? My feeling is , when we REALLY know something or someone, appreciate it beyond, and deeper than gratitude (I don’t think gratitude is authentic until appreciation) , we would not only be aware of its lasting and impactful discard, but we would never harm what we know and appreciate. I have become more and more aware of labour, of the need to keep most invisible, and what that asks of me in my treatment of systems of being- why is it hard to have that visible? The question I try to ask myself is not how I am experiencing the earth and all her inhabitants, but how are they experiencing me?
The pace determines the waste. In more ways than one. The level of toxins, the kinetic energy, the mental drive. I only wanted to complete the race, unconcerned with the competitive side of things. A finisher medal from the Ronda 101km, a foot race organized by the Spanish Foreign Legion, was accomplishment enough, place be damned. The key was not to waste too much energy in the first 70 kilometers. A delicate balance of pacing and nutrition requiring discipline and concentration. I tried to follow the plan, didn’t, and paid a price. The lactic acid laid waste to every muscle in my body, but I kept going. Willpower propelled me across the final 31km of the course as I shuffled over the finish line into the waiting arms of my love. I made it! Fifteen hours and forty-five minutes in motion capped off by the moonlit Ronda gorge, a favorite view of Rainer Rilke, Ernest Hemingway, and Orson Welles.
After my ‘experiences,’ I spent a long time trying to make sense of what happened. I trawled every moment, every decision, trying to find that one crucial mistake that could be blamed for all the awful things that went on. I grieved for everything I lost or missed out on in those years: my favourite records left in an attic in Lewisham; my childhood teddy bear thrown in a skip in Valencia; my most-loved dress, a designer sample, given away in Madrid. All discarded without my consent. Returning home, I was so impatient to make up for lost time. My 30s when I should have been progressing my career, getting a mortgage, having kids, helping my sister with the boys… were gone. Nostalgia saturated my thoughts. If only I’d not smoked so much weed in the ‘90s. If only I’d taken the leap and bought that little flat overlooking Well Common. If only I’d asked for help sooner. For whatever reason, the fact is, I didn’t do those things. Were they wasted opportunities? I like to think they were choices I made that contributed to bringing me to the place I am now: The place where I belong.
I have two putty colored file cabinets. The tall one holds papers. The short one, legal sized, has extra household items like those IKEA cotton kitchen towels. They each take up a lot of room, but luckily just in two hall closets. Still, I want to get rid of them, because they’re as annoying as they are useful. They remind me of how annoying I am, clinging to paper, always disgusted by how digital and phone reliant things are now. Plus I want my hall closets emptier. I like having less stuff, so I have to get rid of the papers to get rid of the file cabinets.
Tired of shredding, I soaked a pile of papers in water for a few days. This morning I tore, scratched at, crumbled, whatever else needed doing to remove identifiers that didn’t get washed out, and brought two paper bags of mushed paper downstairs. So annoying. So tiring. My head is still heavy trying to figure out a better way, which I know is just shredding the papers to make room for more, but less.
"Ground control to Major Tom" - The astronaut Major Tom from David Bowie's song Space Oddity floats lost through space, with no connection to earth. For many years, this figure has been representative of my life. So I float from planet to planet, docking, losing the connection or the connection is too weak. Many stars shine so beautifully, but they seem to be far away in another galaxy. And I float dreaming again - READY TO PAIR.
And this is where the term waste comes into play. For, by driving to work every morning and feeling like I'm on the wrong planet, I keep wondering if it's all just a big waste of time. The solution seems obvious, I need to leave the galaxy behind and enter a new one. It is a long way that requires courage. But I float purposefully to the galaxy, hoping for a soon docking - CONNECTED.
I just saw a notice about printmaking and open artists’ studios in Pontiac, Michigan. “Wow,” I thought, “how wonderful to see an idea I pioneered some 30 years ago finally come to pass.” It had been one of the most ambitious projects of my career.
I was Dean of Cranbrook Academy of Art and once again was searching for a large studio space that could accommodate me and another artist. In Pontiac, I discovered a ghost town created by the construction of a highway to bypass it, and a building could be purchased very reasonably. The town government was enthusiastic and receptive to my idea, granting a 10-year moratorium on taxes for the purchase of buildings for cultural projects.
I presented my idea to an enthusiastic fiber artist and colleague. We bought a building and renovated it, trying to engage others to join us. After several years, we still had no takers, and I moved on. In the intervening years, the idea has gained traction. Pontiac has become the community of artists and art related activity we envisioned. Looking back, I thought my efforts had been wasted. I’m happy to be proven wrong.
Over the years, the dining room became a repository for free gifts from the casinos: cutlery, glassware, a toaster oven, knife sharpener, hair dryer, branded towels…
She used to mention hopefully that I could use them when I finally moved back to the city. When that didn’t happen, she invited me to take something with me at least. Eventually she stopped asking.
The casino visits continued drawing her back with cheap bus rides, hotel rooms and variety shows, all-you-can-eat buffets, more free gifts, and a community of friendly multicultural strangers all trying their luck at the slots. Even if you leave a small fortune behind, at least you have some steak knives as consolation.
When I ask why she doesn’t get rid of the stuff so she can have her dining room back again, she says it would be such a waste to simply throw it away. But if something is never used, what is its worth? Is it so hard to part with all these things – neatly stacked on the table and against the walls in their original packaging – because of what they represent: the promise that consumption leads to happiness?