“What are you giving up for Lent?” I asked Mom last weekend. She looked at me from her seat on the couch across the room and said, “Chocolate?” We both laughed because our DNA makes this nearly impossible. My grandparents kept a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer, a stash of Hershey kisses in the cut crystal candy dish on the bar, and at least one package of generic brand Oreos in the pantry. No, neither one of us would be giving up chocolate for Lent.
“Wine?” Again…belly laughs as I reached for Mom’s empty glass on the way to the kitchen. We were half-way through a bottle of Fess Parker dry riesling (from our whirlwind tour of Los Olivos in January) with a bottle of Wilson Creek almond champagne speed-chilling in the freezer. No, wine was not an option, either.
At this point, you are probably mumbling to yourself something about sacrifice and pain and how we were completely missing the point. But that idea had already occurred to us, almost at the same time as I was refilling our glasses. We felt some guilt about being lazy, stubborn Christians until I read this article about doing something for Lent that had some lasting consequences for someone other than myself. Sure, if we gave up chocolate and wine for Lent, we would probably lose a few pounds and Neal would welcome the extra savings on the grocery bill, but that really only directly affects me. What about doing something that has an identifiable ripple effect? Whether I observe it actually rippling or not is unimportant. What about giving up plastic for 40 days?
As it turns out, giving up all plastic is hella hard in 2019. I went to the grocery store today. I handed over my reusable grocery bags (with images of iconic L.A. landmarks splashed across the sides because they came in a pack of 4 at Costco) and began to unload my cart. Two bags of broccoli slaw…bagged in plastic (because who actually wants to shred cabbage? Not this girl.). Plastic tub of low-fat strawberry yogurt. (Not my fault – that is part of Neal’s breakfast ritual.) Ground turkey and lean beef, both in plastic packaging. (How the hell does one get around that? Just fill this mason jar with that ground chuck, please, butcher. Thanks.) Powdered peanut butter. (Totally my fault but I’m going to blame it on Weight Watchers.) OH! Asparagus, cucumbers, and lemons in reusable net fruit bags. WIN!!! Next to a plastic bottle of Aunt Jemima and a half-gallon of milk, also in plastic. (Glass bottles of milk here cost roughly the same as both of my foot surgeries. And that’s with the bottle return discount.)
So, giving up plastic completely is not only a sacrifice, it’s basically impossible. Until we move back to Amish country, where we can buy a 1/4 of a cow and pack it home in a Coleman, plastic is just part of life. I can be more aware of how much I buy (a person probably shouldn’t be eating that much powdered peanut butter anyway) and I can recycle or reuse when I can.
I was stumped about my Lenten sacrifice as I hauled my bags into the house. I set them on the kitchen table and began to unpack. I shuffled around tubs of sour cream and leftovers from 2 weeks ago, trying to make space for the milk and Neal’s yogurt. I accidentally tipped over a jar of Trader Joe’s Carrot Cake Spread, which, I suddenly remembered, I bought right after Thanksgiving to have for the holidays.
I pulled out leftovers from more than 2 weeks ago, a mostly empty jug of applesauce, a mostly empty jar of salsa, moldy sour cream, and an unopened container of slimy arugula. Looking at it all piled up on the counter, I thought, waste not, want not. But also…starving kids in Africa. They would love to have had those penne noodles that I refused to eat before squeezing into a formal gown last weekend. They would have been thrilled to eat the butternut squash that I cubed, but never got around to roasting or the lemons that I let rot in the darkest corner of the second shelf. There are very few things that bring me shame. One is when my child calls the newest kid in our neighborhood a dumbass. And this is the other.
So, for the next 40 days, I vow to have no food waste, other than scraps like strawberry tops, seeds from a bell pepper, and apple cores. We will eat what we cook, we will cook what we have. I will not buy 2 more red onions without first checking to see if there are any in the bin. I will use the 6 red onions now in the bin. I will not buy something like unsweetened almond milk, try it, deem it disgusting and unworthy of future consumption, and let it spoil over the next 3 months. I will fry that stupid package of turkey bacon that mocks me every time I open the fridge.
I will accept any suggestions for preparing turkey bacon that doesn’t result in it tasting like wet cardboard.
It isn’t the same as giving up all plastic, but it’s infinitely more feasible…at this point in my life, anyway. And I think it will ripple, I just wonder how. At the height of the most recent government shut-down, my freighbor (friendneighbor because not all your neighbors are friends and not all your friends are neighbors), who also happens to be a Coast Guard wife, was scrambling to cook dinner with groceries she had on hand. Except…within the first few days she began to realize that there were a lot of cans pushed to the back of the pantry and frozen meat stashed in the bottom of the freezer. They didn’t dine like kings, but they certainly didn’t go hungry. How much food do we have that was bought for a specific recipe, but never used? Or used, but only a tablespoon? I’m looking at you, capers…impersonating rabbit pellets in a vinegar brine. Ironic that Jesus fasted for 40 days and we are going to eat all the things, but it’s easier than bringing home chicken breast in a mason jar. There’s always next year for that.