Just Say No

I have a weakness for Q-tips. I grew up with my dad cleaning out my ears on a weekly basis, and though I squirmed a bit I loved the satisfying tickle of earwax removal. As I continued to grow up and take on more duties (e.g. brushing my own teeth) I continued to clean my ears with Q-tips on a more and more regular basis. It got to the point where I was on a two Q-tip per shower kick, the little cotton swabs removing little more than residual water. If I didn't clean out my ears after a shower, they would tickle me and annoy me until I was forced to give in. This was until college.

Once I had to start purchasing my own toiletries, Q-tips were among the first things to go... sorta. Every visit home I would splurge and even steal a few to take back with me to college. Once back at school I would ration my small supply out, cutting down to one a week if necessary. But still I was addicted. Also by this point I had heard from several different doctor friends that Q-tips were really a terrible idea. They greatly increased risk of rupturing the ear drum, and hey, the wax is in there for a reason... I toyed with the idea of quitting, but every trip home was too much.

After moving off campus for the last two pre-CO years, I almost quit completely several times - my evils-of-Q-tip awareness helping me, but on two separate occasions (after being clean [well, dirty, really...] for a month or two) two different housemates came home with a huge box and I was lost. Everyone has their vices, right? Well, it just so happens that ever since moving to Colorado I have not touched cotton swab to ear - at least not until tonight.

Living with Colin and Jonathan, we all three are cheapskates and so of course none of us would actually buy Q-tips. (We don't even have any tissues - just a roll of toilet paper cleverly placed in an old Kleenex box.) And so, I was clean for two and a half months and not even missing Q-tips when I left for vacation. And this evening, after a shower in my aunt and uncle's house in PA, I guiltily snooped in the bathroom drawer and found... Q-tips. Not two or three but four of those white, evil death sticks entered my ears, removing all sorts of gunk. But afterwards my ears hurt. And when I took a shower I felt more water than usual left in my ears. Dumb. I think I really will quit now.

Q-tips - like so many other products - seem silly to me. They try to interfere with something natural and are marketed in a way that makes them seem necessary. One should have clean ears, right? Wrong. I posit that wax is good. (I have absolutely no evidence to back that up, and I don't feel like looking now. But this is no peer reviewed article.) It protects your ears, helps keep water out, and helps remove dirt and other foreign debris. Furthermore, if you have to poke a small pointy thing dangerously close to your ear drum (and in all likelihood packing the earwax in in doing so) then it is better left in your ear, where your amazing body thought fit to produce it.

While I'm ranting, here is a list of other products that I think are dumb:

• Chapstick - I was once addicted to this stuff as well. I would slather it on multiple times a day, and the moment I didn't my lips would crack and bleed. One day I got fed up and stopped using it. My lips got chapped, BUT (what some don't realize) they healed themselves in only a day or two. And once they did they were very nice and tender again. I have not used chapstick for some time, and only on the windiest days do I get chapped lips. But when I do they quickly heal.

• Lotion - This stuff annoys me, but I still haven't found a way around this one. My hands get dried out way too easily. One thing I have learned is that if you wash your hands sparingly you need less lotion. (Plus, germs are good for you, right?) Sometimes I kinda wonder if I never showered if my body could produce enough oil for me to never have dry skin, but I would still occasionally wash my hands, and it's my hands that are the problem.
  

• Deodorant - Some time my freshman year of college I heard a rant from an upperclassman about how antiperspirant was terrible for you - how it could give you cancer and all that. He said he no longer used it and urged everyone else to do the same. I was an impressionable first year, so what the hell? I stopped using deodorant. I smell a little worse, but a little good hygiene (i.e. - showering occasionally) is usually sufficient enough for me. I think that the avoidance of nasty chemicals outweighs the "human" smell. Also, for those who throw out the "but what about the ladies" argument, consider this [probably misleading] data: In the 7-8 years or so that I used deodorant, I entered into zero romantic relationships. Since stopping, I've entered into three. You make the trendline. (Speaking of trendlines, xkcd is probably my favorite webcomic, and I particularly like this one...)
  

• Breath mints/gum - In early high school years I was addicted to Orbit chewing gum. I was cheap, so I would break each piece into little pieces to chew separately, but if I didn't chew it regularly my mouth would begin to taste horrible! This lasted some time, but eventually I got over it. Now, though my mouth can get funky occasionally, I've tried to stay clean, and as a result I've learned quite a bit about residual tastes and their causes (e.g. - stay hydrated, don't finish a meal with dairy, coffee breath smells gross, etc.).

I'm sure there are more, but I am quite tired. The longest chunk I have slept in the last 3 or 4 days has been the seven hours I slept in the car today. Woot. But man I love vacation!

An Ode to Generosity

It seems like everywhere I go I am met with generosity and hospitality. Sometimes it comes from people I know well, sometimes from total strangers. And every time I come face to face with it, I am humbled by the thought that maybe we as a species really are inherently good. Now I present to the reader three case studies.

I work for amazing people. Lance and Anna Hanson are not only ambitious and dedicated people (How else could they get a winery such as ours off the ground and selling great wine to diverse markets?) but they are also genuinely generous people. Even before I began working here, I saw evidence of this. I came out to visit Colin last February and since I flew into Denver I was getting rides to various places in Colorado as I could find them, taking buses when necessary. And when I needed to get back to Denver, Lance overheard and said, "Well, I needed to go some time this week to make deliveries. How 'bout you just come along with me?" And so it was that I first got to know Lance during the 5 hour ride to Denver.

I was further impressed once I arrived mid-May to work. During my first week at the winery it seemed as though the official parting line was not "bye," or "see you tomorrow," but rather, "if you need anything, just let us know." And they were/are true to their word! Once in conversation it came up that I needed a desk. Oh, we have a huge old antique mahogany desk that we're not using. Just drive it over in the truck some time. [mouth drops] It could also be mentioned that about half (or more) of the furniture in our house is likewise borrowed from the Hansons. (Not to mention, two out of four eggs in the cheesecake I made a few weeks ago came from their refrigerator. What good neighbors!)

But they are not only materially generous! If we have friends coming to visit, "sure you can take a day off in the middle of the week to go hiking/swimming/climbing with them!" Uh, uh, uh... thanks... And with their time they are equally gracious. The latest update on Guinnevere is that she not only had a fallen-apart exhaust pipe, but then she wouldn't even start so that I could take her to the shop. I couldn't afford a tow truck so Lance donated a morning to - only in rural America - towing my car behind their truck, all the way down the mesa to the nearest garage. (I was in the driver's seat, downshifting the dead car while headed downhill and praying to all sorts of things that I not miss seeing him break...)

Sometimes I am just overwhelmed by the kindness of other people. In another instance, I met with some amazing hospitality from some people I didn't even know. About a week ago, some friends and I went to U-pick sweet cherries from some of the local folks' orchard on our mesa. Colin and I went back again two days later (60 lbs. wasn't enough; we picked another 60 so as to be safe...), and upon weighing out we mentioned the pitting/preserving party we were hosting that night, dependant in part on the one pitter we were borrowing from people in town. Oh, well do you need pitters? asked Jeanie (at that point I still didn't even know her name). I have two that you could certainly borrow. I love to help out young folks like yourselves. (Well that sure is nice of you!)

The pitters were a huge help, and when I returned them I was formerly introduced to Jeanie and Bob when she invited me into their home, made me sample some delicious rhubarb jam they had just bought and the sat me down to be visited with for what turned out to be an hour or so. Wow. Talk about friendly! And when I finally had to leave (the garden did need to be watered) it was only with the invitation to borrow their juicer and the request that I bring my parents over when they came to visit me that I was able to make it out the door. Wow. I LOVE people.

More recently, some acquaintances, or friends of friends..., came to my rescue. In fact, now I sit in their living room, using their internet, beginning to digest the piece of chocolate zucchini cake they offered to me - and I barely even knew them in college (perhaps an understatement. I did live with one friend for a summer and work with her for a short while later on.)!

The story goes that once upon a time I was trying to fly to Chicago, meet my cousin at O'Hare (she was flying from Denver) and then take the train to South Bend where we would then be picked up by another cousin. My flight out of Denver missed a HUGE storm. Hers was not so lucky. After a while of sitting around in O'Hare I received a call from her saying that she would be delayed considerably, perhaps not even arriving in Chicago the same day. Shucks. A few calls later and I was talking to Adrienne - the aforementioned friend, and sister of a another good friend (Yay Goshen connectivity!). Why yes I could come and crash at her and her housemates' apartment mid-week with almost no warning. An hour or so later, and I was sitting up chatting with them, a bottle of wine newly opened. And though I barely new two of three of them, I felt so welcomed and at home.

So, the moral of the story to those who have made it reading this far is this: be generous! And know that it is appreciated! And an important companion point I believe is this: Accept generosity with the same vigor with which you share it. I am becoming more and more convinced of the innate goodness of peoples' hearts, so now it seems to me that we all just need to work to facilitate the exchange of all this goodness!

Dogquet, or How Matthew Dominates Lawn Games

This may be a bit rushed. I should go to bed now, but I like to write, and I don't know if I'll be able to again in a while. Plus, I have a growing list of things I want to write about (Exhibit A: the date the following story occured), so I might as well just keep losing little bits of sleep and sanity in the hopes that occasionally some of you out in cyberworld are amused.

The events of the following account occured on what was a long, hot and sunny day - July 3, 2009. On this day Jonathan, Colin and I put in what I recall was about 10 or 11 hours of work, mixing concrete, moving rocks around and carefully placing them in our growing wall. (We're still not done, by the way. Turns out making huge walls takes some time...) Our mindset by 5pm or so was "must... finish... full... coursssssse." And by 6 Anna came to check on us: "You guys done yet?" Uh... 7pm: "Can I throw some burgers on the grill for you?" Yep... just gotta do a little more clean up. Anna explained to us later - while finally chowing down on delicious burgers while out on the porch in the light of the setting sun - I just couldn't see you guys work so late knowing that you'd have to go home and make dinner yet. [Well shoot, we should work 'til 7 more often!]

We sat and ate and talked. What a great way to spend the beginning of the weekend of the 4th. We all spent time reminiscing, and the three of us former Goshen students took joy in sharing about all the stupid stuff we used to do together. One such memory was of all the crazy variants of croquet we used to play - on campus, off campus, down the dorm halls, super-tiny, super-huge, special ball croquet, points-for-hitting-the-RD's-car, etc... (My personal favorite added rule: if you screw up a shot but then proceed to yell a profanity and throw your mallet in the air AND if your mallet handle sticks in the ground... you get an extra shot. I have yet to see it happen, but lord knows I've tried...) When the time came that the meal could be stretched out no further we discussed further evening plans. Movie? No, let's do something outside. Hey, we have a croquet set. And the rest of the evening was booked.

Never mind that by this point it was quite dark outside. Flashlights and headlamps in hand (and on head) we set up some wickets, crazy style of course. There were five of us - the three of us boys, Anna and Evan (Anna & Lance's son) - so we should have an extra ball. We should play with a "special ball." (Another point of clarification: when one hits a ball through a wicket, he or she may then proceed to hit the special ball once, either attempting to knock his or her own ball further toward their goal or attempting to hinder opponents.) But we're missing the sixth ball. Shucks. Well this game isn't as crazy as some of the stuff we were talking about. We sat thinking, one or two of us absentmindedly tossing a ball up and down. Google (our dog - I should have a post devoted to him some time. He's quite the character. For now, suffice it to say that he likes to play fetch.) looked on and whined with interest. And thus dogquet was born.

"What if we said (the way any good children's game is created) that Google was a hazard? If he touches or moves a ball you have to leave it?" Okay, we all said, not yet dreaming of the implications. Since Google likes to chase anything that moves, it would be inevitable that he would go after a ball sooner or later. But he could be just like a golf hazard... And so we began. And then we realized that Google was not just like a golf hazard. No, one cannot coax a sandtrap. Nor can one distract a pond. But Google on the other hand...

Quickly things got more interesting. Colin spent most of his time convincing Google to carry Jonathan's ball into the vineyard. Anna and I soon took the lead, Evan close behind. Soon I was sent into a thistle patch. Google wasn't interested. And it seemed that more and more attention was spent on Google and shouting conflicting commands at him than on the actual game. We often forgot whose turn it was. It was much more interesting to see who was winning the "Fetch, Google, fetch!" v. "No, over here Google!" contest. Certain strategies were developed. Some favored waiting for someone else to make a shot and saying "fetch" immediately after. Some tried to get Google to fetch rocks and other things to keep their own ball safe. And somehow the game progressed.

To avoid belaboring the absurdity and chaos of the scene, I will just say that Evan completed the course first, became poison and quickly eliminated Jonathan and Anna. Things weren't looking good. There were three contenders left, but Google was not done playing, and so I geared up for the last hurrah. I made it to become poison, but Colin was right behind me. His shot cleared the middle (middle being a relative term with our unusual setup) wicket and he too was poison. "Fetch, Google!" I urged frantically. And bless his little heart, he fetched and brought it right back to me. And that was the end of Colin.

Now for the awkward dual poison ball duel. (My friends and I have played this game enough to analyze such situations. Consensus seems to be to go straight for the opponent but do it hard enough so that if you miss, you are not an easy target yourself. Fortunately Evan was not of this school. Unfortunately, the grass was tall, and I'm not a good shot.) Several passes with no deaths. Google helped me once; perhaps he could do it again. Evan shot and missed. Fetch! And there it was: the perfect, guaranteed shot. I started praising Google before I even made the finishing blow that granted me victory. "Good boy! You're such a good little fetcher! Yes you are! Yes you are!" Kisses were exchanged and Google got to be on my good side for a few days. I even dumpster-dove him a Navajo taco the next day.

Game completed, foes defeated,
(and feeling kinda like I cheated.)

Thoughts on Selflessness (beware: lengthy)

Growing up in my mother's household, I always got my "fair share" when it came to any resource - usually dessert - that was divisible. This privilege came from my mom's notion that everything desireable - especially that which was edible - should and must be shared equally. This was not a first come first serve household. If I found a lone piece of pie, left on the counter it was not necessarily mine. Oh no. Had I already had "my 2 slices?" If the answer was yes then I had better not touch that pie. Such was life, and it was normal for me.

Enter college. I moved away from home and soon discovered that (in more ways then just this one area) other people I met were in fact raised differently than I, and for some people this meant that food, et. al. was fair game - there for the taking. A cookie might be saved for you, but don't count on it. Being relatively assertive, I readily adapted to this lifestyle shift. Heck, in my last house, containing a total of six hungry dudes, the running joke was that any supper leftovers were guaranteed not to exist after midnight (only, it wasn't a joke really...). (The year before, by contrast, I had lived with a group of people that had collectively allowed leftovers to survive until lunch (!) - or breakfast if I decided that lasagne sounded better than toast.) My thinking on sharing equally (specifically regarding food) shifted, even to the point where during visits back home I would almost get annoyed with my mother's demands for "fair shares."

And yet... part of who you are is your upbringing. And I still found from time to time that I would resent people eating more than me - even if I was less hungry! Let's split this last chocolate bar. Okay. ... And then if my partner in crime took bigger bites than me, I would secretly get annoyed. And so the story goes. Now this brief history and description are simply a prologue to my present thoughts. So bear with me as I ramble on.

Selfishness v. selflessness is something I routinely think about. I know that I want to be a totally selfless person, I recognize that I am not at all, and then I guess with my remaining time I try to act in ways that make a noticeable shift from one to the other. This morning, I was eating a bagel [homemade! One of my latest goals is to be an amazing bagel maker. So far only mediocrity...] with cream cheese and jam. The jam was an '08 vintage, handmade with care by myself the following summer ("Rody Blues '08") and I am admittedly running a bit low, not to mention the distinct and unfortunate lack of blueberries out here.

Now personally, I spread jam relatively thinly, using enough to gain the full flavor of the fruit while not being wasteful. A certain unnamed housemate, however, glops it on - we're talking an 1/8th of the jar for one bagel. This always makes me cringe. In fact, I almost hesitate to open a new jar of jam just because I know that he will have it finished before I even use a small fraction of it. ... BUT WHY DO I CARE??? That's what I'm really getting down to. I'm still enjoying my jam, and clearly my housemates are too, so why get my dander up? In fact, shouldn't it feel good to have something I worked hard on give others so much pleasure?

I frequently encounter instances, stories and people that demonstate to me that selfless giving is an amazing act, for both the benefactor and recipient. Danny, the main character of Tortilla Flat, a Steinbeck novel we are collectively reading (one of my favorites), inherits a large house into which he immediately invites quite the crew of riffraff, one by one. He offers without hesitation, and the result is a group of companions that offer any wealth they come by to the good of the house. One man by the name of Eric that I met in Paonia (a nearby town) regularly walks up behind people - in his house or in public - and gives them quick little 5-minute back rubs. Frank, another person I met in Paonia, recently purchased a few beers (and slices of pizza) for myself and about 4 other young folks at the brewery in Paonia after an afternoon of swimming. Why he wouldn't accept any money: "You all do important work and don't get paid enough. I also do important work, but I have plenty, so I choose to treat you." So simple.

Giving - and again, emphasis on giving without any amount of regret or resentment or with any alterior motive - is a good thing. On a recent bus trip from Denver to Grand Junction, I bought a candybar (my high calorie:dollar ratio supper) at a gas station, ate half of it and was saving the rest for later when my aislemate (another future post all to himself!) bluntly asked if he could eat the other half. Sure, I said, and though I was a bit saddened at the time I was grateful for my action later when he said that he hadn't really eaten much in the last 24 hours. I felt good about myself because I had kind of helped someone, but imagine if I could act as I had but with no regret - or if I could directly offer half of my food to someone who looked in need of it with no prompting. (And while we're imagining, let's consider a world where everyone who had, offered...)

This is my goal: I want to get over thinking about how much money I just spent for this or that (and how it's now mine) and be able to let go. I want to share freely without resentment or regret. I want to not be so stuck in my own world of needs and desires that I can't see those of others. I want to enjoy what I have with the company of others, not locked away like a miser. I want to get over a few grams of blueberries, sugar and pectin!

To the reader: I apologize if this is long and/or rambly or incoherent. I've chosen sleep over editing (not that I edit anyway), and I wanted to finish this tonight before a whole slew of events occur to me this weekend (including a wine festival, a visitor and maybe picking/canning cherries??) And finally, I challenge you to ask me for a bite of my sandwich, a dollar, or whatever, and then call me out if I get a little twinkle of resentment in my eye... But for the present time, bed. And we'll see if there's any jam left for breakfast. We'll also see if I can resist the urge to care.

[to be read in an English accent] Chapter 14: In Which Matthew Sells His Soul to a Major Corporation in Exchange for Social Connectivity

[still with the English accent] Now Matthew had been living in Indiana with many of his friends and a fast internet connection speed for some time now. He saw most of the people he needed to talk to on a regular basis, and when he needed to talk to his family he simply used the Skype Out service that he and his housemates had purchased. Life was good for Matthew, and he still had his soul.

One day, Matthew decided to move away from Indiana - far away from many of his friends - and to move to a place where he only knew 2 people. Matthew knew he would love living with these 2 cool people, but he wondered how he would talk to his old friends if he wasn't living around them any more. Matthew also wondered what on earth he would do if his piece of crap car broke down over Vail Pass on the way to his new home. (He didn't think he would get good wireless internet up there to use his Skype account.) Matthew sighed to himself as he realized what he must do.

The next day, still a week before leaving Indiana, Matthew rode his bike down to the nearest Radio Shack and purchased the sturdiest-looking pre-paid cell phone he could find. "This will help me keep in touch with my friends and family and save my butt if my car breaks down," he declared. "Now to pack my mountains of crap into my tiny car!" So he set about packing for the next week or so, and before he knew it he was driving his little car through the fields and over the mountains, on his way to Colorado. But a little piece of his soul had died back in Indiana.

When Matthew arrived, he immediately fell in love with his new home. He was not falling in love with his pre-paid cell phone, however. First of all, he could not figure out how to set up his voicemail account! And then he discovered that because he had set up his phone with an Indiana area code he would be penalized one minute per call taken or sent for "roaming charges" (and Matthew only had 270 minutes!). Furthermore, whenever he wanted to talk to his parents for lots of time at once he had to borrow his friend Colin's phone because Colin got free nights, weekends and Verizon-to-Verizon. Matthew was inconvenienced. "I feel so inconvenienced!" he shouted. "I wish I had never purchased this stupid phone!"

So his sentiments continued to worsen, with Matthew using up more and more of his precious minutes, until one day Matthew's phone began beeping angrily at him during a call. "Beep beep beep!" it shouted into his ear. Matthew was perplexed and a bit put off, but after his call he looked down only to discover that his evil little phone was laughing at him! The nerve! Matthew now had less than ten minutes left with which to call his friends and family. What was he to do?!

Matthew then proceeded to do a lot of grown-up things, such as a Cost Benefit Analysis of Switching to A Monthly Plan, and he finally decided that maybe he should get a different cell phone. "If I were to get a Verizon phone," he mused during his researches, "then I could call my mommy all the time AND anyone I want on weekends and during the evenings." After further Economic Analysis, Matthew ascertained that he would not go bankrupt if he signed up for Verizon. His finger hovered above the "purchase policy" button on his computer screen. [But this is selling out to consumer/cell phone culture.] [You don't even know if you'll use a phone this much!] [What if you travel in another country for the next year and keep having to pay your stupid phone bill because you were cheap and signed up for the stupid 2-year commitment?!] The voices nagged his inner mind. Matthew clicked. Nothing happened. His internets were too slow to handle the request.

Later that day, over lunch at the winery where he worked, Matthew again made the request over the internets. This time Verizon - the huge behemoth of a corporation [evidenced by all the scary people that pop out of nowhere in their ads] - greedily snatched up Matthew's money! An involuntary spasm lurched Matthew's gut. Had he missed something? Was there a catch? He had been aware of agreeing to pay what seemed to him like an exorbitant monthly fee... but had there been something he had overlooked? He scanned back over the fine print in something of a worried frenzy. Yes. There it was, three paragraphs from the bottom: "By creating an electronic signature, client agrees to surrender all of his/her remaining soul to Verizon in exchange for services provided."

Matthew looked down at the table in despair. "At least now I can have friends," he moped, "and talk to my mommy for 'free' too."

But reader, did Matthew make the right decision? Did he gain the insight to see through the schemes of TracFone and the maturity to accept another part of Growing Up? Or did he merely conform to what was easier, foregoing the more difficult though ultimately wiser path, even though it could perhaps cost him more financially? And what of Matthew's soul? Does Verizon indeed now own it, or does the soul transcend mere human financial enterprise? That is to enquire: Whether the decision made was well-advised or misguided, does Matthew's very essence depend on that call of judgement, or can he see himself as a being beyond stupid things like cellular telephones?

I'm Dumb. Part II: Why Capsaicin is My Sworn Enemy

Let it first be stated to the blogosphere, that yes, I did fall off the face of the earth a few weeks back. Life got hectic and blogging got pushed further and further back on the list of things to do. Presently life is getting busier again. We are working on a project that has involved several 10 or 11 hour days, moving large rocks around all day, and free time has largely been spent socializing, so there is very little down time in my life right now. Fortunately for you (if you are reading this of your own volition and perhaps even enjoying it) my growing personal resolve to write (as well as 2 out of 2 parents commenting that they enjoy reading about my life) will hopefully allow me to persevere and write through even the busy times. There are currently about 4 or 5 different things I want to write about, and one of them is even a half-finished post that I started 3 days ago, but tonight I write because of the utter stupidity of some of my actions this evening and the humor that one finds in such actions when looking back on them. Without further ado...


I like spicy food. Often, it gives me hiccups (In describing this unusual side effect to a great number of confused people, I have found no others who exhibit this same reaction save my father. Interesting genetics research project for someone...), but the flavour and heat that hot peppers give certain foods I find irresistible. Unfortunately, I have a bad track record when it comes to actually preparing spicy foods, that is to say coming into direct contact with hot peppers.

You see, it seems that the chemical capsaicin (the hot one that tricks your pain receptors into thinking your skin/mouth/etc. is on fire) that is found in hot peppers -especially the seeds - has a natural affinity for my eyeballs. One should note that peppers and eyeballs are by no means a good combination, and goodness knows it is one that I try to avoid, yet somehow fate seems determined to have a laugh at my expense. Often I am an innocent victim - making chili, forgetting to wash my hands well, and wiping a drop of sweat from near my eye... Other times, I am a bit foolish. I once left a Thai restaurant taking some extra Thai chilis home with me in my pocket, not foreseeing the repercussions. This has been a trend long enough for Jonathan to even joke with me every time he sees me with a hot pepper: "Dude. Don't touch your eyes now." Yep. [1 hour later...] DoH! Call me unlucky, call me stupid, the fact remains that my eyes like to get burned. Nothing, however, had ever come close to what happened to me (or I never previously happened to myself in quite this way) until this evening.

A visitor arrived at about 8pm this evening: Hope from Denver. We had gotten off late from work and were cleaning until then, and Jonathan and I did not begin the preparation of the night's meal - Tom Yum Soup - until 9:30 or so. Tom Yum Soup, a favorite of mine, derives its flavor primarily from the lemongrass and keffir lime leaves that are in it, but for a bit of extra spice hot red chilis are added (only a couple chilis for a fairly large pot). It was my duty to finely chop these and carefully remove all of the seeds before adding them to the soup. Jonathan warned me: "Okay. Now don't touch your eyes." I proudly didn't during the course of our preparations, though the tips of my fingers hurt considerably due to several open sores created by moving and placing rocks and concrete all day with holey work gloves. Apparently when the little baggy, purchased in an Asian market in Denver, read "Hottest Red Chili," it was not lying. As we waited for the vegetables to soften, I began to allow my mind to stray from Jonathan's warning. Not yet having washed the dirt and cement from my body, I decided to take a quick shower.

I use a washcloth when I shower. I hate those little loofah thingies (or at least tell my friends that I do), and yet I like to get dirt off of me. A washcloth is a useful tool, and I use it even more vigorously now than in other seasons because of the inordinate amounts of sunscreen I slather on each day (and I HATE the feel of sunscreen on my skin). I first noticed somethings was amiss only after I had progressed from my head to my neck in my cleansing ritual. A light tickling sensation on my cheeks and ears. Further down, the sensations grew both in magnitude and from tickling to pain, and I began to figure out the cause of my newfound dilemma.

Apparently your entire skin is susceptible to the magic of capsaicin, not just your orifices as I had previously thought. (And apparently light abrasion, say... by a washcloth, aids in this effect.) AHHHHH!!! My face (and, uh, let's just say my whole body...) is burning!!! AHHHHH!!! The hot water did not help. Or if it did help, it helped about as much as salt in cleansing an open wound. My face pulsed red hot. It was like the inescapable sensation of eating a pepper that is too hot for you... only the outside of your body is the inside of your mouth. I had to do something. Think. Well, I know that capsaicin essentially "tricks" your pain receptor into feeling pain, even though there is no bodily harm being done. Unfortunately this relaxing thought was all but. I could at least get out of the shower I suppose. Following the end-of-shower routine, I faced the shower head and wiped the soap out of my eyes. Eyes? $&%@!!!!

No Adventures Today. Just Life As Usual. (Post finished from last Thurs.)

Today was a pretty normal day. I forgot to set my alarm clock after a late night. (At our least social we usually travel to Paonia once a week for ultimate frisbee, and last night we went to get pizza and a beer at Louie's after the game. Conversation was good and it doesn't help the sleep schedule that Paonia is so bloody far away...) I woke up ten minutes before we were supposed to be at work* and munched down a quick experimental bagel (I tried making them for the first time two nights ago, and they were pretty tasty, though a bit dry, too plain and generally not well-formed (dough not wet enough?).) before putting on my nasty work clothes - three days aged by this morning. A quick blob of sunscreen and I was on my way to work.

(Note: I'm finishing a post I started 5 days ago. The following may be somewhat inaccurate and/or hard to follow due to its pieced-together nature.) The morning's work consisted of finishing our first course of field stones that would mark the inaugural work done on the foundations of our future biodynamic storehouse/prepaaration building. This involved mixing lots of mortar in wheelbarrow (We later switched to concrete to defray costs and because we decided that our wall was so friggin' big - 2 feet thick - that it would never fall down, even despite the switch.), hauling huge loads of field stones with the tractor bucket (I love hydraulics!), and carefully laying our stones and mortar into the space that our slipforms allowed. Good times. That first day, we (I at least) made the mistake of not using gloves, yet continuing to smear mortar and concrete around with my bare hands, thereby exposing them to goodness knows what chemicals... and shriveling them up like prunes. (Also, the skin on my forearms and hands all flaked off and fell of over the next two days.) Later I used gloves. All the while we worked, my iPod encouraged us with a great variety of music and news podcasts ranging from James Brown to Led Zeppelin to NPR's Talk of the Nation.


After finishing the first course, we went in to (as usual) raid the bosses' fridge, splurging and sparing not the least hunk of cheese, dollop of sour cream or scoop of ice cream. During the afternoon we needed to find something else to do, as the concrete was still hardening. Colin set about, moving rocks into the soupy mud path that was supposed to be the road between our house and the bosses'. Jonathan and I made the trek to the barn where we put the finishing touches on our second "sheep tractor." Unfortunately, this is not a large, hydraulic weed eater or furrow pulled by a team of sheep, but is rather a portable shelter for some soon-to-be-purchased sheep. Our pilot sheep tractor proved the concept, grazing sheep in between rows of grapes with the aid of a portable electric fence. Work on this was easy...ish. Really, we did little building as the structure - formerly a chicken coop - was already in existence. We just had to add runners: roughhewn 2 by 6's that we awkwardly bolted in the underlying framework. Key word: awkward. Picture a chicken coop, elevated with forks on a hydraulic tractor bucket (that lowered itself slowly onto us at a barely noticeable pace, in a manner that forced us to raise it back up every five minutes), with two guys drilling and saws-alling directly upward, a spray of dust, chicken crap, and angry earwigs flying into our scrunched up (and even protected with ear protectors, safety glasses and ball caps) faces. Yummy.

We finally finished near the end of our work day (usually between 4 and 5 pm), and Jonathan hauled the sheep tractor up to the winery while I checked the internets for a good local muffler shop. Have I mentioned that Guinevere's has fallen off (muffler, that is)? Or rather, the pipe that connects the catalytic converter to the muffler completely rusted through and fell off. Once I was all set to go, I headed up to the winery to help with the final sheep tractor installation process (and steal Jonathan so he could give me a ride back from the muffler shop). We got the job done and prepared to leave, only to find that my car wouldn't start. We tried to jump it with Colin's car, only to find that it still wouldn't start. I cursed my car under my breath... only to find that I was not going to the muffler shop that day. Oh well. I'll check the internets for some self-diagnosis tips for cars that won't start.

The internets weren't working. Cloud cover screwing up satellite internet? Could be. I was grounded here without my car, and I wanted my car to work again, so I packed up my laptop and made the trek back to the winery again, where the internet is better. I checked my email and searched some car repair forums (fora?) and then was completely surprised when Jonathan (who was at home - the one with the broken internets) popped up on gchat. "How did you get the internets to work?!?!" I typed with speed, despite my inability to abbreviate in the style of the internet speak of today. "The router was unplugged," was his reply. Hmmm... Oh well. Colin would soon be back from picking up more Quickcrete from Montrose, and we were all going to sample the aging wine later that evening anyway. I waited around, began this blog post, and twidled my thumbs.

Finally Jonathan and Colin came over, and we - with Lance (bossman)- sampled a sip from all of our currently-aging barrels of wine. (We also sampled the entirety of a bag of Cheetos and most of a bag of tortilla chips, much to the chagrin of Anna (bosswoman), the one who does the house shopping.) This was a very interesting process. We experienced the very distinct difference between the "free run" barrels and the "pressed" barrels - when the giant vats of fermenting grapes are moved to oak aging barrels, the weight of the grapes have already crushed them to the point where a barrel or two of wine can be obtained with no pressing. The result is a frutier, and - to my taste - thinner tasting wine. Beyond this, the press crushes the grapes to extract the remaining wine, and this pressed wine contains more tannins and other compounds found in the grapes' skins and seeds and has a fuller body. It was also interesting to taste the difference in wine from each grape variety, the from grapes of the same variety grown in differnt blocks, and the difference noted simply from barrel to barrel. During all of this, we were also treated to Lance's philosophical pitch for our particular method of winemaking, which is essentially "hands off." We don't innoculate, we don't add commercial yeast, we don't add other chemicals, we simply grow, pick, crush, ferment, age and bottle. And it's good stuff (that is, it works for us). The inner empiricist within me really wants to question and ask why and how, but that's not how Lance works. And I can accept that.

We returned home very late, after a meal graciously shared by Anna and the family. The Hansons are certainly among the most generous of people I have met. At home, I routinely surfed the (now-working) internets before crashing. Off to bed early again. Nothing special had happened. Another day in the life of Matthew the winery handiman...


I really can't end like that, though. All this is to say that my life has changed drastically since moving out here. And every day really is an adventure (even if it does at time contain hours on end of boring routine labor). My only mission for the present time is to enjoy every moment...

*-We try to begin working at 8 AM. We usually don't get over to the fields until 8:15.