Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Organic foods, for most of my life, meant pricier, smaller variants of the same products hidden cleverly in the ass-end of supermarkets. Apples would look ratty, tinier, and a lot less shiny than their genetically modified cousins, plus they’d be furtively tossed into, say, a bucket near the fire escape. Whereas organic cereals may have sat on their own shelf, set slightly to the left of Captain Crunch, organic peanut butter could only be unearthed by knowing exactly what floor tile to pry up that day, and when.

Then came the rise of organic supermarkets, which I handily avoided. But when I gave up manufactured sugars for Lent one year, I had to wean myself off basically everything I ate, and in the process I gravitated toward the natural stuff. The difference was immediate. It was a feel thing, mainly. I was more awake. Felt five to nine IQ points smarter. Could even recall pi to 53 digits, up from my usual high score of two. Gained the ability to list three things sequentially and have one of them be patently false. It was a real eye opener.

These days, I’m more open to organic goods. Still, I’m not completely sold. It’s a tenuous treaty, much like the one I have with nature as a whole. I can appreciate fresh air and sunlight. Theoretically. Too much sunlight, though, and the headaches come and I can do without the stuff for days. Really it’d be best if the sun were activated by clapper, and similarly my alliance with organic alternatives is one of convenience. If a certain item is on sale and within grasping distance, great. Otherwise, I’m reaching for the freakishly large oranges at $0.79/pound.

There’s a bird that’s been pooping on my car without fail for months now. I had the same problem in Chicago, where my car roof was a kind of mecca for birds that ate too much. Maybe one of them followed me here, I don’t know. What I do know is this little fellow cuts straight to the chase. No sitting on branches, high above my car. I suspect it doesn’t even chirp. Just lands on the Saab and lets fly with a song in its heart.

“Well, maybe it’s a Swedish bird,” declared Hap.

Perhaps. It’s also a reminder that, as much as I may regard the great outdoors and its bounty with convenience and occasional disdain, the feeling may very well be mutual. It’s a portrait of my relationship with nature. There’s a kind of parity here. A woodland creature shits on my technology. But then it rains, and all is right again.