For those unawares, each year a different Chicago advertising agency gets behind Off The Street Club, creating marketing, fund raising materials, and doing whatever it can to further the club’s most worthwhile agenda. This was Euro RSCG’s year.

Last week I told you about our opening salvo on behalf of the club, a website, offthestreetclub.org we built in conjunction with eatdrink.com. It’s pretty sweet. If you haven’t done so already have a look. By the way, the logo we created is featured above. Our theme: Get a kid off the street and on to so much more.

And Friday, September 25th that’s exactly what we’re going to do! Our agency will be at Pioneer Court in front of the Tribune Tower on Michigan Avenue hosting a barnburner of a fundraising event. We had dozens of life-size cardboard cutouts made of some of the 400 children at OTSC. They will be set up on a makeshift street representing the hardscrabble west side of Chicago. We’re going to beseech pedestrians to literally remove a child from the street and bring him or her to safety, after which the good citizen can make a donation.

Between the website and events like this, our fantasy is to raise $1 million dollars ten bucks at a time. While that’s not likely going to happen, to paraphrase Leo Burnett: “we won’t come up with a handful of mud either.”

To that end, for anyone who donates $100 dollars or more I’ll happily provide a signed copy of my novel, The Happy Soul Industry.. If he or she doesn’t want that, I’ll give ‘em a hug!

Either way, come on out and help us get kids off the street and on to so much more.

Follow steff on Twitter

At 9:40pm, Jimmy is folding laundry and playing dj. It’s Prince: “I Would Die 4 U,” “Raspberry Beret,” and “When Doves Cry.” Eli is out. I am putting away my sorted clothes, and Lydia and Grace are hanging out with us. As usual, the children introduce conversational threads out of nowhere.

Lydia:  When we go to New York, can we go to Magnolia Bakery?

Jane:  Why?

Lydia: Because they mention it in “Lazy Sunday,” and Andy Samberg loves their cupcakes.

Jane: Lydia, it’s only a cupcake.

Lydia: Mom, life is short –

Grace: — in a long way.

*

—–

Cupcakes image is from B Tal’s photostream on Flickr. I worked with B Tal, that is, Brian Talbot, at Simmons College, and I once had the opportunity to have one of his peanut butter and jelly cupcakes. They were so great I had to get the recipe, and I have made them for the kids, who have dubbed these THE BEST CUPCAKES EVER. (Who cares about Magnolia?) You can make them, too, by following the recipe that appears under the photo on his Flickr page. Two tips from me — use only 1/3 or so cup of milk in the frosting recipe, and either make a double batch of the cupcakes or a half batch of the frosting, because the frosting recipe, as is, makes too much for the 12 cupcakes indicated. And refrigerate them: like a lot of cake and frosting combos, they are delicious cold.

]]> http://leafstitchword.wordpress.com/2009/08/12/words-that-cannot-be-said/ Wed, 12 Aug 2009 11:26:53 +0000 jelizabeth http://leafstitchword.wordpress.com/2009/08/12/words-that-cannot-be-said/

When I was a child, there were words forbidden in our household.

The following were the big three. Really, these are the words I recall my mother itemizing, after she announced: “There are three words I don’t want to hear.”

I am about to write them, which is a kind of saying.

Stupid

Hate

Kill

My parents had five children. While that made for a lot of fun, it made for friction, too. The forbidden words were ones that are most often useful in situations involving conflict. Say my sister Sally and I were playing the card game Spit. I’m older, but she was faster. In the heat of the game, when I suspected she was on the verge of winning, it would have been normal for me to growl at her and bark, “You’re so stupid and I hate you. I’m gonna kill you!”

But, I didn’t, because the words were forbidden. And just now, typing them? I felt very uncomfortable and even queasy. Those are not my words.

In the house I grew up in, we sat down together every night and ate a meal that my mother, usually, prepared. (Once in a while my father cooked.) It must have been hard to create a menu that all seven of us would find pleasing, day after day. I remember liking almost everything, or at least being willing to eat almost everything put in front of me. Still, my brothers and sisters and I each had our own personal limit. Me? Creamed corn. My brother Michael? Deviled ham sandwiches. (Sally, Emily, Brian: What were your dislikes?) Nevertheless, we could not say, “I hate creamed corn.” Instead, my mother recommended we phrase our distaste this way: “I don’t care for creamed corn.” Wordy, indeed, yet tactful.

My parents also preferred real words for objects, and not slang, especially when it came to the body and its processes. Growing up, I felt very comfortable saying breast, bosom, penis, buttocks, urethra, vagina, bowel movement, and so on. We called it — whatever “it” was in conversation — by its name. It was okay to use the generic “crotch,” however, to refer generally to a genderless genital area, as in, “I fell off my bike and hurt my crotch! Ow!”

One night when I was a junior in high school, my (new) boyfriend was standing with me and my parents in our kitchen. We were going out, and he had chivalrously come in to fetch me. In the background of our polite small talk with the parents, I could hear my brothers bickering. Finally, one yelled at the other: “You scrotal sac!” Instantly, an image of a scrotum presented itself to my imagination; it hung in the air, I thought, over the heads of me, my boyfriend, my parents. We chatted for a few more minutes, in a way to cover our mutual embarrassment, or so I thought. Later, in the car, I mumbled an apology for my brothers’ uncouthness. The object of my affection turned to me quizzically. After much stumbling we realized that he was more familiar with the term “ball bag” than he was “scrotal sac,” as offspring from most normal families were.

Years earlier, I had been instantly punished once for saying the phrase “Barbie Doll boobs” to my friend Linda and, regrettably, in front of my mother. “Boobs” is another one of those words that, in my childhood home, were not allowed to be spoken. Maybe that’s a good thing. As a young adult, and through my adulthood, I have always called them “breasts” and never a crass synonym. I’ve carried this over to my parenting, too, instructing my children to call parts of the body by their actual names, and when they say “boob” (what is it about that word that it is used so often, so much more so than dick, for example?), I reply, “It’s a breast.”

When Grace, my daughter who is now 9 years old, was only 5 or so, she explained to me that au contraire there’s a distinction: “Breasts are small and boobs are big.” Touché, little girl.

Because I was raised and religiously instructed as a Roman Catholic, there are many other  forbidden words. My parents, for the most part, let the Church handle those rules. Still, even at home we were not allowed to “take thy Lord’s name in vain.”

Dear Father, I confess: For a long time — maybe my entire adult life — I have been getting occasional and great pleasure from hollering “Jesus Christ!” when surprised unpleasantly, like when I’m slicing a tomato and run the serrated knife over my knuckle.

And also, like many people I know who grew up with the knowledge of words like “fuck,” “shit,” and “asshole” as a kind of temptation, I give in — less wantonly than I did when I was younger — to the allure of saying what we must not.

Another confession: I do not censor my children’s inclination to use the occasional curse word. In fact, I have tried to teach them when expletives are and are not appropriate as strong language. In front of the grandparents and teachers? Tone it down. After you stub your toe, hard, on a table or chair leg? Give it the best you’ve got. You’ll feel better.

However, I do have some language standards. It’s a scrotum, not a ball bag, and a breast, not a boob. And, please, no “hate” or “kill,” and you can probably find a more descriptive word than “stupid.”

——

Image, “Excerpt from Everything Men Know About Women,” by dailyinvention on Flickr. License via Creative Commons.

This must be one of the most delicious books ever. As usual I was reading it on my evening commute, and boy did it make me hungry. The book isn’t particularly well written, but those things would look just as delicious in a People’s Daily editorial.

There are a few obvious omissions of famous gourmet materials, as the author mentions, e.g. olive oil and foie gras. His criteria for inclusion is more about exclusiveness: there’s only one place in the world that can possibly produce it.

This post is simply a note. The story of each one can easily fill a book.

Aceta Balsamic Tradizionale di Modena
Material: Trebbiano, lambrusco grape Environment: Wood barrels in attic Production time: >= 12 years. > 25: Extra Vecchio Production volume: 20,000 100ml bottles Brand: Acetaia Malpighi, Acetaia del Cristol Cooking and gourmet companion: Roast vegetable, Parmesan cheese, strawberry Comparable: Aceta Balsamic Tradizionale di Reggio-Emilia	(brochure)
Huître Bélon de Bretagne
Material: Ostrea Edulis Environment: Brittany seashore, then Bélon river head Production time: 18 months in the sea, 2 months in river Production volume: 1000 tons Cooking and gourmet companion: Chablis white wine	(image)
Poulet de Bresse
Material: 2kg (sans feathers and intestines) Environment: Grassland, 5000m2/500 chicken, fed with corn and milk Production time: 5 weeks in house, 9 weeks on grass, 2 weeks in epinette Production volume: 1 million Brand: Chapon de Bresse (osten) > 3kg; Poularde de Bresse (fat hen) Cooking and gourmet companion: roast
Fleur de sel de Guérande
Material: sea water Environment: 1000 acre, 7820 oeillet Production time: 2 large tides/month; 5 days to oeillet Production volume: 10,000 tons of salt; 200-400 tons of fleur Brand: Le Guérandais Cooking and gourmet companion: as condiment Comparable: Ile de Noirmoutier, Ile de Ré, Ria Formosa, Camargue
Jamón Ibérico de Jabugo
Material: Iberia pig (pata negra, “black-foot”) 150-180kg, leg 10kg Environment: Dehesa (acorn wood), 1 hectare/pig Production time: 18 months live, Salt 1day/kg, Dry 3 months/kg, Cellar 6-18 months Brand: Grade: Bellota > recebo > cebo/campo/pienso. Region: Huelva, Guijuelo, Extremadura, Pedroches Cooking and gourmet companion: Fino/manzanilla sherry, La Rioja red wine Comparable: Prosciutto de Parma, Prosciutto de San Daniele, Jamón Serrano de Trevélez	(image)
Parmigiano-Reggiano
Material: 16l milk makes 1kg Environment: Production time: 1-1.5 years: fresco, 1.4-2: vecchio (best), 2-3: stravecchio Production volume: 300,000 cubes Brand: Cooking and gourmet companion: Comparable: Grana Padano, Lodiagiano, Trentino
Roquefort
Material: Lacaune sheep, 5kg milk makes 1kg, Penicillium roqueforti Environment: Causse, Fleurine Production time: 4-9 months Production volume: Brand: Société des Caves, Papillon (black is best), Cabriel Coulet Cooking and gourmet companion: Sauternes, Pecan, grape Comparable: Bleu d’Auvergne, Blue des Causses, Gorgonzola, Cabrales
Tartufo bianco di Alba; Truffe noire du Perigord
Material: truffle Environment: Loose gravel ground, acorn wood Production time: 1 year Production volume: white 2000kg, black 30,000 kg Brand: Cooking and gourmet companion: Demi-deuil, Risotto Comparable: Champignon Terfez, Tuber aestivum

I sit in a restaurant with two colleagues, a female one from my current job and a male one from a job I had 14 years ago. In my immediate view is what looks like an artichoke heart, but paler green. I hold it up to my mouth; I eat. I register “sweet, like fruit,” but my dream mouth doesn’t taste. Still, I sense that this is a discovery: a new fruit. It’s called a kahare, and I know this because I see the word on the menu in my dream. Kahare. Exotic — not from here — and delicious.

Waiting on my plate is something else, the color of black raspberry ice cream and the shape of a long, round-edged bar of soap and as smooth. It is intact; there are no bite marks.

I turn to talk to my companions. He has a ginger colored beard and the same color hair, but dark eyebrows. She has long dark wavy hair. The restaurant has dark wood tables, rustic like in a fish restaurant, and white pottery plates. Water glasses. Cutlery. A lot of people are around us, but I don’t hear sound in dreams. There are windows everywhere puncturing the bare plywood walls — it’s as though the restaurant has just been built and has become popular even before finished. I cannot see out the windows from where we sit. They are hazy squares of light.

When I turn back to my plate, it is gone! The waiter took it away because, he says when he returns, all that remained were the sides. “The sides! I wanted those!” I say, although my voice does not make any sound. He gets me something else because now the restaurant is out of the artichoke-like fruit and the purple and smooth other thing. What he gets me are green beans and french fries. They are not what I want.

I go from table to table, to see if I might eat off another patron’s plate. I sit down at a table of women, all about 10 years younger than me, with babies, nursing them, and in my dream I have this thought: That’s not my life anymore. I get up and continue the search. No fruit-like artichoke hearts! No beautiful purple thingie, although someone at a table tells me soundlessly, “That’s a gourd that’s a fruit.” A gourd that’s a fruit. I never get to taste it.

Finally, I walk over to an open window — it’s hard to get there, wending my way around tables, waiters, corners — and put my elbows on the sill and lean out into fresh air. Everywhere I look, there is water, like a calm sea stretching out to the horizon. The restaurant is an island. We are not on an island; we are an island. Everywhere I look, water.

*

*

—-

Thoughts: I have been reading The Fruit Hunters by Adam Leith Gollner and dipping into lots of other books on crop biology and plant breeding, as a haphazard beginning to my biographical research project on Elizabeth White and the cultivated blueberry. Although I do not normally recall my dreams, I do this one, vividly. I’ll take it as a sign that my unconscious is as committed to my inquiry I am. There may be many ways to interpret the imagery in this dream. Yes, I am interested.

That my dream invented a fruit and named it? Well, that excites me.

—-

Image, “Climb this rope to paradise,” by lepiaf.geo at Flickr. License via Creative Commons. The color of the shells, especially the ones in the background, are exactly the color of the gourd/fruit in my dream.

i saw something about this the other day when i was at Earthfare in Briar Creek. and since i am a new advocate for local, home grown, healthier food, which just happens to be cheaper also since farmers don’t have to pay for organic certification and don’t have to jack up the prices, i thought this movie might be “good”. i am using that term pretty specifically. right now, i can only see that movie being “good” as long as it:

1. DOES focus on and teach people about the benefits (on health and local economy, especially) of buying locally.
2. DOES NOT focus on the negatives about the fast food industry and its procedures to produce food in unhealthy, fast, and cheap ways.

i can’t really tell from the trailer so i guess i will just have to go see it.

Food, Inc. is playing at the Colony Theater in Raleigh.

i found this in a past issue of Shape magazine’s “This Month’s Goal” section.

Eat to Beat Belly Fat
What you put on your plate could determine how easily you lose pounds.

Eat More…

Melon
- 50 calories a slice
- Honeydew and cantaloupe are high in potassium which helps regulate sodium levels and beat bloat.

Wine
- “Drinking a small amount of alcohol witha  meal may speed up calorie burn,” says Jerry Greenfield, M.D., Ph.D.

Whole-Grain Bread
- Dieters who ate at least 5 servings of whole grains while following a low-calorie diet lost 24% more ab fat than those who averaged the same number of calories but at refined grains. (Penn State)

Grapefruit
- People who consume less Vitamin C tend to have larger waistlines than those who consume more.
- Grapefruit can also curb insulin spikes that lead to fat storage.

Walnuts
- Omega-3 fatty acids lower levels of stress hormones that can contribute to fat storage.

Eat less…

Sugar Substitutes
- Can make your stomach swell

Canned Soup
- Too much sodium! Opt for low-sodium soups.

Partially Hydrogenated Oil
- Eating a diet high in trans fats may actually cause fat in the body to redistribute itself to the belly (study done by Wake Forest University)
- “Trans fat-free” foods can contain up to 0.5 grams still so check the packages.

as i was “cooking” my Lean Cusine dinner of rigatoni with roasted chicken and broccoli and a cup of mandarin oranges, i decided i was going to still be hungry after i ate all that. i remembered that i had popcorn in the pantry and decided to give in to that temptation and make some as my dessert. (exciting life, i know.) however, as the popcorn was popping, i read the label on the popcorn* box and was pleasantly surprised. here is what i found per serving, which is about half a bag, popped:

Calories : 90

Fat : 0 g

Cholesterol : 0 mg

Sodium : 180 mg

not that it provides any nutritional value as other things could, it is still tasty and super addictive. nice to have when you’re unwinding from a long day.

*popcorn used was Target Market Pantry brand Microwave Popcorn made with 94% Fat-Free Butter

i roundaboutly saw this and have to post it on here. they look fabulous and such a great concept! mini filled cupcakes… um, what could be better??

Baked by Melissa

after being on a 5 day hiatus from my Google Reader, i spent some time combing through some 150+ new posts and starring along the way. a few posts weren’t worth starring but had some noteworthy info in them. i am collecting them here because i cannot keep the tabs open on my work computer for long (part OCD, part pointless because i can’t look at them at the moment and don’t want to accidentally click them closed). here you go…

from the everlovely IndieNC : classes!!

Couch Surfing.com — no explaination needed!

kudos to the creator of this blog… how simple, yet i didn’t think of it.

Raleigh Specials blog

the coolest and most random kitchen tool ever —

the Cherry Chomper.

I heard this today, as I stood in the check-out line at my local grocery store. It’s a revision of a well-known saying, and another customer was sharing it with another clerk.

When you complain, you complain alone.
When you laugh, everyone laughs with you.

That seems good to remember.

And what was I buying at the grocery store? I’ll tell you, and I’ll also tell you that I noticed, as my 14 or so items were picked up one by one and scanned, that none were essentials.

• 3 liters of Polar seltzer (for Grace’s 3rd grade party)
• 2 half-gallons of Minutemaid lemonade (ditto)
• 1 box of Cheez-It Party Mix (afternoon snack)
• 1 jar of roasted sunflower seeds (the protein to go with the Cheez-Its)
• 1 sandwich roll (okay, I need that for my lunch — I’m home today)
• 1 single-serving sized bag of potato chips (ditto)
• 1 hosta (to fill in a blank spot in a shady patch)
• 2 six packs of those mini soda cans: Diet Pepsi and Diet A & W (because)
• 1 bag of ice cubes (for Grace’s 3rd grade party)

Not only do we live in an age of complaint, we (still) live in an age of excess. I mean, none of those things are items I need. And yet I bought them, and will again.

On Saturday night in Berkeley, after trying (without reservations) to eat at Chez Panisse (the upstairs, less expensive café part), Betsy and I walked along the block for a while before deciding on Café Gratitude, a raw food vegan restaurant that practices sacred commerce.

Our young server, Natalie, with her bangs and long black braid, bright eyes blackly lined, and pink glossed lips, gave us a tour of the menu and recited a bit of Gratitude’s history. Before she left us to ponder food choices, she asked us the question of the day: “What are you letting go?” Natalie opened her hands, palms up.

Betsy replied with her own question: “Do you want us to answer you… ?”

I interjected, “—or just think about it?”

Natalie seemed to take a step away. “Whatever you want,” she said and continued to smile. “I’ll be back.” As she walked off, I noticed she wore cool black boots with her black clothes.

All the servers wore black.  The tables and chairs were hewn wood, and the place was generally unfancy, yet still had a deliberate look to it. We liked it somehow.

I liked the question, too, and it seemed to me suddenly one I had been waiting for someone to ask me. Natalie was gone. I turned to Betsy. “So… I think I might have an answer already. It’s something I’ve been working out, in some of our conversations.” Betsy and I had been hanging out together, with lots of time on walks or in the car, for two days.

Betsy: “Yeah?”

I replied, “One word. Prestige.”

This – honestly, vainly – is an aspect of my job at MIT that I have been anticipating missing, and it’s irreplaceable. I’ve been pre-mourning the loss of this idea: Am I not more important, the more important the institution I work for? That’s the logic. It’s surface, though, isn’t it?

There are other parts of my job I’ll miss, of course, especially the handful of colleague/friends I’ve made there and the almost daily access I have to them. Sure, I’ll keep in touch with them, but I won’t be with them, won’t work with them.

I’ll miss the campus. I’ll miss my desk.

But this aspect of the job – the prestige factor – well, that has been gnawing at me more than I wish it would. I don’t want to be that person, the one who measures herself against status. After all, I’m the person fond of saying, “Students are students wherever you go,” and it’s true. At the next college I teach at (and I’m optimistic that I’ll be teaching in September, and not empty-handed when it comes to employment), there will be young people, and they will present themselves with an assortment of skills, experiences, personalities, and urgencies, and I’ll offer them, I hope, an opportunity to learn: from each other, and from me. And I’ll like them. Wherever I’ve been so far, I’ve liked the students there, different though the populations at Wheelock, Simmons, and Mount Ida Colleges and MIT might be.

With all that I believe and enjoy about teaching, I’ve got to relinquish this  concern with perceived status. And I’m starting to.

Why the picture of the helium balloon? This act of letting go – of articulating, of releasing – reminds me of a school-wide activity we performed when I was in first grade. On a day in May, all the children went out into the asphalt playground of the Center School in Leicester, Massachusetts, where I grew up. We each were given a balloon, filled with helium and attached to a string tether. In our hands, we already held little manila tags, on which we had written (in the classroom) a message, along with our own name and school address. We took our tags, each punched with a hole, and tied them to our balloon’s string. Then we stood, on the hard playground in the sunshine under a blue clear sky, and we quietly waited en masse.  A teacher, or maybe the principal, whistled the signal we had been cautioned to wait for. And then, all together, we opened wide our little hands that clutched the strings and let the balloons go, go, go. They rose in an uneven cloud; they separated; they scattered in the sky and almost disappeared. We stood there with our heads tipped back, trying to follow the trails of the balloons, until our teachers shepherded us back inside. We got settled at our desks, and we daydreamed or chattered about our hope that our balloon would be found somewhere downdrift by a stranger, someone who would see a deflated balloon on the ground, be curious enough to poke it with a toe or lean over to pick it up, and find the tag that asked the finder to write a note to the child who released the balloon and let her know where it was found.

I wonder if letting go and generating hope are inextricably twined.

And I wonder, too, what are you letting go? You can let me know, or you can just think about it. Whatever you want.

—-

Thanks to Incurable Hippie on Flickr for use of the balloon image.

Normally I try to have a reason why I am writing on my blog, but tonight I do not seem to have one. Oh well, I’ll just let the creative juices flow and make some lemonade. (Ha, geddit? Lemonade? I crack myself up.)

I don’t feel like being outlandish anymore. I’m too tired in the morning to bother with my usual crazy and quirky mismatching outfits. Every day it’s just jeans, a tee shirt, and my main pair of Chucks. My blue ones haven’t been touched in months, my old black ones are sleeping peacefully somewhere, my brown and pink ones have only certain outfits that they match with, and my new camouflage ones have only been on my feet once or twice since I got them for Christmas. Is there such thing as being depressed by lack of new clothing articles? I think I may be experiencing something of this sort. I need something new to wear, pronto! (Even though there are several items in my closet that still have pricetags on them…) Maybe tomorrow I’ll dig out my “hooker” boots that haven’t been in use since, oh, February-ish. I can see the snow falling from where I am sitting now. We have made it to the month of April safe and sound – doesn’t Mother Nature owe us all a break? (Though I must thank Her for this last chance *knocks on wood* to use my lovely boots.)

I want graduation to get here. At the beginning of the year I couldn’t bear the thought of my friends leaving me behind, but now I’m at the point where I want to shove some of them out the window and yell “GOOD RIDDANCE!” I’m sick of their stupid drama and recent bout of Senioritis that engulfed them all. Just let me be in peace in the hell where I must spend two more years of my life. Years filled with unnecessary mathematical equations that I will need only to pass the stupid NYS Regents tests that we are forced to take every January and June. Next year comes the test that I have mixed feelings about: English. It doesn’t matter if you have talent when it comes to writing, if you forget a literary element (Zeus forbid) and you fail to match up to the criteria set before you, you’re practically screwed. Being forced into a piece of wood by a giant hammer is not my idea of a good time.

Everyday it’s the same routine. Get up at 6:50ish-7:00ish, “Oh crap! I have to take a shower!” Hurriedly strip thyself, wash thyself, dry thyself, clothe thyself, eat/drink feed thyself, and get thyself out the door before the clock can strike 7:23. At least I have a very organized list set in my head before I do anything. If I did not possess this skill, I would be doomed to fail. I don’t have time to bother with the outfits I used to sport all the time. I grab my stuff, make sure Pandora is in my pocket, and get in the car before mom starts honking the horn. I need something new. I need something different. I need something exciting to happen that will spice things up, but only for a little while so they can go back to normal again. I don’t like change, but temporary change would be okay. Watch, now I’ll wake up in the morning and find that I’ve switched bodies with my brother overnight. I don’t know what I want. Definitely not a dramatic change, Zeus, but a little spice would be nice.

This half-pound bag of Blue Bottle Coffee is a begat.

According to my father-in-law Ed, who knows a bit of Yiddish, many things that are bought may fit into the category he calls “begat.” And even though “begat” begins its life as a verb — beget, which means to sire or cause to exist — here it’s used, in its past tense, as a noun. Most simply put, a begat is a purchase that begets another purchase. Like, the new couch that begets the purchase of a new area rug. (Indeed, according to Ed, a new couch is the classic begat.)

Sometimes, we make purchases so innocently: “Oh, all I need is a chair for this corner, and then the room will be complete.” A day after the chair arrives, we find ourselves pacing the aisles of Home Goods, looking for a few pillows that will “tie in” the new chair to the old furniture. The new pillows, in turn, may function as a begat and lead to a new lump of pottery on the table. Which could make us rethink the floor lamp in the corner. The new lamp is an opportunity to try the innovative, energy-saving compact fluorescent light bulbs. Why not buy a dozen? And so on and on and on.

Back to the meager bag of coffee. I bought it in San Francisco, as I stood in line with Steve at one of Blue Bottle’s stands. He and Marcia had been telling me for days: This is the thing, if you like coffee. So, finally, on the last day of my visit, we went. Steve had already told me that Blue Bottle was not just a coffee; it was a method. Nay, it was a way. I was fully prepared, and eager.

We ordered. I stood near the register and waited to pay. I looked at the display of brown bags plump with beans. As I held out my cash, I said to the guy, “If I buy some of these beans, can you grind them for me?”

He held out his hand, took the twenty, and coolly returned my gaze. In so many words, he explained that they didn’t grind for customers: “You really have to grind this at home, if you want the full freshness.”

Hmm. I only hesitated a moment. “Well, I don’t have a grinder — I brought it to work years ago and it disappeared — but I’ll buy one.” Really, on the spot I decided to buy a grinder when I got home.

The 8 ounces of Blue Bottle’s Bella Donovan was about $8 in San Francisco. Three days ago, back in Boston, I did buy a new coffee grinder; it was $30 on sale. And while I was in the small appliances section, I looked at coffee makers, too. After all, mine is old, on its seventh life, and almost uncleanable. Yes, I did. New coffee maker: $80 on sale. Next? Cups.

That is the story of a begat.