New is hard. Is it better?

As we continue to settle in to our new home in Oakland, I can’t help looking at every other meadow and wondering if it might be greener.

I thought a lot about this on my drive home tonight -- and about how change tends to break open pieces of life that we had taken for granted, even the parts that weren’t meant to change. Even harder than change, really, is that side effect -- of having what we had taken to be the reality of our lives shown, in a new light, as something quite different.

There were a lot of pastures to look at as I rode through the East Bay towns of Fremont, Newark, Union City. In the morning, it’s easy to look at these suburbs wholesale as places of endless potential. When the sun is coming up and the streets are empty except for the hundreds of cars in commute mode, there’s a blank canvas over each house, corner store and park on which you can paint all manner of happy stories.

At night, however, more people are out and about -- and I have more time and brain space to observe them. It’s clearer then that there are still neighborhoods with poverty, with hard knocks, with people just trying to make ends meet -- even close to large, gated communities. Some cars are old, dented, missing pieces and parts. Some homes have messy yards, falling-down fences. 

In short, there’s a range -- just like there is in Oakland. 

At first, as always, the temptation is to harken back to San Francisco and to muse that things are so different there. But it’s not true. San Francisco is an incredibly beautiful city, but it’s still got its struggles. Over time, living there -- right or wrong -- I took in those things that were uncomfortable and grew accustomed to them: the trash that always seemed to gather on a sidewalk where I ran, the graffiti that often appeared on the street just outside our apartment, the heartache at seeing the homeless camped in doorways at night.

Is San Francisco a greener pasture than Oakland? Is homeownership a greener pasture than renting? Is not commuting a better life than commuting? Is it better to keep what you have or to strive for more?

I was probably spurred on in my brooding tonight by an NPR interview with Meg Wolitzer, who was discussing her book “The Interestings,” a novel that begins at a summer camp and follows the characters as they grow older. In the interview, “Fresh Air” host Terry Gross asked Wolitzer if she sees “adult selves as being finalized with no chance for reinvention?”

Part of Wolitzer’s answer hit home:

I think that it's harder and harder to change in all kinds of ways as we get older, at least it is for me. Comfort and familiarity become so important in your life, I think, and the idea of really reinventing yourself, I mean - but I think - is tough.

Change is hard. New is hard. I think I’m still a young woman, but I do love comfort and familiarity, as much as I hate to admit it.

Bits and pieces of my “new” are becoming comfortable, like the window next to my spot on the couch, with its view right into a big, old rhododendron bush. At night, the light from my lamp shines just so into the leaves and blossoms, and I feel at home. But much of living here is still new, with routines and habits still to be worked out.

Is the pasture green here? Is it greener than before?

Ask me again when it’s a little more familiar.

Adventures in Gardening, Decision No. 1: No More Kale

Vivek and I inherited an incredible vegetable garden when we bought our house. And when I say garden, what I really mean is gardens -- four raised planter boxes, plus some assorted 'volunteer' veggies (think zucchini and purple potatoes) sprinkled in other planters and beds throughout the yard.

I'm super excited about, if overwhelmed by, these gardens. My mom's always had a garden, and I've long wanted to try my hand at veggies. You might have seen my overly enthusiastic posts earlier this year about my third attempt (a charm!) at an indoor herb garden at our San Francisco apartment.

Sage, cilantro, California poppies and two types of basil bask in an afternoon glow just after being planted.

(Pssst: The sage and basils and are still going strong!)

So our huge outdoor garden is something of a thrill -- particularly the tomatoes, sage, chilies and still-unearthed potatoes it came with. We started using the tomatoes right away (especially after December's frost bit the vines and we had to pluck all of the fruit), and we've been giving out lemons from our yard's tree like it's going outta style.

The one thing I haven't known what do with is the kale.

So. Much. Kale. In multiple varieties. In fact, I learned just this morning that what my mother and I had diagnosed (via video chat) as an ornamental 'lettuce' is actually Kamome red kale, a bitter-tasting form of the leafy green. Super! In addition, we seem to have Lacinato and red Russian kale -- and, if I'm not mistaken, premier kale (see this helpful page for more details).

The thing is: We don't really eat kale. I'm not opposed to it, and for such a nutritionally dense food, it's honestly pretty tasty. But it's just not part of my daily intake -- and I've certainly never seen it in an Indian cookbook.

Last week, however, on our flight back from the East Coast, I found this delicious-looking recipe last week in the Real Simple I was reading. Kale strata, you say? With sausage and fontina? In. I now had a use for kale.

This week, I hunted down the non-garden ingredients for the strata (even sending Vivek to get fontina with our regular groceries yesterday), and I ventured out into the backyard this morning to get the kale. It's freshest when just picked, right?

I'd completely forgotten, though, that I've been underestimating the number of aphids on those curly kale leaves. Since we took ownership of the house, we've focused (naturally, right?) on getting the inside of the home settled, favoring being able to find, say, a toothbrush or the 1/2-cup measuring cup over getting the weeds and bugs out of the front and back yards. So the pests, both plant and animal alike, have made themselves plentiful.

OK -- no biggie, right? Feeling optimistic, I still snipped a handful of kale leaves, dunked them into a bowl of salted water, weighted them down with a dish, and went off to church to pray while my aphids, I hoped, were floating to the top of the water.

No dice. I came back to some aphids floating, to be sure, but still clumps of them all over most of the leaves. And attempts to rub them off proved insufficient at best. Have you seen the underside of a kale leaf? It's like a labyrinth of caves specifically designed as aphid hiding places -- or, if you prefer, little aphid villas. No wonder they love the stuff!

A young -- and remarkably clean -- kale leaf from our garden. Check out those curls! Check out those caves!

I'll spare you a photo of the worst leaves -- but suffice that say that, unless some miracle cure reveals itself, most of our kale crop appears unusable.

To save today's brunch, I took the few leaves I could clean off, mixed them with some baby spinach and created kale-spinach strata (ta-da!). I'm sure it will be equally delicious, if not quite as nutritious.  As for moving forward: I'm sad to say it, but I'm pretty sure these kale plants have got to go. (Do you want to clean the leaves?) In their place, I'll be planting spinach -- a leafy green I do buy by the pound, and apparently a veggie less interesting to aphids.

In my opinion, everyone wins. At least in my kitchen.