As a first post to the Beautiful Day Blog, I’d like to recount my interview with a current member of the granola staff, Gervais. I met him one day at the Amos House kitchen where the granola is made, with the hope of getting to know him a little better. In no time at all, I had his eldest son Jerome on the phone, and had set up a meeting at his family’s home in Providence two days hence. Yikes! With no clue about how to conduct such a sensitive interview about a refugee’s life history, I set out for his house with shaking hands and very little confidence.
Read MoreShe worked with her mom in the family’s successful import-export business, travelling to China to purchase women’s apparel, a 1500-mile round trip, and then crossing back through Burma to sell her wares in India, another 500 miles. To earn enough commission, she made the trip 4 times a year, for three months at a time. Of those travels, she said the most dangerous part was crossing through her neighboring Chin state, where there was fighting between the government and Chin rebels. “The rebels had to fight the government, but it was hard to have a normal life.”
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In 1991, when I first joined a refugee resettlement agency as a case manager, I was assigned to this family. They are Roma people from Romania, commonly referred to as “Gypsies.” In resettlement parlance at the time, they’d come to be referred to as “The Miserables.”
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He has olive skin, jet black hair and speaks the same language as the people who carried out the 9/11 attacks. He is Muslim and his wife wears a scarf that covers all but her face. He is from a country that most Americans view as an enemy and he now lives in the US.
When he was young, he received an advanced degree and looked forward to a successful career. He got married and started a family. And then one day everything started to change. War had broken out across his homeland.
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There were times this year when I wondered if I was a bit nuts. Not exactly opera-in-the-jungle Fitzcarraldo nuts—but as close as I’d been in a while. I was sending my second kid off to private college. At the same time, I was deferring nearly every other paycheck just to keep a non-profit afloat.
I figured if I were nuts, I must be in good company. My board of directors—an amazingly accomplished, committed, fun, and generous group of people—must be nuts too. And the customers buying nearly 100K worth of granola. Not to mention the grass roots support—individual donors like you—who were giving so generously.
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And speaking of temperament… I’m pretty sure I’m unfit to be director of marketing and sales in this season of Black Friday emails. Ugh! I can hardly stand it. When I go through my inbox first thing in the morning, I feel like I’m playing a Walking Dead video game, mowing down advertisements like walkers (or are they wallet-biters). I don’t exactly stab them in the head, but I summarily sweep them off into the trash, knowing full well that they will resurrect themselves in my inbox the next day. (And knowing all the while that some poor soul like me probably spent hours putting them together. I guess empathy has its limits.)
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This recipe is ratio- and technique-based, time tested, bulk tested, and adapted to the home kitchen. It ensures spectacular granola without intruding on your most basic right to express yourself by choosing your own ingredients in your own kitchen. What could be better than that? Even the ratios and techniques can and should be adapted to your preferences and equipment, but this recipe will provide the solid starting place to make judicious decisions.
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For years I’ve wanted to post a granola recipe for fans who appreciate our style of granola but need to accommodate dietary restrictions (or aversions), or feel compelled to experiment with variations, or want the great pleasure of making granola themselves. Or perhaps you just enjoy reading recipes.
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Okay, pantophobia or not, there are at least a few things I’m not afraid of.
Like, Turks, for example.
Let me explain: Earlier this month I visited my father who now lives in Basel, Switzerland. Basel is a beautifully quaint, sophisticated, cosmopolitan place with historic fountains, ancient Roman ruins, and modern pharmaceutical factories. Nearly everybody I met had traveled widely and spoke English. And yet, I kept overhearing the same kinds of worry-mongering that we’re used to hearing in the US about the dangerous lower-income immigrant section of town. Who knew?! Turks. Turks not learning German. Turks not assimilating. Turks keeping their wives under lock and key. (And don't get me wrong--I don't mean this as Swiss-bashing. The Swiss have far more refugees per capita than the US.)
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This summer, on our annual visit to Cedar Point (a rollercoaster park in Ohio), I rode something called The Gatekeeper (you can virtually ride it here) which turned out to be an ideal apparatus to get better acquainted with my growing fear of heights.
I, honestly, don’t get my fear of heights. Back in junior high, I seriously considered making a career out of getting girls to scream at me by standing at the edge of cliffs or ledges. I once solved a lost key problem and impressed my now wife by scaling a 3-story apartment building and going in the skylight. And enthralling as this fear may be, it doesn’t always pre-register in the cognitive part of my brain, which means I could look at The Gatekeeper, and think, goofily, sure why not. It wasn’t until I was locked in and making the 170 foot initial ascent, that both my body and brain registered an entirely different take on the situation.
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Last weekend my wife and I drove our daughter to a camp in up-state new york (Saranac) where she will be volunteering for the month. Dropping her off was a bittersweet parental moment: our daughter growing up… enough for a full month away from home—and in a relatively remote location (with a no cellphone policy! ouch!) We knew she’d be homesick. She might even have a few moments of missing us as much as we miss her. Plus--sadly--this is just the beginning. She starts college this fall.
Read MoreI work with international refugees who have recently settled in Providence. Most don’t speak English. Many are not literate in their own language. None are familiar with the American job system. Most live precariously, struggling to get a foot into the job market. As much as they love Providence, some aren’t sure they will stay.
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The other day, I spoke with Erneste Ntahondereye, one of the pillars of the 200-plus strong Burundian refugee community that has made Providence home. Erneste complained about all the Burundians moving to Amarillo, Texas, to work in the meat-packing factories. He’d gone to visit recently and was appalled. Parents were working, but refugee children were staying home or dropping out of school. There were minimal social services. He thumped his skull. “Their heads,” he said, “empty, empty!”
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I've been meaning to post these lyrics here for a while just because it seems like the right thing to do. And it might put a song in your brain. Maybe someday they'll film a new (and better) video of the song in refugee camps. I included a few of Bono's comments about pain at the end.
Read MoreChagall was an exile and a refugee and he painted from his heart, and his heart was horrified by the forces that were gathering people from their homes and homelands into a massive river of suffering and then expelling them into the unknown. When that happens--at least in this painting--the world turns dark.
Read MoreI send updates about Syria or Sudan or C.A.R. in our Twitter and news feed, but I’m not always sure this is wise or healthy. While I believe that bearing witness can both honor and protest suffering, seeing without responding can also make us callous or nihilistic or afraid or depressed. Reduction to 140 characters (!) sent or read while walking the dog (and intermixed with pictures of what Uncle Joe ate last night) threatens to trivialize. Yet deep compassion without action or interaction can sometimes shake us.
Read MoreOn April 12, we are gathering a group of creative people for a Design Jam. If you live in the Providence area, then you and your friends are invited to join us.
The event will be facilitated by Tino Chow, a designer, strategist (and self-professed trouble maker). Tino is a RISD grad, TED Fellow, and granola fan, and now works for a design firm in New York.
Read MoreI grew up in a war. I also trained as a fiction writer. What both experiences have in common is they nourish an impulse to park the mind in a different place than the body and live with some inner distance or disconnect. With war it’s basic survival. Fiction writers just feel compelled to apprehend or explore or comprehend experience—which leaves some part of their brains observing at a distance. Great for being reflective. Not so great for being in-the-moment.
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One reason I’ve been drawn to building a social venture is because it invites us past the 6:30 news. If you feel concerned about refugees, then you can do something concrete. It might be as small as buying a granola bar, but it’s something that connects you personally. And something positive. I can enjoy eating something made by someone who enjoyed making it, in part because it was a step towards greater belonging in a new community. And the connections come along the way. That’s why farmers’ markets work so well for us. Or home deliveries.
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