The Grateful Dead and Parsnips

When Joe and I had a friend over for dinner the other night, we divided the duties—Joe was the D.J., and I was the chef.

A song came on with harmonies that sounded remarkably like the band Crosby, Stills & Nash, but when I asked who it was, Joe said, “The Grateful Dead.”

I was stopped dead in my tracks. No way could the folksy song on the stereo be the product of the Grateful Dead. They were a hippie band who played some kind of skreetchy electric guitar brand of hard rock. I had never actually heard them, of course, but with the word “dead” in their name and a skull in their logo, I knew their music would not be for me.

Apparently, I was wrong.

For dinner, we had smoked haddock, rice, and roasted parsnips.

While living in Belfast, Joe and I have received a weekly delivery of vegetables from a local farm called Helen's Bay Organic. The delivery includes the usual suspects like potatoes, carrots, and onions, but the farmer also surprises me with vegetables that I have never seen before or cooked. For example, one time I received a massive round root that was only slightly smaller than a volleyball and required both hands to lift. It turned out to be a giant turnip. Before that day, if you had asked me if I knew what a turnip was, I'd have answered with confidence, “Of course!” After all, I've know the word “turnip” since I was a kid. But had you laid out a turnip, a parsnip, and a rutabaga side-by-side and asked me to identify them, I probably would have failed the test.

After fighting to cut through the huge root, I managed to bake half of it into “scalloped turnip” and sauté the rest in butter. I was pleasantly surprised to see the white flesh turn orange when cooked, but the flavor wasn't nearly as appealing to me as the color.

Parsnips, on the other hand, have been a decidedly delightful discovery. Just as I had assumed I wouldn't like the Grateful Dead's music, for some reason, I expected parsnips to be bitter and yucky, but they’re not! It turns out they are sweet and delicious, especially tossed in olive oil, salt-and-pepper, and baked to a crisp.

Why didn't anyone ever tell me how wonderful parsnips are? Why isn't the entire world dreaming about parsnips, cultivating them in every spare inch of dirt, and writing songs to celebrate them?

I will be a pioneer and lead the way with this tribute:

To a Parsnip
Oh, white root,
Often overlooked,
Misunderstood, indeed,
Feel not sad, but splendid,
For you are sweet, no weed.

Okay, perhaps my poem won’t win any awards, but at least the poor parsnip has received some proper praise.

With the entire world so full of crises—war in Libya, earthquakes, tsunamis, nuclear meltdowns in Japan—a part of me feels shallow writing about such frivolous things as the Grateful Dead and parsnips. What does it really matter that I discovered an old band or a new vegetable? Certainly, there must be more interesting and meaningful subjects to explore.

But when I look at it another way, what I'm really writing about is prejudice, which seems like a more serious and worthy topic. It reminds me of something a friend of mine says—live without expectations and assumptions. I see the wisdom: if I didn't have any expectations, I would never be disappointed, and if I didn't make assumptions, I would be open to a world of new ideas and experiences and would not be in error so often.

The trouble for me is that I'm full of both; expectations and assumptions are like a second skin. They are so much a part of me that I don't even notice them. If Joe hadn't played that song or Helen's Bay hadn't delivered parsnips to my door, it wouldn't have crossed my mind to try either one.

Of course, my life would have gone on quite happily without them, but discovering the Grateful Dead and parsnips brought me truly joyful moments. And I think in the face of all the global gloom, a dash of joy is just what a doctor would order.

But if challenging my expectations and assumptions = new discoveries = more joy, then I'm in a tricky position. How can I challenge what I don't see? How do I make myself aware of my expectations and assumptions?

Maybe it's as simple as paying attention. When I find myself saying, “No, I don't like...” (as in “I don't like the Grateful Dead”) or if my internal “Ick-o-meter” goes off (as in “Ick, I don't like parsnips”) then I should go on red alert (a nod to Star Trek). But instead of red alert, I'm going to call it PEA, for Prejudice-Expectation-Assumption alert.

PEA alert! PEA alert! PEA alert! It even sounds funny and makes me smile. Perfect!

If my PEA alert is successful, then I'm sure to discover many happy things like more good music and yummy vegetables. In the meantime, I think I’ll listen to the song Uncle John's Band by the Grateful Dead and eat sweet roasted parsnips.

Xavier: A Thief

Over this New Year’s, I met Xavier, a modern-day bank robber. That description conjures images of a masked man with a gun yelling, “Hand over your money!” But the reality is far more mundane—he simply takes out loans under a false name and then never pays them back.

We met at a loud and smoky New Year’s Eve party. It was a private affair in a small apartment on the outskirts of Paris, but there was nothing particularly Parisian about it. The small one-bedroom flat was packed with people drinking champagne and yelling to be heard over the music. It could easily have been a party in Singapore, Sydney, or Seattle, except that everyone was speaking French.

Michael Jackson was blaring over the speakers and I was about to take his advice and “Beat It” when I said, “Bonne Année” to a tall, good-looking man. He replied in a French accent, “Ah, are you Americaine?”

We launched into the usual topics—What city was I from (Seattle)? Had he been to the U.S. (Yes, New York and Miami)? And, of course, what did we each do for a living?

“That is complicated,” he said. I thought he was going to say he was a consultant of some kind, but instead, he paused and admitted, “I steal from banks.”

Now there’s something I don’t hear everyday! I asked for details and he told me the story of his first bank heist with the grins and chuckles of someone recounting a particularly clever practical joke.

“I applied for a loan and the stupid bank gave me €100,000. They did not even ask for collateral!” He used big Italian-like gestures as punctuation. “It is their own fault. The idiots!”

He explained that it used to be very easy to take out large loans, but the economic crisis has hit the defrauding-banks industry hard. His plunder has dwindled to €50–€70k per year, although he’s not complaining, “It is still better than a job.”

I asked him how he does it and received a short tutorial on bank fraud. He told me about the black market for fake I.D.s, how to break into mail boxes as part of establishing a false address, and how to prove a non-existent income.

He talked about bank robbing as if it were perfectly normal. In fact, he not only didn’t see anything wrong with what he was doing, he acted as if it was a civic responsibility.

“Don’t you feel bad about stealing or worry about getting caught?” I asked.

“No! No! No! It is NOT stealing,” his hands flew in big circles. “I take from BANKS! If anything, people should thank me!”

He may as well have been saying, “No! No! No! You don’t pee in a sink…you pee in a TOILET!”  He felt absolutely in the right and no one could argue the point.

“But even though it’s a bank, it’s still stealing,” I pressed on.
“No! It is not. Come oooonnn…it is a BANK!” he slapped his forehead with the butt of his hand. “Corporations! They steal millions from the poor everyday. It is my own money to take back.”

I argued that when banks lose money they increase rates and fees, so his theft actually hurt his fellow poor Parisians, but he was having none of it. In his view, if he did not steal, then that would simply leave more money for the evil bankers. Besides which, the banks have theft insurance, so they never really lose.

Our conversation was cut off as the clock struck midnight and the room exploded with noisemakers. Xavier and I kissed each other on both cheeks and wished each other a Happy New Year.

In the intervening weeks, I’ve thought a lot about my conversation with him. Certainly, I don’t meet successful bank robbers everyday...or do I? Maybe I’ve met a lot of criminals, but they just haven’t brought it up or been willing to talk about it.

Xavier’s candor impressed me and inspires me to admit that I, too, have been a thief. Unlike Xavier, though, I haven’t considered it a topic to whip out at parties. In fact, up until now, I’ve only told a handful of people. But there you have it...this column could be titled:

“Annie: A Thief”

My own first heist was much less lucrative than Xavier’s. I was eight-years-old and took a peppermint patty from Hodgin’s Drugstore. I was with my Mom and we didn’t get more than two blocks down the street before she spied it in my hot little hands. She marched me right back to the store to return it and apologize.

Sometime in my late teens, I started a more serious shoplifting habit. Stealing was never a goal and I would not leave the house with the intent of shoplifting. Rather, I’d be in a store and along with the item I was purchasing, another would go into my pocket or bag as a bonus.

I always asked myself why I stole, because I didn’t need the things that I took. Looking back, I think it was a mix of feeling entitled and enjoying getting away with it, but the other curious thing was that I didn’t feel particularly bad about it. I was raised Catholic and learned “thou shalt not steal” before learning to tie my shoes, so how come no guilt?

Thanks to Xavier, the obvious finally dawned on me—stealing from corporations feels like a victimless crime. He sees nothing wrong with stealing from a bank, because in his mind banks are evil. For me, stores weren’t evil, but they were faceless entities making big profits. In fact, I thought that since I was also buying stuff, anything I stole only reduced the store’s profit. At the very worst, I imagined that the store broke even, and what was so bad about that?

What I did was petty crime, but the mental gymnastics I used to justify stealing a pair of earrings was similar to Xavier’s rationalizations for robbing banks. Both of us used the idea of “the corporation” to fool ourselves into thinking we weren’t really stealing. No face, no victim. No victim, no crime.

On the other side of the coin, it’s just as easy to vilify criminals as it is for criminals to depersonalize their victims. I think most people would agree that bank robbers are bad people, the Enron traders were immoral assholes, and the mortgage brokers and traders who collapsed the world economy were greedy bastards. But when you meet one at a party (or have one in the family, or are one yourself), suddenly it’s not so black and white.

I was never caught and there was no “incident” that made me stop. I simply quit. The same opportunities to steal present themselves all the time, but now I just don’t do it. Was I a “bad” person when I shoplifted and am I a “good” person now that I don’t? In both cases, I doubt it. 

Are bank robbers bad? Of course. But is Xavier “bad,” because he robs banks? I don’t know. I found him to be charming, engaging, and open, and I expect that he does nice things for his family and friends who love him and don’t see him as a villain.

The thing I know for sure is that I liked his honesty. He says, "‘I’m a thief. Take me or leave me. Like it or not, that is part of who I am.’"

For the most part, I had locked away the thief inside of me and pretended she never existed. But I did steal and I have the capacity to steal again. Take me or leave me. Like it or not that is part of who I am.

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