Best Trash Can Ever

I often think about my relationship to stuff.   I'm not a consumptionist, but, despite my best efforts, I am a materialist. I love my stuff and hate to let it go.  I like to think my stuff loves me right back, which is no more crazy than you thinking your dog would rescue you from a fire or your cat is plotting to take over the world. I have no illusions about my cats. Stuff, though, is so endlessly fascinating.

Matt and I recently watched Objectified, a documentary that, as the title suggests, is supposed to be about our relationship to the things we own. It depicts instead the relationship of designers to the things they've designed. I'm not sure what the title should have been. Maybe "Designers on Designing: Worried about Your Comfort and the Environment -- Sort of."  The focus of the film is design process and philosophy. A light sustainability theme runs through and writer Rob Walker, whose work really does look at that relationship to the things we own, provides a counterpoint. 

At least two of the designers discussed how designed objects can and should get better with time. A briefcase, one pointed out, becomes more beloved once the shine literally wears off.

My briefcase and a small Poe

My own briefcase is a designer item that had found its way to TJ Max because of a slight imperfection. It is gorgeous and the intial scratch made it more so in a waba-sabi kind of way. The scratches I've put on it since have only made me love it more.  Some of my happiest moments are flitting to work on my scooter with it slung across my back.

 My friend Carl once lent a pristine leather briefcase to his mother until it was appropriately battered. I enjoy breaking in my own stuff and creating a history, but I sympathize with Carl because I remember being incredibly embarrased in middle school -- well, all the time --- but in particular, by new and sparkling white tennis shoes. If only they could have come pre-battered, like jeans in the 90s. (Later, as college student, I wore loafers so beaten that I adapted a shuffling walk to keep them on my feet and jeans so legitimately threadbare that the orange tights I wore with them were a style choice. I loved 90s grunge -- it meant I didn't have to throw out beloved clothes, part with my beloved stuff.)

The documentary showed a design team trying to come up with a better toothbrush and that lead me to my new toothbrush, the handle of which is made of recycled U.S. currency.  Time for a new brush?  I keep the ergonomic handle and replace the head. My teeth are not only clean, but also righteous.

We, being the righteous recyclers, reusers and composters that we are, don't throw much out beyond the occasional disposable toothbrush head, but trash happens -- even to righteous people such as ourselves. It is here that I will put in a plug for the the best trash can ever.

Or, close to here. First, I will vent.

Trash cans have come a long way since I was a kid.  We want our homes to be comfortable and now that  the kitchen is the center of our universe, a dirty plastic bin with a swinging lid has no place in our pleasant environs. Trash cans are now part of the decor: hipster trashcans, retro trash cans, traditional trash cans, which for some reason, are wicker. Perhaps wicker evokes our colonial roots? If I ever meet someone with a wicker trash can, I'll ask.

My friends are modern and cool, but not self-concious or hipster about it, so almost everyone I know has a variation on the stainless steel column with a foot pedal. These are things of beauty.

Ephemeral beauty. Which is odd. For a garbage bin.

Simplehuman is probably the brand of choice for these things. My first was a knock-off. My parents bought it for me at the Knock-off Store because they are practical people.  Knock-off Can was solidly built and worked well for about six months. Then, the plastic pedal broke and left a sharp metal stick in its place. Being my parent's daughter, I fixed the problem with duct tape, which did very little for my pleasant environs, but increased my DIY cred half a notch.

A fully notched DIYer would fashion another pedal with no more than tweezers and a discarded tie rack.   I have a collection of tweezers, but lacked the skills and vision. And, I'd just Freecycled my last tie rack.

Enough playing around, I thought.  To Target. My next trashcan was a brand-name objet'd art with a rounded triangle footprint that hearkened to both the past and the future. Art deco?  Perhaps postmodern.  No footpedal interrupted its smooth design. I lightly tapped the lid;  it gently floated to up like a butterfly lighting on my shoulder, giving me a moment to contemplate the trash held in my hands and my place in the world. With this beauty in my kitchen corner, I was just as likely to think of old-style chrome glam as the meditave quiet of a birch grove.

Sure, I didn't actually want to comtemplate my trash, and the chrome-colored cannister showed more fingerprints than a dusted crime scene, but I could ignore that. I just wouldn't touch the sides and being forced to contemplate my waste gave me more reason to recycle.  I could not, however, ignore the tiny plastic engineering marvel that created the pneumatic effect ... because it broke within six months. The entire lid was useless. To keep the can meant I would see (and smell) my trash.  I do eat meat occasionally, so Knock-off Can came back for a while. I refreshed the duct tape.

But, it didn't last. The duct tape was failing;  my right foot was developing a callous.  Knock-off can was relegated to the project room where it would serve a dual function of garbage receptacle and future project.

Contemplating trash: it's now a choice

When Matt moved in, we realized we had a problem.  This time I did the research and and we shelled out some bucks. The results:  The best trash can ever could handle the grossest of the gross. It could handle medical waste, adolescent angst and the physical manifestation of the latter. It would look right at home in a school nurse's office -- because, well, it was designed for a one. We bought this model because it didn't occur to me to look for a prison supplier. (I'm not comparing our love to incarceration or our house to a jail.  I'm just saying that stuff built for institutions is built to last.).

The best trash can ever has no tiny plastic parts. It has a simple straightforward design that instills faith. And, love.

And, so I have now I've been introduced to online school supplier catalogs.  Lecterns and activity tables. Adjustable media carts and tiny chairs. Stuff built to take the abuse of a thousand furniture-eating demon-children and the mistreatment of underappreciated civil servants. Stuff built to last forever. *Sigh*

Unicorn vs. Bear: Food and Loathing on the Internet

Goodbye, Minimalist. I hardly knew ye and wish that I had discovered you sooner. After more than a decade of presenting clear and simple recipes in the New York Times, Mark Bittman is turning to other things. I will miss the Minimalist, but look forward to mining Bittman's online treasure trove.

I remember as a kid, watching someone on 60 Minutes explain the Internet to Andy Rooney. The early Internet was full of dead ends and messy personal pages;  the explainer didn't give the curmudgeonly Rooney much reason to explore. Well, the guy said, you can find recipes. Recipes? Rooney snorted. At the time,  I cheered Rooney, but now I think if Rooney spent more time with good food, he probably wouldn't be such a grump.
I joined the website Urban Spoon on Christams Eve in Evansville, IN.  We were hungry, far from home, and facing snowflakes the size of feathers.  Not at all sure what would be open, we were in need of ideas and directions.   Within just a few minutes, we were out of our car and inside drinking hot tea and eating hummus.

Some romantics feel technology wrings all serendipity out of life. The criticism, I think, is that we no longer have the pleasure of being lost or making a discovery on our own. Please. Being lost is overrated. I still get lost  -- as anyone who has leaned on my navigational skills can attest. Give me a map and mild distraction. With me as your guide, you're more likely to wind up in a alarmingly gritty part of D.C. than at the National Gallery ice rink like you expected.  Want twenty extra minutes of cornfields in a car trip through southern Indiana? I can do that.

My best adventures have come with a little direction. The criticism begs the question: What's the difference between falling into a heavenly hole-in-the-wall and realizing, thanks to pocket technology, that you are a mere two blocks from one?  Does the former even happen?

I'm all for being the first to discover a new restaurant. With regards to food, the Internet is like a circle of friends writ large, giving you advice. Given the perils of opening a restaurant and the inexplicable optimism of restauranteurs, there's still plenty of opportunity for discovering the new and untried. 

Perhaps I am one of the first in the provinces to try Mesh on Mass, in Indianapolis, which opened in August. I thank the Indy promotion Devour Downtown for that.  Friends just introduced me to the promotion last week and we all used the the webpage to mine menus and negotiate where to go for dinner. If anything the reconnaisance increased my pleasure in the evening.

True, where discovery used to happen in conversation or through in-flight magazine, it now increasingly happens online.  I'm not crying in my  French onion soup over it. All I can do is bemoan why I had not seredipitously discovered a resource earlier. Why hadn't I noticed Urban Spoon before?  Besides food, I also love reading and writing critiques.  You can find me gratifying all three proclivities under the handle Bee. I went on a bit of a mini-review-writing bender a few weeks ago.

Another online discovery that leaves me wistful is the story of a whimsical Texas pizza call center employee.   His response to a customer is below.

Dear John,

My name is Chad from Austin's Pizza Call Center. We received your online order earlier this evening. We saw your note, "Please draw a unicorn fighting a bear on the box."

Unfortunately, our stores are not equipped to fulfill such a request. They simply do not posses the required skill. I, however, took it upon myself to draw out the picture you requested on a post-it note. I hope this suits your needs.

Sincerely,

Chad Frierson
Austin's Pizza

Let's forget for a moment the request and motives (or sobriety) of the requestor and applaud the humor and initiative of the Austin Pizza employee.  This is the kind of person I want to greet me when I go to a restaurant. Perhaps coordinating delivery electronically is a bit different than schlepping pizza to your table, but some of the talents required must surely be the same.

 "They simply do not possess the desired skill," Chad says of restaurant staff.  I can relate.  I dwell on Chad and his pleasing post-it art because service in my town is often dismal as I'm reminded anytime I eat anywhere else ... in the world. Is it due to inexperience and disinterest of the transient college-age crowd  or mismanagement on the part of the restauranteurs that employ them?   I probably couldn't do much better than mediocre in either role, but when I say bad, I mean absurdly so. Sullen servers, understaffed dinner hours, forgotten items, soggy toast. A waiter once flirted with my date.

That wasn't my Matt, but it could have been. I keep a wary eye now. 

Early in our relationship Matt and I discovered we each held a devotion to Cook's Illustrated. He subscribed to the magazine. I held an online subscription.  It turns out, you really need both.  Like a lot of people these days, we eat out less to save money and enjoy the pleasures of cooking. So, we patronize restaurants more purposefully and mediocre won't do because we can do better at home.  That doesn't mean we're snobs about it. I love a good honest diner as much as fancy digs with low lighting. And, I'll never master short-order style hashbrowns.

That reminds me of a meal I regret. A decade has passed and I still remember the disappointing breakfast I had at a once-good diner where the management had changed.  We have a finite amount of life and finite number of meals in this lifetime. I wasted a small part of my youth eating a sub-par meal while mourning the memory of better. If it were to happen today, I'd let everybody know about it.