Quality of Life

“So these say ‘quick grits’,” he says.   “When I used to make them for myself, I just put them in a bowl, stirred boiling water into it, and they were ready.”

“That’s because you used ‘instant’ grits, and these are ‘quick’ grits,” I say.

The husband has been on a grits kick lately.  I don’t mind the 10 minutes it takes to make the ‘quick’ grits start to finish.  There are plenty of other things to do while I’m in the kitchen. But sure, we can try instant.  The reason I didn’t is that I know the difference between how instant oatmeal tastes vs. quick.  Or even the “real” kind that takes more than 3 minutes of cooking!  Or instant pudding vs. the mix you have to stand and stir on the stove.  Or the “real” kind that you can make from scratch! (Did you know?)

I suppose it’s just a human thing that we do whatever we can to make things easier for ourselves, and I don’t wish to complain about it.  I don’t want to have to take our clothes and linens to the creek and use a washboard and lye soap.  [I even tease my husband that I married him for his washer and dryer as prior to that I was in a studio apartment and had to utilize a laundromat.]

But sometimes I wonder about where to draw the line.  There’s the question of sacrificing quality for the sake of ease and brevity, such as with the instant vs. quick foods.  Or — my favorite example — homemade vs. store-boughten pie crusts.  Then there’s whether it’s good health-wise, of course.  What vitamins do we miss if we always use instant potatoes?  And then one that’s easy to miss —- what price are we paying in terms of community and worthy labor?

I love buying new fleece comforters from Sam’s.  They’re affordable, comfortable, and washable.  But occasionally I think about the quilting parties of old, the ones I read about in Christy or saw in old western frontier movies.  The unrushed comraderie and conversation was so unlike our “coffee dates”. And the result was a treasure to be passed down.  Likewise, it’s fun to run to Loft and buy 3 new items.  But there’s a sense of accomplishment with the solitary dress that comes from my sewing room after choosing pattern, fabric, thread, and buttons.  It’s my own creation.  

I don’t propose an equation or rubric to determine when to go ‘quick’ and when to take the longer or harder route.  Definitely in the category of personal choice.  This past spring I spent well over twice the amount of time to till a little wildflower garden area than it would have taken the dear husband to use the tiller for a much bigger area.  But I wanted to do it that way.  I wanted the aching back, the dirt, the sweat.  Weird, I know. But every time I look at it, I know that I put myself into it, and the reward of those little pink, purple, and yellow flowers is rich.

I’ll continue to choose the easier way fairly often I’m sure.  There’s no great virtue in choosing the more difficult method just for the sake of it or for trying to secure bragging rights.  I’m sure not gonna use an outhouse or washboard.  But I think it behooves us to not automatically do so — to do a little deconstructing and see what we might be missing when we cut the corners.

And I’ll cook the instant grits tomorrow for breakfast, and we’ll see which he prefers.  I’m easy.