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It’s days like these that make being a vegetarian worthwhile.

You know – days of reports of diseased livestock from around the world.

There’s a cow in British Columbia with Mad Cow disease and there’re confirmed cases of Bird Flu in Ghana.

The CFIA maintains that no part of the diseased dairy cow entered human food or animal feed chain.

Apparently milk from cattle with Mad Cow is considered safe by WHO – I don’t know much about communicable deadly diseases of the nervous system but I doubt anyone will voluntarily want to drink milk (albeit pasteurized) from a cow with Mad Cow disease.

I’ve unsuccessfully tried to give up diary for almost a year now. I switched to almond milk which is great but the milk alternative in coffee shops is soy (which I abhor) so I end up drinking milk, almond milk ice cream tastes like some kid’s experiment and I don’t even want to try faux cheese.

Headlines from Ghana this morning was about the discovery of the bird flu virus. The first thing that came to mind was my mother’s chickens. My mother raises free-run chicken in her backyard – if you hear her talk about them you’d think she’s the crazy chicken lady. She raises them for personal consumption but lately I think she consumes them less and thinks of them more as pets, which is scary but we indulge her.

I’ve had hour long conversations with my mom about her chickens; there was the time when she needed “an innovative design” for a bigger coop. A couple of months back the chickens started to act out because of the long harmattan weather. The chickens don’t like leftover microwave popcorn kernels. I’m not making these things up.

There’s one chicken (I think the oldest) that misses her so much when she travels that it sulks when she gets back. Speaking of travel, my mother is possibly the only person who has somehow managed to sneak eggs past US customs (please don’t ask why she travels with eggs – she believes her hens lay the best eggs ever!) but of course no one touches them because we find the deep yellow hue unnatural. Ironic isn’t it?

I sent my mom a message this morning and the chickens are ok.

Technorati tags: mad cow, vancouver, bird flu, ghana

Every so often, I like to audit my life. The first couple of times I tried this, I was so disappointed a wave of subtle depression overcame me. The next couple of times I just blamed my father. I also found out that although (almost) every choice was made with good intentions, things just don’t work out the way they’re supposed to.

Years ago I decided to start running for exercise; it was hard, messy and sweaty but yielded fantastic results. I don’t consider myself a great runner, I don’t particularly enjoy it – it’s tolerable and doable. Yet running somehow became a big part of my life, a part of who I am.

Everyone who really knows me knows that I run – I run five times a week.

For the last year or so my running has been sporadic at best.

One of my biggest challenges in life is commitment… to anything. It was easy to let running go save for brief twinges of guilt.

I realise that I need to go back to running, I’ve gained 15lbs, a couple of my pants no longer fit, the ones I force myself into are so tight it’s as if I’m trying to prove something. I’ve stopped referring to myself as a runner but the word is already out there; conversations about running and exercise makes me uncomfortable since I’m doing neither.

Yesterday I was on instant messenger with a friend, we haven’t talked in months, he tells me he has a surprise for me, sends me a picture… and… he’s lost 30lbs – he’s started running because I inspired him!

They say the first step is admitting your problem. I’m sure it’s still somehow my father’s fault.

Here are pictures from last Saturday’s run, the start of a new cycle:

I am an immigrant.

I’ve been an immigrant for as long as I can remember. My ancestors were immigrants too, and their ancestors before them made what was then a very long journey from the north west of the Niger River to settle in what is known as today’s central Ghana.

Presently the word immigration has an almost negative undertone – it’s no longer about the geographical movement of people, it’s about who has the right to live where. Actually I’m being naïve; mankind has always fought over land – and this is an evolution of the land battle.

Today, May Day has become the unofficial day of immigration matches and polarizing debates in the US.

I’ve lived in many places but I only ever chose to live in one place, and that’s where I am right now.

My father used to say every immigrant has a story – My immigration story is a website that tells some of these tales.

I found Immigrant Tales, a podcast on immigrant stories and was fascinated to hear an interview with a Ghanaian gentleman who’s had to move several times. I identified with a lot of things he said having also moved within Africa and then to Europe and North America.

Here are some of my favourite books on the immigrant story:

The Namesake – Jhumpa Lahir

Brick Lane – Monica Ali

The Second Life of Samuel Tyne – Esi Edugyan

White Teeth – Zadie Smith

Technorati tags: immigration, immigrants stories