Midnight Oil

I had been up late at night a lot, working.  Mostly finishing up a large project from my previous job, but also responding to email: some of it more crisis-oriented than others.  I expect students to be up then; that's the nature of college life.  (And ideally, I would shift my schedule so that I start my day at ten, like they do.)  But I've found that in this new universe, when I send email to colleagues at midnight, or one in the morning, or sometimes even later than that, I get instantaneous responses.  Though our offices on campus are dark, I imagine us as a bright pool of electrons in the university network, still humming away as if we've never left the place.  The other day, there was a crisis in our office, and most of my colleagues were actually in the office at midnight, with students; my only excuse was that I live an hour (or, at that time of night, 45 minutes) away.

Part of me has been grateful that I'm not the only one.

Part of me has been a little amazed.  How could I ever hope to compete with these people who work just as hard as, or even harder than, I do?  I was always the one at the edge, the one with the great ideas and the initiative to see them through to fruition, the one who got shit done.  Then again, what I'm experiencing is not unlike what students experience when they arrive here: suddenly, the ones who who left everyone in the dust back home were one in hundreds just like them, or better.

But honestly, no part of me felt at all like this was abnormal, or undesirable.

In the middle of one of these conversations the other night, I posted on my Facebook page, something along these lines, being grateful for colleagues who made me feel like I wasn't the only nut online that late, but baffled by the competition.  A lot of people "liked" the post, or commiserated, or said something equally self-congratulatory about their own dedication.

Shortly afterward, a friend of mine posted the following question: "Why do we make a virtue of working hours that don't allow us to get enough sleep, enough play or enough time with loved ones? What true value is there in working hours that break down our mental and physical health?"

She's right, of course.  While I don't do it every night, when I do, I'm right there waving the self-congratulatory flag with everyone else.  And my kids get me up at 5:30, so I'm not exactly sleeping in.  I don't get to run during the week any more, or do any other exercise.  If I'm up sending email at 1:30, then I'm often back up at 5:45 making breakfast, and I'm out the door at 7:15.  And I'm not taking naps during the day.

How many of us are there out there, burning the midnight oil?  Why do we do it?  Do you feel like there's a expectation in our workplace culture that we are online both late and early (and, for that matter, all the time)? Do you feel like it's abnormal, or something we take for granted?  How do you draw boundaries around your work, if you work outside the home?

On Living Well, and Arroz con leche

When I was in graduate school--the second time around--I took a Philosophy of Education course in which we were assigned Aristotle's Ethics.  I remembered hating Aristotle from some other course, so I wasn't looking forward to revisiting it, but in my re-reading I was drawn to the concept of eudaimonia, which--often mistranslated as "happiness"--really means "doing and living well."  As I was boxing up some books to take to my new office the other day, I took Ethics off the shelf and began to thumb through it fondly, realizing, with some small degree of horror, that I ended up loving philosophy after all, and thinking that perhaps I hadn't had enough life experience to fully appreciate Aristotle when I read his work the first time.

Skimming my marginalia, I was surprised to notice how much Ethics reminded me of my study of yoga, how much living well was bound up with the activity of right intention, which Aristotle calls "virtue" (but which isn't exactly virtue as we tend to use the term now).  Most of us think of happiness as a state of consciousness, something internal, and even passive.  But the way Aristotle describes it, eudaimonia involves real, messy, being and doing in the world--even if slightly limited by the fact that his is a state-backed model of the good life.  Eudaimonia comes of habit (according to Aristotle), like the "practice" of yoga texts. Even considering right action in yoga discourages attachment to outcomes, where for Aristotle the means are oriented to the end through the process of rational thought, there are striking parallels between Ethics and the Gita.*

My yoga attendance these days has been sporadic at best; I don't get home early enough for the Thursday night class I used to take, and I try to spend my weekends being available to my kids instead of commuting to Frenchtown where other people are trying to breathe through vinyasa.  I brought my mat and yoga pants to work today, hoping to escape for an hour during lunch, which I ended up eating (in the form of an apple and a granola bar) at my desk, trying to manage a situation that was stubbornly resisting management.  Given the sort day I've been having, I felt deflated.  On the other hand, what I was doing was sort of along the lines of right intention.  It just didn't have a very physical dimension.

What we know about anatomy suggests that the mind-body connection isn't a connection at all, but is really one in the same thing: essentially, two nerves connect our bodies to our brains.  Body is mind, and mind is body--even for Aristotle, in a way.  My daughter reminds me of this constantly, (still) learning by touching everything, expressing herself (despite her advanced verbal skills) by jumping up and down or rolling around on the floor.  I could practice yoga on my own, but my best practice is in sangha, in community.  Which makes sense to me, after all; if living well is practicing right intention, then it follows that the practice of yoga, which is also about living the best life by cultivating a space for right action, entails not abstracting oneself from the world, but figuring out how to immerse oneself in all of its dimensions.  Doing yoga all the time.


Remember that Mary Oliver poem, "Rice"?

I don't want you to just sit at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk into the fields
Where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there,
far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with mud,
like a blessing.

Don't just sit at the table; fill your hands with mud.  Get down and dirty, out in the field. That's happiness.

*(Philosophy PhDs and yoga experts: go ahead, tell me where I got it wrong.)

Arroz con leche
This is a simple dessert from my childhood, which I find myself craving when the weather finally takes a turn towards fall.


4 c. milk (of your choice)
1/2 c. short-grain rice
1 cinnamon stick
1/4 t. dried orange peel
pinch salt
1/4 c. sugar
3/4 T. butter (optional)
1 t. vanilla 

Add the milk, rice, cinnamon stick, orange or lemon peel and salt to a medium saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat. Immediately reduce heat to very low and simmer, stirring often and scraping bottom, for about 45 minutes.

Add the raisins and sugar and simmer for another 15 minutes. Stir often to keep from sticking to the bottom of the pot.

Remove from heat and stir in the butter and vanilla. Adjust sugar to taste and serve hot or cold, sprinkling the top with some ground cinnamon.

Liebster Award

My friend and writing mentor Mel, who is wise in the ways of becoming prolific, says this: one blog post at a time, no matter how brief.  Anne Lamott says that in order to write anything, you need a shitty first draft (sing it, sister).

In that interest, I'm posting my responses to Mel's Liebster award.  Thanks, Mel, for nominating me!  Hopefully I'll get around to posting something more substantive again soon.

1. Longest you’ve ever gone without a shower.
   
   That would be camping.  Two days, at most.  I learned that I don't enjoy being grimy.  (Which sort of mitigates against my possible potential participation in the six-day-long outdoor orientation program for students that they run at my current place of employment.)
   
2. Tell us about a recent disappointment.
   
   Life has been pretty good to me lately.  I was disappointed by getting a plate of couscous for dinner when what I really wanted was vegetables (because most caterers think that "vegetarian" means "pasta-eater"), but I'm not about to grouse about that, especially given that it was a free meal, and there was curry on top of said couscous, and at least it wasn't penne.  I will also not bellyache about the huge bag of hand-me-down pants I had to return to my neighbor, none of which fit because unlike her, I have curves.  I was a little disappointed to discover that the big wet spot on my daughter's carpet, which caused a patch of black mold to grow, was actually coming from inside the wall (though I'm glad that my husband cut open said wall so that the source of the water could be identified).  Not looking forward to the re-drywall process.  Maybe we could just leave it that way?  It is pretty humorous being able to see through the wall from my daughter's room into our bathroom.
   
3. Tell us the person you’d most like in the car with you for a road trip.
   
   Any car trip that doesn't involve commuting to work sounds pretty good.  (I would take my husband; we're pretty good on the road together, since we find the same people annoying.)
   
4. Which do you like better: goats or sheep?
   
   Goats are more interesting: they're not afraid to express their opinions, and quite literally butt heads with anyone else who gets in the way.  I think I have more respect for goats.  Yes, that's hard-coded, thanks for asking.


5. Do you like to watch scary movies?
   
   Not really.  But I'm not a huge consumer of movies at all, come to think of it.  And you already know that we don't own a TV, which makes me a cultural illiterate.  Will you throw tomatoes and laugh at me if I tell you I don't really understand references to Breaking Bad?
   
6. What do you call yourself when you’re talking to yourself inside your head?
   
   Depending on what I'm talking to myself about, I call myself anything from "genius" to "idiot."
   
7. Name someone from your kindergarten class that you wonder about to this day.
   
   About a year or two ago, one of my classmates posted our kindergarten picture on Facebook, and tagged as many people as he could find.  The surprising thing, to me, was how little people had changed.  Sure, we were older, and greyer, and a little fatter (or skinnier).  I can't say that I loved elementary school, though, and there aren't people I really wonder about; I suspect I can guess, for the few I know nothing about (they probably don't let you have access to Facebook in jail).
   
8. What is the best song for picking up your mood?
   
   Anything that I can belt out in the car.  And sometimes things that I can dance to with my kids.  Currently: "I'm Gonna Rock Some Tags" and "Applause."
   
9. How do you organize your socks?
   
   Oddly enough, despite my tendency to over-organize everything, I don't organize my sock drawer.  They're packed in there in pairs, one sock stuffed inside its match to facilitate ease of retrieval.  I guess that's organization after all, isn't it ...
   
10. When no one is home, do you close the bathroom door?
    
    I don't like locking myself in to windowless spaces, just in general.  I'm more likely to close the door if there's a window.

I'm supposed to nominate seven more people.  Let's turn this on its head a bit: go ahead and answer any of the questions you'd like in the comments ... and ask one of your own!  Then visit the commenter before you, and leave a comment on their blog!

Seduction, and Roasted Sweet Potato, Squash, and Pear Soup

Though it's already mid-October, it felt like the first night of fall: a slight crispness to the air, perhaps even the scent of wood and leaves--the sort of weather that makes me walk faster, with a more determined step. It's been easy to notice the earlier darkness in my office, which becomes a little cave-like towards the end of the afternoon, illuminated by the same small lamp that I brought home from my office two years ago; as we walked across campus, it felt like people were scattering everywhere to gather in similar cozy spaces.

There is a lot of eating together here, and I was headed to dinner, for the third time in just over a week, this time to an awards banquet celebrating the "best freshmen and sophomores," whatever that might mean. I've been to about a hundred award events in my life, but still, somehow, I wasn't prepared for this: the round tables in a softly lit wood-paneled library (the first on campus), glass vases full of delicately orange-tinted roses, which matched the orange-brown iced tea already set at everyone's place, and the orange-paper wrapped books where each student was to sit, and even the bright orange mango-gelatine-topped custards which circled the centerpieces.

This? I thought--this is another planet.

Soon after we sat down, steaming bowls of deep orange butternut squash soup arrived. My first spoonful was like the culinary translation of the warm, intimate atmosphere in the library, a space to shelter from the gathering dusk.

I made small talk with the students, asking them about their activities on campus, about their research, about their homes, feeling a little uninteresting, myself. The names of the awardees were read, and I settled into my chair to listen to the speaker, the author of the book that was given to all of the awardees as their prize. And the atmosphere shifted.

He talked about Mozart, about grace and beauty, about the way in which Mozart manipulated music as its own language to communicate something more ethereal, about tension and letting go. As he played passages from some of the pieces I've known my whole life, I watched him shape sound in the air with his hands, leaning forward in my chair, my own fingers itching to play, finding myself nodding, Yes, of course; that's exactly how it's done. Just as it would be in poetry.

I don't know how many of the students felt as I felt that night, in the glow of the library, with soup and Mozart and mango dessert, suspended in time and space; I couldn't help but notice how differently intimate the intellectual community is from my own former roots, and I wonder what I would have turned out like, if I'd been a student here. The warm pool of light in my office is its metonym; I gravitate towards it, away from the darkness. I understand better what they mean when they talk about the "Bubble," now, I think: despite the tug of my children at home, I find myself wanting to stay here late into the night, too, holed up with these people, learning everything, drinking it in.

It is, in a word, seductive.

It's not all warm orange soup, of course. There are difficult conversations with struggling students, mis- and missed communications, challenges of technology. But I'm growing roots here. And I hope my children don't mind my being waylaid by the Siren's song too much.

Roasted Sweet Potato and Winter Squash Soup with Pears and Sage

3 lbs of sweet potatoes, washed, peeled and chopped
2 c. winter squash (butternut or other), cut into 1" cubes
1 T. butter
1 T. olive oil
6 fresh sage leaves, finely chopped
1/2 t. cardamom
1/2 t. garam masala
1 large onion, diced
6 pears, washed, cored, peeled and chopped
8 c. vegetable broth
1 c. white wine
2 T. real maple syrup
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400; toss the squash and potatoes in just a little bit of olive oil and roast until beginning to caramelize, about 40 minutes.

Melt butter and olive oil over medium heat in a large stockpot. Add the sage leaves and fry them gently just until they become fragrant. Add the cardamom and garam masala, and stir for a minute or two. Add onion, potatoes, squash, and pears. Sauté for about 8-10 minutes or until the potatoes start to soften a bit. Add the broth, cover, and simmer for about 20 minutes over low heat. Remove the lid, stir, and add the wine. Using a hand immersion blender, blend the soup until creamy. Taste to adjust seasonings. Serve sprinkled with some toasted nuts, or a sage leaf. And with more wine. And maybe a baguette.

On (Not) Knowing, and Kale Sweet Potato Soup

I don't like not knowing the answers.

I'm sure it comes with the territory of a relatively easy school career, of becoming accustomed to praise for getting it right.  Not knowing feels like dangerous ground.  In a strange way, it's probably one of the motivations that drove me back to graduate school, not once, but twice: this insatiable need to know, and to be right.

Except that sometimes, not-knowing is actually useful.

A few weeks ago, I heard an interview on NPR with Leah Hager Cohen, whose recently-published book I Don't Know: In Praise of Admitting Ignorance (Except When You Shouldn't) is not just an encouragement to confess ignorance, but to embrace uncertainty and honor doubt as a way to increase the possibilities for true communication.  In other words, not-knowing helps us to know in a more authentic way.

I was a little blown away.

I shouldn't have been, of course; I devoted seven years of my career before my current job to creating collaborative research placements for undergraduates, because I was so convinced of the value of not-knowing.  It wasn't just that I wanted to show them that knowledge comes from somewhere, and to show them that the process of arriving at knowledge was just as--if not more than--the knowledge itself, but to help them realize that there were instances in which even the people whom they most feared and respected, their professors, didn't know, either; it's a concept that dates back in writing at least to Socrates.  I wanted to destabilize the traditional balance of power in the classroom, in the typical Freirean way making authentic learning possible by helping students to feel like co-creators.  I used to talk with groups of academically at-risk students about imagining faculty members as learners, too, and feeling comfortable approaching them as fellow learners, as people who regularly screwed up, made mistakes, and were just plain clueless.  That usually elicited guffaws from the audience, but I know for a fact that it made a difference, because many of them started going to office hours. 

Cohen pointed out that this year's graduating high school class has, essentially, grown up under the No Child Left Behind Act; we are looking at an entire generation of students for whom there is a very real premium on knowing the right answer.  Not knowing has always had real consequences, not just for them, but for teachers, for school budgets, and therefore, for all of their peers.  The stakes around knowing are pretty high, and not knowing is ... well ... practically a crime.

I think about this where I work, which is a place full of students who have known things all of their lives.  They are excellent at knowing.  One of my responsibilities involves helping students to figure out if they need a tutor, and then finding one.  I haven't had a tutor myself, but I do know how hard it is to come from a place of power, in which you know everything, and suddenly, the street signs are written in Thai.  (True story, by the way.  One of the most humbling learning experiences I've ever had was in Thailand, where I realized what it must be like to be illiterate, and have to rely on people around you--many of whom you were told were  untrustworthy at best--to help you do the most basic things.)

Of course, the attitude is pervasive far beyond school.  People reassure us that there's no such thing as a stupid question, but I bet you've asked one yourself, haven't you?  You know what this is like: the sinking feeling that everyone knows the answer but you, and when you finally do muster up the courage to ask, you can see the muffled snickers and wide eyes that reveal the way people really feel about your question.  They will talk about you when you leave the room.  This "missed" communication happens even in polite conversation, when people talk about other people we really ought to know, or make cultural references that fly right over our heads.  We know how immersion--being placed into an environment where it's nearly impossible to ask ALL of the questions you might need answered--is a powerful learning tool.  So when is it appropriate to confess to ignorance?

I started a new job for the second time in two months, and while I feel confident that I have transferable skills, there's a lot I'm learning all over again.  I am doggedly self-sufficient, but the learning curve is steep, and institutional knowledge runs deep.  I want to look smart.  Don't we all?  But I will make mistakes (in fact, I already did make a mistake), when I think I know something, and it turns out I don't know after all.  I will have to ask questions.  If I'm lucky, some of the questions will surprise everyone, and will shake their assumptions, or identify gaps in knowledge.   Maybe they won't know, either.  And in the end, maybe we can try to re-value inquiry, not just as a theoretical academic value (because YES of COURSE we value inquiry!) but as a way of being in the world.

Sweet Potato Soup with Kale and Freekeh
Adapted from here.

If we never confessed to not-knowing, we'd also probably be a lot less likely to try new things.  Like freekeh, for example.  Which goes surprisingly well with red curry.  (Sing along with me: "super freak, super freak, it's super freekeh ...")

2 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, chopped
2 t. minced garlic
2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and diced
3 T. red Thai curry paste
3/4 c. uncooked freekeh
7 1/2 c. vegetable broth
1 15 oz can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
3 c. kale, finely chopped
fresh ground pepper

Heat the oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the onions and potato, and saute, stirring occasionally until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and saute another minute or two until that starts to soften, too.

Add the curry paste and mix to coat, stirring continuously until the curry is fragrant, about 2 minutes.

Stir in the freekeh and broth, and bring the soup to a boil.  Cover, reduce heat, and cook 20 minutes.

Add the chickpeas and kale; cover again and cook until the kale is just wilted, between 5-10 minutes, depending on how small you've made chopped the kale.

Serve in a beautiful bowl, knowing that everyone at your table will devour it.

Catching More Flies: Peach Walnut Salad with Honey Mint Vinaigrette

I don't know about you, but this has been too much déjà vu for me.  Gunman with a history of mental illness enters a building to which he has legitimate access, opens fire, and mows down multiple innocent people.  An outraged public demands better gun control.  Media track down the gun purchase, only to discover that it's entirely legitimate.  A nation mourns.

My heart aches for the families of the dead.  But doesn't the fact that this continues to happen suggest that we need to consider a different approach to the problem?

As I've been following coverage of the event, I've been thinking a lot about Antoinette Tuff.  Remember her?  The Atlanta elementary school bookkeeper who averted the school shooting at McNair Discovery Learning Academy back in August?  If you haven't listened to the full 911 recording, you owe it to yourself to do so.  It's a remarkable example of our potential to humanize others, even in the moments in which they seem most inhuman:

http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_slatest/2013/08/22/antoinette_tuff_911_call_listen_to_the_full_tape_of_ga_school_clerks_call.html

Tuff begins the encounter by relaying the gunman's demands to the 911 operator.  But soon she begins to interject her own responses to his comments, and that, in the end, is what changes the situation.  In the moment when she chooses to validate him as a human being, to see him as something more than a gun-toting maniac, the monologue becomes dialogue: "He said he should've just went to the mental hospital instead of doing this because he's not on his medication. But do you want me to try - I can help you. Let's see if we can work it out so that you don't have to go away with them for a long time." As the conversation continues, Tuff connects with the shooter through her own vulnerabilities.  She talks with him about her own suicidal thoughts, her separation from her husband, her multiply disabled son.  And then, the part of the conversation that blows me away every time I hear it: "It's going to be all right, sweetie.  I just want you to know I love you, though, OK? And I'm proud of you. That's a good thing that you're just giving up and don't worry about it. We all go through something in life."

Love him? Remember, she is talking to a stranger who was, not minutes before, armed.

When, I wondered, was the last time someone said that to him?

What I don't understand is if Aaron Alexis was hearing voices six weeks ago, and actually told people about it, actually asked for help, why wasn't there someone to help him?  Where was the Antoinette Tuff of the Navy Yard?

There have been more "mass shootings" since Newtown than you've probably realized, since the FBI's definition of mass murder involves the killing of four people. Most of the shooters were unrelated to either most or all of their victims.  Most of them expressed some kind of desperation, some kind of estrangement, some kind of mental disturbance.  There was an insightful article in the NYTimes today about schizophrenia patients and the voices in our heads, suggesting that local culture plays a significant role in the manifestation of mental illness, and that if we--I would argue, patients and communities--treat unsettling voices with dignity and respect, then we can change them.

I'm not suggesting that we don't need to talk about gun control.  I have two small children, and I don't understand why civilians need to own semi-automatic weapons intended for military use.  But I also know that if someone wants a gun badly enough, he--or she--is going to get it, regardless of what the law says.  And I think that there's a lot of truth to the old adage about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar. 

We don't need all need to become social workers, or experts in dealing with mental illness.  But we can learn the equivalent of mental CPR.  And we need to see the mentally ill, instead of pretending that they don't exist, or that they're not our problem.  Because when someone decides to purchase a gun and kill twelve innocent people, it is our problem.

Isn't it about time we employed the ethics of care?

Peach Walnut Salad with
Honey Mint Vinaigrette
Here's a vinaigrette in which the tang is tempered by local honey.  Invest in a good one, because you will be able to taste it.

12 mint leaves, julienned
1/4 c. honey
2 T. rice vinegar
6 T. vegetable oil
pinch salt
4 or 5 ripe peaches, peeled and cubed
1/3 c. walnuts, toasted
8 oz. mixed greens

Whisk mint leaves, honey, rice vinegar, and salt in a bowl.  Continue to whisk while pouring in vegetable oil; mix until emulsified.  Add peaches and toss to coat.

Empty mixed greens into a large bowl.  Top with peaches and walnuts, and toss gently.  Serve.

Life Hacks, and Quinoa Avocado Salad

"Do you know what my best secret power is?" my father-in-law asked me, relaxing into the pillows on our couch.  He had driven five hours from New Hampshire the night before to help me corral and chauffeur children to school and day care while S. was away on business and I attended some evening programs for work.  I had been giving him directions for the evening, finding menus and money for pizza, discussing diaper changes, and reviewing the arrival of my son's bus.

"No," I said. "What's your best secret power?"

"That I know it just doesn't matter."  He gave me a satisfied smile.  "Whatever happens, I can handle it.  And in the end, it comes out fine."

I nodded, and grinned sideways at my son, who was still tying his first sneaker, three minutes after he'd started the process.  I was trying to get out the door at get to work, and it was taking all of my willpower not to grab the shoelaces away and tie them myself.  "Grandpa goes with the flow."

My father-in-law is not a Buddhist, but if I were going to conjure a contemporary Buddhist, he fits the bill.  He thinks nothing of picking up and driving to Florida on a whim to go kayaking.  He makes scores of plans, because even he recognizes that you can't do very much in life with no purpose at all, but then changes them when it becomes obvious that they won't work, for whatever reason.  He is completely unattached to the consequences of his actions, though he has, without a doubt, excellent intentions.

This is precisely where Buddhism stymies me.  The non-attachment to consequences.  Because if you're trying to do something positive, aren't you going to be a little frustrated when things don't work out?  How are you supposed to aim for good, but then simply decide that it doesn't matter?  That you've set things in motion, and that they will run their course?  It would be like a doctor prescribing medicine to a patient, and then feeling content when the patient doesn't get well.  If my father-in-law's secret power is that he can find it in himself not to care, my greatest limitation is that I care entirely too much.

It doesn't help that my secret power is organizing things to run like the Deutsche Bahn of old, before it started to lose its reputation for perfection and punctuality.

Then again, I guess sometimes you just have to approach life like a salad.  You start out with a bunch of high-quality ingredients, and you throw them together, with some sense that you're going to end up with something edible, even if it wasn't entirely what you intended in the first place.  Even I know that you can't save every patient.  Or win every tournament.  And if we couldn't accept that, at some level, we would suffer from perpetual paralysis.  Like yoga, it takes practice.  And my father-in-law has been practicing for a long time.

What's your secret power?

Avocado and Quinoa Salad

12 oz. red quinoa, cooked and chilled
12 oz. leftover cooked corn
1 c. finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 c. green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
1 c. tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice
2 avocados, peeled, pitted, diced
1/4 c. lime juice
2 T. olive oil
1 T. champagne vinegar
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. pepper

In a large bowl, mix together cooked quinoa, corn, cilantro, green onions, and tomatoes. Gently fold in avocados.

Whisk together lime juice, olive oil, and vinegar, and mix until well-combined. Add dressing to the salad, and mix gently.  

Season with salt and pepper; serve.

1 box (7 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Red Quinoa (Grocery Dept), cooked per pkg directions, chilled 20 min
1 pkg (12 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Just Picked and Quickly Frozen Super-Sweet Corn, thawed
1 cup  finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup  green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
2  plum tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice (about 1 cup)
2  avocados, peeled, pitted, cubed small
1/2 cup  Food You Feel Good About Lemon Vinaigrette (Produce Dept)
1/2 tsp  salt
1/2 tsp  pepper - See more at: http://www.wegmans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10052&partNumber=RECIPE_14888#sthash.DmOTLKQ6.dpuf

1 box (7 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Red Quinoa (Grocery Dept), cooked per pkg directions, chilled 20 min
1 pkg (12 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Just Picked and Quickly Frozen Super-Sweet Corn, thawed
1 cup  finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup  green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
2  plum tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice (about 1 cup)
2  avocados, peeled, pitted, cubed small
1/2 cup  Food You Feel Good About Lemon Vinaigrette (Produce Dept)
1/2 tsp  salt
1/2 tsp  pepper - See more at: http://www.wegmans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10052&partNumber=RECIPE_14888#sthash.DmOTLKQ6.dpuf

1 box (7 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Red Quinoa (Grocery Dept), cooked per pkg directions, chilled 20 min
1 pkg (12 oz)  Food You Feel Good About Just Picked and Quickly Frozen Super-Sweet Corn, thawed
1 cup  finely chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup  green onions, thinly sliced on the bias
2  plum tomatoes, 1/4-inch dice (about 1 cup)
2  avocados, peeled, pitted, cubed small
1/2 cup  Food You Feel Good About Lemon Vinaigrette (Produce Dept)
1/2 tsp  salt
1/2 tsp  pepper - See more at: http://www.wegmans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10052&partNumber=RECIPE_14888#sthash.DmOTLKQ6.dpuf