There’s so much about local food to savor. Just this past week, I spent time contemplating how very delicate lettuce is in comparison to the hearty arugula that preceded it in my salad bowl just weeks ago. I also bit into my first of the season tart Zestar apple (and I could go on—and on—about how much I’d missed local apples this end-of-spring and summer; I couldn’t eat any of the ones marked Argentina or Chile this year, couldn’t justify it for taste or politics).
Far more even than the flavors being so vibrant is the sense that one’s friends and neighbors grow the food, one degree of separation from its glory bursting along with earthy, piquant or sweet tastes in your mouth. As the farmers’ smiles grow wearier from heat and work and worry and more work and more heat, my appreciation for their efforts grows. Zoe, who lives on our top floor, has been on the weeding crew at Brookfield Farm. That each morning, so many hands clear the way for the veggies to push themselves toward the sun makes the whole enterprise that much more astonishing, that much more imbued with love and good cheer.
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I’ve been thinking about farms this week (for a story I’m writing), their prettiness and asking people why they love a particular farmer’s market or farmstand and I’m enjoying images and conversations and people’s reflections. Like the astounding decision by Judge Vaughn in California affirming civil rights and declaring Proposition 8 unconstitutional, incredible good news doesn’t erase all that remains seemingly untenable (I won’t endeavor to make a list here). One of the most compelling parts of the local food movement to me is this: it’s so positive.
The longer my life goes on—including as citizen and parent—I feel increasingly certain change, the kind that’s lasting, the kind we build on most solidly, comes from the affirmative. It’s so much more natural to thrive than to push against defeat. Reading a column Roger Ebert wrote on Election Night 2008 brought me back to that glorious, incredulous feeling we all called hope. Personally, I do my best when I have lots of it.
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I spent a mere two summers practically living in gardens (at Vermont’s Farm and Wilderness camps, first as camper and then counselor). Although it’s been ages and I’m growing nothing these days (well, four children under my nurturance sometimes do seem to rise faster than weeds), I can tap into memories of that particular awe, that quiet-yet-humming peace experienced by the beans or amongst the carrots. I didn’t feel it dealing with the potato bugs, I’ll admit.
This week, I met, in person and for long enough to hope I get to meet up with her much more often, Madeline Weaver Blanchette. She was at Tuesday Market handing out flyers for the Ward 3 Vegetable Garden Tour she’s helping to organize this coming weekend. Think of the tour as a chance to see labors of love in action.
Even if you don’t live here or can’t go, though, I’m going to urge you to do this wherever you are: try to find a way to harvest some food. Go berry picking or peach or apple picking if you aren’t gardening yourself this year (or even if you are). If you live in a city where orchards and CSA cherry tomato patches aren’t on hand, go to a Farmer’s Market or even buy a basil plant and pick leaves to season your next soup. Trust that partaking in that hand to mouth connection is a step toward your happiness and the planet’s wellbeing.
Hand to mouth, heart to beauty, these are tiny steps, sure, but the connections to the larger changes necessary can only become clear by starting. It’s like the beleaguered Coach Taylor reminds his team: Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose!
