I’ve been in Italy 2 days, and already have had some great adventure. I spent the first two days in Torino with Nathan and his mom. We ate a lot. I had a meeting with some folks at Slow Food on the day Mrs. Leamy had to fly out, so I left on the train early in the morning with plans for Nathan to meet me in Bra (the town) later that afternoon. It seemed very simple: I had train ticket to Carmagnola where I was to transfer to a bus to Bra, arriving with an hour and half to spare.
I was at the door as my train approached Carmagnola, ready to jump out, but the button that opens the door didn’t do a thing and I found myself still on the train as it pulled out of the station. What to do but stay there and get out at the next station and then try to figure out how to get to Bra from there? Fortunately, the woman in the ticket office spoke enough English to understand my story and give me a ticket back to Carmagnola (fortunately, towns in Italy are very close together). I got to Carmagnola and things got a little more complicated. I had already missed my scheduled bus to Bra and wanted to find out where and when to get the next one. The station was tiny – basically a platform and a few chairs – and no one in the ticket booth. I found a bus and driver waiting out front and tried to ask the driver about getting to Bra. He didn’t speak a word of French or English and I thought I was out of luck and about to miss my meetings. I was wandering around, trying to decipher the posted schedules, when he motioned for me to come back. He took my bag and motioned for me to get on the bus. I followed, thinking that this must be the Bra bus.
The driver put me in the seat next to him, and that was when I noticed I was the only one on the bus. Then the realization: “Oh my god, he’s going to give me a ride to Bra!” Seemed crazy, but we had no shared language so I went with it. It took 45 minutes to drive there, during which we somehow conversed about all sorts of things in our separate languages. He didn’t know my hotel, so called the number I had to find out where it was. I told him I was a tourist, and a student of agriculture. He told me he lives alone in a big house in Liguoria where he hosts students on some sort of hospitality basis. He told me I should come stay there instead of my hotel. I wanted to halt that idea pretty quick, so told him, by moving my ring to my 4th finger and trying out a few words, that I was meeting my “husband” at the hotel. At first I think he thought I was asking him to marry me, but I eventually go the point across. He wanted to know if my husband was Italian, so I told him he was American. He asked how old I was and was surprised to learn my real age. And he kept telling me I was a “bella donna Canadese” (a beautiful Canadian woman) and he was an Italian....something.
We drove into Bra and I told him I just needed to go to the station. He kept driving past it, at which point I started to get a little nervous. Turned out he was just taking me closer to my hotel. He dropped me off at the side of the road and pointed in the direction of my hotel which was down a tiny street near a little piazza. I don’t really know how this all happened – the bus trip or the 45 minute conversation – but I was pretty glad it did. I got to Bra just in time to drop my bags at the very cute B&B and grab a really great Italian coffee on my way to my meeting. More about all that later.
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
Monday, 14 April 2008
The back story
Doing a PhD can be a long and lonely path. At one point it felt like an existential crisis, but I've since begun to think of it as an existential journey. From time to time along this journey, I question what I'm doing, how I'm doing it, why I'm doing it, and what might come out of it at the end. (I'm hoping it will actually end one day). That often makes me think about how I became so interested in food in the first place. I grew up far from any farm, and somehow I now find myself writing a dissertation on agriculture.
Anyone who knew me as a child would probably never have guessed I would end up studying nutrition and food. I was possibly the pickiest eater ever. I didn't like eating at all, and only ate a select few things, making family mealtimes stressful. I would eat meat, but only if it was processed enough that it couldn't be recognized as animal flesh. I didn't eat many fruits or vegetables either, so it was a good thing that my grandmother made just about the best bread in the world. Of course, Newfoundland in the 1970s wasn't exactly a haven for fresh, local food. Vegetables came from who knows where, and were a far cry from the fresh, flavourful vegetables I have access to now on the west coast. It was the age of mixes—cake mix, instant mashed potato mix, pie mix, sugary drink mix, pancake mix....you get the idea. Scratch cooking was out of fashion, and my family was no exception. As a case in point, our traditional Saturday night dinner consisted of frozen McCain french fries and boiled or fried bologna. Maybe if we had regular access to the kind of food I eat now, I would have been much less picky.
Despite my lack of gastronomic experience, I do have fond childhood memories of growing and gathering food. I think my grandparents are largely responsible for any interest I had in food. My grandfather (Uncle Frank, to those who knew him) always kept a vegetable garden in their backyard. He mostly grew potatoes and carrots, probably because that was about as much as one could hope for in that soil and climate. I remember climbing up the cherry tree behind those same grandparents house, eating almost as many cherries as I could pick.
Every fall, I would tirelessly pick blueberries and partridgeberries in the woods behind my other grandparents' house around The Bay. This effort inevitably ended with me sitting at the kitchen table being presented with a bowl of freshly picked berries and cream by my grandmother. Below that kitchen was a root cellar where they stored the potatoes and turnips and other things that grandfather (Bop, to those who knew him) grew in his plot in the forest. I was fascinated by the dark damp space from which food would occasionally emerge. When not picking berries, I would go fishing with Bop, jigging for what seemed like an endless supply of giant cod, and occasionally squid or lobster. He would clean and cut them in the boat before docking at some small island to cook up a feast of fish and brewis (although my pickiness ensured that my participation in the meal ended with the fishing, something I sorely regret now that I know what I was missing). Every once in a while, Bop would trick me into helping him catch rabbits, also for food. He would tempt me into a walk in the woods with him, which I loved, and suddenly I would find there was an ulterior motive, as Bop collected a dead rabbit from a hidden snare.
Just down the road from my grandparents' house in The Bay, my aunt Marie was an avid gardener. I remember her taking me out to a collection of gardens she looked after around the small town. She managed to produce all manner of vegetables—corn, broccoli, beets, bitter greens, cauliflower, tomatoes, lettuces. She was a huge fan of home grown food. For some reason I don't recall actually eating this food, but mostly learning from my aunt about the importance of nurturing plants and connecting with and respecting Nature. Years later, my cousin married a farmer. They were much older than me, and as I child I idolized him, and I loved to be taken out to see the farm he was struggling so hard to maintain.
Despite my lack of enthusiasm for eating, I developed a great fondness for cooking and baking. I still remember my little Easy Bake Oven and the tiny cakes that would come out of it. By the time I was a teenager I had started cooking my own meals, largely to support my now official vegetarianism. As I began cooking, I began experimenting will all manner of new foods, and simply deciding that I would like them.* One of my favourite places in town was Mary Janes, the one and only (and now defunct) health food store in St. John's. There I could find bulk grains and dried fruit, whole grain baked goods, and tofu veggie burgers. My other favourite place was Lars Market. Lars was an old fashioned produce market, one of the last to survive in a land of large chain grocery stores. It had an ever-glowing line of blinking coloured lights rimming the display windows outside. I loved the colours and the smells, and the exotic imported fruits they sometimes had. And the custard cones. Real soft serve ice cream made the original way, with custard powder. Such a creamy rich flavour and sumptuous texture.
One of most influential moments of my initial forays into foodie-ism happened on a high-school trip I took to New Brunswick to visit my friend Lori. By this point I had long gotten over my pickiness. Lori and I were visiting her grandmother in the Miramichi. We picked the salad for dinner out of the backyard garden. It was the first time I remember eating anything so fresh, except for berries. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the sweet tomatoes bursting full of flavour in my mouth, and the crisp juicy greens crunching between my teeth. It was a spiritual experience, and I felt very connected to....something. I would never forget how wonderful a freshly picked vegetable can be.
Around the same time, I was taking a high school nutrition course. Mrs. Zwicker was the one who taught me that food is political. I learned about the environmental impacts of factory meat production. I learned about the evils of trans fats as an unfortunate creation of the food industry. I learned about world hunger, and about Nestle's practice of pushing baby formula in Africa, effectively killing thousands of babies fed formula made with non-potable water and improper proportions. Not to mention their promotion of Carnation Milk as an acceptable baby food in the outports of Newfoundland not long before. That became my first boycott, which I've pretty much maintained since 1988.
Once I went off to university and lived in residence, I was forced to find my food in the Laurier cafeteria. Vegetarianism wasn't so popular in Kitchener in those days, and I found myself getting malnourished and anemic on my diet of milk, bran muffins, and lettuce sandwiches. I was far more content once I got my own apartment and was able to be fully responsible for feeding myself. Those days were my first introduction to the farmers' market. The nearby Mennonite town of St. Jacob's has one of the biggest and well known markets in the country. Here I first bought food straight from the farmers, where I was able to ask about their pesticide use and other practices. It was a long bike ride uphill to get there, but it was always worth it.
Living back in Kitchener a few years later, I was at the local market at 7am every Saturday morning. That was where I began working at Full Circle Natural Foods where I became well versed in the ways of ethical meat, organic farming, food additives, and all manner of food politics. I eventually worked up to Purchasing Manager, giving me a peak into the world of the health food industry. At the time I still held idealistic views of this industry that I now know has been profit-driven and co-opted by the Big Guys.
I left Kitchener to finally get a university degree and studied nutrition at Mount Saint Vincent in Halifax. I went in with ideas of doing nutrition counselling, and came out with a deep concern for community based nutrition, food culture, poverty, and global hunger. Here I learned about Structural Adjustment, global agriculture, and childhood malnutrition. I also delved into some of the dark side of food safety and regulation, researching the controversy around the approval of bovine growth hormone (rBST) and a brand new technology producing genetically modified foods.
I came out to Vancouver to do a master's degree in nutrition, but left after a semester because I disagreed with the focus of the program there. I missed food work and finally got in touch with a local women's shelter where I started a community kitchens program. I eventually got to do some work on contaminants in the food supply, which readily took my focus away from my master's degree in occupational hygiene. In the end, I realized I was meant to work with food, and the existential journey began.
* Since that time, I've only tasted one food that I wholeheartedly dislike: parsnips. They are like failed, anemic carrots and I just can't get into them.
Anyone who knew me as a child would probably never have guessed I would end up studying nutrition and food. I was possibly the pickiest eater ever. I didn't like eating at all, and only ate a select few things, making family mealtimes stressful. I would eat meat, but only if it was processed enough that it couldn't be recognized as animal flesh. I didn't eat many fruits or vegetables either, so it was a good thing that my grandmother made just about the best bread in the world. Of course, Newfoundland in the 1970s wasn't exactly a haven for fresh, local food. Vegetables came from who knows where, and were a far cry from the fresh, flavourful vegetables I have access to now on the west coast. It was the age of mixes—cake mix, instant mashed potato mix, pie mix, sugary drink mix, pancake mix....you get the idea. Scratch cooking was out of fashion, and my family was no exception. As a case in point, our traditional Saturday night dinner consisted of frozen McCain french fries and boiled or fried bologna. Maybe if we had regular access to the kind of food I eat now, I would have been much less picky.
Despite my lack of gastronomic experience, I do have fond childhood memories of growing and gathering food. I think my grandparents are largely responsible for any interest I had in food. My grandfather (Uncle Frank, to those who knew him) always kept a vegetable garden in their backyard. He mostly grew potatoes and carrots, probably because that was about as much as one could hope for in that soil and climate. I remember climbing up the cherry tree behind those same grandparents house, eating almost as many cherries as I could pick.
Every fall, I would tirelessly pick blueberries and partridgeberries in the woods behind my other grandparents' house around The Bay. This effort inevitably ended with me sitting at the kitchen table being presented with a bowl of freshly picked berries and cream by my grandmother. Below that kitchen was a root cellar where they stored the potatoes and turnips and other things that grandfather (Bop, to those who knew him) grew in his plot in the forest. I was fascinated by the dark damp space from which food would occasionally emerge. When not picking berries, I would go fishing with Bop, jigging for what seemed like an endless supply of giant cod, and occasionally squid or lobster. He would clean and cut them in the boat before docking at some small island to cook up a feast of fish and brewis (although my pickiness ensured that my participation in the meal ended with the fishing, something I sorely regret now that I know what I was missing). Every once in a while, Bop would trick me into helping him catch rabbits, also for food. He would tempt me into a walk in the woods with him, which I loved, and suddenly I would find there was an ulterior motive, as Bop collected a dead rabbit from a hidden snare.
Just down the road from my grandparents' house in The Bay, my aunt Marie was an avid gardener. I remember her taking me out to a collection of gardens she looked after around the small town. She managed to produce all manner of vegetables—corn, broccoli, beets, bitter greens, cauliflower, tomatoes, lettuces. She was a huge fan of home grown food. For some reason I don't recall actually eating this food, but mostly learning from my aunt about the importance of nurturing plants and connecting with and respecting Nature. Years later, my cousin married a farmer. They were much older than me, and as I child I idolized him, and I loved to be taken out to see the farm he was struggling so hard to maintain.
Despite my lack of enthusiasm for eating, I developed a great fondness for cooking and baking. I still remember my little Easy Bake Oven and the tiny cakes that would come out of it. By the time I was a teenager I had started cooking my own meals, largely to support my now official vegetarianism. As I began cooking, I began experimenting will all manner of new foods, and simply deciding that I would like them.* One of my favourite places in town was Mary Janes, the one and only (and now defunct) health food store in St. John's. There I could find bulk grains and dried fruit, whole grain baked goods, and tofu veggie burgers. My other favourite place was Lars Market. Lars was an old fashioned produce market, one of the last to survive in a land of large chain grocery stores. It had an ever-glowing line of blinking coloured lights rimming the display windows outside. I loved the colours and the smells, and the exotic imported fruits they sometimes had. And the custard cones. Real soft serve ice cream made the original way, with custard powder. Such a creamy rich flavour and sumptuous texture.
One of most influential moments of my initial forays into foodie-ism happened on a high-school trip I took to New Brunswick to visit my friend Lori. By this point I had long gotten over my pickiness. Lori and I were visiting her grandmother in the Miramichi. We picked the salad for dinner out of the backyard garden. It was the first time I remember eating anything so fresh, except for berries. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the sweet tomatoes bursting full of flavour in my mouth, and the crisp juicy greens crunching between my teeth. It was a spiritual experience, and I felt very connected to....something. I would never forget how wonderful a freshly picked vegetable can be.
Around the same time, I was taking a high school nutrition course. Mrs. Zwicker was the one who taught me that food is political. I learned about the environmental impacts of factory meat production. I learned about the evils of trans fats as an unfortunate creation of the food industry. I learned about world hunger, and about Nestle's practice of pushing baby formula in Africa, effectively killing thousands of babies fed formula made with non-potable water and improper proportions. Not to mention their promotion of Carnation Milk as an acceptable baby food in the outports of Newfoundland not long before. That became my first boycott, which I've pretty much maintained since 1988.
Once I went off to university and lived in residence, I was forced to find my food in the Laurier cafeteria. Vegetarianism wasn't so popular in Kitchener in those days, and I found myself getting malnourished and anemic on my diet of milk, bran muffins, and lettuce sandwiches. I was far more content once I got my own apartment and was able to be fully responsible for feeding myself. Those days were my first introduction to the farmers' market. The nearby Mennonite town of St. Jacob's has one of the biggest and well known markets in the country. Here I first bought food straight from the farmers, where I was able to ask about their pesticide use and other practices. It was a long bike ride uphill to get there, but it was always worth it.
Living back in Kitchener a few years later, I was at the local market at 7am every Saturday morning. That was where I began working at Full Circle Natural Foods where I became well versed in the ways of ethical meat, organic farming, food additives, and all manner of food politics. I eventually worked up to Purchasing Manager, giving me a peak into the world of the health food industry. At the time I still held idealistic views of this industry that I now know has been profit-driven and co-opted by the Big Guys.
I left Kitchener to finally get a university degree and studied nutrition at Mount Saint Vincent in Halifax. I went in with ideas of doing nutrition counselling, and came out with a deep concern for community based nutrition, food culture, poverty, and global hunger. Here I learned about Structural Adjustment, global agriculture, and childhood malnutrition. I also delved into some of the dark side of food safety and regulation, researching the controversy around the approval of bovine growth hormone (rBST) and a brand new technology producing genetically modified foods.
I came out to Vancouver to do a master's degree in nutrition, but left after a semester because I disagreed with the focus of the program there. I missed food work and finally got in touch with a local women's shelter where I started a community kitchens program. I eventually got to do some work on contaminants in the food supply, which readily took my focus away from my master's degree in occupational hygiene. In the end, I realized I was meant to work with food, and the existential journey began.
* Since that time, I've only tasted one food that I wholeheartedly dislike: parsnips. They are like failed, anemic carrots and I just can't get into them.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Flipper pie, anyone?
The Newfoundland seal hunt officially began today, and I don't feel I can let the moment go unnoticed, especially as I know Paul Watson's ship is on its way to the Grand Banks. Some might say my history makes me biased, but I've thought about this a lot and I think I have a fairly balanced view of the whole situation.
Watson and his Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, along with other groups such as the International Fund for Animal Welfare, are doing everything they can to once again shut down the North Atlantic seal hunt. Didn't they learn anything from the stupidity of Paul McCartney's comments to Rex Murphy last year? I am not exactly a vociferous carnivore, I don't exactly have a lot of fur in my wardrobe, and seeing cruelty of any kind hurts me to the very core of my being, but I do not agree with this effort to stop the hunt.
The debates pro and con the hunt are easily available online. And yes, it can be considered cruel and it is ugly to see. No form of killing, no matter how humanely done, is pretty. What really bothers me, aside from the inaccurate information touted by these organizations—they kill baby seals; it's only for the fur; they skin them alive; they kill them more brutally than necessary......in fact, seal meat is a Newfoundland delicacy; it's been illegal to kill white coats for 20 years; the hakapik and the club look nasty, but kill quickly, and quick is what you want—is the hypocricy.
Paul Watson claims to be upholding international law by his activities, which include ramming sealing ships on the North Atlantic, putting hundreds of lives at serious risk. A few minutes after making this claim in an interview with Shelagh Rogers today, he followed with "I don't really have much respect for the Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans." These would be some of the people making the laws. Hmmm, something isn't quite right here. Watson is breaking international law to stop something that is fully within international law. (Unlike Sea Shepherd's fight against many other kinds of marine hunting, the Canadian seal hunt is fully legal.)
It's not so much that I am pro sealing; I'm just not violenty opposed to it. And I do adore seals. It's just that I see this issue as an easy target. Hunting seals on the ice provides vivid imagery. They are furry and cute, even after their coats turn grey. Red blood shed on white snow makes a striking picture. The cries of seals sound eerie against the silence of the north. It is exactly because we can see all this that we are bothered by it. And we should be bothered by it. The killing of living beings, regardless of how humanely it is done or for what purpose, should never be taken lightly.
My question to people who oppose the hunt is this: Have you ever eaten meat that came from the supermarket, a fast food outlet, or pretty much anywhere other than your own farm? If you answer yes, I don't think you have the moral right to oppose the seal hunt. The atrocities that occur in CAFOs and industrial slaughterhouses are well documented by journalists and authors from Upton Sinclair's The Jungle (1906) to Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma (2006).
Our food system is wrought with problems, particularly in the way we produce and process animals. The success of this system is dependent on people's ignorance of what is really going on. It would take a hardened soul to visit a CAFO and slaughterhouse and immediately after sit down with a burger. But we buy our meat ready-cooked, or on nice little styrofoam trays at the supermarket. We no longer even need to visit the butcher, where evidence of the fact that we are consuming flesh is still evident, even if hidden behind the plastic curtain. Whether it is meat, organic spray cans of pancake mix, or so-called organic lettuce, we are disconnected from our food sources and rarely know where it has come from, how it got here, or even what's really in it (who can understand the ingredient lists on most foods without a chemistry degree?).
And so we see the brutal reality of the seal hunt, and naturally it stirs feelings of disgust and remorse. If we could see the brutality or absurdity of many of the other foods we eat, wouldn't we have the same reaction? I think so. Aside from meat, our carefully constructed processed food products systematically remove any remnants of nature or real food from the things we eat. We rape the land of its fertility by growing crops in huge chemical-dependent monocultures. We allow rural communities to decay because small farmers can't squeak out a living growing real food. We use huge amounts of oil shipping food back and forth across the globe in the name of efficiency, even those foods that we can grow locally.
In the end, I think the debate over whether the seal hunt
is or isn't excessively cruel is irrelevant. (Never mind issues of cultural heritage, disappearing cod stocks, attacks on fisherman, slander of the Newfoundland people, and so on.) The sanctioned violence in the mainstream industrial food system far outweighs anything that happens on an ice floe a few weeks each year. The social and ecological violence caused by industrial farming, processing, and long distance transport is massive, but how can it ever compete with those big brown eyes* looking into the barrel of a rifle?
*And why do they always show pictures of the whitecoats, which are not part of the hunt? If they have a legitimate issue, they shouldn't have to stretch the truth to get support.
Watson and his Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, along with other groups such as the International Fund for Animal Welfare, are doing everything they can to once again shut down the North Atlantic seal hunt. Didn't they learn anything from the stupidity of Paul McCartney's comments to Rex Murphy last year? I am not exactly a vociferous carnivore, I don't exactly have a lot of fur in my wardrobe, and seeing cruelty of any kind hurts me to the very core of my being, but I do not agree with this effort to stop the hunt.
The debates pro and con the hunt are easily available online. And yes, it can be considered cruel and it is ugly to see. No form of killing, no matter how humanely done, is pretty. What really bothers me, aside from the inaccurate information touted by these organizations—they kill baby seals; it's only for the fur; they skin them alive; they kill them more brutally than necessary......in fact, seal meat is a Newfoundland delicacy; it's been illegal to kill white coats for 20 years; the hakapik and the club look nasty, but kill quickly, and quick is what you want—is the hypocricy.
Paul Watson claims to be upholding international law by his activities, which include ramming sealing ships on the North Atlantic, putting hundreds of lives at serious risk. A few minutes after making this claim in an interview with Shelagh Rogers today, he followed with "I don't really have much respect for the Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans." These would be some of the people making the laws. Hmmm, something isn't quite right here. Watson is breaking international law to stop something that is fully within international law. (Unlike Sea Shepherd's fight against many other kinds of marine hunting, the Canadian seal hunt is fully legal.)
It's not so much that I am pro sealing; I'm just not violenty opposed to it. And I do adore seals. It's just that I see this issue as an easy target. Hunting seals on the ice provides vivid imagery. They are furry and cute, even after their coats turn grey. Red blood shed on white snow makes a striking picture. The cries of seals sound eerie against the silence of the north. It is exactly because we can see all this that we are bothered by it. And we should be bothered by it. The killing of living beings, regardless of how humanely it is done or for what purpose, should never be taken lightly.
My question to people who oppose the hunt is this: Have you ever eaten meat that came from the supermarket, a fast food outlet, or pretty much anywhere other than your own farm? If you answer yes, I don't think you have the moral right to oppose the seal hunt. The atrocities that occur in CAFOs and industrial slaughterhouses are well documented by journalists and authors from Upton Sinclair's The Jungle (1906) to Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma (2006).
Our food system is wrought with problems, particularly in the way we produce and process animals. The success of this system is dependent on people's ignorance of what is really going on. It would take a hardened soul to visit a CAFO and slaughterhouse and immediately after sit down with a burger. But we buy our meat ready-cooked, or on nice little styrofoam trays at the supermarket. We no longer even need to visit the butcher, where evidence of the fact that we are consuming flesh is still evident, even if hidden behind the plastic curtain. Whether it is meat, organic spray cans of pancake mix, or so-called organic lettuce, we are disconnected from our food sources and rarely know where it has come from, how it got here, or even what's really in it (who can understand the ingredient lists on most foods without a chemistry degree?).
And so we see the brutal reality of the seal hunt, and naturally it stirs feelings of disgust and remorse. If we could see the brutality or absurdity of many of the other foods we eat, wouldn't we have the same reaction? I think so. Aside from meat, our carefully constructed processed food products systematically remove any remnants of nature or real food from the things we eat. We rape the land of its fertility by growing crops in huge chemical-dependent monocultures. We allow rural communities to decay because small farmers can't squeak out a living growing real food. We use huge amounts of oil shipping food back and forth across the globe in the name of efficiency, even those foods that we can grow locally.
In the end, I think the debate over whether the seal hunt
is or isn't excessively cruel is irrelevant. (Never mind issues of cultural heritage, disappearing cod stocks, attacks on fisherman, slander of the Newfoundland people, and so on.) The sanctioned violence in the mainstream industrial food system far outweighs anything that happens on an ice floe a few weeks each year. The social and ecological violence caused by industrial farming, processing, and long distance transport is massive, but how can it ever compete with those big brown eyes* looking into the barrel of a rifle?
*And why do they always show pictures of the whitecoats, which are not part of the hunt? If they have a legitimate issue, they shouldn't have to stretch the truth to get support.
Monday, 24 March 2008
Down on the farm, on the radio
Back in October, I was at Bija Vidyapeeth, home of Navdanya's organic teaching farm and seed bank just outside of Dehradun, India. While I was there, Bija Vidyapeeth was host to Vasundhara, a huge gathering of farmers from all over India who came together to talk about farmers' rights, traditional regional crops, and seed saving.
Tonight, while cooking up a nice late winter supper of noodles, kale and chickpeas in a peanut sauce, I turned on CBC Radio and found that tonight's episode of Dispatches had a piece on Indian farmers' civil disobedience. Turns out it was recorded by David Kattenburg, a freelance journalist from Winnipeg who I met during Vasundhara. Next thing I knew, I heard my own voice talking about my research.
Missed it? No need to panic, because you listen here or download the podcast. (It's the second part after the stuff about Chavez and his Venezuelan baseball players.)
Tonight, while cooking up a nice late winter supper of noodles, kale and chickpeas in a peanut sauce, I turned on CBC Radio and found that tonight's episode of Dispatches had a piece on Indian farmers' civil disobedience. Turns out it was recorded by David Kattenburg, a freelance journalist from Winnipeg who I met during Vasundhara. Next thing I knew, I heard my own voice talking about my research.
Missed it? No need to panic, because you listen here or download the podcast. (It's the second part after the stuff about Chavez and his Venezuelan baseball players.)
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Organics Gone Wild
Um, I should probably refrain from writing about this until the shock wears off, but I just can't wait. Thanks to one of my trusty food-nerd listervs, I just discovered this new "food," if I can use the term loosely. Batter Blaster is a spray can of pancake/waffle batter. It's like CoolWhip or spray cheese that you squirt directly onto the skillet and cook like a pancake. 
This alone is worthy of comment. The ad talks about how labourious it is to mix up milk, eggs, and flour to make pancake batter for one's children. (I've never timed myself doing it, but I think that process takes about 3 minutes.) I am of the old school mindset that pancake mix was a ridiculous thing; is it really so hard to mix 3 ingredients, or so much easier to "just add water"? Especially if one is concerned about providing a wholesome breakfast for the family, as the Batter Blaster ad says.
It's really worth the time to watch the demo video from the website. It shows a miserable child pouting while waiting (apparently for aeons) while her mother mixes up pancakes. This raises a few points in my mind. First, it doesn't take long to mix pancake batter. More importantly, while is the child sitting miserably while her mother does it? Why isn't she helping, and learning how real food works and how to make it? Children take great pleasure in mixing up goopy things and can learn a lot from doing it. This child, who will be an adult one day, may never know what pancakes really are: flour and eggs and milk. What will she do when oil and commodity prices go so high that it's no longer economical to process the hell out of everything and we have to go back to [gasp!] actually cooking? I suppose we can only hope that she is wealthy enough to hire an immigrant cook, displaced from her own country by the impacts of climate change on food production.
Cultural trends in cooking skills aside, what really got my attention about Batter Blaster is the fact that it is USDA certified organic. That's right. Organic. You know, that movement started by a bunch of hippies interested in getting in touch with the land, stepping outside the corporate system, living sustainably, and eating wholesome food. What has happened to a regulatory system that will certify spraycan pancakes as organic?
I will admit, the ingredient list isn't as bad as I expected, nor as frightening as some other foods found in spray cans. Still, aside from the flour and cane sugar (I'm amazed it's not corn syrup!), all of the ingredients are chemicals derived from commodity crops. They are not in fact actual foods and never were. The crop varieties used to produce these constituents ('ingredient' seems too generous a term here) are not actually edible in their raw form, yet their descriptions on the label make them seem fairly innocuous. It's what goes on between the farm and the spray can than nobody knows anything about, and that's the part that really scares me.
Batter Blaster Ingredients:
Filtered water; Organic wheat flour (unbleached); Organic cane sugar; Organic whole egg solids; Organic soybean powder; Sodium lactate (lactic acid from beet sugar); DiCalcium phosphate and Sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) (leavening agents); Organic rice bran extract propellant
Part of me wonders if this is all real, or just a fabulous joke. I sincerely hope it's a hoax, but I'm not that confident. I think it is a frightening commentary on our culture that we put so little value on the time it takes to prepare a meal. I refuse to accept that spending 5 minutes — or 3 hours — cooking food is a waste of my time. It's creative and nurturing to feed people, and by putting a little time and effort into it we can hopefully find our meals fulfilling, rather than simply filling.
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