The 100-mile Diet
No oranges or lemons or limes. No olive oil. No rice. If I was seriously going to attempt the 100-Mile Diet (not a diet but a focus on eating foods grown or produced within 100 miles of where you live), it would mean the loss of some of my favorite things.
But the concept, from Plenty by Alisa Smith and J.B. Mackinnon, has me thinking about how I can support the local or semi-local farmer, the local dairy, the local farmer's markets. And when you start to think about something, it has a way of smacking you upside the head. Today I noticed, as I was driving home, a sign for a farmstand. Keep in mind that I have been driving this road for two years and never before noticed the sign. Hard to miss: red and white, large home-made lettering, clear directions. I followed the turn to the right, then continued along what quickly turned from big-box retail and gas stations into farmland. Two more signs, urging me on, letting me know that I had only 1500 feet to travel, then 1000 feet to travel, until I reached the farmstand. Corn and tomatoes and cukes advertised on one of those large mobile, lit-up signs.
A bit unsure of what I would find, but feeling that something was pointing me toward the place, I turned into the driveway and pulled around to a small, gravel-covered lot. Four cars, no one in sight. And a sign with the farmstand hours posted. Open 10 am to 5 pm, and it was 5:20 pm. I felt like a thwarted explorer. And I wondered about the politics of the hours: didn't that mean that a working person can't shop at the farmstand? On the other hand, the place is only ten minutes from work, and maybe I could dash over on a lunch hour to check it out.
The cynic in me was wondering, though, whether any of the farmstand produce was grown around here. It's too early for tomatoes in Chicago, and doubly so for corn. But doubting the sincerity of the farmstand got me thinking about food and farming and picking your own produce. Years ago, every summer in Ohio, we would trek out to a Pick-your-own farm and take home boxes of berries. In one day, I would cook it down, can it, and set several jars of strawberry preserves in the basement for winter eating and for gifts.. It is one long, very hot, sticky day in a summer kitchen, but I still can summon up the taste of the preserves. It also pleased my grandfather, a self-made man, who showed pleasure at seeing one of his grandchildren practicing a traditional art. We're close to Michigan here: maybe I'll go berry picking this summer?
But the concept, from Plenty by Alisa Smith and J.B. Mackinnon, has me thinking about how I can support the local or semi-local farmer, the local dairy, the local farmer's markets. And when you start to think about something, it has a way of smacking you upside the head. Today I noticed, as I was driving home, a sign for a farmstand. Keep in mind that I have been driving this road for two years and never before noticed the sign. Hard to miss: red and white, large home-made lettering, clear directions. I followed the turn to the right, then continued along what quickly turned from big-box retail and gas stations into farmland. Two more signs, urging me on, letting me know that I had only 1500 feet to travel, then 1000 feet to travel, until I reached the farmstand. Corn and tomatoes and cukes advertised on one of those large mobile, lit-up signs.
A bit unsure of what I would find, but feeling that something was pointing me toward the place, I turned into the driveway and pulled around to a small, gravel-covered lot. Four cars, no one in sight. And a sign with the farmstand hours posted. Open 10 am to 5 pm, and it was 5:20 pm. I felt like a thwarted explorer. And I wondered about the politics of the hours: didn't that mean that a working person can't shop at the farmstand? On the other hand, the place is only ten minutes from work, and maybe I could dash over on a lunch hour to check it out.
The cynic in me was wondering, though, whether any of the farmstand produce was grown around here. It's too early for tomatoes in Chicago, and doubly so for corn. But doubting the sincerity of the farmstand got me thinking about food and farming and picking your own produce. Years ago, every summer in Ohio, we would trek out to a Pick-your-own farm and take home boxes of berries. In one day, I would cook it down, can it, and set several jars of strawberry preserves in the basement for winter eating and for gifts.. It is one long, very hot, sticky day in a summer kitchen, but I still can summon up the taste of the preserves. It also pleased my grandfather, a self-made man, who showed pleasure at seeing one of his grandchildren practicing a traditional art. We're close to Michigan here: maybe I'll go berry picking this summer?
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