Fall 2015 - Food Literacy

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Volume 38 Issue 1

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The marks from the last beating had almost faded away. Rubis had been out from sun-up to sundown the previous day, fishing and foraging for wild berries for he and his wife; Lila had threatened to do serious damage if her half-wit of a husband couldn’t find enough to feed her. Now, brilliant rays shining through the one window of his thatch hut, Rubis’ body groaned and protested getting up. He hadn’t had time to wash up in the river last night and his hands and knees were still covered in dirt and mud. Lila would be furious if she found him in this state. He sat up and used his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The hay she allowed him to sleep on was filthy.

Morning in the Ati Verde Valley was one of the most beautiful sights in the world.

From where Rubis and Lila’s abodes were, crouched at the base of the Yeil mountains, they had a picturesque view down into lush rolling hills and the light-blue waters of Beil Lake, which sparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight. If the garden of Eden existed on Earth, this would be it.

Rubis headed out and immediately began his daily chores. In the fifty-eight years since their arranged marriage, he had never once gone a day without doing his chores. He did his chores in the same order every day: first, feed Delilah the cow and Boris and Dolly the chickens, then water and tend the garden, followed by fixing breakfast for Lila, after which Rubis would clean up after her, then tidy her cabin. If he ever took so much as a two minute break before all his chores were completed, Lila would burst out of the cabin and administer a beating.

But Rubis didn’t mind. He had always been slow since birth, so he had grown to love the simplicity of his daily routine. He didn’t mind sleeping on hay in a hut while his wife slept on a comfortable bed in a cozy log cabin; he knew that life had to be this way and that this was the best life he deserved because he was lazy and stupid and repulsive – Lila told him so. It was lucky, Lila always reminded him, that their parents had arranged for their marriage, otherwise he may never have found such a wonderful woman.

Besides, without him, who would fetch food for her? He knew that was why she loved him. She could never walk the seven miles into Ati every four days to buy their stock of food, but Rubis could.

And if he didn’t –

“Rubis what you out here daydreamin’ for? There’s work to be done!” Lila flung open the cabin door and came at him with the club, her grey locks flailing wildly about her head.

He dropped his hoe and ran from her, hands covering his head.

“Don’t – please –”

She raised the club high and brought it down, stopping just above his skull. “Next time it’ll be bad. And there better not be a next time! Don’t you forget tomorrow is food day,” she said, and climbed the three wooden steps back into the cabin. The slam of the door echoed through the valley.

Tomorrow was food day. But she didn’t need to remind him – he knew well what days he should be prepared to awake early in order to finish his chores and walk the long distance into Ati for their weekly supply of food.

He never forgot, yet she reminded him every time. She was, he reflected, just looking out for their best interest making sure he wouldn’t forget.

After he finished his chores, Lila allowed Rubis a “free time” until supper came around. He usually went for walks down in the valley, fished in the lake, or tried his hand at trapping rabbits and squirrels – though he was generally unsuccessful. But, between being filthy from the night before and from his chores that day, he headed down a narrow dirt path to the river that flowed into lake Beil. This was

another of his favorite spots, because the gently flowing currents created a swishing noise as they fell lazily over the rocks, which calmed his mind and made it easy to wash in the water.

He slipped out of his only pair of pants: they were made of cotton that had gradually become tattered and ripped over the years, thousands of hours in the dust and mud staining the once white cloth an earthy brown, and dropped them beside his shirt. His shirt was of similar disheveled quality and was, again, his only. Both his shirt

6

and pants had been gifts from Lila after their wedding, when she insisted they leave the city for the peace and tranquility of the valley.

Wading in waist-high, the water rejuvenated his old, leathery skin, soothing the blisters covering his feet. He ran his callused hands through long, grey hair and shaggy beard, layers of grime and muck falling atop the water and disappearing downriver. Had food not been so scarce for he and his wife, Rubis’ body would’ve been a sight to behold. All the long hours of chores and manual labor (he had built both his hut and his wife’s cabin from scratch) would’ve made for immense muscle mass, had he the nutrients necessary to help build muscle.

Finally clean again for the first time in what felt like a month, Rubis made to step onto the river bank. As his foot reached ground, it sunk into what he realized, after looking down, was a gopher hole. His other foot was already in motion and it was too late to stop his body and, as he made forward, he felt a hot tear and a crack in his right ankle. He fell immediately to the ground, pulling his foot free of the hole and examining the ankle; it was a bright red that could almost visibly be seen throbbing, and it stung to the touch.

He trembled and his heart sank as he realized the reality of the injury: How will I explain to Lila that I cannot walk to Ati in this condition? But Rubis’ loyalty to his wife ran deep and he decided that he would not tell her of his ankle, and that he would awake even earlier than normal to allow himself a longer travel time.

When supper time came around that evening, he used the last of their succulent Brown Trout, fresh carrots, and homemade butter to prepare a fine meal for Lila in the kettle. Shuffling back and forth across the kitchen area of Lila’s cabin, he forced his ankle to move as normal, placing weight on it and holding back endless winces of pain. After serving his wife and eating his own meal, half a loaf of stale bread with a few cooked carrots, he cleaned up the kitchen, bid

his wife a good night, to which she responded with a snort and a dismissive wave of the hand bidding him go, he retired to his hut and made ready for a night of only three hours of sleep.

Rubis awoke before the sun was up. The soft white of the receding full moon crept through his window like the tentacles of some deep-sea creature. He tested his ankle in the darkness, rotating it slowly. The pain was immense and Rubis had to bite his fist to keep from crying out. But there was no choice – the walk must be made.

Limping quietly out of his hut and onto the path, he started for the gap between mountains, which he would then follow down a rocky slope to cut into a forest that extended for about five miles, before becoming plains for the last mile of the journey.

It took him two hours to cover the three quarters of a mile to the rocky slope just outside the great forest of Antiem, and the sun was hot and now high in the sky.

Trying to limp one-footed down a rocky slope was extremely difficult and, slipping on a patch of loose gravel, Rubis tumbled like a barrel down the end of the slope, slamming hard into a tall Oak tree. His back connected with the tree, which was already arthritisridden, bending his body around it like a horseshoe. He lay still in the dirt, head foggy after catching a few rocks on the tumble down.

As he laid there with his eyes closed, the sudden captivating voice of a young man echoed into his mind as if coming from all directions.

“My dear friend, you seem in a bad way.”

Rubis opened his eyes slowly, caught by surprise at this sudden voice. In all his decades of making this trip ninety-one times a year, he had never once seen another soul along the path.

“Come now Rubis, you are in the company of a friend,” said the voice, each word flowing with rhythmic grace and seeming to echo across all the universe; yet the voice was, in reality, quite soft and low.

Finally coming to out of the fog of his mind, Rubis gazed a few feet into the forest and saw the speaker – a young man of about twenty with short, prickly ebon hair and eyes like miniature black holes that were sunk deep into his face and surrounded by dark purple galaxies. His attire was similarly peculiar: a black leather coat with a high collar that covered the back of his neck, dark pants, and gloves. His arms were folded across his chest and his feet hovered an inch off the ground.

“I’m… I’m okay,” said Rubis, trying to sit up but having no success, like a turtle lying on its back.

The young man did not come closer to help. “Ah Rubis, I have always admired you.” He paused for a moment. His next sentence was a whisper that somehow found its way into Rubis’ mind. “Let me help you, my friend. If ever there was a man deserving of help, it is you. It is food you desire, yes?”

Rubis had not stopped trying to stand but, collapsing hard into the dirt again, he finally gave up and stared into those two black holes and nodded pitifully. “Lila will hurt me…” Rubis was a simple man, and the thought of asking who exactly this strange man was hadn’t crossed his mind. He couldn’t focus on more than one thing at a time, and Lila and his aching body were battling fiercely for top priority.

His eyes closed as if forced by some outside power. They remained closed for only a moment and then, they were willed open once more. Sitting in the dirt halfway between he and the strange man was a small wooden cart; from the ground he could not see its contents.

The young man, still floating with his arms crossed, that look of calm malevolence still on his face, saw how Rubis strained to lift off the ground and said, “The contents of this cart will sate your hunger for an eternity.” At this, Rubis’ eyes grew wide and he stared at the man attentively. “But,” he continued, “It will not come without a cost. Do you wish to receive my gift?”

Eyes stuck deep into those black holes, Rubis nodded vacantly. “Yes,” came a soft whisper.

“Stand,” the young man commanded.

Rubis immediately pushed his hands off the n between savage chomping her ground and stood without an ounce of pain. He nervously shifted weight onto his broken ankle, but head bobbed up and down striking it felt completely healed. Something also felt strange about his mind, as if his eyes had been opened for the at the food over and over like a first time, and he saw the world clearly and how his cobra “wife” had truly been treating him all along. Able to peer into the cart, it was full with all the delicious-

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looking fruits and vegetables of the world, which Rubis had only been able to dream of until now, and multiple large baskets of fish. It took all Rubis’ energy to keep from salivating where he stood.

“These goods will never spoil and the cart will never empty.

And you may have them if you give me one thing.”

Again, Rubis nodded. His eyes had glazed over staring at the contents of the cart. “Anything.”

That evening, Lila was waiting with the club outside her cabin when Rubis rounded the crook of the mountain and approached on the dirt road. Lips stuck scornfully together and face red as a cherry she ran at him, club raised high.

“Where have you been, none of your chores are done, I haven’t been fed, and it’s nearly dark!” she screamed as she advanced at him.

Seeing the joyful look on his face and the wagon trailing behind, she slowed to a walk until she eventually stopped. Her face hung suspended in a mixture of disbelief and fleeting rage.

“Go inside,” he said, a chipper confidence in his tone.

Struck by some strange feeling deep in her chest, she followed his command and went into the cabin, taking a seat at her small round table.

Rubis entered five minutes later carrying a veritable feast on a platter – the meal which Rubis knew would be her last. Lila smiled hungrily, licked her lips, and dove with face and hands into the food as Rubis placed the platter in front of her. Rubis leaned against the cabin wall, arms folded across his chest, and watched her eat.

In between savage chomping her head bobbed up and down, striking at the food over and over like a cobra. Each time her head came up, Rubis caught a glimpse of her face and smiled as her green eyes were overtaken with black, a total eclipse of the being he should have hated from the start.

“How is it, my darling?” he asked, making no attempt to hide how pleased he was with himself.

She looked up at him with black hole eyes. “Thank you,” her mouth opened, but the voice that came out was the young man’s.

The deal was done.

8

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Allocation

By Kristy Groth

There was no place quite like her grandmother’s kitchen. From her seat at the counter, baking bread and savory spices beckoned Katelyn forward with their aroma, dragging her from her seat. Before she could investigate the goodies, a dish was shoved into her hands and she was whipped around, propelled toward the wooden, swinging door.

Top heavy, she lost her balance. Tawny hair flying out around her, Katelyn automatically threw her hands up— —only to hit the worn leather of the bus seat in front of her. The girl blinked a couple times as the last grains of sand left her eyes. It took her a second to recognize the darkened buildings at the corner. Then she swore as the bus started rolling again.

Snatching up her backpack, she scrambled out of her seat and down the aisle, yelling out apologies to the driver as he shook his head, opening the door to let her out. She waved as she ran out onto the damp sidewalk. Finally stopping to catch her breath, she leaned over on her knees as the bus continued on into the night.

Straightening up, Katelyn rubbed her head with a groan, flopping her stringy ponytail over her shoulder. That was the third night this week she had dozed off.

She shivered. What a night, too. Her stomach grumbled in agreement.

Katelyn tried to forget she’d been dreaming about food and pulled her flannel tight as she started walking down the street, hunkering as a misty rain fell down around her. Puddles had already started to form on the sidewalk—must’ve been raining harder earlier. She hadn’t noticed while at work, especially once the dark had set in. It had been almost midnight when she left the restaurant, and she needed to get home before class in the morning.

Home. That was nearly a foreign concept now. She underestimated how much she would miss simple things like family dinners.

It didn’t help that she felt self-conscious— even though a lot of students were like her, in worn jeans and tattered coats, the amount of heels and skirts was sort of intimidating. It was hard enough scraping funds together for food, let alone cosmetics.

She came here to learn, not to impress people; high heels weren’t needed for that.

But when her feet throbbed and her hair smelled like frying oil, she couldn’t exactly

ignore how out of place she felt. It was more than just her stomach that ached when she thought about home.

Katelyn sighed in relief as she finally made it to her building, quickly stepping inside the entryway and shaking out her ponytail. It hadn’t really started to pour yet, but enough moisture had gathered in her locks to drip down her coat slowly.

The whirring of the temperature unit sounded as she started trudging up the stairs. With every heavy step on the patchy carpet, she could feel all those hours at work, bussing tables and delivering food that she didn’t get to eat. Her backpack threatened to bring her straight back down the incline, probably on her face.

That tight ache in her shoulder blades was going to be even worse in the morning, too. But she had to work at the restaurant in order to live.

Many people had already told her she was stupid for doing this, like her great aunt on her mother’s side who had never lifted a finger for a day in her life, but Katelyn didn’t want to ever be like that.

And it wasn’t just to prove them wrong—it was for herself.

Once she cleared the stairs, the peeling blue paint on her apartment door was magical. So magical, in fact, that she didn’t notice the box in the hallway as she fumbled with her keys.

With an oomph of air, she flew forward, slamming her hands on the wall to absorb the hit. The noise echoed in the quiet hall, and Katelyn hunched her shoulders, hoping none of her neighbors woke up.

Shaking out her hands, she hissed as her palms stung. She glanced up and down the hall to make sure nobody saw her.

Then, she glared at the box.

It was about a foot by foot, with only minimal wear and tear on the corners.

It had her name on it, but there was no return address. Getting mail was rare for her—it was usually just bills. She hadn’t

10

grumbled in agreement.

There was no place quite like her grandmother’s Katelyn tried to forget she’d been dreaming about food and pulled kitchen. From her seat at the counter, baking bread her flannel tight as she started walking down the street, hunkering and savory spices beckoned Katelyn forward with as a misty rain fell down around her. Puddles their aroma, dragging her from her ut when her feet had already started to form on the sidewalk— seat. Before she could investigate must’ve been raining harder earlier. She hadn’t the goodies, a dish was shoved into throbbed and her hair noticed while at work, especially once the dark her hands and she was whipped smelled like frying oil had set in. It had been almost midnight when around, propelled toward the she left the restaurant, and she needed to get wooden, swinging door. she couldn t exactly home before class in the morning.

Top heavy, she lost her balance. ignore how out of Home. That was nearly a foreign concept now.

Tawny hair flying out around her, She underestimated how much she would miss Katelyn automatically threw her place she felt simple things like family dinners. hands up— It didn’t help that she felt self-conscious—even though a lot of —only to hit the worn leather of the bus seat in front students were like her, in worn jeans and tattered coats, the amount of her. The girl blinked a couple times as the last grains of heels and skirts was sort of intimidating. It was hard enough of sand left her eyes. It took her a second to recognize scraping funds together for food, let alone cosmetics. the darkened buildings at the corner. Then she swore She came here to learn, not to impress people; high heels weren’t as the bus started rolling again. needed for that.

Snatching up her backpack, she scrambled out of But when her feet throbbed and her hair smelled like frying oil, she her seat and down the aisle, yelling out apologies to couldn’t exactly ignore how out of place she felt. It was more than the driver as he shook his head, opening the door to just her stomach that ached when she thought about home. let her out. She waved as she ran out onto the damp Katelyn sighed in relief as she finally made it to her building, quickly sidewalk. Finally stopping to catch her breath, she stepping inside the entryway and shaking out her ponytail. It hadn’t leaned over on her knees as the bus continued on into really started to pour yet, but enough moisture had gathered in her the night. locks to drip down her coat slowly.

Straightening up, Katelyn rubbed her head with a The whirring of the temperature unit sounded as she started groan, flopping her stringy ponytail over her shoulder. trudging up the stairs. With every heavy step on the patchy carpet, That was the third night this week she had dozed off. feel all those hours at work, bussing tables and delivering she could She shivered. What a night, too. Her stomach

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.”

food that she didn’t get to eat. Her backpack threatened to bring her straight back down the incline, probably on her face.

That tight ache in her shoulder blades was going to be even worse in the morning, too. But she had to work at the restaurant in order to live.

Many people had already told her she was stupid for doing this, like her great aunt on her mother’s side who had never lifted a finger for a day in her life, but Katelyn didn’t want to ever be like that. And it wasn’t just to prove them wrong—it was for herself.

Once she cleared the stairs, the peeling blue paint on her apartment door was magical. So magical, in fact, that she didn’t notice the box in the hallway as she fumbled with her keys.

With an oomph of air, she flew forward, slamming her hands on the wall to absorb the hit. The noise echoed in the quiet hall, and Katelyn hunched her shoulders, hoping none of her neighbors woke up.

Shaking out her hands, she hissed as her palms stung. She glanced up and down the hall to make sure nobody saw her. Then, she glared at the box.

It was about a foot by foot, with only minimal wear and tear on the corners. It had her name on it, but there was no return address. Getting mail was rare for her—it was usually just bills. She hadn’t ordered anything for class… that she could remember.

The package was heavier than it looked, she noticed, as she nestled it under one arm. Her stomach protested the extra weight with a gurgle while she fumbled with the door. Once it was unlocked, she toed her shoes off and turned on the light. The backpack was dumped to the floor as she trailed into the kitchen. By now, she’d been up about twenty hours, and her eyes were drooping. Every motion was effort.

Katelyn slid the box onto the cheap card table that served as her eating place and flopped onto the floor. Her stomach growled, but she only threw an arm over to quiet it.

There probably weren’t any noodles left. Managing her own supplies was more difficult than her family made it seem. In the city, she couldn’t just skip out to her grandma’s garden and uproot fresh vegetables. And of course, now she had to pay for things herself. Sometimes it seemed like she would never really eat again.

She stared up at the popcorn-crackled ceiling and sighed. Sleep pulled at her consciousness but she couldn’t give in. A lab report was due tomorrow. If she wrote quickly, she could maybe manage two hours of sleep before she had to go into her school and type it out before class.

The thought left her nearly in tears. She had another shift tomorrow night at the restaurant, too. In response, her stomach gurgled again, accompanied by that sour feeling her body tried to curl over.

Maybe there would be something in the cupboards. Hopefully. Food would muscle her through this next paper. If she didn’t try to salvage some sort of sustenance, she would probably wake up in the middle of the night—well, later anyway—dry heaving.

Again.

With a groan, she got up, wincing at the way her feet protested, and rifled through the kitchen. After a few minutes, she gave up. The only thing remotely edible was a can of beanless chili, which didn’t seem appetizing at all. Sinking into one of her folding chairs, she laid her cheek on the table.

That was when she saw the box. Blowing the bangs out of her eyes, she pulled the package closer and then leaned back to reach the knife drawer. Cutting along the tape—toward her, just because there was nobody to tell her not to—she investigated.

A small note on yellow paper sat on top, but she saw what was under it. Her eyes widened and began to burn at the corners as she counted noodle packets, cans, and other non-perishables.

A food package.

Picking up the note like it was the fine china holding that mousse parfait from last Christmas, she easily recognized her grandmother’s neat cursive. “Chin up,” was all it said.

Katelyn smiled. It wasn’t the homemade dinner she longed for, but it was just the elixir she needed—even if there was enough salt in the box to kill a horse.

“In the city, she couldn’t just skip out to her grandma’s garden and uproot fresh vegetables.”

12

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“My tongue was on fire for good food” at a vegetarian co-op and was turned on to lentil loaf, cashew gravy, and the wonders of the Moosewood cookbook.

I ate Chinese food, Mexican food, and Mediterranean food in Ann Arbor, and was overwhelmed that food could be so flavorful, so rich in texture, spiciness, and quality. My tongue was on fire for good food after that. I started working in restaurants as a waiter and got turned on to wine pairings, cheeses I never knew existed, figs, caviar, and foie gras.

That foray into the beauty and wonder of food led to learning about farming and production. After I moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, I learned that most of the meat we eat was raised in abusive, substandard production facilities, so I sought out grass fed, free range meat, which was plentiful in the southwest.

I learned to eat green chile, and now I order 25 pounds every year and roast it in my oven, adding that spicy heat with all of its antioxidants and rich vitamins to most of our food.

When my son was diagnosed with autism, I started researching the connection between diet and autism. It never occurred to me to put him on medication because by then I knew the power of food. I put him on an all organic diet, with no processed food, no food additives or dyes. Then I limited his exposure to wheat and gluten, and took him off all cow dairy.

After the change in diet, his behavior changed, and now he’s almost completely symptom free.

Story by Nancy Gray

Food for her was a necessity — she had to feed her four growing daughters and her husband, but it was an unwanted necessity.

Needless to say, I had no understanding of what made food healthy, how food could nourish and heal as well as sustain.

Food in my house was just a necessary evil we all had to endure. Sometimes it was delicious, but most of the time it was just filling.

Now, my son and I eat almost all fresh, organic vegetables and fruit, very little meat, and a lot of pasteurized eggs. How in heavens did I get from my childhood to here? One week, for example, everything we ate was cooked from scratch, except for the potstickers, juice cartons, and fruit cups that went in my son’s lunch, but even these are all organic. The first night, we made a root bake with beets, carrots, potatoes, onions, radishes, brussel sprouts, and chicken sausage all roasted in the oven with fresh thyme from our little herb garden. The next night we sautéed chard with pine nuts and raisins and roasted squash. For breakfast my son had fried potatoes with scrambled eggs and breakfast sausage. For snack, he had apples with almond butter. My coffee was flavored with organic almond milk and raw honey. I ate a salad everyday with walnuts, dried cranberries, and goat cheese. There was butternut squash soup, steamed broccoli, green chile stew served over quinoa, all cooked with organic butter or coconut oil, flavored with organic spices and fresh herbs. We cook every day, and yes it’s inconvenient, but I don’t think I could do it differently because now I think healthy food is what is necessary.

So, how did it happen? How did I change so much? It was because of education, because of the food literacy that I gained over the years. When I went to the University of Michigan, I lived in a socialist co-op and “boarded”

A Journey to Real Food

Growing up in the 70s, our daily diet consisted of Hamburger Helper, Tuna Helper, Campbell’s cream of fill-in-the-blank soup, Minute rice, canned vegetables and fruit, Wonder bread and American cheese. My favorite meal from that time was a casserole made from Minute rice, Cream of Celery Soup, canned peas and hamburger. The seasoning was salt and pepper. There were no herbs, no fresh vegetables except the iceberg lettuce leaf topped with a canned peach and cottage cheese. That was the salad. On Sunday after church there was a beef roast with fresh carrots, potatoes, and onions. In the summer, there was an abundance of tomatoes, which my father grew, and cherries, which we picked, but beyond that, there was no real food, just processed food. It was food my mother found convenient. It was a pack of lies many housewives of that time were sold as a way of creating freedom. My mother hated food because she believed it all made her fat, so she lived on almost nothing—nothing nutritious anyway.

She’d starve herself and then binge on ice cream in order to maintain her 98 lb. weight.

16

However, everything really changed six years ago, when I was teaching a unit at NMC on food awareness and came across a book called What the World Eats by Peter Menzel. In the book, Menzel displays pictures of families from around the world with a week’s worth of food and how much they spend. This book shocked me. It was shocking to see the amount of processed food in the pictures of people from the First World, and how much they spent on their food. In the developing world, the food wzas healthy and fresher, and in many cases, these people looked healthier than their richer counterparts. This beautiful, little book woke me up. I decided I wanted my week’s worth of groceries to look fresh, and completely free of chemicals, pesticides, and cruelty.

My mother had none of this literacy. When she died, she was living on toast with butter and jam, black coffee, and Snickers bars. She died pretty young at 76 with a host of preventable health issues. We could never convince her that eating better might help her. She never learned what I know now about food. It doesn’t just keep us alive. Our food can nourish us, bring us together, and provide pleasure, sustenance and joy. But it can also be our medicine; it can be what heals us. However, the only way we can get there is through sound education. I understand that I am coming from a place of great privilege. I don’t make a ton of money, but I have access. We need to make sure that we are providing everyone the access to good food, to education, and to the understanding that focusing on food takes time. It may not be convenient, but is absolutely necessary.

“I decided I wanted my week’s worth of groceries to look fresh, and completely free of chemicals, pesticides, and cruelty.”

son off away with his wife and daughters knew nothing was sweeter than when I brought him those dark sweet cherries, ate them like candy and called them even better than Halloween treats. But my son’s importance seemed to fade away after he went off to college and married Sally, then the two girls came along and I don’t know how his days go but he can surely guess at mine. When Sally came into his life they adopted what they called high society and I didn’t understand the culture but they were growing up with it so I couldn’t argue any, and I was getting older but the country around here still felt young to me.

His mother would be overly happy to hear from him, but in these interludes without, Madeline was the same as me and we ate our meals nearly the same exact time every day, reminding me of how it was before he was born. She made me the squash I loved and remember the smell of her quiche and Brie, and everything in between. Agreed with me too that going out to nice restaurants felt belittling to everything she made, and even Darlene could agree too now that I think of it.

But the good thing was that nobody was starving and I don’t think any of us ever worried of that fear and Madeline told me a story once about her father serving in the war and the colorless tacky he’d eat half-heartedly and I never liked war

Writteb by Liam Strong

him how to hunt, out of season, hell, did it myself years ago but Tanner takes to his liberties like the necessities of praying before he shoots, or washing up when Darlene won’t let him into the dining room. Grandma Hudson wouldn’t fight him over it but she passed the summer before and I know he has a space in himself that wonders why she hasn’t said anything to him lately, like she’s still here, and says I think of her often, do you?

But I tell him not very often at all, so I’m trying to better myself and remember the times before that and some of it is foggy to make out. Tanner has a better mind for reminiscing while going about his business and although Darlene’d be belligerent to his antics, she would tell him to keep his head straight, and she was the only one to fix his kills and ensured he didn’t do nothing to tarnish it even though I knew he was obviously smarter than that. It was possible too that deep down she knew one day those antics would soon end, but he was short of arrogant. Carlyle from down in Kingsley would ask him how long he’d think he’d get away with this shit and Darlene would probably tell him I told you so you ass, and would walk away but we never heard word of anything of the sort, so he never left his caution idle. She probably was begrudged to herself that she married a man who never knew how to treat his own meat but her father knew better than he and I did too but she cooked everything in that house. Never had children to cook for and she was probably glad they didn’t follow after Tanner, certain if they did ever have children. I brought her cherries from Northport and I don’t think I ever heard her thank me more than when I brought her fruit. Loved it plain and loved it no matter how early picked it was. Times like those made me think of her as my sister and she would always offer me a pie or something unspeakably better than whatever I gave her. My own

Hero of the Dinner Table

Tanner shot the deer, a simple arrow right through the base of the neck, out of season, Darlene giving him hell and would have left him with it if he hadn’t been so goddam fine at hiding that sort of thing. The oblivious criminality, I mean. To him it wasn’t criminal, but simply how the world works. I agreed with him on that last bit. Darlene was making buckwheat cakes while he was out and never cared where he was in the early hours of morning because she knew he’d be gone for the same things he loved—hunting, fishing— and maybe he just loved being scolded but I sure knew I didn’t and when I asked him from where did this deer come he told me over by Grandma Hudson’s and he knew the country and I knew it too, how heavy the pines grew and the deer around here never too far from their brush and silent forest. They make the forest that quiet, I told him, and he said we’re the ones who break that quiet. Told me too that food like this shouldn’t be divined by the calendar and I know how to keep control of the families I’m killing him from, and you’re my brother, David, and I know you understand. I knew it, too, taught

“and I would miss being called the hero of the dinner table because no one else would eat

Madeline’s pumpkin pie, even though I didn’t feel like the hero that her father was, but the

I would ever be.”

closest to a hero

20

stories since. I was afraid he thought of me as a coward when I told her father at Thanksgiving one year that I never considered joining the army and I told him I wasn’t the hero material and have always felt weak around him since then as well. We all loved to eat and at Thanksgiving when it was generally it was just Madeline, Darlene, Tanner, and I, in the later years with the parents and in-laws buried or too inept for travel, the son and grandchildren far away and busy, always telling us, when they could, how busy they’ve been. Darlene laughed, with everything gone, she said, it reminds her a little of school so long ago. And I couldn’t say how much or precisely all that was there to eat at Thanksgiving but I could name it off all in a couple hours at least, but it was all always fresh and I can only remember it and we would laugh just like we did years in the family of us four. But because no one drank Madeline loved apple cider more than anything, ago younger transformed by hunger all that savor that she could only have so much of around the autumn, sitting at my parents table waiting for the the strong cider that burned the throat with its flavor. It was more of a tablecloth to disappear beneath a collage commenced with the food ritualistic silence that made by the wives and I knew the down to earth of plates connection for us was what has kept us so close and it is one thing I would miss more than anything if I ever lost it somehow, and hell, I know I’d even miss my brother’s illegal deer shot on a holiday, waiting for him to bring it home, fresh, and I would miss being called the hero of the dinner table because no one else would eat Madeline’s pumpkin pie, even though I didn’t feel like the hero that her father was, but the closest to a hero I would ever be. Makes me want to reminisce with a bottle of brandy like my father would do sitting on the porch but I’m sitting on mine now wondering if I need a drink or just leave it all be. Which reminds me during Thanksgiving this year, Darlene asked me, David, if you had to choose only one of your five senses to live with the rest of your life and only that and forfeit the others, which would it be, and although I am not one for the psychological aspect of things, I chose my sight, naïvely, and so did everyone else, but I think about it now and I would have chosen my taste, because that’s where we were, eating all together at the table, and I couldn’t live without the food she and Madeline make, knowing that I wouldn’t mind losing my eyesight because that’s probably something been long coming anyway, and the youth of her food never grows old of its life and flavor, and we would laugh just like we did years ago, younger, transformed by hunger, all sitting at my parents’ table, waiting for the tablecloth to disappear beneath a collage of plates.

“

,

,

,

’

,

.”

Submitted by Katrina Butler

Tourtière

French Canadian Meat Pie I grew up in a close-knit family. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins of all ages were a big part of my life. So it’s no wonder that many of our ancestral traditions were at the forefront of my childhood. The branches of my family tree stretch across many countries, but the most prominent are my German and French Canadian roots. One such tradition that has been passed down over the years is our holiday meat pies which come from my French Canadian background.

Although many prepare this dish during Christmas, our family has always served it on New Year’s Eve as we wait for the ball to drop (and any days following should there be any left). Traditionally, it falls on the head of the household (my mother or grandmother, in my case) to make enough meat pies to give each of their children one to take home until they can start the tradition with their own family.

It just wouldn’t be the New Year without the countertops covered in meat pies.

“Many of our ancestral traditions were at the forefront of my childhood.”

Filling

Crust

2-1/2 lb. Ground Beef 1-1/2 lb. Ground Pork Sausage 2 Large Onions (1/4” diced) 6 Large Potatoes (1/2” cubed) 2 tsp Sage (or more depending on your preferences) 1 Tbs. Salt 1 Loaf of White Bread (1/2” cubed)

6 cups Flour 1 Tbs. Baking Powder 1 Tbs. Salt 1-1/2 cup Shortening 3/4 cup Milk (you probably won’t need all of it)

Filling “Traditionally, it falls on the head of the household... to make enough meat pies to give each of their children”

Add meats, onion and potatoes to a large pot or Dutch oven.

Fill with enough water to cover the contents.

2. Bring to a boil then cook, stirring occasionally until potatoes are just slightly tender. If desired, at this point, you can take the pot and store the whole thing, covered, in the fridge overnight. A fat cap will form on top of the liquid; by removing most or all of this cap you can make a reduced fat version.

Just reheat it after and continue with Step 3.

3. Add sage, salt and 1/2 the loaf of bread. Stir until well combined. Add more bread while stirring to achieve the correct consistency. You want the bread to soak up most of the liquid but the filling should remain juicy to keep it from drying out during the baking process. (I would describe the filling as sloppy.)

Crust 1.

1.

Combine all dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Whisk lightly to break up any clumps.

2. Cut in the shortening with a fork or dough cutter until you get marble-sized clumps or slightly smaller.

3. Add about a 1/4 cup of the milk. Using your hands, mix the dough. Add more milk until the dough is biscuit consistency (somewhat dry still and a bit crumbly).

Assembly 1.

“It just wouldn’t be the New Year without the countertops covered in meat pies.”

Cut off a portion of dough and roll it out with a rolling pin to the shape of your pie dish. We use square or rectangular baking pans with steep sides, but a typical round pie dish with sloped sides may be used.

2. Grease all sides and bottom of your baking dish with more shortening. Carefully place your rolled dough into the bottom of your dish being sure to remove any trapped air bubbles.

Cut excess dough off the edges of the pan and fill it to the top edge with heated filling.

3. Roll out more dough to make the pie cover. Place it on top and cut off excess edges. Pinch the edges with your fingers or use a fork to make a complete seal around the top and bottom.

4. Stab the top of the meat pie with a paring knife to help vent the steam so your pie doesn’t burst out a seam.

5. Bake at 425 degrees for 20 minutes. Rotate the pie and bake for another 20 minutes or until crust is golden brown. You may need to adjust the time depending on the size pan you use.

Let cool before slicing.

Food For Thought, or, A Many Course Meal

by Susan Odgers

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Sightings at the Community Garden

It’s August 16, 2015 and our NMC free writing workshop for persons experienced with homelessness has a plot in the TC Community Garden at the Historic Barns Park. This is a first for the workshop, sponsored by the NMC Foundation. By now its midsummer and we’ve paid the rental fee for the 12 x 30 half plot, had it tilled and planted donated vegetable, herb and flower seedlings from area garden centers. Our writers joke that they “own land” in TC. One of our members has carved and placed beautiful wood plant identification markers in each section of the patch. The plants are lush; lettuce, broccoli, onions and peppers have already been harvested. Several varieties of tomatoes are next. Quickly, there’s enough food for the participants to give produce to others who need it. Some workshop members want to write at the garden, but not actually garden. Many want to do both. Because we live close to the garden, my husband, Tom, has graciously become our garden overseer. He helps us weed, water and interact with the garden neighbors and administration. Mostly, he finds the in-town gardening, relaxing.

For him, it feels like he’s much further out in the country and he treasures gardening in the same spot, earlier members of the community farmed. On this warm summer night, Tom and our dog, Olive Marie, went to the garden. They had the place to themselves. It was a particularly clear evening, and shortly after arriving, they saw an extremely bright light in the sky above our garden plot. From the nearby car, Olive Marie started barking. Using his phone, Tom researched the light and learned that it was the International Space Station and that he could track their movements online. He also learned that aside from the sun and the moon, the International Space Station is the brightest light in the sky.

www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/station www.tccommunitygardens.org

Food in the Classroom

Eating When You’re Ill, or 104 years old or Your Best Self

Outstanding in the Field…

Reconnecting Diners With the Land In the middle of a busy and beautiful summer day, a friend spontaneously gave us two free tickets for a dinner that night that he couldn’t attend. Though we hadn’t been planning on such an evening, we decided to go. First, we stopped in Suttons Bay so my very casually dressed husband could purchase proper socks and a belt. We followed the directions on our phone, driving the hilly, winding Leelanau countryside. We arrived at a beautiful, “Martha Stewart” like farm. After parking our car, we were instructed that the plan for the evening was to tour the farm with drinks and appetizers, and then sit down to a football field length table set-up in the farm field and eat a seven course dinner complete with drinks at each course and several desserts. While the company serving us was contemporary, everything from the meat roasted in the ground to the 3-4 hours to complete the meal made us feel like we were feasting in the wine country of Italy. Because of the cost of the dinner, we were some of the youngest people at the event.

Most of the people attending were celebrating big occasions like 50th wedding anniversaries or had been given the tickets as a very special gift. We dined outside under the sun and then stars. The meal was cooked and served family style by a traveling famous chef and crew. At each location, all of the food and drink comes from the host farm or location. Easily, one of the most magical meals we’ve ever experienced.

www.outstandinginthefield.com

One of my good friends turned 104 years old on Halloween 2015. If you ask her what she eats or drinks, she’ll tell you she eats in moderation and has a cocktail or alcoholic beverage most days. Lately, her doctor has suggested that she drink a nutritional supplement, like Boost, to make sure she gets enough calories, vitamins and minerals.

She lives alone and is still actively engaged in life; tutoring children, writing her family histories , traveling and socializing with friends and family. She says food has never been that important to her.

There have been times in my life when I’ve been so ill, that I couldn’t eat. Some of this was due to my body fighting raging infections and the toxic medicines I was taking.

During these times, I was always intrigued by what slowly started to taste good or what even sounded like a possible food to reintroduce.

Anyone who has ever had the flu knows that when our bodies have been deprived of food, they slowly tell us what we need. All we have to do is listen. The ironic thing is that when we really pay attention and we’re healthy, our bodies do the same thing.

www.eatingwell.com

For twenty-six years I’ve taught Psy. 225, Human Sexuality, at NMC. At the end of each class, we celebrate our experience with a food buffet. The in-class banquet is themed with the student’s favorite comfort food, little kid food and/ or sensual food. Participation is optional and those without financial resources or time help in other ways. Every semester, I’m surprised no one gets sick as the food ranges from “ants on a log” to oysters on the half-shell to cakes and vegetables elaborately shaped like human anatomy.

There are bowls of mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, boxes of cereal, sweets of every sort, Jell-O, strawberries dipped in chocolate, and so on. All of the items the students bring are projections of who they are. Is it possible all three categories are represented by the same food? It’s ironic that in our class, the students also learn a fair amount about breast feeding.

In the larger context of human, non-sexualized health, breasts are seen as a key way humans simply feed young humans.

Psy. 225 Spring Semester 2016, Friday’s, 3 credits sodgers@nmc.edu

Food Insufficiency

I’m currently on a team at our local United Way that decides where the contributions are awarded. This year, United Way hopes that the area food pantries will help participants have healthier food to select from meaning fewer processed starch and sugar enriched products. This is an effort to help lower the obesity rates in northern Michigan.

Oryana Food Cooperative, MSU Extension, NMC EES and many others, offer classes so people can learn how to cook more healthy and affordably.

NMC students and faculty are offered several ways, including the SNAP Challenge, for folks to participate in National Hunger and Homeless Awareness Week. For more information contact NMC student, John Peterson peters88@mail. nmc.edu or www.facebook.com/nmcnhhaw At NMC, our own Lucy, who works the Sodexo food café in the Osterlin Library, does her best to make sure she knows all of her customer’s names and something about them. Regardless of what people buy, she makes them feel like they’re the most important people in the world. And to her, they are. She’s also a keen observer of our NMC eating habits. Just ask her.

Eight years ago when Sodexo took over the food service at NMC, student photo ID cards came loaded with $5 towards cafeteria products. I took all of my students to get a photo ID card because I figured they needed an ID as it gave them discounts on everything from computers to movies to car rentals. On our way back to class, I noticed that one of my students was carrying a rather full cafeteria bag. The student told me that he had used the card for food to feed his family that night. He couldn’t stop thanking me.

Food as Community

My students gave one of the NMC business classes a great deal of feedback on their Red Bin Food Drive project.

Several said they themselves had taken food from the bins because they were hungry and didn’t know where else to go. Others said they had swiped food from porches during the annual food drive by postal carriers. As parents, some of the students said that seeing their kids eating Halloween candy made them grateful for it… as at least it provided food or calories. There have been many times at NMC when I’ve been dismayed to see food thrown away after conferences and events. During our writing workshop for persons experienced with homelessness, I was able to educate my peers about the need and collect the leftover food. For some time now, some folks at NMC have been working to establish a sustainable food pantry for people at NMC. Everyone working with students at NMC knows that they often eat/drink items with the lowest nutritional value, for the least amount of money (energy drinks, Mountain Dew, fast food, etc…) A short while ago, one of our adjunct faculty hosted a free meal gathering at the Open Space complete with conversation and music. Basically, he collected day old bread and cooked-up a big pot of soup.

When my husband and I first moved to TC, as a way to get to know the area, we delivered meals to people. It was a real eye opener to see who was behind the doors. Lots of people tried to give us gas money, which we refused. For several years, I was a volunteer bell ringer for the Salvation Army. The most common comment I heard from people was “please feed people.”

www.unitedwaynwmi.org

Every week, for one year, I was responsible for feeding the writers in our free writing workshop for persons experienced with homelessness. I had to work within a budget and around specific food considerations. Some of our writers were diabetic and many had dental concerns. I planned meals around what was in-season and items I didn’t think they were receiving in the daily free community meals. When our workshop moved to Monday’s, a day when a community dinner wasn’t served, it became especially important to provide a healthy meal. I also tried to serve food that gave the participants the chance to individualize their choices, such as building their own elaborate sandwiches. Early on, I provided a grocery list for folks to record items they wanted. In the beginning, few put anything on the grocery list. Gradually, participants felt more comfortable saying what they wanted. Several of our folks asked for foods they remembered fondly from childhood, such as ringed baloney, Oreo cookies, and shelled peanuts. During the year, I made my share of mistakes. Once, I tried to serve something a bit different, for example pita bread and hummus, and one participant told me “homeless people don’t eat food like this.”

One week, I brought surplus soup and bread that had been donated by one of my colleagues at NMC’s Lobdell’s restaurant.

Seeing the unfamiliar soup, a participant barked at one of our young student volunteers setting-up the table. He’d had a bad day and wasn’t sure he’d like the unfamiliar offering. He also seemed to think we were stereotyping the workshop as a soup kitchen. The student volunteer shared that she understood his hesitancy and that if her mom served this meal, she’d be thrilled.

She showed him the Lobdell’s menu I’d brought so he could see that he was eating food that was being served and sold to the public.

At the December holidays, the writers wanted to create their own holiday meal. People living on the streets and in their cars, students couch surfing and doubling-up with family, folks residing in shelters and those living in tents, brought what they could.

But everyone contributed. Each week, we all learned something about writing, each other and ourselves.

www.nmc.edu/resources/lobdells/menu www.nmcfoundation.com

28

Eatin g Hal

In 20 13 study , I befriend ing at ed a M N of the u first q MC from t slim coup were h le u e e s UK. tio a isn’t o ). Where is ns they ask Two n e t b. Wh e north of he Mosqu d me e ere c G ? r (Ther and R ould t Halal e apid he is “perm an Arabic y buy Hal s) and al i w law. M ssionable” ord mean meat? ing accor uslim ding t s don from ’t o th My fr Halal e hindqua eat pork o Islamic ie r mea meat rters heade nd Michae of an t is slau cific m l a d g n a year h north fro Edelman, must nner; the htered in a imal. a m e have anima s pesome and his g downstat food blogg be ls that d irlfrie e to v er, is rest a idn’t c en fed a n laughtere nd is n way o d a and t f food d to exper travel to it. Twice a he an ontain anim tural diet o i you c im When a an’t r in Traverse ence what ur area for ever p al can’t be l byproduc e ’s a r C new i i l to din ence ly kno uncon ts ossib ity. M n e le s posts it through w a place ichael bel the Zakey at our Mi , the coup cious. i i u e a t deast s n l ves l ’s, and l e l f o e o tried f hi ss od. H er South their e pho you expe east M s meals. tradit they want n restaura togra www.s ional ed to nt, ment ichiga phs a me pr m .T nd Think sfrblogsp n Slow Fo clerk hey called als in thei epare od Re in o r apa d Meije view remin g about M t.com rt were idn’t unde ds me ichae rstan r and the askin l’s app d wha in Nic g. Tho of the Quee ro e tt ug n and c , France. I many sem ach to foo Meije ’s English, h they spe hey o e l i d, v the e ster o r didn a e k the d in a nothi ked most mp ’t or the studio s I taught ng lik o f ir que understan loyees at my ap ec Child asked d st ’s coo ooking ro meals. The artment if it w ion. Finall their acce a k re t s b hings y, in the t a n my Fr ook while chicken v was year, s like kosh they were t m i ia Jul e n they t er me Dearb nch s e was Fran ia a o o I told why Ame tudents co ce. One o the m rn to buy ok a road t. Later ricans f the them nstan trip to a car any H tly as how m paren were and f alal re they f ke eas ts s a o s childr spend wo ny hours o obese? W d could und a com taurants. E ted at a e r p v m it’s m n and that king and c day Ameri hen had a ail order any where entually, eals… can aring s the m omet hard t h e t y fo h Frenc h e e his gl h mak ey started ing has to r their uten nough tim at. The ma to un free d e mos thoug give… e dea n misse de o h iet lin t d also d a meal ma of their m rstand. Th ften from not havin and they g with e o y e g the a the U b n oth ir f part o ’t snack m be simple ls from sc K. woma , it ra nl u n to D At one po avorite foo t he so y at design ch… eating ’s fresh. Th tch, i askin uth o g me on’s drive- nt, I took t ds a ey f t o ed t r th f lots o ab In he place f walk France, pe imes. Whe e most s she’d out the A . She’d bee ing. R ople a re I liv in wh meric n It was seen eg at an ls e i i my Fr food com ionally, th o did lots d in what nteresting n America food ere’s es fro ench a n mov is trad nd for m gre un m a com e ie it Every mon F iversity st where. O at pride day, s ional Ame to ponder, s. ne da uden a very rench rican er she he ph ts y, fo t o bacon raditional male fanta told me th her fa ate and em tographed od? s A a , y m a w by a b ham, pota merican b is one wh t major ily and fri iled the p hatevtoes, reakf ere usty b hotos ends ity of ast pa ing on in lo c to were roller nd waitre ncakes, etc eggs, abou omments the UK. T proba ss in h t the she re he skate . is se they r lar b s o ce r e a sce ly a fantas ! I laughed t pants m ved they g turned to ge portion ived ne in o y a v , s. Wh the U orged n a d s I’d n the U K e favor ever w said it wa SA. ites (l themselve on breaks n s itness ike , s broug ed su ht ba fish and c on their U c h c K (suga h www red c k America ips) and . p e n r b ple) t speci eals a s.org o th alt nd /foo www eir friends a candy for eies d/ch efs/j .Z xamn ulia-c www akeytc.co d family. h

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30

32 I’ve never dreamed of food before,

By Liam Strong

Blind and Open-Minded

but I can imagine it, conversely, keeping me awake, although I imagine dad and his days as executive chef at the Boathouse or the Park Place and whipping together his menu for the night: swordfish, caviar, salmon, and Chicken a la Liam— a dish named after me, but I have no idea what it tasted like.

Maybe being blind and open-minded is the best way to imagine the history of his cooking. Never appreciating fully what he’s taught or fed me, or even the ghosts therein. He isn’t the chef at work anymore.

He likes to eat cereal with me on weekend mornings, simplified and no words necessary.

And here I am eating, the ice in my tea that never seemed to diminish in its jeweled cold, which made me think of the way I once was choked by Faulkner’s honeysuckle, but I think it was because that day I had apple cider burning in my throat, and going off of that, maybe it is simply autumn and the harvest, the taste of the season turning. The tea budding with dew on the floor and my sister and I are watching old episodes of Seinfeld, eating, no—relishing the sautéed chicken that dad makes so well, on the pan he hates.

Maybe it’s inborn that I will not be the great cook he is, his craft conveyed through utensils into ingredients, and my craft signed by my voice on paper. I dreamed we could be the same and I’ve juxtaposed ourselves farther apart on the counter than intended. Ironic that fear, intangible, tastes more bitter than anything I’ve ever known.

Trust me, I’m trying to yield a more fruitful harvest of who I want to be.

But I’m too blind to see how any recipe can assist this.

Maybe it’s clichéd that I don’t want to follow formula, but thinking of all this has left me with watered-down tea, ice melted, and I know I can’t wait for dad to make dinner again this week, indirectly impatient, because I think my hunger for his food is the best thanks I can give.

Annual loss of Honeybee colonies in percentages -from the past five years-

2011-12

36

29

2012-13 2013-14 2014-15

45

34

42

Source: USDA

2010-11

Northern Michigan’s Community Supported Agriculture writen and photos

by Ann Hosler other photos provided by providence farm

culAgri ea d ar orte upp s give resh S f m unity progra local, igan m m ) to ich Co (CSA cess the M with e c r a u t ents of poke ring resid ce du on. I s omeyn o u h s prod ng sea ndrea R arm, w A i F S grow and A rganic m, a C y. it O e Ryan dence t to th ommun hi c t a v Pro ined th e local s are wi a e r h a expl about t ustome ,” Andr ill c m l is al t of our the far urists w e, f r s to “Mo miles o mmer ey’re he u ” 0 in 4 ined. “S while th munity. e c a m l d exp up, an this co differen m f r e com e part o iled the ction fa A r peo “ ’ a u : t y d 4 e e e o n 2 d h r t o ll ( ass p od drea sed sma sizes. n n An een a m lly focu their fo s e i e e) a te betw + peopl vailable re s betw region ay have ited Sta m e 4 c a oi a e( r e m the n and l farm r the U small fa e ch ) or larg rams ar area a r r e hese i e g typic ed all ov r away. A our ent ly pl SA pro s; in ou farms. T ciali p e e g e ship n furth e makin our fam m C ny stat cipating ty of sp ows i e r R rie ma 5 part or ev urs—we’ porting ople fro a va 9 Bean at in3 e e p e v o r u p a a th le, sh like and s with e mer r examp e sizes d bread, r m r g a a a ” n h . f i e y s t it ar o liv an ic mun e a gional farm es. F rious sh s, eggs, s organ . i t and cal com purchas e r er s va rries g r table offe lo our n you ticipatin a memb r. ha de vege Farm strawbe ide e a r e u aw Wh a pa ecome that ye t cl ile War and ovides s and n r b s h r o o f p w fr rie ble from r, you roup pay up proeber ce Farm vegeta lists for g e u l m A b r S ic f g en ly fa eir C typical ason o Proviovid of organ h waitin ted Gal r h t P f t e l . o s s s, wi bers , Be riety lamb ow ch a ire Mem he ent SAs, su that all r va awberrie ed pork tahdin mer t C tr Ka y sum tur ms alle for s ome progra y in sm are s eir pas f, and S . onl ther e r duc e’s, offe s to pa SA sh d th ay bee s offer ereas o ffer C o h n r w denc membe ost of a size, a m lo me farm rams, w ugh to g o r c e o their s. The shar ence Fa k S d fall pro ified en , m k e s r chun by fa h. Provid 22 we e an e diver s v r n t e i var am leng rs 18 o early Ju h ha t r i e prog ntly off run from mber, w e e curr s, which er/Nov b e r o sha gh Oct u thro

that ere.” ctices ea w y dr he pra ed, t using nic,” An had fi i t r ce ere rga hat kly “We w rtified o y field t methe e w n e e six during were c d, “but a entional three h t f d ro nv ait ue nage ey atten eir two contin sing co ad to w a m h th nd s, . st n u ly h crop t tor, a markets s well a er week d bee revious g n i p d a a n p farm eason, ickups ges 18 a g ods .” o ten ssed wh s t s e s p s . a n u ri an ar A s, es om sc ing gh shar re help n- hi farm CS dest son farm du tor ye hen it c Ryan di ying” me on r e t c a l in n o u ru ay he ra W a and pra nd w CSA, yo osts of on o eir two rd on t g the t ther e of “s “You spr r nar a n d g n o h i a s o n e spri ining a th the c the sea d T work h r, drivin all the ion- A definit arming. moth esn’t e e o , i s j f m e t h 4 a n o t a w e i y 1 c m c r r r i do f r c B rme rm befo e gene ades, the sum icipating ll as o s. The in organ aterial insects, g like a f e t m r in m ll rt the the fa inco arm upg s the and pa rk, as w marke s 8 and organic oesn’t ki r anyth ndrea g e n A o a d Th eed, f ni wo g farm n, age farm re. It eybees, lained. ask ‘Do ns. f such uilding farm n i u e i t r g g , d k s r n d e r i l p i a n n o b e x is b tow with nd work o ch ditio eopl n e ll ho ly w cals. goes ven ad vidence ctivity a ly al nger tw ssist by helpers the ki t,” Rya When p n chemi ust u e j “ n u f a o tha that hey mea ying is on and that Pr th prod rs not o re yo mainly e big nd out o r d a e d , ra o a ’t e g dd barn rease b . Memb ut also u- 10 rkets an inside a f a u spray? that. Sp omethin o p c h b y ti ot yo ma s bot ts to in r safet arvest, e comm e it’s n d to ge hern I, the r t t e h r o h t u k h o r f B c n e M tho wo the stport, in th t part o o- house. hen the me t.” t e d a r W a n a “ n d a n sh rE te ee s ic. port e pla as b Michi- Loca ake nea d organ e alway h t h an im Farm hern be rch L Ryan g, w rtifie nity. idence in Nort ill soon r- To m is ce growin ically,” orkv e r n Pro usiness 6 and w r anniv ge fa started ng orga ed by w and t i a 0 b e e e l ing ince 20 s 10-y ed col ri- w re grow We star s farms, ork ’ t “ s d g i tten able a i- we lained. r people farm to w ealgan rating a o h b a e da xp ain sr cele Ryan, w sust farm’s mal e g on oth e chose farm. It’ d on n i . sary alizing ges the the ani r- in enever w organic r worke nal a i e a io n spec re, man rseeing ding, h r- wh it was a I’ve nev onvent fied c , e e — i e u v n e v cult eds: o ing, w d deli ’s o ll I know at used me cert our n t h a m e a ly n s, plan aging, a the far - ly farms t e bec elds] in the m W s e y i k fi r e . n , c as ] cho g, pa drea , CSA m ina- a ethods r most as soon ome n n A i [m ec [fo , and vest is wife, r guide t coord ld b nic e u a r g o n H u e r c . e h o o ev ies eter, t ar ds son, st ye the fiel k r r r e fi a p m o of go-t rest ber

ave ey h h t d s, an d n es o c com s s e se ts.” w h o t e r up lien ng that g ever go xc y happ everythi nothing drea e n t o t No dible, bu farm, A ave zer h a e out ste on try to e vegeta t es av nd wa e eir b et, to ed. “W en we h r pigs a t, h t t a in h ou rk os re th the ma ny- pla te, so w goes to e comp e.” u s n o s a v e it a m a gt that e w e scraps always h good ho comers goin l Far cts are ’t mean en ther a ft u e b ws. We e it has ts, food rom sn k prod hat doe aste. O produc o f i l an c w e ’t t feel restaur benefit rovI t u but goes to which ar but isn P le o b ichigan ore also l farms. rib, g t ” b i s n i d d h h M e n t a m ist noug tely seco lf. ps, and y loc food d then n a are “ comple retty” e n a she m a ho ith - o is o p g so that dered “ rket or have sec havin works w apital, w wide to a i r] ence herry C ce state restaucons t in a m arm, we ted. “[O d i f u C d du nd be p like any commen rkets an utor, the pro ocers, a f a a t o r “Jus ” Andre go to m Some sells esses, g , e . e s v d n d i a w h oo us on times ith f , so we pick b e w m k o s c good ut to e ba com erfectly come o p it is pantries food rants. Ryan explained that they enjoy working with a distributor, as the process is streamlined for both farmer and consumer.

Providence Farm enjoys the bonds they have forged with their CSA members over time. Many have become family friends, both members and farmers share recipes, and Providence holds an annual potluck dinner to celebrate the summer season. Andrea and Ryan also involve community school groups by giving tours of the farm. Students learn about the animals and various produce grown on-site, both an educational and fun experience for everyone involved.

Joining a CSA is a great way to involved with Northwest Michigan’s community while enjoying a plethora of quality local produce. More program details and information about participating farms, including Providence Farm, can be found at http://www.csafarms.org.

arah schlusler Story and Photos by

An Ode to My CSAS

Friday mornings, for me at least, are met with the kind of excited anticipation, usually reserved for children on Christmas morning. What will I get?

What will I make with it? When my package arrives, I tear into it to get the answers I seek. The package I speak of is my CSA box.

CSA is an acronym for Community Supported Agriculture, which means I buy a share of a local, organic farm’s harvest and in return I receive, between June and November, a weekly box of freshly picked, locally grown produce. Providence Farm in Central Lake is the farm where my food is grown. Andrea, Ryan, Angie, these are the names of some of my farmers.

Food doesn’t have to be bought in grocery stores, and it doesn’t have to travel 1000’s of miles to get to you. Participating in a CSA keeps money in the local economy by providing jobs and income to people in the community.

It also helps the environment because the food doesn’t have to travel long distances, and because the produce is not treated with pesticides, and synthetic fertilizers.

So, enjoy eating seasonally, locally, and pesticide free by joining a CSA. Who knows, maybe you too will experience childlike delight in your weekly bounty.

By Alissia J.R. Lingaur

Six Fluffy Ladies: A Foray into Chicken-Keeping

GROW YOUR OWN

They see me as soon as I step out of the garage. Some flutter through the air from walkway to wire.

Others duck heads and rush the door, battering-ram-style. And as I near the run, their chirps and chatter start, the throaty belches that reveal their happiness at seeing me, or perhaps at seeing the bowl of kitchen scraps I hold in my hand. I have to smile at my red-feathered dinosaurs because their simple desires for scratch and fresh water, or an afternoon of grazing in my yard, remind me that life is most often about food, friendship, and a kind word every now and then, and less about laundry, publications, and those ego-boosting monetary rewards we humans find so valuable.

In April, we bought our six Isa Brown pullets from Tractor Supply. They were only a week old and all six fit in a cardboard box, just a tad larger than an egg carton with small holes punched in the sides for air. Pullets are pre-sexed chicks, an important detail as we only wanted hens. No roosters were required for our backyard flock since we did not plan to incubate and raise our own future chicks.

All we wanted were layers, and according to a fellow chicken enthusiast at the store, our hens should each lay an egg a day, even in the winter. His prediction has come true so far, as the ladies, as I tend to call them, began laying in August when they were about six months old, and they haven’t quit since.

While the chicks were still small enough to fit in my hands, they lived in our basement in a wire bunny cage, warming themselves under a heat lamp and getting ever more curious as the weeks passed.

Meanwhile, my husband and I built them a coop out of scrap wood that my father, who is a builder and a wonderful recycler, scrounged for us. After removing nails, screws, and staples from rescued two-by-fours, we built a frame for the floor and covered it with a sheet of plywood. This provided the basic square footage for the coop, just big enough for six hens. The coop’s floor sits atop cement blocks, stacked two high, that we discovered in our backyard, a gift from our home’s previous owner, who was also a don’t-throw-anything-out-because-you-might-be-able-to-use-it-one-day kind of person.

We decided the coop’s front wall would be tall, over six feet, so that my husband could stand inside without ducking, and the roof would slant to the back wall, which would be lower – a design for winter, really, as we’re hoping the snow will slide right off. We added two windows, a door, and the roof, covering it with leftover shingles from our house. We enclosed the outside of the coop with a layer of roofing paper for insulation, as well as barn-style plywood and shipping pallet slats we salvaged from a janitorial supply store. Overall, we spent six weeks building the coop on weekends and during the evenings, and the ladies just kept growing and growing.

Once we’d installed nest boxes and roosts, we moved the ladies out to the coop to sleep. I placed their cage right in the straw with the door open, so they could ease into the transition of a bigger home.

Within a week, they had grown accustomed to their new surroundings and were perfectly happy roosting in the large coop, no longer needing the cage. But they did need a run. This took another couple weeks for us to dig trenches and bury chicken wire, cementing the wire a foot underground with Quikrete, just in case a hungry possum decided to dig under the wire and snack on our girls (something my husband’s colleague experienced multiple times). And then we added mesh to the run’s roof, so the red-tailed hawks that loved to linger above our bumbling chicks as they dashed after butterflies couldn’t swoop down and devour one when she rested in the shade of the coop. Finally, just a month ago, we put a coat of stain on the outside of the coop to protect it against the Michigan weather and brought back their heat lamp for the upcoming cold.

Though I’ve had to work hard to create a space for my ladies, I’m very happy that I did. They bring me such delight, especially their soft feathers and fluttering heartbeats, simultaneously fragile and strong, that thump against my fingers when I hold them. And of course, there are the beautiful eggs I receive each day! Such a miraculous thing, eggs. Six, every single day. They vary in size – some small as an avocado pit, others as large as lemons. (I wince a bit when I collect one of those biggies, almost always a double-yolker. Hopefully, the lady who laid that one suffered no lasting effects!) They vary in color too – mostly light tan, but some pale as sand, others all speckled and freckly.

What a great lesson for my children to learn, that eggs come from chickens, not the grocery store. The ladies let my three kiddos carry them around and even tolerate a hand beneath them in the nesting boxes to gather their eggs. Even my dog loves the chickens.

Just yesterday he shared a bone with them in the backyard, all six of the girls pecking away at his bone while he gained an occasional lick.

“I have to smile at my red-zfeathered dinosaurs”

Chickens are wonderful at eliminating food waste as well. We hardly throw any food away anymore.

Leftover toast crusts? Right to the girls. Pepper and onion ends? Chicken bowl. I keep a lidded container under my sink to add scraps into throughout the day. Along with sugary foods, the only thing I don’t give them, is chicken. I do not want six little cannibals trotting around my backyard.

Though I’ve always loved animals, I’ve never truly acknowledged that my nature-loving heart beats a chicken-gal tune. I love watching my six fluffy ladies hunt grasshoppers or scratch in the leaves for worms. And when it’s time to return them to their run for the night, I simply call them: “Here chick-ies!” in the high-pitched tradition of animal caretakers who have come before me, or perhaps just in the Jungian memories I hold of my father and his chickens, or my husband’s grandmother and hers. As the ladies come running to me, bounding through the grass and bushes around my house, I know that this part of my family’s sustenance is important, joyful work.

44

Photos by Gabrielle Dewey

Geers Family Farm is a well-known Halloween tradition in my home town.

Every October they open and people flock to them just to get some of their home made apple cider doughnuts. I am no exception.

I was given the opportunity to go behind the scenes of Geers and watch how they made their doughnuts and was quite impressed.

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50

Local Photo Essay by Krystn Madrine

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The Eco-Eater’s Manifesto Please bite responsibly

by Krystn Madrine

Know Your Farmer Know Your Food

One day last spring, in my favorite place on campus, the art building, my classmates Holly and Vanessa and I were talking about food. We were comparing our “diets”, or food choices. I was sort of agonizing about my upcoming trip to Cuba because as a mostly vegan eater, I knew I would be facing a very meat-centric culture. We talked about the books we had read, meals we had made and how the whole struggle about who and what to believe about food in our world was difficult even for people who cared deeply about sustainability and health. Vanessa made a comment about how even our conversation was a very real “first world problem”. A great many people around the world are just happy to have something to eat.

That comment really stuck with me. The first world problem of what diet to eat has been very interesting to me, both personally and professionally. I have been a vegetarian, vegan, omnivore, pescetarian, dieter, weight-watcher, juicer, chef and baker, and now, I am an eco-vore. I have been nearly constantly trying to learn as much as I could about food in one way or another my entire life. I am trying to make peace with food and my food choices and the deeply held opinions I have about food, based on a life filled with both the enjoyment of eating and my viewing the topic through the magnifying glass of my deeply political nature.

I have a keen interest in studying food policy around the world, and I am able to hold some very disparate views about food in tension, weighing and balancing what I know with what I like.

I am trying to be aware, thankful, and at ease with food. I hope that the food space I am in now is one I can continue to inhabit for the rest of my life.

I am a food writer and photographer, growing in my craft. My work has focused on both the beauty and satisfaction of real and sustainable food, and on food policy as it relates to the health of people and planet. I live and work and think at the crossroads of food, water, sustainability, renewable energy, and living a full and satisfying epicurian life. I tend to think politically about every decision I make, so of course my choices in food are all rooted in my personal politics.

My personal food journey started with a love of cooking. I had two grandmothers, two great-grandmothers and a great aunt alive when I was little, and they all spoiled me, as I was the first girl in over 70 years on one side of my family. I was treated to many afternoons by their sides, baking, cooking, laughing, loving. One of my grandmothers was a school cook, at the local Catholic school, back when school lunches were all made from scratch and delicious. I remember sitting on the big wide stairs that led down into the huge kitchen, the smell of rolls in the oven, potatoes to be mashed bubbling on the stove. (There began my lifelong fascination with all things Catholic and all large kitchens.)

In high school, I became an award winning debater. I spent all my summers at debate camps at the University of Michigan, studying the chosen topic in depth and becoming a strong and persuasive speaker. The first two national topics I debated were energy policy, and food policy. I am fascinated by that...the two first topics I really researched and argued about for a year is what I am now the most committed to, the most passionate about. What I learned in debate led me to read important books like Diet for a Small Planet by Frances Moore Lappe, which had a huge impact on me and my way of thinking about the world.

I also was deeply disturbed by the PBB disaster in Michigan from 1972-75. The wrong chemical was fed to cows and other animals, and as a result, everyone who ate any meat or dairy or eggs during this time was also contaminated with a toxic chemical. We are still dealing with the fall-out of that ecological and agricultural disaster.

“It has been four decades since one of the most catastrophic agricultural disasters in U.S. history unfolded in the heart of Michigan, forcing the destruction of tens of thousands of cattle contaminated with polybrominated biphenyl, or PBB, and allowing the chemical to slip onto the dinner plates and into the drinking glasses of nine out of 10 Michiganders.”

Decades later, PBB contamination suspected in illnesses and deaths, Robin Erb, Detroit Free Press, September 23, 2012

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I was old enough to see that this mess and its subsequent cover up by both business and government was an example of corporate greed. I felt poisoned, and betrayed. I still have that poison in my body(and so maybe do you).

By the time I started having kids at age 21, I was a vegetarian, and stayed that way for nearly 12 years, whilst having three babies, and breastfeeding them all for at least 2 years. I also became a midwife during my early twenties, and so had to have an understanding of all different kinds of eating habits and beliefs. I served Muslims, vegans, macrobiotics, Amish, and many families who were from all over the world, who had very different ideas of what constitutes good nutrition. I had to be able to respect each system, while also counseling the pregnant woman on good nutrition during pregnancy, birth, and postpartum.

I kept my kids from eating crap, refused to take them to McDonalds until they were in school, and chose organic options even when I was very poor and on food stamps (yes, you can do it). I cooked from the Moosewood cookbooks, read and used Laurel’s Kitchen until the covers fell off, and made everything my family ate from scratch.

By the time I started having kids at age 21, I was a vegetarian, and stayed that way for nearly 12 years, whilst having three babies, and breastfeeding them all for at least 2 years. I also became a midwife during my early twenties, and so had to have an understanding of all different kinds of eating habits and beliefs. I served Muslims, vegans, macrobiotics, Amish, and many families who were from all over the world, who had very different ideas of what constitutes good nutrition. I had to be able to respect each system, while also counseling the pregnant woman on good nutrition during pregnancy, birth, and postpartum.

I kept my kids from eating crap, refused to take them to McDonalds until they were in school, and chose organic options even when I was very poor and on food stamps (yes, you can do it). I cooked from the Moosewood cookbooks, read and used Laurel’s Kitchen until the covers fell off, and made everything my family ate from scratch.

I also became an even better cook and baker, and I even spent some time running restaurants, which I loved doing. I catered a number of vegetarian weddings and other events. I lived with and cooked for meat-eaters over the years of my life but only went back to eating meat myself after my third child was born quite early and I had a very serious complication where I lost a great deal of blood. My beloved grandmother came to take care of my during my recovery, and she insisted on my need for red meat to build my blood back up. I was too weak to resist her and I did go back to eating meat, although not regularly.

My third child, a son, was born with hypospadius, a urinary tract abnormality that can be an outcome of not eating enough Vitamin B12 while pregnant. It can also come from endocrine disruptors in our food and water. I was very concerned about this, as I thought I had an excellent diet and had take all the correct supplements before and after conception. I felt guilty, and confused. Had I done this to my child? Had the poisons I had in my body done it, or had my belief system about food?

I continued to study and learn all I could about different beliefs about food. I studied the work of Weston Price and Sally Fallon, and came to be convinced of the rightness of grass-fed animals and the importance of gut-health. I studied food policy and sustainability. As a midwife, I was lucky to serve a group of what I called, “Hippie Amish”, who had organic farms and pastured all their livestock. I still did not eat very much meat and I even considered becoming a vegan. I began working as the marketing director of The Sustainable Kitchen, a mobile food truck that served only local food, and got very involved in local and sustainable food politics.

Then, in May of 2010, I became very, very ill with a combination of Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) and Group B Streptococcus. I was in the hospital for 9 days, while infectious disease specialists gathered around to try to save my life. I had likely picked up an exotic strain of strep while I was at an Amish pig farm, and, I was resistant to many of the 26 different drugs I was given. I actually had the dreaded antibiotic resistant strains of germs living inside my body. I very nearly died before a heroic intervention by a doctor I had never seen before changed the direction of my illness and my life was spared.

But now, I had very high blood sugars and had to face the fact the the diabetes that had affected both my parents and three out of

four grandparents was coming to get me. I had to make some very personal decisions about my life. I read everything I could about diabetes and discovered something amazing - much of the best research points to a vegan diet as a cure for diabetes. Yes, I said that - a cure. It turns out that a plant-based diet reverses the effects of most of our diseases of excess. I decided to try it and I went totally vegan,overnight. It was hard for only about a week, and, as I became more familiar with the products available, I found that I was fine without dairy. I lost some weight, brought down my sugar numbers and generally felt great. The only food I missed was cream for my coffee every morning. Through an exhaustive search, I discovered that Trader Joe’s soy creamer tasted the best, but, I did not live near a Trader Joe’s, and I had some concerns about soy products in general, especially for a maturing woman.

I soon found that I had made a subtle yet powerful change in my thinking. I had become a vegan for health reasons, and it was working, but the cleanliness of the ethics of eating with less harm to animals and less footprint on the planet made me feel differently, too.

I felt clearer.

I then went to New York City where I became a certified vegan and gluten-free pastry chef. I enjoyed being where there was always quality vegan food available, and I made the most of my time there by eating at nearly all of the famous vegan restaurants in Manhattan. I then moved to Traverse City and hoped to find that the reputed foodie-town would also have great vegan food. I was sorely disappointed by both the lack of vegan options and the lack of a good job for someone with my skills.

I ate totally vegan until about a year ago when I started letting a little bit of dairy back into my life. I could tell that my taste buds had changed, and most milk products had a ‘cow-y’ taste, and a mouthfeel that I did not care for. I did love cheese, and found that cheeses were really the only kind of dairy product that I liked anymore. I eventually also tried fish, and seafood, and even tried some read meat.

After traveling to Cuba, where as a vegetarian I was always given fish to eat, I tried a new approach: I wanted to just be grateful for the food I had, grateful for the chance to make some choices about the food I was grateful to eat. I wanted to make my food real, choosing only food found in nature, no processed food except for an occasional treat. I found that I could eat a tiny bit of dairy, and I found that I really did not care for meat at all anymore, and could easily imagine a future life without it.

I came to see this: The Standard American Diet is killing us with processed food, chemicals, pesticides, growth-hormones, antibiotics, and genetically modified organisms. The current system of industrial agriculture has created a host of problems, from methane release that is more dangerous to the climate than rampant carbon release to nitrite runoff into our streams and lakes. Our current food systems are relentlessly consuming our shared resources, which should force us to ask some rigorous questions about how of food is sourced.

Food production and its relationship to food and water security, issues of food justice and access to food and clean water, and the ethical and moral questions raised by global climate shift are going to have to be the primary concerns of all food policy over the next several years. Climate shift will cause radical redistribution of resources, maybe as quickly as in the next 30 years. Those of us who live in the Great Lakes water system are going to have to be willing to make decisions about how the remaining water here will get shared with the rest of the very thirsty world. Who do you want making those decisions? Every single time you do or DON’T go to the polls to vote, you are making a choice about who is going to be governing us during those potential times of madness.

What kind of place do you want to be living in? What are you willing to sacrifice to have that hamburger? it is totally fine to have that hamburger, if you need to and are hungry and it is what you choose, so long as you know the real cost of that hamburger.

You are not just eating the meat, you are eating the business practices and choices of the place you bought it from. You are eating the $8 an hour paid to the manager of that fast food place, that not-standard-of-living wage that the single mom of two cannot survive on. You are eating the gas and oil of that semi-truck that brought the meat from the packaging plant out west. You are eating the slaughterhouse, and it’s well-documented atrocious treatment of employees and animals alike. You are eating antibiotics and growth-hormones and genetically modified feed grown to be able to tolerate so much pesticide that the workers who apply them have to be carefully masked. You are eating the drought in the California Central Valley, where that lettuce was grown on the backs of people who don’t have clean water to drink.

You want to eat that? Really? How does that make you feel? The cost is higher than you can even imagine when you combine all the systems together and see the truth and then do the ethical math for yourself.

How much longer are you going to stand by and just let that be the way you get your food?

There is an alternative and it is not giving up your favorite food or even any kind of food. I am not advocating that anyone become a vegan against their will or give up their favorite meals.

I am advocating for education, awareness and conscious choices so that food systems can be just to the eater, the eat-ee, and the land upon which we all depend for survival.

Ask these questions about your food: - Was it made in nature/by God? or was it made by man? in a factory?

- Has the production of this food been done sustainably, with best practices of common decency to the humans and animals involved in that production?

- Does whoever created this food have an eye to the future of the planet? Are they considering their impact on the world?

- Is this food local, or sustainable in most ways? Do you know who made/raised this food?

- Do you know where it came from and what it went through to get here? Are you ok with that?

- Is there wage equality where the food is produced? Are all employees paid a living wage?

- Can you ascertain the carbon footprint of the food? How far has it traveled?

- What is the plight of those who raised it? Are people treated fairly?

-Are water resources are threatened by the production of this food?

- Is this food correctly labeled so that the consumer knows exactly what is in it?

Being an ecovore is, in my opinion, more important than being a locavore, vegan, vegetarian, gluten-free eater, Fresh 30 eater, raw foodist, omnivore or anything else. Being an eco-vore can be tailored to who you are, right now, where you are in your life and budget and resources and beliefs. You can begin today to develop your food literacy and begin to make better and more informed choices.

This way of eating fosters awareness of all living things being part of a greater whole, and it develops a sense of connectedness to nature. One can have a very strong political and ethical standard about food and still have an enjoyable relationship to food. I still eat out, travel and enjoy life to its fullest, while trying to make smart and sustainable choices about how I spend my food dollars.

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Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead. - fatsickandnearlydead.com

Every vote, every call and letter to Lansing from every single Michigander should be a demand to shut down Line 5 under the Mackinaw Bridge. Do you know about this issue and how it impacts our Great Lakes? There is a 62 year old aging pipeline carrying tar sands under the Straights of Mackinaw. It is owned by a Canadian multinational energy corporation, and the oil and gas in it do not ever come to market in Michigan. And yet it is our water that will be fouled for generations should a leak occur. It is our agriculture and drinking water that will be ruined. It is foolhardy to leave it even one more day. Real leaders would have shut it down by now.

Every effort should be made to stop the agricultural pesticide run-off that causes the huge algae blooms In Lake Huron to occur, tainting the fresh drinking water of so many people. Oil refineries along the coasts and boats that go across our waters should be closely monitored and regulated so that this precious resource stays clean and clear enough to support the enormous pressure that is going to brought to bear upon it as a limited supply.

Eat Books:

Eating Animals, by Jonathan Safran Foer Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal, by Eric Schlosser The Coming Famine: The Global Food Crisis and What we Can do to Avoid It, by Julian Cribb

Food for Thought:

Websites:

Lexicon of Sustainability - lexiconofsustainability.com

The Sustainable Table - sustainabletable.org/940/food-issues

Harvard’s Sustainable Food Initiative, School of Public Health chgeharvard.org/category/healthy-and-sustainable-food

Sustainable Food Trust - A Global Voice for Sustainable Food and Health sustainablefoodtrust.org/

Silent Spring, by Rachel Carlson Diet for a Hot Planet: The Climate Crisis at the End of Your Fork and What You Can Do About It,

by Anna Lappe

The United Nations - The Future We Want un.org/en/sustainablefuture/food.asp

Food Chains - foodchainsfilm.com

Forks Over Knives - forksoverknives.com/

Food for Thought Film - foodforthoughtfilm.com/watch-fftffl-video/

Films:

Stuffed and Starved: The Hidden Battle for the World Food System, by Raj Patel Eat Here: Reclaiming Homegrown Pleasures in a Global Supermarket, by Brian Halweil Food Matters, by Mark Bittman The Omnivore’s Dilemma, and, Food Rules,

by Michael Pollan edibleGrandeTraverse, by local writers

Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead. - fatsickandnearlydead.com

You Are Wh

Eat What You Will, But Kn

- every chemical sprayed - every mile of truck fuel - every gallon of jet fuel - every shipping container boat that uses slave labor in Asia - every pig living in deplorable conditions for its entire life - every worker wearing masks and protective gear

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- every storm from global climate shift do to cow feedlot methane and the use of precious resources in industrial ag - every non-labelled Genetically Modified Organism sold due to The Dark Act

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62

Eating Local In the Traverse City area, there are over

40

restaurants, with a diverse selection of foods.

locally owned

Cultural: Amical, Red Ginger, Zakey’s, Sorellina, Bistro FouFou,

La Becasse, Funistrada, Tuscan Bistro, Georgina’s, Patisserie Amie, Pearl’s

Veggie Lovers: Greenhouse Café, Harvest, Towne Plaza, Poppycock’s,

Oryana Natural Foods, Centre Street Café, The Dish, Edson Farms

Carnivorous: Bubba’s, Slabtown, J&S Hamburg, Mode’s Bum Steer, Towne Plaza, Smoke and Porter, Boone’s, Jonathon B. Pub, Sleders

Fine Dining: Amical, Red Ginger, Poppycock’s, Firefly, Sorellina, Towne Plaza,

Georgina’s, Apache Trout Grill, The Boathouse, The Franklin, Trattoria Stella Pepe Nero, Smoke and Porter, Siren Hall, Blu, Mission Table, Cook’s House

Café: The Brew, Greenhouse Café, Dish Café, Centre Street Café, U&I

Lounge, Morsels

Food on Wheels: Little Fleet, Roaming Harvest, Betty’s Hot Dish, Anchor Brewpub: The Workshop, Right-Brain, North Peak, Mackinaw, Rare Bird, Seven Monks, Short’s

Literary Staff Corey Boudrie - literary editor Holly Safronoff John Koenig Ann Hosler Katelyn Catino Austin Bolton Liam Strong

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Allissia Lingaur - Lit advisor Krystn Madrine - Editor-in-chief

Design Staff Brittany DeFilippo- design editor Nichole Hartley Roger Dickinson Alex Robb Michelle Ravellette Tabetha Dauthrich

NMC Magazine Staff

Caroline Schaefer-Hills - Design Advisor

Literary Staff

Design Staff with mascot Zaia The text of this magazine in set in the fonts Mrs. Eaves and Neutraface Text. The text paper is Butcher Extra White from French Paper Company and the cover is Dur-o-tone Packing Brown Wrap, also from French.

This magazine was printed by BRD Printing, Inc.

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Volume 38 Issue 1