Real Food

I grew up with wild blackberries and raspberries.  I spent summers gorging on the sweet, sun warmed fruit.  We'd pick until our fingers were stained purple and red.  We'd pick until our arms were covered in scratches.  We'd eat until our tongues and teeth and lips were stained by the luscious fruit.

My mom grew zucchini.  Huge monsters that she shredded into bread and muffins.  She grew carrots so sweet they tasted like candy.  She grew cucumbers and turned them in to bread and butter pickles.  I remember sitting on the porch snapping green beans in half, getting them ready for her to fry in a little bacon grease for dinner. We planted potatoes and peas, radishes and tomatoes. Picking them fresh every night and then canning what we couldn't eat.

We ate fish my dad caught near our house.  Giant salmon that Mom smoked and baked.  We ate crabs my grandfather brought to us in huge Styrofoam ice chests, boiled with a box of rock salt, juice dripping down our arms. We ate crawdads that we caught under the rocks in the creek. Sometimes we brought them home, but usually we sat beside the creek and boiled them in an old coffee can filled with clear creek water.

We ate venison, beef raised by friends on their small farm, elk and goose shot by family and friends.  We ate meat that most people would never consider:  rattlesnake, frog legs, possum, squirrel, raccoon. 

And then...

I moved to California.

I started cooking my own food.

I began to view food as best bought in pristine packages, without a blemish to be seen. I left my country roots far behind and immersed myself in Thai take out and flash frozen fish. I distanced myself from the where my food came from.

Six years ago, I planted a tiny garden with three happy little tomato plants. Soon, I expanded to include basil and cilantro. Then, I started canning my own jam. Within a few years, I had expanded my garden and improved my skills. I moved beyond jams and jellies and into pickles and whole fruit and vegetables. I studied the origins of my food. I educated myself about pesticides, ph levels, safe food preparation, farming practices and then met others who were doing the same.

I moved almost full circle from my childhood. I now sit with my children and shell peas. I'm going to be getting chickens to provide eggs for my family. I know where I can buy local honey and local beef. I feel more confident in my connection to the earth.

I thought I was doing pretty good until a message appeared on my moms' board.

"Anyone getting chickens to butcher?"

Within hours, the local moms replied, expressing interest in learning to butcher their own chickens, going so far as to set up a playgroup for one mom to show the others how it's done.

And I was hit with a fist full of reality.

If there is ever a need to feed my family from the land I only have two choices:

1. Move in with Tara or Sarah since they apparently have no problem with the whole butchering thing.
2. Become a vegetarian.

How about you? Would you go so far as to learn to raise and butcher your own meat in order to know where your food is coming from?


On a completely unrelated note, I'm reviewing Super Bowl commercials over at Makes Fun of Stuff today. Go check it out and see if you agree.