I pride myself on being an omnivore--at least I did until I read Michael Pollan's,"The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals." In it, he explains how the food that's on our plates--whether it's a Big Mac from McDonald's, an organic meal purchased at Whole Foods, a local meal produced by a sustainable farm or one that you might hunt for yourself makes it to the table. The book lives up to the dictionary definition of dilemma, "a situation in which a difficult choice has to be made between two or more alternatives." The story of how food arrives on our plates is complex--but Pollan explains it in heartbreaking detail--the amount of carbon fuel required to produce organic crops, the bushels of corn required to fatten a chicken to the guilty pleasure he gets from hunting--it's all in there, in wonderful, engrossing detail.
Having read the book, I almost wish that I had not eaten from Pollan's tree of knowledge--I want back into my ignorant Garden of Eatin' where I was happy with the stories I purchased from Whole Foods or the convenience of my McDonald's Egg McMuffin. Though I must continue eating, it's impossible to revert to ignorance--instead, I have to live in denial. It won't be the first time. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I lived close to Pollan's ideal. My family had a garden, kept animals, and prided themselves on growing everything without chemicals and preserving foods through natural processes. When I wanted a turkey for an American style Thanksgiving celebration, they introduced me to my neighbors who introduced me to the turkeys. I thought, "I didn't want to meet and greet you, I just wanted to eat you." but there I was holding the squirming bird to see if he was big enough. (He was.) I must admit, those were some of the most delectable birds I've tasted, but still I longed for the familiar seemingly antiseptic Butterball. They were so much less messy.
All of the sudden those folks who are trying to eat local seem a little bit more rational, and I'm longing for the days when my Lithuanian hosts would go out and grab the eggs from the chicken coop in the morning. I used to fret when I met an animal, and they told me when he was going to expire--"oh, the pig? Easter." I was still living in my saran wrapped cocoon of ignorance. Now my cozy cocoon's been torn again--and I'm thinking, heh, isn't New Jersey the Garden State? Maybe there's an answer on a local farm...