Organic Meanderings
Today, being Friday, I made my weekly trek to my NYC Mecca for local, organic, and groceries du jour. Per usual, I went to Union Square to bedazzle my fridge with fresh greens and vegetation of many colors. Or, as the husband says, make the fridge look like a "weed garden exploded in there."
As I wandered the stalls in the blazing heat, long before a half second monsoon hit, I eyed my favorite vendors, bought a bottle of Eve's Cidery wine, and meandered my way through another day of organic scents and delights.* Though, on the far side of the square I spotted a basket of seemingly misshapen carrots. Today, upon seeing these, my mind traveled to a memory a few years old of a grad school professor and I discussing the taste of produce on the American market. Color, shape, and quantity surpass desires for rich, robust flavor. In many ways it is a tragedy. The taste of unaltered food--as in those grown organically and without steroids, injected dyes, and modes of mass production--easily surpasses that of the weak tasting, often cardboard quality found at the nearby chain supermarket. In short, my professor did not care for the non-orange carrots and the funny shaped fruits. Why? As he said, he was trained on the American landscape of same shape, bright color foods.
The bundle of fresh basil in my cloth sack, the local made mini loaf of ciabatta, and the locally made smoked fresh mozz aromas oozed from my bags as I opened them to add field grown strawberries from upstate, peaches from the orchard outside Queens, and garlic scapes from another local vendor whom I buy from often. I thought of the meals my husband and I eat, how he admits to not knowing what to do with the groceries if I don't cook them (attested to when I went to KY for a week on work . . . came home to a fridge filled to the gills with rotten food, a take out container, and a husband with a bloated stomach from fast food and take out), and of how he even tells me the difference he feels in his own body and the taste difference with the clean foods we have been eating. Of course, my Lupus never goes away but it stays within a better scope of pesky if I'm weak on chemicals and processed foods. The more organic I eat the more the body lets me live a little.
This week's loot brought all but the crumpets, two spices, Rich's pork-kill-his-wife red pepper sausage, and the creamer from local farms and manufacturers. Everything else is organic, devoid of artificial enhancements, and local. Those that aren't local are still sans artificial enhancements. Are we starving ourselves? Are we "missing out" on some great summer food? We don't think so . . . instead, we look at it that we are consuming the foods of the season, keeping with our ideals of environmentalism and fair trade, and treating ourselves to treats that only come once a year. A spring mix salad base for the greens with raspberries, strawberries, goat cheese, peaches or nectarines, apples, almonds, and sometimes slivers of a yellow pepper sprinkled with a peach balsamic and olive oil dressing or a creamy fresh dill dressing wouldn't have the same soothing, cooling, and sweet effect in the dead of winter. In deep winter potato stews and winter squash baked with salt and raw sugar woo the grey chills away.
Of course, we are lucky that we can make such choices, and we are aware that not everyone can choose to buy as such. I cobble together an income, which in 2011 put me in the lower middle class bracket. I could live decently (not without worry) in NYC. With my new husband's income and mine we can afford ourselves luxuries, like buying a few extra groceries, restricting our consumption to organic and local (which ironically are not cheaper, but that is a different diatribe), making a weekly excursion to our local neighborhood pub for pear cider and peach beer, and purchasing smart decisions like renters insurance. I think about this thought as I lug home two heavy sacks of groceries, in my cloth bags and cooler bags made from recycled water bottles. I think of this as I refill my Brita pitcher and top my Fair Trade coffee with soy creamer. I think even more of this as I enter and exit the subway, seeing a familiar face . . . the homeless woman who sits inside the entrance to my station.
For two years I've made a point to buy her coffee, donuts, or cheap sandwiches when I see her there. If I don't have food for her I leave her fifty cents or a dollar. Some will judge me, call me a sucker, but she is always sweet, kind, and grateful. I don't know what her story is, how she got there, or if she had a "life" before the streets. What I do know is that I've never smelled spirits on her, nor have I seen her buy smokes.
Today, when exiting the subway, while loaded down like a pack mule with organic goodies for the week the aromas of my raw goods wafted to my nose. I saw her, stopped, and dug in my bag to offer her a large juicy apple that smelled succulent and delicious. She politely said thank-you, but said "I have no teeth." I shrugged, took the apple she was handing back to me, and offered her bread. It just wasn't any bread. It was herb and cheese focaccia from my favorite organic bakery that comes to the Green Markets. I had intended it for dinner tonight with our salad (as described above) and possibly with apple-chicken sausage mixed in Rich's. Yet, I didn't think twice about giving her my bread. Why?
I am lucky that I can choose to shop as I do. I am lucky that I can flip the consumer bird at chain stores and low wages for workers. I am lucky that I can exhaust myself and take a few hours each Friday and embrace the outdoor market, make relationships with those I purchase from, and enjoy my dinner and knowing where it came. Not everyone is so lucky.
*The first bottle of Eve's came as a wedding present. The husband doesn't drink wine, but I do. This wine is not only local, but it is DELICIOUS.
As I wandered the stalls in the blazing heat, long before a half second monsoon hit, I eyed my favorite vendors, bought a bottle of Eve's Cidery wine, and meandered my way through another day of organic scents and delights.* Though, on the far side of the square I spotted a basket of seemingly misshapen carrots. Today, upon seeing these, my mind traveled to a memory a few years old of a grad school professor and I discussing the taste of produce on the American market. Color, shape, and quantity surpass desires for rich, robust flavor. In many ways it is a tragedy. The taste of unaltered food--as in those grown organically and without steroids, injected dyes, and modes of mass production--easily surpasses that of the weak tasting, often cardboard quality found at the nearby chain supermarket. In short, my professor did not care for the non-orange carrots and the funny shaped fruits. Why? As he said, he was trained on the American landscape of same shape, bright color foods.
The bundle of fresh basil in my cloth sack, the local made mini loaf of ciabatta, and the locally made smoked fresh mozz aromas oozed from my bags as I opened them to add field grown strawberries from upstate, peaches from the orchard outside Queens, and garlic scapes from another local vendor whom I buy from often. I thought of the meals my husband and I eat, how he admits to not knowing what to do with the groceries if I don't cook them (attested to when I went to KY for a week on work . . . came home to a fridge filled to the gills with rotten food, a take out container, and a husband with a bloated stomach from fast food and take out), and of how he even tells me the difference he feels in his own body and the taste difference with the clean foods we have been eating. Of course, my Lupus never goes away but it stays within a better scope of pesky if I'm weak on chemicals and processed foods. The more organic I eat the more the body lets me live a little.
This week's loot brought all but the crumpets, two spices, Rich's pork-kill-his-wife red pepper sausage, and the creamer from local farms and manufacturers. Everything else is organic, devoid of artificial enhancements, and local. Those that aren't local are still sans artificial enhancements. Are we starving ourselves? Are we "missing out" on some great summer food? We don't think so . . . instead, we look at it that we are consuming the foods of the season, keeping with our ideals of environmentalism and fair trade, and treating ourselves to treats that only come once a year. A spring mix salad base for the greens with raspberries, strawberries, goat cheese, peaches or nectarines, apples, almonds, and sometimes slivers of a yellow pepper sprinkled with a peach balsamic and olive oil dressing or a creamy fresh dill dressing wouldn't have the same soothing, cooling, and sweet effect in the dead of winter. In deep winter potato stews and winter squash baked with salt and raw sugar woo the grey chills away.
Of course, we are lucky that we can make such choices, and we are aware that not everyone can choose to buy as such. I cobble together an income, which in 2011 put me in the lower middle class bracket. I could live decently (not without worry) in NYC. With my new husband's income and mine we can afford ourselves luxuries, like buying a few extra groceries, restricting our consumption to organic and local (which ironically are not cheaper, but that is a different diatribe), making a weekly excursion to our local neighborhood pub for pear cider and peach beer, and purchasing smart decisions like renters insurance. I think about this thought as I lug home two heavy sacks of groceries, in my cloth bags and cooler bags made from recycled water bottles. I think of this as I refill my Brita pitcher and top my Fair Trade coffee with soy creamer. I think even more of this as I enter and exit the subway, seeing a familiar face . . . the homeless woman who sits inside the entrance to my station.
For two years I've made a point to buy her coffee, donuts, or cheap sandwiches when I see her there. If I don't have food for her I leave her fifty cents or a dollar. Some will judge me, call me a sucker, but she is always sweet, kind, and grateful. I don't know what her story is, how she got there, or if she had a "life" before the streets. What I do know is that I've never smelled spirits on her, nor have I seen her buy smokes.
Today, when exiting the subway, while loaded down like a pack mule with organic goodies for the week the aromas of my raw goods wafted to my nose. I saw her, stopped, and dug in my bag to offer her a large juicy apple that smelled succulent and delicious. She politely said thank-you, but said "I have no teeth." I shrugged, took the apple she was handing back to me, and offered her bread. It just wasn't any bread. It was herb and cheese focaccia from my favorite organic bakery that comes to the Green Markets. I had intended it for dinner tonight with our salad (as described above) and possibly with apple-chicken sausage mixed in Rich's. Yet, I didn't think twice about giving her my bread. Why?
I am lucky that I can choose to shop as I do. I am lucky that I can flip the consumer bird at chain stores and low wages for workers. I am lucky that I can exhaust myself and take a few hours each Friday and embrace the outdoor market, make relationships with those I purchase from, and enjoy my dinner and knowing where it came. Not everyone is so lucky.
*The first bottle of Eve's came as a wedding present. The husband doesn't drink wine, but I do. This wine is not only local, but it is DELICIOUS.
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