by Tea
When I was a kid I could have told you exactly where most of my food came from. I might even have grabbed your hand and dragged you out the kitchen door to the edge of the deck where you could see the big organic garden my mother tended. It was filled with rows of tomatoes, peas, peppers, zucchini. There was a patch of corn that my brother and I used to play hide-and-seek in, another patch filled with asparagus.
Next to the garden was the chicken house. A little further over was the compost pile. There were fruit trees as well—apple, pear, plum, cherry, and a dwarf peach tree that never gave us any peaches. There was a patch of raspberry bushes by the small creek, wild blackberries everywhere. If I were hungry all I had to do was grab an apple off the tree, or pop a cherry tomato into my mouth, bursting sweet and warm from the sun.
Sure, there were things we bought at the store—rice, bread, oranges occasionally. But most of the time, and for most of the year, dinner came from our backyard.
When I was eleven we left that house and moved closer to San Francisco. There were a variety of factors that went into that decision, but one was the fierce storms that had buffeted northern California the winter of ’82. Our small town had flooded, the seasonal creek on our property turning into a raging river that nearly forced evacuations. When the floodwaters receded my mother’s garden had become a sand flat, she didn’t have the time, energy, or heart to rebuild.
Away from the country we shopped more at the store, but also at the farmers’ market just starting up in our county. We hadn’t grown the carrots ourselves, but the people we bought them from had and that was the next best thing. Not everything was organic, but there were some farmers who were and we got to know them over the years.
When I moved away for college I lived in real farmland. There were fields of wheat, acres of asparagus, and sweet onions famous the world over. Yet in all that time I never saw a real, live farmer—though we did drive out and drink beer in their wheat fields at sunset. Everything that was grown in southeastern Washington seemed to be shipped elsewhere. And in the three years I lived in Walla Walla, I ate a Walla Walla Sweet Onion only twice.
After graduation I moved to the mountains of Japan. The supermarkets there were astounding—all vegetables immaculately clean and shrink-wrapped, so removed from their earthy origins. Yet in the narrow corridor along the train tracks—space that would otherwise be wasted—people had planted vegetable gardens. I lived in a small city, high in the mountains, and worked for a village nearby. Even families who were not farmers had a rice paddy or two they harvested each fall. Friends of mine went foraging for bamboo shoots in the spring, mushrooms in the fall. Food was seasonal.
When I returned to the US I moved to San Francisco. I was working a lot, trying to build a career, living a busy city life. During this time I could have told you where my meals came from—the many small, ethnic restaurants in my neighborhood. After a long day at the office it was much easier to order takeout than cook. Back then my roommates thought I was impressive for occasionally whipping up a soup or tomato sauce; one roommate lived on popcorn and red wine, another joked that her food preparation consisted of picking up the phone and dialing. It was a busy urban life, not uncommon these days, and the origin of my meals was the farthest thing from my mind.
About six months ago things started changing. Though a twist of fate I discovered food blogs. This has, in an odd way, lead me back to where I started. I began cooking more, remembering how much I’ve always loved it. I’ve stopped eating out as much, preferring instead to invite friends over for a meal. Interest in cooking and food eventually spills over to a concern with where your food comes from, how it gets to you. I’m back visiting farmers’ markets on a regular basis, growing herbs in a window box, planning for tomato plants this summer. I’ve joined a CSA. I now know the names of the farmers I buy from, the people who plant and tend my food.
For me the Eat Local Challenge is a further step on the path I began walking last fall. I’m doing it as an educational exercise, and to deepen my commitment to locally grown products and produce. I’m surprised to find that it isn’t nearly as difficult as I expected. Had I attempted this six months ago it would have been quite a challenge, but many of the changes I’ve already made. And I am enjoying the added incentive to explore additional local producers. I love how each farmer, baker, and beekeeper has a story behind them. How they got into the business, the passion and pleasure that keeps them there.
These days if you ask me where my food comes from, I can tell you. It might not be as simple as dragging you to the edge of the deck and pointing, but I can unfold a map of northern California and show you the location of the dairy near Point Reyes where I get my milk and yogurt, the area of the Sacramento delta where my beans are grown, the farm in Dixon where my vegetables and eggs come from, the coastal fields that provide my strawberries. I still have a busy city life, without the resources to grow my own food, but I can make a difference by supporting others who do. It’s not my backyard, but it is the next best thing.
When not trolling farmers' markets in the San Francisco Bay Area, Tea can often be found writing the blog Tea & Cookies, a series of food essays and recipes.
