Tag Archives: locavorism

Sausage Party, or the Stuff FDA Nightmares Are Made Of

food, , , , , , , , , , ,

Still foggy with sleep, we tumbled off the bus to see two wood-fired cauldrons, belching out clouds of smoke and steam in a medieval fashion. The air was filled with the finest perfume any gastronome could wear: the scent of pig lard.

I found myself on yet another of northern Italy’s ubiquitous small-scale farms, surrounded by idle farm machinery, deadened remnants of the fall harvest, and the sharp smell of pig shit. This trip had been touted on the syllabus as a visit to an “artisanal butcher,” but we were about to see that this butcher was one of the more minimalistic variety.

Tools of the sausage-making trade: kidneys, salt and cigarettes

On this plot of farmland in the sleepy village of Guastalla, about 3,000 pigs are housed and nourished. Yesterday though, the pigs counted one fewer among them. “Normally, we wouldn’t work on Sunday,” said Alberto, “but today is the saint’s day for Sant’Antonio, and you would not want to slaughter a pig on that day. So, we went ahead and did the job ahead of time.”

Inside the shed, several grizzled men milled about, dressed in heavy-duty galoshes, beards, and puffy vests to defend against the crisp January cold. A long table was placed in the center of the room, piles of pig bits arranged neatly on top. Meat, skin, and bones; the disassembly had been swift and democratic. Ribs lay stacked inside a plastic crate, buried beneath a thick layer of salt and pepper. Feet lay splayed at the table’s edge, still intact and furry. Pools of fresh crimson blood dotted the room, soaking into the dirt floor. Behind the operating table, anonymous organs dangled from hooks. “What is that?” I asked. Rae came to my rescue. “These are the lungs, and here’s the spleen and the three lobes of the liver.” He pointed them out to me. One, two, three. Apparently, there are some benefits to growing up in a family of butchers.
Continue reading Sausage Party, or the Stuff FDA Nightmares Are Made Of →

The Terra Madre Formula: Farmer = Revolutionary

academics, environment, , , , , , , ,



Delegate from the Philippines demonstrates her prowess at balancing objects on her head; Japanese beekeepers gather at the Honey Bar

At the registration for Terra Madre, small pins were passed out depicting the silhouettes of a farmer and a soldier, with an equals sign between them. In many ways, this icon summarizes what Terra Madre is about. It is a gathering of food communities and food producers, and a strategy session on how best to battle the onslaught of industrialized food, environmental degradation and social injustice. (Update: I’ve learned that the pins are from Slow Food Nation, and actually depict farmer = Statue of Liberty. Apparently I glanced at it too quickly.)

The opening ceremony is reminiscent of the Olympics, partly because it takes place in the Palasport Isozaki, an arena built for the 2006 Torino Olympics. Rather than athletes though, the crowd was cheering for farmers, fishermen, chefs and researchers. With much fanfare and applause, representatives from 160 countries paraded into the stadium carrying their nation’s flags. They were accompanied by a youth choir and orchestra that had been set up in the stands, complete with several harps and a marimba. This was followed by a series of speeches by representatives of indigenous peoples, such as the Guaranì of Brazil and the Kamchadal of Russia.

At last, Slow Food founder and figurehead Carlo Petrini took the stage. “The principal custodians of traditional knowledge,” he said, “are the indigenous peoples, the farmers, the women and the elderly, the very categories that today’s institutions and media pay the least attention.” He went on to address the students in the audience. “You have been given a grand opportunity to reconcile science and modern technology with traditional knowledge.” Petrini declared that the conference had officially commenced, as the crowd roared and leapt to their feet. The last time I was in a crowd this excited was at the Obama rally in Chicago on election night.
Continue reading The Terra Madre Formula: Farmer = Revolutionary →

Temptation in the Garden of Italy

environment, , , , , ,

My eyes alighted on it as soon as I stepped into the Coop grocery store, akin to spotting the love of your life from across the room. It stared openly back at me. Green, smooth, palpable. An avocado, delicately ripe, full of rich promise and culinary inspiration.

Danielle looked at me with chagrin. “Didn’t we just discuss the merits of eating locally grown food in class? How many air miles has that flown? Where is it from anyway?” I grimaced. “Italy? They grow avocados in the foothills of Piedmont, right?” We inspected the sign. Origin: Israel. Damn. I tried to rationalize. At least we’re not so far from the Middle East, compared to the United States?

I hesitantly placed the avocado back into the basket. But the avocado kept speaking to me. I’m creamy and delicious. Just think of how great I will taste in a salad with locally-grown, humanely-raised, free-range lettuce, tomatoes and olives. Guacamole. Remember how marvelous that Super Bowl guac was? You can recapture those memories with me. Mexican food. Sure, cilantro is nowhere to be found, and the fagiole section is completely devoid of black beans, but at least you can feast on the most important part of a burrito. Eat me. Do it.

I picked up the avocado again. Clutching it with both hands, I went back to Danielle and pleaded. “But I really want this avocado. Screw eating locally; if I can’t get American peanut butter, then I’m at least getting this avocado.” She threw up her hands in surrender. “All right, but I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.” No matter. Gleefully, I carried my forbidden fruit to the check-out line. My expulsion from the Garden of Eatin’ was complete.