Pragmatist Produce Preoccupation

For some time now, I’d been neglecting the question and problem of ethical eating. Long ago I committed myself to an ethical position on Western drug/alcohol culture and started calling myself “Straight Edge.” That had its roots in an at-the-time inexplicable revulsion at our societal relationship to drugs, alcohol and tobacco and I’ve since worked out a rationale about and behavioral posture towards those things I’m pretty happy with. After 8 years with that commitment, I’m finally allowing the concerns about all those other things I ingest to become influential.

And, much like that first commitment, I’ve finally decided to take action and then work out the arguments behind it. As I encounter difficulties and new discoveries in the ideas behind the behavior, like a good pragmatist, I’ll adjust my actions and ideas in a reciprocal dynamic.

So, what’s the new commitment? Well, it’s not as radical an abstention as being Straight Edge. I’ve decided to be an almost, not-quite vegetarian. Red meat is certainly out, as is pork. Dairy and eggs and other vegan-no-no’s are hanging in there. I’ll probably eat small portions of chicken and fish here and there, either because circumstances don’t allow me to avoid them without being rude/difficult/etc or if they are from a local, green, reputable source as far as I can ascertain.

So, it’s a nuanced and plastic position. But so is being straight edge. Being uncharitable or inhospitable in order to “stay pure” in either is just not an option.

And I have lots of reading and studying and thinking to do before I determine my “final” position. So, here we go:

-This Michael Pollan article convinced me to take a serious look at my eating habits, especially because I want to be able to (paideia-style) show my children someday a rebellious, counter-cultural way to eat.

-This website has lots of scary graphics which I’ve now stolen and posted w/ this blog post. Also, an awesome example of how to re-imagine local, amateur produce production towards the end. It comes with this exhortation:

“And finally, in the context of ecological economics, fossil fuel depletion and climate change, ask whether what you do in your life, vocation, hobbies, and habits, contributes to the long-term function (or dysfunction) of society.”

And this excellent advice:

"It appears that some of the greatest saving can be realized by:

* reduced use of petroleum-based fertilizers and fuel on farms,
* a decline in the consumption of highly processed foods, meat, and sugar,
* a reduction in excessive and energy intensive packaging,
* more efficient practices by consumers in shopping and cooking at home,
* and a shift toward the production of some foods (such as fruits and vegetables) closer to their point of consumption."

Where Is Our Fanciful Futurism?

The linoleum is cold and plastic and awful. It hasn't been mopped in...well, a while, so its gritty with crumbs and a little sticky in spots. Four minutes have gone by and I'm pressing the handle down on the french press, with bleary-eyed diligence. Preternatural quiet. 50 grams of just-ground Trader Joes something or other. 30 ounces of just-not-quite boiling water. The black pours itself through its own cloud of steam in the early spring morning cold. Those fucking boilers...


Traversing the interior threshold from linoleum to hardwood, the steady pad of my feet weaves around the boards I know tend to creak. There's another I ought not to wake. The floorboards are just as cold, but worn softer with the years. More pleasant beneath my toes. The books are already stacked on the sill of the tall windows facing the street. Beside the works, on one side, are the sunflowers I keep in a copper vase and, on the other, the magnolias she keeps in an empty wine bottle. The curtains hang around them all like wedding veils. I lift them and kiss the texts with my fingertips, pulling today's old, dead friend. The mug, sitting beside the stack of tomes, steams the pane of glass in a conical opaqueness.


Wrapped in an afghan blanket from the first time I lived in this city, against the opening volley of cold from a tired leather sofa, I sip and read and stare at the street. A few folks trundle through the cold towards a days labor. A neighbor walks a dog. Too early still for school children. I pencil in a note or two. Underline here and there. I'll open my computer in another place. I can read in this spot, but never write. Couldn't tell you why.


I don't hear her steps, but I do hear the bedroom door creak and scrape across the surface of the floor just a little. I smile and, for a moment, don't read the words my eyes pass over. As I feel her breath on the skin behind my ear only a second before she presses her lips in the same spot, I stare at that photo of her from the lake so many months ago. A strand of her hair falls across my neck. I grin and tilt my head, revealing and yielding more of the tender skin of my neck to her kiss. She obliged, pressing her cheek into the hallow between ear and shoulder. I crane and twist back to look up at her, still sleepy-eyed, but smiling, arms folded.

"You always think I won't hear you. You think you can grind coffee on the back porch and it won't wake me up."


I laugh and she winds around to sit across my lap. She's only wearing a t-shirt and socks, with just the glimpse of boyish underwear peaking out. Its a t-shirt that, the first time I saw her wear it, we lived a thousand miles away. A t-shirt I could never wear again once she'd claimed it without knowing she'd claimed it. She curled in my lap like a cat intent on keeping me from my work, her arms around my neck and nose pressed to my nose.

"Let's bundle up and see the tigers today."


She knows I've got to work. She knows I need so much to read and to write and grade papers and... but she'll talk to the tigers and hold my hand and smile at me when I laugh at her one-sided conversations.

The evening's warmth will be my opportunity to read in peace, after dinner, while she gardened. The rest was too sacred to sully with responsibilities.