Book Review: The Omnivore's Dilemma

I recently devoured a terrific book by Michael Pollan entitled The Omnivore’s Dilemma.  Now, this book was released in 2007 so I’m a bit behind the ball, but Pollan’s message strikes such a deep chord with me that I feel I need to spread it around.  Last summer, I crossed this great country on a motorcycle (read about it here) and, having never seen the Midwest except from the seat of a jetliner, was shocked and more than a bit dismayed to experience firsthand the American industrial agricultural machine.  I witnessed field after field, mile after mile, and DAY after DAY of nothing but corn and soybean!  Yes, I understand that we are a nation of 300,000,000 people and need vast amounts of food, but the utter lack of biodiversity across an entire region just confounded and contradicted every bit of knowledge that I have gained in my studies in biology and environmental science.  Now, I know that as kid from the suburbs of Connecticut, my critique of American farming may ring hollow in the ears of those living in the farm belt, but for crying out loud, do we really need to be injecting pure anhydrous ammonia into our soil to fertilize our crops?  How could we have gone so far astray?

Well, apparently I’m not the only one who pauses to think about our food in such a light.  In The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Pollan essentially investigates the various ways in which Americans produce, process, and consume food.  Naturally, he starts out with a bang and dives right into a dissection of the vast corporate agri-business that supplies the majority of our food, with the discussion centered on the exploits of the humble (or not so humble) corn plant.  Through the “miracle” of modern agricultural and food science, the corn plant has become the foundation of our processed food system in which a grain of corn is broken down into basic molecules and synthetically reassembled into much of the “food” available at the local supermarket.  Take a look at anything with a nutrition label and a list of ingredients – much of the stuff that you can’t pronounce is probably manufactured from corn.  I won’t even get into his descriptions of industrial meat production, but I’ve seen the feedlots in Kansas and can vouch for his tale.  Why so much corn, you might ask?  Pollan hints, no, jabs at various government policies and market conditions that drive farmers closer to the brink of financial extinction to supply large corporate grain processors with ever cheaper raw materials.  The unwritten message is, “Gee, I bet these processing corporations can afford to purchase some pretty influential congressmen on Capitol Hill”.  The written message is that the industrial agricultural system, with the backing of the United States government, endeavors to transform petroleum into food at the expense of fair economy, the environment, and our health.  Do heart disease, obesity, and diabetes ring a bell?  They're all linked to industrial food.  Pollan takes the stance not that of the typical tree-hugging enviro-conspiracy theorist, but of a horrified, intelligent observer looking into the system as an outsider.  Skeptical?  Read it.  Your library probably has a copy on the shelf right now.

Pollan ventures next into the burgeoning "organic foods" market, with a focus on the type of organic goods that you might buy at Whole Foods.  The results of his investigations are disappointing but not surprising.  As you might suspect, the organic food industry is, for the most part, just that - an industry.  Yes, lettuce may be grown without petroleum-based fertilizers and chickens may not be fed antibiotics, but the system still suffers from monocultured fields, crowded animal feed lots, and intercontinental transportation of foods (carbon footprint, anyone?).  Pollan cites the example of an “organic TV dinner” as the ultimate hypocrisy of the organic food movement.  There is redemption, though, in his exploration of the “beyond organic” food movement.  In the most enlightening chapters, Pollan visits a Virginia farm where one visionary farmer studies and applies the rhythms of nature to his cattle and chicken operation.  The farm, by Pollan’s description, is really such a beautiful ecosystem that I won’t attempt to paraphrase – just read the book already, eh?

The last chapter focuses of Pollan’s efforts to serve a meal entirely of his own creation, and by that I mean he hunts the boar, picks the mushrooms, grows the lettuce - you get the picture.  Delicious yet time consuming and, he admits, just as impractical for modern life as the industrial system is deleterious to the environment.  The compromise, he argues, should be somewhere in between. 

My overall take on the book is that it confirms what I already suspected about industrial food, but Pollan blows me away with his detailed research and engaging writing style.  The Omnivore’s Dilemma left me disgusted with the current state of affairs, hopeful with the promise of ecology-based local farming, and fearful of the government’s reaction to alternative food movements that challenge their corporate partners.  (In what backwards world do live when locally-produced vegetable, dairy, and meat is considered “alternative”?)  So what are your thoughts on this subject?  Do you eat?  (That’s a rhetorical question, folks…)  Do you know where your food comes from?  Are you a thoughtful consumer?  How do you rate the tradeoffs between nutrition and cost?  Would you be willing to support local farms?  Do you believe that your food dollars may be more influential than any vote you cast in a ballot box?

The Green Revolution?

Morning dew, Grand-Sault, New Brunswick.

As the seasons change along with my recreation opportunities, I would like to step back from trip reporting for a bit and delve into some of the more philosophical issues that tend to divert my attention from time to time, and I would like to share some random photographs from my collection that show the various moods of nature that I have witnessed on my travels.  With last week’s celebration of Mother Earth Day and my involvement in my employer’s sustainability initiative, my mind has been awash with thoughts of the condition of the natural environment and the recent “green” revolution.  It seems that every media outlet is touting some new “green” product and governments are promising major leaps in renewable energy and transportation alternatives.  Closer to home, my office has been making efforts to reduce consumption of paper goods and electricity in the name of sustainability, and I have been attempting to ride my bicycle to work to save on a little gasoline here and there.

Moonrise on the Riga Plateau, New York.

This notion of sustainability is part of a spreading environmental awareness that has emerged in popular culture in the last few years; all of which is a step in the right direction, but I have this feeling that something is missing.  Our culture, despite the “greening” pastures, still seems hell bent on following the consumer model that has become entrenched in the last 50 or 60 years.  You should have an idea of what I’m talking about – the conspicuous consumption of petroleum and disposable retail goods, our reliance on an agricultural system based on chemical fertilizers and monoculture, and sprawling suburbs that leave automobiles as the sole transportation choice.  Perhaps you’ve heard the saying that if each of Earth’s citizens lived an American lifestyle we would need something like five or six more planets to accommodate everyone’s needs.  This hardly sounds like sustainability and brings to light the myriad environmental injustices being perpetrated around the world in the name of profit and convenience.  When I ponder this, the pessimist in me starts to think that the whole "green" revolution is pile of smug shit that lets us, on a mental level, continue to live our wasteful lifestyles while believing we're doing something good for the environment.

Graham's Harbor, San Salvador, Bahamas.

The optimist in me, however, takes heart in that factions of the younger generations are recognizing the folly of the mass consumption model and are making an attempt to return to a simpler lifestyle for reasons both economic and environmental.  I see a renewed interest in planting gardens to supplement store-bought food, and people are choosing to live closer to the workplace to avoid long commutes.  Interestingly, I also see a weakening of the  of "work hard and sacrifice and you might be rewarded" corporate mentality (at least among employees, not necessarily employers).  Instead, I see a shift towards scaling back lifestyles so as to minimize reliance on the daily grind.  Obviously, though, there is a long path to walk in this respect, but every long journey begins with a single step.  Thoreau was on that right path, back in 1845 in his cabin by the pond...

Na Pali coast of Kauai.

I wonder, though, how the current cohort of environmentally-minded pioneers will fare as they progress in their careers and begin earning the money that makes the consumer lifestyle more attractive.  Take a look at the Baby Boomers, who sparked the first nationwide environmental movement in the 1960's and 1970's and then moved on to become the most voracious consumers in American history.  I am hopeful that younger Americans may stay true to their ideals of simplicity, self-reliance, and environmental stewardship because the future of the American economy may require it.  Let's face it, the glory days of booming manufacturing and cheap raw materials are waning and we may have no choice but to return to regional economies in which foods and goods are produced locally and wasteful consumption becomes unaffordable.

Connecticut River south of Enfield, Connecticut.

When I think about conscious lifestyles, I look back to my grandparents' generation, often referred to as the Great Generation; those born in the raucous 1920's, raised in the lean times of the Great Depression, and seasoned on the lethal shores of France and Iwo Jima or in the aisles of a factory at home.  In my mind, these people knew how to stretch a dollar because they had no other option, and they learned how to go without.  They grew gardens, walked to work, and hung clothes on the line not because of the environment, but because of economy.  (Not The Economy, as pitched by the media and stumped upon by politicians, but economy as in living within means; Thoreau's notion of economy).  But come to find out, what was good for economy was good for the environment, and vice versa. 

Hammonasset State Park, Connecticut.

So, as the "green" tide pushes further and further inland into the consciousness of American society, we need look only a few generations back to get a sense of what our future may hold.  The next few decades may prove to be a shock to our collective systems as we forge on with finding innovative ways to power our homes and feed our bodies, but as long as we develop a grasp on true economy and don't allow The Economy to pillage the environment and our souls, we just might make some progress as a human species.

The Armchair Philosopher: Winter

A quiet spot on the Riga Plateau.

Once more, I sit to write as snow falls and continues to add to Connecticut's already impressive snowpack.  This may be the first time I have used "Connecticut" and "snowpack" in the same sentence; a pairing normally reserved for discussions of Vermont or the Rockies shared over a frothy stout at a ski area bar, anywhere.  A co-worker observed today that she finds it hard to concentrate at work during a snowstorm, a mindset to which I most definitely relate.  Even though we're at work, it still feels like a "snow day".  I postulate that that response to snow is hard-wired into our brains as young children, when we eagerly anticipated the news of a school cancellation during a good storm.  While every school child undoubtedly loves the day off, it's fair to say than only a percentage of children (and adults) actually enjoy a good snowfall.  What differentiates the snow lovers from the snow haters?  Does the root of our snow affection (or affliction) lie solely in youthful experience, or can our feelings towards the cold white stuff change as we age?  Today's post will explore the myriad of feelings we experience with regard to the "dark months" on the calendar.

John and Jack on Mt. Washington.

When I was a grade-schooler, my circle of friends and family of a similar age greeted each snow day with a phalanx of cheap plastic sleds and toboggans; we constructed forts from the mounds of snow deposited by the neighborhood snowblowers; and we defended our forts and pre-pubescent honor with fusillades of snowballs and jests and valiant charges across the snowy battlefields.  Living on a steep hill, we blazed the fresh-fallen powder with our sleds and painstakingly constructed slalom turns and jumps along a course that snaked between houses and unplowed streets, and we raced the course despite the stern admonishments of our parents to stay out of the roads!  We hurled jeers and the occasional snowball at the unlucky snow plow drivers who cleared our luge route and, in our minds, blazed a navigable path directly to the school parking lot.  

The Woods Hippie on Mt. Moosilauke.

Lunch provided the only respite from the fury, a pause that allowed us to throw our soaked clothing into the dryer while we sipped hot chocolate and tuned to the Weather Channel in hopes of hearing the forecast that could lead to yet another day off.  Later years saw an advancement of technology and parental expenditure as we made the leap from sleds and toboggans to skis and snowboards, honing our skills during much-loved night sessions at the local ski hill.  Weeknight sessions eventually evolved into weekend ski trips with the family, then school-sponsored ski club trips, then ski-tinged collegiate parties, and then continent-wide journeys for steep lines, tight trees, and deep pow.  What comes next?  Personally, I can only hope to breed the madness into next generation of powder hounds.

Winter 2011 at the Hippie Homestead.

As the years progressed, it became apparent that not all shared our enthusiasm for winter.  The first clues manifested themselves in lunchroom conversations following a snow day.

Me (in early '90s speak), "Dude, wasn't that a rad snow day?"

Dude, "I don't know, played some SEGA NHL Hockey '93 or whatever."

Me, "You didn't go sledding?"

Dude, "Nah, man.  It was like, cold out and shit."

What?  Indoors on a snow day? Blasphemy!  The point hit especially hard in the teenage years when, to my chagrin, I found that the girls were likely to take an interest in me despite the fact that I was a skier...a paradigm shift for my snow- and hormone-addled ego.  What could explain the difference in attitude?  We were all born and raised in the same central Connecticut town and experienced the same precipitation, yet some of us had some sort of predisposition to the cold environs.  Now, sitting here on the precipice of 30 years of age, I see adults with the same attitude as my schoolyard peers (indeed, some of those adults are my former schoolyard peers, but time inexorably creeps on...).  

Marquis on Mt. Mansfield.  To those inquiring minds,
that is a crampon strap, not something illegal.

And so I now realize, much like religion and political affiliation, fondness for winter is a trait passed from one generation to the next.  The evidence in favor of my case is solid; I have great-grandparents who sailed in ice-boats designed and piloted by none other than the famed Herreshoff brothers of Rhode Island, a grandfather who reveled in several crossings of the Arctic Circle aboard a Liberty Ship in World War II, and parents, aunts, and uncles who skied the mountains of New England and the Midwest years before my time.  The genetic pattern repeats itself almost invariably among my snow-loving cohorts, with few exceptions.  For example, I have one ski buddy of Southern breeding who, in a triumph of good taste over geography, took an interest in and mastered the dark arts of Nordic and Telemark skiing despite the reluctance of his parents to even acknowledge that the thermometer has the ability to dip below 32 degrees.  The Force is strong in those who experience the "awakening".

You'll have to hike to find this Eden of the Snows.

Does the love for winter ever fade?  I asked myself this just yesterday as I straddled the roof of my house, shoveling off a month's worth of accumulation in anticipation of another round of snow, sleet, and ice.  My answer?  Hell no.  My inner New Englander, born of the hard Puritan winters of our ancestry, is only strengthened by the onslaught of winter's finest.  When the ebullience of skiing and snowboarding fades into sore muscles and  cherished memories, all that remains is the stark cold that bites into your cheeks and burns your lungs in a deep breath, the blanket of hoarfrost that sparkles in the crisp glow of a full moon, and the mournful howl of a Nor'easter wind that flies unmolested through the bare forests.  

If that doesn't quicken your pulse, then there is no converting the non-believers.