For the past couple of months, much of my time has been spent traveling and engaging with audiences across the nation, discussing the themes explored in my book, “The Omnivore’s Dilemma,” and the complex questions it raises about our food choices and eating habits. Many of the questions posed, whether in person or online, while seemingly intricate – Local or organic? Carnivore or vegetarian? – often distill down to a fundamental, everyday query: what’s for dinner?
People frequently ask me how I personally navigate this daily food decision. They are curious about how my deep dive into the intricacies of the food chain has shaped my family’s eating habits. Do we still eat meat? (Yes, but significantly less often and only from trusted, transparent sources). Do I prioritize organic produce? (Generally, but local sourcing takes precedence when possible). Do I meticulously avoid high-fructose corn syrup? (Yes, less because of the molecule itself, and more as an indicator of heavily processed foods I tend to steer clear of). And, the ever-revealing question: Do I ever indulge in junk food? (Guilty. I confess a fondness for Cracker Jacks, corn chips, and pizza, which, in my book, elevates them beyond the ‘junk food’ category). After dedicating considerable time to addressing the multifaceted ethical, environmental, and nutritional dimensions of the dinner question, I thought it fitting to conclude my reflections here by tackling it in its most immediate and practical sense: What am I actually having for dinner tonight?
The answer, quite simply, lies within a box.
One of the most impactful changes I’ve made to my eating habits is joining a Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) farm. CSA, an acronym for community supported agriculture, might sound a bit clunky, but it describes a remarkably elegant system. Think of CSA farms as similar to magazine subscriptions: you invest in an annual or monthly “subscription,” and in return for a fee (in my case, $60 per month), you receive a weekly box brimming with fresh produce. This box can be picked up directly from the farm, at a designated drop-off point, or even delivered to your doorstep for an additional charge.
The San Francisco Bay Area, where I reside, boasts a wealth of excellent CSAs. I chose to become a member – and “member” is indeed the operative word here, as I will elaborate – of Full Belly Farm. (To locate a CSA near you, explore resources like localharvest.org or the USDA’s CSA webpage. You can also find further web resources in my earlier post, “Food From a Farm Near You.”). I was already familiar with Full Belly Farm through their presence at the Berkeley Farmer’s Market, where they offer their produce every Tuesday. Their farm, nestled in the Capay Valley, a couple of hours northeast of Berkeley, cultivates an impressive array of 80 different fruits and vegetables and has been providing CSA boxes since 1992. (The CSA concept in America took root in the 1980s in Western Massachusetts, with its origins in Europe a few years prior). Full Belly has always embraced diversification, both ecologically and economically. Beyond CSAs and farmers markets, they distribute their produce wholesale to both smaller and larger grocery chains in the Bay Area, including Whole Foods. I had consistently been impressed by the quality and diversity of their vegetables. Therefore, when we decided to join a CSA, Full Belly Farm emerged as the natural choice.
My weekly box pick-up is conveniently located on the front porch of a house just a few blocks from my own. I have no idea who resides there or why they generously offer their porch to the CSA, but every Tuesday, it transforms into a vibrant hub of stacked produce boxes. A table graces the porch, adorned with a vase of fresh flowers, informational brochures, and a sign-up sheet. I simply initial my name on the sheet, return the previous week’s empty box to a designated pile, and collect my new box, always filled with anticipation for the week’s harvest – and the inevitable question: what will we have for dinner tonight?
This weekly ritual feels less like a mundane grocery shopping trip and more akin to a stroll through a garden, discovering what’s ripe and ready to be enjoyed. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, we intentionally avoid rigid dinner plans, allowing the farmer – essentially, a specific plot of land and the prevailing weather conditions – to dictate our menu. I recall reading in one of Alice Waters’ cookbooks that she would only finalize her restaurant Chez Panisse’s menu after her visit to the farmer’s market, where the vegetables themselves would inspire her culinary creations, guiding her on what to cook.
Sometimes, the vegetables communicate their culinary destiny with striking clarity, particularly when asparagus is in season. Last week, the asparagus spears, harvested mere hours before being packed into the box, were so exquisitely fresh that anything beyond a simple steaming with a drizzle of lemon juice and olive oil would have been almost sacrilegious. However, there are instances when the box’s contents are more enigmatic, offering vegetables that don’t immediately suggest a clear dish. For a few weeks this past winter, our box seemed to be overflowing with rutabagas, exceeding anyone’s desired quota. I found myself consulting cookbooks to decipher the best ways to utilize them. One week, I created a puree with carrots, also from the box; another time, I simply sliced and roasted them with olive oil. Intriguing! Rutabagas are not something I would typically purchase at the market, but I appreciated being nudged to explore the (somewhat understated) potential of this root vegetable.
In fact, the team at Full Belly Farm – who thoughtfully include a charming and informative newsletter, “The Full Belly Beet,” in each box – seemed slightly apologetic about those late-winter, rutabaga-heavy boxes. However, as the newsletter explained, the relentless winter rains, persisting well into April, had significantly delayed spring planting and devastated certain crops, including peaches and strawberries. Consequently, we received more root crops than usual, and, as a delightful compensation one week, a stunning bouquet of flowers.
But this is precisely the essence of the CSA experience: as “shareholders,” we equitably share in the farm’s abundance and its shortfalls, its triumphs and its setbacks. The term “shareholder” carries real weight in this context; it more accurately depicts the relationship we’ve entered into than the conventional terms “consumer” and “producer.” As John Peterson, the CSA farmer from Illinois featured in the documentary “The Real Dirt on Farmer John,” aptly describes it, “The CSA is a new socioeconomic form in which the farm and consumer enter into a sort of partnership, an alliance to take care of each other’s needs.” For the farmer, the CSA model provides a dependable cash flow throughout the growing season (with upfront payments aiding in planting costs) and shareholders who collectively share in the inherent risks and rewards of an agricultural enterprise perpetually influenced by the whims of the weather. For the shareholder, it guarantees the freshest possible food, sourced through the most direct and concise food chain imaginable.
More importantly, joining a CSA fosters a profound reconnection between you, the eater, and the origin of your food. It serves as a vivid reminder that, regardless of our dietary choices, we are all reliant on farms and farmers, on the land, the weather, and the rhythms of the seasons – not just supermarkets. My CSA membership also provides the comforting knowledge that I am contributing, in my small way, to the preservation of a beautiful stretch of bottomland along Cache Creek, outside the small town of Guinda, safeguarding it from the relentless suburban sprawl threatening to engulf California’s entire Central Valley into an unbroken expanse of housing developments.
Embracing the contents of the CSA box represents the antithesis of industrial eating, that often unconscious consumption driven by the desire for instant gratification – tomatoes in January, strawberries in October – food that has been cleaned, pre-cut, processed, cooked, essentially everything but chewed and digested for us. While this industrialized food chain offers undeniable convenience, it ultimately thrives on a form of ignorance – ignorance of the true cost of eating in this manner, and of the extensive labor, energy, and technology it necessitates. To eat from the CSA box, accompanied by its newsletter chronicling the week’s farm activities, is to eat with a deeper understanding of the entire journey of food to our plates, including the essential – and often joyful – role of cooking. (Many CSA newsletters even include recipe suggestions). It’s a relationship that transcends a mere monetary exchange for food.
So, what’s for dinner from this week’s box? It’s a particularly exciting one, signaling the arrival of summer’s bounty. Asparagus is back, a generous bunch of slender spears; alongside it, a bag of new potatoes and a bunch of carrots; a substantial bag of salad mix; a small bag of walnuts; a plump head of garlic; and – I could detect its fragrance even through the box as I lifted it – the season’s inaugural bunch of basil. Even before consulting the newsletter, which indeed offered the suggestion and a recipe, the summery possibilities became instantly clear: pesto for dinner tonight.
Thank you to everyone who has followed these reflections and, especially, to those who have contributed your insights and perspectives in response to my posts. Your comments, critiques, and suggestions have been immensely valuable. Many important topics, however, remained unexplored in this space. The list continues to grow: the upcoming debates surrounding the farm bill (which you can follow through the American Farmland Trust website); the ongoing discussion about whether organic farming can sustainably feed the world (affirmatively, according to a compelling article by Brian Halwell in the May/June issue of “World Watch,” effectively countering Steven Shapin’s casual dismissal of this possibility in the May 15 issue of The New Yorker); and the critical need to address the food system’s significant role in the energy and climate change crisis (a crucial point overlooked by Al Gore in “An Inconvenient Truth” and Whole Foods president John Mackey’s recent open letter to me in response to both my book and this blog). Perhaps I will return to these pages to post again in the future. Keep an eye on this space. And remember: Vote with your fork!
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