As part of my work for the North Asheville Tailgate Market, I will be (red tape and bureaucracy fairies willing) managing their EBT capabilities at every market. Once in place, this system will allow market customers to use their food stamp benefits to purchase fresh, locally produced food. We think this is a fantastic thing.
We’ve discussed issues of access–the market is centrally located, with a bus stop only yards away, and plenty of parking for cars and bikes. We’ve discussed how to get the word out and the customers in–EBT has been successfully implemented at other farmer’s markets, and the vendors will likely be the first to share the news when our program clears the final paperwork hurdles. We’ll do everything we can think of to let the public know they have one more source of nutritious, sustainable, local food–but will that be enough?
It brings up some interesting issues, at least for me. The charge continues to be laid–and answered–that the SOLE movement and its near cousin the “foodie” movement are elitist, classist, even racist.
I can’t say that all of these arguments are without merit. After all, any time we begin treating a basic necessity like a personal accessory, any time we make sport out of something all humans require, the playing field is going to get split, and split fast. Shelter is a basic human right. But can the same be said of a thirty bedroom house? Likewise, we all need to eat. But $25,000 caviar is not sustenance, it’s status symbol. It’s delicious, and, indeed, I am sure could be appreciated by a person living below the poverty line if they had the opportunity to taste it, but they can’t feed their kids with it.
Over the years, I’ve visited a variety of farmer’s markets around the country. It’s always seemed to me that the customer base pretty consistently skews upper middle class, and I can see where, on its face, the farmer’s market might not seem like the right place for a person of limited means to shop. Pulling up on the city bus, seeing the parking lot full of Subarus and Lexuses, the shoppers with their genuine handwoven African market baskets on arm, I can understand how you might want to stay on the bus.
So how do we get you to pull the cord and step off? Because you have come to the right place, and you will find more here for you than you know.
My CSA haul this week included dandelion greens and a delicious salad mix that was heavy on the Miner’s lettuce. Weeds, people. What the foodies clamber for is, by and large, peasant food. The buzzwords of the day are whole foods, minimally processed and simply prepared. Michael Pollan’s now famous dictum to, “Eat Food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” describes the diet of most of the world’s poor for most of history.
And, let me tell ya, no one can tell you about vegetables you’ve never heard of (which would be most of them, if you’re eating the standard American diet) better than the men and women who grew them. When the cashier at the big box grocery store doesn’t even recognize the unusual produce you bring to the register, you’re not in a good place to ask about what the heck to do with it once you get home. But the person who saw it spring from seed, who tended it and harvested it? That person can tell you what it is, when to get it, how to prepare it, and what it tastes like.
And, around here, they’re just as likely to sound like you. Your greens don’t have to come with a dissertation on the historical context of the sustainability movement and an invitation to a truffle-themed dinner party, BYO prosciutto and Moroccan dates (unless, of course, you’re into that). I think this can’t be underestimated when we’re talking about access and outreach. EBT can lessen the financial intimidation of visiting the farmer’s market, but that’s only one piece of it. The welcoming smiles on the faces of the vendors go a long way to fixing the rest of it. Come on by, they say. We’re just people, sharing food. Just people. And you’re one of us.
No thanks, I’m a utilitarian
Well, I wrote this poem, see. And it’s been named a finalist, see, for a poetry prize. That’s all well and good, but this prize comes with a party and a public reading. In a nice auditorium, with actual, real, live, published poets in attendance.
I’d been worried about the reading. I told the Man Friend that I wasn’t sure I’d written a poem that lent itself to being read aloud. I don’t think about such things when I write poetry. The rhythm, for my poems, is entirely on the page; the sounds of the language inside my head. Slam poets know how to write poems that take well to the air and tongue, poems with their own percussion section. I am not a slam poet.
My Man Friend told me that all poems are written to be read out loud.
It’s a nice idea. I hope he’s right. So I’ve been practicing, with the dogs for my audience. Resurrecting my old theatre voice, but for my own words. I really can’t account for how intimidating this whole thing is.
And it became even more so when, last night, for no reason, it suddenly occurred to me that I will have to wear clothes to this event. Appropriate clothes, I mean. And I haven’t got a clue how to solve that little problem.
A guiding principle of how we do things around here is utilitarianism. Sure, we have some beautiful things–a few pieces of real art on the walls, plenty of gorgeous music on the iPod–but we aren’t dress-up people. I’ve admired elegant, grown-up clothes in the stores; I’ve even tried them on. But, inevitably, I can’t justify buying something I may only wear once a year. If I’m going to spend any significant (read: non-Goodwill prices) amount of money on clothes, it’s probably going to be merino wool, or a sturdy pair of work shoes. Or a rain cape. I still really want a rain cape. Useful clothes, you see? We are utilitarians.
I’ll be fine–I have managed to acquire over the years those key Little Black garments a gal is supposed to have. This is likely only a problem in my head. I’m perfectly content in the way I live–more than content, truly–but I still feel a little like one of the misfit toys when I have to go out among other adults in a non-farm, non-trail, non-bicycle setting. Basically, I’m better at work parties than cocktail parties. Though the “cocktail” part of the latter usually helps.
This is all simply another instance in which I’ve been reminded that my normal isn’t everyone’s normal. Just like I don’t understand people who watch four hours of TV a day, eat microwavable “meals”, and shop at Wal-Mart, I also don’t relate to people who have dress-up clothes in their closets, and actually wear them.
My Little Black Dress had dust on it when I investigated last night.
My bicycle lives in the living room, and my fancy clothes collect dust. Insecurities aside (and, really, I am trying to put them there), that’s a great way to live, in my book.
We’ve still got a long way to go before we’re working our own land, but we began that slow and steady journey a long time ago. We’d each begun it, separately, before we’d even met. Maybe you’re on it too? Its roots are deep, and have nothing to do with how many acres you do or don’t yet have to your name or how much you do or don’t yet know about keeping chickens or knitting or making your own music. It’s a philosophy; it’s in how you see the world and your place in it. Are you in this existence to build and to steward and to be of use? Do you suck in great gulps of happiness every day, without taking needlessly from your neighbor? Are you more interested in what your body can accomplish than in how it looks? Do cast iron, tooled leather, carbon steel, and turned wood catch your eye? Do your boots live by the door while your heels went to Goodwill long ago? Whether you have the land, the house, the flock, the garden of your dreams yet or not, you are a fellow utilitarian.
Welcome to the fold.
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Posted in Commentary + Philosophy
Tagged dressing up, misfit toys, Poetry, utilitarian