Locavorism

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.

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.)

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?