But here the exploitation feels more like collaboration. We stroll over to his solar barn, where the 100 cows in the herd loiter patiently, mulling over the events of the day. “That’s Morel, that’s Phooey, that’s Vetch, that’s Clover, that’s Jewel &” It’s very calm in here, no sound but cud being chewed, and it’s warm out of the late winter wind. Jack, who’s a talker, is explaining how Vermont could market itself as the Sustainable State, and how he’s hoping to sell masa harina for making tortillas next year, and so forth. I’m sort of listening, but mostly just absorbing the sheer pleasure of the scene—that this place works, that I’ve been connected to it all winter long, that it will be here, with any luck, for the rest of my life.
Look—eating this way has come at a cost. Not in health or in money (if anything, I’ve spent less than I usually would, since I haven’t bought a speck of processed food), but in time. I’ve had to think about every meal, instead of cruising through the world on autopilot, ingesting random calories. I’ve had to pay attention. But the payoff for that cost has been immense, a web of connections I’d never have known about otherwise. Sure, I’m looking forward to the occasional banana, the odd pint of Guinness stout. But I think this winter has permanently altered the way I eat. In more ways than one, it’s left a good taste in my mouth.
Pinterest
