The Fat of the Land

Lo, drink of this locally-distributed wine, for it will render you intoxicated at 2 in the afternoon. Eat of this pork, for it will fill your belly with greasy goodness.

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of attending an afternoon fete at Kurtwood Farms on Vashon Island. As my parents currently reside on the island, I had heard of Kurt and his farm many a time, but had never actually strolled down the unmarked gravel path towards the haven of jersey cows and spotted pigs.

So when Whitney invited me along to Kurt’s birthday celebration, the promise of fresh pork and good conversation was too much to pass up. The afternoon was filled with good friends, happy cooks, friendly dogs, and delectable eats.

In a nutshell? Pastoral as all hell and absolutely lovely. This is coming from the girl who is generally nervous around livestock and the outdoors as a rule.

Perhaps it’s because of the circle I travel in or the fact that I live in Seattle, but the whole local, sustainable food mantra has pretty much permeated by soul to the point that I can no longer look at a mango without questioning my station in life. Does this mean that I forgo that lonely bag of Doritos in the office kitchen on a Friday afternoon? Does this mean that I’m sourcing all of my edibles from the Farmer’s Market every Sunday? Does this mean that I tally the food miles behind my asparagus in November? The answer is no, no and Barbara Kingsolver’s book is certainly making me more guilty about it.

As I become more educated about the food I stuff in my maw, farms like Kurt’s become more and more inspiring. Less than a century ago, the concept of knowing where our food comes from was completely intuitive and normal. While I’d be a liar if I didn’t sing the rich, appetizing, naughty praises of Frito pie, there is far more to be said for getting back to the source of what we eat.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting that we all move to the country and don straw hats. I am simply not built to withstand such rural living. It’s just that there is something so simplistically pleasing about lying on the grass that fed the cow that rendered butter that was used by the baker to make the cupcake that melts in my mouth as the wine vendor fills my glass.

So what does it all mean? Essentially, local food doesn’t have to be fancy food. Somewhere between the invention of shelf-stable cheese and organic Oreos we’ve become desperately divorced from real food. I’m coming to realize that there is a delicate balance between indulgent excess and sustainable living. In the end, I’m interested in exploring every delicious second of it. Just as long as I don’t have to literally get my hands dirty.

After all, pigs only tend to smell pleasant after curing.