Last week over breakfast I told Col and Rose the story about the Chilean miners who were trapped underground for 69 days. Col listened, wide-eyed and awed. This is his kind of story: dirt and danger and tools. He asked how the miners got trapped, how big the drill was, and when they used the crane (he was pretty sure a crane was involved). And Rose, bless her sugar-dusted heart, had only one question, “what did they eat?”
As a mother, this very question has occupied a large part of my mental real estate for the past five years. It travels a well-worn neural pathway in my brain labeled “keep kids alive and prevent scurvy.” You’d think that the food I serve my children are bricks of love forged directly from my heart because if a child of mine devours an elk meatball or a garden carrot, ten thousand peace doves flutter from my chest.
When Dan was out hunting elk in mid-September and I was whirling around the kitchen stuffing the garden into canning jars and freezer bags, I paused long enough to realize: holy gender roles! How ‘bout I make a batch of peach jam in my flowered apron while you chase huge herbivores through the forest honey? And perhaps it’s the specialized hormonal cocktail endemic to females that has my mind downloading salsa recipes and seeking corners of the house to cram with root crops, or maybe it’s just me.
Speaking of gender roles, from Col’s journal this weekend:
So, I’m not saying that supporting small, local farmers is going to save the world, but if you think building soil fertility, boosting local economies, access to fresh, healthy food, creating jobs, improving personal health and reducing our dependence on foreign oil are beneficial, than perhaps buying a handful of carrots at your next farmers market is a good place to start.
This week in San Juan Table read about how to celebrate local food without becoming a zealot whom no one wants to invite over for dinner. And get my recipe for Salsa, perfected.
Thank you for tuning into San Juan Table, my editor thanks you too.