An essay on how in the last 10 years, the whisper “Where does our food come from?” has become a roar.
Beyond the tangle of raspberry bushes, a spring trickled from the side of the hill and joined a brook where trout hovered in the pebbled shallows. I found fiddleheads and wild ramps sprouting in the glades along the banks. Sap buckets still hung from the maples. One day I followed the river as it flowed down valley through a farm. A gray-haired woman in knee-high mud boots herded a sheep, goats and chickens past a weathered barn. “Eggs for sale” read a sign on the door.
I’d fled Manhattan just six months earlier, tired of high heels and takeout dinners. I was sick from breathing smoke and exhaust and shaken by the recurring images of two office towers tumbling into dust.
I craved clean air, clean water and clean food. I needed to be fed by my neighbors and nourished by the landscape.