Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Land, food, and life — it's a broad theme. "It has to be," I wrote six years ago.

I usually write about how the land produces food, how the food we choose affects our lives as individuals and as fellow biospherians, or how excited I am about nerdy food system things.

This week, the connections between land, food, and life take a new configuration: I recently backpacked across a section of land by the North Shore of Minnesota with what I thought was adequate food and supplies to sustain life for a weekend. At the trail head, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Much akimbo very backpack wow
Photo credit: Arthur Aaberg

"Adequate food." "Sustain life." "Always look on the right side of life." Sounds so simple. And of course it never is.

Three-quarters through a supper of seriously salty vegetarian chili reconstituted with melted snow (fingertips shoved under the bowl to capture fleeing warmth), I asked my trail buddy how he would feel if we cut the trip short.Visions of pancake breakfasts and mini sardine pizzas had darkened and slipped away as quickly as the southern sun below the piney horizon and the circulation from my becottoned fingers.

A photo posted by Hannah J (@jastrd) on Dec 20, 2015 at 2:03pm PST

I knew I needed to avoid cotton, but didn't actually do it. Never again.

Even in the dark, I looked on the light side of winter camping (aka upsides).

Upside: No bug bites.
Downside: Frostbite.

Upside: Your food won't spoil.
Downside: Your food will freeze.

Upside: Snow-covered paths are easier on your feet.
Downside: You don't know what that snow is covering.

Upside: No other people around to distract you from the wilderness.
Downside: No other people around to extract you from the wilderness.

Did I miss an upside? A downside? Let me know.

Green Stuff

A jar of my favorite condiment is on the table. "What's that green stuff?" someone asks.

A photo posted by @jastrd on Apr 19, 2015 at 5:30pm PDT

"What, this? I ask. "Oh, it's green stuff."

Someone rolls their eyes. Someone else asks, "What's in it?"

I stare off into the distance, trying to remember what I pulled out of the garden, fridge, pantry, and spice drawer this time. I start a list: "Parsley, white pepper, rice wine vinegar..."

Renewal. Retool. Remake.

This lyric essay is an adaptation of the piece I performed at April's MNFYP event, part of the storytelling series. The topic: renewal.

I read a poem last November, when the world was wrapped in mono gray. It was the climax of MyTake: A Story to Nurture in Five Food Groups.

As nature squeaks into color, life, and growth, this protean poem unfurls tightly packed stanzas into the broad notes of spring.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One thing broke me;
         two built me back.

Fall in FScN 4612, Human Nutrition,
each lecture softening the edges of my circumscribed truth.
Studies strive for stolid statements,
         but humans refuse to cooperate.
We fictionalize what we ate yesterday,
we guess at how often we eat fish,
we tick the same box for grass-fed beef,
         for venison,
         for McDonald’s Hamburgers.

I crumbled under the weight of peer-reviewed articles,
at odds with each other,
squinting their way to the truth.

Winter, and I watched a dietitian speak with precise passion
         of an ecological approach to food and health,
         of environmental health and natural resources,
         of starting with oneself.

Essential building blocks condensed
         into a strand stretching
         from a protein machine, bending and twisting
         into a tertiary structure,
The Food System.

Summer, and I was swept along on a sustainability safari:
landing in locations
         from labels off co-op shelves,
scuffling with scripts
         from scholars and scientists,
facing furrowed facts
         from farmers and foragers.

I transcribed novelty into neurons,
I put my hands into the blackness and pulled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What is protein?

Amino acids line up according to ancient instructions, attract and repel each other, furl into microscopic protein machines, group and grow to make this protein machine, complex and communal.