The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals by Michael Pollan
A review:
From The Washington Post
Most of us are at a great distance
from our food. I don't mean that we live "twelve miles from a lemon,"
as English wit Sydney Smith said about a home in
Yorkshire. I mean that
our food bears little resemblance to its natural substance. Hamburger
never mooed; spaghetti grows on the pasta tree; baby carrots come from
a pink and blue nursery. Still, we worry about our meals -- from
calories to carbs, from heart-healthy to brain food. And we prefer our
food to be "natural," as long as natural doesn't involve real.
In
The Omnivore's Dilemma, Michael Pollan writes about how our food is
grown -- what it is, in fact, that we are eating. The book is really
three in one: The first section discusses industrial farming; the
second, organic food, both as big business and on a relatively small
farm; and the third, what it is like to hunt and gather food for
oneself. And each section culminates in a meal -- a cheeseburger and
fries from McDonald's; roast chicken, vegetables and a salad from Whole
Foods; and grilled chicken, corn and a chocolate soufflé (made with
fresh eggs) from a sustainable farm; and, finally, mushrooms and pork,
foraged from the wild.
The first section is a wake-up call for
anyone who has ever been hungry. In the United States, Pollan makes
clear, we're mostly fed by two things: corn and oil. We may not sit
down to bowls of yummy petroleum, but almost everything we eat has used
enormous amounts of fossil fuels to get to our tables. Oil products are
part of the fertilizers that feed plants, the pesticides that keep
insects away from them, the fuels used by the trains and trucks that
transport them across the country, and the packaging in which they're
wrapped. We're addicted to oil, and we really like to eat.
Oil
underlines Pollan's story about agribusiness, but corn is its focus.
American cattle fatten on corn. Corn also feeds poultry, pigs and
sheep, even farmed fish. But that's just the beginning. In addition to
dairy products from corn-fed cows and eggs from corn-fed chickens, corn
starch, corn oil and corn syrup make up key ingredients in prepared
foods. High-fructose corn syrup sweetens everything from juice to
toothpaste. Even the alcohol in beer is corn-based. Corn is in
everything from frozen yogurt to ketchup, from mayonnaise and mustard
to hot dogs and bologna, from salad dressings to vitamin pills. "Tell
me what you eat," said the French gastronomist Anthelme
Brillat-Savarin, "and I will tell you what you are." We're corn.
Each bushel of industrial corn grown, Pollan notes, uses the equivalent
of up to a third of a gallon of oil. Some of the oil products evaporate
and acidify rain; some seep into the water table; some wash into
rivers, affecting drinking water and poisoning marine ecosystems. The
industrial logic also means vast farms that grow only corn. When the
price of corn drops, the solution, the farmer hopes, is to plant more
corn for next year. The paradoxical result? While farmers earn less,
there's an over-supply of cheap corn, and that means finding ever more
ways to use it up.
Is eating all this corn good for us? Who
knows? We think we've tamed nature, but we're just beginning to learn
about all that we don't yet know. Ships were once provided with plenty
of food, but sailors got scurvy because they needed vitamin C. We're
sailing on the same sea, thinking we're eating well but still
discovering nutrients in our food that we hadn't known were there --
that we don't yet know we need.
We've lost touch with the
natural loops of farming, in which livestock and crops are connected in
mutually beneficial circles. Pollan discusses the alternatives to
industrial farming, but these two long (and occasionally
self-indulgent) sections lack the focus and intensity -- the anger
beneath the surface -- of the first. He spends a week at Joel Salatin's
Polyface Farm in the Shenandoah Valley, a farm that works with nature,
rather than despite it. Salatin calls himself a grass farmer, though
his farm produces cows, chickens, eggs and corn. But everything begins
with the grass: The cows nibble at it at the precise moment when it's
at its sweetest and are moved from pasture to pasture to keep the grass
at its best height. Their droppings fertilize the grass, and the cycle
is under way. There's a kind of lyrical symmetry to everything that
happens on this farm. Even the final slaughtering of chickens is done
quickly and humanely, in the open air. It isn't pleasant, but compared
to the way cattle are fattened and slaughtered in meat industry
feedlots and slaughterhouses, it is remarkably reasonable.
We
needn't learn how to shoot our own pigs, as Pollan does; there's hope
in other ways -- farmers' markets, the Slow Food movement, restaurants
supplied by local farms. To Pollan, the omnivore's dilemma is twofold:
what we choose to eat ("What should we have for dinner?" he asks in the
opening sentence of his book) and how we let that food be produced. His
book is an eater's manifesto, and he touches on a vast array of
subjects, from food fads and taboos to our avoidance of not only our
food's animality, but also our own. Along the way, he is alert to his
own emotions and thoughts, to see how they affect what he does and what
he eats, to learn more and to explain what he knows. His approach is
steeped in honesty and self-awareness. His cause is just, his thinking
is clear, and his writing is compelling. Be careful of your dinner!
Comments
Post has no comments.Comment On This Article