In honor of the Eat Local challenge this week, I’d like to make an observation: isn’t it nice that eating local is so fashionable? I don't mean that in a facetious or offhand way. Here we are – bright, interesting 30- and 40- and 50-somethings, all eager to do something meaningful. Even though it might take some extra effort to seek out local ingredients, it’s very rewarding; not only do we get to do contribute to our own communities, but it also tastes so good and is so much fun. We’re not gnawing on bran flakes or choking back aloe vera shots; we’re marveling over tender spears of asparagus and unctuous cheeses. With our friends, no less. Life is good.
But I’m worried. Marian Burros’ New York Times article about the Eat Local Movement on Wednesday introduced a word that made me recoil in horror – at the end of the piece, she mentions people who eat really local; they grow their own food. All well and good, but here’s what they’re calling themselves: yokelvores.
Yokelvores? Please: say it ain’t so.
Check out the picture accompanying the article (I dare not re-post it here, so you’ll have to look for yourself) of the novelist Barbara Kingsolver and her family. Barbara Kingsolver is one of my favorite writers, and I would prostrate at her feet if I met her in person, but the photo of she and her husband with their teenage daughters made me cringe.
I’ve been that teenage daughter.