Jennifer Jeffrey, Writer & Editor

Feeling Juicy?

Of all the machines and gadgety things I have stashed behind my cupboard doors, this just might be my favorite: a chrome and white Acme SUPREME JUICERator. My mother gave it to me a few years ago; she just happened to have an extra one lying around. That's my mom for you. Look at those red rubber feet! Aren't they adorable?

This is the perfect season for juice; the market is full of the veggies I like best for my favorite juice blend - crisp apples, thick carrots, fat-bottomed beets, dark leafy greens. I've been making juice every day for the past few days; not only is it fast and easy, but it looks and tastes fabulous, and I feel like I'm getting far more nutritional impact than I would from swallowing vitamin tablets or stopping by a juice chain, where the quality of ingredients is questionable, and most of the "smoothies" contain copious amounts of sorbet, ice cream or yogurt, which jacks up the calorie count.

Want to play along? Here's how to do it.

Make Your Own {delicious} Fresh, Organic Juice in 3 Easy Steps

1. Assemble your vegetables. Since this is raw juice, only the best will do. Organic, local, seasonal: you know the drill.

2. Chop them to fit the feeder on your juicer. I don't peel mine; I just give them a good scrub. I want every last molecule of goodness contained in that bowl full of produce, so the skins (and stems, and etc.) go in.

Cranberry Beans from Iacopi Farms (Half Moon Bay)

The Feminist in My Kitchen (Part 2)

When I first began to wonder whether the slow-organic-local food movement is sustainable for and friendly to the larger community of women, I started to notice everything about it that wasn’t.

I started thinking about how we as women feel such tremendous pressure to stay svelte, balance our budgets, keep a journal, send birthday cards, raise brilliant children, work on our relationships and keep our pedicures fresh, and now we must also research, procure, and prepare food that is sustainably produced, locally grown, and in season.

It didn’t seem fair. It made me feel cranky.

Then I asked myself: why do I feel this way, and what is causing it? Over the course of a couple of weeks, this is what I came up with:

The System is Broken. It’s not the fault of the farmer’s market that I feel overstressed. Rather, the game itself is rigged. The workforce rewards people who are willing to put in ridiculous hours and disregard personal health and long-term wellbeing. It does not reward self-nourishment or play or rest. Even more insidious is the fact that our buy-more culture has lured us into a devil's bargain with debt. Even if we’re working at a job we love, it requires an insane juggling act to live a balanced life. That there aren’t enough hours to nourish ourselves properly, or that we have to make a choice between eating well and building our careers is just… craziness.

Convenience Has a Dark Side. Convenience has been our friend, but not a trustworthy one. We can put dinner on the table in 30 minutes or less, but those cans and jars are slipping us toxic additives and chemicals on the sly. Like the friend who keeps borrowing money but never pays it back, Convenience has become a liability. The fault lies with us: we haven’t set proper boundaries. We need to speak out, vote with our dollars, and support products that are healthy and safe.

The Feminist in My Kitchen

One day during the Pennywise Eat Local Challenge, as I was dashing between meetings and wondering how on earth I was going to create an evening meal composed of local ingredients within budget with almost no time to shop, this thought flashed through my head: this whole eat local concept is so not friendly for women who work.

I’m a woman who works, but I have an edge in that I work at home (most of the time), and can therefore  dash out to my local farmer’s market on a Thursday morning without having to get permission from the Boss. I can put beans on the stove to simmer in the mid-afternoon. I can flip through my cookbook collection when I need a break from the keyboard.  I have the luxury of choosing between my corner mega-grocer and other, healthier options.

My flexible schedule is no small advantage when it comes to putting locally grown meals on the table (heck – even meals on the table at all), a fact that becomes crystal clear on weeks when I suddenly have more projects than I can handle, and What To Make For Dinner is the very last thing on my mind.

If eating local is still a challenge for me, what about women who, voluntarily or not, log 8 to 10 hours a day, five or six days a week, in an office or hospital or courtroom? What about women who, in addition to working long hours and commuting back and forth, also have children at home who need love and affection and help with homework? What about women who, in addition to work and kids and a significant other, also think it might be nice to hit the gym two or three times a week? Or have a social life? Or read a book or take a judo class or become a better photographer?

How do those women get it all done?

How does the laundry get washed and folded? How do books get read and dental appointments made? How on earth do these same women have time to plan balanced meals, let alone meals composed of organic, in-season ingredients… grown locally?

I wonder. I wonder if the slow-organic-local food movement is truly sustainable for and friendly to the larger community of women.

I wonder if our little blogsphere sits here debating the provenance of our nectarines while the larger community of women – most of whom have no time for surfing blogs, let alone writing one – head out to work feeling more guilty than ever before, as the mountain of expectations and unattainable standards grows ever higher.

Can we call ourselves feminists (simply defined here as people who desire the equality of all women, everywhere) and still suggest that an ideal dinner consists of handmade ravioli and slow-simmered marinara from vine-ripened, hand-picked tomatoes and a salad composed of vegetables that (let’s be honest) are Not Available at Safeway?

The Organic Question

The Scene: the San Rafael Civic Center Farmer's Market, on a brutally hot morning in June.

A middle-aged woman bends over a display of ripe red tomatoes, quickly filling up a plastic bag. She starts to hand it to the man behind the display, then hesitates.

WOMAN: Are these organic?

MAN: No, they aren't.

WOMAN: Oh no.

MAN: But we don't use any pesticides.

WOMAN (hastily inverting her bag and allowing the tomatoes to fall back out):  Listen, I only eat organic. (brittle laugh) That's why I'm as old as I am.

OBSERVER NOTES: hmm. she's not as old as the man she's talking to, but whatever...

MAN: Did you know that organic farmers can use pesticides and still call their produce organic? I don't use pesticides at all.

WOMAN: Listen, I don't have the time for this. Thanks anyway. (beats a hasty retreat)

MAN (sighs, shakes his head): Some people. They already have their minds made up, and they simply refuse to listen.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I don't know about you,  but the label "organic" doesn't carry as much weight with me as it used to.  Given the increasingly relaxed standards about what "organic" really means, I have less and less faith in the word. I'd rather ask the farmer about how he or she grows the produce for sale at the market, although that isn't always realistic. Sometimes the booth is crowded, or I'm in a hurry, or (like today), I feel like my whole body is about to melt into a puddle, and I just want to get my produce and go home!

How are all of you dealing with the "organic" question?

My New Farmers' Market Bag

Now I won't have to bring so many plastic bags home from the Farmers' Market!

Bonus: if a scuffle breaks out over the last of the cherries, I'll be able to help keep the peace.

Off I go...

Something About Cherries

Before I left for the farmer's market this morning, I was enviously reading Jen Maiser's account of snacking on cherries over Mother's Day weekend. Two weeks ago, when I last made it to the market, there wasn't a cherry in sight.

This morning? Cherries everywhere.

I bought from several stands, just to spread the wealth, and sang "She's My Cherry Pie" all the way home.

They're almost halfway gone already! I hope the Moroccan doesn't read this, or he'll be mighty disappointed when he comes home to find nothing but a bag full of pits.

Oh, and apricots are out, too. I'm a happy girl.