By Gary Paul Nabhan
for Slow Food Nation
The Earth has grown tired of making fossilized food
Tired of having to pump fossil fuel as well as
Ancient groundwater up from her very innards
To let them spill onto our fields & orchards
Where frantic crops are forced to suck it all up.
What oozed out of the aquifer and oil well
Now bleeds with additives, fertilizers & pesticides
So that we might eat.
We too have grown tired
Tired of all those so-called “fast” foodstuffs
That are all actually frozen in time
While being freed from their attachments to place
So that they might be flung
Half way across the hemisphere
To fly into our mouths
Like so many stones shot from a catapult.
Our bodies are tired of taking in
Anything in need of thawing out, that is,
Anything micro-waved in a frigid plastic sack
Anything cloistered in a rigid sealed box
Anything taken off the range & locked in a feedlot
Anything with a patented genetic modification
Anything once wild that has been captured & broken.
Instead, your bodies are desperately searching for
Any food brought to you live
Plucked straight from the vine
As the golden crookneck squash blossom has been
The one that had been sunning among
The twining tendrils just moments before
Or like those plucked from the teeming tidepool
As the athletic octopus has been, limbs all akimbo
Shifting its shape and its colors
Even as it dives into ever warmer water.
There are many among us who want to be sure
That food makes it out of this century alive
Alive like the vinegar mother looming in the shadows
An amorphous banshee waiting to transform
One more glass of spoiled wine or mug of dubious cider
Into something sour, but sharper and finer.
Our bodies want our distracted minds to remember this:
It is those slow foods,
The ones which have moved the least
From field to feast
That move us most deeply
For they have remained dynamic & delectable
So as to dance in our dreams forever.
Our dirt-tired Earth Mother is asking us to step outside
For she is angry that some of us can barely see or smell
Just what it is that is growing in our own backyards.
She is asking us to stop-stop—
Before we drill and pump another drop
Of that greasy petrel that has settled
Way down deep in her bowels
Since way, WAY back in the Pennsylvanian,
When tons of marsh plants fell, then died & fermented
For she is tired of burping & farting up gas for us
As if countable kilocalories
Are all that we know how to eat.
Every morning of your life
You can choose to break fast
With the dead, or slowly browse among the living.
Every sundown from now on
You can commune with the fresh & local
Or do rarified dining with the distant & the fossilized.
Watch out, you had better get ready:
Some sassy, salt-of-the-earth waitress is lurching
Toward your table: she wants to know whether
You have finally decided what you really want to eat.