An "Ingredient House"

"You make all your food?"

My daughter just told me we’re an “ingredient house.” In response to my “whaa?,” I found out that’s what her friend called us. As in, when she asked for something sweet and was offered “honey bread.” (Honey and butter on bread—she declined.) As in, when you open the pantry door, you mostly just find cooking ingredients, like flour and baking powder with baskets of onions and garlic, rather than boxes of Cheetos and bags of chips with pizzas in the freezer. And while that’s not strictly true, I kind of like the characterization. I like the idea that, as a different friend once asked, “you guys make all your food?”,  though I don’t always feel that way when I’m peckish and wanting to graze. 

But I like it because you can neither be independent nor healthy if you’re not an ingredient house. You’re not independent if you depend on somebody to process food that somebody else grew someplace, and is shipped and marketed and then retailed by yet another few somebodies, all unknown to you. Neither are you healthy if you live on food processed enough to end up in a colorful plastic bag with a focus-group tested name on it that crinkles when you try to rip it open. And neither are you authentic if everything you eat comes from a store or a restaurant or a vending machine that holds you at a considerable distance from your food supply.  

Independence comes from not having an extensive chain of somebodies and someplaces standing between you and your nutrients. It comes from having your hands in the dirt. It comes from controlling your own hands and your own dirt.

Health comes from the stuff you put in your mouth still being recognizable as the stuff you pulled from the dirt and from having all the things in it that were there when it came from the dirt. 

Authenticity comes from being in the dirt, working it, falling in it, being cold and wet and hungry when you eat and appreciate that food. Authenticity is knowing cause and effect. Plant too shallowly, the seed won’t germinate. Get a hard rain, the seedling can’t emerge. Don’t harvest soon enough, the birds get it. Don’t let the dough rise enough, the bread is like a brick. 

There are tradeoffs, of course. Growing, harvesting, and cooking definitely take time. These tasks are not unpleasant, and are generally pretty enjoyable, but they aren’t the only worthy things you could be doing. You have to know your priorities and budget your time. Maybe they aren’t for you. Maybe something else is more important. No shame in making your choices, as long as they’re conscious ones and not just doom scrolling until it’s too late. 

It’s a substantial investment, but, in my opinion, well worth it, to eat the fruits of your own labor.