Today an Empty Plate

Today I'm fasting, along with thousands of other people around our world, in solidarity for climate justice. Bill McKibben at 350.org sent a message from Copenhagen yesterday asking people to join in this 24-hour symbolic act of gentle activism.

I know this is not by any means a solution to the complex problems of global warming or a substitute for leadership and thoughtful negotiation, but it does represent what I'm trying to do here on this blog and in my life. Thinking about where my food comes from, making informed choices about what I cook and serve to my family and friends, is no longer a strictly personal pastime. Our food is intimately linked to our environment, both local and global.

It seems unlikely, but shopping at farmers markets and eating according to the season is opening a whole field of knowledge that I somehow took for granted in the past. Knowing that this week's beautiful, velvety leeks won't be available next Thursday, that indeed they won't be around for the rest of the winter, gives me pause. It makes the leek, I don't know, in some way, more real, more precious. And the dirt inside its white layers, a reminder of our earth, even as it sits on my cutting board in New York City. This experience is leading me to pay a particular kind of attention to issues that spin all around us in the media -- issues like nutrition, drought, water supply, energy sources, glaciers melting, global warming. That new attention is not intellectual, it's empathetic. Call it linking the personal with the political -- call it, and I do, "interdependence." I've never been a political activist in my life -- but now, here I am, joining a worldwide fast (if only for a day, I mean really, I do that every time I get a colonoscopy) on behalf of people on the other side of our earth who are already dealing with the consequences of our habits of waste and gluttony. And I'm doing it, not because of some high minded idea of righting wrongs, but because it feels like a connection, a human connection that begins, literally, in my belly.

I understand why religions call for occasional periods of fasting and the contemplation that accompanies it. Most days, when I feel hungry, I think about things like the homemade goat cheese and bread in the refrigerator or the apple turnovers fresh out of the oven. But today, my hunger pangs turn my thoughts to Copenhagen and the individuals who share a conviction that there really is something important at stake and that all of our habits and choices do matter.

Polka Dot Salad

It's getting late in the season, the weather's turned frigid, and the salad greens have all but disappeared from the farmers market. Knowing there were two precious radishes and some green onions stowing away at home in the refrigerator, I hit upon a plan. Using fresh, handmade mozzarella as the base, and topped off with a few olives and my golden vinaigrette (I always use 3 parts oil to 1 part vinegar plus a squeeze of lemon, a bit of mustard, kosher salt and a dot of honey) I managed to put together a colorful and crunchy final taste of summer. Lots of winter to get through until we get back there.

Cold Milk

Guess what I just had a tall glass of? Milk. This milk. Whole milk. With the cream on top. The way my mother used to describe it. That lovely, creamy cushion of heaven floating just under the cap. Like creme fraiche. I dip it out with a teaspoon and spread it on toast with jam.

This milk comes from Jersey cows at Milk Thistle Organic Dairy Farm in Ghent, NY. Being organic farmers, the Hesse family uses no chemical pesticides or fertilizer. Their cows eat mostly grass, the food that cows, being ruminants, were meant to eat, not corn and grain. Because it doesn't have to travel far, this milk needs to be only lightly pasteurized to be safe; industrial milk loses both flavor and nutrition as a result of "ultrapasteurization" at high temperatures. The luscious cream at the top appears because this milk isn't homogenized, a method that uses high pressure to forcefully blend the milk and cream. Because it's less processed, this milk is more nutritious, a good source of complete protein, with carbohydrates for energy, and a nice balance of fats, saturated and unsaturated.

But mostly, it's incredibly delicious! And there's something wonderful about wrapping your fingers around a real glass bottle (100% reusable, that can be returned for a small discount on your next purchase) and taking a swig from its cold rim. If you want to know more about milk, check out Nina Planck's "Real Food", the chapter called 'Real Milk, Butter and Cheese.' Cheers!

I buy it at my local Columbia farmers greenmarket on Sundays. Learn more about the farm and find out where you can buy it at http://www.milkthistlefarm.com/

Caterpillar wanderings

Shopping at the farmers market brings unexpected acquaintances. While unpacking my vegetables, this little guy showed up somewhere between the kale and the lettuces. He was definitely not your ordinary supermarket escapee, embedded in a mealy tomato and wrung out from a cross-country trip. I couldn't help but notice his extraordinary greenness. Velvety and handsome, I immediately set up a photo shoot along with the glorious radish (soon to be lunch) on my kitchen counter. I later deposited him gently among the ivy in our building's sidewalk treebed. I guess he's a New Yorker now.

My Saturday Sandwich

It's built on a thick toasted slice of 7-grain bread; a generous pile of fresh greens -- velvety arugula, leaves from one of the season's last lettuces, pea shoots; 2 slices of sharp cheddar from Millport Dairy in Lancaster County; finely sliced "rainbow radishes"; homemade bread & butter pickles (also from Millport Dairy); topped off with a sprinkling of capers. Crunchy & delicious!

Back home in America

Thinking a bit wistfully of the faded elegance of certain small cafes and restaurants still found in Europe -- Fabrica di Cioccolata in Florence, where in late afternoon one can sit down to tea and pastry or stand at the bar and savor aperitifs or coffee; cafe Ferrara in Rome; Berlin's original Lutter and Wegner or Einstein Cafe. These places, where even a small morsel is treated like a meal, maintain an unbroken connection to an "old world" idea of food as a ritual of pleasure, social encounter and respite.

One thing they all have in common is a sound. It's the sound of tinkling glass and china. Real glass and real china. Not paper or cardboard or plastic. The sound of cup against saucer, knife and fork against plate. You hear it all over Europe. In theater lobbies at intermission; ice cream and candy shops; in pizzerias; through the open windows of apartments; in train stations at tiny snack bars; even at small eateries at the airport. It is an increasingly rare sound in the United States. I miss it.

Our Earth

Ben and I are here in Berlin on the weekend of extraordinary buildup to Monday, November 9th -- the celebration of the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. Hearing and seeing so many reminders of the transformative power of individuals working together with a common understanding of what's truly at stake, I'm thinking about climate change and the fact that it is an issue of such overwhelming significance for us all.

This is an iconic photograph that you have probably seen many, many times -- the photo taken in December 1972 during the Apollo 17 space mission. A photo of home, something we all share. It is ours. And we have responsibility for it.

Normally we refer to it as "the" earth -- as though it's something 'out there' that exists on its own, separate, apart.

Language is a transmitter, and when used respectfully, has the capacity to transform and identify, in a simple medium, the essence of human experience.

I have a proposal.

From now on, I will no longer refer to "the" earth, but to "our" earth. Not the definite article, but the possessive. Our earth.

So far, I've mentioned this to three people; Martin Hope of the British Council, Martin Frick of the Global Humanitarian Forum, Benjamin Barber founder of Interdependence Day. We've made a pact. Want to join us?