I like vegetables. I don't care much for meat. My family has always found this troublesome, if not downright dangerous. When they urge me to eat meat at a family dinner, I laugh and say, "No food with a face."
Now I'm beginning to think we all lost something important when our food stopped having a face. Not an animal's face, but the face, the image, of the farmer who raised it.
When we all knew where our food came from, we could pronounce all the ingredients. We didn't need a seal certifying milk as organic because we knew what the farmer fed his cows. The government didn't need to define "free range" in terms of how many inches wide the door to the chicken coop needed to be—their range was the yard.
Last summer Katie and I froze gallons of blackberries we picked with my mom. This morning I thawed some berries to put on the waffle I toasted for breakfast. (Yes, I made waffles this weekend, too.) Each bite had not only the flavor of real blackberries, but the memories of them. I tasted sunshine and laughter and dogs barking and cows mooing and bees buzzing. I tasted the sweetness of life.
Very few calories. Tons of nutrition. Food for body and soul.