Every time I buy fruit or vegetables from the grocery store, I cringe. Partly because I’m dissatisfied not only at the limit selection of organic produce my local grocers offer but also the looming dread that these dietary necessities come from hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles away. For me local food grows within a fifty-mile radius from my house; regional, perhaps three hundred. My guidelines don’t stem from any grand earth muffin bible or Rodale article. My own idea of what local and regional should mean comes from what feels natural. According to the Sustainable Table website, “local is certainly a flexible term… local foods are produced as close to home as possible.” But this isn’t tangible enough for me, I need numbers.
In an attempt to eat more regionally—completely local isn’t an option in the desert—I began ordering from a food co-op with several locations throughout western and mid-western states. At first the half fruit, half vegetable parcels seemed like an oasis in the desert. The bin overflowed with fresh produce, and I had enough to last my husband and me two weeks. The price was fair: fifteen dollars for conventional produce and twenty-five for organic, although the one time I tried the organic I was thwarted by the lessened amount of produce and the lack of regional fare. Their website boasts they provide local items when available and regional when local isn’t an option. This is where the co-op all fell apart for me.
My husband meets a variety of people in his line of work. On one particular day he met a lady who revealed herself as the women in charge of the Southern Utah co-ops. When my husband began raving about how much we enjoyed our produce, especially the locally grown part, he was met with a disappointing truth: all the produce in our bins came from Arizona. Even more upsetting, much of the produce in Arizona came from California or Mexico. Bummer. While parts of Arizona may be within my regional scope, Phoenix is further than three-hundred miles. Mexico, too. California is closer, but still out of my designated mile allowance, and when combined with mileage from California to Arizona and Arizona to Utah, my distance limits are far exceeded. I appreciate what the co-op aims to accomplish, but the magnitude of the operation has forced the mission to falter: a not-so-copious container, if you will.
Not everything that enters my digestive system is regional; however, I strive to make most of the produce I bring into my home from my geographical area. Thus, I fear I will have to dig deep into my pockets and patron the Downtown Farmer’s Market. This conundrum frustrates me, really. How can food that requires less chemical intervention and fossil-fuel-guzzling travel time, cost so much more than industrial agriculture? Again, I’m left to choose between my health and environmental well-being and money. A duel, I’ve yet to fully resolve, and—unfortunately—more often than not, money wins.
The farmer’s market costs double, triple, and sometimes quadruple what I’d pay at the grocer or previously mentioned co-op, and because my pockets are wider than they are deep, I often struggle to have enough fruits and veggies for even one week. Nevertheless, I’m supporting local agriculture, treading a little lighter on Mother Earth, and fueling my body without pesticides and chemicals: and that makes a difference to me.
