Sustainable Agriculture

Frozen Pizzas, Foraging, and Supply Chain Futures

During graduate school, I supported myself working part-time at a nationwide grocery store chain (well-known for its Hawaiian shirts and laid-back attitude). As staff, we received frequent bulletins about the myriad reasons a product might be out of stock – but this information didn’t translate easily to annoyed customers, who only saw bare shelves. “Where’s the frozen shrimp?,” a customer once asked me breathlessly, gesturing towards the empty freezer case. That morning, I had read that nearly all shrimp farming operations were affected by early mortality syndrome (EMS) – a disease caused by a bacterial outbreak, which in many cases decimated shrimp farming populations. We couldn’t have ordered more, even if we wanted to. How could I relay this information cheerfully – that the goings on of a shrimp farm in southeast Asia very much affected this air-conditioned grocery aisle in southern California, much less to someone that was accustomed to being able to buy whatever they wanted (as long as they had enough money)? “I’ll check in the back,” I said.

Now, many folks are realizing there is no real “back room” to go back to. The assemblages of global supply chains, farmworkers, chemicals, microorganisms, and middle managers once hidden from view are now on full display, and we leave the supermarket empty-handed, without the hoped for dried yeast or toilet paper. As the world settles into a new reality marked by COVID-19, I imagine that the coming years will demand a reimagination of our relationships with food – what we eat, who grows it, and how we get it.

Moments of crisis expose the fault lines of privilege and food security in unsettling, yet unavoidable, ways. Bits of news and anecdotes conspire to paint a wider picture of haves and have-nots, like a certain in medias res introduction to actor network theory (c.f. Latour 2005). Friends from my fieldwork sites in Mexico are sharing tips on Facebook about growing food from compost scraps, and cell phone videos of police badgering street vendors with no other options. My American grandmother, raised at the tail end of the Great Depression, sounds anxious on the phone. “Do you have everything you need?” I ask. “Yes, of course – it’s just depressing to see empty shelves, to not have a choice,” she says.

On the way to the pharmacy where I live in Germany, I see my neighbors in the park, six feet apart, gathering the wild garlic that’s emerging. A news alert on my phone tells me the seasonal farm workers from Eastern Europe, on which the asparagus harvest hinges, are being flown in in controlled groups. The grocery store is out of frozen pizzas and canned tomatoes, but has a suspiciously full display of organic beets. There is a difference in knowing about these things – the constellation of privilege, labor, crops, and canned goods – and another to know it through experience.

At the same time, it’s encouraging to witness moments of collective self-recognition and course correction occur in real time. Part of this comes from re-engaging, sensorially and consciously, with where our food comes from and how it is prepared. In the span of a month, the urban homesteading movement has entered something of a Renaissance – with a digital twist. Twitter is ablaze with tricks for homemade break and fermentations, and Reddit users in wild foraging groups swap tips about how to identify wild ramsons from poisonous look-alikes. Neighbors are scrambling to join CSA (community supported agriculture) schemes, in solidarity with local farmers who can’t get their goods to market anymore. Aisha Ahmad’s recent piece on “Adapting to Disaster” for academics, asking “how we can we continue to be productive” in such turbulent times, starts out simply – have a sack of rice, some dried lentils, and some frozen peas on hand.

Posthumanist theorists and multispecies scholars have argued for years that navigating the Anthropocene requires an attunement with the nonhuman or more than human – to understand our entanglements with other beings as more consequential than we often give them credit for. And that, in an odd and unexpected way, is exactly what has happened. On my midday walks, now cherished like never before, I find my attention turning to the abundance of edible plants on my walk – the nettles are coming out, dandelions are blooming. Are those clumps of green garlic mustard sprouts? Where were they before? Maybe this last time last spring, I was too busy running to catch my train, preparing for an upcoming meeting. It turns out the plants that grow back in the cracks of our  “blasted landscapes” (c.f. Kirksey et al. 2013) – or rather, foodscapes – aren’t weeds, but edible greens ready to be foraged.Older men slow down when they reach the http://greyandgrey.com/third-department-decisions-5-29-15/ cheapest viagra age of 30 to 50.

Time will tell whether this signals the start of a broad cultural shift, or if these rifts in our everyday rhythms will seal themselves up the moment quarantine orders are lifted, and grocery store shelves are once again brimming with supplies. I’d wager, however, that our collective rediscovery of the interconnections between plants, people, soil, labor – the interconnections that sustain us – won’t fade so quickly.

Works Referenced

Ahmad, Aisha. “Adapting to Disaster, Episode One: Security”. The Professor Is In, April 2, 2020. http://theprofessorisin.com/2020/04/02/adapting-to-disaster-episode-one-security-a-guest-post/

Kirksey, S. Eben, Nicholas Shapiro, and Maria Brodine. “Hope in blasted landscapes.” Social Science Information 52, no. 2 (2013): 228-256.

Latour, Bruno. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

What are Ecovillages, and Why Should We Pay Attention to Them?

Opening Ceremony for a Festival at an intentional community in Mexico, 2019. Photo by author.

Since December, I’ve been living and working in ecoaldeas, or ecovillages, in Mexico for my dissertation project. In the next few blog entries, I’ll dig into some of the issues and anecdotes that have come out of my fieldwork. For now, I wanted to introduce the concept itself, and set up why ecovillages are important for studying.. 

What is an ecovillage?

Broadly, a kind of community where people commit to living in a more sustainable and ecologically-minded way. This definition is broad, and for good reason – there are ecovillages around the world, and many look quite different from one another, depending on where it’s located, the economic resources of ecovillage residents. What an ecovillage looks like, how it functions – how they generate energy, grow food, filter water, manage local resources – is a reflection of where they are, and depend highly on ecological conditions, terrain, climate, etc. This is also true of the challenges they face. An ecovillage in a warm region with many days of full sunlight might generate energy with solar panels or prepare foods with passive solar units, but might have issues obtaining, filtering, or sequestering water in soils. 

Are there ecovillages that are 100% sustainable?

First, it’s necessary to unpack a part of the definition laid out above – what does “living in a more sustainable and ecologically-minded way” actually mean? Turns out, a lot of things to a lot of people – and it depends a lot on the mission or overall goals of each project. It also has a lot to do with the complexity of the ecovillage environment. Maintaining productive agrosystems (for auto-consumption or for sale), caring for various animals, keeping bees, running a kitchen, maintaining solar panels and generators, and building a house with natural materials such as adobe or bamboo requires not only a lot of diverse knowledge and skill sets, but also time and energy.

Ecovillage under construction near Mexico City, August 2019. Photo by author.
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If an ecovillage has on hand an architect, engineer, organic gardener, veterinarian, builders experienced with using natural materials (such as adobe, cob, or bamboo), a skilled cook, and a team of skilled volunteers or paid staff, then running an ecovillage might be an easier endeavor. However, this is hardly ever the case, and many ecovillage residents have to piece together bits of knowledge as they go along. Many ecovillages I’ve visited, particularly in Mexico, are still in the process of figuring out how to get all of the pieces to fit, so to speak.

Suffice it to say that almost no ecovillage is completely “sustainable”, in the sense that they are only using materials produced within the confines of the ecovillage community. Ecovillages, for the most part, are not isolated utopias – instead, they are tightly intertwined with local economies, and rely on some kind of income to obtain materials that they cannot produce themselves. Sometimes compromises must be made – although a community might ideologically oppose a reliance on fossil fuels, they might make an exception in order to transport of organic vegetables or honey to markets where customers willing to pay higher prices for organically grown produce (in some rural areas where local communities do not have the disposable income to spend on organic produce, the distance to transport crops can be quite long). The importance of supplementary income for these kinds of purchases makes connections with the “outside world” a vital necessity – both with nearby communities as well as paying visitors or students.

Are Ecovillages the future?

“who cares what a few hippies do? Not everyone can just move from the cities and join an ecovillage.”

One of the most common critiques I heard throughout the process of conceptualizing my doctoral project on ecovillages was essentially “who cares what a few hippies do? Not everyone can just move from the cities and join an ecovillage.” In the early literature on ecovillages, optimistic scholars focused on a few case studies, intent on trying to understand how these communities could be “scaled up”, or determine the underlying qualities of ecovillage living that could be copied and pasted in other areas of the world

Personally, I’m not interested in the potential for “scaling up” ecovillages at all. Instead, the part that is most interesting to me is how people collectively settle on what it means to be “sustainable”, and how this idea is formed by bringing in bits of knowledge from many different sources. Some ecovillages vary wildly in terms of themes or ideas that are central to their community. If the goal of an ecovillage is to attract paying visitors – ecotourists, volunteers, workshop participants, and the like – their activities might look different than a community who places a stronger focus on maintaining productive agrosystems. These differences are directly shaped by how ecovillagers conceive of place, as a sort of combination of ecological relationships, climate, geography, and social history. 

Some ecovillages cultivate coffee, a traditional crop grown in highland Veracruz, to earn extra income

There’s no silver bullet for confronting climate change, and reorganizing our ways of relating to the world, specifically within local ecologies is a daunting task. Instead of thinking as ecovillages as models for future communities, I think it’s much more useful to consider how they might teach us valuable lessons for confronting our patterns of community-building and consumption.