Light Snacks Will Be Served

There's a Movement Taking Root

 

I've been tracking down food supplies. Specifically, foods with buzz words that throw some people off (organic, fair trade, free range) but for me generally imply better quality. I think farmers should get paid fairly for what they do, and I also want to eat the best food that I possibly can. Or serve it for that matter. And what I've found here in Thailand is a very active network of farmers, provincial green markets, community organizers and food advocates that are starting what seems like a movement. There's so much to share on the subject, and soon I will. 

Above is a photo of some wonderfully chewy and nutty organic jasmine grown in a village just outside of Yasothorn, in Thailand's Northeast. Yaso, as most locals call it, is a bit of a hub for organic rice producers. Last year, I went there to write about rockets, food and a fantastic festival (a feature on that event comes out soon, maybe even today, in DestinAsian). This spring, I'll return to Yaso, to track down heirloom rice varieties and hang out with local farmers who have returned to traditional agricultural practices. I'll share with you here, and at The Atlantic, as I go. I'm excited about this new aspect of my business, which is beginning to take shape. 

How Far Can We Get From Food?

 

One of my first memories takes place on a sunny, whitewashed morning. I'm sitting on Florida's Intercoastal Waterway with my grandfather, who smiles at me from a folding aluminium beach chair. We're fishing.

And then something happens. I get a nibble, yank on the rod, and set my hook. It might be the first fish I've ever caught - I Have Arrived - and I smile and laugh and clumsily reel it in. But, suddenly, a pelican slaps against the water's surface in front of us, and eats my catch. And now, a very small boy finds himself fighting against a great big bird, his fishing rod tip turned skyward, in a surreal turn of events for a five-year-old.

My grandfather speedily cut the line, and explained to me that we couldn't catch the bird, because we didn't want to eat it. I was disappointed. But for the rest of my life I would always want to be a fisherman - I'd never felt so thrillingly connected to the natural world. Bird, fish and child had collided. 

In the years after that I learned how to fillet and gut fish, pluck pheasants, skin squirrels, and break down the carcass of a white-tailed deer. These experiences, whether you approve of them or not, made one suburban child appreciate the animal world, and what it had meant to man for so long. I crisply remember the first time I shot a grouse and it was not quite dead, and my uncle told me to snap its neck between my fingers. It did not feel good to feel its life disappear in my hands, but it did make me think, and I appreciated my supper that night in a way that is difficult to describe.

I think that my life as a fisherman and a hunter shaped my ideas about cooking and eating more than any other force. I don't throw away anything from an animal that can be used - the bones from a roasted chicken go to stock, as does the spine and head of a filleted fish. Pig skin from pork bellies gets rolled and frozen for gelatin, extra beef fat is rendered. There is still something reverent and slightly sombre about breaking down a big piece of meat in my kitchen; something that my wife, who was long a vegetarian, doesn't understand. But if she grew up like I chose to, I think she would. 

I write this in disgust, after reading this blog entry in The Guardian by Alex Renton. It involves a rural school teacher who chose to slaughter a lamb from the school farm, with the overwhelming approval of her student council, and sell the meat to raise money for the school. It seems sensible, even enlightening, that children should be taught where there meat comes from, and how that process happens. But she was maligned by an indignant mob on facebook. She was harassed and threatened, and finally, she resigned. This, in a town that celebrates its sheep farming heritage. 

The distortion of animal eating, of reducing furry creatures with faces and voices to shrink-wrapped blobs of red stuff, might allow a lot of people to eat without feeling pangs of guilt. But it also causes them to throw away the 'nasty bits', to ignore the consequences of eating too much, or to let it waste in the fridge till past its expiration date. And because the factory farming system is so far removed from sustainable agriculture, creating meat in such a recklessly abundant supply, this is all possible.

A few months ago, I was walking through Bangkok's Chinatown - on a dark street between the bright lights of Yaowarat Road and the mash of traffic on Chaoren Krung. And I came upon a poultry slaughterhouse, where a large measure of the ducks that end up hanging chestnut brown in restaurant windows begin their trip into the afterlife. A temple was lit across the street. There were feathers scattered everywhere, and a smell like death filled the air. I lifted my camera to take a picture, and a butcher glared at me and shook his head severely. He was probably a Buddhist, and didn't want to be captured in such an unholy frame. I also think that when he orders a chicken or a duck, he probably doesn't let a single shred of meat go to waste. I think he understands.   

       

(For a great piece on humane slaughter, see Barry Estabrook's Politics of the Plate blog) 

The Guy Who Sat Beside Me

 

On a recent flight from Singapore to Bangkok, I sat next to an older gentleman with the thick, tanned forearms and friendly smile of an American who golfs a lot. There was an empty seat between us, and he was watching something on his i-pod, so I just smiled and nodded and unsnapped my laptop and started working. My eye was drawn to his Rolex - the diamonds on which were flashing from the outside light. He closed the shade. I stared at his wedding ring - made of what looked like several ounces of chunky white gold. Then I looked at my thin, little band and kept typing.

About half way through the flight we struck up a conversation. I had already made my judgments - executive, import/export, midwest and probably Chicago, electronics or maybe petroleum. These guys are usually pretty nice when I meet them, and remind me of America in a strange, paternal sort of way.  Like if I happened to sit next to my own father, without recognizing him, while he was on a business trip.

Turns out the passenger was in the seafood business, and was from the Pacific Northwest, but by way of Chicago (one point). What was most fascinating about our conversation was how convoluted his work was, a curious characteristic of our food chain these days. He was based in Seattle, and the lion's share of fish caught for his particular company came from the waters off of Alaska and Russia. 

But that fish - 'Cod,' he told me, which could pretty much be anything white and swimming these days, I thought - is then gutted, frozen whole and shipped to factories in China. In China, it is then cut into precise portions and dusted with breadcrumbs and sometimes also deep fried and frozen. Then, the cut and breaded fish boards another boat, floats back across the Pacific, and makes its way to Denny's, TGIFridays, freezer cases and other outposts of factory produced food nationwide. A fresh, wild fish, paraded around the world and frozen to nothingness, all for a shower of fucking breadcrumbs.

"The problem is, the Chinese have now learned how to soak the fillets in a (insert chemical name) and water solution and increase the weight!" he said, a little dismayed. "But the Indonesians don't. And, they're great at processing the shrimp with the tails still on, too. We just can't do that in America anymore...." he said, now sounding almost wistful.

I nodded my head with genuine interest. And I thought that the problem wasn't in the chemical bath, or the labor costs in keeping a shiny tail poking out of golden breading, but the ridiculous system itself. Then I returned to my work.

As he bit into the factory-made chicken pie that JetStar serves on that flight, I admired his wedding ring again. It really was a magnificent piece of gold, like a vein cut right out of the earth.      

A Man and His Mangroves

I wrote a short piece about Babu Nyansee, a Imam and village head in Thailand's Trang Province, who, with the help of Yadfon, an environmental NGO, has reintroduced crucial mangrove habitat nearby his fishing village. You can (and should!) read the full story here.

I only spent a few hours with the old fisherman, but was really affected by his resolve. The pride  he feels for his conservation efforts in Tamarind Cape seem more tangible because they've not only benefited nature, but have also improved the local fishing economy. Huge thanks to Pisit at Yadfon for introducing us, and thanks to Babu and his family for a morning spent cruising the mangroves that I won't soon forget.