Twice a year, my dad's cohort of cousins (spouses and children included) escapes the melancholy of suburbia to the wildness of the Poconos for a weekend of "roughing it". Next to a picturesque stream at Council Cup campground, the gaggle of thirty-some Italians, ranging in age from five to fifty, assemble their camping stoves, deep friers, stereos, and Taj Mahal tents--complete with air mattresses and/or cots (sometimes even bunk beds) and space heaters--on a Friday night then light a fire and commence intoxication.
There is no denying that little, if any, true natural reflection happens here; the woods merely offer a sanctuary away from those who would condemn the roaring voices of thirty Zonetti's in the same area at once and free of the distractions that prevent one from doing nothing but eat all day. The hell with inside voices and mealtimes. It is a weekend of deafening loudness and feasting, of Sunday morning headaches and Metamucil. It is a weekend of excess.
After pregaming Friday night, we begin Saturday morning with pastries and bagels, then move to eggs with bacon/sausage/scrapple/steak, and end breakfast with some form of fried potatoes. This dictates the manner of the following lunch and dinner hours: eat, clean, eat, clean, eat, clean, drink, sit, drink, sit, drink, sit, eat more. Alcohol is always present--waking up with mimosas and baileys, easing into beer and wine, then crashing with liquor. The picnic tables continuously offer platters of meat; a typical day consists of multiple chicken dishes, london broil, fish, beef chili and/or soup, AND, maybe even a deep-fried turkey. Whew. I'd have to worry a lot more about constipation and short-term weight-gain if I didn't eat CAFO meat.
Of course I disapprove of almost all of the food present. No free-range, local, organic, or preservative-free labels here. Of course I say nothing. I don't wish to sound ungrateful for the free grub I willingly gobble in large quantities all weekend or for the mounds of unused food I take home. But I also wish to avoid accusations of food snobbery. Though I take pride in my pretentious attitude toward eating, people simply aren't receptive to preaching. Many family members are familiar with the motives behind my meat consumption choices, but I only engage in discussion of food politics when others raise the subject.
Fortunately, plenty of opportunities presented itself this weekend. What are you doing these days? How's the farm? With little else in our lives to talk about, both Dylan and I related our farm experience as a way of spreading the word on producing and eating good food. I even received a number of compliments (or something like that) on my work hands, caked with callouses, cuts, and dirt.
Around lunchtime, Dad and I set up an unplanned exhibition. I was making salsa, he a tomato salad. Like fishermen bobbing cast lines, we lured family members with smells and colors as we stood next to each other chopping the only homegrown goods there. "Is that a green tomato?" my aunt asked. I sampled the ripe "Green Zebra" tomatoes from the farm and explained the richness of flavor that distinguishes ancient varieties of vegetables. Others approached us to praise the perfection of my Dad's juicy "Early Girl" tomatoes, picked just the day before from his backyard garden. To heighten interest, I cut strips of the sweetest of sweet red peppers, an Italian variety by the name of "Carmen", to demonstrate their gustatory intensity and textural tenderness. Father and daughter shared the ultimate slow food moment as we cooked together with sustainable produce and simultaneously educated others.
Later in the day, a second impromptu education session (in case anyone missed the first one while playing horseshoes or taking a walk) occurred as I prepared veggies for dinner. Golden delicata squash, radicchio of the deepest magenta, red onions the size of softballs, and bunches of fresh leafy kale, arugula, and basil colored the table. As they walked by, my cousins echoed Farmer's Market customers: "Those vegetables are beautiful." I sampled some more peppers; I described the difference between heirloom and hybrid plants; I explained organic pest and weed control. After trying my squash saute later that night, one of my teenage cousins asked again for the name of the variety, having enjoyed the new flavor so much.
I've come to mentally prepare myself when leaving Ithaca for the norms and attitudes--the general lack of interest in food--that characterizes the outside world. And so I didn't expect such genuine curiosity in my produce endeavors during this blissful weekend of escape. I remember a couple of years ago instigating the first conversations with my parents about sustainable consumption choices; I preached, and while they didn't blatantly ignore me, they didn't change the way they fed themselves. I remember thinking, If I can't even convince my own parents to change their attitudes of food, how can I convince anyone?
After three years of sharing stories and recipes and food experiences with my parents, my father rediscovered his love of growing food and has harvested from a backyard garden for the second year in a row. In the span of a day, I sparked a teenager's interest in organic delicata squash, a vegetable she was completely unaware of--had never before seen in the store--before this past weekend.
I am learning that changing the attitudes of others is not impossible, but rather, that it requires dedication, patience, and strategy; it requires a suspension of one's assumptions about the way in which others think. Knowing how to properly entice the easily skewed senses is, perhaps, the key to inception.
