When eating local means driving an hour each way

Posted on | March 9, 2006 | 4 Comments

I tend to approach the kitchen with an unusual amount of trepidation these days. For years the kitchen has been my temple, my church, my home, but lately when dinnertime rolls around and I haven’t yet figured out what I’m making, I feel like the teacher has called me to the chalkboard to solve a quadratic equation and I have toilet paper hanging out of the back of my pants and the only thing I know is that I don’t know the answer because instead of studying the night before, I was reading Judy Blume’s Forever under the covers with a flashlight.

I made up a batch of hardboiled eggs a couple of days ago, using the beautiful brown and green eggs from Cheril’s Chooks. See how pretty? Our girls won’t be laying until sometime in the early Fall, but it’s so good having access to fresh, scrumptious eggs from Debra or Cheril.

I’m sure my kitchen uncertainty is just a by-product of this hormonal change making me feel not myself, it still being cloudy and wintry, and the fact that I’m trying desperately to stop spackling carbohydrates into my face every night. I’m on day four of keeping it light, but I’m running out of ideas.

My friend Cathy (whose art blog is coming soon to an internet near you!) sent me a beautiful cookbook recently. The recipes are simple and quick, and the photography beyond inspiring. The meals seem like a good balance of carbs and protein, with lots of pretty vegetables thrown in. I can’t wait to have some of those ingredients popping up in my garden. I’m also looking forward to a trip into Cleveland in the hopefully not-too-distant future, to purchase some of the more ethnic and esoteric items.

Oh, how I miss my beloved metropolitan grocery shopping. We’re in commodity vegetable hell here, where many of the choices—simple things like zucchini and turnips—come cradled in a black styrofoam tray and triple wrapped in stretchy clear plastic. So-called fresh vegetables most likely grew somewhere on the west coast or in South America and spent days on a truck or a train (sprayed and gassed for freshness!) to get to where I see them stacked in neat pyramids, bruised sides down, sopping wet from overhead sprayers, and looking as weary and wary as I feel reaching for them. But, a girl’s gotta eat.

We don’t have a decent health food coop in the area. There’s one in Kent, but walking into it fills me with a sour, stale, I’m-out-of-money-so-I’m-scraping-up-and-smoking-the-bong-resin energy. I seldom go in, and whenever I do, they never have what I’m looking for. Of course, I have the Park Slope Food Coop to compare it to, and nothing compares to that bountiful shopping experience.

I’ve lived here for nearly 3 years, and we’re not planning on moving any time soon, so I need to get more familiar with Akron and Cleveland, where I can hopefully find more sources for quality ingredients, and have access to more locally grown and produced food. I’m looking at an hour drive each way, but a well-planned trip to markets with a museum or zoo trip, or a tour of the Tremont art galleries, or a visit to the lake thrown in will make it fun for the kids.

It’s interesting having a child who vociferously longs for things we once took for granted, things like easily accessible sushi, Thai curry, and Afghani kebob. This is a boy who brought handmade Nori rolls for his first day of kindergarten lunch—with his own chopsticks, pickled ginger, and a small ball of wasabi.

I also miss fresh goat cheese, which I’m shocked I can’t find. I’m surrounded with goat farms, but nobody makes cheese. Maybe I need to buy the milk and make my own.

This May is 2006’s Eat Local Challenge. Part of my determination to get my cooking back under control and inspired is my desire to participate in this challenge, and get back on track for eating more locally in general. By midsummer I’ll be eating Extreme Local, by walking back to the North Acre to pick my meals.

Until then, I’m just trying to stay away from the pasta and potatoes.

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