by Jessica Schreibstein

I recently decided to become a locavore. For all of you unfamiliar with the term, a locavore is someone who eats only locally-grown foods. All week I have been eating leaves and I must admit, I feel like one of those preachy health fanatics whose idea of fun is downing shots of wheatgrass juice on Friday nights. The greens I’ve been eating are crisp, organic, and locally-produced, but I have about eight pounds to eat before next week’s farmers market and there are only so many ways one can rethink the salad. I am quickly realizing that it may have been wiser to become a locavore in mid-summer when practically everything is in season, but I am not one to abandon a worthy cause so readily (except for the time when I gladly abandoned my month of vegetarianism for a plate of Roscoes Fried Chicken and Waffles).

In my first week as a locavore convert, I have begun to realize that this commitment required a bit more than leisurely strolling through farmers’ markets for fresh ingredients or perusing cookbooks for new recipes. For one, my GPA is taking a hit. As I have yet to find a coffee farm at a reasonable driving distance from downtown LA (100-mile radius is the distance usually allocated for locavores’ food sources), I have cut myself off from my drug-of-choice and have subsequently been unable to finish much work before my new bedtime of 10pm. The absence of a local flourmill has also slashed sandwiches, pasta, and baked goods from my diet, as well as other imported American staples like bananas, sugar, and chocolate. My friends have become concerned about my health, both physical and mental, and I can’t blame them. Living without pizza and cappuccinos as a college student is sacrilege at best, suicide at worst.

Despite its challenges, the locavore movement has a rapidly increasing fan base from diverse backgrounds, ranging from granola-chompers to the urban food elite, appealing to those who seek to expand their social and political consciousness to their food choices. In our globalized food system, in which most of our food is imported from over 1500 miles away, the common consumer has lost all connection to the origin of his or her food. Formerly exotic food options have become normative banalities, and instead of savoring produce when it’s at its seasonal peak, we demand its tasteless imposter at all other times of the year. These food choices are not only harmful to our personal health, as food that takes over a week to travel to our plates loses a great degree of its taste and nutritional value; they are also disastrous to the sustainability of our environment and local and global communities. When we lose our connection to our food, we also lose our connection to the person who planted, grew, and harvested it. One of the strongest selling points of the locavore mantra is the opportunity to shake the hand of the farmer who grew one’s food and establish accountability and transparency for their farming practices, something conventional, monocrop farming avoids. A higher percentage of our food dollar is given directly to that farmer rather than a faceless middleman or manufacturing company, allowing money to be recycled within a community. By buying locally, consumers also minimize their carbon footprint by reducing their dependency on foreign oil, which is used to process, package, ship, and store our food before we even put it in our grocery carts. It seems that our morning bowl of Cheerios and glass of juice is just as guilty of gas guzzling as a Hummer.

The problem with eating locally is that it requires work, and our culture has reared us to expect instant gratification, especially when it comes to our food. While I am tempted to exchange my kale and mustard greens for a quick and greasy Big Mac, the reward of eating locally and seasonally has never been so great. I am constantly discovering new foods and creating culinary masterpieces that would make Alice Waters proud, such as homemade strawberry rhubarb jam or an asparagus and leek frittata. My locavore experiment is a success, save for my one reclaimed guilty pleasure: a piping hot cup of delicious non-local coffee.