Super (guilty) Markets

Dark chocolate pie with coconut-almond-oat
crust. Somewhat made with sustainably
grown and processed ingredients.
Not really.

Over spring break, I made my Dad his favorite french onion soup, baguette, and a vegan chocolate fudge pie. So, I walked over to the local Whole Foods in pleasant, mid-March Virginia air, promising to return in the next forty minutes so that we'd be eating before nine pm.

An hour later, I found myself still encapsulated within the warm and well-lit walls of the super market, receiving an angry call from my father. 

"What could you be doing in there?" He demanded. "How long does it take to buy some onions and maple syrup?"

I sighed heavily. If only he knew...

Braided baguette. Not sure about the flour,
it's what we had in the cabinet...
how convenient in my quest to avoid
drowning in the guilt of being
a person in 21st century.

I used to love walking into super markets. Gliding through automatic doors, greeted by a sudden gust of warm air and pyramids of perfect, colorful produce; strolling the aisles stocked with snacks, coupon-dispensing machines, and hundreds of varieties of beverages.

It was therapeutic, as I'm sure it must be for millions of others. I mean, who doesn't enjoy wandering through thousands of square feet of well-advertised food? But that wasn't what was taking me so long that day in March.

For a little over a year now, I have been studying the concept of sustainable food. Through classes and personal research, I have learned in depth about the environmental, political and social impacts of our global food system. 

I have felt that feeling of relaxation and happy anticipation in the market be replaced by over-whelming guilt and and discomfort over the past few months.

Super markets contribute significantly to food waste, climate change, deforestation, air and water pollution, the proliferation of destructive and abusive agribusiness conglomerates, the social injustice rampant in multi-national agricultural corporations, and many other things one wouldn't something they enjoy to contribute to.

Thus, it's become increasingly difficult to enjoy an bell pepper display without considering the underpaid South American farmers who must travel far away from their families in order to plant, grow, and harvest these genetically modified, pesticide and herbicide laden veggies. 

It's even harder to appreciate the massive selections available when possessing the knowledge that such a selection of veggies (no matter the season) is unnatural; that the appealing black-pepper and olive oil family-size box of Triscuits has a carbon footprint that rivals that of a 20-year old American.

This hyper-consciousness feels as if it came on as suddenly as a lightbulb; sometimes I wish I could flip the switch back down just so I didn't feel like that vegan or that Smithie...if you know what I mean. 

But I can't, and although I'd rather be aware than ignorant it can be extremely inconvenient in making financially responsible, time-efficient decisions. 

In conclusion, I can spend twenty minutes weighing the benefits of buying local, organic onions or the conventionally produced ones from Mexico.

I can spend even more time gazing sadly at the different maple syrup choices, preferring grade-B, organic, Vermont syrup is a ridiculously expensive habit. Would it really have been that bad if I had bought the non-organic grade A from California, processed in Texas, and shipped to Virginia? It was ten dollars cheaper.

Vegan french onion soup. Delicious,
and made with organic onions.
Yes, I paid a lot more for them.

Don't even get me started on the coconut milk I needed for that pie. Seriously.

My Dad heard my frustrated sigh and sucked his teeth with exasperation.

"Lily. Please tell me you weren't trolling the aisles searching for organic, vegan, local, sustainable shit made by workers with health-benefits and days off. You know how long the soup takes to make."

In the end, the dinner was great, mostly organic, and as sustainable as I could muster.