If I were a Rich man...

I just didn’t know that attempting to eat locally and trying for a carbon toe print instead of a whole footprint, would raise such uncomfortable moral dilemmas. As I forage our urban landscape and consumerist jungle for local, organic food, I have encountered quite a challenge. Some of my values get smacked around and I am not feeling very choiceful.

Our food budget is $200/week for a family of four, whose members don’t eat many grains due to allergies. So, after spending hours mulling over tomatoes that I like (Cherry, California grown and organic - $4.50/basket), or ones that I eventually bought (Fat ones, local, organic, $3.59/lb) and adding in some carrots and a few other essentials like Organic, local milk in a glass bottle (no throwaway container, thank you very much) and eggs that came from hens who may have ran around, even if it is for 5 minutes (I’ll never know, since there are no regulations for range free), I filled one bag to the tune of $50 and I hadn’t even gotten an 1/8 of this week’s groceries. I was a bit depressed and annoyed. Can only millionaires enjoy being locavores (people who are committed to eat food grown within 100 miles)?

I know of a community garden that grows food for local low-income residents in my town. I felt semi-entitled. I have been struggling with finding and securing on-going employment for over a year. We don’t buy anything new. We don’t go out to eat. We stick to free entertainment. We barter and swap and share and manage to do with what’s available, and mostly, I am grateful that we are creative and resourceful and that we get what we need.
However, I needed more food. When I got to the garden, it had a low, padlocked fence. I felt part lioness going for the hunt and part thief, stealing in broad daylight. I was a bit apprehensive and a bit ashamed. I didn’t want to sacrifice my value of eating well and nourishing my family with unsprayed bounty to the value of not stealing. But was it stealing? We have been playing phone tag with one of the members of the garden to get a time where we could come in and work in exchange for food. So, why was I feeling guilty? I picked some greens, lettuces and some zucchini. They were gorgeous, lush, and happy. I wanted to make sure I ate them in serenity and not choke on any constricting shame. It did taste delicious, but I’m still thinking about it..

The following day I found out that there is another organization that delivers veggie boxes to a central location in my community and that also offers subsidized boxes to low-income residents. I realized that my shame about getting what would be the equivalent of financial help stemmed from my Jewish, middle class upbringing. WE don’t do food stamps. We, Jews, are supposed to be doctors or lawyers or at least have enough to never, ever get a handout. As middle-class folks, we are taught to help others, but to appear as if all is fine. We are just right, the middle bowl of the three bears, not too rich, not too poor. Just right. Except that it isn’t.
So, we get stuck in more isolation when we feel we are the only ones who need a hand.
I filled out the order form anyway. I want to deal with my feeling about the Have and Have-nots. It isn’t fun. What would you do?