Bon Jour,
I am in a cafe in St. Jean de Luz; in the Basque country in France. The keyboard is confusing; so will keep it short. But Susan has requested an update and I hate to keep you all waiting! My thesis is turned in, and though I would like to have had a fez extra days onn parts of it, I am basicqlly pleased. Will post details and possibly even a link later. We head off into the Pyrenees tomorrow, so no more posts for a week or two. Jobs still up in the air, but there are possibilities. I am a little of a superstitious soul regarding jinxes, so have not written about them. If you know my mother, you can ask her. Otherzwise; I will reveal all in mid October.
I am pleased to hear you're still reading and will catch up soon.
By the way, Basque food is amazing!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
YEE HAW!
Okay. It's kicked in. I'm officially running on adrenaline now. I've been unable to sleep decently all week. (Our bed here is cheap and pitiful and every time one of moves the other wakes up, unless deeply ensleeped. My beloved Jason even offered to sleep on the couch a couple of nights ago, so that I could get a good night's sleep and start my frantic last few days well rested. It worked, thank goodness.)
But now, no matter what time of day, with or without blackout mask and/or earplugs, with or without a partner present, I can't sleep. My anxiety about this thesis means that as soon as I lie down, my brain starts cycling through all the things there are to worry about, which equals a considerable number of things at this uncertain juncture of school, jobs, travel plans , etc., not to mention the number of things to wonder about, which are infinite. The worst one, and it keeps happening, is I'll start thinking of people from my past to google while I'm taking precious time from writing to try and grab a quick nap. That is so lame when one has important agricultural livelihoods to figure out, not to mention a future-affecting degree to complete.
At the moment it all seems kind of fun. I've given in to it. I play loud music while writing, I drink coffee after 9pm, and (please, please, please don't tell the anti-globalisation food gods) I'm drinking Coke. (For those of you following the long version of my story, no, it doesn't have high fructose corn syrup here--they use actual sugar in the EU for some reason. And also, no, I don't buy Coke products in the normal run of things and yes, I know they buy public water sources from all over the globe, leaving women to walk miles and/or pay for water to meet basic needs.)
Anyway, it's all going fine. It will be turned in on Friday one way or another. And somehow, I will make sure that it is not more than a few hundred words over the 20,000 word limit.
Okay. It's kicked in. I'm officially running on adrenaline now. I've been unable to sleep decently all week. (Our bed here is cheap and pitiful and every time one of moves the other wakes up, unless deeply ensleeped. My beloved Jason even offered to sleep on the couch a couple of nights ago, so that I could get a good night's sleep and start my frantic last few days well rested. It worked, thank goodness.)
But now, no matter what time of day, with or without blackout mask and/or earplugs, with or without a partner present, I can't sleep. My anxiety about this thesis means that as soon as I lie down, my brain starts cycling through all the things there are to worry about, which equals a considerable number of things at this uncertain juncture of school, jobs, travel plans , etc., not to mention the number of things to wonder about, which are infinite. The worst one, and it keeps happening, is I'll start thinking of people from my past to google while I'm taking precious time from writing to try and grab a quick nap. That is so lame when one has important agricultural livelihoods to figure out, not to mention a future-affecting degree to complete.
At the moment it all seems kind of fun. I've given in to it. I play loud music while writing, I drink coffee after 9pm, and (please, please, please don't tell the anti-globalisation food gods) I'm drinking Coke. (For those of you following the long version of my story, no, it doesn't have high fructose corn syrup here--they use actual sugar in the EU for some reason. And also, no, I don't buy Coke products in the normal run of things and yes, I know they buy public water sources from all over the globe, leaving women to walk miles and/or pay for water to meet basic needs.)
Anyway, it's all going fine. It will be turned in on Friday one way or another. And somehow, I will make sure that it is not more than a few hundred words over the 20,000 word limit.
Friday, September 08, 2006
ME-GRAIN, AS THEY SAY AROUND HERE
My thesis is due next Friday, on the 15th. I've felt okay about my timing, but well aware that I still have a long way to go in a short time. Unfortunately, I have had a nasty week for headaches. Last Thursday and Friday were bad days, but since my supervisor was reviewing a draft i didn't take it too hard, and decided to focus on getting better. (Not that I have a choice when I'm in the midst of one.) Then I met with my supervisor and got good feedback and had a day of detail tinkering before diving in for real on Tuesday. On which morning I woke with a terrible headache again. Another couple of days passed. I'm now recovered, even from the post-headache fog, and back to work.
So, I'm a few days behind and will have to push faster and harder than I like over the next week. I'm scared, and tired, but not in despair. I can't afford despair--I have to hurry.
So send me smart thoughts and focus and calm over the next week and a bit. Oh yeah, and good job vibes--I'm applying for jobs now, too.
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My thesis is due next Friday, on the 15th. I've felt okay about my timing, but well aware that I still have a long way to go in a short time. Unfortunately, I have had a nasty week for headaches. Last Thursday and Friday were bad days, but since my supervisor was reviewing a draft i didn't take it too hard, and decided to focus on getting better. (Not that I have a choice when I'm in the midst of one.) Then I met with my supervisor and got good feedback and had a day of detail tinkering before diving in for real on Tuesday. On which morning I woke with a terrible headache again. Another couple of days passed. I'm now recovered, even from the post-headache fog, and back to work.
So, I'm a few days behind and will have to push faster and harder than I like over the next week. I'm scared, and tired, but not in despair. I can't afford despair--I have to hurry.
So send me smart thoughts and focus and calm over the next week and a bit. Oh yeah, and good job vibes--I'm applying for jobs now, too.
Monday, September 04, 2006
CRIKEY.
The Croc Hunter died today. And not by doing something particularly stupid. He was done in by a stingray. People never die from stingrays. But the Aussie national mascot for derring do was killed by a very precise one. It got him smack in the chest with its poisonous barb and put a hole in his heart.
Say what you will about his invincibility complex or his foolish risks, and even I agree that there’s no good reason to hold your baby in one hand while feeding crocodiles with the other, but we have a pretty big crush on the guy around here.
Much earlier in my days with Jason, my parents came out to visit us in Seattle, and we did the usual tourist things like going on the Underground tour and taking each other’s pictures beside really huge trees in the rainforest on the Olympic Peninsula. We even ran wildly down the trail to catch the last bits of sunset on the farthest west point in the lower forty-eight of our United States. But what was the best part of that trip? What made my parents fall for my future husband? Well, I’ll tell you.
On the way back from the edge of the peninsula, after dark, Jason asked me to pull over by the side of the good ole’ Strait of Juan de Fuca. Then he started pulling out flashlights and headlamps (he’d planned this, apparently). Mom and dad (and probably me) looked a bit wary and not quite sure what was going on. “We’re gonna go tide pool hunting!” shouted a rather more jovial than usual Jason. And off he dashed to the beach. We followed with our gingerly stepping selves and eventually got sucked into the enthusiasm, running around like little kids looking for starfish and shrimp and scurrying over to see what latest thing J. had found to make him shout out, “Hey, come look at this_______!” and proceed to tell us about its feeding habits and its nesting tendencies and whatever.
It was the best. Exhilarating and slightly eerie and really lots of giggly fun. My mom told her office mates and mentioned it during my phone calls for weeks after they went home.
At some point later, Jason confessed to me that he’d basically tried to channel Croc Hunter to get the energy and enthusiasm right and make us all willing to follow along and learn about sea worms. And when he told me, it made perfect sense. He had done a perfect Steve Irwin impression—without the Australian accent, of course. (Though I will say that his knowledge of tidepool life was all his own, remembered from the high school marine biology class of Mr. MacGowan, by all reports another zoologist of boisterous temperament and high eagerness.)
So, you see, I’ve got a soft spot for the Croc Hunter for helping out there. And I’m sad to see him go.
The Croc Hunter died today. And not by doing something particularly stupid. He was done in by a stingray. People never die from stingrays. But the Aussie national mascot for derring do was killed by a very precise one. It got him smack in the chest with its poisonous barb and put a hole in his heart.
Say what you will about his invincibility complex or his foolish risks, and even I agree that there’s no good reason to hold your baby in one hand while feeding crocodiles with the other, but we have a pretty big crush on the guy around here.
Much earlier in my days with Jason, my parents came out to visit us in Seattle, and we did the usual tourist things like going on the Underground tour and taking each other’s pictures beside really huge trees in the rainforest on the Olympic Peninsula. We even ran wildly down the trail to catch the last bits of sunset on the farthest west point in the lower forty-eight of our United States. But what was the best part of that trip? What made my parents fall for my future husband? Well, I’ll tell you.
On the way back from the edge of the peninsula, after dark, Jason asked me to pull over by the side of the good ole’ Strait of Juan de Fuca. Then he started pulling out flashlights and headlamps (he’d planned this, apparently). Mom and dad (and probably me) looked a bit wary and not quite sure what was going on. “We’re gonna go tide pool hunting!” shouted a rather more jovial than usual Jason. And off he dashed to the beach. We followed with our gingerly stepping selves and eventually got sucked into the enthusiasm, running around like little kids looking for starfish and shrimp and scurrying over to see what latest thing J. had found to make him shout out, “Hey, come look at this_______!” and proceed to tell us about its feeding habits and its nesting tendencies and whatever.
It was the best. Exhilarating and slightly eerie and really lots of giggly fun. My mom told her office mates and mentioned it during my phone calls for weeks after they went home.
At some point later, Jason confessed to me that he’d basically tried to channel Croc Hunter to get the energy and enthusiasm right and make us all willing to follow along and learn about sea worms. And when he told me, it made perfect sense. He had done a perfect Steve Irwin impression—without the Australian accent, of course. (Though I will say that his knowledge of tidepool life was all his own, remembered from the high school marine biology class of Mr. MacGowan, by all reports another zoologist of boisterous temperament and high eagerness.)
So, you see, I’ve got a soft spot for the Croc Hunter for helping out there. And I’m sad to see him go.
THE FUTURE'S TOO WILD AND FREE
Summer's leaving quick around these parts. It's felt like fall for weeks, really. But yesterday I noticed that the big tree out back is yellowing. The huge butterfly weed in my garden has fallen over. And our bathroom door sticks again, which means the moisture level is increasing. At least it's actually September now so I can stop being indignant about autumn starting in August.
I started getting a bit nostalgic for my Cardiff school year today. So I took some pictures of regular stuff on my way home. Here's our local empty lot:
Also not far from our flat:
Summer's leaving quick around these parts. It's felt like fall for weeks, really. But yesterday I noticed that the big tree out back is yellowing. The huge butterfly weed in my garden has fallen over. And our bathroom door sticks again, which means the moisture level is increasing. At least it's actually September now so I can stop being indignant about autumn starting in August.
I started getting a bit nostalgic for my Cardiff school year today. So I took some pictures of regular stuff on my way home. Here's our local empty lot:
Also not far from our flat:
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Tuesday, August 29, 2006
PRETTY BITS OF FOIL DISTRACT ME
My blog is an exercise in surrealist temporality. I've got photos and stories from Italy in December I've still yet to pull out. Not to mention the promised saga of last summer's backpacking and the Czech hospital story conclusion. Chances are they'll pop up at some random time. For now, I'll just tell you about some pleasant distractions I've had over the past two or three weeks.
Last week I was heading to school to hunt down library books and walking down a fairly standard street of charity shops, video stores and takeaways when I heard a clip-clop sound behind me. I turned to see a glass carriage drawn by four white horses with white plumes on their heads and a silver and white coffin inside and "Mum" spelled out in white flowers on the top. It was preceded by a cream-colored '40s style hearse full of flowers, some spelling "Mum" and "Old Ma". Following the carriage were four more '40s style cream limos with what seemed to be an inordinate number of children in them, all dressed in their finest. Everyone on this tired little street stopped to stare, and I heard some older lady breathlessly say, "That woman was loved." (Not that I think fancy funerals necessarily equal love, but it was beautiful and she probably was.) I quick called my friend Oci and told her to look out her window, as it was heading down her street. Alas, she was at the computer room and would miss it. But it made my day. I really, really wish I had some photos to show you, but I'd had this weird idea to pick up my camera on the way out the door that day, and said to myself, "Nah, what would I possibly see to take pictures of?" Silly me.
And a couple weeks before that, Jason and I wandered the parks and neighborhood picking blackberries in alleys and then came home and made a huge gooey delicious cobbler. When I looked up in my world cookbook* to remind myself of how to make it, I realized they call it "Appalachian Mountain Pudding"--I never realized or thought of it as a specifically Appalachian thing, but it is practically the first thing I ever learned to make by myself in good ole' Sugar Grove, so maybe it is. Anyway, my English friends had never heard of one, and I think they enjoyed it.
Now. Enough distractions. Back to work.
*World Cookbook = "Extending the Table ...A World Community Cookbook" put out by the Mennonites, who travel the world doing humanitarian projects and learning to cook ethnic food right. I love this cookbook.
My blog is an exercise in surrealist temporality. I've got photos and stories from Italy in December I've still yet to pull out. Not to mention the promised saga of last summer's backpacking and the Czech hospital story conclusion. Chances are they'll pop up at some random time. For now, I'll just tell you about some pleasant distractions I've had over the past two or three weeks.
Last week I was heading to school to hunt down library books and walking down a fairly standard street of charity shops, video stores and takeaways when I heard a clip-clop sound behind me. I turned to see a glass carriage drawn by four white horses with white plumes on their heads and a silver and white coffin inside and "Mum" spelled out in white flowers on the top. It was preceded by a cream-colored '40s style hearse full of flowers, some spelling "Mum" and "Old Ma". Following the carriage were four more '40s style cream limos with what seemed to be an inordinate number of children in them, all dressed in their finest. Everyone on this tired little street stopped to stare, and I heard some older lady breathlessly say, "That woman was loved." (Not that I think fancy funerals necessarily equal love, but it was beautiful and she probably was.) I quick called my friend Oci and told her to look out her window, as it was heading down her street. Alas, she was at the computer room and would miss it. But it made my day. I really, really wish I had some photos to show you, but I'd had this weird idea to pick up my camera on the way out the door that day, and said to myself, "Nah, what would I possibly see to take pictures of?" Silly me.
And a couple weeks before that, Jason and I wandered the parks and neighborhood picking blackberries in alleys and then came home and made a huge gooey delicious cobbler. When I looked up in my world cookbook* to remind myself of how to make it, I realized they call it "Appalachian Mountain Pudding"--I never realized or thought of it as a specifically Appalachian thing, but it is practically the first thing I ever learned to make by myself in good ole' Sugar Grove, so maybe it is. Anyway, my English friends had never heard of one, and I think they enjoyed it.
Now. Enough distractions. Back to work.
*World Cookbook = "Extending the Table ...A World Community Cookbook" put out by the Mennonites, who travel the world doing humanitarian projects and learning to cook ethnic food right. I love this cookbook.
Monday, August 28, 2006
HELLOOOOOOO
Writing a dissertation is an isolating experience. I spent hours contacting and then interviewing farmers and food suppliers, one on one. I’ve quietly read and re-read articles, facts and figures, studies and reports on my study area, including census and geohistorical information about Cornwall, academic debates about relocalisation of food, food miles as a measure of sustainability, rural economic development, farm strategies, quality food networks, and theories of learning and methodology. And then there are all the government strategies, statements, studies and pronouncements. Very few of these have I discussed with anyone at any length. And now, I have pages and pages of text, some of it chunked together from my previous essays, quotes from my interviews, and my own thoughts. Now I’m working on how all this fits together. What is the story I’m telling? Which elements are necessary, and in what order, to take a reader through the discovery process? How much background is required for clarity and to bring out the significance of various findings? What are the relevant and useful findings to policy? What constitutes valuable analysis as opposed to mere description of the case study details?
If you know me at all, you probably haven’t forgotten that I like to talk. When I’m working on a play or dealing with a breakup or trying to make decisions about my future, I talk. And talk and talk and talk. I used to say that I was incapable of thinking without actually saying things to someone out loud. I’ve since given myself credit for having evolved to silent thought, but I still find epiphanies by talking about things. And this is in addition to the obvious learning by discussing that most people do, where the actual input from another party is enlightening. Sometimes, just having to explain things makes them suddenly clear to me.
And I can’t really do that with my dissertation. At this point, I am the only person I know who is familiar with the region, sector, issues and details of my study. So, day after day, I wallow around in the facts, figures and ideas in my head and try to make them stand up straight and get into formation. Herding cats, let me tell you. And what’s most frustrating of all is that it seems simple in my head. I know the stuff. I know what was interesting and useful in what I’ve learned. I know the background, am familiar with the trends and the representativeness of my interview subjects, know the limitations of my research and why it is useful to policymaking. But if I sit down it’s just a big pile of facts and bits of thought and won’t get its act together.
(Snowdonia, August 2005)
Writing a dissertation is an isolating experience. I spent hours contacting and then interviewing farmers and food suppliers, one on one. I’ve quietly read and re-read articles, facts and figures, studies and reports on my study area, including census and geohistorical information about Cornwall, academic debates about relocalisation of food, food miles as a measure of sustainability, rural economic development, farm strategies, quality food networks, and theories of learning and methodology. And then there are all the government strategies, statements, studies and pronouncements. Very few of these have I discussed with anyone at any length. And now, I have pages and pages of text, some of it chunked together from my previous essays, quotes from my interviews, and my own thoughts. Now I’m working on how all this fits together. What is the story I’m telling? Which elements are necessary, and in what order, to take a reader through the discovery process? How much background is required for clarity and to bring out the significance of various findings? What are the relevant and useful findings to policy? What constitutes valuable analysis as opposed to mere description of the case study details?
If you know me at all, you probably haven’t forgotten that I like to talk. When I’m working on a play or dealing with a breakup or trying to make decisions about my future, I talk. And talk and talk and talk. I used to say that I was incapable of thinking without actually saying things to someone out loud. I’ve since given myself credit for having evolved to silent thought, but I still find epiphanies by talking about things. And this is in addition to the obvious learning by discussing that most people do, where the actual input from another party is enlightening. Sometimes, just having to explain things makes them suddenly clear to me.
And I can’t really do that with my dissertation. At this point, I am the only person I know who is familiar with the region, sector, issues and details of my study. So, day after day, I wallow around in the facts, figures and ideas in my head and try to make them stand up straight and get into formation. Herding cats, let me tell you. And what’s most frustrating of all is that it seems simple in my head. I know the stuff. I know what was interesting and useful in what I’ve learned. I know the background, am familiar with the trends and the representativeness of my interview subjects, know the limitations of my research and why it is useful to policymaking. But if I sit down it’s just a big pile of facts and bits of thought and won’t get its act together.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
WWOOFin'
So, yeah, sorry it's been so long. But I'm tryin' to write a bloody dissertation, for sheep's sake. It's hard and it takes lots of thinking and writing. And blogging takes a certain kind of outward looking energy that i find it hard to muster sometimes.
Where've I been? Well, only the friendliest, prettiest part of the England, that's all. (No arguments here, please, it's subjective and I'm standing by it, admittedly having seen really very little of England.) I've been to Cornwall!
For my dissertation, I conducted interviews with farmers in Cornwall about their business, their markets and their perceptions or experiences in the NHS local buying programme. Basically, I'm looking at where public food procurement fits into the current situation of working small farms.
Now, Cornwall is a monster tourist destination--it's population doubles during the school holidays--which means its an expensive place to find lodging for an extended research project. So I WWOOFed it. There's this programme, used to be called Willing Workers on Organic Farms, now called Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. (nice marketing decision, that name change, huh?). Anyway, you join and they send you a list of organic farms who will provide room and board in exchange for work. So, I found a woodland project that sounded nice (home brewing, permaculture, music and woodworking were listed in their blurb) and made myself a deal. Really, they told me they didn't have much going on and said I could just stay there, which was perfect since I had county-wide interviews to do. I ended up helping out by re-doing some compost systems, hanging out with the kids, and raking a community path (and some other bits and pieces of weaving willow and putting up hay), and I got to stay in this caravan for just over two weeks:
It was really great. Really. There was no running water or electricity, but there was a composting toilet and lots of friendly meals on the verandah down at their house. This was my view nearly every evening, and my "host family":
Yeah, now you're starting to get the picture. It was the perfect summer getaway. They also have these charming children, who have loads of energy and are endlessly talkative and love having stories read to them, especially Peter Rabbit stories.
It was great. And I walked and bused and trained all over the Cornish countryside, talking to great farmers and seeing the landscape. I couldn't have asked for better research conditions!
So, yeah, sorry it's been so long. But I'm tryin' to write a bloody dissertation, for sheep's sake. It's hard and it takes lots of thinking and writing. And blogging takes a certain kind of outward looking energy that i find it hard to muster sometimes.
Where've I been? Well, only the friendliest, prettiest part of the England, that's all. (No arguments here, please, it's subjective and I'm standing by it, admittedly having seen really very little of England.) I've been to Cornwall!
For my dissertation, I conducted interviews with farmers in Cornwall about their business, their markets and their perceptions or experiences in the NHS local buying programme. Basically, I'm looking at where public food procurement fits into the current situation of working small farms.
Now, Cornwall is a monster tourist destination--it's population doubles during the school holidays--which means its an expensive place to find lodging for an extended research project. So I WWOOFed it. There's this programme, used to be called Willing Workers on Organic Farms, now called Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. (nice marketing decision, that name change, huh?). Anyway, you join and they send you a list of organic farms who will provide room and board in exchange for work. So, I found a woodland project that sounded nice (home brewing, permaculture, music and woodworking were listed in their blurb) and made myself a deal. Really, they told me they didn't have much going on and said I could just stay there, which was perfect since I had county-wide interviews to do. I ended up helping out by re-doing some compost systems, hanging out with the kids, and raking a community path (and some other bits and pieces of weaving willow and putting up hay), and I got to stay in this caravan for just over two weeks:
It was really great. Really. There was no running water or electricity, but there was a composting toilet and lots of friendly meals on the verandah down at their house. This was my view nearly every evening, and my "host family":
 |  |
Yeah, now you're starting to get the picture. It was the perfect summer getaway. They also have these charming children, who have loads of energy and are endlessly talkative and love having stories read to them, especially Peter Rabbit stories.
 |  |  |  |
It was great. And I walked and bused and trained all over the Cornish countryside, talking to great farmers and seeing the landscape. I couldn't have asked for better research conditions!
Thursday, July 06, 2006
THE PARENT TRIP
Quick--before I leave--when I should be sleeping or packing or something--I'm gonna post some pics from my parents' visit. We went on a beautiful walk at Rhossili and Mewslade Bay on the Gower Peninsula:
We also visited a great castle in Chepstow, and went to the Museum of Welsh Life at St. Fagan, but I don't have any pictures of those handy.
And then we went to London and saw:
(Photo by Appalachia Mom)
(Photo by Appalachia Dad)
Bye, Mom and Dad. I had fun and I wish we had more time.
Quick--before I leave--when I should be sleeping or packing or something--I'm gonna post some pics from my parents' visit. We went on a beautiful walk at Rhossili and Mewslade Bay on the Gower Peninsula:
We also visited a great castle in Chepstow, and went to the Museum of Welsh Life at St. Fagan, but I don't have any pictures of those handy.
And then we went to London and saw:
(Photo by Appalachia Mom)
(Photo by Appalachia Dad)
Bye, Mom and Dad. I had fun and I wish we had more time.
TERRIBLE BLOGGER
Okay, so I didn't finish the Czech hospital story. I will at some point. Unfortunately, I just haven't had time or been in the mood. My parents came to visit last week, and we wandered all around south Wales and London and had a grand ol' time and tired ourselves completely out and ate good food. I might even post some pictures sometime. They're home again now and I've spent this week getting things in order to go do my dissertation research in Cornwall.
So you see, I haven't time to tell you about evil Czech guy or friendly doctor pill hander outer because I'm leaving town tomorrow again. I'll be staying in a scrungy caravan in a barn (yep, it got kicked by a horse and is in the barn temporarily!) on a very cool farm that runs a community woodland and makes excellent rustic furniture. I'll also be going to the Liskeard Agricultural Show on Saturday and I can't wait--flower arranging and pie contests and little kids with animals in costumes. Oh yeah, and networking and learning things from the farmers. Then I'll spend the next 2-3 weeks interviewing farmers and suppliers about the hospital food procurement system as a viable market opportunity (or not).
I realize I am a terrible blogger and never tell you about travel adventures or school mate gossip or drinking stories or even commentary on the world around me. But really, this is just to say "hi, I'm still here" to those far away. I'll be more creative when I'm able.
Okay, so I didn't finish the Czech hospital story. I will at some point. Unfortunately, I just haven't had time or been in the mood. My parents came to visit last week, and we wandered all around south Wales and London and had a grand ol' time and tired ourselves completely out and ate good food. I might even post some pictures sometime. They're home again now and I've spent this week getting things in order to go do my dissertation research in Cornwall.
So you see, I haven't time to tell you about evil Czech guy or friendly doctor pill hander outer because I'm leaving town tomorrow again. I'll be staying in a scrungy caravan in a barn (yep, it got kicked by a horse and is in the barn temporarily!) on a very cool farm that runs a community woodland and makes excellent rustic furniture. I'll also be going to the Liskeard Agricultural Show on Saturday and I can't wait--flower arranging and pie contests and little kids with animals in costumes. Oh yeah, and networking and learning things from the farmers. Then I'll spend the next 2-3 weeks interviewing farmers and suppliers about the hospital food procurement system as a viable market opportunity (or not).
I realize I am a terrible blogger and never tell you about travel adventures or school mate gossip or drinking stories or even commentary on the world around me. But really, this is just to say "hi, I'm still here" to those far away. I'll be more creative when I'm able.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Pomoc! Doktor, prosím. To je naléhavy prípad!
Okay. You try saying that when you have a severe migraine and you’re in the Kafka’s castle of all hospitals and the “information” man has his back to you watching TV and --and --and … (Breaks into sobbing)
But first, a little back story. (It may turn out to be a lot of back story, and may take more than one entry. We’ll see.) I left to meet Jason in Prague the morning after completing my last essay of the year for school. I had been working on essays for weeks, and was losing my mind a little. The day before I left, I’d had a headache coming on all day and managed to keep it at bay, but by 11pm or so it was pretty bad and I took my last sniffer medicine in order to be able to think clearly enough to finish the paper. I finally finished at about 1:30 am, packed, checked my lists, and slept for a few hours. Then I caught a cab to the train to the bus to the airport, and then I waited. The sign said my plane would be about 1/2 hour late. Then over the next four hours the voice over the intercom said repeatedly that information would be available in the next 1/2 hour. Finally we took off, four hours late. I was exhausted and headachy and cranky. But I got to Prague and got the bus to the subway to the tram to the hotel, reunited with my man and had some pizza in the smokiest pizza joint/bar ever. (But it was charming and the pizza better than I had dared hope.)
I adored our room at the pension. So perfectly preserved 1960’s. See:
And all for $45 a night!
But, the sheets at the pension smelled like chemical flowers, so I put t-shirts and towels over the pillow, and ducked into the storage trunk in the room to get a less-recently laundered duvet. I slept okay, but woke with a headache that must have been the result of the combination of stress, post-paper stress release (after-stress headaches are sometimes the worst), exhaustion, dehydration and laundry detergent poisoning. But, hey, I was in PRAGUE! With Jason! And it was beautiful!
Marcela, who runs the pension, is a bit manic, but in a cheery wonderful way. She came and asked if we wanted her mother’s special pancakes for breakfast, today only. We said yes. It was an amazing breakfast of bohemian crepes with homemade marmalade made by the pension owner’s German mother. Marcela, always paying attention to every detail at hyperspeed, asked if we were cold, having noticed that the other duvet was out. I explained, nervously, tentatively, that I was sensitive to chemicals and that I worried that the laundry detergent smell might cause a headache, and about the less-frequently laundered thing. She quick like magic jumped across the room, spun the key in the dresser and showed me the store of less-immediately cleaned sheets and pillow cases and said to help myself, saying in not bad, but still broken, English and pointing to her head that she had friends who had same. But since Jason had already been in Berlin for several days and needed some clothes washing, I suggested we just through in the pillowcases and run the wash without detergent and hang it all out to dry. Marcela immediately took the cases and the wash, and hung the duvet out to air for the day. What a relief. She reacted with no skepticism whatsoever and was helpful as could be. I’ve had much worse from many people.
So, off we went. To Old Town to see the clock and the buildings. There was a children’s bike race happening and they’d closed off a loop of roads and it was great. I was crying because my head hurt so bad, but smiling and laughing at how excited everyone was and all the cheering and the earnest biker determination. We wandered and made a dinner reservation, crossed the Charles Bridge, stopping to watch some excellent performers and look at the views. Then we headed up the hill to the castle to look around and have some lunch. By the time we got to the top, I was pretty well out of it with pain. We decided, somewhat desperately, to spring for the really gourmet fabulous restaurant I had read about when we got to the top, for a few reasons. It was quiet, no one was smoking and good food is my favourite thing and might cheer me up. Also, expensive food is more likely to have pure, simple ingredients and not the corn starch, corn syrup additives common in more processed foods (you may recall I am highly sensitive to corn products.) The place was lovely. We had extremely deferential waiters, which made me really aware of the whole American tourist in expensive restaurant paying for the right kind of treatment. Especially since I was in enough pain that I must have seemed really strange to them, with my wan smiles and quiet questions and water guzzling. The pear bisque with cinnamon gnocchi was incredible, and comforted me for a while. But the fish, though delicious, was more than I could handle. I ate what I could, mostly the potatoes, and gave Josh the rest. Then I tried to relax and not feel so awful. Without going into detail, just know that I got to taste the pear bisque again. But I managed to “lose my lunch” quietly in the loo and without causing a stir. Thank goodness. So, here we are. Not feeling better and across the city from our room. Jason being the most patient man there is. And I think that’s quite enough for one entry. More soon.
Okay. You try saying that when you have a severe migraine and you’re in the Kafka’s castle of all hospitals and the “information” man has his back to you watching TV and --and --and … (Breaks into sobbing)
But first, a little back story. (It may turn out to be a lot of back story, and may take more than one entry. We’ll see.) I left to meet Jason in Prague the morning after completing my last essay of the year for school. I had been working on essays for weeks, and was losing my mind a little. The day before I left, I’d had a headache coming on all day and managed to keep it at bay, but by 11pm or so it was pretty bad and I took my last sniffer medicine in order to be able to think clearly enough to finish the paper. I finally finished at about 1:30 am, packed, checked my lists, and slept for a few hours. Then I caught a cab to the train to the bus to the airport, and then I waited. The sign said my plane would be about 1/2 hour late. Then over the next four hours the voice over the intercom said repeatedly that information would be available in the next 1/2 hour. Finally we took off, four hours late. I was exhausted and headachy and cranky. But I got to Prague and got the bus to the subway to the tram to the hotel, reunited with my man and had some pizza in the smokiest pizza joint/bar ever. (But it was charming and the pizza better than I had dared hope.)
I adored our room at the pension. So perfectly preserved 1960’s. See:
And all for $45 a night!
But, the sheets at the pension smelled like chemical flowers, so I put t-shirts and towels over the pillow, and ducked into the storage trunk in the room to get a less-recently laundered duvet. I slept okay, but woke with a headache that must have been the result of the combination of stress, post-paper stress release (after-stress headaches are sometimes the worst), exhaustion, dehydration and laundry detergent poisoning. But, hey, I was in PRAGUE! With Jason! And it was beautiful!
Marcela, who runs the pension, is a bit manic, but in a cheery wonderful way. She came and asked if we wanted her mother’s special pancakes for breakfast, today only. We said yes. It was an amazing breakfast of bohemian crepes with homemade marmalade made by the pension owner’s German mother. Marcela, always paying attention to every detail at hyperspeed, asked if we were cold, having noticed that the other duvet was out. I explained, nervously, tentatively, that I was sensitive to chemicals and that I worried that the laundry detergent smell might cause a headache, and about the less-frequently laundered thing. She quick like magic jumped across the room, spun the key in the dresser and showed me the store of less-immediately cleaned sheets and pillow cases and said to help myself, saying in not bad, but still broken, English and pointing to her head that she had friends who had same. But since Jason had already been in Berlin for several days and needed some clothes washing, I suggested we just through in the pillowcases and run the wash without detergent and hang it all out to dry. Marcela immediately took the cases and the wash, and hung the duvet out to air for the day. What a relief. She reacted with no skepticism whatsoever and was helpful as could be. I’ve had much worse from many people.
So, off we went. To Old Town to see the clock and the buildings. There was a children’s bike race happening and they’d closed off a loop of roads and it was great. I was crying because my head hurt so bad, but smiling and laughing at how excited everyone was and all the cheering and the earnest biker determination. We wandered and made a dinner reservation, crossed the Charles Bridge, stopping to watch some excellent performers and look at the views. Then we headed up the hill to the castle to look around and have some lunch. By the time we got to the top, I was pretty well out of it with pain. We decided, somewhat desperately, to spring for the really gourmet fabulous restaurant I had read about when we got to the top, for a few reasons. It was quiet, no one was smoking and good food is my favourite thing and might cheer me up. Also, expensive food is more likely to have pure, simple ingredients and not the corn starch, corn syrup additives common in more processed foods (you may recall I am highly sensitive to corn products.) The place was lovely. We had extremely deferential waiters, which made me really aware of the whole American tourist in expensive restaurant paying for the right kind of treatment. Especially since I was in enough pain that I must have seemed really strange to them, with my wan smiles and quiet questions and water guzzling. The pear bisque with cinnamon gnocchi was incredible, and comforted me for a while. But the fish, though delicious, was more than I could handle. I ate what I could, mostly the potatoes, and gave Josh the rest. Then I tried to relax and not feel so awful. Without going into detail, just know that I got to taste the pear bisque again. But I managed to “lose my lunch” quietly in the loo and without causing a stir. Thank goodness. So, here we are. Not feeling better and across the city from our room. Jason being the most patient man there is. And I think that’s quite enough for one entry. More soon.
Monday, June 19, 2006
SUGARLOAFIN'
Yesterday we went to Abergavenny with our friends Phil and Oci and climbed Sugarloaf (Mountain? Peak? not sure). We had a grand ole' day in the sun, saw lots of sheep, a small herd of wild horses with tiny baby, several thousand beetles and lots of bracken. It was great. The guide in the tourist shop said they used to call it moderate, but they upgraded it because not everyone walks as much as they do and people thought it was hard. But we survived.
We had two lunch breaks because each couple had basically brought enough for everyone to have a lunch. For first lunch we had tabouli pita sandwiches and fruit and got eaten by bugs. For second lunch we had cheese and pickle sandwiches and watched the baby wild horse. Then we wandered back into town for dinner and some pub games, and caught the last train home.
The day was perfect, and it made me think of how short a time we have left here. Already many of my classmates have returned to their home countries or gone off somewhere to do their research. It's summer. Classes are over. And its our individual responsibility to get research projects designed, planned and carried out. I'm finding it hard to focus and wish for more sunny laughing days with my friends.
Yesterday we went to Abergavenny with our friends Phil and Oci and climbed Sugarloaf (Mountain? Peak? not sure). We had a grand ole' day in the sun, saw lots of sheep, a small herd of wild horses with tiny baby, several thousand beetles and lots of bracken. It was great. The guide in the tourist shop said they used to call it moderate, but they upgraded it because not everyone walks as much as they do and people thought it was hard. But we survived.
We had two lunch breaks because each couple had basically brought enough for everyone to have a lunch. For first lunch we had tabouli pita sandwiches and fruit and got eaten by bugs. For second lunch we had cheese and pickle sandwiches and watched the baby wild horse. Then we wandered back into town for dinner and some pub games, and caught the last train home.
The day was perfect, and it made me think of how short a time we have left here. Already many of my classmates have returned to their home countries or gone off somewhere to do their research. It's summer. Classes are over. And its our individual responsibility to get research projects designed, planned and carried out. I'm finding it hard to focus and wish for more sunny laughing days with my friends.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Csirkepaprikas, kérem
Tonight, my friends, we are celebrating the falling in of our dining room ceiling by attempting to make traditional Hungarian food. In Budapest, the food was, well, generally, kind of odd and not that great. BUT! I'm pretty sure that's because we failed to order what they tell tourists to order. They know what we'll like. They've been feeding us since 1991 or so. They know we'll like Chicken paprikas and goulash. I didn't try goulash, only because I had foolishly ordered venison and (canned, I'm pretty sure) mushrooms on our first night and we'd eaten too big a lunch to want dinner on our second afternoon. So, late lunch on Thursday(which also made us too full to want dinner later and so turned out to be the last real meal), and I ordered Chicken paprikas. And it was divine and creamy and paprika-y and served with deliciously carbohydrate-y nodleki (dumplings) and I was satisfied and could go home happy the next day. Jason, unfortunately, had wanted some decadent goose traditional thing, but they were out of it and he got something not nearly as good instead. But we were agreed on the heavenliness of the chicken paprika. And we live in the year 2006 and so when i got home I looked it up on the internet and got a recipe. We will try it tonight, and if it is not up to par, we will look up more recipes and try again until we get it right. And when we do, I'll make some for you, my dear Internet. And you will be mine forever.
And I will offer it to Jason in Hungarian, and he will say please and thank you in Hungarian. This, because for all my effort on the boat down from Vienna, everyone spoke English and i was unable to fully display my extremely limited, but awesome Magyar language skillz. Though I did make friends with the ferry boat man, who seemed impressed that anyone would even make the effort. Then he let me ride in the cockpit, or whatever you call it, when we passed the cool hilltop castle and everyone else was clamoring at the tiny doorway to get a view. (The regular windows were plexiglass and pretty scratched up.)
P.S. The photo is of the food in Budapest, not my version.
Tonight, my friends, we are celebrating the falling in of our dining room ceiling by attempting to make traditional Hungarian food. In Budapest, the food was, well, generally, kind of odd and not that great. BUT! I'm pretty sure that's because we failed to order what they tell tourists to order. They know what we'll like. They've been feeding us since 1991 or so. They know we'll like Chicken paprikas and goulash. I didn't try goulash, only because I had foolishly ordered venison and (canned, I'm pretty sure) mushrooms on our first night and we'd eaten too big a lunch to want dinner on our second afternoon. So, late lunch on Thursday(which also made us too full to want dinner later and so turned out to be the last real meal), and I ordered Chicken paprikas. And it was divine and creamy and paprika-y and served with deliciously carbohydrate-y nodleki (dumplings) and I was satisfied and could go home happy the next day. Jason, unfortunately, had wanted some decadent goose traditional thing, but they were out of it and he got something not nearly as good instead. But we were agreed on the heavenliness of the chicken paprika. And we live in the year 2006 and so when i got home I looked it up on the internet and got a recipe. We will try it tonight, and if it is not up to par, we will look up more recipes and try again until we get it right. And when we do, I'll make some for you, my dear Internet. And you will be mine forever.
And I will offer it to Jason in Hungarian, and he will say please and thank you in Hungarian. This, because for all my effort on the boat down from Vienna, everyone spoke English and i was unable to fully display my extremely limited, but awesome Magyar language skillz. Though I did make friends with the ferry boat man, who seemed impressed that anyone would even make the effort. Then he let me ride in the cockpit, or whatever you call it, when we passed the cool hilltop castle and everyone else was clamoring at the tiny doorway to get a view. (The regular windows were plexiglass and pretty scratched up.)
P.S. The photo is of the food in Budapest, not my version.
LOOKS LIKE A COAL MINE IN HERE
Today the ceiling fell in. And no, that is not a metaphor. It did fall in. Or rather, it succumbed to the pressure of the water that was released when our not-too-bright upstairs workmen decided to cut the pipe that was sagging and clogged. When I ran up and told him water was leaking from two places in separate rooms, he went back to banging things hard and I called the landlord. While talking to her assistant, the leaks grew and got worse. I tried to explain while running around grabbing pots and tubs (we don’t have many, we’re only here for the year, being frugal, not knowing we’d need more for leaks) and trying to move stacks of paper as leaks snaked near them. Then, just as I stepped back out of the way (it was leaking a lot now), a huge piece of ceiling bigger than me fell in one chunk and wet plaster and black gunk crashed onto everything in our dining room. Including the stacks of paper that represent my entire second semester of work, reading material, printouts, notes and books. No one was hurt. A tiny bus driver drawing by Susannah, and dried tiny daffodils from Sara and Pete also came through without so much as a dent. Like magic. Unfortunately, my little flower shrinky-dink pendant by Corey was swept away by the same workman and his pal and I couldn’t find it in the rubble. I’m sad about that. Add it to the tally of meaningful jewelry lost this year: 1 cool chain ring by Web Crowell--left on the top of Mt. Snowdon after taking it off to apply sunscreen. 1 purple tile pendant bought from a street seller in Georgetown, Seattle and made into a necklace with nuts and bolts fixtures by Jason on the day I went camping with Cynthia--disappeared into the Soho streets of London. 1 wedding ring--lost in the autumn leaves in the park while gathering worm bin bedding and miraculously found again two days later). And now, 1 shrinky-dink pendant made and brought to me by Corey--lost in the rubble of the fallen ceiling in Cardiff. Don’t give me jewelry while I’m in Wales. I’ll just lose it.
It’s mostly cleaned up now, and they say they’ll come re-do the ceiling and fix the gaping hole on Monday morning. They’ve been driving me nuts all week. The pipe cutter guy whistles constantly and repetitively. They let their scary dog walk all over my herb garden yesterday. And they play loud stupid pop radio stations all day long. Oh yeah, and they start at 8am on the dot and are loudest in the morning. (I know, real people with day jobs are plenty up and moving by 8am, but we’ve been pretty proud to get and basically stay on an up-by-9:30 schedule and it treats us right.) And at the rate they’re going, I’m sure it will be all renovated and ready for the next renter about the time we’re ready to leave. Reminds me of the last summer I lived alone, when the landlord put brown paper over all the windows of my apartment and spend most of the summer slowly painting the house twice over. Oh well, who cares. I’m going to Cornwall soon enough.
Today the ceiling fell in. And no, that is not a metaphor. It did fall in. Or rather, it succumbed to the pressure of the water that was released when our not-too-bright upstairs workmen decided to cut the pipe that was sagging and clogged. When I ran up and told him water was leaking from two places in separate rooms, he went back to banging things hard and I called the landlord. While talking to her assistant, the leaks grew and got worse. I tried to explain while running around grabbing pots and tubs (we don’t have many, we’re only here for the year, being frugal, not knowing we’d need more for leaks) and trying to move stacks of paper as leaks snaked near them. Then, just as I stepped back out of the way (it was leaking a lot now), a huge piece of ceiling bigger than me fell in one chunk and wet plaster and black gunk crashed onto everything in our dining room. Including the stacks of paper that represent my entire second semester of work, reading material, printouts, notes and books. No one was hurt. A tiny bus driver drawing by Susannah, and dried tiny daffodils from Sara and Pete also came through without so much as a dent. Like magic. Unfortunately, my little flower shrinky-dink pendant by Corey was swept away by the same workman and his pal and I couldn’t find it in the rubble. I’m sad about that. Add it to the tally of meaningful jewelry lost this year: 1 cool chain ring by Web Crowell--left on the top of Mt. Snowdon after taking it off to apply sunscreen. 1 purple tile pendant bought from a street seller in Georgetown, Seattle and made into a necklace with nuts and bolts fixtures by Jason on the day I went camping with Cynthia--disappeared into the Soho streets of London. 1 wedding ring--lost in the autumn leaves in the park while gathering worm bin bedding and miraculously found again two days later). And now, 1 shrinky-dink pendant made and brought to me by Corey--lost in the rubble of the fallen ceiling in Cardiff. Don’t give me jewelry while I’m in Wales. I’ll just lose it.
It’s mostly cleaned up now, and they say they’ll come re-do the ceiling and fix the gaping hole on Monday morning. They’ve been driving me nuts all week. The pipe cutter guy whistles constantly and repetitively. They let their scary dog walk all over my herb garden yesterday. And they play loud stupid pop radio stations all day long. Oh yeah, and they start at 8am on the dot and are loudest in the morning. (I know, real people with day jobs are plenty up and moving by 8am, but we’ve been pretty proud to get and basically stay on an up-by-9:30 schedule and it treats us right.) And at the rate they’re going, I’m sure it will be all renovated and ready for the next renter about the time we’re ready to leave. Reminds me of the last summer I lived alone, when the landlord put brown paper over all the windows of my apartment and spend most of the summer slowly painting the house twice over. Oh well, who cares. I’m going to Cornwall soon enough.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
BLUE DANUBE?
I've not yet gotten the mojo to write about our travels, but i thought I'd give you this picture of Budapest and the flooding Danube, cuz I kinda like it.
We loved Budapest. It's so big that it can't feel overrun by tourists, for one thing. And so beautiful, with hilly vantage points all over the city. I miss hills and mountains. Cardiff's rather flat.
I've not yet gotten the mojo to write about our travels, but i thought I'd give you this picture of Budapest and the flooding Danube, cuz I kinda like it.
We loved Budapest. It's so big that it can't feel overrun by tourists, for one thing. And so beautiful, with hilly vantage points all over the city. I miss hills and mountains. Cardiff's rather flat.
Monday, May 29, 2006
BYE FOR NOW
Well, I'm nearly done. Another half hour, I'm hoping. And then no more coursework, possibly ever in my life, though, when I said that to my sister, she said it's hard to imagine that I won't ever take a class again. True enough. But I'm daydreaming now that those future classes will involve coming home with handmade art objects or sore muscles and not this tired brain I have now.
I'm off first thing in the morning on my glorious, long-awaited vacation. You won't hear from me for awhile, not that that's all that unusual.
Well, I'm nearly done. Another half hour, I'm hoping. And then no more coursework, possibly ever in my life, though, when I said that to my sister, she said it's hard to imagine that I won't ever take a class again. True enough. But I'm daydreaming now that those future classes will involve coming home with handmade art objects or sore muscles and not this tired brain I have now.
I'm off first thing in the morning on my glorious, long-awaited vacation. You won't hear from me for awhile, not that that's all that unusual.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
A TINY WINDOW
Source: www.feasta.org
What follows is an excerpt of an email I sent to my poor longsuffering partner who is trying to have a fulfilling vacation in Berlin. I'm trying to write my final essay of my grad programme and am tying myself in knots, having read too much and thought too much to write a simple basic report on why local food is or is not good for sustainability. Here's the excerpt:
I'm reading an article now about how most of the rural development
farm-level entrepreneurial advocacy of local food (which is generally me in
a way) fails to address issues of social justice and the distribution of the
profits made on "premium" value-added products associated with local food
markets. Very Marxist and all and I think a useful argument for me to think
about.
Questions for the conclusion may be something like looking at a balance of
economic, environmental and social benefits of local food, and the potential
gaps in who they fall to. I.e. who eats the food and who gets the profits.
While there may be inherent sustainability benefits on the food miles and
less infrastructure front, it is also important to look at the
sustainability as an economic development and social justice issue--is it
just creating a haves and have nots among farmers? Is it creating a diverse
agri-food landscape that challenges the industrial high production model,
and the oft-linked consolidated retailer price and quality control system,
or is it in many cases creating a dual system of cheap, mass-produced,
environmentally destructive food for some people, with expensive, "quality,"
artisanal and environmentally friendly foods and markets for others? In
other words, are these alternative food supply chains actually a challenge
to the prevailing system, or are they niche markets which, as they grow, if
they do, will become part of the existing system of downward price pressure,
more generic conceptions of quality and environmental standards (this can be
seen in copy-cat labels of natural, fresh, nature-friendly, etc.), and a
mass-produced "locality" identity fetishism that loses traceability as it
expands and may or may not actually mean all of the farm family friendly and
positive environmental things it implies to buyers?
So, structure. Local is good for these reasons (and these people have said
so). It has often been assumed or asserted to have these additional
desirable qualities or effects (social bonding, trust, re-locating of rural
and regional identities, value capture for farmers, etc.). Several of these
have been questioned based on views of economic motivation, uneven
distribution of rents, defensive localism, etc. Conclusion: the basic
reasons that local is good generally stand. The more recent analyses of how
the supply chains work and who benefits are idealistic, peasantising and
don't stand up to long-term projections or meaningful market saturation
scenarios.
Now, this is a hard conclusion to come to, because everyone in my department
is on the side of Kathe Kollwitz pretty peasants in fields versions of
things (I know she had horrible images, but didn't she also have these?),
with the picture of family farmers reclaiming their rightful share of retail
value. But I really am starting to think about the equity issues
here--because the current state of research is all about case studies of
successful eco-entrepreneurs and alternative networks and cooperative
marketing groups, and about how this diversifies the agri-food system in
general. I agree, but I also think it's very much a them that have, gain
scenario. If you research farmers in Cornwall who are invovled in quality
food schemes, a very high percentage, which i could look up, moved to the
rural area in order to start a farm business, with specialty foods,
artisanal methods and idyllic lifestyle in mind. Most of the ones who are
making it are those who see outside the farm life box. They think like
consumers. Is that a problem? Not really. They have a market. But is
building a rural development scheme on the experiences of yuppie farmers
with vision a viable plan? Especially when the market for expensive
targeted premium foods is limited? Not so sure.
Oh boy. didn't mean to do all that. And it's a very recent stage of
thinking on this. I already have questions for myself. And I know that
there is still plenty of room for market growth, particularly if there is a bigger
steady, more widespread demand (like that of public procurement, for
example) and that more environmetnally and socially sound systems are better
and so some are better than none.
End of Excerpt. So that's where my brain is, and why I never write. And today and tomorrow I have to finish this essay so I can go see my dear supportive Jason (who actually answered this in a meaningful way from a hostel lobby in Berlin).
Wish me luck.
Source: www.feasta.org
What follows is an excerpt of an email I sent to my poor longsuffering partner who is trying to have a fulfilling vacation in Berlin. I'm trying to write my final essay of my grad programme and am tying myself in knots, having read too much and thought too much to write a simple basic report on why local food is or is not good for sustainability. Here's the excerpt:
I'm reading an article now about how most of the rural development
farm-level entrepreneurial advocacy of local food (which is generally me in
a way) fails to address issues of social justice and the distribution of the
profits made on "premium" value-added products associated with local food
markets. Very Marxist and all and I think a useful argument for me to think
about.
Questions for the conclusion may be something like looking at a balance of
economic, environmental and social benefits of local food, and the potential
gaps in who they fall to. I.e. who eats the food and who gets the profits.
While there may be inherent sustainability benefits on the food miles and
less infrastructure front, it is also important to look at the
sustainability as an economic development and social justice issue--is it
just creating a haves and have nots among farmers? Is it creating a diverse
agri-food landscape that challenges the industrial high production model,
and the oft-linked consolidated retailer price and quality control system,
or is it in many cases creating a dual system of cheap, mass-produced,
environmentally destructive food for some people, with expensive, "quality,"
artisanal and environmentally friendly foods and markets for others? In
other words, are these alternative food supply chains actually a challenge
to the prevailing system, or are they niche markets which, as they grow, if
they do, will become part of the existing system of downward price pressure,
more generic conceptions of quality and environmental standards (this can be
seen in copy-cat labels of natural, fresh, nature-friendly, etc.), and a
mass-produced "locality" identity fetishism that loses traceability as it
expands and may or may not actually mean all of the farm family friendly and
positive environmental things it implies to buyers?
So, structure. Local is good for these reasons (and these people have said
so). It has often been assumed or asserted to have these additional
desirable qualities or effects (social bonding, trust, re-locating of rural
and regional identities, value capture for farmers, etc.). Several of these
have been questioned based on views of economic motivation, uneven
distribution of rents, defensive localism, etc. Conclusion: the basic
reasons that local is good generally stand. The more recent analyses of how
the supply chains work and who benefits are idealistic, peasantising and
don't stand up to long-term projections or meaningful market saturation
scenarios.
Now, this is a hard conclusion to come to, because everyone in my department
is on the side of Kathe Kollwitz pretty peasants in fields versions of
things (I know she had horrible images, but didn't she also have these?),
with the picture of family farmers reclaiming their rightful share of retail
value. But I really am starting to think about the equity issues
here--because the current state of research is all about case studies of
successful eco-entrepreneurs and alternative networks and cooperative
marketing groups, and about how this diversifies the agri-food system in
general. I agree, but I also think it's very much a them that have, gain
scenario. If you research farmers in Cornwall who are invovled in quality
food schemes, a very high percentage, which i could look up, moved to the
rural area in order to start a farm business, with specialty foods,
artisanal methods and idyllic lifestyle in mind. Most of the ones who are
making it are those who see outside the farm life box. They think like
consumers. Is that a problem? Not really. They have a market. But is
building a rural development scheme on the experiences of yuppie farmers
with vision a viable plan? Especially when the market for expensive
targeted premium foods is limited? Not so sure.
Oh boy. didn't mean to do all that. And it's a very recent stage of
thinking on this. I already have questions for myself. And I know that
there is still plenty of room for market growth, particularly if there is a bigger
steady, more widespread demand (like that of public procurement, for
example) and that more environmetnally and socially sound systems are better
and so some are better than none.
End of Excerpt. So that's where my brain is, and why I never write. And today and tomorrow I have to finish this essay so I can go see my dear supportive Jason (who actually answered this in a meaningful way from a hostel lobby in Berlin).
Wish me luck.
Friday, May 19, 2006
A Bug's Life
Today I turned in my dissertation research proposal. I worked so hard on it and I'm kind of proud of it, even though it's just the proposal and it was geared to the professor who assigned it and so doesn't reflect much-needed logistical information i'll have to hammer out with my supervisor.
I spent the day in a suit (a not so fancy, velvety brown one) at a conference on sustainable public sector food procurement (school, hospital and prison meals) with representatives of lots of important organisations. I networked where I could, but that's surprisingly hard to do when they all have lots of information useful to me and I don't have much to offer them--they realize I'm a student and move on to someone who can do something for them! Their loss, I reckon. To be fair, most were not like that. But when the abrupt turn-away happens, it can really throw you! Mostly I learned lots by keeping quiet and listening.
Two essays and an exam to go!
Then I'm off to meet my darling husband (who will have spent the weekend in Berlin) and spend a glorious week of no required anything in Prague, Vienna and Budapest. Going to school in Europe was a mighty fine idea. I haven't had much time to research sight-seeing, but we are so going to see this:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hundertwasserhaus
And soon after that, my mom, dad and sister are coming to visit! Unfortunately, the rest of the family can't make it. But I'm really looking forward to showing the small version of my family around Cardiff, South Wales and London. I love the idea of being able to show them where we've spent this whole important year that almost no one from home (except Corey) will ever see.
Today I turned in my dissertation research proposal. I worked so hard on it and I'm kind of proud of it, even though it's just the proposal and it was geared to the professor who assigned it and so doesn't reflect much-needed logistical information i'll have to hammer out with my supervisor.
I spent the day in a suit (a not so fancy, velvety brown one) at a conference on sustainable public sector food procurement (school, hospital and prison meals) with representatives of lots of important organisations. I networked where I could, but that's surprisingly hard to do when they all have lots of information useful to me and I don't have much to offer them--they realize I'm a student and move on to someone who can do something for them! Their loss, I reckon. To be fair, most were not like that. But when the abrupt turn-away happens, it can really throw you! Mostly I learned lots by keeping quiet and listening.
Two essays and an exam to go!
Then I'm off to meet my darling husband (who will have spent the weekend in Berlin) and spend a glorious week of no required anything in Prague, Vienna and Budapest. Going to school in Europe was a mighty fine idea. I haven't had much time to research sight-seeing, but we are so going to see this:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hundertwasserhaus
And soon after that, my mom, dad and sister are coming to visit! Unfortunately, the rest of the family can't make it. But I'm really looking forward to showing the small version of my family around Cardiff, South Wales and London. I love the idea of being able to show them where we've spent this whole important year that almost no one from home (except Corey) will ever see.
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