So I joined a CSA

Truth be told, I've been a near-vegetarian of late.  Deciding not to eat certain meat inevitably led to eating less meat, and eating less meat actually seems to agree with me.

But.  I haven't yet given up meat entirely, and I certainly haven't adopted the irrational hope that everyone else on the planet will become a vegetarian.  And so, even as a "limited" meat-eater, I care deeply about the issue of (to coin a phrase) conscious carnivorism.

To that end, I decided this week to join a CSA. For those of you (like me) previously unfamiliar with the concept, this means Community Supported Agriculture--a pledge of financial support to a community farm. In short, I pay $50 for a one-year membership and in return I get: 1) substantial discounts on the farm's products; 2) access to products the farm doesn't typically sell at markets; and 3) to pat myself on the back for helping a local farm manage its financial realities and risks.

CSAs take different forms--some deliver produce to your home each week, others (like the one I joined) bring your "share"--be it meat or produce--to a local farmers' market every week. The options depend on where you live and which farm(s) you choose to support. What is the same across the country is that by joining, you are making a commitment to yourself to eat fresher, healthier, more responsible food, and a commitment to your community to support sustainable farming practices (and the people who practice them).

Contrary to popular belief, buying food from local farms does not have to be pricier than buying from the grocery store. Sure, some foods--including meat products--are cheaper in the store. But many foods are substantially cheaper if you buy them directly from a local farm--say, through a CSA or at a farmers' market. The last time I went to a farmers' market I walked out with two large bags full of fresh produce--enough for two weeks--for less than $40. And I just placed my order for $5.50/lb chicken breasts, which I will pick up at the farmers' market on Sunday.

So that's my case to all you meat-eaters.  And now it's (finally) time for me to climb up on my soapbox and preach to that other audience, the committed vegetarians. You, too, should consider joining a CSA. Sustainable farming, humane farming, anti-agribusiness farming is important whether the farm is raising animals or growing corn.  For each of us it is, simply, an easy way to do something in line with our ideals.

Where to get a burger

When I moved to LA, the land of the thin, I expected (and found) ubiquitous sushi restaurants, menus paying homage to the low-fat, and frozen yogurt parlors.  (It sometimes feels like frozen yogurt is taking over the city; you cannot walk far in many neighborhoods without green and pink neon shining down on you from a Pinkberry knockoff--itself a knockoff of Red Mango--or a new take on "yogurt" and "locale"--a la "Yogurtland" and "Yogurt Stop.")

I did not expect to find great hamburgers, but they abound--from good fast food (In-N-Out Burger, Fatburger, Astroburger) to cranky, quirky mainstays (The Apple Pan, Hamburger Mary's, Father's Office) to the high end (The Counter, 25 Degrees--my favorite), LA knows how to do burgers. 

For the past few weeks I've been coming to terms with saying goodbye to the burger joint.  There are, of course, restaurants that serve some version of a "responsible burger"--Citizen Smith's was quite good, and I recently noticed one on the menu at Newsroom Cafe.  But there's something about a menu with nothing but burgers, fried food, and alcohol that warms my heart.

Well, my savior found me.  Two friends in two days sent me urgent emails (complete with emphatic! exclamation points!) describing the selection at 8 oz Burger Bar: humanely raised/hormone-free sirloin, grass-fed beef, free-range turkey, and primarily locally grown, organic produce.

And so I braved Melrose Ave. on a weekend night.  During the day that stretch of Melrose screams, music blaring out of storefronts, window displays crowded with drama (from leather, studs, and cowboy boots to teeny-tiny clothes made for the throngs of teenage girls that descend in the afternoons and on weekends).  At night, though, it's subdued with a vague hint of danger.  Quiet, dark alleys surprise you; a tattoo parlor looms over 8 oz's modest awning.  (There are also, of course, two hole-in-the-wall frozen yogurt places in the .7 miles between 8 oz and Pinkberry.)

I can't say I adored the design.  The lights are too bright, the cavernous, high-ceilinged space strangely open.  (To me, comfort food conjures images of warm, tight surroundings; there I felt oddly exposed.)

Still, I loved it.  The staff was laid-back, friendly, and eager to get drinks into our hands. The clientele was entertaining.  (To my left, a table of four Beautiful People engaged in conversation about a celebrity-studded event they'd recently attended and the failures of their respective agents to capitalize on the opportunity.  To my right was a girl who'd just decided to move out of her parents' home and was celebrating, with a male friend of uncertain intentions, her newfound freedom.  Around 8:30 a group walked in wearing cocktail attire, leaving me daydreaming about what series of events could possibly have led them to a burger dive, dressed like that, so early on a weekend night.  But it is LA, and maybe they were dressed up solely for their burger outing.)

At the waitress's suggestion I got the 8 oz (plus fancy cheese).  My crappy camera cannot do it justice; when it arrived, it literally glistened.  After the first bite, time stopped.  The crisp white onion and ripe tomatoes tasted like they'd come from a neighbor's garden.  The pickles were perfect.  Humboldt Fog oozed out of the sides and "special sauce" dripped down my fingers.  I hate messy eating, but in that moment I didn't care; I gave up on my napkin and slobbered my way through every last bite.  I licked my fingers clean.

As a side we had Truffled Potato Skins.  Unlike the thick, starchy standard, these were cut in long, thin slivers, mostly skin with just a hint of flesh.  They were surprisingly light, sprinkled with cheese and a solid dose of truffle oil.   By the end of the meal there was not a crumb in sight. 

The bill was reasonable, and I walked out smiling.  Thankfully burgers, fried food, and wine are still within reach.

The week of the vegetable

After the Organic Chicken Incident, I decided I had to get serious and start reading up on issues in ethical eating.  My plan for the week was to hit the Hollywood Farmers' Market on Sunday, buy meat from a local farm that I knew met all of my possible standards--no cages, no hormones, no unnecessary pain or cruelty, located in Southern California--avoid restaurants until I knew what I was looking for, and start reading.  The universe had a different plan. 

I did manage to find a suitable meat purveyor.  Halfway through my tour of the farmer's market I met a man from Healthy Family Farms in Ventura County.  His carefree, happy chickens were just what I needed....except that, due to increased demand over Thanksgiving, he was out of meat for the week.  (He did have some lovely, carefree, happy eggs and a suggestion to get on their email distribution list so I could pre-order in the future.)

When I got home I sat down to make my reading list.  Five minutes of Google searching later, I was overwhelmed.  There are zillions of books and websites about ethical eating.  I turned off my computer.

The rest of Sunday flew by and on Monday I went to work (where, frustratingly, people expected me to spend my time working), with the end result that I had a bunch of (organic, locally grown) vegetables, some week-old soy dogs, not an ounce of meat in my house, and no further information or decisions about what meat I could eat.

This was how I came to discover that I have no idea how to eat like a vegetarian.

Each meal I ate this week consisted of a single dish.  On the first night I made succotash out of fresh corn and frozen edamame.  It goes so well with grilled chicken; I had no idea what else to serve with it.  I combed my cabinets looking for ideas, but nothing I had on hand--chocolate chips, canned black olives, assorted teas--helped. Dinner that night was the biggest plate of succotash you've ever seen. 

The next night was a repeat, except with refried beans.  (I figured I needed protein.)  I wanted to eat more than one thing, but what?  Rice or a tortilla would have been obvious choices, except I don't eat white rice or white flour.  Beans and brown rice just didn't sound right.  Maybe the beans and the leftover succotash?  Again, I gave up.  (In an effort to make the beans look less sad, I covered them with cheese.  I also downed a glass of wine.)

Night three was...wait for it...leftover succotash.  As an afterthought I ate a soy dog. 

In sum, I have not had meat or a two-dish meal since Monday.  I am moderately hungry and extremely anxious to make and tackle my reading list.  I need meat standards, stat.

Given my inability to think creatively about what to eat other than meat, it's comforting to know that scientists are hard at work on a solution.  Apparently "the Dutch government and a sausage maker" are just a few steps away from growing artificial meat.