Why we ate local in September

“Why is there food, like, everywhere?” asked a first-grade friend, who was over at our house one day after school.

I picked the grapes out of my farmer’s market basket, rinsed and put them down in front of the kids. Looking around, I saw what she meant.

Big yellow tomatoes were stacked three deep on the windowsill; cartons of multicolored cherry tomatoes lined the counter. I added five ears of corn from my basket to the oversized bowl that already contained squash – butternut, zucchini and yellow crookneck – from our garden. A couple baseball-bat sized cucuzza gourds hung out next to the fridge, too unwieldy for any vessel. Onions, potatoes, garlic and broccoli jostled for pole position near the stove. A bowl of apples sat in easy kid-reach on the kitchen table. Pumpkins and the first winter squash festooned our porch.

Because it’s September, I thought.

And when you’re eating local, with no granola bars or cereal to tide you over, it’s amazing how much food you plow through.

Spices and exceptions

But I left it to the kids to field their friend’s question, keeping one ear cocked, curious. How would they explain this tradition of ours? It’s not a religious thing – though I’ve taken to thinking of it sort of like a cross between Sukkot, the Jewish harvest festival, and our version of Ramadan (having heard about that month-long observance from a Muslim friend, how it encourages slowing down, introspection and appreciation, especially of food).

It’s just our family’s thing. For four of the past five years, my crew has gamely – with varying degrees of reluctance – agreed to take part in this challenge: for the month of September, we eat only food grown, raised or caught within 250 miles of home. Spices are “free,” and each person gets to choose five exceptions.

My list of exceptions begins with coffee and olive oil. The kids are getting savvier. This year, their list starts with ice cream sundae (as opposed to just ice cream, because a sundae, as they point out, can involve things like wafer cookies and certainly chocolate fudge and sprinkles).

From the kitchen, I caught their friend’s follow-up question, “What’s ‘local’?”

“It means it gwew awound hewe,” said a little voice. I smiled to myself. Kids are so much better at explaining things. They keep it simple.

More than just food

I coopted this challenge from some blog I stumbled across years ago. It struck me that this was a concrete action that, while not instantly world-altering, felt like an actual answer to so many problems that otherwise seemed intractable.

Mega corporations taking over our lives? Check – eating local keeps money circulating in the neighborhood.

Farmers not making a living? Check – we hit farmers markets at least twice a week during September, not because we’re virtuous but because we’re hungry.

Plastic waste? Check – when it comes from your garden or a nearby farm, it doesn’t need to be shrink-wrapped.

Global warming? Check – no shipping food thousands of miles.

Then there are all these unexpected bonuses I’ve discovered over the years.

One, I invariably discover new sources of awesome food. This year’s gem is Great Joy Family Farm in Pine Bush, whose stand at the Florida Farmers Market is flush with the kind of pantry staples – rice, flour, dry beans – that are usually the hardest things to source locally.

Two, the adorable conversation unfolding outside. The kids really get it at this point. Notwithstanding some occasional grumbling about treats denied, they voluntarily take part, and along the way they become inadvertent teachers. Juno, 7, has found herself explaining her mid-day snacks to curious second-grade classmates: these are just like green beans even though they’re purple; this is an Asian pear but it grows here.

And three, I always drop a couple pounds this month – probably thanks to a dearth of easy snack foods – making September a nice re-set.

Though a handful of intrepid souls have joined me in past years, I’ve stopped trying to recruit for Eat Local September. I don’t love feeling like the “local” gestapo, nor do I enjoy heaping extra stress on my already-busy friends who are trying to work and keep their kids fed and maybe kick back and relax once in a while.

No such thing as a ‘regular’ meal

I know the challenge stresses out husband Joe, who does the lion’s share of the cooking in our house. Instead of tossing pasta from a box into a pot on a random Wednesday night, he has to make the spaghetti from scratch with a hand-crank gizmo, and sometimes the flour spills all over the kitchen floor, and when I hear curses coming from the kitchen, I tell myself this is the last time we’re doing this.

But when dinner does hit the table, it’s always special. There are certain meals Joe has dreamt up these Septembers whose memory I will take to the grave: homemade pizza, crust crisped at the edges, topped with zucchini, Amish country goat cheese and sauce from our own tomatoes, foraged black trumpet and lion’s mane mushrooms, washed down with mead fermented from Adirondack honey. Venison steak from a deer Joe brought down with his bow, mashed potatoes and garlicky butter beans, with a glass of maple wine. Even the “regular” meals, like last night’s rice risotto, made with a giant puffball and maitake mushroom foraged that day, are sui generis.

Maybe this September will be the last time we do the challenge, as I vowed the night of the spilled flour. But somehow, I suspect not.

When August rolls around again, Joe and I usually look at each other, weighing all the pros and cons. And every year but one – the year we were newly parents of three – we’ve come to the same conclusion: We’re basically doing it already. We can do it. We should do it.

Let’s do it.