The way we choose our food…
“Somewhere along the way, we’ve been taught to treat food like a commodity, instead of something sacred. When we can, choosing with care — with presence — can reconnect us to what truly nourishes.” Forage and Gather
More times than I can count, I’ve walked through the grocery store with my mind somewhere else entirely, grabbing things off the shelf, tossing them into the cart, just trying to get through the list. What’s on sale? What’s quick? What do I need to make dinner happen?
But last week, something shifted in me.
Jim and I had the chance to volunteer at the Greater Cleveland Food Bank, and it changed me.
I was paired with individuals and families as they walked through the pantry. We moved together through shelves of fresh produce, grains, oils, meats, and staples. And what I witnessed there — in that simple, fluorescent-lit space — was reverence.
People didn’t just fill their carts.
They looked. They thought. They considered. They chose.
One woman picked up two loaves of bread, held them both, and after a pause, placed one gently back on the shelf. A man examined a bottle of oil, looked at the label, and nodded. There was no rush. There was intention. There was dignity.
And I thought to myself: this is what we’ve forgotten.
In our quest for convenience, what have we lost?
We move so quickly through our days — especially when it comes to food.
We’ve traded care for efficiency. Connection for packaging. Story for barcode.
But watching those folks at the food bank — with limited resources and infinite care — I felt something crack open in me.
I remembered that food isn’t just fuel.
It’s an offering.
A choice.
A moment of communion with the earth, with our bodies, with our ancestors, and with the people who’ve grown and tended to that food before it reached our hands.
And I remembered how often I’ve forgotten.
How many times I’ve grabbed apples like they were paper towels.
How often I’ve tossed lettuce in my cart without even glancing at it.
How many dinners I’ve cooked on autopilot.
But when I slow down — when I tune in — everything changes.
I can feel which bunch of greens wants to come home with me.
I can choose the fish that feels clean and right for my body that day.
I can run my hand over a bag of beans and smile, thinking of the hands that grew them.
It becomes a relationship.
It becomes love.
That’s why I adore our local farmers market so much.
Every Saturday, I walk its rows like a kind of quiet prayer. I talk with the farmers. I choose the microgreens that speak to me. I buy eggs from people who can tell me the name of the hen. I buy chicken from farmers who looked me in the eye and told me exactly how it was raised. I feel the hands behind the harvest — and that changes the way I prepare my food. That changes the way I eat it.
And I’m especially proud that our market accepts SNAP benefits.
Because everyone deserves access to that kind of dignity. That kind of connection. That kind of nourishment.
I’ve seen families shopping with SNAP, choosing with the same care I saw at the food bank. Holding sweet potatoes. Smelling tomatoes. Picking out their week with quiet joy. And I will stand fiercely for that access — because food is not just a transaction. It’s a right. And it should be beautiful, intentional, and real for everyone.
We are in a moment, I think, where we’re being asked to return, not to the past, but to something more human. More rooted. To the table. To the soil. To all of the the choices that make us feel alive again.
So maybe this is just a gentle invitation:
The next time you walk through the store or the market… pause and pick up the apple. Feel it. Smell it.
Let your body — not your brain — tell you what to choose.
Maybe we can start shopping like our grandmothers did, maybe we can start shopping like the earth matters..like our bodies matter.
Like someone loved this food before it got to us — because someone did..someone grew it for us…someone cared for the soil that nurtured it.
Choose with reverence and with joy. Choose with love and see what begins to change all over your life.
As for me, I went home that evening and took out the organic chicken I’d picked up from the farmer’s market the Saturday before. I roasted it simply — with garlic, leeks, and carrots, a splash of olive oil, and a dusting of curry powder. I filled the house with the scent of comfort, and I was completely, deeply grateful.
Here’s how I make it, if you’d like to try:
Take a beautiful whole chicken and place it over a bed of chopped carrots, celery, leeks, fennel, and a full head of garlic (cut in half, skins on). Tuck it all into a roasting pan. Dust the chicken with your favorite herbs and spices — I love to include a little curry powder here; it helps the skin turn golden and crisp and gives everything a warm depth.
Then pour in your liquid of choice — mine is usually a bottle of hard cider, but bone broth or even white wine would do just fine. Roast the whole thing uncovered at 350°F for about 45 minutes and then cover it for another hour until the house smells like heaven and the drumstick wiggles away from the body. Then remove the lid and let the skin get nice and crispy. You’ll know when it’s ready. It always tells you.
With affection always,
Beth
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There’s always room at my table.