Over the last 60 years, Canadian food production has been
industrialized and centralized. Processing facilities have been
super-sized. According to Statistics Canada, Canada lost 17,550 farms
between 2001 and 2006, while the average farm grew by 52 acres during
the same time frame.
Advocates of the centralized food system
say that it improves food safety, generates more food at less cost, and
that its large, efficient trucks and central distribution depots result
in fewer food miles. Critics counter that the “go big or get out”
mentality forces small farmers out of business, threatens rural
economies, compromises local sustainability and creates environmental
hazards.
Brian O’Neill, program co-ordinator for Oxfam Canada in
Halifax, says, “A very small group of people now exerts enormous
influence over the global food system.” Corporate concentration,
O’Neill says, has affected everyone from farmers to processors and
retailers, resulting in lower incomes and loss of control over what
they grow and how they grow it. “In 1975, for example, 13 percent of
the retail cost of a loaf of bread went to the farmer,” O’Neill adds.
“Today only four percent does. Meanwhile, agribusiness profits have
soared.”
In their best-selling book, The 100 Mile Diet (Random
House Canada), Alisa Smith and James MacKinnon write that in North
America, the average food item travels 1,500 miles before it turns up
on a plate. But the road between farm and fork isn’t just long, it’s
winding, too, and making ethical food choices relies on knowing where
food comes from. If it’s difficult to ascertain where produce, meat and
dairy originate, then it’s nearly impossible to trace the origin of
ingredients in packaged foods. The current food system relies on
agri-buyers and, increasingly, seed scientists and regulators to make
ethical decisions for the rest of us.
The ingredient label on
the loaf of bread I’m holding simply reads “wheat.” For Sharon Rempel,
that’s a problem. A Victoria-based agronomist and writer, Rempel says
that while there are more than 100,000 varieties of wheat, only about
200 are legally registered to sell in Canada. Variety identification
isn’t required for packaging. Rempel is worried that hardy varieties
such as Red Fife, which is adaptable to climate change, risk extinction
because regulations (and economies) favour hybrids. Rempel attracted
800 people to Canada’s First Bread and Wheat Festival, held in Victoria
last October. There, artisanal breads were served up with discussion
about biodiversity, genetically modified seed, terminator technology
and seed patents. “Accessing seed can be a challenge in a world that is
driven by agribusiness,” says Rempel. “Whoever controls the seed,
controls the food supply.”
A handful of “gene giants” dominate
the global seed industry, the two largest being Dupont and Monsanto.
Percy Schmeiser of Bruno, Sask., knows Monsanto all too well. In 1998,
the company sued him when it found its canola plant (genetically
engineered to withstand the company’s weed killer, Roundup) growing on
Schmeiser’s farm. While the Supreme Court of Canada ruled that there
was no evidence that Schmeiser planted or benefited from the canola, it
upheld Monsanto’s patent claim, supporting the company’s right to own
the gene. Now, Schmeiser is counter-suing Monsanto for “contaminating”
his crops with their seed.
For his fight against “patents on
life,” Schmeiser was awarded the Alternative Nobel Prize in Sweden last
October. “When this all started, I never dreamt that all of these moral
and ethical issues would come to light, but I firmly believe that no
one should have the right to own and control life, and that’s what’s
happening right now. It’s bad enough that it’s happening in North
America, but God help people in Third-World countries. They’ll be
totally dependent on seeds and chemicals sold by corporations,” said
Schmeiser.
After two and a half hours of wandering the aisles at
Andy’s, I make a quick decision: macaroni is made of wheat that’s grown
closer to home than rice, and it’s lighter than potatoes. Five minutes
later, I’m loading it, as well as carrots, onion, cheese, bread,
oatmeal and apples onto the conveyor belt. “Bags?” the cashier asks.
“Yes!” I answer decisively. (Eco-guilt can’t convince me to
pooper-scoop with a washable margarine container.)
On the walk
to Greg’s Butcher Shop, one of the shopping bags breaks. I grow
irritable. My feet are wet, my hair is flat and I worry that Greg will
think I stole the produce that bulges from my pockets. In no mood to
draw out the conversation, I lay my ethical criteria before the young
man behind the counter: Is your chicken local? (Yes.) Are they
slaughtered nearby? (Yes.) Are the chickens happy before they’re
killed? (Pardon?) Did they live a good life, you know, did they have
room to stretch their wings, peck a little, scratch themselves and do
whatever else it is that chickens do? (Uh, I guess so.)
At the
register, Greg’s sister Sandra launches into a spiel about how the
chicken breasts look small because they aren’t pumped with water and
preservatives. “What does this mean?” I asked, referring to the “roam
free” label on the egg carton. Sandra points to an article taped on the
wall describing how, after 30 years, poultry farmer John Beking of
Oxford Station, Ont., had converted his barns to give his chickens
access to nests, roosting areas and open spaces for scratching and dust
bathing. In the article, Beking said that he liked to think that his
conversion “made the chickens happy.”
As I laid my purchases
next to the cash, I promised Sandra that I would be back. The butcher
shop made me happy. After spending $22.32 for two chicken breasts, a
handful of curd, a small jar of honey and a dozen eggs, remarkably, I
felt even happier. In fact, I so closely resemble the “ethical
consumer” portraits recently drawn by marketing firms that I’m a little
concerned. Mintel, a market research company, says that corporations
are responding to consumer desire to feel better about their food
purchases, and in 2007 predicted that the market would bust with new
“ethical” brands this year.
Their projection was on the money.
President’s Choice just unveiled Canada’s first organic infant formula,
and Frito-Lay recently launched “natural” Doritos.
Some of the
world’s largest corporate bodies have already jumped on the eco-eating
bandwagon. Bob Langert, vice-president of McDonald’s Corporate Social
Responsibility division, regularly blogs to the world about the
ecological difference the hamburger chain is making, and Sobeys Inc.’s
motto, “Building Sustainable Worth,” couldn’t get any more green.
Plowing
home through the snow, I wonder if the ethical food movement will
inspire the kind of systemic change that’s really required. The kind of
change that our Jewish ancestors had in mind when they raised
food-consciousness by making rituals out of routine meals; the kind
that Jesus, who habitually ate with “tax collectors and sinners,”
advocated just before, as New Testament scholar Robert Karris states,
“he got himself killed for the way he ate.” Or will companies that
package food with morals create a social climate where those who can’t
afford to buy them are not only considered unfortunate, but unholy, too?
Stirring
the mac and cheese, I take some comfort in knowing that food decisions
have never been easy. Ethics of any sort defy clear packages and ready
labels. The ethics of food is particularly cumbersome. The struggle to
eat well is both a privilege and a burden for those of us born with the
world on our forks.
Aidan bursts into tears when he first sees
the carrots on his plate. Isaac pushes his chair away and sulkily
demands toast. Mike’s happily chatting away, but his most ringing
endorsement of a meal is silence; you’d hear a pin drop if he was
eating steak. The oatmeal-apple cake, I’m sure, will be a hit. But I
don’t know that I’ll enjoy it. I’m exhausted and I can’t shake the
feeling that my “ethical eating” excursion has highlighted my ignorance
more than my ethics.
Yet, as I turn out the lights on the day’s
questions, there is some clarity; I am more grateful than ever for my
daily bread and for the Canadian heartlands that produce it, the kind
of places where hellos passed between strangers sound a lot like grace.
