I had the rare pleasure of being alone all day yesterday. I only spoke to two people on the phone and both were related to me. But by 7 p.m. I needed to get out of the house, so I went—all by myself—to see Food Inc. at Flicks.
Though it was interesting to watch Eric Schlosser, the Fast Food Nation guy, actually eating a hamburger at a diner counter, the beginning of the film was slow. It is basically a rehashing of Schlosser's and of Michael Pollan's books, both of which I've read. The documentary did not seem to offer any new information.
But as it went on and as I finished my second beer (Red Stripe, beer of the week, no HFCS, as far as I know), I got angrier and angrier. Not at the film, but at myself. I consider myself pretty damn aware of what I eat. But most of the time, despite my awareness, I don't really care. 'Cuz I'm usually hungry and busy.
So I'm sitting in the Flicks theater, alone, getting really mad—mad that corporate pirates own seeds, mad that farmers are powerless cogs in an industrial machine, mad at the secrecy and obfuscation at the grocery store, mad at the easy treatment the film gives Walmart and Stonyfield Farm.
And I'm actually considering a return to long-abandoned vegetarianism. I have not had those thoughts for a dozen years. Then I went home, stir-fried eggplants that I grew in basil and green beans that I grew and went to sleep.
This morning, I woke up famished. I rolled slowly to Big City (on State) and ordered the tamale breakfast. But as I sit here and digest, I realize I have no idea what kind of pig was in it, or where the corn was grown. Does it matter? This Forbes guy I read yesterday says it doesn't.
I think it matters. But, like Schlosser in the film, I'm not going to let it ruin my life or stress over it. And I'm going to have a salad for lunch.