I had dinner party recently at my New York apartment. A whisper campaign started happening because I made a blueberry tart in February. I was treated like some kind of Traitor Joe for using berries that were obviously not locally grown. They were organic. But that didn’t matter.

How do we all—urbanites especially—deal with trying to buy goods grown locally when you live in a place where the only thing grown locally is bitterness about a lack of anything grown locally? Of course there are people who find a way. On the really extreme one end, there are the freegans, those who dumpster-dive and only consume the remnants of discarded items in the name of an absolute rejection of a corrupt economic system. I am not sure if what they retrieve is local or if it just ends up local. Either way, I am just not that noble or nimble or um, adventurous. The thought of weeding through certain types of doggie bags in the trash to find something edible from another type of doggie bag is not a commitment I am willing to make.

Sure, I’m willing to grab an old lamp or even a shirt I have found curbside, but when it comes to food, I need to find a different path—one that doesn’t involve treating an expiration date as merely a suggestion. So, having ruled out freeganomics, the obvious choice is shopping at the farmers’ market. Even though our local farmers markets aren’t exactly local, they are localish and mostly organic. And often hot. (Apropos of nothing, just as an added bonus—in the sexy department, organic farmers are the new firemen.)

But should I not eat produce in the winter? Become a victim of scurvy? What color is that ribbon on your lapel, anyway? Is it made locally? And what about everything else we use? Until chain stores like Bed,Bath & Beyond rename themselves Bed Bath and Nothing Has Been Made Beyond a Five Mile Radius Of Your Home,  I will not be bullied. I’m going to buy carbon offsets every time I want to eat an orange, so don’t even try and get all self-righteous on my ass.

I already use flushable,  biodegradeable poop bags for my dogs and carry their business home twice a day. (What can I say? I feel for the dumpster-divers.) I use vinegar to wash my windows, so my apartment oftentimes smells like I am trying to get rid of that not-so-fresh feeling. My canvas bag collection has taken over the back wall of my kitchen. How much can I do? We all have our limits, and for me, the enviro movement today is all about reconsidering and discovering that we can establish new ones. But in the end, limits are set.

As for those tart-judging hypocrites? They had no comment about the Bordeaux they were happily chugging while questioning my blueberry choice. No mention was made of how many trees died to make those $20 bills used to pay for the tart, pasta, wine, and pricey hothouse tomatoes I served, either. No, oddly enough, those issues never came up. Instead, at the end the night they said, “We should do dinner again.”

Lizz Winstead is the cocreator of The Daily Show, and former cohost of Air America’s Unfiltered. She currently stars in Shoot the Messenger, a satirical review of the media world running in New York City.

Posted on Jul 1, 2008 at 8:37 AM
Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)