The green, ecologically-sound, organic mom movement has been around for some time now. There are varying degrees of ‘crunchiness’ as it is (disgustingly) known.
On the lowest end of the scale, you have people who listen to Rush Limbaugh.
A couple steps up, you have me, the Barely-Tries Crunch. I give a shit about being crunchy about as much as Kanye likes the press–only in that it benefits me. I try to buy healthier foods at the grocery store, but that’s it–just try. I recycle, but I’m not super hardcore about it. I will eat fast food, no problem. My heat is on at 82 degrees, I leave the fridge open too long. I barely, barely try.
A couple steps up from that, you have my sister-in-law, the Jolly Green Crunch. She serves her kids and herself organic foods (though she isn’t militant), hardcore recycler, uses organic cleaning products, goes outside. She’s not shouting about pesticides or punching people over Whole Foods meats. She’s also much healthier than me. We all fight our own battles, and mine is with food apathy.
A couple steps up, you have people who are more and more militant about organics and farm-fresh and locavores and just straight up hippies and then Al Gore.
Then, a thousand steps above all of that, so far above that we busted some physics have actually looped back in time like BTTF III, you have my sister: Conestoga Crunchy.
People sometimes joke that they belong in another time. “Oh, I should have been born in the 40’s! Oh, I should have been born in Medieval Times! Oh, I should have been born at the dawn of time in a primordial sludge!”
My sister lives in another century right now right this minute.
While it’s not unheard of to make your own baby food, my sister makes all of her own food for her family–bread, tortillas, vegetables, hummus, dips–give her half a chance and a little more acreage than her backyard, and she’d slaughter her own meat in a shed and store it in a cave of rare salts. She cans food–she has a root cellar. If she had more time, she’d just use a washtub and a mangle and make her own clothes and use a slate instead of an iPad and getting tuberculosis.
She’s always kind of been this way–kind of crunchy and old-worldy and Ma Ingalls, but I had to stage an intervention the other day.
Grace: I kinda want my daughter to learn an instrument. Not a violin, but…a fiddle.
Me: Are you fucking serious? A fiddle, so she can entertain you and Pa around the fire when there’s a blizzard done rolled in over the farmland and the cows done runned into the lean-to to escape Old Man Winter?
Grace: I wish I could say you were wrong.
Me: No. You have to stop. She’s a half step from wearing prairie skirts and picking apples and carrying her lunch in a bucket and hitching up the team to get to school.
Grace: What’s so wrong with prairie skirts?
Me: She’s gonna grow up to be goth. No, worse, she’s gonna grow up to be Laura Ingalls.
Grace: I’m not that bad. I’m not farming and running teams.
Me: Yet. You’re currently not doing it because of location, but given half a chance, you would do it, wouldn’t you?
Grace: …yes. It’s so healthy this way…
Me: Your daughter is gonna grow up and marry Manly and run off to Sleepy Eye and it’s 2014.
Grace: Manly was a good looking guy.
Me: Done. I am done.
One of these days, my niece is going to come visit me and be mystified by television and deodorant and the idea of food that isn’t made in a dutch oven over a hearth fire. It will be a good day.