I live in a community of energetic urban gardeners.
Accidentally, I assure you.
On any given day I can see these earnest neighborhood farmers planting Swiss chard, weeding the root veggies, harvesting something they call “tatsoi,” or building a hoop house. (To the disappointment of every person in my home, a “hoop house” has nothing to do with basketball.)
The neighborhood’s “head gardener” assures me that in the event of a global food apocalypse precipitated by a sociopolitical collapse, we’ll have food.
I assure the head gardener that until said looming crisis shuts down my chain grocery store and the McDonald’s down the street, I won’t be lifting a single green thumb to help.
Clearly, my brazen apathy suggests that I’m not really expecting the economy-inspired food-pocalypse to happen any time soon. In that respect, I’m like a lot of North Americans with convenient access to Cap’n Crunch cereal and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
Despite my lazy gardening and shopping habits, I’m not a complete buffoon. I’ve seen the popular documentary The Story of Stuff, and I understand that some of us on this planet are consuming more than our fair share of resources. I comprehend the premise that those who pay the biggest price for overconsumption and the pollution it produces are those with access to the fewest resources. I even understand, at some level, that my own progeny will be affected by these patterns of consumption.