Locavores. O.K., hate may be a little too strong. Mildly annoyed is probably more accurate. I grew up in the 80’s (yep, I’m old) in the midst of ugly clothes, bad haircuts, and eating fresh and local. Yep, I said it. The vegetables were more likely than not grown on James Island. Not because Mom eschewed vegetables that had traveled 1000 miles in a truck, but because we had a small garden in the backyard. When we ate fish, it was pulled from local waters. Not as a statement against farm raised fish from Vietnam, but because Dad caught, cleaned, and cooked it, so you better clean your damn plate. And while the current “movement” toward eating local is commendable, the question on my mind is: what took so long? So maybe we can tone down the trumpets an octave or two.
Call yourself a locavore if you insist, but I’m pretty sure my folks just called it practical. More practical than lime green parachute pants, for sure.