the good food blues

i feel like the quality of life has gone out the window since we left the farm and moved back to the 'burbs. on the surface, we're living better than ever: we have a beautiful home, a local swimming pool, an upscale child care facility. we're living with my folks in their fancy townhouse, with all the trappings of modern convenience. we've got a patio with a table outside, the umbrella opens with a remote. the can opener is battery operated and cuts the lid off without any cranking. the kitchen is a cook's dream, designed by my mom who is ironically not a chef. brand new wolf ceramic range, double oven, fill-pot at the range and a sink fit for the iron chef, a chopping island and counter-tops of granite, and about 13 different cutting boards to choose from. we've got an entire set of gleaming all-clad cookware that sits at the ready. seems as if we have everything we could possibly need, and since we're with family, they are footing the bill, too.
what's my beef with all this luxury, you may wonder...
well, when i worked on an organic farm i sure wasn't rich. we were living in a crappy area in germantown, philadelphia, because i couldn't afford anything better. i barely scraped by, and for the last few months of my time there, i couldn't even do that. i was alone with a small child all day every day and it wasn't always by choice, though i do love him dearly. my poverty was both material and spiritual. but one thing i had in spades was fresh, organic vegetables. they were coming out my ears. i didn't ever get the chance to use all of my farm share each week, and spent a lot of time trying to pawn off extra beets or kale greens on the neighbors. sometimes i felt the pressure of cooking everyday was too much, and we'd go out to eat at a local diner. but most of the time, i was doing something that i don't do here in museum-land very often. i was making my child delicious, nutritious meals from scratch using premium ingredients that couldn't get more local. i shopped by foot or bike, saving my fossil fuels for my work commute, at our local co-op where i purchased my grains, dairy, and of course, veggie booty for the boy. i made pancakes from a recipe, not a box. i didn't pop toaster waffles in; i mixed batter and spooned it into my waffle iron. i made fluffy german pancakes and morning muffins and cornbread. i made brown rice in bulk and froze small batches. i soaked my dry beans overnight and bubbled them on the stove to make homemade hummus and black bean burritos. i didn't care if the dishes soaked for a few days, i was happy to be making the kind of wholesome food that would fight off any negative bacteria breeding in the kitchen sink. i had a compost system for my food scraps. i worked in the sun everyday, and i taught kids about nature. i may have been overworked, underpaid, and a little depressed, but hell, we ate like royalty.
these days our morning starts with frozen waffles or pancakes from trader joe's. lunch might be a can of elmo soup, string cheese, a fistful of pretzels. dinner is typically of the frozen variety or brought by my hard-working father. the nights he comes home early he often stops on his way , buying burgers, fries, and hot dogs from a local fast food joint. this is how i grew up, although my mom did make us food more often in those days from scratch. we had a lot of skirt steak and spaghetti, rice-a-roni, and shake and bake, sugar cereals for breakfast. our house had a great selection of unhealthy after school snacks and was a favorite destination for those of my friends whose parents were more health-conscious than mine. oreo cookies, chips ahoy, and homemade brownies by my dad are still mentioned when i get together with the gals from the good old days.
so now i shop at the local farmers market when i can. i wait for my parents to go out to dinner with their friends, and then i take over the kitchen. it's not everyday gourmet around here, but at least we're not out on the street. and i dream of the day when i'll have the resources to have my own place, my own kitchen. and leave the dishes to rot while i throw some flour on the floor and make a batch of my dad's famous chocolate chip cookies--from scratch.