“I see simplicity not so much as a disregard for complexity, but as a clarification of the significant.” — Glenn Murcutt, architect
I was grateful to get this recent review of Ravenous:
5.0 out of 5 stars Raves for Ravenous!, March 10, 2014
This review is from: Ravenous: A Food Lover’s Journey from Obsession to Freedom (Paperback)
Dayna Macy’s Ravenous is an extraordinary book about food. She takes the reader through a journey of the most negative meanings of food to elevate food to it’s most socially conscious, nurturing, and planet caring heights. As she does, she enables one to follow her own healing path and then gives that gift of transcendence to those fortunate enough to read her book.
Her writing is absoutely the finest and makes her work of great value on multiple levels.
Nice piece by Andy Revkin in the New York Times about my husband, Scott, leaving Grist.
Grateful to my friend, Alison Ashton, for re-running this interview with me on the Nourish Network.
When I grew up in Rockland County in the 60s, most of the farmland was already gone. As I wrote about in my memoir, Ravenous, There were vestiges of farms but they were farming as entertainment (think scarecrows and pumpkins around Halloween).
Which is why I’m amazed and thrilled that there is a renaissance of farming in Rockland County again. Whether it’s the opening of Rockland’s first CSA, or a Farm to Table tour, or spending a day farming at Cropsey Farm, the first new farm to open in Rockland County in many decades.
My only knowledge of vegetables came from a can, and I ate mostly processed foods. Today, kids living in Rockland can actually eat fresh chard or leeks or carrots or apples grown right in their backyard. That’s soul food. And it makes me think there really is such a thing as progress.
I woke up this morning to the sound of rain. It’s so dry here in Northern California where I live. The worst drought, I’ve heard, in 500 years.
The sound of rain is so rare, I was at first confused. I wasn’t sure what I was hearing. I opened up one groggy eye, looked out my window and saw raindrops dancing down my window.
I am so grateful. And underneath my gratitude is panic. It’s bone dry here. Water levels are at their lowest in decades. What we need is so basic — fresh air, clean water. We can despoil our planet only so much, and then it fights back. And when it does, it shows us just how small and needy we really are.
The world is changing. It’s being replaced daily by a planet that will become unrecognizable. I’m afraid for my children, their children, and future generations. I’m afraid for our generation.
In Ravenous, I wrote about trying to disentangle myself from various food habits — too much sausage, too many sweets. Two and a half years have passed since it was published, and I find myself still wrestling — this time, not so much with the sausage or chocolate, but with my habit of holding on to them.
The other day, when I tasted a bite of salami, I didn’t like it. It tasted dead. It had no appeal. So I didn’t eat it. Victory, right? But, as I put the salami down, I noticed a residue of sadness, which surprised me. I realized that I’ve become so used to the struggle, that I didn’t know exactly who I was without having a fight to fight. And that’s what I mean by “the habit of habits.”
If we are not defined by our struggles, then who are we, really? And what do we do with all that blessed freedom?
This is the headline in today’s New York Time. The piece, by Justin Gills, reports that CO2 levels “has passed a long-feared milestone,” of 400 parts per million, and contains quotes from scientist like “It symbolizes that so far we have failed miserably in tackling this problem,” and “It feels like the inevitable march toward disaster.”
We are marching towards disaster, but what really breaks my heart is that because of politics, it seems inevitable.
It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. It’s not that there’s little to write about, but that there’s too much.
My mother was diagnosed with two different kinds of cancer, and her emphysema has gotten worse. She’s dying, not tomorrow, not next week, but sooner rather than later.
My mother is a private person. She was, shall we say, less than thrilled that I wrote a memoir. But somewhere, somehow, she knew I had to. It was necessary for my spirit. The same reason I’m writing this post.
I’m deeply happy to report that my mother’s cancer is just one part of her late story. She’s also fallen in love. She met Abe in a restaurant. It turns out he was separating from his wife, and, coincidentally, lived in my mom’s apartment complex. My mother is 82 (man, if I had smoked the way she does, I would have kicked decades earlier), Abe is 85, and it’s incredible to see two old people giggle. When my mother said, “Abe, you could be going out with a younger woman, like someone who is 70,” he replied, “but you do it for me.” When my mother told Abe she had cancer he said, “everyone has something.”
We do. And I thank the universe for sending Abe to my mother, to love her, to hold her, to make sure she eats, and to make her feel, during the last chapters of her life, like the most beautiful woman in the world.