... you subscribe to a new and profound belief: that our food doesn't have to kill us.
Mega-industry is embarrassingly eager to roll the dice for you. So, you know, shop away from them. I do when I can: for six months of the year, not bad for the Northeast, my local farmers' market is my supermarket.
It feels good to know that Monsanto (their lawyers will be in touch with me) has not touched any of the fresh produce that is going into my mouth, over my tongue, down my esophagus (my personal Achille's heel), into my bloodstream to presumably nourish me. Tonight, I'm eating purslane from the farmers. Last popular among 13th-century peasants. It's gorgeous with a honey-balsamic-based dressing, hand-raked Mediterranean sea salt mixed with herbs, Frank's tomatoes, Betsy's finger-small cucumbers, cherry tomatoes from Woodstock Farms, and cheese from a bunch of pasture-pampered cows, a cheese brought into existence by Meadowstone [if you've ever entertained thoughts of cheese-making in picturesque eastern CT, they're trying to sell; lives change, etc.]. I live in a food-lucky area.