Urban Farming E-Book

Thomas Fox

• Herausgeber: CompanionHouse Books
• Kategorie: Fachliteratur
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 555

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

It doesn't take a farm to have the heart of a farmer. Now, due to a burgeoning sustainable-living movement, you don't have to own acreage to fulfill your dream of raising your own food. Hobby Farms Urban Farming, from Hobby Farm Press and the same people who bring you Hobby Farms and Hobby Farm Home magazine, will walk every city and suburban dweller down the path of self sustainability. Urban Farming will introduce readers to the concepts of gardening and farming from a high-rise apartment, participating in a community garden, vertical farming, and converting terraces and other small city spaces into fruitful, vegetableful real estate. This comprehensive volume will answer every up and coming urban farmer's questions about how, what, where and why—a new green book for the dedicated citizen seeking to reduce his carbon footprint and grocery bill.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

 

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

 

Part I: - THE BIG PICTURE

Chapter 1 - Feeding Our Cities

Roots of Urban Farming

So What Happened to Urban Agriculture?

The New Business of Agriculture

So What?

The Renaissance of Urban Farming

The Future: Fungible Goods…and Bads

Chapter 2 - Marching to Sustainability on Our Stomachs

Sustainable Agriculture

Warning: Labels

An End to Rural Agriculture?

Chapter 3 - Toward an Urban Farming Future

The State of Urban Farming in the United States

What Is Possible?

The Future of American Urban Agriculture

Ways to Help

A Grain of Salt

 

Part II: - IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD

Chapter 4 - Starting Your Farm

Urban Farmsteads

Urban Farming Vessels

Next Steps

Chapter 5 - The Dirt on Dirt (and Other Substrates)

Soil Amendments and Conditioners

Composting How-To

Mulch

Soil Mixes

Soilless Substrates

Chapter 6 - Vegetable Matters

Your Choice

Climate/Cultural Conditions

Farming Ambitions

Other Considerations

Herbs

Miscellaneous Mustards

Alliums: The Glorious Onion Family

Other Root Crops

The Usual Nightshades

Zukes and Cukes: The Cucurbits

Legumes

Leafy Greens

Miscellaneous

Alternative Crops

Chapter 7 - Perennial Favorites

Popular Pomes: Apples and Pears

Bramblefruit and Gooseberries

Citrus

Miscellaneous Small Berries, Vines, and Bush Fruit

Some Exotic Natives

Stone Fruits (and a Nut)

Chapter 8 - Plant Management

Starting Seeds

Creating a Garden Calendar

Maximizing Production

Fertilizing

Beyond the Seed: Cloning Your Crops

Pruning and Training

Integrated Pest Management

Harvesting the Fruits of Your Labors

Chapter 9 - Urban Livestock

Goats

Rabbits

Chickens

Fish and Other Aquatic Life

Snails

Bees

Nanoranching

Unwelcome Urban Livestock

 

Glossary

Notes & Resources

Index

Photo Credits

Copyright Page

Dedication

To my mom, for a love of writing;

 

my dad, for a love of gardening;

 

my wife, for a love of life;

 

and my boys, with great love and hope for a greener future.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to I-5’s Andrew DePrisco, who opened the door to the book; to Karen Julian, who ushered it through; and to my two crack editors, Jennifer Calvert and Amy Deputato, who lifted the peaks and filled in the valleys with extraordinary skill and restraint. I’d also like to acknowledge the many people who tolerated my ignorance with grace, taught me so much, and shared their enthusiasm for urban agriculture, among them: Martin Bailkey, Rick Bayless, Don Boekelheide, Natalie Brickajlik, Fred Brown, John Cannizzo, Roxanne Christensen, Virginia Clarke, Mary Seton Corboy, Daniel Dermitzel, Wes Duren, Danielle Flood, Lorraine Gibbons, Carole Gordon, Jennie Grant, Mike Hamm, Sherilin Heise, Gregory Horner, Jerry Kaufman, Aley Kent, Erik Knutzen, Michael Levenston, Andrew McCaughan, Michael McConkey, Joe Nasr, Molly Philbin, Robert Philbin, Gordon Prain, Jessica Prentice, Martin Price, Brooke Salvaggio, Wally Satzewich, Bob Scallan, Mike Score, Jill Slater, Jac Smit, Lena Carmen Soileau, and Brenda Tate. It would have been a much poorer book without them, and a much less enjoyable task of writing.

Introduction

When Jac Smit—later to be regarded as urban agriculture’s chief evangelist, if not its “father”—first set about writing a book on the topic in 1994, his searches at both the Library of Congress and the library of the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) of the United Nations in Rome yielded virtually nothing. It puzzled him. Although he knew the importance of urban agriculture in early history, and had for decades helped to encourage the practice throughout the developing world, urban farming barely registered as a topic—much less a discipline—in the developed West. He helped to change that, stumping for the development of urban agriculture and co-writing the seminal Urban Agriculture: Food, Jobs and Sustainable Cities with Joe Nasr for the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) in 1996.

Talk about local color! Beautiful local produce adorns farmers’ markets across the nation and around the world.

The book proved to be something of a watershed, as evidenced by a quick search on “urban farming” or “urban agriculture” in Google’s news archive. That search yields just 139 articles published between 1900 and 1995, averaging fewer than two articles for each of those ninety-five years. In the thirteen years from 1996 to 2009, however, such a search finds 3,350 articles, averaging more than 250 annually—including over 800 articles published just during the year I wrote this book. If you live anywhere near a city, you probably don’t need Google to have a sense of that. Chances are you will have seen food growing in vacant lots, on balconies and rooftops, along train tracks, under high-tension wires, or in any of the other places where someone can tuck away some plants in cities.

A typical street market in Funchal, Madeira Island (Portugal).

Tomatoes are easily grown in most American cities.

Even as urban agriculture has enjoyed a renaissance in practice and a boom in publicity, it hasn’t quite coalesced into a field with a standardized vocabulary and accepted principles—what prominent researcher Luc Mougeot has called “conceptual maturity.” This is in part because urban farming fits into so many existing disciplines—economics, sociology, agronomy, and political science, to name a few—and because the underlying terms are deceptively difficult to define. What makes a settlement “urban”? Population size or density, a municipal government, public transportation systems, economic activity, universities, or the designation of a government bureau? There are sure to be places most everyone agrees are cities but that fall outside of any of those attempts to define the concept.

This book takes a broad view of cities. Everyone would agree that schoolchildren growing vegetables in a vacant lot in Detroit are engaged in urban farming, so why not schoolchildren on the grounds of their school in Tarpon Springs, Florida, (population: 21,000)? It’s not as big, dense, or populous as Detroit, but neither is the city of Tarpon Springs rolling with big open fields. It’s a city to the state of Florida, and that’s good enough for me.

Ideally, urban farming is agriculture that is (mainly) of the city, by the city, and for the city. This book explores why urban agriculture has begun flourishing since 1996 (chapters 1 and 2), what we may expect of it in the future (chapter 3), and how you can get started on the path to becoming an urban farmer (chapters 4–9).

A street market in Bali may look different from the farmers’ market down the street, but they’re all built on the same principles.

Part I:

THE BIG PICTURE

The floating market in Bangkok

1

Feeding Our Cities

In towns and cities across the globe, in large ways and small, urban farming is quietly gaining momentum. If you’re slurping a bowl of hot tom yam goong from a street vendor in Bangkok, enjoying a traditional potato omelet (chips mayai) in Dar-es-Salaam, sipping a glass of merlot in Santiago, or indulging in honey-and-goatcheese ice cream at the Fairmont Waterfront Hotel in Vancouver, chances are you are supporting urban farming. Modern urban farming is closely connected with urbanization, and increasingly with a conscious move toward sustainability. It has even become an unexpected necessity in some places, such as Havana (pictured).

The human population of the world is rising by about 75 million people per year—mostly in cities—and is expected to exceed 9 billion by 2050. Sure enough, some of the growth in urban farming happens when towns grow into cities, and cities into megacities, sprawling into once-rural land. Instead of displaced rural farmers working the newly urban landscape, researchers have found most urban farmers to be established city dwellers. It is usually driven in the global north by those looking to reconnect with a sense of place and to live more sustainably, and in the global south by those just looking to live.

Across the United States, communities are taking steps to create a more welcoming atmosphere for agriculture through farmers’ markets, zoning-law changes, and use of underused green spaces and brownfields (former industrial sites), often through the irrepressible efforts of a few individuals with a passion to make it happen. One such example is the Goat Justice League in Seattle, which is fighting to legalize goats within the city limits and has succeeded with pygmy goats so far. But is farming in the city even realistic? The short answer is yes.

About 15 percent of the world’s food supply is already produced in and around cities. Many individual countries and cities are even more advanced. Shanghai (pictured), for example, produces more than 50 percent of its consumed chicken and pork, 90 percent of its eggs, all of its milk, and more than 2 million tons of wheat and rice in and around the city. And Shanghai is no shrinking-violet, backwater city—it has roughly 20 million residents and more than four times as many skyscrapers as Manhattan.

Even as urban agriculture has taken root in cities around the world, traditional rural agriculture—at least the Currier & Ives vision of it—has evolved into something more Dickensian. The changes in farming over the past three centuries have brought extraordinary productivity, both enabling and enabled by growing cities. However, only recently has the true cost of these gains emerged. At its worst, this “industrial agriculture” is antithetical to our heritage, as discussed in the next section, and a threat to our future.

Roots of Urban Farming

In March 2009, in the midst of a recession and two wars, First Lady Michelle Obama helped break ground on a new vegetable garden at the White House—the first since her predecessor Eleanor Roosevelt planted a “victory garden” in the midst of World War II. Mrs. Roosevelt’s garden had itself hearkened back to the work-relief gardens of the Great Depression. Before that came the Federal War Garden program of World War I as well as Detroit’s “potato patches” and other responses to the 1893 depression. Urban dwellers have turned to gardens countless times throughout history to weather adversity and regain a sense of autonomy.

First Lady Michelle Obama in the new White House vegetable garden.

The White House is not alone. Since 2009, statehouses and municipal governments from Baltimore to Sacramento have begun their own food gardens. The United States Secretary of Agriculture opened a “People’s Garden” at its headquarters and encouraged similar efforts at its facilities around the country. Seed sales jumped by about 25 percent, and about 40 percent more households grew vegetables that year than two years earlier.

Across the Atlantic, similar efforts are afoot. In June 2009, Queen Elizabeth unveiled a vegetable patch on the grounds of Buckingham Palace, the first (once again) since World War II. The waiting list in London for allotments—patches of land rented out to gardening-minded residents at a nominal cost—can stretch into decades, and the supply of allotments in the United Kingdom is reportedly short about 200,000 units—in a country with one-fifth the US population. London hopes to create 2,012 new urban agricultural spaces by 2012—in time to feed visiting Olympians with local food. New construction throughout the European Union may soon include integrated “vertical allotments” in accord with regulations being considered by the European Environment Agency. These allotments could include balconies, rooftops, and walls earmarked for growing food on high-rise buildings.

Why is urban farming integrated into cities such as Shanghai but still a novelty in the United States? Certainly, part of the reason is that we have profited so abundantly from the transformation from traditional farming into industrial agriculture—yields per farmer have skyrocketed. This success has reinforced the notion that city is city and country is country, and never the twain shall meet—except in supermarket aisles. It is a bias evidenced, perhaps, by the fact that goats in Seattle may be more striking to us than a world population ballooning beyond the ability of conventional agriculture to feed it. Yet this separation of urban and farming is a modern one.

The perennial fascination with the Hanging Gardens of Babylon speaks to the enduring allure of urban agriculture.

The histories of cities and agriculture are, in fact, inextricably linked. Historians may bicker about whether the discovery of agriculture encouraged our ancestors to settle down into permanent settlements, or whether the first settlers developed agriculture out of necessity, but the correlation between the two is clear. Some of the plants and animals first domesticated were cultivated in the rich soil of ancient Fertile Crescent cities such as Jericho (West Bank), Damascus (Syria), Susa (Iran), Tyre (Lebanon), and Catal Huyuk (Turkey).

Egypt and the citystates of Mesopotamia had developed advanced, irrigated agricultural techniques by 6,000 BC, some possibly employed in the legendary “Hanging Gardens of Babylon” (which might have actually been in Nineveh or Nimrud; all three cities are in modern-day Iraq). These Near Eastern civilizations also dabbled in aquaculture—the farming of seafood—as did ancient China, which continues the practice on a large scale. In fact, China has long practiced advanced agricultural techniques to feed its many towns and cities, maintaining a stronger connection to urban farming than most places in the world. Then, as now, China also employed an “aqua-terra” system of wetland farming, which was familiar to ancient Indonesia, as well.

One of the most famous historical examples of urban farming occurred in and around Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital that is now Mexico City. On shallow lake bottoms, the Aztecs built chinampas, which were essentially raised beds fenced in with woven canes—almost giant baskets—filled in with river mud and organic matter to above the water level. Aztec farmers traveled in between rows of chinampas by boat. Hundreds of miles south and thousands of feet higher, the Incas built farming terraces into mountains and their cities, such as Machu Picchu. The Mayans practiced urban agriculture extensively, as well.

When Rome finally defeated its nemesis city-state Carthage (in modern Tunisia) in 146 BC, legend has it that the Romans plowed salt (a plant killer) into the ground so that nothing would grow there, essentially erasing a city by destroying its agricultural base (well, by that and by killing or enslaving the entire population and reducing the city to ashes). It’s improbable that the Romans would actually sprinkle the fields with salt—it was an expensive commodity—but the legend points to an appreciation of urban farming.

Unfortunately for Rome, this appreciation didn’t translate into action. In a funny twist of fate, the Roman politician keenest to have Carthage destroyed, Marcus Porcius Cato, also had a major beef with lazy Romans who “prefer to exercise their hands in the theatre and the circus rather than in the corn field and the vineyard.” They may have followed his advice in destroying Carthage, but they completely ignored his enthusiasm for farming. As a result, Rome’s population growth, soil depletion, and reliance on imported food contributed to its own downfall six centuries later.

The rises and falls of great cities—and civilizations—have long been intimately tied to agriculture. (And as Rome discovered, sometimes karma really is a boomerang.)

So What Happened to Urban Agriculture?

The long decline of urban agriculture coincided with technological advances of the Industrial Revolution (or Revolutions, according to some), which brought with them a change in perception about the roles of cities, rural communities, and agriculture. A passage from historian Will Durant is revealing, written roughly halfway between the post-Civil War flowering of the Industrial Revolution in the United States and today:

The first form of culture is agriculture. It is when man settles down to till the soil and lay up provisions for the uncertain future that he finds time and reason to be civilized. Within that little circle of security—a reliable supply of water and food—he builds his huts, his temples, and his schools; he invents productive tools, and domesticates the dog, the ass, the pig, at last himself. He learns to work with regularity and order, maintains a longer tenure of life, and transmits more completely than before the mental and moral heritage of his race.… Culture suggests agriculture, but civilization suggests the city.

Durant manages two great insights here, one intentional and one not. His understanding of the connection between agriculture and cities reflects an ancient sensibility, yet he also reveals a modern industrial bias that views cities as the zenith of civilization—one that excludes agriculture, or at least pushes it to the rural fringes. It is a tendency to view the city as something that has transcended agriculture, a concept that civilization may have sprouted in the field but only blooms in the boardroom.

This attitude pervades our culture, even in the very sciences responsible for feeding people. Noting that very little agricultural research concerns urban agriculture, Gordon Prain, the global coordinator of Urban Harvest (an initiative of the Consultative Group on International Agricultural Research [CGIAR]), writes that the disparity “is related to the sectoral separation of ‘urban’ and ‘rural,’ a separation that has its roots in the Industrial Revolution and its subsequent transfer through colonial expansion to the developing world.”

The Industrial Revolution was punctuated by a flurry of world-changing inventions and discoveries within a relatively short period, among them the steam engine, the Bessemer process for making steel, the rediscovery of concrete, pasteurization, and all kinds of machines. In the United Kingdom, its epicenter, the Industrial Revolution went hand-in-hand with a series of “Inclosure Acts.” These laws divided up “the commons” (lands everyone could share for farming, pasturing livestock, gathering wood, and other purposes). New farming methods required large fields, which the authorities created by consolidating the commons’ traditional crazy quilt of small plots and fencing them off. By eliminating traditional rights to share the land, the laws had the effect of taking away the livelihood of rural peasants (“commoners”), who comprised the majority of farmers.

No longer able to survive in the country, displaced peasants flooded into cities to feed the new craze: making stuff. As a result, rural food production and urban manufacturing in mills and factories both exploded. The mass production of goods—edible and otherwise—of the new era coincided with mass consumption made possible by colonial expansion, booming population growth, and improvements in transportation. The Industrial Revolution also oiled the economic machine, providing a world stage for corporations and trade unions, which entered stage right and stage left, respectively.

Industrialization prompted the divorce of urban and rural, with rural getting sole custody of agriculture—an arrangement that remains the status quo. As discussed next, however, this rigid distinction has outlived its usefulness, and the results are ever more disastrous.

The New Business of Agriculture

The tectonic agricultural shifts of the Industrial Revolution reached earthquake intensity in the latter half of the twentieth century. In particular, a “Green Revolution” began after World War II, prompted by peace and a desire to feed a growing world, and enabled by new high-yielding crop varieties, irrigation techniques, and synthetic pesticides and fertilizers—starting with a postwar American surplus of ammonium nitrate, an ingredient in explosives. Cheap oil and water fueled the revolution. In the United States, the practice of farming evolved into “agribusiness” thanks to economies of scale, government subsidies, and an official bias best captured by the mandate of Earl Butz, Secretary of Agriculture under Presidents Nixon and Ford: “Get big or get out.”

And so farmers did. Mary Hendrickson and William Heffernan of the University of Missouri have tracked this consolidation in terms of the concentration ratio, or how much of the total market the top firms in each industry control. In a 2007 study, the top four players in beef packing, for example, control 83.5 percent of the market, and the top four companies in pork packing control an estimated 66 percent. In flour milling, the top three companies control 55 percent of the market. And we’re not talking about eleven different firms. We’re talking about seven, since some companies dominate in more than one industry. Cargill, for example, is a leader in all three categories.

At its worst, this concentration in agribusiness has resulted in industrial agriculture, of which the Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS) outlines four main characteristics: monoculture, few crop varieties, reliance on chemical and other inputs, and separation of animal and plant agriculture.

Monoculture

Monoculture is the cultivation of a single kind of crop in a given area. Our current agricultural system has immense swaths of monoculture, including our “amber waves of grain.” Among the principal crops tracked by the National Agricultural Statistics Service, for example—mainly grains, legumes, sugar crops (cane and beet), and tobacco—just three made up 70 percent of the US acres planted in 2009: corn, soybeans, and wheat.

Monoculture contrasts with polyculture, the multiple-plant system that typically characterized pre-industrial farming traditions worldwide. Many Native Americans, for example, planted the “three sisters” together—corns, beans, and squash. There are many advantages to polyculture, but one of the most fundamental is that it spreads out the risk of crop loss—from weather, disease, weed competition, or animal pests—among plants with different susceptibilities. An outbreak of southern corn leaf blight, for example, might destroy a season’s worth of corn, but leave the bean and squash harvests intact. As the UCS points out, that very disease destroyed 60 percent of the US corn crop in 1970. Similarly, China’s fondness for poplars’ strengths—fast growth and easy propagation—led to hundreds of miles of trees also sharing the same weaknesses, such as the Asian Longhorn Beetle. In 2000, this single variety of pest dealt a catastrophic blow to China’s reforestation efforts by reportedly killing 1 billion poplars.

Monoculture at its prettiest: fields of corn as far as the eye can see.

Monoculture is the agricultural equivalent of investing in a single stock. You do well in favorable times, but in bad ones, your portfolio can totally tank. It’s a dangerous strategy when you depend on your portfolio to eat.

Limited Varieties

Our monocultural practices are particularly dangerous in that they don’t just involve a limited number of crops—corn, wheat, and the like—but a limited number of varieties within those species, magnifying the risk of catastrophic losses. Most food crops that have sustained people for millennia have several—even hundreds—of cultivated varieties, or cultivars. They are the same species but are distinguished by a fairly uniform collection of varietal traits. You can think of Chihuahuas and Rottweilers as different cultivars of dog: they’re both the same species, but they have been bred to exhibit very different characteristics, including strengths and vulnerabilities.

The almighty Russet Burbank potato: an example of dominance built on shaky feet.

In the United States today, however, about 90 percent of the soybeans and two-thirds of the corn, constituting just a handful of varieties, is genetically engineered to resist pests or herbicides. Out of thousands of potato varieties just one—the Russet Burbank, preferred by McDonald’s for its French fries—dominates more than half of the world’s potato crop, according to the UCS. In addition, most livestock now come from a limited number of gene lines, since predictable uniformity makes growth rates, feed requirements, and automated processing more efficient. Industrial agriculture’s focus on specific varieties hits heirloom varieties of plants and animals particularly hard. These are older varieties that reproduce true to type, such as the Maori Kunekune pig, the Stayman Winesap apple, or the butterscotch calypso bean. Such special animals and plants once would have been cherished and passed from generation to generation of farmers. As food production grows ever more consolidated and focuses on a narrow array of crop varieties, many of these heirlooms simply disappear.

Chemical Inputs

According to the Fertilizer Institute, the United States is a “mature market” for fertilizer, meaning that annual demand remains fairly steady. According to the Institute’s website, in 2004, the United States used about 57.8 million tons of fertilizer, of which 23.4 million tons were the major nutrients nitrogen, phosphorous, and potassium (potash).

We have also generally plateaued in the use of pesticides—which includes herbicides, insecticides, and fungicides—at about 1 billion tons per year. Agriculture comprises about three-quarters of the use of pesticides, mostly herbicides. (One reason herbicides may be dominant is that some crops are genetically engineered to be herbicide resistant so that a whole field can be sprayed, killing weeds but not crop plants.)

Livestock that are “factory farmed” often present a triple-whammy of inputs: the fertilizer used to increase production of feed crops, an array of pesticides used to maximize yield, and antibiotics to promote growth and prevent infection. In fact, the UCS estimates that agricultural uses account for about 70 percent of the antibiotics used in the United States. Cows might also receive growth hormones to boost milk or beef production.

Pesticide runoff is implicated in killing or mutating wildlife, while nitrogenand phosphorous-rich fertilizer runoff damages aquatic ecosystems in a process called eutrophication. The extra nutrients cause an explosion in algae populations—often enough to turn the water red or brown—followed by a huge die-off when the algae have eaten all the nutrients. Decomposition of the dead algae sucks up dissolved oxygen, resulting in an hypoxic environment that kills fish, mollusks, crustaceans, and most everything else we consider seafood. The largest dead zone off the United States (currently the size of Delaware and Rhode Island combined) is in the Gulf of Mexico—into which the Mississippi River flows after coursing through “America’s breadbasket.”

A giant dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico, attributed to agricultural runoff traveling down the Mississippi River.

In addition, agricultural use of antibiotics may spur resistance among bacteria, which is bad news for us. Hormones given to cattle may likewise pose health risks to humans and other animals; the use of hormones is banned in the European Union.

Animal/Plant Separation

One of the most unusual characteristics of industrial agriculture, at least from a historical perspective, is the separation of plant and animal agriculture. We used to have the perfect arrangement: livestock such as cows and goats would mow the lawn, eat the harvest leftovers, and graciously provide milk and fertilizer in exchange. Chickens would eat bugs and weed seeds in exchange for eggs and more fertilizer. Elton John would sing about the circle of life. More common these days, however, is for field crops and livestock to be separately concentrated, maybe even far from each other.

According to the UCS, a mere 5 percent of farming operations now generate 50 percent of the livestock produced in the United States. We’re not talking about a large herd of cattle lowing through the valley or a feathery cloud of free-range chickens. That’s not a sufficient scale. No, concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs is the technical term) are big. Typical CAFOs might have 10,000 cattle, 25,000 pigs, or 100,000 chickens. They are, in essence, livestock cities thrown up in rural settings, and with some of the worst problems that affect human cities—particularly waste. In 2005, the dry weight of livestock waste exceeded 335 million tons—more than a ton for every person in the United States.

So What?

Though industrial agriculture has many philosophical detractors—such as locavores (people who eat locally produced food), animal rights groups, workers’ rights groups, and people downwind of CAFOs—perhaps the most common objection is that it is simply unsustainable, both economically and ecologically. One might fairly counter-argue that never has agriculture produced so much food so cheaply for so many. Between 1920 and 1999, for example, US corn yields per acre increased by nearly 350 percent.

Production increases alone do not signal sustainability, however, especially when that productivity depends on finite resources. According to the National Sustainable Agriculture Information Service (formerly the Appropriate Technology Transfer for Rural Areas project, but still called ATTRA):

The industrial approach, coupled with substantial government subsidies, made food abundant and cheap in the United States. But farms are biological systems, not mechanical ones, and they exist in a social context in ways that manufacturing plants do not. Through its emphasis on high production, the industrial model has degraded soil and water, reduced the biodiversity that is a key element to food security, increased our dependence on imported oil, and driven more and more acres into the hands of fewer and fewer “farmers,” crippling rural communities.

Even without climate change, contemporary agriculture’s dependence upon oil, cheap water, and synthetic inputs would be unsustainable. Yet we do also have climate change to deal with, and it does not bode well for most agriculture in most places. Increased heat can stress many commonly grown crops. Every 1-degree-Celsius increase in temperature, for example, reduces yields of wheat, rice, and corn by about 10 percent. Increasing atmospheric carbon dioxide levels reduce the efficacy of one of the most important herbicides, while simultaneously giving a boost to weed growth—particularly poison ivy—according to researchers at Duke University. The ivy grows faster, gets bigger, and becomes more toxic at higher levels of carbon dioxide.

In the future, you may be seeing a lot more of this: poison ivy.

Whole civilizations have collapsed when their once-successful agricultural schemes failed them. Sometimes this has happened relatively suddenly. Easter Islanders so deforested their island within several centuries that it was virtually treeless by the time Europeans first visited in the early eighteenth century. Often it has happened gradually. Mesopotamian and Classical Mayan civilizations both declined after they slowly destroyed the fertility of their soils through poor management of irrigation—a practice key to the Green Revolution and US agriculture.

Our own civilization has suffered the collapse of commercial fisheries, such as Pacific sardines in the 1970s, Atlantic cod in the early 1990s, Pacific groundfish in the late 1990s, and Pacific salmon in the early twenty-first century. We are fortunate to have so many natural riches to survive the losses—arable land, plentiful lakes and rivers, and several fisheries—but the losses are still significant. The combined catch of their (overharvested) peaks total about 1.5 billion pounds. These collapses cost not only a lot of high-quality seafood but also tens of thousands of jobs and four key holdings in our portfolio of food security.

As destructive as overharvesting can be—whether trees, fish, or otherwise—the human activities likely to cause the greatest negative effect on foodstocks between now and 2100 are those that contribute to global climate change. It goes far beyond the threats facing particular fisheries, breadbaskets, or other food sources. Agriculture plays a major role in the release of greenhouse gases. Livestock directly contribute somewhat—as through cows belching—but the real culprit is fossil fuels: as raw ingredients in agrochemicals; in the manufacture of agriculture-related plastics; in gasoline for tractors and transport trucks, jet fuel for aircraft, and bunker oil for container ships; in the refrigeration of perishable items; and in countless other uses. As a result, agriculture may only produce 15 percent of the world’s carbon dioxide emissions—and we need to eat, after all—but it also produces about half of the human-sourced methane and two-thirds of the nitrous oxide, both of which are far more potent than carbon dioxide.

Irrespective of its capacity to feed the world, the way the United States (and much of the developed world) “does” food is simply unsustainable on many levels. And, as we’ll see next, its capacity to feed a growing world by itself is doubtful.

The Renaissance of Urban Farming

Urban agriculture has probably never gone out of style in places where food was historically scarce or unreliable, such as China. It may be novel in places where urbanization itself is new, as in parts of Africa. In much of the rest of the developed world, however—including the Americas, Europe, and large parts of Asia—farming was something many felt that cities had moved beyond. For us, what urban farming now enjoys is a renaissance. Whatever one’s local view of urban farming, three broad currents coalesce in answering “why now?”: the constraints of the present, a fear of the future, and a nostalgia for the past.

A Shrinking Planet

To feed a growing population, global food production will need to increase roughly 50 percent by 2030 and double by 2050. Historically, people have met an increased demand for food by increasing the amount of land under cultivation, increasing productivity per unit of land, or both.

A relatively optimistic joint report from the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) and the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) of the United Nations finds that the world is currently using only about 50 percent of the total arable land not directly competing with other important uses (such as cities or forests). So there may be more land. But most of the unused, rain-fed arable land is in sub-Saharan Africa or South America—only a partial match for where most of the population growth will be. That means that we’ll need vast amounts of fuel to bring the food to market. Even assuming that transportation costs pose no problem (which, of course, they do), there’s a limit as to how quickly unused arable land can be converted to crops. Between 1960 and 2010, the amount of arable land increased by less than 11 percent, and—thanks to increased cropping intensity—the harvested area expanded by about 24 percent, but the total world population more than doubled.

The sustainability of currently farmed land poses other challenges. Agricultural tillage—the act of physically loosening or breaking up the soil, as with a plough, harrow, or hoe—contributes greatly to the problem. It is traditionally done to improve aeration, control weeds, and release a burst of nutrients from the soil. The problem, unfortunately, is that it greatly contributes to soil erosion. Loose soil blows more easily in the wind and flows more readily with the rain. In drier climates, poor farm management or overgrazing can lead to desertification, which is essentially turning once-arable land into desert.

You might not think that wind and water would sweep away so much dirt, but United States croplands annually lose, on average, over 4 tons of topsoil per acre. In 2003, for example, this translated to about 1.5 billion tons—almost 12,000 pounds for every person in the nation. Since it can take 1,000 years to form an inch of soil—and topsoil may be just 6 inches thick—allowing this level of erosion clearly makes food production unsustainable.

Increasing productivity is a challenge, as well. Strong efforts in the developing world can create productivity gains, but the productivity of croplands in developed countries is only incrementally increasing, hitting a plateau, or—according to some—possibly even declining. Lester R. Brown of the Earth Policy Institute notes that world grain production fell short in six of the past nine years, and world stocks of grain at the outset of the 2008 harvest were at nearrecord lows. Brown points out that China’s wheat crop has declined by 8 percent since 1997, for example, and its rice crop by 4 percent—significant declines for the world’s biggest producer of both grains.

Poor farming methods destroy soil structure and deplete currently used arable land of vital nutrients. Worse still, the world’s virgin arable land is generally not as good as the land already under cultivation. In fact, NASA has found that the most productive land tends to sit below urban areas. People naturally picked the most fertile locations on which to build their cities, another testament to the historical connection between cities and agriculture.

Water scarcity poses an even bigger threat than land scarcity. Only about 3 percent of Earth’s water is fresh, and most of that is in glaciers—at least for a few more years. We are consuming fresh water more quickly than it can be recharged by rain or snow, and about two-thirds of the fresh water we use goes to agriculture, mainly for irrigation.

Consider irrigation close to home. About 35 percent of irrigated cropland in the United States falls in two areas: the High Plains region and California’s Central Valley. The High Plains region provides about 20 percent of US agricultural production (mostly grains) and is irrigated primarily with water from the High Plains aquifer, also the main source of local drinking water. The aquifer contains a rich supply of water trapped from the last Ice Age, so-called “fossil water.” Fossil-water deposits are not rechargeable by rain, so once the aquifer is drained, it’s drained for good. The High Plains aquifer is currently dropping about a yard per year. As farmers of old might have said, “We’re eating our seed corn.”

Similarly, the Central Valley of California—which reportedly produces about half the nation’s fruits and vegetables in good times—relies heavily on irrigation; the area is nearly a desert without it. When in a severe drought, Central Valley farms face intense water competition that could result in an estimated 850,000 acres going unplanted. This kind of situation could lead to a dust bowl. Just ask China, which is tapping fossil water and other aquifers at least as aggressively (sometimes lowering the water table below the reach of tree roots) and has already lost a California-size chunk of once-arable land to desert. India is expected to exhaust its water supplies by 2050. The same thing could happen to the High Plains aquifer by 2035 and to Lake Mead in the Southwest by 2021.

Bear in mind that China, India, and the United States are the three largest grain producers in the world. China and India may produce more by weight, but we produce considerably more per person. In fact, we have among the highest rates of productivity per farmer in the world, and that very likely goes a long way in explaining why urban agriculture has not blossomed in the United States: we simply have not needed it. Yet.

Our productivity rates also explain why many of the countries with well-developed urban agricultural programs are either big countries with large, historically hard-to-feed populations (such as China, Vietnam, and Brazil) or small countries with few natural resources (such as Singapore, Hong Kong, and the Netherlands). Necessity is the mother of invention.

Even the United States is not immune to the growing conflict between energy and water. The rising consumption of both leads to complicated, interdependent, and sometimes surprising results illustrated all over the world. In some Indian states, about half of the electricity goes to pump water up from ever-deeper tables underground, causing blackouts. Droughts and heat have caused the shutdown of Brazilian hydropower plants and European nuclear plants, which need vast quantities of water for cooling. The desalinization of seawater, often proposed to solve the water problem, requires a tremendous investment of energy, which helps explain its popularity in the waterpoor, hydrocarbon-rich Middle East. The plug-in electric and biofuel-run cars that we hope will wean us off oil consume about ten to twenty times as much water per mile as gasoline (after all, you need water to grow the corn or sugarcane or other source of ethanol). According to Brown, “The grain required to fill a 25-gallon SUV tank with ethanol could feed one person for a year.”

THEOTHERCUBAN REVOLUTION

Urban agriculture flourishes in Cuba, where the vegetable and herb crop alone totals 4.2 million tons. Havana itself produces over half a million tons of food, all of it organic.

Yet Cuba’s evolution into an urban farming leader did not occur because of Havana locals’ insistence on organic tomatoes wet with the morning’s dew. It began ramping up in the early 1990s with the collapse of the Soviet Union, which had been providing two-thirds of Cuba’s food, 98 percent of its oil, and most (if not all) of its synthetic fertilizers and pesticides. Cuba had to reinvent its entire food system, and it did so successfully within a decade.

Cuban agriculture in the 1980s had been very much like that of most industrialized nations: highly productive, highly mechanized, chemical-laden, and focused on a handful of crops, such as sugar and citrus. It could export these profitably to its main trading partner, the USSR, and import the majority of its food supply—until unforeseen political events turned off Cuba’s oil tap and diminished its biggest market. Cuba suffered during the transition but now has a healthier, more resilient, and sustainable food supply involving thousands of organic urban farms, calledorganipónicos.

Joining food and water on the shrinking-planet front is their natural conclusion: waste. Lots of it. Population growth is a problem of inputs—shortages of food and water—and outputs—an abundance of waste. This ranges from gray water (dishwasher or washing machine effluent, for example) and organic solid waste (food scraps, paper, and so on) to inorganic solid waste (metal, glass, and most plastics) and black water (you can guess). Americans produce about 4.5 pounds of solid waste per person per day, 70 percent of which is paper, food scraps, yard trimmings, and plastics. About a third of our solid wastes are somehow reused, by recycling or energy generation through incineration, but two-thirds just end up in a landfill.

Landfills can pollute water through leaching and contribute to global warming through methane production and the fuel used in transport—not to mention that they just plain stink. Worse still, they’re inefficient. Have you ever seen a movie in which a rich couple share a toast by a blazing fire and then throw their glasses to shatter in the hearth? Imagine that they do that two out of every three toasts. They would need to buy new glasses every other week or so—requiring mining of silica and huge energy expenditures for making glass—while also finding a place to dump their growing pile of shards. That’s similar to what we do with everything. It doesn’t make sense. (The actual US recycling rate for glass containers, incidentally, is about one in four.)

Wastewater management is no less important. In the developed world, wastewater is often treated at great cost and energy usage. In the developing world, wastewater is often untreated or treated in low-tech ways. Neither the typical developed-world nor typical developing-world model is ideal. The former throws away finite resources (water and macronutrients) that will have to be extracted from another source—at the same time polluting our biggest potential food source, the ocean—while the latter poses health risks. A middle ground is possible, however.

For example, Kolkata (formerly known as Calcutta) annually employs wetland-based ponds to treat much of its liquid and solid waste. The waste flows into pond-based wetlands, where it is cleaned by sunlight, bacterial action, and plants such as water hyacinth, which extracts toxic heavy metals. Every day, the East Kolkata Wetlands take in approximately 158 million gallons of wastewater and 2,500 tons of garbage and give back, on average, 30 tons of fish, 40 tons of rice, and 150 tons of fresh vegetables. Not a bad exchange. And farming, fishing, and other trades related to the wetlands provide about 30,000 full-time jobs. Many Americans would consider this reuse of water distasteful, but consider this: many older cities in the United States—such as New York, Philadelphia, and Milwaukee—have combined sewer systems. This means that sanitary sewage and stormwater runoff use the same pipe infrastructure. The virtue that inspired the system was constructing a single sewer system to handle two kinds of waste. Unfortunately, very high rainfall events (or sometimes even just average ones) can exceed system capacity, triggering a release of untreated sewage into local waterways, which closes beaches and can pollute local fisheries. Now that’s disgusting.

In addition to its other roles, the East Kolkata Wetlands provides important habitat for migratory birds and other animals.

In many parts of the world, food scraps, gray water, and other by-products of the urbanite are reused to create mulch, irrigation, and fertilizer. This is frequently the case in areas with the luxury of working sanitation systems or water treatment plants but increasingly so in those areas where the recognition of waste’s value has overcome an aversion to it. Israel and Jordan respectively reuse about 80 percent and 100 percent of treated wastewater for agriculture. Gray water is captured and reused in urban Jordan to grow olives, herbs, and other food—a practice made easy through simple plumbing modifications.

As population growth in general and poverty in particular are disproportionately the province of cities, it is becoming evident that cities should be the front line in addressing the triple challenge of food, water, and waste. “Urban farmers are not inherently more environmentally conscious than rural farmers,” one FAO document notes. “They utilise urban waste because they farm the 2.5 percent of the earth where waste is most concentrated.”

National Security

In 2009, the G8 nations convened a meeting of their agriculture ministers for the first time, acknowledging the critical role of agriculture. The ministers admitted that they were failing to reduce world hunger, a sentiment vindicated two months later when the FAO estimated the number of the world’s chronically hungry to exceed 1 billion by the end of the year, an increase of 100 million in a year. “This is not just about food security,” the Financial Times quoted USDA Secretary Tom Vilsack as saying at the G8 meeting, “this is about national security. It is about environmental security.”

Urban agriculture should be a security priority for several reasons. The first and most obvious reason is to decentralize and strengthen our food supply, particularly in light of an increasingly global supply chain and centralized processing. In 2002, a prescient article by Peter Chalk in the Rand Review—a publication of the government-sponsored think tank—observed that “[m]ore by luck than design, the United States has not experienced a major agricultural or food-related disaster in recent memory. As a result, there is littler appreciation for either the threat or the potential consequences.”

Just a year later, the first recorded instance of bovine spongiform encephalitis (mad cow disease) occurred in US cattle. No one was known to be infected, but it may be remembered as one of the first major incidents to pull the curtain away and reveal just what our food system had become. The incident revealed the difficulty of tracing back the cattle supply (to Canada, in this case) and exposed loose industry practices that allowed animal remains from livestock—reportedly including roadkill and even euthanized pets—to eventually wind up in the feed of some cattle, a herbivorous species.

In 2006, E. coli outbreaks resulting from lettuce and bagged spinach hit the nation, followed in 2007 by major outbreaks of salmonella (in pot pies, fresh spinach, and peanut butter), more E. coli (beef), and the first outbreak in decades of botulism in commercially canned products. Melamine-tainted products from China affected US pet food in 2007 and then, tragically, Chinese baby formula in 2008. Salsa ingredients, probably from both the United States and Mexico, were implicated in another salmonella outbreak in 2008, followed by a giant peanut-product-linked outbreak of salmonellosis in 2009.

Urban farming would not be immune from such problems, but it would contain them locally and reduce the hazards posed by putting all of our agricultural eggs in just a few baskets. Consider spinach as the poster child against over-concentration of food production. Bagged spinach couldn’t catch a break a few years ago, with E. coli contamination in 2006 and salmonella in 2007. Almost 75 percent of our spinach production occurs in California, meaning that a problem identified but not sourced in the California spinach supply could suddenly halt about three-quarters of the market in that vegetable. The outbreaks resulted in hardships on growers and their workers, a loss to Americans’ diets, and bad news for Popeye.

Food shortages in the last few years have been even more worrisome. World commodity prices for core staples such as wheat, rice, and corn more than doubled from the end of 2006 to 2008, driven by a constellation of causes, including droughts and storms, rising oil prices, biofuel production, agricultural subsidies, and a growing demand for meat. Higher food prices and the recession raised the number of Americans receiving Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (food stamp) funds by the end of 2008 to more than one in ten, while 200 food banks served by Feeding America (formerly America’s Second Harvest) registered an average 30 percent increase in demand. Riots concerning food prices erupted in roughly thirty countries.

More troubling than the sufficiency and integrity of our domestic food supply—which are rather troubling—are the destabilizing effects of shortages of food, water, and energy in the rest of the world. Secretary Vilsack bluntly described the possible scenarios posed by these hungry masses: “People could riot—that they have done; people migrate to places where there is food, which creates additional challenges; or people die.” This has not been completely lost on the national security community, though the issue is mostly couched in terms of “climate change.”

Three major reports on climate change and national security were released in 2007, commissioned by the government or produced by government-supported think tanks. One prepared for the military by the CNA Corporation aptly describes climate change as a “threat multiplier.” Yes, it will worsen things, but the fundamental threats are already in play: increasing populations, decreasing fresh water and oil resources, degrading ecosystems due to overuse and pollution, and stagnating agricultural productivity. “Five billion people are expected to live in water-stressed countries by 2025,” the report notes, “even without factoring in climate change.”

The fundamental premise is that already in many places in the world, water resources are stretched to the limit, people are flooding into cities without the service infrastructure to support them, and economies are precariously subject to the vagaries of a global market. These nations are already near “carrying capacity,” a euphemistic term for how many people can be supported sustainably. “In such places,” notes a report by the Global Business Network (GBN), “with such multiply stressed systems, the freak storm or prolonged drought could very well launch a profound, cascading crisis.” It can end in a “failed state.” Often, environmentalist Lester R. Brown points out:

It is not the concentration of power but its absence that puts us at risk.

States fail when national governments can no longer provide personal security, food security, and basic social services such as education and health care. They often lose control of part or all of their territory. When governments lose their monopoly on power, law and order begin to disintegrate….

Failing states are of international concern because they are a source of terrorists, drugs, weapons, and refugees, threatening political stability everywhere….

What does this have to do with urban farming? A lot. Cities’ dependence on imported food makes them extraordinarily fragile. They are subject to the whims of drought and flood in food-producing rural areas, to unexpected storms and political blockades, and to the price of the oil needed to produce and ship food to them. When governments fail to mitigate crises, notes the GBN report, it “reduces political legitimacy and halts economic activity, thus driving local populations to rely upon primary loyalties (families, neighborhoods, religious organizations, gangs, and so on) for daily survival. This dynamic in the political system is often (and will increasingly be) played out in urban settings….” The GBN cites Hurricane Katrina as an example of a government’s failure to deliver—if that’s how the most powerful nation responds to crisis, what can we expect of the weakest fifty or one hundred?

The people who thrive in failed states are the black marketers, pirates, drug smugglers, terrorists, and others who benefit from chaos. That’s a huge threat. Equally dangerous, however, are the honest majority who just want to get out. A conservative estimate is that there are 20 million environmental refugees right now—all of whom were directly forced from their homes by the environment or through its geopolitical effects—and there will be at least 50 million by 2020; many estimates are significantly higher. If the United States took in a share of those 30 million additional refugees proportional to its 4.5 percent share of the world population, that would mean an extra 1.3 million residents. Chances are we’d be expected to take in many more, both because of our relative wealth and because many will be from the Caribbean and Latin America.

Just think of it in terms of individuals instead of nations. If yours is the only thriving farm in a valley stricken by drought, to whose farm will all the peaceable starving people come begging for food? And how about the angry starving people with pitchforks and torches? While market-based considerations make it desirable for your farm to do better than other farms, you have an even greater interest in the other farms doing well enough that they have resources to trade and don’t turn into crowds of refugees or criminals at your doorstep. At the metropolitan or national scale, urban farming provides some insurance against situations getting that desperate. Urban farming can also produce food with a fraction of the fossil fuels that go into traditional agriculture. Perhaps even more importantly, it can do so with less fresh water, particularly if it’s integrated with a city’s wastewater plan.

The fact is, agriculture (mainly through field irrigation) sucks up to 70 percent of the freshwater the world uses every year, increasing the risk of water wars that many experts fear. Many of the largest lakes and rivers in the world border more than one country. (The United States alone contains over sixty river borders.) If one country restricts, diverts, or pollutes the water, it could have dire effects on—and prompt desperate measures by—its neighbor. Some of the places where the risks are greatest are already among the most volatile regions of the world, such as the Middle East and Central Asia.

But, once again, we need look no further than home. Thanks to a drought in the Southeast in 2007, Georgia politicians eyed moving their state’s border to access the Tennessee River—ostensibly to correct an old surveyor’s error—but have since backed down…for now. Georgia was, in turn, sued by Alabama and Tennessee to halt its plans to access the water of Lake Lanier, which sits in Georgia but feeds the Chattahoochee River vital to the other two states. South Carolina and North Carolina wrangled over access to the Catawba River’s water. And these are all relatively water-rich Eastern states; freshwater is much scarcer in the West, where it has long fueled conflicts.

If these issues can bring conflict—if not violent, at least litigious—to states within one of the most stable, water-rich nations, just imagine how they will affect nations that are not so friendly with each other. China controls the Tibetan Plateau, for example, which houses not only the headwaters of its own main rivers—the Yellow and the Yangtze—but also those vital to its southern neighbors, including the Mekong (Burma, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam), the Brahmaputra (Bangladesh and India), and the Salween (Burma and Thailand). Diminishing glaciers, snowpack, and permafrost threaten the flows of all the rivers, and pollution increasingly taints the water that is there. These rivers provide not just a means of transport but drinking water, irrigation, food, and a main source of electricity, as well. The same can be said of rivers and other transboundary-waters worldwide.

Urban farming is an obvious choice to mitigate both the threat of foodsupply chains whose ultimate sources we cannot identify and the possibility of the disruption of imported food supplies. It is no accident that urban farming has cropped up in places beset by war, disaster, poverty, or instability: Sarajevo under siege, post-Communist Russia, Rwanda after civil war, Honduras after Hurricane Mitch, Kirkuk after the toppling of Saddam Hussein, and so on. Urban agriculture is an effective (if not comprehensive) response to such crises but is even better as preparation for them.

An organipónico in the same downtown neighborhood as the United States Interests Section.

China started an urban agriculture strategy in the 1960s to prevent once-common urban famines. Almost twenty major Chinese cities are now self-reliant in foods other than grain. No urban famine has struck China since World War II, and no famine of any kind has occurred since the 1960s. The urban farms Cuba built due to the political and economic crisis of the Soviet Union’s fall served it well when three hurricanes raked the country in 2008. Fast-maturing crops grown in urban areas helped quickly get food to the populace. These are not perfect systems, but they are functioning and largely effective, developed by countries addressing their vulnerabilities programmatically at the national level, head on. We would do well to do so ourselves, and—in an increasingly interdependent world—to help other nations do so, too.

Most of the organizations currently promoting urban agriculture are based outside the United States and focus their work there, but there is a groundswell of people poised to gather the political will to accelerate this work within our own country.

The Future: Fungible Goods…and Bads

In 1987—before the USSR collapsed, before the creation of the World Trade Organization, even before the World Wide Web—the United Nations’ World Commission on Environment and Development released a report titled “Our Common Future” that starkly quantified the population challenges facing our world: “Our human world of 5 billion must make room in a finite environment for another human world…. More than 90 per cent of the increase will occur in the poorest countries, and 90 per cent of that growth in already bursting cities.” Even more prophetic, perhaps, was the text immediately preceding it:

Until recently, the planet was a large world in which human activities and their effects were neatly compartmentalized within nations, within sectors (energy, agriculture, trade), and within broad areas of concern (environment, economics, social). These compartments have begun to dissolve. This applies in particular to the various global “crises” that have seized public concern, particularly over the past decade. These are not separate crises: an environmental crisis, a development crisis, an energy crisis. They are all one. The planet is passing through a period of dramatic growth and fundamental change.

The planet has changed, and many feel not for the better.

A common objection to our economic machine from many quarters is the indignity—even absurdity—of the market assigning value to things believed to be rightly immeasurable and thus outside the market. Author, poet, and farmer Wendell Berry writes,

The way of industrialism is the way of the machine. To the industrial mind, a machine is not merely an instrument for doing work or amusing ourselves or making war; it is an explanation of the world and of life. Because industrialism cannot understand living things except as machines, and can grant them no value that is not utilitarian, it conceives of farming and forestry as forms of mining; it cannot use the land without abusing it.

In his allusion to mining, Berry echoes many proponents of sustainability (not just in agriculture) who think of the current state of affairs as being extractive—of natural resources, of people, of heritages being lost from our past, and of gifts being robbed from the future. The extraction of natural resources is obvious, from oil to ebony to lobsters. The other extractions—such as self-reliance and a connection with nature—are harder to quantify, precisely because they are nonmarket values. And the course of action is so hard to plot I think, in part because the circumstances we live in are so alien to most of human experience.

Never before have average people wielded so much power with so little skill. If you want a shed with the click of a mouse you can direct one to be built from materials you’ve never seen, by people you don’t know, and in a country you’ve never visited and, perhaps, cannot even pronounce. It might then be shipped to another country for pre-assembly before being delivered to your doorstep. You don’t need to know how to hammer a nail, plumb a line, or cajole a neighbor. Unlike our ancestors, who acquired and employed an array of skills to survive, our abilities tend to be either so general as to make us interchangeable or so specific as to make us helpless outside our professional bailiwicks.

In fact, one skill we’re losing, according to thinkers such as environmentalist and author of The End of Nature (2006) Bill McKibben, is that of being a neighbor. “A meteorite could fall on your cul-de-sac tomorrow, disappearing your neighbors,” he writes, “and the routines of your daily life wouldn’t change.” We no longer need each other in the kind of direct way our ancestors did. Oh, sure, we need someone somewhere for something, but the who, where, and what don’t matter so much anymore. It’s become cliché to observe that even as our global neighbors become closer, our local ones seem ever more distant.

We face debilitating diet-related morbidities not out of scarcity but out of abundance. The amount Americans overeat could supply the entire caloric needs of Bangladesh, of France and Germany combined, or of the total populations of North Korea, Yemen, Taiwan, Ghana, Malaysia, and Venuzuela plus 10 million of their closest friends. The problem isn’t just how much we eat, but what we eat: highly processed foods from a homogenized selection of choices—the very kinds of foods made possible, if not inevitable, by industrial agriculture.