The shop’s freshly churned ice cream—with surprising flavors like Foggy Pebbles, made with cereal-soaked milk, and Danish Butter Cookie—has been drawing crowds. Since taking over a long-shuttered creamery earlier this year, Jersey Scoops has given the sleepy downtown a much-needed boost; customers routinely spill over to the park across the road, cone in hand, creating a potential reason for new businesses to fill the empty storefronts that once housed a cheese factory, bakery, and laundromat. Beyond Loleta, Jersey Scoops’ rainbow-labeled pints are making waves at local farmers’ markets, stores, and restaurants.

While revitalizing the community, Jersey Scoops adds a high-value outlet for a perishable product, strengthening the industry overall. But the owners of Jersey Scoops didn’t get here on their own; they leveraged a $60,000 grant from the Pacific Coast Coalition’s Dairy Business Innovation Initiative (PCC DBII) to secure both the space and equipment.

Despite the region’s history as a dairy powerhouse, locally made ice cream was previously nonexistent, says Thomas Nicholson-Stratton, who launched the venture with his husband, Cody. The ice cream shop is an extension of the Nicholson family’s sixth-generation, 120-acre farm in nearby Ferndale. Since taking over the dairy a decade ago and branding it Foggy Bottoms Boys, the couple has been bucking convention and helping their rural community navigate changing economic tides.

“We want to reinvigorate the community and revive Loleta’s dairy legacy,” Nicholson-Stratton says of the 2,200-square-foot, eight-employee operation, noting the town’s history as a key producer of powdered milk. The scoops are also a platform for amplifying the dairy’s “very deliberate name,” he says, derived partly from the farm’s location on the foggy banks of the Eel River, but also reflecting its owners’ sense of humor: “We want to diversify the face of farming, because there are few places where young and queer people can see themselves in the field.”

The PCC DBII is one of four such initiatives across the country, funded by the United States Department of Agriculture’s (USDA) Agricultural Marketing Service. The national program helps small and mid-sized dairy producers squeeze more value out of milk by diversifying their products and markets, reducing waste, and innovating packaging and processing. With family dairies drying up in droves—the U.S. has 39 percent fewer dairies than five years ago, despite the same number of cows producing 5 percent more milk—the support aids smaller players in countering the forces of an increasingly consolidated industry.

The DBII also aims to strengthen the economic health of small and rural communities, says project director Carmen Licon-Cano. Foggy Bottoms Boys ticks many of the initiative’s boxes, creating a local milk product, she says, while invigorating a struggling downtown and adding a fresh take on the industry. “They’re really a shining example of the program.”

Building From the Bottom Up

These highly productive operations maximize returns in an industry with crushing profit margins. However, critics highlight their outsized environmental impact, including excessive water use and pollution caused by concentrated waste, as well as greenhouse gas emissions. CAFOs also face scrutiny for animal welfare issues due to confinement and extreme production demands. Meanwhile, the perishability of dairy’s main product exposes the industry to supply chain disruptions. At the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, failed shipping logistics forced farmers to dump millions of gallons of milk.

The 2018 Farm Bill established the DBII to spur innovation in the dairy industry and address the downward trend in milk consumption nationwide, caused at least in part by the proliferation of other beverages, including plant-based milks. Since then, the USDA program, which is overseen by Agricultural Secretary Tom Vilsack, a former dairy industry insider, has added post-pandemic support, both financially and technically, for producers and processors.

The initiative aims to “uplift the dairy sector” and strengthen local markets, says Susan Pheasant, director of California State University Fresno’s Institute for Food and Agriculture (IFA), which hosts the Pacific Coast Coalition DBII. With $165 million in total funding to date, regional DBIIs address the specific needs of four individual markets—northeast, southeast, midwest, and west coast. The PCC DBII includes academic partners such as Oregon State University as well as industry groups like the California Dairy Innovation Center. In addition to piloting new equipment, recipes, and processing techniques, the universities facilitate worker training and certificate programs in cheesemaking, food safety, marketing, and other specialized areas.

Some regions have expanded their focus to include climate-smart ranching practices, including managed grazing and resilient cropping systems, which can mitigate the environmental and climate impacts of industrial livestock production. But that hasn’t been the PCC’s focus, Pheasant says. As the last DBII to be established, in 2019, the region has received significantly less funding, so it has only focused on dairy processing. The PCC’s relatively modest grants target small and mid-sized operations, she says, to create an equitable field for producers.

For smaller enterprises, however, even modest grants can be transformative, Pheasant says. One artisan cheesemaker, for example, used a $100,000 award toward a cheese cutter that creates precisely measured wedges, eliminating an onerous manual task and allowing them to tap a new market that operates on uniformity and volume. And, because family, minority, and women-owned businesses often face greater challenges in securing capital, the funding can be “a real game changer,” she says, enabling them to compete at a far greater scale. “It’s a story that gets replicated through these small producers,” she adds.

“As an artisanal creamery, we need products that can really differentiate us from larger [operations],” says Todd Koch, owner of TMK Creamery in Canby, Oregon. Half an hour outside Portland, the 50-acre family farm is known for its ice cream and freshly churned cheddar, made from the milk of 20 pastured-grazed cows and sold a stone’s throw away at the farm stand and in a few local restaurants.

Several years ago, Koch collaborated with Oregon State University to develop a vodka distilled from whey, a byproduct of cheesemaking. “Cowcohol” has become one of TMK’s signature products, enabling the creamery to diversify with a premium, shelf-stable offering while minimizing a costly disposal problem.

Using a $140,000 DBII grant, TMK Creamery is now developing a filtration system to fully extract their whey’s remaining lipids and proteins—which are fed back to the cows, another savings. “It’s difficult for small businesses like us to be profitable,” Koch says. “A lot of people don’t understand why my cheese costs [four times more than] Walmart’s.”

These innovations often have ripple effects. At Nico’s Ice Cream, in Portland, Oregon, owner Nico Vergara concocts his frozen treats using a specialized blender imported from New Zealand. The machine swirls scoops of fresh fruit into the cream—both sourced from farms in nearby Willamette Valley—to create “a light and airy, soft-serve-y texture,” Pheasant says. “It’s one of a kind.”

In just three years, the 25-year-old entrepreneur, who started off with a seasonal pushcart, has opened two shops and now distributes pints to about 60 grocery stores in Oregon and Washington. Using a $40,000 DBII grant, he’s acquired an additional fleet of machines and is working toward nationwide distribution. With flavors that nod to Vergara’s Latino background, such as chamoy, a pickled fruit-and-pepper sauce, and Tajín, a brand of chili and lime seasoning, the company aims to broaden its product line and cater to an increasingly diverse consumer market.

With a third store in the works, Vergara’s success reflects the country’s voracious appetite for dairy—and the industry’s capacity to satisfy it. Despite waning milk consumption, Americans still consume a lot of cheese, yogurt, butter, and ice cream. Between 2021 and 2022, the average annual consumption of dairy products rose by more than 12 pounds per person, to an average of 667 pounds. And though the science is inconclusive around the health impacts, dairy products remain a staple in food assistance programs as a source of protein and other essential nutrients.

As the ballooning demand continues to shape market forces, the shift towards fewer, larger farms is inevitable, says Charles Nicholson, associate professor of agricultural and applied economics at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. With smaller-scale dairies harder hit by labor shortages and fluctuating milk prices, “this long-term trend would be hard to change with public policy or private initiatives [alone],” he says.

Nevertheless, the DBII and similar programs play an important role in supporting individual businesses and local communities, Nicholson says. And although his research found that diversifying milk production through more complex processing isn’t a sure path to profit, concentrating innovation close to the source tends to reduce the financial risks.

Ultimately, maintaining a diversity of production practices and locations bolsters resilience within the industry, Nicholson says, making it less vulnerable to disruptions in regional supply chains and climate-related issues. Consumers also benefit from greater access to a broader array of local and regional products.

The PCC also supports innovation through a larger lens, says PCC’s Lincon-Cano, providing office hours and technical assistance in equipment training and testing, as well as developing business and marketing plans. And by offering resources such as webinars and certificate programs in Spanish, the expanded access helps diversify the industry’s enterprise base, she says, which remains largely white despite the large number of Latinos in the greater workforce. Together, these strategic investments can contribute to a resilient, less consolidated system, one more closely tied to local economies and communities.

More Eyes Per Acre

Rumiano is using a $200,000 DBII grant to develop packaging for ready-to-serve and party-size cheese trays for the growing convenience market, which typically depends heavily on plastic. The funds will go towards retooling existing equipment to make new containers with more sustainable materials and less polymer, Baird says, and distinguish the brand from conventional competitors.

With industrial-scale operators flooding the market with “literally a billion pounds” of cheese, Baird says, innovation is vital to the survival of smaller producers. The diversity of players helps foster innovation, “just like tech and Silicon Valley,” he adds. Local dairy also supports the North Coast economy, which has been impacted by price collapses in cannabis, one of the region’s primary cash crops.

Smaller, family-run operations also have a deep commitment to their land and herds, Baird says. Organic and independently certified to meet animal welfare standards, these producers maintain regenerative practices, grazing cows in rotated paddocks to improve soil and pasture health.

These approaches often run counter to the commodity-driven model of CAFOs. Although pasture-based operations can vary in both size and practice methods, foraging requirements tend to limit herds to the hundreds, not thousands, says Steve Washburn, professor emeritus at North Carolina State University’s department of animal science and an expert in pasture-based and organic dairy production.

Run well, smaller-scaled systems have several advantages over confinement operations, Washburn says. Proper rotational grazing relies on pasture as the primary forage, cutting feed costs. Additionally, because cows spread manure uniformly across the paddocks, the waste enriches the soil and emits far less methane than it would decomposing in a collection pool.

Perhaps most importantly, the promotion of more small dairies creates a healthier agricultural ecosystem. The more dairies, the more farmer “eyes per acre,” Baird says, referencing Wendell Berry. “That’s why we’re so committed to supporting the viability of family-scale farms.” And without support for innovation, he adds, “this ecosystem is very much at risk.”

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]]> https://civileats.com/2024/07/02/bringing-back-local-milk-ice-cream-and-cheese/feed/ 0 https://civileats.com/2024/06/24/look-what-nicola-twilley-found-in-the-fridge/ https://civileats.com/2024/06/24/look-what-nicola-twilley-found-in-the-fridge/#comments Mon, 24 Jun 2024 09:00:05 +0000 https://civileats.com/?p=56576 A version of this article originally appeared in The Deep Dish, our members-only newsletter. Become a member today and get the next issue directly in your inbox. Polemic proclamations aside, refrigeration speaks volumes about our food system, says Nicola Twilley, seasoned journalist and co-host of the podcast Gastropod. The ability to manufacture cold has shaped not […]

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A version of this article originally appeared in The Deep Dish, our members-only newsletter. Become a member today and get the next issue directly in your inbox.

Polemic proclamations aside, refrigeration speaks volumes about our food system, says Nicola Twilley, seasoned journalist and co-host of the podcast Gastropod. The ability to manufacture cold has shaped not just our diet and health, she argues, but our economy, landscape, and geopolitics. “Its fingerprints are everywhere,from the height [increases in] 19th-century army recruits to Irish Independence and women’s liberation.”

Her new book, Frostbite, plunges readers into the chilly depths of the cold chain—the refrigerated infrastructure that envelops our food as it moves from farm to table—and the far-reaching consequences of developing a food system utterly dependent on cold preservation, storage, and delivery.

As the cold chain continues to expand at a frenzied pace, however, it comes at a shiver-inducing cost, Twilley says—to our health, the socioeconomic and geopolitical landscape, and climate change.

Civil Eats spoke with Twilley about her book, how refrigeration has transformed our relationship with food, and the implications of feeding the world’s seemingly insatiable appetite for manufactured cold.

What exactly is the cold supply chain?

It’s an interconnected network of refrigerated spaces, trucks, shipping containers, and air transportation. About three-quarters of everything on American plates passes through it, starting on the farm, extending to the supermarket, and ending at your fridge. The cold chain has created this vast artificial winter and the global food system that we have today—a world with out-of-season produce, [imported] meats, and Alaskan salmon that’s pin-boned in China, then sold in the U.S.

Can you explain the logistics of creating a cheeseburger entirely from scratch, and how the refrigerated food system makes that possible?

I tell the story of [open-data activist] Waldo Jaquith, who went off the grid with his wife in 2010 to test the limits of self-sufficiency. They built a home in rural Virginia, growing their own vegetables and raising chickens, and set off on a mission to make a cheeseburger—this sort of pinnacle of industrial food—from scratch.

He outlined the steps: He’d grow his own tomatoes, mustard plant, and wheat for the buns. It was the meat and cheese, though, where things fell down. In a pre-refrigeration scenario, you’d slaughter the cow in the cool winter months, but to make cheese at the same time as the beef, you’d need another [cow] that’s nursing [to get the milk and rennet].

Then if you want a tomato on your burger, that’s a late summer produce; if you want lettuce leaf, that’s spring or fall. Without refrigeration, none of those things can be ready at the same time. Sure, you could turn the tomatoes into ketchup and age the cheese. But when you think about how many cheeseburgers Americans eat, bringing those ingredients together in a pre-refrigeration world would have been like dining on a peacock stuffed into a swan—an incredible feat of food sourcing that requires a lot of preparation and planning.

So, the cheeseburger couldn’t have existed without our refrigerated supply chain, and they didn’t; the earliest records are from the 1920s.

Like so many innovations that we consider essential, including the internet, refrigeration comes at a steep price.

It’s a fascinating conundrum. Refrigeration has been seen as an unarguable benefit to society—without it, a third of everything [grown] used to go bad before it could be sold. Food waste has huge environmental and economic impacts on food security, water use, and methane emissions from rotting food, so on that level alone, it’s incredible.

Refrigeration allows apple farmers in Washington, for example, to store their annual harvest and spread out sales over the next year. Cold transport allows banana growers in Central America to access a huge export market. People now talk about eating seasonally without having any idea of how it used to be. Historians think that much of Europe used to be pre-scorbutic (a pre-scurvy condition due to vitamin C deficiency) right before spring, from the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables. So, manufactured cold has given us the abundance that we have today, including sheer cool delights like cocktails and ice cream.

Still, a century of refrigeration has also revealed equally enormous downsides. For growers, the economic benefits aren’t so long term: Once the market opens up globally, the money and opportunities tend to go to whoever can do it for the absolute least, and that pushes prices and revenue down for everyone. Refrigeration has contributed to unsustainable monocultures that promote pests, diseases, and resource depletion; although we can have asparagus out of season in the U.S., exports from Peru are draining that country’s aquifer.

The global domination of bananas—the world’s most popular fruit—is made entirely possible by refrigerated shipping and [artificial] ripening. But through consolidation and dependence on a single crop, big plantations in Central America and the foreign corporations that run them have also [left a legacy of] political monoculture in the region.

There are also subtle downsides to taste and nutrition. Fruits and vegetables have been reshaped to fit into a refrigerated supply chain, and part of that has removed flavor—literally switched off genes responsible for producing it. There’s also evidence that nutrient levels have fallen as crops are bred for the cold chain. Yet as consumers, we’ve voted with our dollars to have [produce that’s] cold and sturdy—rather than tasty or healthy.

At the planetary level, refrigerant gases and the energy used for cooling are among the biggest contributors to climate change. Astonishingly, refrigeration hasn’t reduced food waste—it’s just moved it to the other end [of the consumption pipeline]. In overstuffing our fridges and supermarket shelves, we’re chucking a third of our food supply and [creating even more] greenhouse gas emissions. Meanwhile, the global cold chain keeps expanding—between 2018 and 2020, world [refrigeration] capacity increased nearly 20 percent. I think it’s a potential time bomb.

What is refrigeration’s role in transforming the beef industry?

A lot of the beef industry’s development was driven by the need to feed an increasing urban population. Historically, cattle would walk themselves to market—losing weight en route—and get slaughtered in the city. The cold chain allowed livestock to be raised far away from cities and put meatpacking plants in places where you could bypass pesky things like a unionized workforce. It took skilled butchering jobs away from urban stockyards and made [slaughterhouses] more dangerous.

In the big picture, I think refrigeration contributes to the detachment we have from our meat supply and what happens to these animals before they arrive on our plates. That fosters an approach that says, “I just want the cheapest price possible,” because essentially, that’s the only information we have about the meat.

It’s also led to massive industry consolidation, with four companies now controlling more than 70 percent of the U.S. beef market.

The cold chain only makes economic sense at a certain scale, one that tends to rule out small producers. Cattle farmers in New England, where land is more expensive, can’t compete with those in the American West, who have economic advantages that come with being big. That spurs consolidation: Along with gigantic industrial feedlots, meat processing plants capable of slaughtering thousands of cattle a day have become the norm.

What are the implications of the rest of the world rushing to build U.S.-style cold systems?

Currently, 70 percent of all food consumed in the U.S. passes through a cold chain, while in China, less than a quarter of meats and 5 percent of fruits and veg are sold under refrigeration. With mechanical cooling already responsible for [a significant portion of] global greenhouse emissions, the implications are you can’t build an American-size [system] around the world using current technology and stay within the 2-degree [Celsius global temperature] threshold of the U.N. Paris Climate Agreement. It’s literally not possible.

Conversely, reimagining and reinventing cold technology offers a lot of hope for building a better food system. Rwanda, for instance, is developing a National Cooling Strategy, the first of its kind in sub-Saharan Africa. Although there’s a minimum size required to make refrigeration work economically, in a country where small-scale farmers make up nearly half the population, the system has to be implemented so that it doesn’t throw people off their land or lead to monoculture.

Meanwhile, how can we make the U.S. system more sustainable? The Biden administration is investing in developing a more resilient meat supply chain, for example, largely by decentralizing the industry. Will initiatives like that help? 

It’s obviously harder in the U.S., where we have an entrenched system. But there are so many advantages to making things smaller—the industry will definitely be more resilient if one E. coli contamination doesn’t shut down a tenth of your meat supply. While you need to have some level of aggregation, focusing on infrastructure like community refrigeration hubs can help bring the cost of the cold chain down and make [smaller producers] more competitive with agribusiness.

For perishable products, the mantra in the American food system is “the cold chain, the cold chain, the cold chain.” We refrigerate when we don’t need to. If the U.S. mandated salmonella vaccinations for chickens as the U.K. does, you wouldn’t need to refrigerate eggs. Also, there’s a company producing a permeable, edible coating for [harvested] produce that drastically slows ripening—essentially what cold does, with fewer impacts on flavor. Some European countries regulate supermarket size in order to preserve downtowns while curbing massive weekly shopping trips that encourage food waste.

There are solutions at all points along the chain that don’t require new technology. We’re dealing with an entrenched system, however, so we need regulation and incentives to make it work.

As you state, our country’s dependence on refrigeration is disproportionately high—the average U.S. fridge is 40 percent bigger than a French one, while 1 in 4 American households owns multiple units. What can consumers do to wean themselves off cold food?

Unplug that second refrigerator in your garage and recycle it properly to have the gases captured; you’lll find that it reduces food waste and electric bills simultaneously. And there’d be less wishful thinking if we shopped more frequently, in smaller amounts; we buy to fill the space you have. Go to the farmers’ market and buy what’s in season locally. Produce tastes better [that way], too—it’s not just some myth made up by Alice Waters (laugh).

Do you see any glimmer of hope in all of this?

Post-harvest science and technology is this Cinderella-like sector of research and development. There are people doing great work here, but almost nothing is being spent on it. If you want to enter a field that could transform the world, that’s a place where you’re needed.

There’s one striking aspect to note about our food system: It has only been refrigerated for a little more than a century. If it’s that recent, we can transform it.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

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]]> https://civileats.com/2024/06/24/look-what-nicola-twilley-found-in-the-fridge/feed/ 1 https://civileats.com/2024/03/04/regenerative-beef-gets-a-boost-from-california-universities/ Mon, 04 Mar 2024 09:00:29 +0000 https://civileats.com/?p=55514 But for Diaz, good food is key to good health. Since taking the helm of the facility’s nutrition and dining services in 2018, he has worked to revamp the cuisine, including sourcing almost half of ingredients from farms and ranches within a 250-mile radius of the Sacramento Valley. Food grown in local fields, orchards, and […]

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It’s no wonder that hospital food gets a bad rap, says Santana Diaz, executive chef at the University of California Davis Medical Center, a sprawling, 142-acre campus located in Sacramento, California. As a seeming compromise between nutrition and institutional efficiency, food has long been dished up as an afterthought to patient care. “That was never the focus of hospitals,” he adds.

But for Diaz, good food is key to good health. Since taking the helm of the facility’s nutrition and dining services in 2018, he has worked to revamp the cuisine, including sourcing almost half of ingredients from farms and ranches within a 250-mile radius of the Sacramento Valley. Food grown in local fields, orchards, and pastures with healthy soil management practices simply make for healthier, more nutritious, and more flavorful meals, he says—the perfect ingredients for changing the “stigma” associated with hospital fare.

Diaz is not alone in making this shift, but he may be ahead of the game. In 2022, the University of California (U.C.) system—a network of 10 campuses and five medical centers—committed to supporting regenerative farming as part of U.C. President Michael Drake’s vision to mitigate the effects of climate change and drive a more equitable food system. And as an advisor to an initiative lead by the nonprofit organization Roots of Change, Diaz is helping to steer the larger institution toward local agriculture—through the system-wide procurement of regeneratively ranched beef.

Santana Diaz, Executive Chef, U.C. Davis Med Center. (Photo courtesy of Roots of Change)

The term, a general reference to pasture management that prioritizes soil health and perennial plants by grazing livestock through rotated paddocks, encompasses a set of practices that advocates say results in healthier animals and pastures. Research also shows that beef from cattle raised strictly on grass is more nutritious than conventional beef, although it’s not yet clear how regenerative practices may impact those findings.

Cumulatively, the U.C. dining system serves more than 600,000 meals a day during the academic year. By ensuring reliable demand for regeneratively raised meat, proponents of the system’s new procurement pledge see the sizable volume giving the state’s independent ranchers and rural economy a huge boost, and bolstering the local and regional meat supply chain.

It’s a tall order, but Diaz knows the sway that comes with institutional demand. The former executive chef at the Sacramento Kings’ Golden 1 Center and the San Francisco 49ers’ Levi’s Stadium is also a founding member of Beef2Institution, a non-profit program helping K-12 schools, hospitals, and sports venues in California source beef from local, family-owned ranches.

Institutions are the perfect outlet, says Diaz, for ground, braising, and stewing meat and the other lower-value, secondary cuts that make up nearly two-thirds of every beef carcass. So featuring hamburgers, boneless short ribs, and carne asada as part of a local farm-to-fork menu offers nearby ranchers a prime bread-and-butter opportunity, he says—all the while exposing a captive audience to the value of beef raised on regenerative pasture.

“Obviously, we’re not going to change patient behavior . . . in [one] hospital stay.”

“Obviously, we’re not going to change patient behavior . . . in [one] hospital stay,” Diaz notes. But because diet plays a major role in raising the risk of heart disease, diabetes, and other chronic conditions, there’s huge merit, he adds, in educating them about preventative and nutritional approaches to health management.

And with his kitchen alone churning out 6,500 meals a day—along with patients, the medical center feeds an army of clinicians, staff, and medical and nursing students—the appetite of the entire U.C. system will likely have a resounding impact on the larger beef market in the state. “That’s how institutions can flex their buying power,” Diaz says.

A Premium Product

Despite research showing that eating less beef has significant health and environmental benefits, including shrinking an individual’s carbon footprint by as much as 75 percent, America’s steak and burger consumption is on the rise.

Currently, the vast majority of U.S. beef comes from cows raised on pasture for about the first year of their lives, then moved to concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs)—large-scale industrial facilities that grain-finish cattle in confinement for six to eight months before slaughter. Along with concentrated levels of environmental pollution, critics deride beef feedlots as places where hundreds if not thousands of cattle are crowded together. These conditions typically require antibiotics to prevent herds from getting sick; subsequently, this “subtherapeutic” use has also been linked to antibiotic resistance.

Nevertheless, CAFOs are also the basis of a “hyper-efficient” commodity system, says Renee Cheung, managing partner at Bonterra Partners, an impact investment advisory firm for regenerative agriculture and co-author of a market analysis of grass-fed beef. These operations pump out a consistent, year-round supply of beef for the meatpacking industry, a sector dominated by a handful of multinational giants that control more than 80 percent of the country’s beef market.

Grazing cattle on pasture for the entirety of their lives, on the other hand, is far less productive. As such, strictly grass-fed or grass-finished operations tend to be modest in scale, says Cheung, with the majority of ranches in the U.S. herding around 50 heads. The smaller volumes and seasonality of pastures create more variability in slaughter weight and harvest windows, running counter to the conventional year-round commodity model.

As a result, non-CAFO operations don’t benefit from the economy of scale built into the heavily consolidated processing and marketing infrastructure, Cheung says. With limited access to centralized meatpacking facilities, these producers are often saddled with high overhead for transport, cold storage, and market delivery—all of which add to premium prices at the meat counter.

The cost, however, also reflects a more superior product. Compared to conventionally raised beef, studies show that strictly pasture-fed beef contain higher nutrients with less fat, often with lower levels of antibiotics, hormones, and risk of food contamination. And grass-fed cuts simply taste better, according to Chef Dan Barber, sustainable and ethical farming advocate and author of The Third Plate, who extols its rich, complex, and “undeniably beefy” flavor.

Not all pasture-based ranchers have adopted paddock-based regenerative practices, but the number appears to be growing. That’s in part because the holistic principles of regenerative ranching go hand in hand with land stewardship and animal welfare, says Michael Dimock, executive director of Roots of Change. By “mimicking nature,” the grazing patterns of ruminants benefit from natural forage and room to roam, all the while “maximizing soil health and biodiversity” of plants, insects, and other animals.

Preparing grass-fed beef for serving at the Meat Summit. (Photo courtesy of Roots of Change)

Regardless, recent research shows that 100 percent grass-fed cattle have a larger carbon footprint than those finished on grain because they fatten at a slower rate, yet also weigh as much as 20 percent less at maturity. And while regeneratively managed pastures have been shown to sequester carbon, the science behind the potential for “carbon-neutral beef” has been overblown. Still, Dimock adds that well-managed, rotational grazing enhances pasture productivity, helps restore spent cropland, and prevents wildfires by keeping invasive grasses and dry brush in check.

It’s also a highly efficient use of marginal land, notes Dimock—a classification of the 70 percent of the world’s arable regions unsuited for crop production due to poor soil, aridity, or steepness. As he sees it, regenerative ranching is also accessible and practical for smaller operations because it’s scalable, and lowers the financial risks associated with compliance-centered practices like organic farming.

The Power of Procurement

Making regenerative beef a more attainable business model requires developing a resilient supply chain, says Dimock, one that caters primarily to smaller producers. The COVID-19 pandemic exposed the vulnerabilities of a heavily consolidated industry, including bottlenecks in meat processing due to labor shortages and transportation breakdowns. Along with the USDA’s recent $1 billion investment in expanding the nation’s meat and poultry processing capacity, he sees California’s $600 million Community Economic Resilience Fund (CERF) giving a major boost to the state’s meat supply infrastructure.

The targeted funding includes shoring up the network of smaller, regional harvest, processing, and storage facilities, he adds, and will help rural communities develop stronger economic hubs that decentralize the current top-heavy model. But those new and expanded facilities won’t succeed if there isn’t a consistent market for the kind of meat they process.

“If we want to give small-scale ranchers a fair shot,” Dimock says, “we have to break up [the current corporate stronghold].”

Going up against the commodity system, however, comes with additional challenges. While grass-fed beef accounts for roughly $4 billion, or 4 percent of the overall U.S. market, an estimated 80 percent of the supply consists of imports, largely from Australia, Uruguay and Brazil—countries where raising livestock on pasture is far more economical. Passed through a USDA-inspected plant, these products can be labeled “domestic,” leaving true domestic producers at an economic disadvantage.

“If you talk to 12 people about regenerative [practices], you’ll get 12 different definitions.”

In fact, the general lack of standards and regulations for the grass-fed sector has created a Wild West landscape of labels, says Bonterra’s Cheung. For its part, the USDA has recently announced stepping up its labeling guidelines, which distinguish true grass-fed beef from confusing claims such as “pasture-raised,” “50 percent grass-fed,” and “grass-fed and grain-finished.” These are highly misleading terms, she notes, given that most cattle are pastured for the first year of their lives. And “there has been a lot of outright cheating in the industry,” she adds—for instance, grass-fed labels can still apply to confined cattle raised on grass pellets.

The fundamental practices of regenerative ranching align with California’s efforts to promote farming “in a manner that restores and maintains natural systems,” says California Department of Food and Agriculture (CDFA) Secretary Karen Ross. The approach also complements the state’s climate smart initiatives and efforts to advance social equity through the support of small-scale farms and ranches.

Still, Ross acknowledges that the term’s inherent flexibility can make it a fuzzy concept. That’s especially true in California, where regional variations in microclimates, precipitation levels, and soil structure reflect a wide practice spectrum—some ranches in the state’s mountainous reaches, for example, may winter their herds on dried silage when fields are bare, while others may have the means to transport them to greener pastures.

“If you talk to 12 people about regenerative [practices], you’ll get 12 different definitions,” Ross says.

Currently, several certifications such as the American Grassfed Association (AGA), Regenerative Organic Certified, and Land to Market provide a range of overlapping criteria that ensure the regenerative provenance of meat. By outlining transparent measures, these voluntary labels are intended to legitimize and safeguard the premium nature of regeneratively produced beef.

Last month, the CDFA began work on officially defining regenerative ranching and agriculture. Rather than developing standards for state certification, and the goal is “to make sure that when we use the term, we have a shared understanding of what the practices are,” says Ross. The “inclusive” set of parameters will help inform state policy around regenerative food production, she adds—including public procurement initiatives.

Public institutions are “a ready-made way” to spur and ensure market demand for healthy food from sustainable sources, adds Ross, who has been involved in discussions about the UC initiative. “We’re investing in better outcomes for farmers, the community, and the environment,” she says. “That’s the power of procurement.”

Building the Supply Pipeline

Balancing supply and demand is nonetheless a delicate endeavor, says Tom Richards, co-owner of Richards Grassfed Beef in Yuba County, California. The fifth-generation rancher has been a key voice in both the UC initiative and Beef2Institution.

Most of California’s pasture-grazing operations focus on a premium, direct-to-consumer market. Between online sales, farmers markets, restaurants, and specialty retailers, year-to-year demand tends to be stable—and manageable.

The supply of better beef “isn’t something you can just dial up,” says Richards. Increasing herds is a risky investment—“it takes three years to raise one of these animals,” he notes—so clear market forecasts are imperative. “The biggest thing that we need from the industry is for somebody like a Santana [Diaz] or UC to say, ‘we’re committed to [helping you] map out a three- to five-year plan to grow your supply,’” he says.

“Right now, the market’s operating on a push,” Richards adds. “But what the industry needs is the pull”—with heavy strings attached.

For smaller-scale operations in particular, committed relationships all along the supply chain are essential to staying afloat. Yet that business model runs counter to industry approach, says Clifford Pollard, the founder of Cream Co. Meats. The Oakland, California-based meat processor “bridges the gap” between regenerative ranches and broadline product distribution on the West Coast, and has played a central role in promoting Beef2Institution’s efforts.

Conventional meat processors “trade in commodities,” Pollard says, sourcing raw material at the lowest price possible. Cream Co., on the other hand, cultivates its supply pipeline “over many years of sustained [purchasing] commitments” to individual operations, he says.

Ultimately, with demand driving supply, the large-scale procurement will undoubtedly influence the equation. Nevertheless, even incremental steps by institutions can pave the way for meaningful change, Pollard notes. “There’s often a hesitation that it has to be all or nothing, but shifting even a small portion of your spend towards [regeneratively minded sourcing] is impactful,” he says, and U.C.’s commitment really gives regenerative producers “a seat at the table.”

“We don’t need the whole table,” Pollard adds. “Just a seat.”

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]]> https://civileats.com/2024/01/23/these-state-lawmakers-are-collaborating-on-policies-that-support-regenerative-agriculture/ Tue, 23 Jan 2024 09:00:09 +0000 https://civileats.com/?p=54985 As Georgia state senator Kim Jackson began her welcome speech, she instructed the group to look around the room. “We are female; we are male. We are queer; we are people of color; we are Indigenous. We are rural, urban, and suburban,” she said. “Now raise your hand if this is what your [state’s] ag […]

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On a crisp weekend this past fall, 30 state legislators from across the nation descended on TomKat Ranch, an 1,800-acre ranch focused on regenerative agriculture in Pescadero, California, an hour south of San Francisco. In addition to learning about regenerative farming practices, the diverse group had gathered to understand how state-level agricultural legislation can bring about climate resilience, food security, and social equity.

As Georgia state senator Kim Jackson began her welcome speech, she instructed the group to look around the room. “We are female; we are male. We are queer; we are people of color; we are Indigenous. We are rural, urban, and suburban,” she said. “Now raise your hand if this is what your [state’s] ag committee looks like.” Despite all hands staying down, “this is exactly why we’re here,” she continued, “because we all have a stake in ag.”

The two-day workshop, which was organized by the State Innovation Exchange (SiX), a nonprofit, non-partisan national policy, resource, and strategy center, highlighted the power of states to drive progressive change in food and agricultural policy. Against the backdrop of a carefully managed perennial pasture, the gathering focused on legislative approaches to promoting regenerative farming and ranching practices, which the group believes can galvanize support across partisan and rural-urban divides.

The national farm bill often “sucks a lot of the wind out of the room,” says Kendra Kimbirauskas, the senior director of agriculture and food systems for SiX, making state-level initiatives seem like “the little sibling of federal policy.” But local and regional actions can counter the country’s “highly centralized and dominant” industrial food and farm system, she adds, and lay the blueprint for transformative large-scale measures.

Packed with experiential learning sessions with experts and advocates, field walks, and farm-to-table meals featuring ingredients sourced from nearby growers, the forum in Pescadero was primarily designed to connect lawmakers, says Kimbirauskas. Reinforcing the network can arm legislators with the resources needed to tackle “tough decisions” in their State Houses, she adds, and expose them to perspectives outside the typical ag lobbying groups on abstruse measures and less-obvious implications of bills.

Attendees at the TomKat Ranch tour organized by the State Innovation Exchange (SiX). (Photo courtesy of SiX)

And because agricultural policy is typically shaped by large agribusiness interests, advocates say efforts to foster greater inclusivity is paramount to changing the status quo. “This,” proffered Jackson, a Black urban farmer from a multi-generational farming family and Georgia’s first openly gay senator, “is how we raise our collective voices.”

Power of State Policymaking

The Cohort for Rural Opportunity and Prosperity (CROP)—a subset of SiX’s Agriculture and Food Systems program—currently includes elected officials from 43 states who are positioned to advance socially and ecologically responsible rural, agricultural, and food policy.

When it comes to deciphering rural and farm-related issues, progressive legislators often face a steep learning curve, says Kimbirauskas. Many tend to hail from urban areas and are better versed on issues such as public health or education; even those with farming roots may not have direct field experience. As a result, they may lack the capacity to be “champions for food and ag policy,” she notes, despite the broad impacts of farming legislation on cities, the environment, and the larger food system.

Historically, that space has been dominated by state level farm bureaus and the larger federal, Kimbirauskas says. Heavily backed by large agriculture trade groups with deep pockets, the nation’s most powerful agricultural lobbying group is, generally speaking, the sole voice leading those conversations at the state level. “The corporate ag lobby absolutely knows the power of state policymaking,” she says. “That’s why they have a stable of lobbyists in every state house across the country.”

Depending on the state, legislators may be severely under-resourced and overworked—nationwide, their salary averages less than $44,000, with state lawmakers in New Hampshire and New Mexico working as volunteers, requiring many to hold second jobs.

“The corporate ag lobby absolutely knows the power of state policymaking. That’s why they have a stable of lobbyists in every state house across the country.”

State budgets can also hamper in-house agricultural knowledge. Less than half a percent of Hawaii’s annual budget, for instance, goes to its department of agriculture, thereby limiting the robust collection of crop statistics and other data critical to making industry decisions. Recently, the state also slashed 20 percent of university extension staff.

As an “organizing vehicle” designed to help “disrupt the legislator-to-lobbyist pipeline,” CROP equips progressive leaders with robust support and expertise to fill these voids, says Kimbirauskas. Rather than relying on ag industry lobbyists to shape boilerplate legislation—a tactic frequently used by conservative national policy organizations such as the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC)—SiX connects lawmakers to policy advocates and agriculture-based organizations to share information and strategies in creating more effective policies.

Although organic practices are federally certified, “regenerative” methods—which hold many commonalities—are not typically strictly defined or certified. However, for the same reason, they are also often seen as more accessible to growers and less divisive than organic agriculture. And when done right, regenerative farming has been shown to have multiple benefits that appeal across partisan, racial, and geographic divides, says Renata Brillinger, executive director of the California Climate and Agriculture Network (CalCAN), an advising partner to SiX.

Along with reducing the need for synthetic fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides, practices that build healthy soil, for example, make land more resilient to drought, flooding, wildfires, and erosion. And the perks go far beyond the pastures, Brillinger says: “We get cleaner air and water, healthier communities, and a huge reduction in greenhouse gas emissions” through carbon sequestration.

As the gains become more obvious amid the growing challenges of the climate crisis,“the more conservative champions [can] get on board,” Brillinger adds, “because they [also] appreciate the benefits to the farmer and the farm economy.”

Since its implementation in 2017, California’s Healthy Soils program—part of the state’s suite of Climate Smart Agriculture initiatives aimed at mitigating the impacts of climate change and fostering sustainability across various sectors—has influenced similar policies throughout the country. Last year alone, six states passed bills that advance healthy soil management policies, programs, and funding.

For lawmakers from states short on resources or lagging in support for these measures, frontrunners like California help gauge effectiveness and build momentum for similar measures back home, says Brillinger. Along with sowing the seeds for incentive programs and educational resources down the line, more moderate initiatives can make it possible to collect federal funds.

Last April, Montana took a notable step in promoting good soil practices by designating an official Healthy Soils Week. Rather than laying out imperatives, the state act helps “gently lead people” towards regenerative practices, says the bill’s author, State Senator Bruce Gillespie, by recognizing the benefits of soil conservation and range management, particularly through rotational livestock grazing.

Despite being one of the country’s driest states, agriculture is Montana’s leading industry, “so there’s a big opportunity here” to promote the merits of building and preserving rich soil, adds the third-generation rancher, who was not in attendance at the Pescadero event. In addition to absorbing precious precipitation, he points to the fact that well-managed pastures can capture carbon, harbor wildlife, and become more resistant to erosion.

The “win-win” proposition has the support of Gillespie’s Republican and Democratic colleagues alike, he says, as well as farmers and conservation groups in the region. He hopes that Montana’s actions inspire other states in the grassland region—a sizable area that includes Wyoming, Nebraska, and the Dakotas—to adopt similar measures.

In the best-case scenario, state-level initiatives can influence federal policy, says CalCAN’s Brillinger. Congress is currently mulling the Agriculture Resilience Act, which would incentivize farmers and ranchers to engage in climate-friendly practices if its language gets included in the next farm bill. That proposition has been markedly influenced by similar state policies including California’s Converting Our Waste Sustainably (COWS) Act, which aims to reduce greenhouse gas emissions through pasture-based manure management.

Laying the Foundation for Change

Nevertheless, in most farm states, the existing legislative structure firmly favors commodity agriculture and the companies it benefits, making even incremental policy changes daunting, says Liz Moran Stelk, executive director of the Illinois Stewardship Alliance (ISA), a Chicago-based nonprofit organization. Built to serve “a massive, complex, and incredibly productive and efficient food system,” its presence, she adds, is unyielding.

In past decades, the large-scale consolidation of the food supply chain has reduced processing, aggregation, and transportation to a handful of companies. As a result, smaller producers often face greater hurdles in adopting any practices that sit outside the mainstream. Without access to markets and appropriate infrastructure (think: organic grain elevators and slaughterhouses) growers can’t fetch added premiums for sustainable practices. “It’s hard to do the right thing,” notes Stelk, “if you’re getting paid the same as your neighbor who doesn’t do anything extra.”

“It’s hard to do the right thing if you’re getting paid the same as your neighbor who doesn’t do anything extra.”

Several Western and Midwestern states, however, have managed to promote conservation-minded practices through modest incentives. The Illinois-based Saving Tomorrow’s Agricultural Resources (STAR) Program sets standards for regenerative practices such as crop rotation, tillage, and nutrient applications. Based on their level of stewardship, the voluntary grading system awards farmers with one to five stars, with “pay-for-performance” incentives based on their rating.

Created in 2017, STAR programs have spread to more than 10 states, and a national organization was established earlier this year. As momentum builds throughout various regions, it has spawned wider discussions about incentivizing other parts of the supply chain for regenerative producers, says Stelk.

‘Context Is Everything’

Although the weekend workshop in Pescadero revealed many approaches to strategic state-level governance, it also exposed stark differences in the operational landscape. “Context is everything,” says Hawaii State Representative Amy Perruso, whose state’s plantation history has resulted in a distinct political and agricultural landscape. Big ag continues its outsized presence on the islands in the form of seed companies—GMO seed corn is Hawaii’s top cash crop—so the power they exert “is a big obstacle to systemic change,” she says.

Yet exposure to the broad implications of regenerative farming was eye-opening, says Perruso, in understanding the larger framing of agricultural policy. In the aftermath of her state’s devastating recent wildfires, the effectiveness of policies that promote managed grazing—which reduces fire risk by increasing soil moisture and keeping invasive grasses in check—seem self-evident, she notes.

In addition to bolstering climate resilience, many regenerative practices are also the cornerstone of Native Hawaiian farming systems, which prioritize soil and water stewardship. And because propelling these efforts can impact food sovereignty, it also carries “strong political implications,” she adds.

Perruso’s insight also underscores the importance of considering the diversity of stakeholders invested in regenerative farming. And Indigenous perspectives are especially relevant to shaping effective state-level food and agricultural policy, says Yadira Riviera, associate director at the nonprofit First Nations Development Institute (FNDI).

As a presenter at the Pescadero workshop, Rivera reminded lawmakers that Native farmers, ranchers, and food producers—including foragers and harvesters—hold deep-rooted, traditional expertise. Their insight is essential to creating sustainable, culturally sensitive, and region-specific policies, she says.

Soliciting input from a broad pool of stakeholders also helps lawmakers formulate more effective policy, says Riviera. Funding for fencing, for instance, may not have obvious regenerative benefits, but for farmers and ranchers practicing managed grazing—which requires rotating livestock between multiple fenced paddocks—it’s an absolute necessity.

CalCAN’s Brillinger believes that building a more resilient food and farming system is in everybody’s interest, so collective action is imperative to shoring up effective policies. And unlike the drastic climate solutions needed in the energy and transportation sectors, many agriculture- and land-based strategies don’t require expensive, high-tech approaches, she notes, and can be easily implemented—given the political will. “The benefits are just so multifaceted,” she says, “that it’s kind of a no-brainer.”

And finally, the weekend gathering highlighted yet another perk to regenerative farming: “mind-blowing” produce cultivated in rich healthy soil. “It was such an experience eating that food,” says Perruso, of the generous spreads served on the ranch. “I’ve never tasted vegetables like that.”

Civil Eats receives funding from TomKat Educational Fund. We also receive funding from FNDI to support our Indigenous Foodways reporting.

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]]> https://civileats.com/2023/12/04/can-agriculture-kick-its-plastic-addiction/ https://civileats.com/2023/12/04/can-agriculture-kick-its-plastic-addiction/#comments Mon, 04 Dec 2023 09:00:49 +0000 https://civileats.com/?p=54500 These synthetic polymer products have often been used to help boost yields up to 60 percent and make water and pesticide use more efficient. In China, for example, research shows that plastic field covers keep the soil warm and wet in a way that boosts productivity considerably; an additional 15,000 square miles of arable land—an […]

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Plastics are tightly woven into the fabric of modern agriculture. Black polyethylene “mulch film” gets tucked snugly around crop rows, clear plastic sheeting covers hoop houses, and most farmers use plastic seed trays, irrigation tubes, and fertilizer bags.

These synthetic polymer products have often been used to help boost yields up to 60 percent and make water and pesticide use more efficient. In China, for example, research shows that plastic field covers keep the soil warm and wet in a way that boosts productivity considerably; an additional 15,000 square miles of arable land—an area about the size of  Switzerland—would be required to produce the same amount of food.

Research shows that as the chemicals from degrading debris leach into the soil, their persistence decreases crop productivity while snaking up the food chain, appearing in earthworm guts and even human placentas.

But plasticulture, or the use of plastic products in agriculture, also comes with a wide range of known problems. Plastic contaminates fields at a much greater scale than it does our oceans, posing an acute threat to soil health and food security. Research shows that as the chemicals from degrading debris leach into the soil, their persistence decreases crop productivity while snaking up the food chain, appearing in earthworm guts and even human placentas.

In the larger scope, agriculture accounts for a small slice of the plastics pie—less than 3 percent of the annual 440 million tons produced worldwide. Yet their pervasive use—along with farmland, plastics cover everything from individual seeds to bales of hay and packaged produce—has allowed them to plant themselves deeply in our food supply. “Relatively speaking, it’s a small volume,” says Philip Demokritou, vice chair of Rutgers University’s environmental occupational health and justice department and author of a recent international report on plastics in agriculture. “But it carries the highest risks.”

Given the challenges of feeding a ballooning global population, curtailing our dependence on plastics to grow food is a daunting proposition. Simply put, “there are no magic solutions,” says Demokritou. Mitigation requires slashing production and consumption, he adds, and increasing recycling and reuse all along the supply chain.

From implementing policies, incentives, and regulations to engaging producers, farmers, and consumers, it’s an all-encompassing effort that “we need to battle collectively as a society,” he says. And yet considering the impacts to both environmental and human health, investing in comprehensive, innovative, and proactive measures will be far more cost-effective, Demokritou suggests, “than feeding disease and disasters down the line.”

Polluting the Food Chain

The world has a voracious appetite for plastic. The Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) estimates that global plastic waste is on track to nearly triple by 2060. With less than a fifth of the end stream getting recycled, single-use products make up the bulk of the waste, and it’s destined to go to landfills, be incinerated, or escape into the larger environment.

Meanwhile, 98 percent of disposables are made from “virgin” feedstock, driving renewed growth for fossil fuel companies that supply the raw material. All told, annual greenhouse gases released from plastic production, landfilling, and incineration total 850 million tons, or 4.5 percent of global emissions. And studies also show that plastic pollution disproportionately affects disadvantaged communities.

According to FAO, plastic films such as black mulch and greenhouse covers account for the bulk of annual global use, at more than 8 million tons.

Nevertheless, the versatility, affordability, and convenience of synthetic polymers make them indispensable to most industries, including agriculture. The field consumes 14 million tons of plastics every year, with crop and livestock production accounting for 80 percent.

In 2021, the United Nations (U.N.) Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) issued a report highlighting the urgent need for more sustainable use of agricultural plastics. The landmark assessment subsequently paved the way for the U.N. to push for a global treaty to slash plastic pollution.

According to FAO, plastic films such as black mulch and greenhouse covers account for the bulk of annual global use, at more than 8 million tons. In addition to extending the growing season by warming the soil, safeguarding plants’ roots, and preserving soil moisture, these plastics also suppress weeds.

The drawbacks, however, are just as consequential. Plastic mulch creates an impervious surface that concentrates chemical runoff while overheating fields and impacting soil health. And the single-use product is neither recyclable nor reusable, requiring seasonal retrieval and disposal. The Rodale Institute, a nonprofit research institution for organic farming, cites that every acre of land farmed with plastic mulch creates upwards of 120 pounds of waste that typically end up in landfill, or otherwise break down into the soil or nearby watersheds.

In China, where farms use enough plastic film to cover the surface area of Idaho every year, the difficulty of end-of-season removal led growers, at one point, to plow the plastic directly into the field. The widespread practice, which took place through the late aughts, “had a deleterious effect on soil quality,” says Richard H. Thompson, a former agricultural plastics sustainability expert at FAO and a lead author of the 2021 report. As contamination rose, crop yields fell by 15 percent.

That practice was banned, but plastics have continued to disintegrate and leave an unavoidable trail of debris and impacts—wherever they’re used. “It takes about 10,000 chemicals to produce plastics,” says Rutgers’ Demokritou, noting that the additives are necessary to give polymers flexibility and other functionality.

As they fragment under sunlight, temperature fluctuations, and wear and tear, the micro- and nanoplastic (MNP) particles remain chemically stable even as they physically decompose. Accumulating in soils over time, the residues hinder water absorption and impact microbial communities. Eventually, MNPs “pollute the food chain,” Demokritou says, posing health risks such as disrupting endocrine and digestive functions and harboring drug-resistant superbugs.

Driving Coordinated Action

In the past decade, the massive reliance on plastic mulch has spurred the development of greener alternatives employable on an equivalent scale. Several agrochemical companies have developed biodegradable plastic mulches (BDMs) that, while doubly expensive, relieve farmers of the cost and labor of removal by decomposing into the soil.

Yet independent studies on their long-term impacts to both soil health and crop productivity remain inconclusive. To give them the requisite plasticity, BDMs contain many similar additives as those found in conventional films, says Thompson, “so the jury is still out.”

The U.S. Department of Agriculture’s (USDA) National Organic Program (NOP) regulations require organic growers to use BDMs made with no less than 80 percent bio-based sources. Currently organic farms are permitted to use petroleum-based, non-PVC covers, granted that they are removed from the field at season’s end. However, no biodegradable films meet the NOP’s minimum threshold. (The European Union‘s organic farming regulations, however, permit bio-based, biodegradable films.)

While regulations can help drive innovation, driving coordinated action requires the development of an international framework that outlines sustainable use and management practices, says Thompson. By setting legally binding targets along the lines of the 2015 Paris Climate Agreement, the proposed U.N. treaty will be a groundbreaking effort to address plastic waste.

But achieving universal consensus is never easy, he says, so a voluntary code of conduct—a blueprint of sorts that outlines best practices and establishes responsibility for “all the different actors in the plastic supply chain”—would be much more effective in directing country-specific policies and legislation.

The U.S., for its part, has dragged its feet on endorsing a binding U.N. treaty, despite being the world’s largest generator of plastic waste. National efforts to stem the tide have also largely stalled. The latest federal bill, the Break Free From Plastic Pollution Act of 2023—the dead-on-arrival proposal was the third of its kind introduced in Congress in the last four years—called for a ban on certain single-use products and more end-of-life responsibility for producers.

“Without binding agreements, these programs fail when they begin to threaten [the] bottom line.”

A few states have made strides in directing the onus of waste management onto the industry itself. Maine, Oregon, and Colorado have approved extended producer responsibility (EPR) programs, which require packaging producers to shoulder the costs of recycling their products. And California recently passed the Plastic Pollution Producer Responsibility Act. The comprehensive law, which includes EPR provisions that go into effect in 2027, is intended to decrease single-use plastics and packaging, support communities vulnerable to plastic pollution, and promote a path toward a circular economy.

“Mandatory EPR policies are a powerful tool for transparency and accountability in an industry that is currently anything but,” says Anja Brandon, Ocean Conservancy’s associate director of U.S. plastics policy.

Industry-supported programs such as the Ag Container Recycling Council (ACRC)—the 30-year-old, not-for-profit trade association that collects pesticide drums and containers for recycling into landscaping pavers, drainpipe, and other end products—are voluntary. Yet producer-set goals and targets lack financial accountability for end-of-life product management, Brandon says. “Without binding agreements, these programs fail when they begin to threaten [the] bottom line.”

Currently, none of the EPR laws on the books specifically address agricultural plastics, focusing instead on reducing single-use packaging and food containers. California has required pesticide containers of a certain size to be recycled since 2009, though with no deposit or tracking system for returning containers in place, the estimated recycling rate runs about 50 percent, according to a spokesperson for the California Department of Pesticide Regulation, which runs the program

Creating transformational change and investment in the circular economy require policies that extend across the industry, Brandon adds. And along with redesigning plastics to “actually be recyclable,” improved reuse and recycling processes and investment in cleanups are crucial to meeting those goals, she says.

Weaning the Industry Off Plastic

Still, the broad impacts of agricultural plastics create an inherent opportunity to engage a diverse range of players. A 2019 study by the California Marine Sanctuary Foundation (CMSF) shows the extensive reach of farm-generated debris, particularly along watersheds adjacent to agricultural hotspots. Researchers found the state’s coastline along the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary (MBNMS)—the country’s largest federally protected marine area—littered with mulch and film, as well as irrigation tape, tubing, and hoses that had escaped from nearby fields in the farm-rich region.

The findings also revealed an array of stakeholders, who have since worked in tandem to develop effective waste management strategies. The Monterey County-based effort has created “strong collaboration all across the supply chain,” says Jazmine Mejia-Muñoz, CMSF’s water quality program manager, one that has prompted similar efforts further down the California coast.

By enlisting stakeholders—from small to large-scale growers, product manufacturers, and service providers that provide on-farm plastics collection and retrieval—through awareness and incentivized action, the regional waste management district has vastly increased the collection and recycling of drip tape and plastic film, says Mejia-Muñoz. (Growers get discounted dumping fees for cleaning, separating, and bundling products, all of which streamline the recycling process.)

The work is also supported by the MBNMS and the Agriculture Water Quality Alliance, a partnership of agriculture industry groups, resource conservation agencies, researchers, and environmental organizations stewarding Monterey Bay. CMSF has also partnered with the USDA and academic institutions in trialing biodegradable and recyclable films, helping to create a feedback loop between farmers, manufacturers and soil scientists on field-specific needs and performance. “It’s definitely a big team, but every member is so critical,” Mejia-Muñoz says.

But despite these efforts, tackling the scourge of plastics will still take large efforts to wean our dependence on disposables. “We need to mandate a reduction in plastic production across the board,” says Ocean Conservatory’s Brandon, “starting with single-use plastics.”

“We cannot continue to throw chemicals and materials out there . . . and clean up the mess 20, 30, 40 years later.”

For agriculture, bio-based alternatives to its biggest offender may not, in fact, require extensive innovation. Instead of film, many small farms employing sustainable and regenerative practices use natural mulches such as wood chips, leaves, or straw, relying on the low-cost, time-honored practice to keep weeds in check and regulate soil moisture and temperature. And while kraft paper has fallen short of matching the yields and durability of plastic mulch, a recently trialed version promises an uncoated and industrially compostable product that, according to the manufacturer, “provides a comparable level of protection.”

The Rodale Institute has also studied cover crops as a viable solution: Mowing or rolling vetch or rye grass into a solid mat has “great potential to replace plastic mulch,” says Vegetable Systems Trial Director Gladys Zinati. Though crop type, growing region, and the existing weed bank—the level of invasive seeds present in the soil—all impact effectiveness, her research showed that a solid mat of crimped vetch or rye grass resulted in greater crop yields with lower implementation costs than plastic sheets. (Soil moisture also increased, though minimally, and not enough to replace irrigation.)

While the trials were limited to farms less than 80 acres in size, Zinati sees major promise in expanding the practice. “Depending on [those] factors,” she adds,” everything is scalable.” (Rodale has even designed an add-on device for tractors, making the blueprint publicly available.)

Ultimately, history has repeatedly shown that the cycle of plastic pollution “is not a sustainable model,” says Rutgers’ Demokritou. “We cannot continue to throw chemicals and materials out there . . . and clean up the mess 20, 30, 40 years later.” And as much as our widespread reliance on plastics may seem inseverable, transformative change, he adds, is possible.

“Look what happened to asbestos,” Demokritou says. “That industry [all but] disappeared, right?”

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]]> https://civileats.com/2023/12/04/can-agriculture-kick-its-plastic-addiction/feed/ 3 https://civileats.com/2023/10/24/california-will-help-bipoc-collective-cultivate-land-access-for-underserved-farmers/ Tue, 24 Oct 2023 08:00:56 +0000 https://civileats.com/?p=53912 After six years of enriching the soil and cultivating neighborly relationships, however, We Grow Farms is up against an insurmountable challenge facing many farms and pastures across the state: the real estate market. In the next year, the lot’s landowner, a developer, plans to turn the urban farm into affordable housing to feed an acute […]

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Surrounded by low-income apartments, senior housing, and the cheerful hum of an elementary school playground, We Grow Farms is an unlikely yet central landmark in West Sacramento. Just a few miles from California’s state capital, owner Nelson Hawkins has turned an abandoned half-acre lot into a hub of food production for the community. Leased through the West Sacramento Urban Farm Program, the regenerative urban oasis attracts nearby residents, students, and plenty of honeybees.

After six years of enriching the soil and cultivating neighborly relationships, however, We Grow Farms is up against an insurmountable challenge facing many farms and pastures across the state: the real estate market. In the next year, the lot’s landowner, a developer, plans to turn the urban farm into affordable housing to feed an acute regional housing demand.

While Hawkins is sympathetic to the need, he says the farm’s uprooting will come at a great cost. He estimates that he has invested nearly $40,000 in soil improvements and irrigation infrastructure alone, and the loss will also impact the underserved communities We Grow supports.

As a Black farmer, Hawkins also provides a visible, powerful connection between food and its source, supplying the neighborhood with fresh produce such as collard greens, black-eyed peas, and tomatillos at its weekly, onsite farm stand. The rest is distributed to nearby urban and suburban areas in Yolo and Sacramento counties through food programs and community supported agriculture (CSA) subscription boxes—25 percent of it for free.

Nelson Hawkins works at We Grow Farms in West Sacramento. (Photo credit: Naoki Nitta)

Small-scale farms are highly sensitive to the profession’s many challenges, including extreme weather, rising water and labor costs, and razor-thin margins. And for the majority that rent or lease their fields, the lack of long-term land stability can make farming “a David and Goliath battle,” Hawkins says—especially for growers who are Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC). Together, BIPOC growers own less than 2 percent of all farmland in the country.

But Hawkins, along with Nathaniel Brown and Keith Hudson—two other Black growers in the Sacramento River Delta—have a plan to address the disparity. As founders of the nonprofit Ujamaa Farmer Collective, the trio aim to strengthen the roots for historically underserved farmers by staking a cooperative claim to land ownership.

“You need at least $1 million to purchase farmland in California, and that doesn’t even include the tools, infrastructure, resources, and the labor.”

After persistent advocacy efforts by agriculture groups, the California legislature allotted a $1.25 million grant in 2022 to Ujamaa for the purchase of a medium-sized plot of land in Yolo County. The deed secures the tenure for multiple farms to operate on individual plots ranging in size from half an acre to 5 acres, each with a voice in collective governance and access to shared resources.

By building a resilient, worker-controlled network on secure soil, Ujamaa—which is named after a Swahili word for extended family and the fourth principle of Kwanzaa, embodying cooperative economics and advancement—will “elevate everybody’s potential so [we] can all thrive,” says Hawkins.

Agriculture-based collectives, such as farmer cooperatives and produce and commodity associations, are well-established in this country. Yet “they’re often white-led and they’ve had privilege,” including greater access to land and resources, says Brandi Mack, national director of The Butterfly Movement, an educational organization working to connect BIPOC women to the land through permaculture.

Mack is also a member of the People’s Land Fund, a collaborative that includes members from seven other social justice and agriculture nonprofits and is providing Ujamaa with pilot support, including pre-development guidance and starting capital.

Ujamaa’s purpose “is a different consciousness,” Mack says. Collective land ownership and governance set the course for “redistributing the flow to BIPOC farmers,” empowering them to build a more resilient community by amplifying their voices and “getting a leg up in the food sovereignty game.”

The Widening Historical Gap

California’s recent initiative is part of a larger state commitment that started in 2017 with the Farmer Equity Act, which aims to increase resource equity among historically underserved farmers. Other endeavors have included a $40 million allocation to Allensworth, the state’s first Black community founded in 1908, to invest in an organic farm and other enhancement, preservation, and planning projects, as well as land restoration for tribal communities.

“We’re trying to get away from the more colonial, extractive, and destructive systems that have shaped farming over the last 100 years.”

The efforts come at a crucial point for Black farmers, whose numbers have been on a precarious national decline over the last century. At their peak in 1910, African Americans made up around 14 percent of all U.S. growers and owned more than 16 million acres of land. Today, they make up just 1.3 percent of all farmers and own fewer than 5 million acres. The Golden State’s numbers are even more dire; the 2017 U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) census counted just 429 African Americans out of approximately 124,000 producers.

Meanwhile, national efforts to reverse disparities continue to fall short. Facing fierce political backlash, the 2021 American Rescue Plan Act—a debt relief program intended as restitution for decades of documented discrimination against Black and Indigenous farmers by the USDA— was rewritten to remove race from eligibility requirements. And recent reports also uncovered disproportionately high USDA loan rejection rates for BIPOC growers under the Trump administration.

For historically underserved farmers, land security is fundamental to leveling the field, says Jamie Fanous, policy director at the Community Alliance with Family Farmers, a nonprofit that advocated for Ujamaa’s legislative allocation. Yet intense competition for land in the state has widened the gap in farm ownership, she adds. Currently, more than half of the state’s cropland is held by 5 percent of landowners, while one-third of all fields and pastures are rented or leased out by non-farming landowners.

“Land grabs are rampant” throughout California, says Fanous, noting the latest case in which an investment group snatched up 55,000 acres of ranch and farmland in Solano County, in the northeastern San Francisco Bay Area. “And it’s getting worse as we see hedge funds and corporations come in,” she says.

Investors usually amass agricultural parcels for planting large-scale, high-value commodity crops, or develop them for residential and urban uses. As bigger players take over the landscape, it’s typically at the expense of smaller ones, and a disproportionate number of those tend to be BIPOC and historically underserved farmers.

“You need at least $1 million to purchase farmland in California, and that doesn’t even include the tools, infrastructure, resources, and the labor,” Fanous says. “It’s just insane, but that’s the reality we’re in right now.”

An Intentional Community

Brown, Ujamaa’s co-founder, has witnessed a drastic change in the Sacramento area. The owner of Brown Sugar Farm cultivates a half-acre parcel behind his family home in Citrus Heights, a residential neighborhood 15 miles northeast of West Sacramento. In less than two decades, he has seen much of the agricultural land nearby disappear, including a pumpkin patch and a barnyard once located across the street.

The 29-year-old grower has carved a successful niche at local farmers markets selling unconventional crops such as Caribbean red, striped, and fish peppers, stinging nettles, and flowers, all grown using a home-brewed, brown sugar-based fertilizer. However, his farm, which includes two pygmy goats that help maintain weeds, is quickly outgrowing its space, Brown says. And despite the security of family property, there’s no room to expand.

Along with more fields and new water infrastructure, Brown’s wish list of upgrades includes cold storage, a washing and staging station, and tractor access—most of which require additional space, construction, and expensive permits. Without the ability to scale up, these investments simply won’t pan out, he says.

Nathanial Brown owns Brown Sugar Farms in Citrus Heights, where he grows unusual crops such as Caribbean red, striped, and fish peppers, stinging nettles, and flowers. He uses a home-brewed, brown sugar-based fertilizer instead of commercial fertilizer. (Photo credit: Jason Elias Photography)

For small-scale farmers, particularly those engaged in regenerative practices, the return on investment in soil health, irrigation, and crops can often take years to realize. Farming, though, “is a long-term process,” says Brown, as is stewarding the earth, so moving his operations to Ujamaa’s new land will allow him to “think a few seasons ahead.”

The stability of land ownership lets farmers plan more resilient and diverse operations, he adds. Orchards and other perennials, for example, make more sense when you own your own land because they can take a while to mature. And while permanent crops don’t typically yield immediate profits, they can help buffer producers from pests, disease, and market spikes. Building up healthy soil can also increase carbon sequestration and moisture retention, reducing the impacts of drought, extreme rainfall, and the increasing challenges from climate change.

As a collective, “we’re trying to get away from the more colonial, extractive, and destructive systems that have shaped farming over the last 100 years,” Brown says.

The stability of the collective also reinforces a culturally relevant model of land and community stewardship. “Intentional community started with Black folks in this country,” says Mack, of the People’s Land Fund. She notes that rural livelihoods, marginalization, and meager economic resources—the reality of Black roots in this country— have encouraged strong cooperative networks. “That’s the only way we survived.”

Still, “it’s difficult to unbuild how land was used to punish us for 400 years,” Mack says, referring to the deep scars left by a history of enslavement and sharecropping. She sees greater representation in the field as key to reclaiming that relationship for a new generation. “With the land stewards themselves being folks of color and running the program,” she adds, Ujamaa “is really going to help shift the paradigm.”

Ujamaa’s Hawkins also sees the collective cultivating much more than food. The organization’s mission is to fill the gap for historically underserved growers who lack access to land, generational wealth, or a family background in farming, he says. The individual farms that compose the collective will tap into shared resources such as water, infrastructure, and large equipment, while nurturing and sharing skills and institutional knowledge about regenerative practices and long-term land stewardship. Ujamaa will also make onsite worker housing a key priority.

“There’s security in a collective,” says Hawkins, noting that he sees Ujamaa as both a scalable and replicable model of collective ownership and governance. “The more we can work together, nudge each other, and educate each other—we’re stronger together.”

Minnow, a member of the People’s Land Fund and a nonprofit organization advancing social equity in farming, is currently helping Ujamaa develop its collective governance structure.

Hawkins, Brown, and Hudson also hope to create a safe space for the BIPOC community, which, Hawkins notes, is often a rarity in rural areas. He hopes the Yolo County location will keep Ujamaa farmers connected to urban markets, community resources, and organizations.

“We want to maintain those relationships,” he says, “and expand our impact to folks that need better access to fresh food.”

“Growing food brings people together in such a powerful way,” says Hawkins, who hopes that the land acquisition will materialize by the end of the year. But with a huge systemic imbalance for those who produce it, “now’s the time for us to make that shift happen in a racially equitable way,” he adds. “Otherwise, it’s just going to be the same thing.”

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]]> https://civileats.com/2023/09/19/california-leads-the-way-in-low-carbon-school-meals/ Tue, 19 Sep 2023 08:00:57 +0000 https://civileats.com/?p=53295 The IPCC assessment “was pretty unforgiving,” says the director of nutrition services for Southern California’s Santa Ana Unified School District (SAUSD), in making “strong connections between our food systems and climate change.” Methane is a short-lived but potent greenhouse gas that scientists say has driven roughly 30 percent of Earth’s warming since pre-industrial times. The […]

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In 2021, Josh Goddard came across some sobering news. That year’s United Nation’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) report showed that globally, meat and dairy production is responsible for fueling nearly a third of human-caused methane gas emissions.

The IPCC assessment “was pretty unforgiving,” says the director of nutrition services for Southern California’s Santa Ana Unified School District (SAUSD), in making “strong connections between our food systems and climate change.” Methane is a short-lived but potent greenhouse gas that scientists say has driven roughly 30 percent of Earth’s warming since pre-industrial times.

“Kids and lentils aren’t good bedfellows.” But creativity and the right investments “can make something like lentil piccadillo rather special.”

The news was “an impetus for action” for Goddard, who runs one of the state’s largest school meal programs serving upwards of 10 million lunches, breakfasts, snacks, and suppers annually with more than 80 percent of students eligible for free and reduced-priced meals.

With blessing from administrators and the community, Santa Ana schools started offering an entirely plant-based lunch menu once a week. Milk is still available daily per U.S. Department of Agriculture’s (USDA) requirement. The revised offerings, which include creative dishes such as tempeh tacos and buffalo cauliflower wraps, have helped reduce SAUSD’s climate impact, Goddard says. His EPA-guided calculations estimate a district-wide reduction in emissions by about 1,300 tons a year.

Santa Ana’s efforts, however, are not unique. Across the nation, students returning to school have found expanded plant-based options in their cafeteria offerings. But in California, an array of recent progressive school food initiatives has helped raise the bar on making lunch menus not just more climate-friendly, but healthier and more inclusive, by appealing to a greater range of dietary preferences and restrictions—as well as palettes.

“Kids and lentils aren’t good bedfellows,” says Goddard. With tight budgets and complex USDA reimbursement requirements, appeasing the palettes of 39,000 students can be a challenge. But along with creativity, ingenuity, and state support, investments in kitchen facilities, equipment, and staff training, he says, “can make something like lentil piccadillo rather special.”

Plant-Powered Progress

As school districts across the country move to a plant-forward menu approach, many have widened their offerings far beyond cheese pizzas and nut butter sandwiches. In 2022, the New York School System introduced “Plant-Powered Fridays,” serving up hot, vegan meals such as zesty chickpea stew and a bean and plantain bowl to its 1.1 million students. Lee County schools in Florida—the 32nd largest school district in the country—have been dishing up bean burger gyros and breaded tofu nuggets weekly since 2015.

At public schools in Minneapolis, “we make [plant-based dishes] a choice, every single day,” says Bertrand Weber, director of the district’s culinary and wellness services. While selections often include dairy products, they steer clear of meat analogs such as imitation chicken tenders and “bleeding vegan burgers,” he says.

Instead, offerings focus on fiber-rich, whole and minimally-processed ingredients including legumes and pulses, pea protein crumble, and soy products such as tofu and tempeh—foods that are better aligned with the nutritional guidelines of leading public health organizations.

“We want to normalize plant-based food and not stigmatize it.”

Plant-based foods are not the most popular items on the menu, Weber concedes. He estimates the “take rate” is about 10 percent—though he has seen steady growth in demand since implementing the change two years ago. In nearby Richfield, the district reports that on some days, nearly half of its students reach for the vegan choice. “Our approach is, here are the [daily] options that you have,” he says, “and one of those is always non-meat.”

Such broader selections caters to the shifting trend among Gen Z towards plant-based diets—which, despite an increase in overall U.S. meat consumption, has jumped sevenfold since 2017.

“Everybody seems to have a different reason for eating plant-based foods,” says Kayla Beyer, founder of Deeply Rooted Farms. The plant-based protein manufacturer supplies a pea crumble to schools across the country that replaces ground beef “one for one,” without changing recipes.

The product checks many boxes including environmental, health, and animal welfare concerns, says Beyer, while helping schools respond to dietary, religious, and cultural restrictions. Unlike imitation meat burgers decried by environmental advocates for their heavy carbon footprint, the shelf-stable crumble requires minimal processing and ships dry, thereby lightening transport costs and freeing up refrigerator space. The low-allergen ingredient is also certified kosher and halal, “so it has broad appeal” in an understated way, she adds. “We want to normalize plant-based food and not stigmatize it.”

Revamping the Menu

Back in California, a new report from Friends of the Earth (FOE) finds that in the state’s 25 largest school districts, lunches are increasingly leaning towards inclusivity. The study, which reviewed changes in menus from the past four years, found that more than two-thirds now serve non-meat, non-dairy entrees at least once a week—a 50 percent spike since 2019. Additionally, more than half of middle and high schools offer a plant-based option every day.

“We were astonished to see the progress, despite 2020 being such a tough year for school nutrition services,” says Nora Stewart, FOE’s California climate friendly school food manager, who led the study, noting the unprecedented challenges in staffing and supply chains during the height of the pandemic.

Stewart points to a confluence of major state initiatives that helped propel the effort, starting with the Universal Free Meals Program. Along with nine other states, California has extended federal pandemic-era benefits to offer free breakfast and lunch to all students, regardless of income status.

Along with ensuring equitable meal access, the state has also made significant investments in school food policy reform aimed at improving the quality and sustainability of cafeteria menus. California’s $60 million Farm to School Incubator Grant Program, a first in the country, supports districts in sourcing organic and locally grown foods.

Additionally, the Kitchen Infrastructure and Training (KIT) fund allocates $600 million to upgrade school cooking facilities and train staff to expand on-site meal preparation. And a one-time $100 million fund helps districts implement these and other nutrition- and climate impact-minded measures.

The state support is invaluable to menu transition, Stewart says. While beans and legumes are cheap, procuring and transforming plant-based ingredients into appealing meals—ones that can compete with popular options—can be a challenge, she adds. And the USDA Foods program, which provides schools with subsidized meat, dairy, and other select commodities, covers a limited range of plant-based proteins such as beans and nut butters, “so the [state] funding helps to really offset some of those costs.”

Moises Plascencia, farm to school program coordinator in Santa Ana, says that the new programs help elevate plant-forward menus to a whole new level. The support for local sourcing allows procurement from farms within a 70-mile radius, giving the district access to a greater choice of fresh produce.

With a near-90 percent Latino population, ingredients such as tomatillos, Mexican squash, and herbs resonate with students, he notes, and lets kitchen staff “provide culturally relevant foods.” And that ups the appeal of any school lunch, he adds, “because then, you’re providing folks with things they want.”

“We’re increasingly drawing the connection between food as a driver of climate change … even just a small shift [towards a plant-based diet] could have a profound impact.”

Nevertheless, the tight $5 per-meal federal reimbursement rate often hamstrings budgets. “Nutrition service directors are hugely incentivized to use their pot of money on the USDA foods program,” says FOE’s Stewart, which ultimately skews the menu towards a heavy reliance on federally subsidized animal products.

Further south in Temecula Valley, limited budgets aren’t the only deterrent to embracing a full plant-based menu, says Amanda Shears, Temecula Valley Unified School District’s (TVUSD) assistant nutrition services director, in an email. Overall demand in the 27,000-student district—where nearly a quarter qualify for free and reduced lunches—is “minimal,” she adds, so “my goal is to design menus for everyone . . . using the resources and funds available.”

All district schools offer daily vegetarian options, but most contain cheese and dairy, says Ava Cuevas, a junior at TVUSD’s Chaparral High School. And the two vegan options—the bean burger and salad bar—are served in limited quantities, so they’re “sold out in minutes,” she adds.

As an animal welfare activist, Cuevas sees plant-based diets addressing a range of concerns, including climate impact and access to healthy food. She has also experienced food insecurity in the past, so the value of school lunches is not lost on her, she says. “Knowing that I can’t rely on [it] is definitely a distraction.” She’s stepping up her advocacy this fall—though until things change, she adds, “it’s [going to be] a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Meanwhile, Shears maintains that “making more plant-based meals available is important to me,” noting that the district is trying to ramp up scratch cooking and local sourcing of fruit and greens. Yet her department faces pressing priorities: Since the pandemic, school kitchens have been “severely understaffed,” she says, and equipment and facilities need an upgrade to better accommodate onsite food storage and preparation. The state funds, she adds, will be definitely helpful in the endeavor.

Statewide, the FOE report found that beef, cheese, and poultry together accounted for more than two-thirds of school purchases through the USDA program. Plant-based protein, on the other hand, made up just 2.5 percent of the pie, despite representing 8 percent of menu offerings. The USDA is currently considering a proposal for expanding credit options to include whole nuts, seeds, and legumes, according to an agency spokesperson contacted by Civil Eats.

Not surprisingly, cheeseburgers and ground beef entrees are among the most popular lunch selections in California schools. Yet, because of cattle’s large methane footprint, those choices result in 22 times more greenhouse gases in the atmosphere than tofu noodle bowls or a plant-based wrap, Stewart notes, and account for nearly half the climate footprint of all protein served at lunch.

And while pizza and other cheese-heavy dishes have only a quarter of the impact, the relative inefficiency of cheese production—it takes almost 10 pounds of milk to make a pound of cheese—still equate to sizable emissions, along with high water and land use requirements.

“We’re increasingly drawing the connection between food as a driver of climate change,” Stewart adds. With an enrollment of nearly 6 million students in California public schools, “even just a small shift [towards a plant-based diet] could have a profound impact” in reversing the course.

Yet revamping menus to steer schools in a plant-forward direction—and for that matter, a more nutrition-minded one—requires equipping them with adequate resources, says Brandy Dreibelbis, executive director of culinary at the Chef Ann Foundation, a nonprofit that promotes whole ingredient, scratch cooking and better nutrition in schools.

Investing in kitchen facilities and culinary training for staff is key to tailoring healthier meals, Dreibelbis says, and transitioning lunches away from processed heat-and-serve foods. “Cooking from scratch gives [schools] much more flexibility in their menus,” particularly whole ingredient, plant-forward ones. And other upgrades such as larger refrigerators can boost the procurement of fresh, locally grown ingredients, helping to truncate the supply chain and create more transparent connections to the food source.

As part of a national organization, Dreibelbis has seen progress in all 50 states, but California is way ahead of the game, she says, especially with the recent flood of initiatives. “There’s so much more momentum and progress [in the state] around school food in general.”

And ultimately, schools have an influential role in shaping the eating habits of their students—and steering the course of consumption towards more climate-conscious choices.

“It’s a big opportunity to make sweeping changes to our food system right now,” says SAUSD’s Goddard. “If the federal government [runs] one of the largest feeding operations on the planet, why shouldn’t that be a venue for change?”

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]]> https://civileats.com/2023/07/26/a-fight-for-salmon-fishing-rights-connects-indigenous-peoples-across-the-pacific-ocean/ Wed, 26 Jul 2023 08:00:34 +0000 https://civileats.com/?p=52725 For the Ainu, a people Indigenous to Japan’s northernmost island and its surrounding region, salmon is king—as fundamental to life as the air, mountains, and sea. In fact, shipe, one of several Native names for the fish, is synonymous with food itself. “It returns to us year after year,” says Sashima, “as though it were […]

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In May 2017, Masaki Sashima, head of the Raporo Ainu Nation, led a small delegation of fellow tribal members from Urahoro, a coastal city in Hokkaido, Japan, to visit their Indigenous counterparts in Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. Despite the separation in language, culture, and a vast ocean, he recalls the striking bond between them. “These,” he says, “were fellow Salmon People.”

For the Ainu, a people Indigenous to Japan’s northernmost island and its surrounding region, salmon is king—as fundamental to life as the air, mountains, and sea. In fact, shipe, one of several Native names for the fish, is synonymous with food itself. “It returns to us year after year,” says Sashima, “as though it were a promise.”

“Salmon is central not just to our cuisine, but to our identity.”

It was an eye-opening experience, he says, to see the Makah and Lower Elwha Klallam Tribes freely exercising their right to catch salmon. Sashima insists that the ability to do so is inherent to all Native Salmon Peoples—yet it is wholly disregarded by the Japanese government. The restriction threatens an already compromised and marginalized existence, he adds, and fails to uphold Indigenous rights recognized by the United Nations.

Drawing on inspiration from Pacific Northwest tribes in the United States, the Raporo have set out to reclaim historical fishing rights they believe Japan extinguished 140 years ago. But despite commonalities in Native histories, the group faces the upstream challenges of a differing legal framework, cultural fabric, and colonial past. Nevertheless, advocates see the American precedent—one cemented by government treaties and state recognition of sovereignty—as foundational to their pursuit.

The quest, however, extends far beyond the basic right to fish, Sashima notes. The trip also revealed how all 20 member tribes of the Northwest Indian Fisheries Commission (NWIFC) manage their own natural resources—and, in turn, their self-determination and governance.

“This,” Sashima realized, “is what we should be aiming for.”

An Inspiring Precedent

Located a stone’s throw from Shinjuku Station, Harukor, Tokyo’s only Ainu restaurant, prominently features a range of traditional Native ingredients, most sourced directly from Hokkaido. Japanese spirits are infused with haspkap berries and shikerebe bark, while mountain wasabi, red shiso, and kitopiro, a wild green onion, are served alongside wild salmon, Ezo venison, and on the rare occasion, bear—all grilled, seared, or simmered in the impossibly tiny, open kitchen of the 18-seat izakaya.

The menu reflects the distinct culture of a hunting, fishing, and gathering people, says owner Teruyo Usa—one deeply rooted in the landscape and resources of Hokkaido, Sakhalin, the Kurils, and their surrounding seas. Her tribal group, the Rutomte, hails from Kushiro, on Hokkaido’s southeast coast, though her mother moved her and her siblings to Tokyo when she was 10 in search of better opportunities and the ability to lead a more open life.

Harukor, Tokyo’s only Ainu restaurant, features traditional Native ingredients mostly sourced directly from Hokkaido. Owner Teruyo Usa (pictured left) says salmon is central to Ainu identity. (Photo credit: Naoki Nitta)

Japan’s northern region was once the distinct domain of the Ainu, who migrated to the islands long before recorded history and settled into numerous kotan, or permanent villages comprised of a few dozen families. Most were located near salmon spawning grounds, giving the fish prominence in shaping Ainu culture and spirituality.

“Salmon is central not just to our cuisine,” says Usa, “but to our identity.”

Japan’s colonization of Hokkaido in the 18th century brought a seismic shift to the Ainu way of life. In addition to aggressive assimilation policies—among them the suppression of language and the outlawing of many customs, including tattooing and ear-piercing—the influx of mainland settlers had profound impacts on Native sustenance and livelihood.

By 1883, as zealous commercial overfishing depleted salmon runs, the Japanese government banned Ainu from catching their own supply. Deprived of their main food source, the Ainu witnessed the collapse of entire kotan, leaving many communities to further erode through urban migration and resettlement in subsequent decades.

Amid rampant discrimination and limited economic opportunities, many Ainu assimilated and dispersed into Japanese society, gravitating largely to Sapporo, Hokkaido’s largest city. In 1979, an official survey counted approximately 24,160 Ainu within the prefecture’s overall population of more than 5 million. Their numbers have since plummeted to nearly 13,120, according to a 2017 poll.

While that figure doesn’t include the estimated 5,000 Ainu who, like Usa, live in other parts of Japan, it reflects only those who self-identify. And because the Japanese census doesn’t track race or ethnic origin, there’s general consensus that the population is far greater.

“Where possible, the vast majority prefer to hide their origins,” Sashima says, despite an explicit national ban on discrimination put into law four years ago.

The Raporo, who trace their kotan to the Tōkachi River basin, currently count nine members in their ranks, a decline from 40 nearly three decades ago. Sashima guesses that there could be as many as 200 Ainu individuals hidden throughout Urahoro, an area once dotted with multiple tribal settlements. Still, he adds, it’s hard to know for sure—a municipal survey conducted in the mid-1980s resulted in many of the 4,500 residents shooing away poll takers.

In a major testament to resilience, Ainu customs, language, and cultural practices have managed to survive the long history of marginalization. And as activists, including Sashima and Harukor’s Usa, push to reinforce their presence in contemporary Japanese society, they say they’re heartened by the increased public support and visibility.

For its part, the Hokkaido government, which regulates the prefecture’s fishing grounds, grants tribal groups an exceptional act: Every fall, each is given the right to catch up to 200 salmon in observance of asir cep nomi, an Ainu ceremony that marks the fish’s annual migration back to the island’s major rivers and tributaries.

Members of the Raporo Ainu Nation and the Monbetsu Ainu Association observe asir cep nomi, an Ainu ceremony that marks the fish’s annual migration back to the island’s major rivers and tributaries. (Photo credit: Centre for Environmental and Minority Policy Studies)

Sashima acknowledges that the concession permits the continuation of a vital practice. Yet it confines the perception of Indigenous culture to food and rituals, he adds. “When it comes to our right to pursue a livelihood through traditional means, the country remains in complete denial.”

In a bold declaration of identity, the Raporo Ainu Nation adopted its name three years ago, relinquishing its former reference as the Urahoro Ainu Association and embracing the Native reference of its geographic roots. The rebranding was a strategic legal step; later that year, the Raporo filed a lawsuit against the prefecture, asserting their right to fish salmon in their kotan along the Tōkachi River.

It was an argument inspired largely by historic precedent, one set nearly five decades ago in the U.S.

With self-governance comes economic development, resource management, and cultural preservation, all of which have worked to bolster health outcomes, income, and, ultimately, political impact.

Despite losing vast amounts of territory to westward expansion, Pacific Northwest Nations historically secured fishing and hunting rights through various treaties. However, in subsequent years, state policies that favored commercial fisheries, along with diminishing fish populations resulting from habitat destruction, overfishing, and development of hydroelectric dams, increasingly infringed on their ability to exercise them.

In 1974, Judge George Boldt upheld those treaty rights in federal court, overturning Washington regulations that prioritized the state’s fishing industry. The Boldt decision, as the groundbreaking ruling came to be known, ruled that Native tribes were entitled to 50 percent of the annual fish harvest, as well as the right to manage their own fisheries.

“It was a bonanza of an opinion,” says Charles Wilkinson, professor of law emeritus at the University of Colorado and an expert on Native American law. Upheld by the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals and unchallenged by the Supreme Court, the decision reinforced the concept of tribal sovereignty and cemented the notion of Native governance over natural resources.

Because treaty rights are held by sovereign entities and not by individuals, acknowledging tribal sovereignty—as defined in the Constitution—was central to the ruling, Wilkinson explains. “Otherwise, it’d be hard to argue that 2 percent of the population is entitled to half the fish,” he adds. “But this was clearly the law.”

And while Congress has plenary power to revoke those rights, that would be highly unlikely, says Wilkinson. “The tribes are too strong now, and are very good at defending [them].” With self-governance comes economic development, resource management, and cultural preservation, he adds, all of which have worked to bolster health outcomes, income, and, ultimately, political impact.

Reestablishing Sovereignty

In 2007, the United Nations General Assembly adopted its Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), a comprehensive framework for the protection and promotion of Native rights, including self-determination, cultural preservation, and equality. Twelve years later, Japan passed the Ainu Policy Promotion Act, which, in recognizing the Ainu as Indigenous to the country, aims to protect and revitalize their culture and heritage.

The law spawned the Upopoy National Ainu Museum and Park in Shiraoi, a splashy $182 million cultural facility and performance center built in 2020—though not much else, says Masaki Ichikawa, a Hokkaido-based Native rights lawyer. Although the 2019 policy promotes the rights of individuals to preserve and practice their culture, he adds that its scope for advancing Indigenous rights is limited.

Granting rights to minority groups goes against the country’s constitutional principle of equality, Ichikawa says, and its promotion of a singular society. (Former Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone once declared Japanese society to be ethnically homogeneous, to the ire of Ainu groups.) By denying the existence of tribal entities, the government conveniently disregards collective liberties such as the right to self-governance, he says. “In essence, Japan’s legal framework is designed to support Ainu rights [solely] as a tourism resource.”

Ichikawa emphasizes that in the U.S., Indigenous rights are granted not to Native American people, but to tribes, which the government recognizes as domestic, sovereign Nations. As distinct and independent sociopolitical entities, they’re analogous to the tribal units that once existed in every Ainu kotan, he says. Headed by a chief, each settlement administered its own customary laws, prescribed its own fishing and hunting grounds, and negotiated the management of resources with neighboring groups.

The Ainu effectively lost their sovereignty as colonization eroded these institutions—yet they never ceded any rights, says Ichikawa, or otherwise conceded them through treaties. As such, he argues, groups such as the Raporo should be entitled to reclaim those rights as present-day, sovereign entities.

While the Japanese public seems generally unaware, or indifferent, to their plight, Sashima, the head of the Raporo, notes heavy opposition from one particular group: the Ainu Association of Hokkaido (AAH). Formerly a government agency, the nonprofit rights and cultural advocacy organization is the country’s largest Ainu collective. Sashima was, in fact, once its executive secretary, but says that he was pushed out due to differing perspectives—including one by its previous executive director, who told the U.N. that, “We do not seek to create new states with which to confront those already in existence.”

Although the AAH worked to promote official recognition of Ainu as an Indigenous people, “it insists that we no longer exist as tribes,” Sashima says, and it offers no support in pursuing fishing rights. Yet “we are very much an aboriginal group, still present in our [ancestral lands],” he says, “advocating for inherent rights that we held as original inhabitants of Hokkaido.” (The AAH did not respond to Civil Eats’ request for comment.)

“For tribal [societies], the significance of Native foods goes way beyond access to meat or fish.”

Ultimately, food sovereignty and self-determination are inextricable, says Joe Watkins, former director of the Native American Studies Program at the University of Oklahoma, and currently a visiting professor at Hokkaido University’s Global Station for Indigenous Studies and Cultural Diversity. Along with cultural autonomy, food sovereignty promotes “a resilient, interconnected web” of economic empowerment opportunities and robust tribal governance, he says. And it encourages a collective voice in shaping policies that reflect tribal values and priorities.

The right to catch fish also confers sovereign entities with the onus of managing their own wildlife resources, says Matt Beirne, the Lower Elwha Klallam tribe’s natural resources director. In addition to providing the tribe with an important staple, fishing employs nearly a quarter of its workforce. “It is critically important that each tribal government have the ability to manage its own fisheries programs to ensure [their] long-term sustainability,” he states in an email.

“For tribal [societies], the significance of Native foods goes way beyond access to meat or fish,” adds Watkins. “It’s tied to our identity as Indigenous people.” And for the many Ainu who continue to live in the shadows, bolstering and legitimizing that heritage could potentially help to draw more of them out of the woodwork.

Sashima is clear, however, that the Raporo’s singular focus and circumstances don’t represent the needs or goals of an entire people. There are those whose families have been displaced from rural regions to urban areas in and around Sapporo, for instance, or others whose ancestors were forcibly relocated from Sakhalin to Hokkaido. “As residents of a river basin, the rights that we’re pursuing [in our lawsuit] may be different from theirs,” he says.

Nevertheless, he’s hopeful that a favorable legal decision will turn the tide in favor of Ainu welfare throughout Hokkaido and beyond—as evidenced by the American precedent.

“There’s no doubt,” Sashima adds, “that the Boldt Decision has vastly improved the lives of [the Pacific Northwest’s] Salmon People.”

The post A Fight for Salmon Fishing Rights Connects Indigenous Peoples Across the Pacific Ocean appeared first on Civil Eats.

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