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  In 1995 Calhoun published Old Southern Apples (McDonald & Woodward Publishing Company), a lavishly illustrated tome that has become a bible for apple preservationists. Not only does the volume present detailed descriptions of some 1,600 varieties, but it also brings to life the people and histories wrapped up with this food. He describes the significance of the apple in the rural South, where, before the days of refrigeration, it was the only fruit that could be kept through the cold months “to provide a taste of freshness.” Of the elderly Southerners who helped him reclaim knowledge about heirloom apples, Calhoun writes, “They remember storing boxes of apples through the winter in unheated rooms . . . how those apples perfumed the whole house. They recall drying apple slices on a tin roof, and they can tell you how to make cider and vinegar. But most of all, they remember the incomparable taste of a freshly picked southern apple . . . baked right on the tree by those long, hot southern summers.”

  Other apple preservationists I’ve met are more recent converts to the cause. One of them, Tom Brown, is a retired chemical engineer in his late 60s who lives in Clemmons, North Carolina. In 1998 he became obsessed with a juicy variety believed to be extinct called Harper’s Seedling and has since tracked down at least seven locales near his home where those apples once grew; he took cuttings from a surviving tree in the area just before it died and grafted them onto trees on his property in hopes that, in a few years, he will have a steady supply of the delicious fruits. His hunt for Harper’s Seedling has fueled a passion for finding other forgotten varieties. These days, Brown estimates, he racks up at least 20,000 miles a year on Southern back roads, traveling as far as Kentucky,Virginia, and Tennessee to chase down leads given to him by old-timers at regional festivals, people who grew up with these apples and can remember their names and characteristics.

  “Time is running out,” Brown told me when I ran into him at the Forgotten Fruits Summit, the first annual powwow for apple preservationists, held in Madison,Wisconsin, last March. “I recently picked up a picture I had taken of the six folks who had helped me the most in my search for apples, and I realized that five of them had died.”

  At that same summit, I met up with another dedicated preservationist: an orchard owner from Boone, North Carolina, named Bill Moretz. His orchard was started by his grandfather in the 1930s and is now home to one of the country’s first community supported agriculture projects devoted to promoting apple diversity. Once a week, his customers receive a bag of several different kinds of heirloom apples.

  One of their favorites is the Sweet Dixon, a dessert apple that has red-striped skin and crisp, sugary-sweet flesh. The story behind the Sweet Dixon, which was widely thought to have disappeared, goes like this: Seventeen years ago Calhoun got wind that an elderly North Carolina woman had a huge old Sweet Dixon tree on her property that still produced fruit. By the time he arrived at her home to take cuttings, however, the tree had been cut down. Sensing Calhoun’s disappointment, the woman managed to find another tree growing nearby, one she remembered from her childhood; he took cuttings and has been growing Sweet Dixons ever since. What Calhoun didn’t know until years later—when he was asked by Moretz to identify an old tree growing near his barn—was that the same kind of apple had been growing on Moretz’s property all along.

  Toward the end of our North Carolina trip, Jim Veteto and I decide to visit Moretz at his orchard. When we arrive, he hands us a couple of Sweet Dixons straight from the tree to sample. Then he picks one for himself and takes a bite. “It’s still green yet,” Moretz says, “but you can taste all the sugars and the flavors developing.” It is clearly one of his favorites, but Moretz, like many other orchard keepers dedicated to bringing back as many old varieties as they can, is reluctant to proclaim the flavor of any single apple to be better than that of others.

  Moretz’s orchard, which is home to 100 different varieties of apple, is a supremely serene place, a grid of tidily pruned trees in evenly spaced rows that extend over rolling hills. The air is fragrant with fruit, and the grass underfoot is lush. Resisting the temptation to lie down right where I stand and soak up the scene, I follow Moretz as he makes his rounds, stopping before every other tree to examine its apples and the health of its bark, branches, and leaves.

  Watching Moretz tend to his orchard of rare fruits, I come to the realization that it’s more than nostalgia that drives people like him to keep such historic apple varieties alive. It’s the sheer love of the food itself, in all its incarnations, and the joy of sharing them with friends and passing them on to a new generation. “I grow them to embrace the future,” he says to Jim and me before we leave. “But it’s not enough just to grow them. You have to eat them, too.”

  AND YOU WILL KNOW US BY THE TRAIL OF GERMAN BUTTERBALLS

  By Jonathan Kauffman From Seattle Weekly

  Is the food world beginning to see a backlash against the buzzword “locavore”? Kauffman, former food editor for Seattle Weekly (he’s now at SF Weekly in San Francisco), dares to question how a food trend proliferates.

  Back in April 2004, Sage Van Wing, then a grass-fed-beef rancher and chicken farmer in northern California, read Gary Paul Nabhan’s Coming Home to Eat, a chronicle of his experiment to eat only food produced within a 200-mile radius of his Arizona home. “I thought, this guy did this for a year in the middle of the Southwest,”Van Wing says. “Surely it ought to be possible to do the same here. So I asked my friend Jessica [Prentice, a chef and cooking instructor] if she’d join in. We picked the easiest month of the year, August, and decided to stick to 100 miles.” They got a few more friends to join in, and came up with a catchy word to describe their group: locavores.

  “Then we wrote a press release for the hell of it,” continues Van Wing, now off the ranch and living in Seattle. “We thought, why not invite other people to join us? Within the first couple of weeks, over 800 people had signed up for the challenge. We’d really tapped a vein.” In 2007, locavore was added to the Oxford American Dictionary. Van Wing and company’s 100-mile-diet challenge spawned best sellers like Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, influenced thousands of menus, and pissed off more than a few people, most of whom didn’t realize that the 100-mile diet was meant to be a short-term thought exercise, not a barbed-wire perimeter. The local-foods movement continues to be the largest, most influential food trend in the country.

  Those of us who now favor the local over the certified organic certainly do it out of deeply felt beliefs about how to spend our dollars, support producers we trust, protect our bodies from pesticides and E. coli, and preserve the planet. But the local-foods movement has also been wildly successful because it taps into the way the indie-rock generation forms its ever-shifting musical allegiances.

  When I walk down East Thomas Street to the Broadway Farmers Market every Sunday, fold-up tote in hand, I’m not there to revamp the food system—I’m out to see what’s new in the crates this week. Take the Olsen Farms Potatoes stand, with its ever-rotating supply of purple, red, yellow, and white lumps. I remember when Yukon Golds became the darling of early-1990s bistros, but at Olsen’s stand I pass them over in favor of varieties like German Butterball, Maris Piper, or Mountain Rose. Never heard of something before? It’s going into the little red bag.

  When I went seed shopping for the first time this year at City People’s in Madison Valley, there were shelves and shelves of Sweet 1000s and Early Girls, which are proven to work in the Northwest climate. But of course City People’s doesn’t stock only the tried-and-true—there’s also a set of rarities for foodie hipsters and the early adopters like me. I spotted a tag on a tomato start that two of my friends had just been raving about. There! That was going to be my tomato. Should the slugs not intervene, I foresee a day when I bring my friends fist-size, bright-red tomatoes. Oh, that? I’ll say offhandedly. It’s a Moskvits. Heard of it? I grew it myself.

  Trumpeting a band you’re devoted to—or a specific farm’s lacinato kale—isn’t just about love for the prod
uct. It’s about making the product part of you. In his book Buying In, the New York Times Magazine columnist Rob Walker writes about the rise of micro-brands like Barking Irons, whose T-shirts have made it into Barney’s , GQ, and People. If you’re a Barking Irons consumer, Walker says, the important thing isn’t to advertise your possession of the brand to the general public. It’s to be recognized by other people who are clued in to the exclusive nature of Barking Irons. Even more important is that when you wear the T-shirt, you know you’re a member of that elite. The effect reminds me of the tiny pins I affixed to my coats in high school, laying out the contours of my (social) identity as if I were drafting my own astrological chart.

  In an age when we’re trained from birth to acknowledge brands—and everything becomes a brand—my Moskvits tomato is yet another one. When I dice it up with a bunch of onions and herbs to make salsa fresca, who’s going to know that it’s a Moskvits? Only me and a few other people in the know. That’s a huge part of its appeal.

  A food’s status has been defined by its rarity since the days when Marcus Gavius Apicius talked up the succulence of flamingo tongues. Black truffles are getting scarcer and more exorbitantly priced by the year, and thousands of people buy Opus One for two reasons: because Robert Parker gives the small-production Napa red great marks, and because everyone around the dinner table will know the bottle cost several hundred bucks.

  But there’s another kind of rarity valued by generations X and whatever-you-call-the-one-after-mine: specificity. In an age when I can walk into a Sam’s Club near my parents’ house in the Chicago suburbs and recognize three-fourths of the products from the Capitol Hill Safeway, a potato that I buy off Brent Olsen carries a special aura. It’s not a 79-cents-a-pound-on-sale potato, a commodity potato, a shove-this-in-your-mouth potato, a just-a-potato potato. What am I hunting for, exactly? A new flavor, perhaps. A different texture. Something that will taste unique even when I boil it until tender and roll it in melted butter and fresh parsley like I have so many times before—if only because there’s a story (farmer, market, name) wrapped around it.

  Our generation is addicted to keeping up with the entire planet—in real time, no less—yet we nurse a deep romance for anything that helps us feel anchored in the here and now. And the seasonality of local foods is just as significant an element of their specificity. Asparagus in January used to be a luxury food precisely because it had to be flown in from across the world. Now when asparagus shows up at Whole Foods at least half the year, I prize the fact that I can only get fat Washington spears in April and May. Do my local asparagus taste that much better than November’s Chilean asparagus when I toss them with olive oil and shallots and roast them for 20 minutes till they shrivel and brown? No. But I’m prizing something I won’t be tasting in July.

  Locavores like to believe that their focus on specificity—on terroir , on knowing the farmer who sells you your food, on heirloom varieties of vegetables that grow in odd shapes and colors—provides “a sense of connection to their food.” Let’s face it: Specificity also confers cachet.

  It’s the same branding magic that occurs in the indie-music scene. As Michael Jaworski—singer for the Cops, owner of Mt. Fuji Records (Maldives, Whore Moans), and Sunset Tavern booker—puts it: “[We’re] people who love to find things, people who are attracted to something a little more interesting than cookie-cutter, top-40 mass-media pop. Not that I can’t appreciate a well-written pop song, but I feel much better when I’m supporting something more honest and genuine, not huge marketing machines. It feels really satisfying to be part of something that is starting out, and not so huge—when you feel like there’s a stronger connection between you and whoever’s making the music.”

  THE SAME REACTION against universal familiarity—the longing for what’s novel, direct, and specific—is permeating the early adopters of the wine world. As has been widely documented in films like Mondovino, regional varietals are being pushed out around the world in favor of the popular heavyweight grapes. “A lot of regions are being taken over by merlot, cabernet, and chardonnay. It’s easier for winemakers to sell their wines abroad,” says Shawn Mead, former wine director at Pike Place Market’s Campagne, who now works for Louis/Dressner, a New York importer specializing in natural wines from small growers in France and Italy. “The use of modern winemaking techniques, combined with the [wine critics’] point systems,” continues Mead, “have conspired to create a very homogeneous style of wine. These wines could be from anywhere. They may taste yummy or lush, but don’t suggest, say, the Loire Valley.”

  In reaction to this trend, the new generation of wine importers, merchants, sommeliers, and wine lovers have become smitten with inexpensive, unique, obscure var ietals—falanghina, mondeuse, xynomavro. (Just knowing how to pronounce the name confers a certain status on the drinker.) To achieve even a base level of respect among this crowd, a wine list can’t just have chardonnay and syrah anymore, but must include grapes like Argentinian torrontés and Piedmontese arneis. While the phenomenon seems the very opposite of locavorism—pursuing obscure wines from the far reaches of Europe and South America—the passion for specificity is the same. And as with endangered local farmers, your purchase is meant to preserve a legacy and a lifestyle. Says Mead of her company’s pineau d’Aunis and mondeuses: “For us, it’s important to focus on the endangered species, the spotted owl of the grape world—we have to commit to these varieties now or they’ll be lost.”

  The popularity of these little grapes tends to follow an arc that will be very familiar to observers of the indie-music scene. For example, five years ago, a dry Austrian white named grüner veltliner, whose unique flavor is often described as “licking a stone,” started moving out of supergeek circles and into the consciousness of the general food cognoscenti. Articles in wine magazines led to articles in the food sections of newspapers; grüner veltliner went from being offered by the bottle to making by-the-glass lists. Now it’s at Fleet Foxes popularity—not top-40, but readily acknowledged by the Pitchfork masses. Who knows: If American winegrowers start planting grüner, someday it may follow in the footsteps of viognier and reach Coldplay status. Meanwhile, the geeks who first embraced it have moved on to touting blaufränkisch and scheurebe.

  I’m still a fan of both grüner veltliner and Fleet Foxes, whom I saw, dainty cough, at the Sunset before their EP dropped. I also use my (limited) knowledge of obscure grapes as a secret handshake to get me better service in restaurants. When I ask a waiter about smaller Italian whites or trendy little regions in France, he’ll refer me to the restaurant’s wine pro, who talks to me longer and more specifically about the food and wine pairing, and often gets enthusiastic about my final selection even if the bottle costs less than $50. (On the flip side, during visits when I’d just as soon be left alone, I ask for sauvignon blanc. Conversation stops there.)

  IT’S BEEN ALMOST FIVE YEARS since the first 100-mile-diet exercise, and quite a band of activists, writers, cooks, and consumers has united behind the belief that the industrialization of American agriculture has gone far too far. We’re putting a lot of pressure on the family farms we’re now desperate to save, believing that by rebuilding the local food system we’ll do everything from rescuing the ecosystem to lowering our cholesterol counts. But the advocates are butting up against an emphatic objection: that organic and local foods are exclusionary and elitist.

  Cost is always at the heart of the skeptics’ charge. What’s so great about Willie Green’s broccoli that I’m supposed to pay $4 for a head of it? Who gives a whit about pasture-raised pork when it’s on sale for $4 a pound at Safeway and I have to feed a family of four on $200 a month? The cost argument is the one that local-foods activists are scurrying to refute (at least the ones who aren’t floating on the same cloud as Alice Waters). They argue, for example, that CAFO (confined animal feedlot operation) meats are so cheap because of government subsidies. They show evidence that farmers-market apples cost about the same as QFC apples, and that t
hey’re less expensive than the mushy, spotted apples at your local convenience stores. Nevertheless, the elitism charge seems impossible to shake off.

  Price matters. Of course it does. So does time: Once you get around to subscribing to an affordable CSA box that fills your fridge with antioxidants and idealism every week, how are you supposed to finish up all the calls you need to make that day at work, pick up the kids from their aunt’s house, get the dog walked, check your home e-mail, and then figure out what to do with five rutabagas and your fifth bunch of rainbow chard in three weeks before the kids crankily raid the freezer for Dinosaur Nuggets?

  It’s a legitimate concern for the partisans of locavorism. But food activists have been so focused on refuting it that they’re not addressing the subtler ways the locavore movement shapes, markets, and promotes itself. Specificity has become the cornerstone of the appeal of local foods—driving out to Oxbow Farm in Carnation with the kids so you know exactly where your weekly produce box comes from, getting to ask Brent Olsen himself about his Maris Pipers at the market. But the specificity that carries so much cachet for the people who buy into locavorism is exactly the thing that makes it so suspicious to the people who don’t. There are thousands of Seattleites who will drop $35 a person on dinner at Outback Steakhouse because they mistakenly think 35th St. Bistro is way too pricey. Even more will pass over the Charentais melons at one farmers-market stand in favor of plain old cantaloupes at another—if they’re not already put off, of course, by the gelato carts and freshly made pasta vendors flanking the fruit. If you really want the movement to go mainstream, O locavore, you’re going to have to give up the cachet.