Everyone talks about “clean” food like it’s the panacea to all malaise, the upper echelon of edibles, the thing we should all strive to put on the table. Personally, I want my food dirty.
I want carrots that have known the earth, found shelter within the dark depths of the ground, and felt so moved to bring some of that with them all the way through their journey to my home.
I want leeks encased in layers of sand and silt, the materials needed to produce a more tender inner stalk. I want to spend the time to separate them, one by one, to bathe and appreciate all that went into their creation.
I want leafy greens that show up to the party with friends. Ladybugs, caterpillars, even the odd spider are wonderful plus ones. I want to know how they’ve nourished their community from their inception, and how the ecosystem has worked to pollinate and support their growth, too.
I want mangoes sticky with sap, leaving a glossy trail from their stems to my kitchen counter. I want it to tell me that it’s so incredibly sweet, it can’t possibly keep all those ripe sugars to itself.
If “clean,” antiseptic food that seems to have arrived via immaculate conception is your thing, that’s fine. I want mine filthy, having lived a real life in the earth with flavor to show for it.
































