>Mad Organic Disease

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 I eat fairly well. I love green veggies. I drink lots of water. I don't even like soda or soft-drinks of any kind. Save my weekly, late-night love affairs with an ice-cream carton (maybe two if I'm feeling scandalous), I would qualify myself as a healthy eater.

That is, until I read a book that currently has me hyper-ventilating every time the fridge looks a little low at the thought of having to traverse to the grocery store. The title will not be mentioned as this is not a rant or diatribe of any sort- it was a fabulous book. Well written, well researched and well thought-out. Trouble is, it successfully scared the ever-loving crap out of me.

"Organic" has become more of a trendy word than one with substance. It's emblazoned across shelves of brightly colored canned goods, splotched haphazardly onto meat products. It graces the faces of popular facial cleansers. I simply thought it was synonymous with "cool".

"Fair trade" and "grass-fed" were grouped into the "cool" category as well. I knew inherently the deeper, truer meaning of these words but there was no connection other than the superficial. Until...

The nightmare began when I opened the first few pages. They spray my veggies with what?!?! It costs how much to fly bananas to New Jersey so that I can eat them in November? In what living conditions are my hamburgers sitting in when they are cows? They feed chickens...chicken? I am single-handedly taking the food out of the mouths of poor local farmers children if I so much as glance longingly at the asparagus displayed in aisle three just in time for Christmas dinner?

Those who know me understand that I am prone to panic. I think, secretly, I must love to do it since it frequents me so often. I am panicking. I have to rid my kitchen of any and all non-organic items. Looking at the tomato I've just purchased in the morning at our neighborhood grocery store makes me queasy.  I was so proud of it only a few hours ago.  Big as a softball.  Now all I could think of was the horrific chemical cocktail  it must have been fed in order to get to be that size.

 I am examining everything. I believe I can actually smell the hormones injected into the sirloin I was defrosting for dinner. Suddenly, images of leering veggies in my fridge are haunting my thoughts. I know they are laughing at me in secret. Pointing their stems. "You're going to eat me," they taunt, "and you have no idea that I'm not even an eggplant! I am mechanically separated, processed cornstarch and have sat on a truck for 5 days without refrigeration! HA!"

However, I do come down after a while and resort to some sort of reason. I cannot live one-hundred percent organically on a teacher's salary. I am not solely responsible for the suffering local farming population. Oh, and this is not A Beautiful Mind. My vegetables are certainly not laughing at me. But, I can make a few choices that will alleviate the organic gorilla sitting on my chest.

So, I'll go to the local farmer's market and buy some organic produce on the weekends-and maybe make a farmer friend or two- (and probably feed his kid just to avoid any lingering guilt.) If I can't afford to buy grass-fed, organic meat all the time, maybe we just won't eat meat as often. I still cannot bring myself to return to Shoprite after I had cannibalistic cow dreams-small steps, small steps. But as soon as they start making organic ding-dongs, we're back in business.