Journal Pages: Flying Food
One thing I like about cities, is the sense of anonymity. You don't have to get to know your neighbors if you don't want to, and no one will gossip about you when you don't show up to a local bake off or god knows what. Unfortunately, the paper like quality of our ceilings and walls make that I've inadvertently gotten to know my neighbors quite well. Including their ringtones, party schedules, and favorite songs. Everything but their name, really.
So off to the British countryside I went with my friend and colleague Hannah, to assist her on her 'shoot'. No, not a shoot of the fashion variety, but a shoot of the dead-bird variety. I had a lovely time, outside, breathing air that was so fresh it almost hurt my poor city girl lungs, sniffing up the smell of gun powder, drinking gin, wearing tweed. It was truly a unique experience. Yet, while I am convinced many a supermarket chicken would happily trade with the partridges and pheasants that day, it was odd. Bringing home a dead bird to pluck, gut, and eat is a lot more 'real' than buying a pink patty in the store. There's real power in knowing where your food comes from, and it's inspiring me to eat (even) more consciously and eat selectively.