WHEN DID WE STOP ASKING WHAT'S IN OUR FOOD?

I spent years working in natural health before I ever became a farmer.

And one of the things that eventually led me into farming was a question I couldn't seem to get away from.

How can we expect people to be healthy if we don't pay attention to what we're feeding them?

It seems like such a simple question.

Yet somewhere along the way, we've managed to turn food into something so complicated that most people have very little understanding of what they're actually eating.

We read labels.

We count calories.

We compare protein, carbohydrates and fat.

We look for products advertised as healthy, natural, fortified, low-fat, high-protein or enriched.

But how often do we ask where the ingredients came from?

How were they grown?

What were the animals fed?

What happened to the food between the farm and our tables?

And perhaps most importantly, when did we become so comfortable not knowing?

We've learned to measure food without understanding it.

We know an extraordinary amount about the individual nutrients our bodies require.

Vitamins. Minerals. Proteins. Essential fatty acids.

We can identify deficiencies, manufacture supplements and fortify foods with nutrients that may have been lost during processing.

And there's value in that knowledge.

But I think we've made a mistake in assuming that understanding the individual components of food means we fully understand food itself.

An apple isn't simply a collection of vitamins and carbohydrates.

A carrot isn't just beta-carotene.

And an egg isn't simply six grams of protein.

Whole foods contain complex combinations of nutrients and naturally occurring compounds, many of which interact with one another.

Some of those interactions are well understood. Others are still being studied.

So why have we become so focused on what a nutritional label can tell us, while paying so little attention to how the food was produced?

The farm matters.

When I started raising animals and growing food, I began looking at nutrition from a completely different perspective.

Suddenly, food wasn't something that appeared on a grocery store shelf.

It was something living.

Something that depended on soil, water, sunlight, feed, growing conditions and the decisions made by the person producing it.

I could see firsthand how much work went into raising an animal.

How different growing seasons affected crops.

How soil needed to be cared for.

And how the quality of what we produced depended on far more than what happened at harvest.

Now, that doesn't mean every farm-grown product is automatically healthier than everything in a grocery store.

But it does mean the way we produce food deserves a much bigger place in our conversations about nutrition.

Because the nutritional composition of food can be influenced by crop varieties, soil conditions, animal diets, maturity, storage and processing.

If we're serious about understanding nutrition, shouldn't we be interested in the entire journey of our food?

What are we actually paying for?

Walk through a grocery store and look at how many products are marketed around health.

High protein.

Added fibre.

Fortified with vitamins.

Made with real ingredients.

No artificial colours.

The packaging tells us what we're supposed to value.

But I've often wondered how we reached a point where we're willing to pay extra for products advertising qualities that should make us question what was missing in the first place.

Why does something need to tell us it's made with real ingredients?

What were we expecting it to be made with?

And why have we become so accustomed to needing a list of claims on the front of a package to help us decide whether something is good to eat?

I'm not suggesting all food processing is bad. Cooking, fermenting, freezing and preserving are all forms of processing, and many are incredibly valuable.

But there's an enormous difference between preserving food and manufacturing products designed primarily around shelf life, convenience, cost and marketability.

And I think consumers deserve to understand that difference.

We've separated food from the people who produce it.

One of the things I appreciate most about working with small farmers is the opportunity to ask questions.

What do you feed your animals?

How do you raise them?

What goes into your products?

Why do you do things the way you do?

These conversations matter to me.

Not because every farmer has the same practices or because small automatically means better.

But because relationships create accountability.

When we know the people producing our food, we have opportunities to understand their decisions.

We can ask questions.

We can learn.

And we can make purchasing choices based on more than a label.

That's something I believe we've lost as our food system has become increasingly centralized.

We know the brands.

We recognize the packaging.

But often, we have no idea who actually produced what we're eating.

Food affordability and nutrition shouldn't be competing priorities.

Here's where this conversation becomes difficult.

Because I know perfectly well that families are struggling to afford groceries.

And telling people to simply buy better food isn't helpful when they're already trying to stretch every dollar.

I see that struggle through Small Scale Farms.

I see the people coming through our doors looking for affordable groceries.

I see the growing need for food assistance.

And I see what happens to wholesale produce prices as the seasons change.

So when I talk about improving the quality of our food, I'm not talking about creating another expensive lifestyle that only some families can afford.

I'm talking about changing the way we produce, distribute and value food so that good ingredients become more accessible.

That means supporting farmers.

Reducing unnecessary barriers between producers and customers.

Teaching people how to grow and prepare food.

Making better use of seasonal abundance.

And building the infrastructure that helps us get nutritious food into more households.

Because good nutrition shouldn't be a privilege reserved for people who can afford to shop differently.

Maybe we need to start asking different questions.

I've come to believe that we spend far too much time discussing how to manage poor health and not nearly enough time discussing the conditions that help people stay healthy.

Food is certainly not the only factor influencing health.

But it is something every single one of us depends on, every single day.

And the decisions we make about how food is produced have consequences that extend well beyond the dinner table.

They affect our farms.

Our environment.

Our economy.

Our communities.

And potentially the nutritional quality of what we eat.

I believe the body is a temple.

And to me, that means taking seriously what we put into it, while recognizing that understanding food begins long before it reaches our plates.

We don't need to know everything about nutrition to start asking better questions.

We can start by learning where our food comes from.

Understanding how it's produced.

Choosing real ingredients when we can.

Supporting the people who grow them.

And teaching the next generation that food is something worth understanding, not just consuming.

Because before we ask whether we're eating enough of the right nutrients, perhaps we should be asking whether we've lost sight of what real food is supposed to be.