Industrialization & Distance in a Culture of More Food, Faster

This was my final exam essay for my Food in American History course. I reviewed course material and crafted a 1500 word essay about how industrialization of food processes and systems has distanced Americans from their food. This essay may not be for you, but it is if you want to learn about the effects of the industrialization of food. (P.S. I got a 98 🙂

            As the American system of producing, distributing, and consuming food has advanced throughout the country’s history, so too have American perspectives about food.  This global shift can be attributed, in large part, to industrialization.  While new methods of growing and transporting food came out of necessity during wartime, key inventions to accelerate production arose from the capitalist principle of improvement.  Indeed, in time reapers, cans, and chemicals turned the American farm into the American factory, while crop surpluses increased the need for new products and fresh marketing strategies.  Grocery stores changed how food was purchased, automobiles changed the accessibility of restaurants, and the television changed how family dinners were shared.  All the while, the American public was slowly becoming distanced from the food on their tables.  Food that was once grown in backyard gardens and by neighborhood farmers—food that people knew—was progressively phased out by unfamiliar but welcome packaged foods.  As industrialization has produced more food and more opportunity for the country, it has come at the cost an unsustainable, fragile food system that is hidden from the public eye.  To better understand how this shift happened and what can be done to ameliorate it, the gradual changes throughout the American food system should be examined.

            When considering the production of food, there are two major ways that industrialization changed the food supply: advancements on the farm and innovations in the factory.  Since its inception, the United States has had abundant land with rich soil.  To spur the land’s cultivation, Thomas Jefferson’s proposed the ideal of the independent yeoman farmer who could supply for himself and contribute to his community (Class Notes, 2/3/20).  These small farmers working on land grants ignited the early economy; however, the introduction of new, expensive technology steepened the barrier to entry.  The McCormick reaper of the 1830s was the first mechanical advancement, allowing farmers to reap fifteen acres a day instead of two (2/3/20).  This expensive machine—and others like it—created a divide between the industrial farmer and the yeoman farmer.  While prosperous farms flourished, unsuccessful farmers had to find other means of sustenance and purchase their food instead of growing it. 

           Luckily, a surplus of crops like wheat lead to innovations within factories, creating a new sector for jobs.  Flour was now mass-produced at a large mill instead of by small farmers (1/31/20).  At the same time, advancements in food preparation tools and appliances such as the cast iron stove created new opportunities for women cooks.  Making meals and baked goods was now easier but more complicated, so cooking itself became a skill.  While women worked in the kitchen, men were now able to seek out jobs in factories, thereby furthering the Industrial Revolution (1/31/20).  What began as a boom on the farms ignited brand-new avenue for processed food products, thereby creating a market that rapidly expanded the economy.

           This same theme of increased agricultural production followed by the invention of novelty foods appeared again in the beginning of the twentieth century.  Perhaps the most significant agricultural development in history came not from the United States, but Germany.  Working at separate times on the same concept, two German scientists, Fritz Haber and Carl Bosch, discovered a way to turn atmospheric nitrogen into absorbable chemical fertilizer (Pollan, 2004).  The 1909 Haber-Bosch process essentially mechanized the farm, making it a system of inputs and outputs as opposed to a balanced ecology (3/30/20).  Because farmers didn’t have to wait for essential nutrient restoration by fallowing, crop production skyrocketed.  Key chemical companies like Dow and Monsanto entered the fold, furthering the industrialization of American farms (2/19/20).  A greater abundance of crops like wheat, corn, and soy led to the boom in processed food production.  Companies like Heinz, Campbell’s, and Pillsbury grew rapidly because of their investment in continuous process production (2/21/20).  Though an abundance of inexpensive processed foods, widespread hesitancies about adulteration still lingered.  To mitigate these worries, food marketing grew to persuade consumers of the safety and health of processed foods (2/21/20).  In time, these foods became the norm in American society, furthering the distance between farm and table.

           Before further consideration goes into these consumer trends, we must take a step back and look at how industrialization has changed food distribution.  Though early agricultural success fueled 19th century economy, the Civil War changed the course of food history.  To feed Union battlefield soldiers, innovative factories began canning foods, especially meat (2/10/20).  As new packaged, preserved foods fueled soldiers, railroads were being built, extending the distance these foods could travel (2/10/20).  Preserved meat and railroad networks collided when the Chicago Union Stockyard opened in 1865.  Here, live cattle and swine were shipped from across the Midwest to be disassembled and processed (2/19/20).  Live animals were shipped into the stockyard and dressed meat was shipped out.  This furthered the need for refrigeration cars to preserve butchered meat, an invention which would eventually lead to widespread distribution of not only meat but other fresh produce (2/19/20).  These new distribution methods were very successful, increasing the possibilities for agricultural and economic growth.

           Though impressive distribution allowed food to cross state lines, not everybody benefitted.  Local butchers, family grocers, and neighborhood farmers suffered from more affordable processed food prices (2/24/20).  Small operations that couldn’t compete with national brand giants were forced to close.  All the while, though food was becoming more available and affordable, Americans were being further separated from their food supply.  This distance furthered with the introduction of a new way to buy food: the self-service grocery store.  With Piggly Wiggly leading the charge in 1916, chain grocery stores began opening up throughout the United States (3/2/20).  These self-service stores were “Progressive;” no longer would clerks do the shopping, but customers were now able to choose between products by comparison shopping (3/2/20).  As the aforementioned national brands competed with store brands, price became a crucial factor to buying behaviors.  Local farmers couldn’t compete with grocery store prices, and affordability outweighed quality.  Food became more accessible than ever before, though at a cost.  Factory farms were producing more food than ever but with great impacts to the surrounding environment and the health of animals (3/30/20).  Consciousness of this didn’t reach the public until much later.  In fast-paced America, it was about more food being more available at a more affordable price.

           Lastly the changing attitudes around food consumption must be explored.  To be brief, the greatest change here was the progressive shift from family meals to “fast” food.  The consumption of meals in the 19th century was largely centered around the dinner table.  Generally speaking, while men worked in factories, women stayed at home.  When the man returned from work, the family would unite with an intentionally prepared family dinner (1/31/20).  Gradually over the next century, industrialization fragmented the dinner table, favoring convenience over home-cooked meals.  The automobile boom synchronized with the emergence of fast food restaurants, making “eating out” a norm for Americans (3/27/20).  Successful franchises like McDonald’s and White Castle worked to accelerate this shift.  Simultaneously, frozen dinners entered the fold, furthering the ideal of convenience over complicated meals (Hamilton, 2003).  Adding fuel to the fast-paced fire, the explosion of television in the late 20th century brought about TV dinners, a development which further split the dinner table (Buford, 2006).  In recent years, services like Uber Eats and Door Dash further antiquate cooking and family meals.  These changes make the overall trend evident: the more Americans buy into convenient arrangements that support the Industrial Food system, the less Americans care about where their food comes from.

           Due to the industrialization of food production, distribution, and consumption patterns over the past 200 years, American society has lost touch with its food.  That is, until recently. The COVID-19 pandemic has shed light on just how fragile our supply chain.  For the first time in recent memory, our collective society is thinking about the origins and implications of the food we buy at the store.  This is a good thing.  And this is why food history matters. 

           Without knowing how we got here, it’s impossible to know where we should go in the future.  For instance, knowing how meatpacking operations began in the 1860s can shed light on the importance of supporting local farms to bolster food security.  Likewise, understanding that frozen foods are a recent phenomenon can spur people to plan for what may happen if nationwide distribution networks shut down (i.e. learning how to grow food may be a helpful skill).  If we use this moment of national crisis to educate ourselves about where our food comes from, perhaps we can reconnect with the land we have been separated from.  The benefits would be a more sustainable agricultural system, a more stable distribution network, and a greater awareness of who is affected by our buying decisions.  This can be the moment that reconnects us with our food.  This can be the next phase in American food history, that is, if we’re willing to change.

Lunchbox Lemma

I wrote this essay for my Food in American History course. WE were tasked with detailing our own personal food history. I had a lot of fun with this assignment and decided to share. Hope you enjoy 🙂

Nearly every day, I fortuitously kick my metal Power Rangers lunchbox and disrupt class. In many ways, loudis the best word to describe this lunchbox: not only does the bright yellow tin box make inconvenient loud noises, but it’s become my unique identifier across campus.  It catches people’s attention.  Many comment saying how they loved that show, wondering which is my favorite Ranger, and asking if I had it since my childhood.  I hate to break the news that I never watched the Power Rangers and that I bought the lunchbox on Amazon, so I tell them the Red Ranger is my favorite and that, indeed, I’ve had it for a long while.  Truth is, this lunchbox is far more functional than fashionable and its existence, while loud, says an awful lot about my seldom-spoken perspectives on food more generally.  There were several factors influencing my purchase of this lunchbox, but they all relate back to my distaste for unethically raised agriculture, unsustainable food systems, and overly processed foods, as well as a devotion to become my healthiest self.  My lunchbox reflects the importance I place on my food choices and my recognition that what I choose to consume matters to my health and the health of the planet in a real way.  In many ways, the food protected by the five Rangers symbolizes my love for the process of cooking, a pursuit I hold as a spiritual practice.  But that’s a remarkably long way away from frozen chicken nuggets and marshmallow fluff on white bread, so let’s give this story due justice.

I was a picky eater the moment I discovered that some foods taste better than others.  Simple tastes determined my childhood favorites, foods like bread and butter, strawberries and whipped cream, chicken nuggets and honey.  I have memories of being in my high chair, chowing down on cauliflower and broccoli.  Then I was presented chicken nuggets, and vegetables were out of the question.  In no time I became a chicken nugget connoisseur. I implemented the “Dinosaur or Don’t Bother” policy in my household, maintaining that dinosaur-shaped nuggets were the only allowable form.  In a desperate attempt to nourish her stubborn child, my mother let me dip the nuggets in honey (I had outlawed ketchup, too).  Eating out was a spectacle: when the dinner rolls were consumed, I would top off the first course with a sole packet of butter (I was onto this keto thing long before popular culture).  Thanksgiving used to be my least favorite holiday.  I didn’t like turkey, sweet potatoes, or cranberry sauce, but I loved bread.  So I had bread and topped it off with whipped cream because the adults didn’t want me to cause a fuss.  In grade school, the thought of jelly on bread made me sick, so marshmallow fluff and peanut butter was on the menu every day—except every other Friday when they served triangle pizza with cheesy crust.  To avoid harassment, I made sure to start eating lunch meat by middle school.

As my taste buds matured past early childhood, pasta with parmesan cheese became a staple.  At times, it was without a doubt my favorite food.  At eight years old, pasta was the first thing I learned how to cook.  This wheat-filled pasta, as we all know, is great fuel for physical activities and remained central to my life as athletics and “high performance nutrition” became a part of my life.  From chocolate milk after a lift to protein bars and Gatorade after practice, I consumed anything with a “protein” label.  In middle school and high school, my mom packed my lunch in a brown bag with a cold cut sandwich, pretzels, some veggies, fruit, and often a protein bar to be eaten after school.  This diet seemed “healthy” to any outside observer, surely better than the pizza and fries eaten by my friends.  On an unrelated note, I got a stomach ache every day around sixth period.  This trend of simple-tasting, quick-fuel food was the story of my food journey until age sixteen when I got a job at the Craft Ale House, a gastropub with farm-to-table meals.

For two and a half years I was exposed to different foods and culinary styles in the restaurant world.  As a food runner and bar back, I saw more ahi-tuna variations and memorized more charcuterie plate cheeses than I care to remember.  Although I never worked behind the line, I became a part of the mealtime experience.  Fresh cracked pepper, a topped off soda, and extra remoulade went a long way for customers eager to enjoy a night out.  Relishing in the dining itself, I learned, was as important as the food being served. When demanding schedules forced me out of food running, I began dishwashing.  Though torturous work, I developed a knack for scrubbing pots and pans. Knuckles bloodied from steel wool and scolding hot water, I always left work with a sense of accomplishment: with my help, the chefs and cooks were able to prepare elegant meals and memorable dishes.  I played a role in the restaurant experience by being the best dishwasher I could be. And once I perfected my craft, I actually began to enjoy it.  Not to mention, working in the back of house meant I got to try the chef’s creations. From coffee ground-rubbed bison to deep fried, crab-stuffed avocado, my palate was expanding by the shift.  

As my final years of high school engendered a sense of culinary adventure, that hope for never-before tasted dishes on a regular basis was squashed when I entered college.  First year dorms don’t have kitchens, so all freshmen are required to have meal plans. I explored Campion Dining Hall with an open mind and an ambition to make the best of what was offered. Unfortunately, the best of Campion was omelets for breakfast, wraps for lunch, and pasta for dinner.  Rinse and repeat.  I not only got bored of my options but ended up getting sick with sinus infections, colds, and intense seasonal allergies on a regular basis. Date nights with my girlfriend were the only reprieve.  We dove head-first into Asian cuisine including Thai, Vietnamese, and Japanese, as well as brunch, America’s greatest tradition.  While Narberth, Ardmore, and Manayunk yielded many new foods, I wanted a change for my daily nutrition.  I wanted to learn how to cook before entering my sophomore year apartment, fully equipped with a kitchen.  That summer I read a book called How to Eat, Move, and Be Healthy!by Paul Chek, a health coach and therapist I’d known about for some time.  As clichĂ© as it sounds, this book changed my life forever.

Paul Chek transformed my perspective on food.  He explained that human beings aren’t evolutionarily designed to thrive on highly processed foods and how whole foods ought to be the center of our diet. This book introduced me to simple concepts like eating foods that are alive (or raw), how fat isn’t the enemy, and how added sugar is wreaking havoc on the health of our nation.  Paul explained the telltale signs of gluten intolerance: stomach ache, headache, a weakened immune system, etc.  Remember those post-lunch stomach aches in high school? I was gluten intolerant, confirmed it by a period of eliminating gluten and watching my symptoms dissipate.  Also introduced in How to Eat, Move, and Be Healthy!was the concept of metabolic typing, that is, that different people fair better on specific diets.  I learned that I do best on a diet higher in fat and protein and lower in carbohydrates, especially refined sugars. Paul also justified the importance of buying organic produce, grass fed beef, pasture raised chickens, and wild caught fish.  I later learned about the perils of commercial agriculture, from the destruction of ecosystems due to overused chemical fertilizers to the carcinogenic impacts of glyphosate, or RoundUp.  Other concepts like buying and supporting local farmers rounded out Paul’s work.

Thus, the food I choose to purchase, cook, eat, and share with my loved ones matters.  In a very real way, I am voting with my fork and my knife, with the dollars I spend on groceries.  If I purchase feedlot meat and highly-processed, commercial tofu, I am supporting operations that contribute to global climate change, maltreat livestock, destroy our disappearing soils, and put small, local farmers out of business. However, if I instead purchase local, grass-fed beef and edamame grown on an organic farm in my county, I am supporting people who are doing their part to heal the planet and produce healthy, nourishing food.  This is an intentional process, one that has to do with the whole system of food production and consumption.  From the health of soil to the health of the meal on my plate, I’ve come to see eating and cooking as a spiritual practice.  I thought about it like this: the food I eat literally becomes me.  If I am what I eat, then I want to be the healthiest Me possible, because it is only with my health that I can live out my mission on this earth.  The extra price of maintaining this holistic, nutritional approach is the best investment I could ever make because sooner or later, my health will be my number one concern.

That edict is quite a long way from chicken nuggets and whipped cream.  What began as a desire for simple mouth pleasures has become a quest to discover what food is best for me.  As I’ve realized what true nutrition ought to be, I understood that my commercially stocked dining hall couldn’t meet my health standards.  Cooking came out of necessity to get the simplistic, whole foods nutrition I needed without the additives and chemicals of dining hall meals.  So I began sautĂ©ing and searing and baking and slow-cooking and calling my mom when I messed up.  I started seasoning with sea salt and pepper, while slowly moving into more complex tastes like rosemary, cayenne, and turmeric.  With chicken and rice as staples, I began to venture into unknown waters.  I experimented with chicken stocks, with cutlets, with vegetable chili, with pork soup dumplings.  Eggs and avocado, eggs and oatmeal, eggs and ground beef, and eggs and kale have all entered the fold.  While my cooking isn’t quite exquisite, I cook almost every day, blending flavors and trying new concoctions.  But every meal I cook begins with the same thing: quality ingredients—organic for sure, local if possible.

I’ve found that many people dislike cooking because they dislike cleaning up. Luckily for me, my dishwashing stint exposed me to the mental anguish of cleaning, showing me that, in the end, scrubbing pots and pans doesn’t have to be painful.  When my mother cooks a meal, she uses every dish in the house and refuses to clean them (rightfully so).  Out of necessity, I brought the art of dishwashing home and have actually begun to enjoy it.  You heard that right, I enjoy cleaning up.  I see it as a meditation.  It’s the most peaceful and orderly moment of my day.  Coupled with the spiritual act of combining ingredients that will become me, dishwashing rounds out the experience of eating I have each day. The dishwasher is helpful, but nothing can outweigh the joy that comes with a clean sink.  I truly believe more people would cook if they didn’t fear cleaning up so much.  It should be cleaning first, then cooking.

And so we’ve arrived back to the metal Power Rangers lunchbox.  In an effort to support sustainable agriculture and local, community farms that produce nourishing whole foods, I lug my lunchbox across campus.  Filled with turmeric-salmon salad, overnight oats, or chicken legs and rice, this trusted tin gives me the freedom cook and emboldens me with the knowledge of where my food comes from.  That, and because my intolerance to gluten rules out sandwiches.  All of this to sustain a healthy body so that I can have a healthy mind so that I can work to create a healthier world.  Now, I by no means follow these principles incredibly well. I still love chocolate, ice cream, and have a weakness for blue corn tortilla chips.  But an ideal is something to strive towards, and strive I do, day in and day out.  

About every other week, you can find me in the dessert section at Whole Foods with my girlfriend (the same one), picking out the perfect cannoli.  I believe life is about balance, not strict adherence to a dietary philosophy.  The goal is to create robust health so that an ice cream cone here or there won’t destroy you.  If I had watched the Power Rangers, I’d make a reference about how the Rangers protected people and fought for the common good.  But I didn’t, so I’ll just go finish cleaning up my dishes.