Spread the Word

Photo Credit: Nicole Sands

Last week I was out in the Zeus Field harvesting shishito peppers when someone wandered over to chat. As conversations on the farm often do, we started by talking about vegetables, then somehow found ourselves talking about local food, and life here in the Eastern Sierra. Then they shared that they have lived in Bishop their entire life and had no idea there was a farm out here. Not Blue Heron Farm. Not Apple Hill Ranch before it. They had lived just a few miles away their entire life and had no idea this place existed.

Here was someone who genuinely cared about good food, who told me they had become increasingly disappointed with the quality of vegetables available at the big grocery stores, and who was actively wishing there was someone growing food around. When I asked how they had found us, the answer couldn't have been simpler.

A friend had mentioned the farm the week before.

That was it. Not an Instagram post. Not an article. Not one of these newsletters. Not a poster in town.

Just one person sharing something they thought another person would enjoy.

I've thought about that conversation a lot over the past week because, despite all the time I spend writing, taking photographs, sending newsletters, and trying to spread the word about what we're building here, none of it is as powerful as one genuine recommendation from a friend.

The same thing happens almost every Wednesday at the Mammoth Farmers Market. Someone will stop by the booth, look around with a mixture of surprise and excitement, and tell Aki, "I had no idea this market existed, but I heard someone talking about it." A few minutes later they're walking away with a bag full of local food, already talking about coming back the following week.

It reminds me that the strongest force behind every local food movement has never really been advertising.

It's always been people sharing places they love with people they care about.

If you have a favorite trail, you tell your friends about it. If you find an incredible little coffee shop, you send someone there the next time they're in town. Local food is no different.

I love hearing those stories because they remind me how much possibility still exists.

Every person discovering the market for the first time is another person meeting the people who could grow their food. Maybe that will lead them to deciding to buy vegetables from a local farmer instead of produce that traveled hundreds or thousands of miles to get here. Maybe they pick up bread from a local baker, buy coffee from a local roaster, or meat from a local rancher.

I believe that one of the most important things we're growing here isn't vegetables or fruit, it's relationships. You can't weigh those relationships or measure them by the pound, but they are every bit as important as the harvest itself.

This is exactly how resilient local food systems are built.

Yes, we need more farmers. We need more infrastructure, more markets, more processing facilities, better distribution, and all of the pieces that make a resilient local food system work. There is a lot of work ahead of us as a region to make this happen. But, standing in the shishitos last week, I was reminded that before any of those things can flourish, people first have to know that growing food here is possible. They have to know that there are farmers, ranchers, bakers, flower growers, coffee roasters, and mushroom growers doing this work right here, right now in the Eastern Sierra.

That begins with something remarkably simple.

One friend saying to another,

"You should come to the farm with me next Saturday."

So this week, I'd like to ask you a small favor. If there's a local producer you love, tell someone about them. Invite a neighbor to the Wednesday Market. Bring a friend out to the farm. Share a meal you made with local ingredients. Post a photo of your favorite loaf of bread, a beautiful bunch of locally grown flowers, or a local steak right off the grill.

This is how local food systems are built. Not because one person does something extraordinary, but because hundreds of people each make one small invitation.

One conversation.

One shared meal.

One invitation at a time.