A Letter on Food
and the confluence of land, taste, climate, and identity.
Dear relatives,
It’s been nearly a month since I last wrote to you, and in that time we have entered into a different astrological landscape. From March 30 to today, we’ve witnessed Neptune move into Aries; the completion of this year’s Venus retrograde cycle in Aries and Pisces; a Chiron cazimi in Aries and the Full Moon in Libra; and the start of Taurus season.
Now that Mercury is wrapping up its retrograde period, we turn our attention to the forthcoming Mars opposition to Pluto on April 26, followed by the New Moon in Taurus. With major transits like this, paired with the energetics of Spring, it can feel like we’re being pushed and pulled in multiple directions at once. I’ve noticed an uptick in clients with tight and sore muscles; the reappearance of bodily sensations, mental patterns, and challenging emotions that had subsided; and overall exhaustion.
I’ve felt all the above as well. I have my eye on Mars and Pluto as they move into opposition to each other this weekend. I am trying to remember the places where this aspect is occurring: the ecosystems of Leo and Aquarius, interdependently. And, I am trying to remember that there is a little sweetness on the way with the New Moon in Taurus, ruled by Venus who is exalted in Pisces. As wildlife biologist and poet J. Drew Lanham writes, “Joy is the justice we give ourselves.” So, it is joy that I will give, and receive, whenever I can.
In honor of Earth Day and Taurus season, in this week’s letter, I write about my relationship with food, and the confluence of land, taste, and climate. Before we get into it, I want to share that my books are open for the end of April and May. I have two core astrological readings, a Foundational reading, and a reading focused on shifting Habits. If you are a past client and would like further support, consider booking a call with me to discuss a collaborative astrology-based Partnership.
Thank you, as always, for being here. Now, on to the missive!
When I became a mother, I started to obsess about food in a way that was both familiar and uncomfortable. When my son started solid foods around 6 months old, eating, cooking, and the dynamics of mealtimes became much more complicated than I had imagined. There were the typical concerns about choking that any parent or caretaker would have. Some foods are naturally more hazardous for tiny mouths, especially most small, round, or slippery items (think grapes!). At the time, we were still supplementing with breast milk and formula, and my Aries Sun child was over the moon about food. In those days, the brighter and more flavorful, the better.
I threw myself into the process, creating a mix of meals that he could eat with his hands, and some that allowed for practice with a spoon. There was stewed fruit and steamed vegetables, appropriately sliced cheese, and various combinations of protein-rich foods, sometimes mixed with yogurt. It was a joyful time for both of us. Food got everywhere (as it should when one is learning how to coordinate chewing, swallowing, and breathing) and my son’s taste for diverse flavors slowly started to ripen.
The mess was a part of the learning process, I thought. But, my partner and mother did not necessarily feel the same way, nor were they as willing or comfortable to participate in the seemingly endless messy stage. Eventually, the spilled soups, half-masticated bits of food, and ideological collisions became chronic pain points. As time progressed, the arguments only intensified. I often felt the strange mix of loneliness paired with frustration; no matter what I tried, it was never enough.
Would it have made a difference if everyone were on the same page, moving toward the same goal? Probably. When I think back on that time, I can easily see the gaps: I could have prepared us all better for the process. But, this pattern of thought reminds me that women and mothers and femmes are typically assigned greater responsibility when it comes to matters involving food.
While all of this was happening, I had an opportunity to re-examine my complicated relationship with food. I was able to consider the context in which my relationship to eating is situated and to parse out where this complexity is rooted.
I grew up noshing on a fair amount of processed food. The convenience gave my hard-working parents some of their time back. Before the happy meals, sugary snacks, and canned fruit, my family had a more direct relationship with acquiring sustenance through gardening, farming, and tending the land. My maternal grandmother, who grew up in rural Ohio on a family farm, raised small livestock and grew food for consumption. Her mother and grandmother were kitchen herbalists and utilized plant medicine for home remedies. My father also grew up on a farm, in Ohio and Kentucky, respectively. His mother and father were sharecroppers, and he, the youngest of nine, grew up drinking water from a well. His father managed the selling and sharing of what was produced, and his mother was the main cook for the family, as well as other families in their sharecropping community.
I’ve heard the stories of their experiences, over and over; stories about my mother’s grandmother and her homemade pie crusts, or the soil that my father’s mom would put on her gums when she couldn’t afford snuff. (In retrospect, she may have had geophagia, a condition that causes cravings for earth, soil, or clay. It is thought to stem from some psychological conditions and nutrient deficiencies and can manifest in pregnancy.) I never tire of hearing these origin stories, of witnessing my elders speak them aloud again and again. But, I don’t romanticize the reality that my parents and grandparents lived and labored through. I know that their history with food and land has intimately shaped my identity. It is my inheritance.
Since its inception, the agricultural industry has garnered the power to shape our tastes and determine who is granted access to land, and therefore, sustenance. The state of our food system, which relies heavily on processed products, factory-farmed meat, and seed monopoly, points to a need for habit changes, including conscious limitation. Studies suggest that restricting or decreasing meat and dairy consumption is imperative to reducing greenhouse gas emissions produced by large-scale industrial agriculture. At best, limiting one's participation in corporate agricultural practices is a starting point.
Growing up in the Midwest, I have firsthand experience with the beast that is large-scale farming and its many insidious iterations, where just a few miles up the road from my son’s school, is an oil refinery; to some, a beacon of economic certainty. Across this country, each one of us is witness to the reality of our broken food system whenever we enter the grocery store. We hear the sighs of people in our community as they scan the aisles and worry about exorbitant pricing. We sign right along with them. I feel my heartbeat quicken every time I approach the checkout.
In contrast, when I am in my garden, I feel the pulse of subversion as I witness seeds sprout and unfurl. It feels radical and liberatory. But, I also participate in the former, which allows me to see the interesting paradox between consumer and custodian.
The routines that help us maintain the flow and rhythm of day-to-day living are consistent with the necessity and reality of domestic labor. Food writer Alicia Kennedy has written about this topic, and I find myself returning to essays on domestic writing and domesticity in the archives of her beloved newsletter. It is a literary genre that I’ve become increasingly aware of and interested in after my grandmother passed away in 2012. My investment in domestic work—as a person who was a domestic worker, and was raised by women who were domestic laborers—deepened when I became a mother in 2019 and began to face the haunting and unexpected challenges that arose during the postpartum period.
“How do I nourish myself, while also tending to the nourishment of this beautiful human?” This is a question that I continue to think and write about. It is an inquiry that has been constructed by personal and familial connections to domestic life, and loops in the history of enslavement and genocide. This year marks six years of motherhood. It is only in the last year that I’ve felt a sliver of peace regarding food and meals and cooking for my family, and myself. I brought so much of my struggles and trauma with disordered eating into those early years as a new mother. And, as my child grows, it’s becoming more imperative that I forgive myself, stay accountable, and be an ally to him as he develops a personal relationship with food over time.
I hope you are nourishing yourself in the ways that you need.
Until the next one,
Christian
Listening
I made us a playlist for the 2025 Venus retrograde cycle. Here she is:
Reading
After devouring Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative, by Melissa Febos, I promptly began Sand Talk: How Indigenous Thinking Can Save the World, by Tyson Yunkaporta.
Creating
I have a few areas in my small healing arts studio that need some attention, and intention. I am considering creating a workspace for artmaking and tea blending, as well as a space for a small, seasonal curation of products, including books!