More Is Never Enough 7hardwired with the imperative to overcome food scarcity. In anticipation
of having to live through lean times, whenever possible, we are genetically
programmed to pack away excess calories in the form of fat. No matter
what others may tell us about health and well-being, our DNA regards
this buffer of excess weight as a matter of life and death.
Equating access to food with money seduces us into ignoring that
we are always bound to the natural environment. When we sit down to
enjoy a steak, we rarely think of the cow it came from, much less how
environmental pressures were overcome to raise the animal full-term
before it was slaughtered. As our collective memory fades, and we lose
sight of how such realities affect food production, always wanting more
defines who we are. Always producing more reinforces it.
Of the five forces that fuel the modern food system, this one—
our belief that more is never enough—is the most important. Yet its
implications go unquestioned, even as it accelerates the inevitable face-
off with nature. While I was growing up, news reports on how many
people one farmer fed, which I translated into how much land one
person could farm, always intrigued me. I began assuming that larger
farms—by virtue of producing more food—benefited society the most.
The eventual implications stemming from such an outlook seemed less
important.
On occasion, I helped another farmer cultivate his fallowed land to
control weed growth. His property bordered the mountains and was the
largest contiguous piece of land I ever worked. Completing the entire
field took three days—plenty of time to hear the rumble of the tractor’s
diesel engine, feel the summer heat rise in the morning, and watch the
Sun descend across the skyline in late afternoon. As I crisscrossed back
and forth, I sometimes daydreamed about whether my ancestors would
have been amazed were they to see such a large expanse of land worked
by just one person. From their era came the definition of an acre: the
amount of land that could be plowed in one day with a yoke of oxen and
a single plow. What took them an entire day, I accomplished in a matter
of minutes.
Other fantasies to pass the time came from a collection of stories
I received one Christmas. One written by Leo Tolstoy featured Pahom,
an ambitious peasant who amasses large plots of land that make him