Thought for food (and drink)

I've been reading about the controversy surrounding a proposed expansion of an existing dairy operation in Winona County. One of the issues centers around the question of whether an expansion would lead to an increase in greenhouse gas emissions. The real question, it seems to me, is "compared to what?" The Paris Agreement target is to keep global temperatures from increasing more than 1.5℃ by limiting and reducing greenhouse gas emissions. If we change vehicles that burn fossil fuels into electric powered using renewable energy, we've reduced transportation GHGs. What's the comparable scenario for dairy cows? Minnesota's herd has been pretty stable for the last decade or so. Does it make a difference to the climate if those cows are distributed among 1, 10, or 1,000 separate operations? How well equipped are we as a society to answer those questions? How many similar questions will arise as we work toward a  set of Drawdown solutions? Can we agree on workable solutions quickly enough to keep climate volatility within tolerable extremes and frequencies? I am again reminded of a poster I had on my office wall, when I was younger and knew so much more than I do these days. It's attributed to Harvey Cox and claims "Not to decide is to decide!" If we keep going the way we're going we may end up somewhere we don't want to be.

I don't know if the neighbor milks his yaks

Photo by J. Harrington

Cows

By Deena Metzger

After seven lean years

we are promised seven fat ones,

if the cows do not die first.

Some care must be taken

to prevent their demise

in the scrub

or the slaughterhouse.

There must be enough bones

to throw and to bury.

The skull of a cow,

I put it on.

There are many strewn in the field,

there has not been much rain.

I look through the eyes,

that is, my eyes replace the eyes

that death has taken.

I can see out or through.

It is not a bad fate

to be a cow,

to be, at once,

so awkward,

so full of grace,

so full of milk.

Everywhere the udders are full,

the teats are ready,

the mouth of the calf is soft and deep.

I would thrust my hand in it

for the wet joy of being so used.

My own breasts are marked

from the time the milk came in too fast;

I did not have time to grow

to the moment of giving.

It is fitting

that beauty

leaves such scars.

Milk has passed through my fingers,

has spurted through my fingers,

but not once

during these seven lean years.

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