What Ireland Reminded Me About Local Food

We just got home from three weeks in Ireland, and one of the things that struck me most—besides the beautiful countryside, the stone walls, and the fact that apparently every road in Ireland is approximately two sheep-widths wide—was how visible farming still is in everyday life.

And especially sheep farming.

Sheep were everywhere. On hillsides, in fields, along roadsides. Lamb was on the menu in restaurant after restaurant. Nearly every town we visited had a good butcher shop, often with locally produced meat prominently displayed. And wool products were everywhere, too—sweaters, hats, scarves, blankets and socks, made from a product that came from sheep living right there in the country.

It wasn't a special "farm-to-table" experience.

It was just…food.

That really stayed with me.

Here in Vermont, we have plenty of farmers raising good food. We have beautiful pasture, good soil, a climate well suited to grazing livestock, and people who care deeply about how their animals are raised.

But our food system often makes those farms surprisingly hard to see.

Over the past several decades, American agriculture has become increasingly concentrated and specialized. Sheep numbers and the number of sheep farms have declined dramatically, while the U.S. market has increasingly relied on imported lamb. According to USDA, more than half of the lamb and mutton consumed in this country now comes from imports, primarily from Australia and New Zealand.

That's a pretty remarkable thing when you think about it.

We have farmers raising sheep here. We have customers who want to eat lamb here. And yet much of the lamb on American grocery-store shelves has traveled thousands of miles before it reaches your plate.

Meanwhile, the local farmer is trying to make the numbers work.

That's part of what I loved about Ireland. The connection between the farm and the food felt much more intact. You could see sheep on the hills, then walk into town and buy lamb from a butcher. You could sit down at a pub and order lamb for dinner. You could buy a wool sweater made from the same basic raw material that has been part of Irish agriculture for generations.

The whole system was more visible.

And I think visibility matters.

When food becomes anonymous—when meat simply appears in a plastic package with a price on it—we lose sight of the fact that every piece of meat represents an animal, a farmer, land, weather, labor and a whole chain of decisions about how that animal was raised.

We also lose sight of what we're supporting with our food dollars.

I'm not suggesting that every American should suddenly stop buying meat from the grocery store. And I'm certainly not suggesting that imported meat is inherently unsafe or inferior. Imported meat has to meet U.S. inspection requirements, and international trade is a complicated part of our food system.

But price isn't the whole story.

A cheaper piece of meat isn't necessarily cheaper when you consider the farm that disappears because it can't compete, the local butcher who closes, the pasture that isn't being managed, the agricultural knowledge that isn't passed along, or the dollars that leave the community instead of circulating locally.

And this is where buying local becomes more than a feel-good choice.

When you buy a package of lamb from a local farmer, you're not just buying lamb.

You're helping keep sheep on Vermont pasture.

You're helping keep a small farm in business.

You're supporting the local butcher and slaughterhouse.

You're keeping agricultural land in production.

You're helping maintain the knowledge and infrastructure that make it possible for your community to produce food for itself.

And, perhaps most importantly, you're creating demand for a different kind of food system.

That's one of the reasons I farm the way I do.

At Lucky Dog Farm, I'm not trying to produce the most lamb possible at the lowest possible cost. I'm trying to raise good lamb on the land I have, using the pasture as efficiently as I can, with a healthy flock and healthy soils.

It's a small-scale system. It's slower. It requires a lot of hands-on work.

But when you pick up a package of Lucky Dog Farm lamb, you know where it came from.

You know the farmer.

You can come see the sheep.

You can ask me what they ate, how they were raised, or why I made a particular management decision.

That connection is something worth preserving.

Ireland reminded me that a food system doesn't have to be anonymous.

It can be right outside your door.

And here in Vermont, we have the land, the farmers and the animals to make that possible.

We just have to keep choosing to support it.

— Farmer Judith