w

Introduc tion

he story of wheat is the story of everything. How we get our staple

crops defines who we are. Potatoes, wheat, and rice: The things that

feed us can show our connection to land and machines and to one another,
or lack thereof. A bag of potato chips offers a lot of crunch, but that noise is
mum about the Great Famine. A million Irish died and more than a million
emigrated because the island nation planted only two varieties of the potato.
Abandoning the genetic diversity found in South and Central America,
where the crop originated, spelled disaster. Despite the link to starvation,
colcannon and other potato-based dishes still define much of Irish cuisine.
How we feed ourselves feeds our imagination. If I were a country,
pancakes would be my national dish. I fell for flour as soon as my mother
began to teach me fractions on measuring cups. The power of flour was in
its alchemical nature. Take this magic powder, mix it with water and other
simple ingredients, bake it, and it becomes delicious. As an adult I endeared
myself to people by baking them birthday cakes because I wanted them to
taste my affection. I bought good ingredients, but I didnt think much about
flour until I was in my forties, when I tasted a certain cookie made with oats
and wheat that had been grown, rolled, and milled near where I live in New
York State.
My husband brought me an oatmeal ganache bar on his way home from
a business trip. I was skeptical about the gift. Little did I know how many
worlds that cookie would open. Even against a backdrop of good butter and
chocolate, I could really taste the grains. Their flavor and freshness introduced me to the regional grain revival that was happening right under my
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The New Bread Basket

nose, and sent me on an investigation, one that has culminated in the book
youre now reading.
Nowadays I spend much of my time considering wheat and the history
we share with the edible seeds of certain grasses. I think about how planting
wheat and other foundational crops helped settle our nomadic ancestors. I
think about the processes involved in growing grains and turning them into
food. I wonder why those processes have become so invisible.
There is a long line of people, living and dead, standing between me and
my favorite ingredient. The particular history of each grain is a microcosm
of the general history of farming, milling, and baking. I love to peer into
these windows, reading about people storing grains in reed baskets and mud
pits. Much more recently, and closer to me, people ferried grains across the
Hudson River to be ground into flour by a water-powered mill. Along the
banks of the Poestenkill, millstones sit among the other rocks as evidence
of that era.
Ghosts of wheat sit between these forgotten millstones and the bags of
flour on a supermarket shelf. If we could see all these ghosts, understand
the steps that led farming, milling, and baking out of sight and out of mind,
would we be as dubious of wheat and gluten today?
Wheat is my favorite storyteller. More of the world is planted in wheat
than any other crop. At times, wheat has been the primary fuel for everyday
life. Between 1900 and 1940, bread made up 30 percent of our calories in
the United States. Grains and bread are central to our eating and experiences. We dont break butter or apples, we break bread. Our daily bread
is shorthand for simple sustenance and spiritual nurturing, yet most of us
can scarcely see the amber waves of grain so lauded in our national hymn,
Oh, Beautiful.
As people work to regionalize food production, staples like grains are the
last piece of the locavore puzzle to be solved. The relative stability of grains,
which since ancient times has made them a good food to store, is the same
thing that has allowed this staple to become a commodity, vanishing into the
anonymous middle of the country.
Whole villages used to drop everything and gather together for the grain
harvest. Yet the mechanization of harvesting equipment and baking systems
gradually broke the cohesive property of this crop. Once you know how
grain production and handling have changed, a bag of sliced white bread
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Introduc tion

can speak volumes to you. Long an easy shorthand for social and dietary
woes, soft bread, and its tanner whole- and multigrain cousins, might begin
to explain wheat sensitivities and rising rates of celiac disease.
Some say bread helped civilize us, because we had to sit still to grow
grain, and grain freed us to pursue things that were not essential to the business of being alive. Others argue that agriculture is the great mistake that
created social stratification and began the environmental degradation that
threatens our personal and planetary health. While we may be headed for
an apocalyptic future, Im betting that bread and beer can tame the human
animal again, and help us come to peace with the staff of life, as well as with
the even greater things we rely on, like air and dirt and rain.
In the four years since I ate that door-opening cookie, Ive seen a lot of
people working to rebuild regional grain systems. In the process they are
reviving economies, relationships, and communities. Decentralizing production of staple crops requires cooperation, and grain projects are rebuilding
more than markets and infrastructure. The people are recapturing the social
meanings of wheat and restoring the real value of grains to our lives and
the land. This book is my salute to the people who are making and breaking
bread, and brewing a village into every pint. I hope you will enjoy this tour
of their passions.

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