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A meal hosted by Slow Food Chicago proves that all good things come in due time.

Monday Aug 25, 2008.     By Sharon Hoyer

Lifestyle Feed

By most accounts, this has been a slow year for tomatoes, and not just because of that whole salmonella scare. The stubborn green globes just aren't ripening very quickly around these parts. It's comforting to think I'm not the only one hovering over my vines with impatience, but camaraderie doesn't solve the problem. So when I heard the theme of the last Slow Food potluck was Tomato Festival, I wondered (with no little envy) who in Chicago had any that were ready to share. I'd been hankering for a bite of a juicy Brandywine as much as I've wanted to attend a Slow Food event, so when a friend told me about the feast a couple days in advance I immediately plunked down the $20 admission and scraped together a last-minute recipe: cold cucumber soup pureed from the mammoth gourds now taking over my aunt's yard faster than she can pick them.

Slow Food is a worldwide organization that strives to preserve and cultivate the appreciation of good, real food. The movement was conceived two decades ago in resistance to our accelerated culinary culture and the damage it wreaks on our bodies and our environment. Food is, with the possible exception of my aunt's cucumbers, slow by nature; it takes time to grow and deserves time to prepare. Fast food is practically a contradiction in terms; what comes out of the fryer at McDonald's started on industrial farms, farms that rely on petrochemical fertilizers to speed and regulate the growth of biologically uniform crops. Fast meats come from industrial feed lots designed to bulk up steer by any means necessary—those being a diet of indigestible grain and a regimen of antibiotics to keep the animals alive despite disease-ridden conditions. The runoff waste from industrial farms poisons surrounding land and watersheds. The final food product is so far removed from identifiable plants or animals—shipped thousands of miles, ripened on trucks, processed to the hilt and frozen—that many Americans feel very little connection, if any, to the source of their sustenance.

The Slow Food movement is "founded upon [the] concept of eco-gastronomy–a recognition of the strong connections between plate and planet." An Italian named Carlo Petrini cooked up the concept in 1986 and in 1989 delegates from 15 countries signed the manifesto: a creed to preserve food heritage and biodiversity, close the gap between food producers and consumers and reawaken people to the pleasures of eating. The movement is immense and continues to grow; each year Slow Food International holds Terra Madre, a heavily attended meeting of chefs, farmers and food lovers from every corner of the globe. Local Slow Food chapters host taste education sessions, meetings with local food producers, haute cuisine prix-fixe dinners and casual events like the Tomato Fest potluck at the Chicago Honey Co-op.

The venue for this particular meal was particularly appealing; the CHC apiary is one of my favorite spots in the city and the weather was ideal for dinner al fresco. I felt a little guilty for slapping the soup together in such a rush, but the homegrown ingredients helped soothe my conscience; I tossed in mint and basil from my own garden to seal the deal. I packed the bright-green concoction in my bag and biked down to the bee farm.

Tables and tents were set up in a back corner of the concrete expanse. About three-dozen people of all descriptions were lounging on blankets, in lawn chairs or milling about the tables, inquiring who cooked what, sampling dishes and nodding in approval. A handful of knee-high kids chased each other through the community garden plots. One woman approached another to compliment the lemon meringue pie. The baker gave her admirer a hug and then proceeded to tell her the recipe. I almost twisted my neck attempting to eavesdrop.

As for the heirloom tomato table, there wasn't an inch free; each variety was carefully labeled and set out on glorious display. The pristine condition of the fruit led me to believe everyone was a bit shy about taking the first bite, so after a couple glasses of organic wine I mustered the chutzpah to grab a knife and give the plump fruit a proper baptism. That was all the encouragement the diners required—a small crowd soon gathered at the table, carefully slicing heftier specimens and popping cherry and grape tomatoes in their mouths. I tried a meaty bite of Purple Calabash; it was my first heirloom tomato of the season and well worth the wait.

Visit the Slow Food Chicago website to learn about more upcoming feasts.

It took a move from the regimented lawnscapes of the suburbs to the congestion of a major metropolis for Sharon to look twice at what she puts in the trash, down the sink and into her own body. She reports fortnightly on her endeavors to change "greening" from calculated deviation to a practicable way of life. You can contact her here.