The economists are right. There is no free lunch. But is a free lunch what we really want anyway?
This may be the most expensive salad I’ve ever eaten, but it's also the most authentic. I literally made it from scratch, starting with the weeds I scratched and pulled (with help from friends) out of an abandoned garden plot in Rockville, Maryland. I bought the plants, topsoil, fertilizer, and pesticide, all organic. I then shaped the soil and put the plants in the ground.
This may be the most expensive salad I’ve ever eaten, but it's also the most authentic. I literally made it from scratch, starting with the weeds I scratched and pulled (with help from friends) out of an abandoned garden plot in Rockville, Maryland. I bought the plants, topsoil, fertilizer, and pesticide, all organic. I then shaped the soil and put the plants in the ground.
The groundhogs and rabbits quickly had their way with my spinach, so I put up a net barrier. Beetles destroyed my cabbage in spite of a periodic application of organic “pesticide.” The record rains followed by record weeds also took their toll.

Last Sunday we harvested the surviving veggies, enough leafy greens for about four personal salads and herbs to garnish a full Thanksgiving table. On Sunday night, I carefully washed and sorted our bounty and put it in our hotel fridge. Overnight, the fridge then froze our prized greens into crunchy leaf-cicles. You should have seen my face. Yet post-thaw soggy salad never tasted so right.
What have I learned from this experience?
- I’m a terrible gardener. (I had to start somewhere, right?) I have tremendous respect for gardeners and farmers of all stripes, and I’m glad to pay them to do the job better than I can.
- Still, I’m proud of what I made. Producing something as simple, tangible, and immediately valuable as food makes me happy—even more sharing it with someone else.
- People in my community make amazing things. In my short time in the community garden, fellow gardeners have generously shared (out of pity?) their figs, heirloom and cherry tomatoes, bell peppers, basil, beets, flowers, and more. These products were more valuable to me than anything I've bought in a grocery store.
- Authenticity matters to me. After toiling in my organic garden, food is more personal. I want to know where it comes from (preferably a local farm or garden), who produces it, and how it's produced. For me, this knowledge makes the product better, and I’m willing to pay more for it.
- A conscientious producer is a more conscientious consumer. It’s not just about food. When I look to buy almost anything now, I want information about its source, contents, and process. Authenticity, health, and environment are all part of my definition of quality.
Can I build a business on these insights? No. At least not yet. My experiment in local production was a very un-scientific study, with a biased sample of just one (me). However, I do have a working hypothesis:
Conscientious customers will pay more for a better and more authentic product—made locally, by people they know, using contents they value, with a process they appreciate.
Next steps: Develop a simple product with the above features, seek out a specific set of conscientious customers, offer the product through the right channels, and observe.