Wednesday, July 22, 2009

If growth is the measure of all things, why aren't we 20 feet tall?

The question of the juncture - or is it disjunction? - between sustainability and economic growth is being raised all over the place right now. Over on Rob Hopkins' Transition blog, there's a lively debate on the UK's low-carbon transition plan and its emphasis on economic growth. Nate Silver, at FiveThirtyEight, responds -- with a mordant logic worthy of Jonathan Swift -- to arguments that global warming won't be so bad because it will only cut GDP by 5% over the next 100 years. Hey, look, he says, we could wipe out almost half the world and drop GDP by only 4.4%, so why worry? And Dennis Pacheco, on Chelsea Green, asks whether California's IOUs are really a cleverly disguised alternative local currency.

It's a huge topic, and while, after decades as a financial reporter, I know something about the subject, there's a lot more that I don't know than that I do. But it does seem clear to me that there's something perverse about the way that economic growth has become the fundamental measure of the health of our society. Or any society.

If you watch financial news, you've noticed that the very first question out of any interviewer's mouth is "When is the economy going to start growing?" The very definition of a recession is negative financial growth. We are taught, over and over again, that the test of our well-being is how fast our economy is growing, and the first argument raised against any attempt to curb greenhouse gases is that it will hurt economic growth.

So when peak oil folk talk - and they do - about a steady-state economy, it's kind of scary, even to me. Can we thrive - all of us - in an economy that does
not grow? Where everything stays pretty much the same?

Of course, it's not that there's not enough to go around. Just as there's enough food in the world to feed us all - if it could be gotten to the people who need it - so there's enough money in the world for a decent, if not extravagant, lifestyle for all, if some of it could be taken from those who have a ludicrous excess and given to those who have almost nothing.

The trouble is, I can't think, off the top of my head, of a single even slightly developed society that has succeeded in doing that. The human desire to hang onto what you've got is very, very strong.

On the other hand, to argue that economic growth is the only way to bring even a modicum of wealth to the world's poorest people is - essentially - to claim that it's necessary to make some obscenely wealthy in order that others may have the barest necessities of life. Does that make sense?

I certainly don't know the answer. But if climate change and peak oil are the overwhelming and intertwined emergencies of this century - and I believe they are - then it's a question we're going to have to tackle, and soon. Journalists and economists and politicians -- and all the rest of us -- are going to have to find a new way of defining social well-being. Growth won't cut it.

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Friday, July 10, 2009

We share gardens. And chickens. Why not pigs?

Sharing is in. And not just because I wrote about it for MSN. It's even got its own website, The Sharing Solution. You can also find dozens of websites covering particular kinds of sharing. Garden-sharing's got several, including (but by no means limited to) Sharing backyards, Urban Gardenshare, and Hyperlocavore. And neighbors are beginning to get together to share the work of raising chickens.

But as far as I know, nobody has tried to share a pig. And what I want to know is, why not?

This all stems from a conversation I had this morning with my husband about our worm bin. Specifically, about how much garbage a bin of worms can actually eat. In our case, it's about a third of what we generate; another third goes into a composter in the garden.

And then there are the orange peels.

We are, you see, addicted to fresh orange juice. We drink just one small glass a day each. But it takes somewhere between 12 and 16 oranges (depending on size and juiciness) to make a quart of juice, and we go through a quart in roughly four days. That's an awful lot of orange peels. And to compost them in either the worm bin or the composter, I'd need to cut them up into tiny pieces, a task that daunts me. (Nor do I think that high a proportion of oranges - even organic oranges - would be especially good for the soil.)

As we were mulling this over this morning, I realized what we really need is a pig. Now, we can't raise a pig in our Brooklyn backyard. But why couldn't a bunch of neighbors get together and share the work of raising a pig - and the resultant meat? Animals seem almost meant to be shared - raising them single-handed is a no-time-off job. With a bunch of people sharing the job, nobody would be overworked, and everybody's excess food scraps would find a happy home. Including our peels, which might give the pork just a delicious hint of orange.

This isn't unheard of. In a recent post, Rob Hopkins writes of a Totnes resident who, as a child, took a bucket of pig swill down to a neighbor's pig every evening. He doesn't say, but I'd be astonished if the family didn't get some pork out of the deal. And in A Presumption of Daath, a mystery that takes place in World War II England, Jill Paton Walsh describes at some length the pig clubs that country-dwellers put together to get what was otherwise strictly rationed meat. One of the rules, apparently, was that you had to feed the pigs good garbage. "We have thrown someone out of the club...because they growed the most horrible-tasting meat," says one character. "Mr. Puffett's is best of all. He gives 'em windfall peaches from his kitchen garden, along of all the peelings, and do they taste different! Gorgeous, they are."

Of course, finding a place to keep the pig (or pigs - Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, a great proponent of home-raised pigs, warns that they're highly social, and says it's cruelty to keep just one) could be a problem. And from all I hear about pigs, it wouldn't be easy for club members to harden their hearts and send them off for slaughter. A friend of mine raises pigs for a living, and when she told me she'd stopped keeping ducks because they were so smart she hated to kill them, I asked how she dealt with killing pigs. "I close them in the truck," she said, "and try to forget where they're going."

Which may be what's behind the current dearth of pig clubs. Along with pesky municipal ordinances about raising them in the first place. But still (at least for the meat-eaters among us), wouldn't it be nice to take your kitchen scraps down the street to an appreciative pig, knowing that they were going to come back to you in the form of pork chops and bacon?

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Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Reversing global warming in your backyard?

I believe in all the big solutions to global warming - really I do - but what gets me truly excited is finding really effective solutions that will work on a local scale. And by really effective, I mean stuff that's a lot more dramatic than switching to fluorescent light bulbs. (Even though all the bulbs in my house are indeed fluorescent.) God knows I've written enough stories touting the virtues of this and other tiny steps, because those are the stories that popular media outlets want to buy. But although in one way it's true that every tiny step makes a difference, in another way it's fundamentally dishonest. If we don't take some really major steps soon, it's not going to matter what kind of light bulbs we use.

All of which is a roundabout way of getting to the subject of biochar. And what, you may ask, is biochar? Charcoal, basically - but charcoal made in such a way that it captures, and holds, a lot of carbon. According to the International Biochar Initiative, biochar production is not just carbon-neutral, but carbon-negative; its production and use actually decrease the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere.

But the really neat thing about bio-char is that you can make this stuff at home - at least according to Organic Gardening. All you need is some dry organic material, a steel pot with a loose lid and a source of heat.

Now, most of us (including me) aren't going to be making backyard biochar anytime soon. (Our neighbors are antsy enough about the bees.) But there's something enormously appealing about a product that produces fuel and fertilizer, removes CO2 from the atmosphere, and can be made on an extremely small scale. In fact, a Brooklyn start-up company, re:char, is hard at work on a unit that small farmers (and community gardens?) could use to turn waste plant material into biochar to nourish the soil, and biofuel to produce electricity.

And what could be niftier than that?

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