Before The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defense of Food brought him to a larger audience, Michael Pollan wrote a book called The Botany of Desire, which looks at the relations between humans and four plant species whose genetic success has been determined by the ways that they suit our needs: the apple, the tulip, marijuana, and the potato. (He discusses similar ideas in his talk on the human relationship with corn in this video.)

Pollan begins with a hypothesis that plants play upon us even as we believe that we are using them for food and beauty: “We have spent the last few thousand years making these species through artificial selection, transforming a tiny, toxic root node into a fat, nourishing potato and a short, unprepossessing wildflower into a fat, nourishing tulip. What is much less obvious, at least to us, is that these plants have, at the same time, been going about the business of remaking us.” There, I thought, is a very intriguing take on our relationship with nature.

Then, there are the off-kilter moments of humor, such as the description from the Marijuana chapter on Pollan’s old cat, Frank, and his little catnip problem: “Every summer evening around five, Frank would lumber into the garden for a happy-hour sniff of Nepeta cataria, or catnip. He would first sniff, then tug at the leaves and proceed to roll around in what seemed to me like paroxysms of sexual ecstasy. Frank would crash-land in the dirt, pick himself up, do a funny little sidestep, then pounce again until, exhausted, he’d go sleep it off in the shade of a tomato plant.” I’ve often thought of this image of poor Frank reacting to the catnip while watching people at parties, and smiled to myself.

I first started to pay attention to where my food was coming from after reading The Botany of Desire. While the author clearly has a certain point of view, Pollan wooed me to the greenmarket not with a populist guilt trip, but with his combination of beautiful language, history, scientific approach, and humor. The book doesn’t beat me over the head with what is wrong, but reminds me of the loveliest of what is right.

When he describes some of the hundreds of apple varieties that used to be available in America, I felt driven to explore the less-familiar apples at the greenmarket. For years I had thought of apples as a boring winter fruit, until I discovered the wonderfully spicy winesap.

This is just one small example of the way this book made me want to commit with my money and time towards a positive vision. Out of all of the books that I’ve thought would change me, this is the one that produced a sustained result.

Pollan isn’t trying to convert you—he doesn’t have to try; he just can’t help himself. When I compare boring red delicious apples to the unusual types I’ve sought out since reading The Botany of Desire, it’s a no-brainer which one I’d rather eat. Ditto for the Monsanto newleaf vs. peculiar blue or red potatoes, as described in the potato chapter. It’s not a question of guilt, but pleasure—I am intrigued enough to search out better, more unique food, which is native to my area and produced as part of the local economy. Everybody wins.

One last anecdote: On Avenue of the Americas, I once saw an unusual tulip that looked very similar to his description of the tulips with color breaks that once incited tulipmania in Holland. These tulips had supposedly disappeared except for freak incidents, so I hurried back the next day to photograph this rare specimen.

Pollan’s fascinating, upside-down way of looking at the relationship between humans and plants charmed and disarmed me, and got me seeing everything around me from a completely new perspective. I can’t think of any other book that would inspire me to seek out strange new fruits, or run around the city photographing flowers.

Which books have altered the way you see the world and inspired you to do slightly crazy things? Let us know in the comments.

(image by jslander via flickr)

A while back, I was discussing food with a close friend of my older sister, a teacher and mom whom I’ll call “Kathleen”. Kathleen mentioned liking Rachael Ray, and I expressed the opposite opinion. I am happy to tell anyone who asks that the diabolically perky RR does nothing for cooking as an art form, and that I do not use her cookbooks because she has the temerity to make lasagna out of ravioli.

Kathleen then asked for my opinion on a Kraft Parmesan product that she said came with its own disposable grater, and asked whether I thought that it was a good idea. I said that it would be better to use a real grater, and buy cheese from cows who enjoyed a good quality of life. I was passionate about the subject matter. I did not realize until later that my words might have been, well, a trifle obnoxious.

Our family photo albums contain pictures of me with Kathleen when I was a toddling little thing. Was this any way for me to be treating her? Shouldn’t I encourage her first steps rather than deriding them? My knee-jerk reaction to Rachael Ray and Kraft Parmesan was the same kind of overbearing behavior that I find abrasive in others: the tunnel-vision zeal of the long-time purist. I’m especially galled with myself because I’ve often given up on making changes when I felt I couldn’t compete with the examples of folks more hardcore than myself.

I recall an interview with Alice Waters where she went on and on about how much she loves growing and washing lettuce, and how everybody ought to personally grow and wash lots of lettuce. But I hate washing lettuce. Any one minute that I spend washing lettuce is exactly the same as any other minute that I spend washing lettuce. I wanted to go spitefully eat fast food in front of her. I love the greenmarket, but if I had hours of extra time in my week, I wouldn’t devote them to lettuce. I’d probably read.

What business does Alice Waters have expecting me to wash lettuce all the time? Even though I admire her catalytic role in improving the American palate, in that moment I resented her. People like her dedicate a lot of energy to creating resources that make it easier for a wider range of people to participate in positive societal changes, and they care a lot about what they do. But sometimes, purists trip on the line between advice and lecturing.

Purists may not realize how alienating they can be. When a beginner asks for facts or guidance and the purist tells him that he isn’t doing enough, it can be very discouraging. And this kind of harping isn’t confined to the environmental activity or local foods; purists can alienate the curious in any potentially fulfilling activity that involves a degree of thought or time commitment, including most forms of community, religious, or political participation.

So, after my conversation with Kathleen and the realization that I was not helping, I’m doing my best to remember that I ultimately have a more positive effect when I encourage rather than condescend. When we find ourselves in the role of advice-giver, we would be well-served to remember how it feels to be a beginner. And surely, we are all beginners depending on who we compare ourselves to; there’s always someone more hard-core.

Kathleen, if you’re reading, I’m sorry! I’m really passionate about food, and I allowed it to make me a little blind to the fact that you are rightly taking steps according to your schedule rather than mine. Please forgive me, and allow me to have you over for lasagna sometime to make it up to you.

Like many modern folks, I'm accustomed to seeing perfectly matched eggs. Even the organic eggs that I buy at the supermarket are uniform in size within the box, regardless of slight variations in shell tone. Recently, I decided to switch to shopping at the farmer's market, where I was surprised one day when I passed a booth selling eggs whose size varied among the dozen. I suppose that I had previously assumed that all hens of a certain type always laid identically sized eggs -- i.e., one sort would always lay large, another would always lay extra large, etc. But really, I hadn't thought about it too much. I've never seen a real hen laying real eggs.

I had no idea that hens might lay eggs of varying size. I then leapt to a conclusion that, perhaps, "organic" hens in the "natural" state must lay eggs of wildly varying size, like that ones I saw at the Union Square Greenmarket, in the same way the humans have babies of varying weights. Why were the supermarket eggs all the same size? Does this have something to do with agribusiness? What have we done to our fair chickens?

I shared these thoughts with my father over dinner one night not long afterwards. As I spoke, I saw the fear that he had raised an idiot flash behind his eyes.

"No, Rena," he said gently, "they sort the eggs."

Oh. When I ran this story past other people, including some of the farmers at the greenmarket, they all expressed amusement that I had not known that supermarket eggs achieve their uniformity through presorting. I must have looked like an idiot asking apparently obvious-to-everyone-but-me questions like, "Do different hens within a group lay different sized eggs?"

But seriously, how was I to know? I grew up in the suburbs, live in the city, and have never seen an egg in the nest. Aside from childhood trips to historical reconstructions like Colonial Williamsburg, I've never seen people interacting with live poultry.

I'm just one more urban girl with an imperfect idea of where her food comes from. And maybe, not knowing much about it made a fool out of me. But I'm nothing if not eager to learn. So I took the opportunity to poke around at the farmers' market and educate myself on the various kinds of eggs you might see shopping outside of a supermarket:

1. Chicken eggs are the old familiars. The ones you see in the photographs were purchased at a greenmarket and have bright marigold-yellow yolks.
2. Pullet eggs are smaller, laid by younger hens. They are a fun choice if you're looking for a way to control portion size.
3. Duck eggs are larger than chicken eggs, more oblong in shape, and their shells have a matte, parchment-like tone to them. They have a bright yolk with a more orangey color than you'd see in a chicken egg, and taste oddly egg-ier than chicken eggs. Bakers like to use them because they loft up higher in cakes.
4. The cute kid siblings of the egg world, quail eggs are considered a delicacy, although you might find them too pretty to eat. The insides of the shells are pale blue, and the outsides are speckled. Some confectioner's shops sell chocolate imitations, but there's really no risk of confusion.

Please rest assumed that every delicious egg in the photos was eaten. Yes, I had fun playing with my breakfast food all week.

Rena Gross, a charming, delightful, brilliant, extremely modest young maverick, considers herself to be the consummate New York eccentric. Rena loves books, greenmarkets, cooking, concerts, and the park. She despises asparagus, stuffing, stubbed toes, and people who think that waking up before 10 am is a good idea. Rena does not know how to play the drums, but enjoys crashing around on them.