#feedlot farming

[farmerstrend]

Focus on High Quality Beef: How Small-Scale Beef and Dairy Farmers Thrive in Urban Slums

Explore how Kenyan farmers are producing high quality beef by adopting modern feedlot practices and crossbreeding Bos taurus with traditional cattle breeds. Learn about the strategies behind producing high quality beef in Kenya, from selecting the right breeds to targeting premium markets for better profitability. Discover how feedlot farming and crossbreeding techniques are helping Kenyan…

[entegrasignaturestructures]

Top Construction Company Australia - Entegra Signature Structures

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[mindblowingscience]

Seaweed is once again showing promise for making cattle farming more sustainable. A study by researchers at the University of California, Davis, found that feeding grazing beef cattle a seaweed supplement in pellet form reduced their methane emissions by almost 40% without affecting their health or weight. The study was published Dec. 2 in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. This is the first study to test seaweed on grazing beef cattle in the world. It follows previous studies that showed seaweed cut methane emissions 82% in feedlot cattle and over 50% in dairy cows.

Continue Reading.

[doomsayersunited]

A Decade Of Doom!

I started this blog ten years ago to compile the growing evidence that our planet would not longer be able to sustain human life by 2050, thanks to our continued, capitalist-fueled efforts to destroy all the systems we rely upon to sustain life. The first thing I put up here was this essay, on February 20, 2014. Now, a decade later, I thought it might be "fun" to look at what's changed: 1) Earth Overshoot Day

In 2014, "Earth Overshoot Day" (the day that humanity collectively consumes more resources from nature than it can regenerate over a year) was August 19th. Now, in 2024, Earth Overshoot Day is August 1st, 2.5 weeks earlier. At this rate and assuming things don't accelerate (even though they are likely to), Earth Overshoot Day will be around June 17th by 2050. 2) Biocapacity Biocapacity is the amount of resources contained on the planet required available to sustain life, measured by area. In 2014, I calculated that the planet had a biocapacity of 1.7 hectares per person. By dividing the total available biocapacity today in 2024 with the current global population as I did then, it now appears that there are just 1.5 hectares of planetary resources left per person to extract all the materials needed to sustain life, as well as all the area available to dispose of waste. That's a 12% loss over ten years. At that rate, we can expect to lose another 30% of biocapacity by 2050, going down to just 1.05 hectares per person by then, and that's assuming that the rate of biocapacity loss does not accelerate further and that the global population suddenly stops increasing after a run of non-stop increases spanning five centuries. Oh, also a reminder that the average human requires 2.7 hectares of land to sustain its current consumption habits/levels. So. 3) Individual Conservation To illustrate the futility of individual conservation at this point in the apocalypse, let me give you an example: If you were: a fully-vegan localvore living in a one-bedroom apartment with nine other people and using 100% renewably-generated electricity; who did not ever use motorized transportation of any kind or buy new clothing, furnishings, electronics, books, magazines, or newspapers and recycled all the waste you generated that was recyclable, you'd only require 1.4 hectares of biocapacity to sustain yourself. That is close to the kind of lifestyle extremism it would take to live sustainably. Deviate from that level of stoicism even slightly (say by living in a two-bedroom apartment with three other people instead of a one-bedroom apartment with nine other people and taking a single, four-hour roundtrip flight, once a year) and you're now consuming 1.6 hectares of biocapacity, which means you're using more resources than the world has available for you if everything was divided evenly among everybody. Of course, biocapacity, like all resources, are not divvied up evenly among everybody, which is why there are currently 114 different armed conflicts happening worldwide - the highest number of armed conflicts since 1946. 2023 was the most violent year in the last three decades. 4) Other Signs Of The End Times In my 2014 essay, I referenced the work of geologist Dr. Evan Fraser, who studies civilization collapse. In his book Empires of Food, Dr. Fraser noted common signs of a civilization about to collapse, which began to appear about two decades before it all goes completely to hell. Those signs were: -a rapidly-increasing and rapidly-urbanizing population We've added 700 million people to the planet since I began this blog in 2014. And where is everyone moving to?

-farmers increasingly specializing in just a small number of crops " "As farm ecosystems have been simplified, so too are the organisms that populate the farm.  A farm that specializes in a limited number of crops in short rotations does not, for example, look for plant varieties that do well in more complex rotations with intercropping.  A beef feedlot operation wants breeds that gain weight quickly on grain diets and does not want cattle breeds that digest well pasture grasses and thrive in all year outdoor environments on the range." The result? Recent estimates put the loss of global food diversity over the last 100 years at 75%. Over the 300,000 species of edible plants that exist, humans only consume about 200 of them in notable quantities, with 90% of crop plants not being grown commercially. -endemic soil erosion Climate change and the need to raise more crops have combined to increase the rate of agricultural soil erosion globally. Back in 2014, when I started blogging about the end of everything, the UN had already determined that there was only enough fertile soil left to plant 60 more annual crops. So, by 2074, we won't be able to grow food, full stop. This of course comes at a time when the global population continues to increase, and with it the need to grow more food. If projections are accurate, we will need to increase food production by 50% over the next three decades to feed everyone. -a dramatic increase in the cost of food and raw materials When I started this blog in 2014, I noted that 2011-2013 had seen the highest food prices on record. So what's happened since then?

It's important to point out here that the current food price spike started in 2020, so if Dr. Fraser's calculations are correct, the food system will collapse sometime around 2034, taking civilization with it. I closed my debut essay on this blog with a quote from the (now deceased) climate scientist Dr. James Lovelock, who advised a Guardian journalist to "enjoy life while you can. Because if you're lucky it's going to be 20 years before it hits the fan." That interview was published in 2008. We have four years left to enjoy.

[novacorpsrecruit]

Rain’s A Good Thing

WC 3,501 | GEN | CW: I’ve never chased a tornado, I don’t know how to drive manual

Read on Ao3

Hawkins, Indiana is a farm town.

Tommy Hagan’s family owned the largest feedlot in the county. Carol Perkins’ father was the leading corn producer in the state of Indiana. During the summer, Andy Hostetter and Chance Murillo worked harvest, and the McKinney family has a turkey farm.

And Steve?

Steve is the furthest thing from a country boy.

His father, Richard Harrington, is (ironically) one of the state’s leading divorce attorneys. His mother, Catherine, hated for Steve to get any sort of dirt on him. He was never allowed in sandboxes when she took him to the park. Never allowed to splash in puddles or play in the rain or roll in the grass.

Never allowed to get dirty.

Never allowed to be an Indiana country boy.

Until he met Eddie.

Eddie didn’t grow up on a farm, but he did spend the majority of his formative years in Forest Hills. When he stayed with Wayne as a child, he made mud pies and played with the trailer park dog. He played in the forest, following the creek deep into the woods and catching crawdads.

Eddie still goes fishing with Wayne. Not afraid to hold the catch of the day, posing for Wayne’s photo. Eddie loves driving on dirt roads, taking the back way to Indy, or just taking a late night cruise.

As much as Eddie denied, denied, denied, he was a country boy through and through.

And although Steve has spent his entire life in Hawkins … he was a city boy.

And Eddie keeps forgetting that.

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon. The third or fourth day in a row. Steve lost count. He hated rainy days. Especially storms. He felt trapped in his own home, but the last few days he spent at the trailer with Eddie felt special. The boys were both off from work and lazily tangled on the couch, watching ‘Used Cars’, questionably ‘borrowed’ from Family Video. Steve called it a perk of his job. Eddie knew Steve picked the movie solely because Eddie admitted that he used to have a crush on Kurt Russell (“Used to?” Steve laughed, “You still do!” “Do not!” “Do too!”), but there was something about the shitty cars driving through the mud of the dealership that had Eddie aching for a drive.

“We should go muddin’,” Eddie grinned, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s lips before untangling his limbs. He climbed off the couch, taking a few steps into the kitchen to grab his keys off the counter.

“Go what-ing?” Steve said, sitting up.

“Muddin’,” Eddie said with a grin. It falters for a second. “Have you ever gone muddin’ before?”

“No,” Steve wrinkled his nose. “Like… playing in the mud?”

“Kinda,” Eddie shrugged. “It’s more driving around in the mud.”

“I’ve practically been muddling all week leaving the trailer park,” Steve said with a playful frown. “So what? We’re getting my car muddy on purpose?”

“Yeah, that’s the point,” Eddie said. “Besides, we’re not taking your car.” He flips his keys a few time for show. “We need to break this bad boy in.”

The bad boy in question was a 1972 Chevy Cheyenne, which is plenty of broken in. Eddie was able to buy it last month for a few hundred dollars. Eddie has been finding every excuse in the book to ‘break it in’ including taking it to the drive-in, stargazing, going for a late night cruise, a redneck swimming pool (Eddie’s words for the tarp in the bed of the truck and filling it with water), fooling around in the cab of the truck, fooling around in the bed of the truck, and now apparently mudding.

“C’mon,” Eddie whined like a child. “It’s hardly storming out there. I’ll take you out to the Dairy King afterwards. I’ll buy you a milkshake and curly fries.”

“Okay,” Steve sighed. “But were each getting our own milkshake.”

Eddie pumped his fist in the air. Steve couldn’t help but grin. “C’mon!” Eddie said, taking the few steps back to Steve and grabbing his arm, pulling him up. “We’re missing out on valuable mud time.”

“It’s supposed to rain all day,” Steve said, following Eddie to the truck. “There’s gonna be mud for the next few days.”

“Which means we’ll have to go again tomorrow,” Eddie grinned. “Plus it’s more sprinkling than anything. This is hardly anything. Here —“ Eddie handed Steve his mechanic’s work jacket, Eddie’s name stitched in red over the heart. “The finest robe for his majesty.”

Steve rolled his eyes, slipping on the jacket as Eddie ushered him out into the rain and into the Chevy. Eddie was right. The rain was light, nothing that made Steve concerned or worried. He just didn’t want to get his Nikes covered in mud. Eddie promised if they get dirty, he’d throw them in the washing machine with his Reeboks, but promised that they wouldn’t get out of the truck into the mud. Steve shoved his hands into the jacket pockets, feeling the cool metal of Eddie’s lighter against his finger tips. Eddie, the ever so gentleman, took three steps past Steve to the passenger door, yanking it open for Steve.

“Your chariot,” Eddie said with a bow. Steve couldn’t help but grin as he climbed into the truck, Eddie shutting the door behind him. Eddie started to jogged around the truck, jumping against the hood as if he was trying to slide over it to the other side. Steve couldn’t help but laugh, trying to figure out how anyone thought his goofy boyfriend was scary.

“You’re such a dork,” Steve said to Eddie as he climbed into the Chevy.

Eddie shot him a shit eating grin and revved the engine, “but I’m your dork. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Steve said.

Eddie pulled the truck into reverse, pulling away from the trailer home. Eddie fiddled with the music, going from station to station until he found one that was mostly music and less static. As he drove through the trailer park, the Chevy Cheyenne dug through the mud, leaving deep tracks behind. Eddie pulled onto the highway, driving out of town.

“I thought we were going mudding in the trailer park?” Steve asked.

“You gotta have open space to go muddin’,” Eddie explained. “I figured the fairgrounds, maybe some country roads. I promise, we will be safe. Nobody has ever died from muddin’.” There was a long pause. “Yet.”

“Eds,” Steve warned. Eddie smirked, reaching over to squeeze Steve’s thigh.

“I’m kidding!” Eddie said, squeezing again. “You know I’m a safe driver. I drove your Beemer before and you had no complaints!”

“Because I had a migraine,” Steve said. “And Robin still doesn’t have her license.”

“You would trust Robin over me?” Eddie gasped, jerking his hand away from Steve’s leg and bringing it over his heart. “Sweetheart, you wound me!”

Steve frowned, grabbing Eddie’s hand and placing it back over his thigh. Eddie grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“But you love it,” Eddie laughed, squeezing Steve’s thigh. “Right, baby?”

“Right,” Steve said, with a goofy smile. He kept his hand over Eddie’s as they drove a few miles out of town to the fair grounds.

The fairground parking was more dirt than anything. The annual Roane County Fair occurred the first week of July. Steve hasn’t found the energy to go, now that the Fourth of July was associated with being tortured by Russians. But maybe things would be different this year with Eddie holding his hand in secret.

The dirt parking was soaked with rain, mud piles and large puddles. Eddie looked over at Steve with the biggest grin. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Sure.”

Eddie revved the engine a few times before taking off, Steve jerking back in his seat with a laugh as Eddie drove into the first mud puddle he saw, splashing the windshield with mud. He ran the wipers, smearing the mud on his windshield, steering the car into more mud. The truck slowed in the mud, stuttering against the sludge as it powered through the mud, kicking back. The brakes slipped, the Chevy lurching forward. Steve jerked forward, slamming his hand on the dash to keep him stable.

Eddie let out a hoot of a laugh. He kept his hand on Steve’s thigh, squeezing gently any time he needed to move his hand to switch between first and second gears. He pushed on the gas, the truck accelerating to the next puddle, coating Steve’s window in mud. The shocks in the truck already made Steve feel every bump in the unpaved roads to Eddie’s trailer. The bumps and dips in the fairground seemed worse, jerking the truck up and down unevenly like a rollercoaster ride. Steve couldn’t help but laugh when he felt his ass leave the seat.

“Now you get me!” Eddie grinned, jerking the wheel to the side, finding more mud to dig up with the tires. The thick mud would get stuck in his tires, kicking up to the bed of the truck, even the back window was covered in mud. It was gonna be a bitch to clean, but that’s a problem for another day.

The Chevy slid in the mud, losing traction, sliding ever so slightly. Eddie squeezed Steve’s thigh, holding him down. “Eds —“ Steve braced himself against the door.

“I got it,” Eddie said, pumping on the brakes, regaining control of the truck. “Just a little slide action.”

Steve doesn’t know how long they were out in the fairgrounds. Long enough to get the truck coated in mud. There was no seeing out the back window and the side windows weren’t any better. Eddie was lucky enough that his windshield wipers were able to clean the front windshield enough that he could see the highway as they left. But instead of turning right to go back into town, he turned left.

“Hawkins is that way,” Steve frowned.

“I know,” Eddie said. “I got one more spot to show ya. There’s a road by Hagan’s feedlot that’s usually muddy.”

“God, the feedlot smells,” Steve groaned.

“And it’s gonna smell worse during the rain,” Eddie grinned. “Just hold your breath, it’s just past the feedlot.”

Sure enough, the feedlot reeked. Eddie turned down the dirt road just past the feedlot, driving about a mile down the road where the slightly wet dirt road turned muddy. The road was full of divots and potholes, bouncing the truck with every movement. The mud started to fly back up onto the windshield as the rain started to come down again.

Then, Steve noticed the hill.

The truck started to go up the large hill, stuttering in the mud. Steve swore the truck even slipped backwards a little, but Eddie didn’t flinch.

“Eds —“

“I got this,” Eddie said, pressing on the gas and shifted gears. The tires spun, kicking up more mud against the windows. The rain started to pour harder. Steve reached over his shoulder for the seat belt.

“Eddie —“ Steve said as his seat belt clicked. Eddie squeezed his thigh, letting go so he could grab his seat belt with one hand, pulling it over his shoulder and to his hip. Steve reached over and buckled it in for him. Eddie shot him a quick wink, returning his hand to Steve’s thigh.

“Ready?” Eddie asked. Steve wasn’t sure if there was a choice, now that they were at the top of the hill —

“Oh fuck —!”

The Chevy Cheyenne went over the hill — Steve swore they flew in the air for a brief moment, feeling his gut and his ass leave the seat — and then they went down.

The Chevy was going fast, Eddie’s foot off the gas as they made their way down the hill, kicking up mud and shaking in the truck. Thunder sounded around them. Rain poured. Eddie squeezed Steve’s thigh. Steve grabbed his arm, wrapping his own around him. The Chevy shook, mud landing on the windshield, quickly washed away as the rain grew heavier and heavier. Hail hit the windshield. The traction slipped, sliding ever so slightly, enough to make Steve’s gut drop.

“Eddie —!”

“I got it,” Eddie said, letting go of Steve’s leg and gripped the steering wheel. He pumped the breaks, attempting to slow the truck down. Eddie turned the wiper switch on high, watching them try to push the rain water and mud away from the windshield. The rain poured harder. The road evened out at the bottom of the hill. Eddie could barely see out of the windshield with how heavy the rain was. The truck shook with the winds.

Steve reached for the radio, moving the frequency from FM to AM. Crackling over the speakers came the weather report.

“This is the National Weather Service with an urgent weather report. Severe thunderstorm warning is issued for the following counties: Clay, Greene, Hendricks, Monroe, Morgan, Putnam, and Roane —“

“Just a thunderstorm,” Eddie said, his grip still so tight on the wheel that his knuckles were turning white. “It’ll pass. We’ll be okay once we get out of the rain.”

“Is there a paved road soon?” Steve asked, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. Eddie pressed his lips together. “Ed?”

“About three more miles,” Eddie said. “Or I can try to turn around and we take that hill again.”

Steve couldn’t look out the passenger window, the mud too thick on the glass. He could barely see the road in front of them, let alone how deep the ditches are or when the next cross road was.

“Let’s keep going —“

“A tornado watch has been issued for the following counties: Greene, Monroe, and Roane —“

“Eddie —“

“Got it,” Eddie clenched his jaw, pressing on the gas.

“What’s worse,” Steve asked. “A tornado watch or a warning?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eddie said. “We hardly get tornadoes. It’s not gonna happen —“

“A tornado warning has been issued for northwest Roane County —“

“Shit,” Eddie muttered.

“Eddie —“

“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “That’s — that’s us.”

Steve nodded, clenching his jaw. He pulled on his seat belt, as if it would tighten more than it already was.

“It could be anywhere,” Eddie said raising his voice over the wind, holding the wheel tight, focused on keeping them on the road. “Hawkins is in the northwest part of the county. Doesn’t mean it’s touched ground. Just seen. Just —” Eddie shook his hand, barely above the wheel, frustrated. “Keep a look out.”

“I can’t see shit, Eds!” Steve shouted, winds whistling through the windows. The rain curtain made it near impossible to see out the front of the truck. “Pull over!”

“I can’t just — pull over, Steve!” Eddie snapped. “The ditches —“

“We should’ve stayed home!” Steve yelled.

“Trailer ain’t got shit against a tornado,” Eddie punched the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

The winds grew stronger. The truck shook, shocks bouncing like it did on the fairgrounds.

“Eds —“

“I know, Steve —“

“No, Eds —“

“I can’t just pull over —“

“Eddie!” Steve smacked Eddie’s chest, leaning over and pointed out the window. “Fucking stop!”

Eddie glanced out the window, watching a funnel cloud form, twisting in the air to the northeast. “Fuck!”

He slammed on the brakes, instantly regretting it as the truck started to swerve, threatening to spin as the rear wheels lock up. Eddie jerked the wheel, correcting his mistake and keeping the truck on the muddy road. Eddie pumped the brakes, feeling the truck slowly but surely come to a stop.

It felt surreal, in the midst of a storm. The whistling wind shaking the truck, the warm May temperature dropping ten degrees in a matter of moments. Rain and hail banging on the cab’s rooftop. No words exchanged from the boys, just heavy breaths and heartbeats. It wasn’t until the NOAA weather alert repeated for the third time since they stopped, that Eddie realized Steve’s hand was pressed against his chest.

Even then, they couldn’t take their eyes off the funnel cloud, getting bigger by the moment. Winds getting stronger and stronger until —

The tornado touched the ground.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Eddie nodded. “Holy fucking shit is right.”

It didn’t seem like they could do anything but watch.

Eddie wished they would’ve stayed home.

“Eds. Eddie,” Steve said, leaning forward in his seat. “It’s — it’s moving.”

Hell.

Sure enough, the tornado changed courses, no longer heading their direction, but parallel to the highway only a half-mile away. The rain started to lift. The hail stopped.

Eddie let out a laugh.

He reached out, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and shaking it. “God, Steve. I — I think I pissed myself.”

Steve laughed, leaning over and catching Eddie’s lips with his own. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Holy fucking shit is right,” Eddie said, smacking the steering wheel a few times. “Okay,” Eddie laughed, putting the truck into first. “Look, I know it was a mess, but if we go back over the hill —“

“What if we didn’t.”

Eddie raised his eyebrow, looking at Steve. “Then we’re following the storm. Storm’s past, I’ll go slow —“

“What if,” Steve said, a little stronger, slower. His eyes shining with something Eddie’s still not quite sure about. “What if we chased it.”

Eddie laughed in disbelief. “Chased it,” he said. “The tornado?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, a small smirk on his face. “Or are you too scared?”

Eddie’s face broke out into a shit eating grin. He leaned over the center seat, pressing a kiss against Steve’s lips. He leaned back, smacking Steve’s chest a few times, “That’s my country boy! Let’s fucking go!”

Eddie leaned back into his seat, pressing on the gas. Steve let out a laugh, as Eddie switched to second gear. Soon, they ran out of the dirt road, hitting the pavement. Eddie turned right, catching the rain. The tornado was now in full sight through the muddy windshield, maybe two miles out in the country. It wasn’t a large tornado, even close by, Eddie felt like he had decent control over the truck with the wind speeds. Nothing like they experienced minutes before.

They watched as the tornado tore up the pasture.

“You think —“ Steve said, stopping as if he was questioning himself. He looked at Eddie, a curious look on his face. “You think we could get closer?”

“Can we get — yes,” Eddie shot Steve an award winning grin. “Get ready, we’re going off roading.”

“Off-roading? Eds—!” Steve braced himself against the dash as Eddie drove off the road, into the ditch and into the pasture. He drove at an angle, trying to get closure to the tornado, while trying to keep up with it. Steve laughed as the Chevy shook, hitting uneven dirt and mud. Eddie pressed on the gas, shifting gears, speeding up.

The wind grew stronger as they grew closer to the tornado. Blowing pieces of wheat and hay around them. It was one thing seeing the tornado miles away, but up close? It was terrifying and beautiful at the same time. The way the wind controlled and destroyed the land. Dirt clouds at the bottom, the rain clouds following the top. Steve’s seen pictures of damages from tornadoes. Towns leveled by only a few minutes of a tornado. Lives changed in a matter of moments.

And they were following the danger, no way to stop it. No way to prevent the destruction.

That is, until the tornado slowed. They started to catch up on it. Eddie lowered gears, slowing down. Eddie knew. Steve was just figuring it out.

This was the end of the tornado.

Soon, the dirt settled below. The storm clouds above remained, but the rain lightened to a sprinkle. The tornado became smaller and smaller, thinner and thinner until it no longer touched the ground. Then, it practically faded into air, settling down for good and clearing the air.

“Damn,” Eddie said, putting the truck into park in the middle of the pasture. “Fun while it lasted.”

“Really fun,” Steve grinned. “We going storm chasing again tomorrow?”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie laughed. “Hates the rain, he says! Spends all day locked indoors. We have awaken the real storm here.”

“Guess you could say rain’s a good thing,” Steve grinned. Eddie leaned over the middle seat, catching Steve’s lips with his own. “I think you owe me a milkshake.”

Eddie leaned back into his seat, rocking the truck as he does. “The storm requires a milkshake! To the King, we go!”

Eddie revved the engine, putting it into first gear and pressing on the gas. The Chevy Cheyenne stays true to its country boys, kicking up dirt as it jerks into motion, working its way through the pasture and back onto the pavement. Steve looked over at Eddie, grinning and humming to the radio now that the frequency was off the weather and back on FM. Eddie looked over at Steve, grinning. He placed his hand back on Steve’s thigh, squeezing. Steve put his hand over Eddie’s, running his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles.

Sure. Steve might be afraid of storms, but with Eddie by his side? He could face a fucking tornado.

[acti-veg]

Recently I've seen a lot of people argue that the water use of foods like beef are overstated because the majority of its water usage is comprised of green water and I don't really know how to respond

I’d need to see their source (and you should ask for that first) but only about 10% of beef cattle in the US are completely free ranging, and therefore mostly use green water. Most cattle are at least finished in feedlots where water use is intensive, if they’re raised in a factory setting their entire lives.

It also depends where you are. Most regions where cattle raising is most prominent don’t see enough rain for cattle to use mostly green water. Again I don’t know where these people are talking about, but in the US, beef uses 500 times its weight in blue water alone. That is five times the water intensity of even the thirstiest protein sources, with only almonds coming anywhere near that level.

None of this includes water used for anything other than drinking for cattle. What about the water raised to grow their feed crops? What about waste water run off and contamination, which is infamously high impact. I think I know the study they’re probably referring to here and it only factors in water produced and used by the cattle farmers themselves, not the rest of the supply chain, which is very limited.

It’s interesting that beef and leather advocates are so interested in this particular study, when they have ignored everything else that the Water Footprint Network have ever published. This is how it always goes with environmental science. You have a wide consensus gathered through decades of research, then you get one limited study that seems to contradict that consensus, so those with a vested interest leap on it, at the exclusion of all other established conclusions. This is the ‘one true study’ because I agree with its findings.

When you dig into it though, you figure out that the study doesn’t actually contradict anything, it is just looking at something quite limited, or their conclusion has been massively misunderstood or overstated, as in this case. If they are referring to the study I think they are, they are wildly misrepresenting what it was actually measuring.

If someone raised this to me, I’d start by asking them their source, then I’d ask some questions. This is from 14 years ago, do we think this is still accurate, considering the continued shift to intensive farming, and the fact that the conclusion you’re drawing from is contradicted by more recent studies? What was this study actually measuring? Just farm water use? Where in the world? Are most cattle raised 100% pasture? What about intensive farms and feedlots? Do you the rest of the supply chain might be where a lot of the blue water use is coming from? That should be enough to reveal the obvious weaknesses in drawing big conclusions from limited data sets.

[devoted1989]

Male calves are often considered entirely disposable by the dairy industry, though some farms are equipped to exploit them for other purposes. Regardless, no male calf will live beyond the age of 2 years before being killed - and in some cases, the end can come within the first few hours of life.

Male dairy calves can be sold for beef production to eventually be turned into food like hamburgers. They're sent to feedlots, which are penned-in facilities that can hold up to 150,000 cattle, where they are confined and fed grain diets so that they gain weight and can be slaughtered as quickly as possible.

Calves are separated from their mothers, fed an artificial milk replacement, and prevented from fully socializing or even touching another animal until they are sent to the slaughterhouse, which occurs when calves are 8-16 weeks old.

In the United Kingdom, where veal crates have long been outlawed due to their overt cruelty, it's often cheapest to simply shoot male calves shortly after their birth. In the UK, close to 60,000 male calves are disposed of in this way every year. This practice is also disturbingly common in the United States, and in Australia, where one survey revealed that around 600,000 male calves were killed on dairy farms every year when they are just a week old.

Image with kind permission from The Ethic Whisper.

@theethicwhisper

[betweenthings2]

omg the setting prompts are so good….how about 10) a dingy truck stop after ten hours on the road or 13) a police station in a foreign country 😊

Thank you so much for the ask!! The ask list is here if anyone else wants to see it =)

Setting prompts 10- a dingy truck stop after ten hours on the road (I've taken slight liberties with the band's actual tour schedule and the number of hours to base this on a truck stop I've driven by many, many times) and 13- a police station in a foreign country (remember that cops can and will lie to you and this probably isn't how it would go in real life).

Matty stumbles off the bus, ridiculously grateful to have stopped, even for just a little while. He lost track of the hours a some point around the state line after traffic and an vacant construction zone meant it took ages to get out of Boise. If he's never back in Boise, it'll be too soon, and now he's at a rest stop somewhere along Interstate 84. He's not sure how much further it is to Portland.

He wanders away from the pumps to the edge of the pavement and lights a cigarette then looks around. There's the freeway and on the other side of it, a river, wide and deep blue and calm, interrupted only by a barge pushed by a tugboat. Matty remembers hearing about salmon runs and dams in this river years ago when he was different, when he didn't just want to go home, but he can't for the life of him remember the river's name. The bluffs on the far side of the river and a dull brown and when Matty surveys the land on this side of the river, then this side of the freeway, he finds it a similar dull color, sagebrush and juniper all dormant for the winter and the grass dead. The sky is the same color as his cigarette smoke. It's kind of miserable, he thinks, and he feels unsettled.

Matty takes another drag from his cigarette and glances back toward the bus and the truck stop. He doesn't really want to go in--more than anything, he'd like some quiet time to himself--but he's almost out of cigarettes and he's kind of hungry, so he finishes his cigarette, stubs it out, and heads towards the door. Inside is a little bit dingy and outdated, like it hasn't been undated since the early 2000s and since then, nothing but motor oil and dirt has been tracked across the floor.

It's kind of sad, Matty thinks, this dingy place in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a bleak landscape. There's nothing but industrial sites and farms and feedlots for miles and miles and miles, and there'd been a billboard advertising religion along they exit. It all makes Matty feel tired. He is tired. He's so tired and he doesn't handle tired with much grace. He gets clingy and whiny and his temper gets a little bit shorter.

Lost in his thoughts, Matty walks right into another person as he wanders through the aisles. He starts apologizing the second he does, but when he looks up to see George, he cuts his apology off with, "Oh, hi."

"Hey," George responds. "Bit distracted are you?"

Matty sighs. "I'm tired. My knee hurts. I wanna sleep next to you."

"We have a hotel tonight," George offers, resting a hand on Matty's hip.

Matty's instinct is to step away from George's hand and maybe put some space between them because every time he's looked out for the past couple hundred miles, the billboards have been about life beginning at conception and how god is the answer and he's pretty sure this is not a place that would welcome casual, fond touches and love between two men, but he doesn't. He just appreciates the weight and warmth of George's hand and says, "I wanna sleep in our bed. I wanna roll over and see that painting we picked out when we lived in that little flat with all the fairy lights. I want that stupid blanket that you bought me when I was ill last winter."

"Soon," George promises. "We'll be home soon, and until then, there's ibuprofen in my bag and I grabbed you some crisps. You want anything else?"

Matty sighs. "Came in for a pack of cigs," he says. "And my lighter's almost dead. Why are my lighters always dead?"

"'cause your lighters are always lighters you took from me," George responds, easy, like it's obvious. 

Matty sighs. "I'm tired," he repeats, following George to the counter. His gait is uneven as he goes, a product of the ache in his knee that's gotten worse lately. He doesn't remember ever hurting it, but there's a lot of his life he doesn't remember, so he's long since let it go.

At the counter, George sets the snacks he'd selected on the counter, asks the cashier for two packs of cigarettes, and adds a lighter from the display before Matty can say a word. He does accept Matty's cash, crumpled from being shoved into his pocket the last time he bought cigarettes at a truck stop, but only when Matty insists, saying he's trying to spend all the American cash he has before they leave the country. The cashier returns the change to George and they head outside, George passing the lighter and one of the packs of cigarettes to Matty as they go.

"Thanks," Matty mumbles, pushing the door open. It's still gloomy outside. He wants to linger, wants to be still for just a few moments, even if only in the lot of a truck stop, but George's hand on his back keeps him moving. He still feels unsettled when they get on the bus, even though it's supposed to be their home away from home. Something is pulling at him, unraveling him. He won't settle until he can wind himself back up, take the strings of himself that are being unwound and tie them back up. Soon, he thinks, remembering George's words, they'll be home soon.

----

Matty doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't know when or how he left the hotel room he and George were sharing, doesn't know where his phone or wallet is. He barely even knows his own name. What he does know is that he's sober. There's no haze in his head, his limbs aren't heavy, and, when he pushes up his sleeve to look at the crook of his elbow, there's nothing but smoother skin, only marked by fading scars from over a year ago. He'd had a couple glasses of wine at dinner and a cigarette on the balcony with George before bed, but he wasn't drunk or high or stoned, so how did he get to be wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city in the snow wearing nothing but a long-sleeve shirt, sweats, and socks that feel morse like George's good wool socks that anything Matty owns?

Matty keeps walking, hoping he can find some sort of landmark and orient himself, hoping that he can remember something, hoping that he can get himself back to the hotel. He doesn't have his room key, but just having somewhere to go would be a good start. He feels like he's going crazy, or maybe that he's past going crazy and he's properly gone crazy. Matty Healy, finally fully mental, just like so many people have thought he was for most of his life.

Matty's not sure how long he walks before the street is suddenly bathed in blue and red light. He keeps walking until a car pulls up alongside him and he glances over to see the word 'police' and his instinct is to run or hide, somehow get out of here because he's heard American cops are more than happy to arrest people on minor drug charges, but he's sober, he knows his is, and his feet hurt, so he stops and looks at the car, blinking at the light. The car stops when Matty does and a few moments later, a young woman walks around the front of the car. She has one hand on the holster on her hip and asks something that Matty doesn't really catch. He's distracted by the lights and the realization that he's cold and the way his feet hurt.

"What?" Matty asks.

The woman, the officer, drops her hand from her holster, evidently deciding that Matty isn't a threat and apparently repeats, "Are you alright? This is a dangerous neighborhood."

Matty sniffs and shakes his head.

"Are you running from something?" she asks, looking down to Matty's feet. "Are you hurt?"

Again, Matty shakes his head. He's pretty sure he doesn't have anything to run from, only things to run towards.

"How 'bout home, then?" she asks. "You're liable to be mugged or attacked alone at night here--I can help you get home if you'd like."

"'m not from here," Matty admits.

"Where are you staying?"

"Erm, I don't know. I need to call George."

"Ok," the officer agrees. "Do you know his number?"

Matty shakes his head again.

"Alright. How 'bout we go back to the station and we'll find George together, ok?"

Matty wants to agree, if no other reason than to maybe be warm for a few moments, but he also doesn't want to be arrested and he still has the paranoia of an addict, so he hesitates.

The officer sees his hesitation and comes around to the side of the car and opens the passenger door, saying, "You haven't done anything wrong. My job is to keep my community safe and you're clearly not safe. We're gonna get you some help, ok?"

Matty hesitates again. The last time anyone said anything about getting him help, he was sent to Barbados alone for seven weeks. "I don't wanna go to a hospital," he says.

"If you're not sick or hurt, you don't have to."

"I'm not," Matty says.

"Just to the station, then," the officer says. "We'll find George and get you back to where you belong."

Matty lets out a breath, then agrees, "Ok," and climbs into the passenger seat. The car is warm and it's nice to be off his feet, even if he's still a little bit anxious about being there and upset about the gap in his memory.

The officer closes the door after he gets in and goes around to get into the driver's seat. Once she closes the door, she fiddles with the temperature controls for a moment, then says, "I've turned the heat up, but you can change it if you like. It's just a few minutes back to the station, ok?"

Matty nods.

The officer nods and puts the car into drive, then turns to check her blind spot and pulls away from the curb. "I'm Officer Harding," she says. "What's your name?"

"Matty."

"I have a cousin we call Matty," Officer Harding says, in a clear attempt to be friendly and make Matty a little bit more comfortable.

Matty doesn't say anything, just looks down at his feet. George's wool socks are ruined.

Officer Harding doesn't say anything else as she drives. True to her word, she pulls into the lot behind the police station after just a few minutes of driving. Once she's parked, she comes around and opens Matty's door, offering a hand to help him out of the car. He doesn't take it, but he lets himself be led into the station, his head down and shoulders hunched.

Officer Harding directs him to a chair next to a desk with a nameplate that reads 'O. HARDING' and asks, "Can I get you a blanket or something to drink?"

Matty sniffs and nods, saying, "A blanket, please?"

Officer Harding offers a smile and goes, coming back a few moments later with a folded blanket that she shakes out and drapes over Matty's shoulders. "Alright," she says, sitting in her own chair, "what's your last name, Matty? I'm going to check the missing person's database and see if someone is already looking for you."

"Healy," Matty says obediently. "An' 's not really Matty, 's Matthew."

Officer Harding nods and types Matty's name in, then makes a few clicks before saying, "Alright, no missing persons report. What about George? Do you know where he lives or is staying?"

"He's staying wherever I'm staying," Matty mumbles.

Officer Harding sighs. "Have you wandered off like this before? Experienced memory loss like this before? Do have any way of contacting anyone? Does anyone have any way of knowing where you are?"

"I’m not a dog," Matty says, looking up. "I don't have a microchip or a fucking GPS tag." Then he ducks his head again to focus on George's ruined socks and says, "Sorry."

"That's alright," Officer Harding says. "I've heard much worse."

"Sorry," Matty repeats.

"What's George's last name? I'm going to see if he's made any calls or reports."

"Daniel."

"Alright," Officer Harding says. She types George's name into a search field and makes a few clicks, then does the same a few moments later. "No calls and I can't look up a phone number. Are you sure you don't know where he's staying or what his number is?"

"I know his number," Matty clarifies, "but we got new SIM cards here and I don't know that number."

"How 'bout the number you do know?"

Matty gives a nod and recites George's number. He knows it by heart and has since George got it. He still knows the number to the landline George had when they were kids. He knows how to find George. He could be dropped in the middle of London blindfolded and get home to George with love alone guiding him, but love doesn't know this city. Love has failed him here, rendered blind, deaf, and dumb. All he can think is that he misses George and he wants to go home. He wants to know he could get home, not be reliant on the pity of another. He wants to not be pitiful anymore.

When Matty glances up, Officer Harding is on the phone. She's quiet while it rings, then introducing herself and says, "I’m looking George Daniel." There's a beat of quiet, then, "Great. I'm here with Matthew Healy, he asked that I call you-"

George is going to be livid, Matty thinks. They're supposed to be through this. He's not supposed to have to worry about where Matty has disappeared to, not supposed to worry if he's gone and gotten himself hurt or killed or arrested, not supposed to feel more like a babysitter than a partner. This is going to put them right back to where they were two years ago when Matty tattooed his passport number or his wrist because no one trusted that he wouldn't do something like try to drain his bank accounts or swap his passport for drugs or simply get it stolen because the only thing he cared about was getting high. This going to make things bad again, and on top of that, Matty has ruined George's socks.

"Matty?" Officer Harding asks, putting a gentle hand on his arm.

Her hand is warm Matty thinks as he glances up. He doesn't want her to move it.

"I got ahold of George. He'll be here in about twenty minutes."

"George is coming?" Matty asks, more shocked than anything else. "Is he upset?"

Officer Harding frowns at that, but says, "He didn't sound upset. He sounded grateful that I called. He asked if you were safe and where you were."

"And he's really coming?"

"I think so."

George is coming, Matty thinks. George is coming and everything will be ok and Matty will be safe, but oh, god, he doesn't know what happened or where he is or how he got there and he's ruined George's socks and he's a liability again and Matty is about to be sick. He looks around frantically and reaches for the little trash can by the desk just into to vomit into it, rather than on the floor.

Officer Harding waits for Matty to be done and set the trash can back on the floor, then rolls her chair a little bit closer and carefully asks, "Are you safe with George?"

Matty can't help but let our a laugh at that. It sounds foreign to his own ears and he says, "Yeah. I'm safe with George. George is safe. He's, I'm, he loves me. We're just supposed to be past this."

"Past this?"

Matty nods. "Past me being a liability."

"One night doesn't make you a liability," Officer Harding tires.

Matty scoffs. "There have been a lot of nights. And mornings and nights and days."

"So you have experienced an episode like this before?"

Matty shakes his head. "Didn't say that, said this is the first time this has happened."

"I can try to connect you to some community resources," Officer Harding offers.

Matty just shakes his head and pulls his knees up to his chest, heels resting on the edge of the chair. If he can make himself smaller, maybe this can get smaller, too.

Officer Harding lets it go after that, just turns back to her desk. Another ten or so minutes pass before Matty hears a ding and he twists around to see George following the desk sergeant off the elevator. Matty feels like he can breathe again and he gets up to quickly cross the open room and fling himself into George's arms, not minding that they're in the middle of a foreign police station. George accepts him, he always does, with arms wrapped tight around Matty holding him close.

"Hey," George murmurs, rubbing Matty's back gently.

Matty clings. George is warm and he smells good and he's safe and solid. "'m sorry," he chokes out. "I didn't take anything. I'm sober. I'm sober, George, I promise."

"I got you," George murmurs. "I'm right here. I've got you."

"I don't know what happened," Matty continues, on the edge of tears. "I don't know why I left or where I went, I just, I don't know."

"Shh, 's ok," George says. "We'll sort it out, whatever it is."

"I'm sorry," Matty repeats.

"No need to apologize," George says. "There's nothing for you to apologize for."

"There is," Matty insists. "I ruined your socks, the good wool ones you like that you give me sometimes when I get cold and now you're never going to give me your socks anymore 'cause I ruined them and-"

"Matty, love," George interrupts, "I don't care about that, I care that you're ok."

"Am I ok?" Matty asks. He has to. He doesn't know the answer.

"You will be," George promises. "We'll go back to the hotel and get a little more sleep, 'cause you look exhausted and it's three in the morning, and when we wake up, we'll figure out whatever this is."

"Really?"

George nods. "You and me," he says. "We can figure anything out, even you."

Matty laughs at that, a little bit wet from tears, but George is right. They've figured him out once before, they can probably do it again. "Love you," Matty murmurs. "Thank you.

[gatheringbones]

[“While “essential workers” in the poultry industry were made to feel dirty, nonessential workers in fields like finance and computer engineering—the “people with laptops”—were sheltering in place, more distant from what transpired in industrial slaughterhouses than ever before.

Thanks to FreshDirect and Instacart, consuming meat no longer even requires coming into contact with a deli butcher or grocery clerk. With a few taps on a keyboard or the swipe of a screen, consumers can get as much beef, pork, and chicken as they want delivered to their doors, without ever having to think about where it comes from. And yet, as the popularity of bestselling books like Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma and Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals attests, a lot of Americans do think about this. In recent years, more and more consumers have begun to carefully scrutinize the labels on the packages of the meat and poultry they buy. The ranks of such consumers have grown exponentially, paralleling the rise of the “good food” movement, which promotes healthier eating habits and reform of the industrial food system.

Although the movement is, in Pollan’s words, a “big, lumpy tent,” composed of a broad coalition of advocacy organizations and citizens’ groups that sometimes push for competing agendas, one of its aims is to persuade consumers to become more conscientious shoppers and eaters. Among those who put this idea into practice are so-called locavores, who buy food directly from local farms, ideally from small family-run enterprises that embrace organic, sustainable practices: ranchers who raise grass-fed cows that never set foot in industrial feedlots; farmers who sell eggs that come from free-range chickens reared on a diet of seeds, plants, and insects rather than genetically engineered corn and antibiotics.

Locavores engage in what social scientists call “virtuous consumption,” using their purchasing power to buy food that aligns with their values. The movement appeals to the growing number of Americans who want to feel more connected to the food they eat and to the people who raise it, with whom locavores can interact directly at farmers markets or through community-supported agriculture programs. It is a captivating vision, and the benefits of eating locally grown food—which is likely to be more nutritious, to come from more humanely treated animals, and to be better for the environment—are manifold.

But locavores have some blind spots of their own, most notably when it comes to the experiences of workers on small family farms. As the political scientist Margaret Gray discovered when she set about interviewing farm laborers in New York’s Hudson Valley, the vast majority of these workers are undocumented immigrants or guest workers who toil under abysmal conditions, often working sixty- to seventy-hour weeks for dismal pay. “We live in the shadows,” one worker told her. “They treat us like nothing,” said another. In her book Labor and the Locavore, Gray asked the butcher on a small farm why so few of his customers seemed to notice this.

“They don’t eat the workers,” the farmer told her.

“He went on to explain that, in his experience, his consumers’ primary concern is with what they put in their bodies,” Gray wrote, “and so the labor standards of farmworkers simply do not register as a priority.”]

eyal press, from dirty work: essential labor and the hidden toll of inequality in america, 2021

[lilithsaintcrow]

"Our online spaces are not ecosystems, though tech firms love that word. They’re plantations; highly concentrated and controlled environments, closer kin to the industrial farming of the cattle feedlot or battery chicken farms that madden the creatures trapped within."

[jessicafurseth]

Reading List, First Summer Flush edition.

"I need to be alone for certain periods of time or I violate my own rhythm." - Lee Krasner

Image: @80svintagepulps

*

"Our online spaces are not ecosystems, though tech firms love that word. They’re plantations; highly concentrated and controlled environments, closer kin to the industrial farming of the cattle feedlot or battery chicken farms that madden the creatures trapped within. We all know this. We see it each time we reach for our phones. But what most people have missed is how this concentration reaches deep into the internet’s infrastructure — the pipes and protocols, cables and networks, search engines and browsers. These structures determine how we build and use the internet, now and in the future." We Need To Rewild The Internet [Maria Farrell, Robin Berjon, Noema]

"I [now] see what I wanted the therapist to tell me. I wanted permission. I wanted to be told I could stop trying. I wanted her to tell me I had done everything I could — that we had indeed put in the work and shouldn’t feel ashamed for throwing in the towel." [Scaachi Koul, The Cut]

The new science of death [Alex Blasdel, The Guardian]

In praise of the dumbphone revolution [Kyle Chayka, The New Yorker]

“Tech is not supposed to be a master tool to colonize every aspect of our being. We need to reevaluate how it serves us.” The New Luddites are taking on AI [Brian Merchant, The Atlantic]

"Brand smells" and the people that make them [Aimee Levitt, The Guardian]

It's almost impossible to find actually interesting writing about polyamory - this is a rare exception [Brandy Jensen, The Yale Review]

"You probably have less effect on your kids than you think, with one major exception: Your love will make them happy." [Arthur Brooks, The Atlantic]

101 ways to make and maintain friendships [Madeleine Dore]

"Is what’s wrong with me what’s wrong with everyone else?" My anxiety[Lauren Oyler, The New Yorker]

"In my mind, dropping a ball or doing less invited intolerable risk. I worried that if I said no to a project, no one would ever want to work with me again, or if I stopped, I’d never be able to start again. But as OCD took up more and more of me, these actions and how I rationalized them became less and less clear, like if I didn’t read something 50 times, I’d be punished somehow, by something terrible happening in another area of my life. But because these behaviors came across as productive, pressure to just keep going mounted. Maybe this is just how ambition felt, I thought to myself. Maybe overworking is what I was good at, and what I was supposed to do." Could I Still Be Ambitious Without My OCD? [Rainesford Stauffer, The Cut]

"I am rattling my cage, grasping at the bars of my own constraints - my own slow motion - and trying to break my way out. There is so, so much to do in this life, so many ideas, so many ways I could help. I feel like I do so little. I am so slow. I get slower with age. My capacity does not match my desire." The Roaring [Katherine May]

Pie chart for bodies [@sophielucidojohnson on Instagram]

Pond life on Hampstead Heath in 1963 [The Guardian]

[farmerstrend]

Boosting Kenya's Livestock Sector: How the Establishment of 450 Feedlots in ASALs Could Transform Meat Production

Learn how Kenya’s plan to establish 450 feedlots across ASAL counties is set to transform livestock production, addressing the country’s 60% feed deficit and boosting red meat supply. Discover how modern feedlot farming and sustainable rangeland management can help Kenya overcome feed shortages and improve livestock productivity for local and global markets. Explore Kenya’s livestock sector…

[entegrasignaturestructures]

Expert Construction Company Australia - Entegra Signature Structures

Looking for a reliable construction company Australia? Then you have us! we at, Entegra offer tailored solutions for both residential and commercial projects. With a focus on quality and sustainability, we ensure your project is completed on time and within budget. Hire us today! To know more view this infographic or visit the link.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Inside Climate News:

About five miles south of Broken Bow, in the heart of central Nebraska, thousands of cattle stand in feedlots at Adams Land & Cattle Co., a supplier of beef to the meat giant Tyson Foods.

From the air, the feedlots look dusty brown and packed with cows—not a vision of happy animals grazing on open pastureland, enriching the soil with carbon. But when the animals are slaughtered, processed and sent onward to consumers, labels on the final product can claim that they were raised in a “climate friendly” way.  

In late 2022, Tyson—one of the country’s “big four” meat packers—applied to the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), seeking a “climate friendly” label for its Brazen Beef brand. The production of Brazen Beef, the label claims, achieves a “10 percent greenhouse gas reduction.” Soon after, the USDA approved the label.

Immediately, environmental groups questioned the claim and petitioned the agency to stop using it, citing livestock’s significant greenhouse gas emissions and the growing pile of research that documents them. These groups and journalism outlets, including Inside Climate News, have asked the agency for the data it used to support its rubber-stamping of Tyson’s label but have essentially gotten nowhere.

“There are lots of misleading claims on food, but it’s hard to imagine a claim that’s more misleading than ‘climate friendly’ beef,” said Scott Faber, a senior vice president at the Environmental Working Group (EWG). “It’s like putting a cancer-free label on a cigarette. There’s no worse food choice for the climate than beef.”

The USDA has since confirmed it is currently considering and has approved similar labels for more livestock companies, but would not say which ones.

On Wednesday, the EWG, a longtime watchdog of the USDA, published a new analysis, outlining its efforts over the last year to push the agency for more transparency, including asking it to provide the specific rationale for allowing Brazen Beef to carry the “climate friendly” label. Last year, the group filed a Freedom of Information Act request, seeking the data that Tyson supplied to the agency in support of its application, but received only a heavily redacted response. EWG also petitioned the agency to not allow climate friendly or low carbon claims on beef.

To earn the “climate friendly” label, Tyson requires ranchers to meet the criteria of its internal “Climate-Smart Beef” program, but EWG notes that the company fails to provide information about the practices that farmers are required to adopt or about which farmers participate in the program. The only farm it has publicly identified is the Adams company in Nebraska.

A USDA spokesperson told Inside Climate News it can only rely on a third-party verification company to substantiate a label claim and could not provide the data Tyson submitted for its review.  

[anti-workshop]

I dunno if we're gonna make it, y'all. Rode the train for about a thousand miles to see family, about to ride it back. I've been very comfortable and coddled in my little bubble of leftist unionists back home. I've never seen this much of the imperial core before. Capitalism's empire is too fucking big. It's everywhere and I don't think we can actually stop it. I don't think most people actually want to. I used to think we just needed to organize, help each other, fight power. Maybe it's because I haven't slept, but it all looks too big and insurmountable now. We passed gigantic factories literally shooting plumes of flame into the sky, massive factory farms and feedlots with cow trailers for what seemed like forever, advertising and strip malls everywhere, and so many unhoused people sleeping rough and begging. And of course I'm complicit. Freeways, a million million cars and enormous vanity trucks and semis criss crossing the vast, wasted landscape of concrete and garbage. I dunno. It doesn't help that I'm headed home to a struggling shop and a looming slow season. I feel old and pretty unemployable if the co-op fails. Mutuals here are all struggling with the shitty job market, so it scares me. What do you think, y'all? Am I being too pessimistic? Is there hope? Sitting in the train station surrounded by strangers in really nice clothes, drinking expensive coffees and posing for photos, I feel utterly disconnected from them. Not a great feeling. Help?

[hylianengineer]

We've been talking in sociology class about the concepts of Food From Nowhere vs Food From Somewhere.

Obviously, all food comes from somewhere, but Food From Nowhere is the concept where the people eating the food are very intentionally distanced, physically and mentally, from those origins. The people who grew it, processed it, prepared it, the land it grew on, the agricultural methods (usually industrial, with lots of chemical fertilizers and pesticides in the case of plants or feedlots in the case of meat/other animal products - industrial ag has a vested interested in being Food From Nowhere because it's not from somewhere nice). It's called distanciation - the creation of that distance between people and where the food they rely on comes from. And for industrial agriculture this is the GOAL. It's seen as a good thing, more efficient, for food to be part of this big complex supply chain where it's almost impossible to sort out where things come from or how they got there.

But it's kind of... empty, isn't it? Disconnected. Hollow. Food From Somewhere is now a pushback against this system, instead of the default. Food From Somewhere is intentionally connecting people to where food comes from, to the people and places and knowledge involved in making that food. It says that place MATTERS, that how our food gets to us matters, that we should and do care about what happens to people at the other end of that supply chain. We care if the farm workers are getting paid well. We care if the factory workers have safe working conditions. We care about the environmental and human impacts of the things we eat - those hidden costs that Food From Nowhere tries to hide from us. They're there and they're real and we're not looking away.