10 Apr 2005
Stores Say Wild Salmon, but Tests Say Farm Bred

Apparently, aquaculture is as infested with corporate marketing scum as agriculture:

Wild and farmed salmon fillets and steaks look similar because farmed fish are fed artificial coloring that makes them pink...

Which, interestingly enough, is the exact same technique that factory egg farms use to keep their yolks yellow: lots of marigolds and dandelions.

Food marketing nowadays is based almost entirely on "look and feel", and to Hel with quality and nutrition. The presentation has taken ascendance over taste and even safety - if this tale doesn't make you question the label "organic" that you see so liberally applied on grocery shelves today, I don't know what will.

The only way to be assured that you're getting what you pay for is to buy it from people you know and trust, and even to visit the production facilities yourself for a "consumer inspection". We do this all the time at Hammerstead - but I dare you to try even finding a production facility for a major processor, or attempt to take a tour of a factory hog farm. It won't happen, because the owners don't want you to know - and in this case, what you don't know can kill you.

Tests performed for The New York Times on salmon sold as wild by eight New York City stores showed that the fish at six of the eight were farm raised.

(link) [NYT > Home Page]

00:00 /Agriculture | 0 comments | permanent link

The Manamana Phenomenon

Well, it's been a week since the Moot, and I believe that I'm sufficiently recovered to recount the events of last Sunday evening, as the "Last of the MoHeathens" sat around the sumbel fire high on Moot Mountain in southwestern Missouri...

There were about 25 folks there - as diverse a bunch of heathens as you're likely to find together anywhere, but bound by a common troth, and feeling exhausted after a weekend of non-stop conversation, blot, sumbel and general enjoyment. The fire was burning brightly in the center of our circle, and I chose this time to make a bit of a dedication that I'd been saving up all weekend.

Hammerstead was proud to supply the Moot with meat and eggs this year - we brought 12 dozen of the latter and nearly 40 pounds of good Highland beef with us, and it was nearly all gone by Sunday night. Except for the heart of the animal, which I had with me to give to the gods and wights as a thank offering for a weekend of fun and relaxation.

So after the gang has gathered around, and the mead had begun to flow, I stepped to the center of the circle, held the heart aloft and offered it:

Hail the Gods! Hail the Goddesses! Hail the Wights of this Land and the All-giving Earth! We offer this, the heart of the animal that has provided our meals this weekend, as a gift to you, as thanks for the community and companionship we've shared on this sacred spot! Hail!

I then dropped the heart into the center of the fire, and the fun began.

Now, earlier in the day there'd been a discussion of sorts about Muppets (and Monty Python, and several other things) that had included the Manamana song from the original Muppets show. And for some reason, perhaps because the original was sung by alien Muppet cows, the word itself caught fire ...

Asatrurar are generally pretty serious in sumbel - oh, sure, there's the good natured jab, and more than a few jokes, but overall the timbre of most sumbels maintains a rather high level of decorum. But not this time: the first toast was a simple "Manamana!", followed by a round of "Hail!" and it degenerated from there: movie titles, lines from Shakespeare, commercial tag lines, proverbs, even a reference to the Odin blot of the night before - nothing was sacred!

  • Only you can prevent manamana!
  • The Manamanator
  • E tu, manamana?
  • The Good, the Bad and the Manamana
  • One Flew Over the Manamana
  • Manamana Hill
  • The Hunt for Red Manamana
  • Manamana, Actually
  • I'd Walk a Mile for Manamana
  • If wishes were horses only manamana would ride!

Only two lonely folks tried to initially resist the onset of manamana, and one of them was Matt's six year old son Sean! But they were eventually overwhelmed, and swept along with us into the unexplored regions of manamana.

This continued for nearly three hours! It only stopped when the beef heart had been utterly consumed, and naught but glowing coals remained. And a curious bond had formed between those present: strong in troth, as well as in mirth.

We had met the manamana, and it was us!

00:00 /Asatru | 1 comment | permanent link