The Third Plate: Field Notes on the Future of Food by Dan Barber Page A
Authors: Dan Barber
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continent’s far north. Frozen riversstripped northern Canada to hard rock and dumped ancient dirt on top of the already rich soil of this country’s midsection. As fierce prairie winds distributed the dirt, it was the grasses that clung to it, holding it long enough to consolidate the mass into soil. The rich root systems absorbed nutrients from the soil and knit the soil together.
For the prairie, this was the greatest insurance policy against erosion and extreme weather fluctuations. The weather in the Plains was—and still is—unpredictable, fierce, and destructive—desertification on the one hand, flash floods on the other. The root systems’ ability to store energy and nutrients ensured that the prairie grass could always grow back quickly. And the grass, in turn, kept the rich soil in place as millions of bison fertilized it over thousands of years, depositing more nutrients into the soil’s natural fertility bank.
We’ve been drawing from the account ever since the first settlers tried to dig in with their plows, an effort that, from above (or, more to the point, from below), must have appeared comical. The root systems were so dense, the plows snapped and clogged. Looking at the entangled roots of just one small patch of perennial wheat made it easy to see why. One square yard of prairie turf can contain twenty-five miles of these massively thick roots; the coal-black topsoil can run to a depth of a dozen feet. (Wes reminded me, with glee, that the average topsoil on the East Coast is closer to six inches.)
In 1837, an Illinois blacksmith named John Deere solved the problem by inventing a cast-steel plow that could cut through the deep roots and rip up the grass for planting. Like the roller mill, the steel plow arrived at a fortuitous moment—just at the time when thousands of “sodbusters” were crashing deep into the Plains. President Abraham Lincoln sweetened the deal in 1862 by signing the Homestead Act, which promised 160 acres of free land to anyone who could claim and cultivate it for five years.
Biologist Janine Benyus, in her book
Biomimicry: Innovation Inspired by Nature
, describes the misplaced heroism of the settlers who worked to replace perennial prairie grass with annual wheat: “A Sioux Indian watching a sodbuster turn the roots skyward was reported to have shaken his head and said,‘Wrong side up.’Mistaking wisdom for backwardness, the settlers laughed as they retold the story, ignoring the warning shots that fired with each popping root.” The more you learn about the destruction of the prairie, the more difficult it becomes to see a modern wheat field as a thing of beauty, in the same way it is hard to see beauty in a clear-cut forest.
The new wheat didn’t exactly thrive on the Great Plains at first. Varieties grown in the East did poorly with less rain and extreme variations in temperature. Disease was common. So were low yields and outright failures. It wasn’t until the 1870s, when hard winter wheat, the drought-resistant “Turkey Red” introduced by Mennonite immigrants, replaced the traditional soft wheat, that it took hold. Hard wheat suited the new steel roller mills as well, making the now assembly-line-like refining process even more efficient.
Wes’s banner in the hallway blocked a couple on the way to their room. “Good evening, folks,” Wes said cheerfully. “We’re making an analysis of our nation’s depleted capital. Care to join us?” The couple smiled uncomfortably and shuffled alongside the two root systems.
Wes pointed to the annual wheat. “Of course, this wheat won out. Sixty million acres of puny roots that we need to fertilize because it can’t feed itself. Puny roots that leak nitrogen, that cause erosion and dead zones the size of New Jersey.” Wes smiled beatifically, gums and all. “This wheat won out, but what you’re looking at isthe failure of success.”
By the early 1900s, westward expansion amounted to a twenty-million-acre
For the prairie, this was the greatest insurance policy against erosion and extreme weather fluctuations. The weather in the Plains was—and still is—unpredictable, fierce, and destructive—desertification on the one hand, flash floods on the other. The root systems’ ability to store energy and nutrients ensured that the prairie grass could always grow back quickly. And the grass, in turn, kept the rich soil in place as millions of bison fertilized it over thousands of years, depositing more nutrients into the soil’s natural fertility bank.
We’ve been drawing from the account ever since the first settlers tried to dig in with their plows, an effort that, from above (or, more to the point, from below), must have appeared comical. The root systems were so dense, the plows snapped and clogged. Looking at the entangled roots of just one small patch of perennial wheat made it easy to see why. One square yard of prairie turf can contain twenty-five miles of these massively thick roots; the coal-black topsoil can run to a depth of a dozen feet. (Wes reminded me, with glee, that the average topsoil on the East Coast is closer to six inches.)
In 1837, an Illinois blacksmith named John Deere solved the problem by inventing a cast-steel plow that could cut through the deep roots and rip up the grass for planting. Like the roller mill, the steel plow arrived at a fortuitous moment—just at the time when thousands of “sodbusters” were crashing deep into the Plains. President Abraham Lincoln sweetened the deal in 1862 by signing the Homestead Act, which promised 160 acres of free land to anyone who could claim and cultivate it for five years.
Biologist Janine Benyus, in her book
Biomimicry: Innovation Inspired by Nature
, describes the misplaced heroism of the settlers who worked to replace perennial prairie grass with annual wheat: “A Sioux Indian watching a sodbuster turn the roots skyward was reported to have shaken his head and said,‘Wrong side up.’Mistaking wisdom for backwardness, the settlers laughed as they retold the story, ignoring the warning shots that fired with each popping root.” The more you learn about the destruction of the prairie, the more difficult it becomes to see a modern wheat field as a thing of beauty, in the same way it is hard to see beauty in a clear-cut forest.
The new wheat didn’t exactly thrive on the Great Plains at first. Varieties grown in the East did poorly with less rain and extreme variations in temperature. Disease was common. So were low yields and outright failures. It wasn’t until the 1870s, when hard winter wheat, the drought-resistant “Turkey Red” introduced by Mennonite immigrants, replaced the traditional soft wheat, that it took hold. Hard wheat suited the new steel roller mills as well, making the now assembly-line-like refining process even more efficient.
Wes’s banner in the hallway blocked a couple on the way to their room. “Good evening, folks,” Wes said cheerfully. “We’re making an analysis of our nation’s depleted capital. Care to join us?” The couple smiled uncomfortably and shuffled alongside the two root systems.
Wes pointed to the annual wheat. “Of course, this wheat won out. Sixty million acres of puny roots that we need to fertilize because it can’t feed itself. Puny roots that leak nitrogen, that cause erosion and dead zones the size of New Jersey.” Wes smiled beatifically, gums and all. “This wheat won out, but what you’re looking at isthe failure of success.”
By the early 1900s, westward expansion amounted to a twenty-million-acre
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