I have a recurring worry involving the end of the world as weknow it. You might think the worry is about the world endingas we know it — cause for some concern, no doubt. But whatkeeps bothering me is what happens next, how well could Icarry my weight were I to end up, fortunately orunfortunately, among the straggling survivors?

Sure, I’ve got gravel in my gut and spit in my eye; it’s not my capacity forfortitude in the face of utter disaster that bothers me. At leastI have some related experience in that area, as most of us do.The problem is how very little I know.

It’s scary to think about how little we, as individuals, carryof the world’s knowledge. Those of us who live in theoverdeveloped world (likely the ones to blame for whatevercalamity has befallen the planet)know more and more about less andless as the generations go on.

Whereas my grandmother knewhow to administer home remedies,grow vegetables and preservepeaches, I’d be fumbling. And whilemy grandfather, a farmer andtradesman, could fix just aboutanything, I can fix almost nothing.

Not to put too fine a point on it, butthings that I don’t know include: exactly how wheat getsturned into flour; the salient differences between varieties oftrees; how to kill or butcher anything; which berries arepoisonous; how electricity works; and the basic functioning ofany kind of machine and most plants. (Try making your ownlist: Use a large piece of paper!)

The root of this worry is likely obvious — my near totaldisconnection from most of the things that keep me alive andsheltered, and healthy and warm. You can go through yourwhole life in urban Canada and never have the slightest cluehow most of the food you consume on a daily basis actuallygets to your table.

Eating food you don’t know is a little likeintimacy with a stranger — generallyunsatisfying. Not only do you know it could be so much better, butthere’s an element of risk. It also means we practice adangerous dependence and allow ourselves, in this pre-calamitystate, to remain willfully ignorant of the conditionsunder which our food — not to mention almost everyaccoutrement of daily Western life — is produced.

I focus on food not just because it’s bound to be among thefirst concerns for us survivors, but because there’s anextremely hopeful, not-so-apocalyptic movement taking offthat’s all about becoming more connected to the food we eatand the people who grow it. It’s a step any of us can take thatnot only results in fresher, healthier food, but also providessupport for farmers and small businesses and takes a big biteout of greenhouse-gas emissions.

And it’s as simple as picking an apple off a tree — localeating.

Only, in this world ofeverything imported (we don’t blinkan eye when we’re presented at ourlocal grocer’s with products that havetravelled from every corner of theEarth) could an idea this old be newagain, and so revolutionary feeling. Itsimply means thinking about whereyour food comes from and how longit travels to hit your plate.

The pair who best embody thespirit and the resolve behind the local eating movement areVancouver’s Alisa Smith and James MacKinnon, whochallenged themselves to what they dubbed a 100-mile diet,eating food and drink produced only from within a 100-mile radius oftheir home for an entire year, and documented their journey(out this spring in book form). Smith and MacKinnon saythey’ve never eaten food that tasted so good, nor felt so goodabout the food they were eating.

That daily connection to yourcommunity, the Earth, the seasons, is a powerfully healing thing,and now’s a great time to start thinking about joining in on allthat goodness. Their website can getyou started and help connect you to local-eating resources.If we all get on-board, maybe we’ll avert that disaster afterall. And if not, I hope you don’t get stuck with me in yourlifeboat.