Food for Thought #1: How Food became my Lens for Understanding the World
Food is more than sustenance or taste—it’s identity, culture, even resistance. From my childhood on a small farm to the theories and concepts that shaped my thinking.
In the last issue, I wrote about the idea that food is never just food—it is culture, history, identity, and connection. But where does this perspective come from? This time, I want to take a step back and tell you more about the foundations of my thinking: my background, the main theories from my studies, and a field experience in Mexico.
Some of you might know that I grew up on a small farm in Lower Austria. For a long time, I considered this fact unremarkable. Today, I realize how formative it was. My earliest culinary experiences are probably familiar to many of you: cooking with one grandmother, gardening with the other. In my case, my mother added another dimension—her profession had made her an excellent cook. Before she joined my father in running the farm, she had worked in a kitchen. Through the farm, much of what was on our table came from our own production. In short, good food was always central to our home.
Our farm was primarily focused on dairy production, so we always had fresh milk from our own cows. The taste of still-warm milk, fresh from milking, is etched into my sensory memory. Alongside dairy, we also raised a small number of animals for meat—mostly for our own consumption, with a portion sold directly from the farm. I remember slaughter days when our cattle and pigs were taken early in the morning to the local butcher, down in the village. Shortly after, the animal halves returned, and a busy day of processing began. My mum’s mother would come to help—the meat was cut up, blood sausage was made, lard was rendered—until, finally, two freezers were filled with meat, and customers arrived at the farm to collect their orders.
My grandmothers’ gardens were classic house gardens—overflowing in summer with a colorful mix of flowers, vegetables, and berries, so abundant that much was preserved for winter. Around the farm, we had traditional orchards—much of the fruit was used for juice production or dried (“gedörrt”) for the winter months. From the pears of old pear trees, my grandfather pressed cider (“Most”) using an old wooden press. Between the trees, chickens roamed freely—idyllic, one might think.
But I also learned early on about the other side of this idyll. I saw firsthand what it meant to produce food: the relentless labor, the total dependence on the weather, the limited opportunities, the low prices for agricultural products, the reliance on the dairy cooperative, the constant pressure to expand and specialize. Holidays were out of the question—the farm did not allow even a few days away for my parents.
At the time, this reality felt stifling. As a young adult, I wanted to explore the world, to go where life seemed bigger, more exciting, more diverse. I longed to discover new cultures, to travel to distant lands, to see everything beyond the hills of my childhood. After finishing school, I moved to Vienna and began studying Cultural and Social Anthropology and International Development—fields that promised exactly what I was looking for: a broader perspective, a chance to look beyond my own plate. I wanted to understand the world, to explore people, their stories, and their cultures, to grasp the bigger picture (Only much later did I realize that the world of my childhood and the world I was studying were deeply connected.).
A pivotal text in Cultural and Social Anthropology is Marcel Mauss’s “The Gift” (“Essai sur le don”, 1925). What does it mean to share food? Why is hospitality a universal human practice? These are the kinds of questions Marcel Mauss explored, though his focus was broader—he examined the act of giving, receiving, and reciprocating as a fundamental social principle that permeates all aspects of life. Within this framework, food emerges as a “total social phenomenon”: it encapsulates economic dimensions (the production and distribution of food), social dimensions (strengthening relationships and obligations), cultural and symbolic dimensions (ritual and traditional meanings of food), and even legal and moral aspects (the obligation to reciprocate).
Although Marcel Mauss did not write specifically about food, his insights reveal how food weaves together the material, social, and symbolic aspects of human life. In rituals, festivals, and acts of hospitality, food is more than nourishment—it is a medium of exchange, a carrier of meaning, a reinforcement of cultural values and social bonds. His description of food as a “total social phenomenon” is nearly synonymous with life itself.
This idea has been explored further in anthropology. Claude Lévi-Strauss, in “The Raw and the Cooked” (“Le Cru et le Cuit”, 1964), demonstrated that eating habits follow specific rules and symbolic structures. Pierre Bourdieu, in “Distinction” (“La distinction. Critique sociale du jugement”, 1979), argued that taste is not merely a personal preference but is deeply shaped by social background. With each of these theories, one thing became increasingly clear: food is not just a private, everyday act—it is a mirror of social structures. Food is also more than taste—it is a kind of collective memory.
In 2008, a field study took me to Oaxaca de Juárez, Mexico—a region where food is inextricably linked to cultural heritage. And: Oaxaca is the birthplace of maize. There, I realized that food is even more—it is also resistance and living history.
In Oaxaca’s bustling markets, I learned that the maize cultivated by indigenous small farmers is not just an ingredient but a symbol of cultural belonging. They fought to preserve their traditional varieties and resisted dependency on industrial seed corporations. Thanks to our professor, we had the privilege of meeting the Mexican intellectual, activist, and professor Gustavo Esteva at his farm outside of Oaxaca. In all his conversations, food was central. Tirelessly, he advocated for bringing food back to the heart of social life. Passionately, he spoke about how fast food had marginalized traditional “comida” in Mexico and how modern life had accelerated the rhythm of eating.
For him, it was essential to preserve traditional food cultures, to recognize the central role of women in food production and preparation, and to resist the dominance of fast food and industrially processed products—not just for health reasons but also for cultural ones. His commitment to a return to a communal, self-determined food culture points to another key concept: food sovereignty.
Food sovereignty is not just about having access to enough food; it is about deciding what is produced, distributed, and eaten—aligned with local tastes and traditions, ecological conditions, and social structures. The indigenous farmers in the “Sin Maíz No Hay País” movement fought for their right to preserve their own seed traditions instead of becoming dependent on global agribusiness. Food sovereignty is resistance against industrial monocultures, against food produced for profit rather than for people.
And it is not just relevant in Mexico. It is a political stance that affects us here in Europe too—in our supermarkets, our markets, our kitchens. Who decides what ends up on our plates?
By the end of my studies, one thing was clear: food is far more than sustenance. It is a language spoken by every culture, a ritual that creates community, and a reflection of social structures. Food reveals the invisible threads that connect us—to other people, to nature, and to history.
And because food is woven into our lives more than anything else—touching culture, identity, and even resistance—I’m convinced it is one of the most powerful levers for change. By choosing what ends up on our plates, we shape the world around us. Not through sacrifice, but through conscious enjoyment. Not through dogma, but through responsibility.
But what does that actually mean in practice? How can we make choices that align pleasure with responsibility? These are the questions I’d like to explore in the upcoming issue on February 14th.
Want to share your thoughts on this?
References & more Food for Thought:
Mauss, Marcel (1990). “The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies”, London: Routledge. (Original work published in 1925 as “Essai sur le don: Forme et raison de l’échange dans les sociétés archaïques.”)
Lévi-Strauss, Claude (1983). “The Raw and the Cooked”, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. (“Original work published in 1964 as Le Cru et le Cuit.”)
Bourdieu, Pierre (1984). “Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste”, MA: Harvard University Press. (“Original work published in 1979 as La Distinction: Critique sociale du jugement.”)
photo credit: Sandy Rojas