Last week, I was in the grocery store checkout line behind a mother and her teenage daughter.

They were flipping through a tabloid, completely absorbed in some mundane celebrity drama I hoped I’d never hear about. The daughter started talking about how said celebrity was friends with one of the Kardashian kids. Which she then proceeded to recite (what I assume was) the entire “we’re famous for being famous” family’s tree.

As I was listening to this riveting conversation, I scanned the mother’s cart and saw a bag of fresh carrots. Not baby carrots (which aren’t a thing by the way) — the full size ones with the green leafy stems still attached.

And trust me, I have ZERO clue why I did what I did next, but I asked these women in front of me:

“Excuse me, this might sound weird (ya think Charlie!?), but do you know if carrots are grown above or below ground?”

In all fairness, the completely blank stares I got were fair.

But finally the mother said, “I’ve honestly never thought about it.”

The daughter said, “I don’t know, but I’d guess above ground.”

Now it was my turn to wipe the “WTF?” look off my face.

I had just listened to this girl name every Kardashian and their kids without batting an eye. And her mother — a grown adult who probably cooks dinner most nights, had genuinely never had a passing thought about the basic biology of a root vegetable.

Disturbing? Somewhat.

Troubling? Absolutely.

So how did we get here?

Think about it…

When was the last time you actively sought out information about celebrities or “influencers”? Probably never.

Yet somehow, people know Taylor Swift's dating history, which housewife of wherever is feuding with whom this week, and exactly how many times certain actors have been married.

This information just... finds us.

It's in the checkout line, on our phones during lunch break, in conversations with friends. It seeps into our consciousness without permission.

But when did you last actively learn something about your food?

We live in a world where we know more about celebrity relationships than we do about the food that literally keeps us alive.

People can recite plotlines from reality TV, but ask someone how that Porterhouse got on their plate and you can watch the panic set in.

And listen, I get it. The U.S. food system feels complicated, political, and overwhelming.

It's easier to scroll past it.
To trust the marketing.
To assume someone, somewhere, is making sure it's all fine.

But here's what really gets under my skin about this paradox: deep down, you know which matters more.

You know that understanding your food — where it comes from, how it’s raised, how much is available — is more important than any Hollywood drama. Yet somehow, you’ve ended up an expert in all the wrong things.

It's not just about carrots (obviously).

It's about feeling disconnected from something fundamental—something our grandparents took for granted.

We've traded that practical knowledge for brain rot social content.

And somewhere along the way, that little voice in our head started nagging at us that we’d lost something important.

Here's the truth:

When we stop asking questions about our food, we give up more than knowledge—we give up power.

When we don't understand how our food is grown, we can't make informed choices about what we buy.

When we don't know what's normal for a vegetable, we can't tell when something's off. When we don't understand the basics of farming and seasons, we become completely dependent on whatever the grocery store tells us is available.

And the food industry? They rely on our ignorance.

They're betting that we won't ask why strawberries are available in December, or what those long ingredient lists actually mean, or why store-bought tomatoes taste like water while the ones from your garden burst with flavor.

The more disconnected we become from our food, the easier we are to manipulate with marketing claims, fancy packaging, and promises that sound too good to be true (because they are).

You don't have to live on a farm or grow your own kale to reconnect with what's real.

You just need to care.

And have someone who will tell you the truth without trying to sell you snake oil (hi!👋 it’s me).

For today’s lesson, let's talk carrots.

Carrots grow underground—they're a root vegetable. Roots = underground.

But what you see poking out of the soil are the leafy green fronds. And the way those greens look? They tell a farmer how the carrot's doing below the surface.

➡️ Wilted, thin greens = likely stressed, undernourished roots
➡️ Lush, deep greens = healthy, well-fed carrots

Simple. Visual. No guesswork. That's what knowing your food actually looks like.

And here's something else about carrots: those perfectly uniform, bright orange carrots in the grocery store? They're bred to look that way.

Carrots can actually be purple, white, yellow, or red. The orange ones we're used to were developed in the Netherlands in the 1600s, partly to honor their royal family (the House of Orange).

Carrots are also incredibly picky about their soil.

They need loose, sandy dirt that's been worked deep—at least 12 inches down.

Why?

Because if they hit a rock, a clump of clay, or even dense soil, they'll fork into weird shapes or stop growing altogether. That's why you sometimes see those funny-looking carrots with multiple "legs" at the farmer's market. They encountered an obstacle underground.

Farmers plant carrot seeds in early spring, tiny as poppy seeds, about a quarter-inch deep.

But here's the catch: they take forever to germinate (sprout), sometimes up to three weeks!

During that time, weeds will try to take over the row, so you have to cultivate carefully around where you think the carrots are, even though you can't see them yet.

When they finally emerge, they look like blades of grass.

For the first month, all the energy goes into developing that taproot underground while the greens stay small. Then, around 60-70 days after planting, producers start pulling "baby carrots"—though these aren't the manufactured mini carrots from the store. They’re actually young carrots about the size of your thumb.

The full-sized carrots harvested in the fall have been growing for 90-120 days, slowly pushing deeper into the soil.

And here's something most people don't know: carrots actually get sweeter after the first frost.

The cold triggers them to convert starches into sugars as a natural antifreeze. That's why fall carrots taste so much better than summer ones.

See? Learning about food doesn't have to be overwhelming.

It can be just as interesting as celebrity gossip—maybe more so, because it actually affects your daily life and your health.

Moving forward, each week I'll be sharing short, honest stories like this—straight from our family farm or curated from my friends in the industry.

No hype. No preaching. Just the truth.

Because you deserve to feel good about the food on your plate.
You deserve to know the people behind it.
And you definitely deserve to know how a carrot grows.

We'll explore what "organic" really means versus what the marketing wants you to think it means.

You’ll figure out why some eggs have deep orange yolks while others are pale yellow.

Simple questions. Real answers.

The kind of food knowledge that actually makes a difference when you're standing in that grocery store, trying to feed your family well.

So stick around. There's more where that came from.

🌱 Charlie

"A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in."         
- Greek proverb