A few days before last Thursday, I received a call. “Hey Dan, there’s a meeting of the International Food Information Council this week at the Pioneer Campus in Johnston. All the major food companies like Kraft, Pepsi, Coke, Nestle, General Mills, etc. will have executives there. On Thursday evening for dinner they would like to have a farmer join each table to talk about agricultural production practices. Would you have any interest?”

“You bet,” I said.

So when Thursday arrived, I found myself in the middle of the bustling suburb of Johnston, right next to the Public Library, on an old farmstead looking decidedly out of place and yet beautiful at the same time. There were twelve Iowa farms represented either by individuals or couples, and we made introductions and small talk awaiting the bus of the said executives to pull up.

We were gathered on a deck outside the hay mow of an old barn. In this hay mow was to be dinner, and a bluegrass group was setting up in one corner of it. In another corner they were setting up the beer. While they did, we ventured into the same conversation farmers have anywhere. Asking each other about the weather and their crops. You could have gathered us all at the steps of Mt Kilimanjaro, and in no less than five minutes we would have got to the same conversation we were now engaged in here in Johnston, on the remnant of a farm.

By us on the deck stood another little, tidy bar. This one only sported champagne glasses. I waited by it to see what the group we were waiting on would do. If they all went for the champagne, I would begrudgingly join them, but should any pass it and go for the beer, my big Irish nose would thank them for not having to spend the evening trying to fit itself into one of those champagne glasses.

The bus arrived, and as they made their way from the parking lot I felt a little nervous for the first time. All of them were bound to have titles of one sort or another. I had none. The feeling was no different than if I had forgotten to put my pants on. Surely I could find some title to bestow on myself too. Suddenly it came to me. I had made myself viceroy of farm drainage and cattle operations. Dad became our chief operating officer, and my mother the supreme allied commander. Doubtful I should be meeting any of those that evening.

If I cracked a smile at my success, it was short lived. A second later I heard from a boisterous blonde, “Oh my God, it’s a farmer. Can I take your picture?” So much for being a viceroy. Evidently the cowboy boots had given it away. I wanted to tell her a better photo opportunity might come should I need to fit this nose in a champagne glass, but I relented and let her take it anyway. As she did, I noticed some of the executives passing up the champagne for a beer. Victory had not been elusive entirely.

In the beer line I was standing behind a gentlemen about my age, tall, incredibly fit, well dressed, and with a perfectly square jaw. He introduced himself and told me he was with Kraft. He lived in Chicago, had three kids, and over a beer we began talking of the Chicago Bulls. Somewhere in the process, Ernest came over, also from Chicago. He was with Mondelez, which is how Kraft was known around the rest of the world, until it had recently spun off. I asked them what they liked about their jobs.

“The thing with our companies is that work is so varied. Some others make chiefly one product, but with us you’re at a macaroni and cheese place one day, chocolate production the next, and processing cheese on the third. It’s always something different. I suppose that’s what you like about farming.” I concurred.

“What do you guys raise, Dan? Corn and soybeans?” asked Ernest.

“Actually cattle,” I replied. “Dad really enjoyed the cattle, so when I went to college I took Agronomy classes to sort of balance him out on the crop side. Within a few years of my return, I found I really liked the cattle too. Mom and Dad rented the crop ground out and we focused on the cows and conservation work.”

“What did you grow to like about the cattle?”

“I don’t know to tell you the truth. There’s just something about them. It’s not like raising a commodity; they’re different. There is a connection with the herd. Down our way there are plenty of people that do something else for a job, but maintain a few cows. Some of them are doctors and lawyers here in Des Moines. There’s a sort of fascination with them that doesn’t exist with a field of corn.”

Everyone started to take their tables, so I took mine with them. The lady who had taken my picture joined us, along with three others.

“So what’s the biggest challenge you farmers face today, Dan?” Ernest continued.

“Well in my opinion, the biggest challenge we face is the growing disconnect between why we do what we do, and why the consumer thinks we do what we do. The second, I guess, would be the ability to transfer current operations to the next generation. It is so capital intensive, it will be a challenge for heirs that want to farm to be able to buy out or come to an agreement with the non-farming ones.”

“We struggle with those challenges too, Dan. Your first point certainly, but your second one as well. It’s a particular issue with cocoa and coffee. No one would believe food companies wonder where their cocoa is going to come from, but we do. Most of it comes from small, family run operations, and we are losing them at an unbelievably rapid rate as their children prefer to work in town. We are trying to figure out as an industry how to keep the next generation on them instead.”

“Speaking to your first point, have you seen ‘Food, Inc.?’” asked the woman whom had taken my photo. “Yes,” I replied. “It’s quite a picture that’s painted there, isn’t it?” she continued. “Monsanto, for instance, forcing upon you farmers genetically modified crops. But that isn’t what happened is it?”

“No,” I said, “I was still farming our row crop acres when Roundup Ready soybeans came out. We gradually planted more and more acres to them. We did so because it made good economic sense. They weren’t forced on us. It was a good product and we chose it. It’s the same with BT corn.”

“Yes, but you see what happens when there is that disconnect? All of the sudden someone else steps in and begins to tell the rest of the world what your motives are, whether they are or not. As consumers have become more interested about where their food comes from, our panel has become more interested, and I can tell you in our travels we’ve found a lot that hasn’t been what it was purported to be. We’re fortunate, but not many consumers get such an opportunity. You guys need to do a better job getting your story out there.”

“Well, we are trying,” I said, “but there is a learning curve. Until the most recent generation, all we’ve ever had to be is farmers, you know? In the time prior most Americans, in one way or another, had a family connection to the farm via their grandparents or aunts and uncles. With that connection came an understanding, and people knew where their food came from. That’s not the case anymore. We are trying to figure out what we can do about that.”

“So are we,” she said. “I use to work for the Food and Drug Administration. When I left I had the option to go into pharmaceuticals or food. I chose food. People told me I was crazy. Pharmaceuticals were more profitable, but pharmaceuticals didn’t interest me. They are pretty cut and dried. As Americans we want our drugs. You see a commercial for some drug on television, and at the end of it is two things. One is a narrator quickly reading a list of scientifically proven side effects as long as your arm. The other is this surreal image of a sailboat going across a wheat field. When it’s over, we all decide we want the drug, side effects be damned.

Our decisions on food, on the other hand, have much more complex emotions going into them. Take your GMOs. I won’t argue with you that they are proven safe, but what is battled is their perception by the consumer. The consumer’s perception is just like yours or mine. It is fickle. There are countless research studies that show that. If we label a food “processed,” it has a negative connotation. If we label it “packaged,” it’s okay. We can do the same thing with “genetically modified” vs. “FDA approved.” Now however we label it doesn’t change what it is in the least, but it certainly changes how it is perceived, and I find that incredibly interesting.

Speaking just for myself, I battle a couple of things with what we are doing as an industry. First, in an effort to feed into the consumer’s desired perception, we’ve started slapping labels on everything. You might have noticed “gluten-free” lately. We are putting it on items that never had gluten in them to begin with. Then we have non-GMO, all natural, and organic. These are all different. Every time someone somewhere has a new concern, we slap a label on our label. Pretty soon we are going to run out of real estate. That is one, and it is simply practical.

My second concern is an ethical one. Some of these processes, or lack thereof, substantially impact the cost of the product. While I certainly think the consumer should have a choice in the marketplace, there is an element of an elitist mentality trying to limit it for others. I balk at requiring all consumers to spend more for something science has shown no value for, especially if they don’t have it to spend. It’s off-base to me.”

“Not to mention the impact it has on those in developing nations we export to.” I added.

“Yes, but you know what? You farmers like to talk about how you feed the world, but any study of consumers will show that is the last thing on our minds when we visit the grocery store. Sure, we all like to talk a good game about how we care about what is happening in a developing country, but study after study show’s it plays virtually no role in why we purchase what we purchase.”

“I know. I’ve seen those same studies. As farmers, we’ve traditionally approached it in a way that isn’t making a connection. For the consumer it is about price, quality, and safety. The ‘feeding the world’ bit just doesn’t seem to have an impact with them.”

Dinner was being served family style, and while her and I were talking, we had been grazing on a caesar salad and a dish of beets, cubed and mixed with something resembling dandelion leaves and sunflower seeds. As the beets made their way around a second time, the tall man from Kraft commented, “Beets are the next big thing, you know.” I chuckled. “No, really. All the restaurants on the east coast are working them into their menus. They are the new kohlrabi. You wait and see.”

Soon the sides and the main course arrived, and I tried to remember the proper procedure for passing the dish around. Offer to the left and pass to the right, right? I debated this quietly, until a dish was finally placed in front of me to distribute. As I grabbed it, I realized I was in the middle of two other dishes approaching from either side. I put mine into rotation behind the one I thought it most went with, and let form follow function.

(Meanwhile the salt and pepper, which Mary Foley Balvanz had always instructed are married, seemed to have met with an unfortunate separation. Salt had flew the coup and was in the process of gallivanting around the countryside, with random partners, while the pepper, meanwhile, stayed dejectedly under the centerpiece and wept.)

It was through the salt that I met Michelle, seated two seats away and beside Ernest. “You know I’m a farm girl from East Texas,” she proudly told me. “We still have the farm my grandfather and grandmother started. All of us cousins own it as shares. We all make general decisions from time to time, and I enjoy that, but I figured I would never be bothered with the day to day of a farm again. That is until recently.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well believe it or not, all of the sudden my husband has this crazy idea that he would like to have cattle.”

Ernest kicked me under the table, wearing a large grin. “I told you,” I said. “Everyone would like to have a cow herd someday.” Had Ernest been in town a little longer, I would have had to get him some boots.

Desert was a rhubarb cobbler with ice cream in a mason jar. I took another small victory in the fact that I ate it without wearing it. I soon realized the white tablecloth was less fortunate. It looked like a crime scene missing its chalk line. Before anyone else noticed, it was time for them to board the bus and go.

As a little farmer, I found comfort in their previous willingness to inquire about agriculture, and the understanding they had as a result of it. I was also appreciative of the added understanding they gave me. Underneath the titles of executive or viceroy, holding a beer bottle or champagne glass, and in living an urban existence or a rural one, we were just people. Perhaps the capacities I observed from them were just as capable to be found elsewhere as the topics of weather and crops in a conversation among farmers.

There is an old saying which states the farm market is ruled by both reality and perception. You can have a perfect understanding of reality, and take a position in the market based on that, but if you have forgotten about perception it will come along and kick you in the butt. I suppose you will find yourself eating cubed beets with sunflower seeds and dandelion leaves. Seems the food business is the same way. Here’s to finding a balance someday.