Grab Your Overalls - This is a Revolution

by Jennifer Rodriguez

Asheville loves food—the kind with a story. The kind plated on East Fork pottery, paired with something wild and fermented, shared among friends who speak the language of slow meals. Farmers’ markets are stitched into the fabric of this place, as familiar as a pint on the South Slope or a trail winding up the Parkway. They promise seasons turning, land well-tended, something real. But for all the talk of supporting local, Asheville’s food economy still leans too heavily on food that’s traveled farther than it should.

Local food tastes better. This is Asheville. We know that. We build seasons around what’s fresh—tomatoes so ripe they barely hold together, ramps making their fleeting return, sourdough mothers bubbling on countertops.

But this isn’t just about flavor. It’s about survival. Local food isn’t a luxury—it’s a lifeline. Asheville’s economy runs on tourism and hospitality. That works—until it doesn’t. When the hurricane hit, businesses shuttered, visitors disappeared, and Asheville’s dependence on outside money was impossible to ignore.

But food? Food is an economy that stays.

When the hurricane hit, I took shelter at my brothers’ land. They had gardens, fresh eggs, goat milk, and a cold mountain stream. No scrambling for bottled water, no waiting for grocery stores to restock. The land took care of them, the way it always had. A town that can’t feed itself isn’t stable. It’s at the mercy of supply chains stretched too thin, of corporate interests that don’t know our names. But the solution has been here all along—rooted in the soil beneath our feet. Somewhere in the quiet exchange of a loaf of bread or a bundle of greens, something shifts. And that’s when it clicks—this is how it’s supposed to be.

Food isn’t just a commodity—it’s a connection to the land, to the people growing it, to the seasons shifting around us. Studies show that people in community-centered environments live longer. The world’s “Blue Zones” share a key trait: strong local ties. Meanwhile, one of the biggest factors contributing to homelessness isn’t just economic hardship but lack of community. The farmers’ market isn’t just about food. It’s about showing up for each other. And let’s be honest—I go so I can wear my cute overalls and sundresses too. Call it farmers’ market core, call it my quiet rebellion, but if I’m going to romanticize my life, it’s going to involve sourdough and a well-worn tote bag.

Farmers’ markets aren’t just a place to grab microgreens and chat with the sausage maker about his latest recipe. They’re one of the last places where small farms sell food on their own terms—no middleman, no distributors taking a cut. But instead of being the backbone of Asheville’s food economy, they’re treated like a charming side feature, a cute accessory to a town that prides itself on eating well.

I once interviewed a fifth-generation beef farmer who watched the price of feed rise, the price of his product on Ingles’ shelves rise—but the price middlemen paid him? Virtually the same. That disconnect leaves farmers vulnerable, makes the work unsustainable, and pushes some to walk away entirely. And this isn’t just about farmers. I’ve worked with dozens of chefs who want to source locally but run into barriers—cost, consistency, availability. Asheville tells us to shop local, and we should. But if the restaurants leading that charge rely mostly on US Foods and Sysco, what are we really supporting? A movement, or just a branding strategy?

Imagine if one Sunday a month, more of us swapped a grocery run for a farmers’ market haul. Asheville’s local food system wouldn’t just survive—it would thrive. This isn’t about rejecting big supply chains. It’s about having options. Right now, small farmers often have no choice but to sell at prices that barely cover costs, while chefs rely on large distributors because they guarantee supply. The goal isn’t to dismantle those systems—it’s to build one where small farms aren’t just a feel-good alternative but a viable, thriving part of Asheville’s food economy. Some chefs are already making it work—partnering with multiple farms, designing menus around what’s available rather than rigid ingredient lists. Meanwhile, more small farms are scaling up, making it easier to meet demand.

And before anyone says it’s not convenient—Asheville has farmers’ markets almost every day of the week. Early morning, after work, all weekend long—there’s a market that fits your life. What Needs to Change?

Local food still gets treated as an ethical choice instead of an economic priority. A feel-good extra. And that mindset is exactly why the system remains broken. This is about nostalgia—about a time when food wasn’t anonymous, when people knew the hands that grew it. But it’s not about longing for the past. It’s about reclaiming control of the future. The shift means seeing small farms differently—not as Asheville’s charming aesthetic, but as the backbone of an economy that actually feeds its own people.

Maybe the answer isn’t in outside investment, another tourism strategy, or a push for more visitors. Maybe it’s been here the whole time. The land we live on, the farms we’ve overlooked, the markets we treat like a novelty—this is how Asheville moves forward. And here’s something most people don’t realize: farmers’ markets accept EBT/SNAP benefits. Fresh, local food isn’t just for those who can afford to romanticize it—it’s for everyone. Some markets even double EBT dollars, stretching food budgets further while keeping money in the local economy. If even a fraction of Asheville committed to shopping at farmers’ markets or subscribing to a CSA like Mother Earth Food, the impact would be undeniable. Mother Earth alone delivers over $6 million worth of locally grown food across the region each year, directly benefiting small farms.

Food security isn’t just for emergencies—it’s an investment in Asheville’s future.

We don’t need another tourist attraction. We need a food system that feeds Asheville first.