I work as a private chef for people who have more money than they know what to do with. I’m only 21. My parents moved here so I could have "opportunities" and I guess this is it. I spend my nights in these massive kitchens cooking for people who think a $30 tomato tastes like heaven. It doesn’t. It tastes like a tomato. I tell them it’s "hand-picked" and "heirloom" and "locally sourced" because that’s what they pay for. They pay for the words. Every single night, they pay for the words. The truth is I get half my produce from the same wholesaler that supplies the greasy diners downtown. I just put it on a nice plate. I go to the farmer's market once a week just so people see me there. I carry the big woven basket and smile at the vendors so the neighbors can see. Then I go home and use the stuff from the plastic crates. It’s all the same. It is all the same thing. Dirt is dirt. My grandmother grew vegetables in a patch of dust back home and she never called it "organic." She just called it food. Last night this lady asked me if the kale was "biodynamic." I didn't even know what that meant. I just looked her in the eye and said yes. I said it's the best biodynamic kale in the state. She took a bite and closed her eyes like she was having some kind of religious experience. "I can taste the energy," she said.