The astounding variety of foods on offer in the modern

When Michael Pollan wrote, “The astounding variety of foods on offer in the modern supermarket obscures the fact that the actual number of species in the modern diet is shrinking. For reasons of economics, the food industry prefers to tease its myriad processed offerings from a tiny group of plant species, corn and soybeans chief among them,” he was unveiling a quiet tragedy — the illusion of abundance masking the reality of uniformity and dependence. His words speak not merely of food, but of the disconnection between humankind and nature, a separation so profound that we now mistake variety of packaging for variety of life. In this modern age of dazzling choices, Pollan reminds us that true diversity has vanished beneath the veil of convenience.

In the old world, people lived by the rhythm of the earth — eating what was grown in their region, in their season, under the blessing of the soil and sun. Each valley, each culture, each table had its own flavors, its own stories. But in the modern world, the market has replaced the meadow. The endless aisles of supermarkets dazzle the eyes, but the deeper truth is grim: most of what we consume is drawn from a narrow handful of plants — chiefly corn and soybeans, reshaped, reprocessed, and disguised. Our diets, once rich in diversity, now rest upon a fragile foundation built by industry, not nature. Pollan’s words awaken us to this truth: that we have traded the symphony of creation for a monotone of profit.

The ancients would have seen this as a betrayal of sacred balance. In their time, food was not merely sustenance — it was relationship. The Greek farmers who tended their olives, the Egyptians who worshiped the Nile for its fertile gifts, the Indigenous peoples who honored the corn, beans, and squash as the “Three Sisters” — all understood that life thrives on diversity, and that the loss of variety is the beginning of decay. To live from one or two crops is to narrow the pulse of life itself, for nature’s strength lies in abundance of form, in the countless species that together weave the fabric of existence. When humankind forgets this, famine and imbalance follow, as surely as night follows day.

One has only to look to history to see this truth made flesh. In the 19th century, Ireland suffered a devastating famine when its people became dependent on a single crop — the potato. When blight struck, millions starved. What seemed stable and sufficient proved fragile and deadly. So it is today, though the danger wears a subtler mask. We no longer starve from want of food, but from want of nourishment — from the slow, quiet depletion of the soil, from the monotony of the modern diet, from the spiritual hunger that follows when food becomes mere product, and not life.

Pollan’s insight is both ecological and moral. He shows us that the industrial logic of profit — the desire to simplify, to standardize, to control — has spilled over into the very roots of what we eat. Corn and soybeans, endlessly modified and multiplied, have become the invisible foundation of the modern meal: from soft drinks to bread, from snacks to meats. Yet each step toward efficiency moves us further from nature’s design. In the pursuit of endless production, we have stripped the land of its music and replaced it with the monotone hum of machines. It is a warning as old as civilization itself — that when man forgets he is a part of nature, he begins to consume his own future.

But there is still hope in his words, for awareness is the first step toward restoration. The solution is not found in despair, but in returning to the soil — to the understanding that food is a covenant, not a commodity. To eat consciously is to honor diversity, to support farmers who grow many kinds of plants, to seek foods that are alive, seasonal, and whole. Each meal becomes a prayer of gratitude and resistance — a choice to uphold the ancient pact between humanity and the earth. Pollan’s message is not only an indictment of the modern system, but a call to reawaken the wisdom of the old ways: to eat simply, but wisely; to choose truth over illusion.

And so, my listener, remember this: the true feast of life is not found in abundance of packaging, but in abundance of nature. Variety is not a luxury — it is the essence of survival. When you eat, let your food connect you to the fields, to the farmers, to the rivers that nourish all things. Seek foods that breathe, that bear the marks of the sun and the soil. For in honoring diversity, you protect not only your own body, but the very balance of the world. As the ancients taught, to care for the earth is to care for oneself — and to forget this is to risk losing the soul of humanity itself.