Editor’s note: This is a guest post from Lynn Morris

Everyone knows that wearing fur is wrong. But what if the fur came from a highly destructive invasive species being culled anyway as part of state sponsored control program?

A project in Louisiana has come up with a range of “˜guilt free fur’ from swamp rats. Nutria, otherwise known as swamp rats, do huge amounts of damage to the ecosystems around New Orleans. They use their massive front teeth to dig up plants by their roots creating holes in the levees hastening coastal erosion. If there is one thing Louisiana doesn’t need it is more coastal erosion.

New Orleans based Righteous Fur aims to help the state sponsored control program along by creating a high fashion market for nutria fur, with the slogan “˜Save our wetlands, wear more nutria’.

Cree McCree who set up the project in 2008 believes it’s wrong not to use animals that are culled.

She said: “About half a million nutria were killed last year but just two percent of the pelts were used. It is a colossal waste if the animals are being killed anyway. Nutria should not die in vain.”

But she does not think wearing any old nutria fur is ok. She said: “It is only guilt free fur if it is certified Louisiana pelts harvested as part of the pest control program.”

McCree calls her work “˜a giant recycling project’ and has commissioned designers to create bags, cuffs, hats and coats with the pelts. She also uses Balinese silver to make jewelery from nutria teeth.

She aims to create a fashion demand for the fur, increasing the value of nutria pelts encouraging more people to take part in the control program eventually reducing the population of nutria in the area. At the moment the state pays a bounty of $5 per nutria tail.

McCree said: “If this project is successful it will eradicate itself but that would be a long way down the road. We are not in the business of spawning a bunch of nutria farms.”

Nutria used to be used in clothing and was fashionable from the end of the Second World War to the mid 1970s, worn by fashion icons including Sophia Loren and Greta Garbo. Nutria were introduced to Louisiana for fur farms in the 1930s but some escaped into the wild.

There have been other attempts to create a market for nutria including an unsuccessful effort to turn it into a gourmet food.

Righteous Fur’s designs will be on show in New York on November 21 at House of Yes in Brooklyn. The Righteous Fur design collective will also be selling their wares at Brooklyn Flea in New York on November 20.

People not in New York City will have to wait a little while but the pieces will soon be available to buy through Righteous Fur’s website.

The post Guilt Free Fur appeared first on EcoSalon.

It was a warm and humid afternoon, and all I wanted was an iced coffee. Being from the Northwest, I’m used to drive-through coffee shops in even the most podunk of towns, but now I was in the heart of the Louisiana Bayou, and there wasn’t any type of coffee shop to be found. Instead there was “The Chill Out,” a small white building facing the road, with a multi-colored flag sporting an ice cream cone hanging from the window and a flashing red light on the porch.

A house turned into a frozen-treat mecca, The Chill Out had a wall facing the road with a long list of “snowball flavors,” ranging from Tiger Blood (I’m not quite sure exactly what that entails!) to watermelon. A snowball is the classic treat of this region, shaved ice doused in sugary flavoring. I assumed this meant sweet, fruity flavors, so my eyes did a double take when I read “dill pickle” on the list. I imagined what dill-pickle sorbet would taste like and cringed. Had I missed something? When had salty brine become an additive to summer iced treats?

But two weeks later, I’m finding that consuming salty, briny, distinctively flavored items out of their normal context isn’t as odd as I thought. In fact, it’s downright popular. Take Kraut Juice for example, found by the foodies over at The Kitchn, which is apparently prevalent in the Midwest. What does one do with kraut juice besides scrunch up your nose and move on? Make some tomato tang and enjoy.

If that doesn’t strike your fancy, how about Pickle Juice Sport? That’s right, you can refuel your electrolytes and prevent cramping after a serious workout with this salty drink.

Not ready for bottled juices? You might want to start easy with something like pickle pops, another delicacy that I had never heard of until the dill pickled snowball fiasco. “We used to freeze pickle juice in ice-cube trays all the time when I was little… it’s sooo good!” exclaimed one friend, a Mississippi native. I have yet to try it, but according to the blogosphere, those pickle pops are all the rage.

Ingredients

Dill pickle juice

Preparation

Fill ice-cube tray with pickle juice, and add in a popsicle stick or toothpick to each cube. Freeze and enjoy.

And you thought kombucha was weird…

Editor’s note: This is the latest installment of Anna Brones’s column at EcoSalon, Foodie Underground. Each week, Anna will be taking a look at something new and different that’s taking place in the underground food movement, from supper clubs to mini markets to culinary avant garde.

Images: sleepyneko, The Kitchn

The post Foodie Underground: The Brine Bubble appeared first on EcoSalon.

We’re standing on a very remote dock on Grand Bayou, a chain of wetlands interspersed with human made channels where natural gas lines run out to rigs in the open Gulf. These pipes lay on the mud, running some four miles out to sea to their source and inland to a storage facility where the fuel is collected and brought to market.

Once again, standing in the remnants of architecture destroyed by Katrina, we are overwhelmed by the true identity of this place. Hurricane Katrina is like the B.C. and A.D. of the Gulf Coast, a place and time that demarcates two distinct realities.

Some residents hate BP, some think they’re doing a good job (to varying degrees), but everyone I’ve spoken to has three things in common: they have an uncanny sense of place, they have no self-pity, and the aftermath of Katrina affects their lives everyday.

By the water, there is a basketball hoop with no backboard but a perfectly intact net. The court below isn’t visible – it’s buried by mud and vegetation overgrowth. We’d hoped to meet a fisherman from a local tribe, Jeremiah, with whom we’d made arrangements with to take us out into the affected areas in his boat. Crabbing is closed in the open bays but not in these fingered channels. But Jeremiah, we learn, is already out. No boat equals no story.

Serendipitously, another reporter I’m with finds Brian Gainey, a 20-year-old third generation crabber who moors his boat here. For a little gas money, we can get a ride. He’s with his high school friend Carol Hart, who serves as crew, and he’s going to check on his crab traps laid a few days ago. Brian operates about 500 traps when in full swing, and he drives nearly four hours each way to get here from his home in Mississippi. His workday begins at 4 a.m. and doesn’t end until 8 p.m.

His boat moors for free because his family’s name is respected by the residents of this small, tribal wetland community. But now, his work is severely limited because the outer bays are contaminated. As we tour the marshes with their egrets and herons, we see firsthand why people live here. It’s beautiful. Hot, and beautiful.

Crabs, Brian says, avoid polluted water and have moved into the channels where the oil hasn’t saturated. And though he’s catching, the market rate for his effort has dropped considerably. “Gulf Seafood,” is hardly a selling point with seafood buyers these days. Menus all over the world are being reprinted. Safety is a topic for another post pending, but the perception in the market is that it’s tainted.

But back on the bayou, Brian’s working. His father isn’t; he’s instead accepting the BP checks for out-of-work fisherman, some $5,000 a month. Brian explains that he can generate this amount – gross – in three days of crabbing at pre-spill market prices. Late summer is prime crabbing, and Brian can easily pull in 20 thousand a month. Though he’s thankful to BP for his dad’s payments, it’s unclear how long they’ll last. They are only promised through August and he doesn’t know if they’ll continue beyond that. No one knows. Unknowing is the sentiment that prevails everywhere.

Brian is angry about the situation and he blames BP for all of the problems affecting his way of life, but he also believes that BP is doing everything they can right now. That they’re taking care of business.

This is the crux of life here: The entire economics of this region, with the exception of tourism (which is utterly destroyed), hangs in the balance of a healthy seafood economy and a healthy oil economy. But depending on whom you ask, BP is either a savior for giving jobs, or the devil for destroying the sea. Brian is somewhere in between. He doesn’t fish because he doesn’t have other options, but like most fishermen I’ve talked to, he does this because he loves it.

The post BP and The Bayou: Oil and Water Mix appeared first on EcoSalon.

A picture is worth a thousand words. The expression may sound cliche, but in the conservation movement, it couldn’t be more true. In the day and age of quick soundbites and short attention spans, when it comes to promoting a cause, grabbing people’s attention is key. We need more than just hearing about things in order to care; we need to see them, and we need to be moved.

That’s one of the main reasons that pilot Tom Hutchings takes visitors to the Gulf of Mexico up in the air in his Cessna 182, knowing very well the visual power of seeing this environmental catastrophe from above. In the weeks following the Deepwater explosion, oil covered the diverse marsh landscape of the Mississippi Delta, turning a pristine habitat into an alien environment.

Hutchings flies for South Wings, a non-profit with a tagline of “conservation through aviation.” Founded in 1996, the organization is committed to connect conservation groups with pilots, providing flights at no cost.

“Do you get motion sick?” Hutchings ask as he works to take off a back hatch on the Cessna so our videographer can film through it as we fly.

“Not really,” I respond, not completely sure what I’m getting myself into. As I stare into the small cockpit wondering how I am going to cram my legs in, I realize I actually have no idea what I’m about to take on. This is my first aerial photography tour, something that I’ve always wanted to do, but never had the opportunity.

We load into the small plane and make our way down the runway, slowly lifting into the air and leaving the urban landscape of New Orleans behind. “All the waterways that you see that are straight are manmade,” Hutchings points out. And there are a lot of straight waterways. From above it’s pretty clear why levy failure during Hurricane Katrina had such an impact; this city is surrounded by water.

Soon we’re in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, flying over small islands and marshes. These days, there is in fact less oil visible to the human eye. Gone are the days when entire bays were covered in a reflective slick, but the oil’s presence and destruction is still ever present. Marshes are lined with a reddish color, evidence of oil soaked sand. In a couple of places, thin long lines of oil streak the blue water, almost as if painted on. In protected bays, oil collects and doesn’t move. As Hutchings points out, stormy weather blows it in, and there’s no way to get it out.

But it’s not just the destruction that gets to me; it’s the natural beauty. Blue water dotted with bright green marshes. Natural designs created from the various waterways. From the moment that we start flying over this diverse and rich natural landscape, it’s apparent how unique and sensitive it is; to storms, to oil and to people.

“Disaster tourism” is what some people deem projects that take travelers to areas that have seen some kind of catastrophe or devastation. Yet when you travel to a place and see it first hand, you quickly realize how connected you are to that place.

In the Gulf of Mexico, it’s apparent that even being from the Northwest, this is my backyard. It’s hard not to get emotional as I fly over this amazing place, thinking about how I would feel if a similar disaster were to happen to the natural spaces that I call home. Tears well up as I continue snapping photos, trying to capture the scope and colors of what passes below me.

“Did you even think about the Gulf of Mexico before this oil spill?” Hutchings asks me.

I think for a second. I’m embarrassed by my answer: “No, not really.” And it’s true. Besides having looked at it on the map, I realize that I’ve never really given a second thought to this region’s culture, environment and economy. But it’s a region that works its way into all of our lives, from goods that get transported up the Mississippi, to seafood that’s shipped all over the country to jazz music.

I realize that it’s all this that we’re trying to capture in photos and with video. That’s a big order. But it must be done, or we will never contemplate what our everyday actions have on people and regions outside of our immediate circles. And that’s why Hutchings continues to fly, and we have to continue to pay attention.

Aerial Tour from Uncage the Soul Productions on Vimeo.

To check out a full gallery of photos, click here.

This post originally appeared on the project PDX 2 Gulf Coast’s website and has been cross-posted.

The post Seeing the Gulf From Above appeared first on EcoSalon.

We’re approaching the part of Louisiana where land and water become indistinct. South of New Orleans, approaching Grand Isle, we’re driving a series of elevated roadways and bridges, traversing a mammoth, venerable estuary the likes of which I’ve never seen. The likes of which I never knew existed. This area serves as a natural buffer between the Gulf and New Orleans, an ecosystem that not only provides vital habitat for waterfowl and other aquatic life, but a geography that protects the city itself from storms. It has been threatened by years of development of channels for commercial ship navigation that transect the estuary. And it’s always threatened by oil.

On the island proper, we’re meant to meet up with U.S. Fish and Wildlife’s Search and Rescue. Unfortunately, our tour of the bay structure, where distressed, oiled birds are captured and then taken to a rehab center nearby, was not to be. We’re in the height of hurricane season now, and though we’re not looking at such a storm, we’re looking at a massive wall of gray just on the horizon and the official is telling us that the mission is officially standing down.

I ask the search and rescue team leader how bad the spill is, after her tells us he’s worked on three other spills. “Monumental,” he says. I’m with a reporter from my hometown newspaper and he’s unsatisfied with the answer. He presses. The official speaks in gentle equivocations – it’s not his job to argue, it’s his job to get the media out to these places, to see what is what and get the story to the public.

His body language says what his reticence doesn’t. Besides, monumental is a monumental word.

We take the opportunity to tour Grand Isle. I haven’t been here before but it looks like a middle class summer wonderland, a place where families fish and fight the the oppressive heat by bathing in the placid sea. I’m constantly texting pictures to a friend of mine who has a strong connection to the place, and I’m sad she’s not with us. It feels weird to translate this place myself, without her knowledge as guide.

We eat lunch at the local eatery where a serious rush is underway. Coast Guard, Louisiana officials, BP workers and boat captains eat gumbo and fried oysters in relative peace. We sample boiled peanuts for the first time, and I’m not a fan. Standing in line, waiting for my sandwich, everyone gets along. But there is tension. Some of these people literally can’t talk to each other – they can’t tell each other what they know, or what they do. The subject on everyone’s mind is avoided; the room lacks the levity lunch usually brings.

Barrier islands make this area surfless, which makes for perfect bathing. But the beaches are closed. The houses are mostly unoccupied, and many of them are still in disrepair from Katrina. Frisbees are getting dusty, beach balls are deflating.

We walk the beach – no one’s here to tell us not to. Akimbo check point tents are empty. There are a few locals crabbing and fishing, but largely, the beach looks as empty as Coney Island in the wintertime. What’s astonishing is the lay of the beach – uniform and unnaturally level. It has been scrubbed by machines. This area had been entirely covered with oil not long ago.  Every time it washes up, machines comes through and takes the top layer off and then haul it away to where the oil and the sand is separated. I want to see this place.

As the storm approaches, the locals on the beach say that the oil will come back, and the skim will happen again. And again. And again. This is a common theme when I speak to people here. At a bar in St. Bernard’s Parish, New Orleans, I talk with a woman named Donna. St. Bernard’s Parish was the only total devastation zone in New Orleans – meaning everything flooded. Her house was under 17 feet of water only six weeks after she bought it.

“You learn to roll with the punches here, and you roll through, but it ain’t never gonna get back to normal.”

She’s upbeat, but she looks beaten. Hardened by a hard life and hard times.

Life in this region has been in such trauma for so long. Pre- and post-Katrina are the temporal boundaries by which people understand reality. The oil only makes things worse. Locals have come to expect the abnormal as the normal. There is no other life here than spills and storms. It feels like a strange pathology. It makes me sad.

For better or for worse, the oil industry isn’t going away and no one even thinks about that as a possibility. Things don’t change here, but the landscape varies in degree of toxicity.  Walking here, seeing oil at the tide line mixed with dispersant, I too believe that this will never, ever go away. A storm will bring it up. A current will make it known again. It’s an unsettling feeling.

One thing is certain – no one here believes what the government and BP are saying about the oil going away rapidly.

The post BP Took Our Arms; the Government Is Taking Our Legs appeared first on EcoSalon.

Currently on a trip to see the real effects of the Gulf Coast oil spill firsthand and document them, I’m spending 10 days in a region known for its culinary heritage, and in the last few I’ve been in the Southern foodie capital: New Orleans. That means lots of gumbo and poboys. In fact, you can’t really get away from food here. As one local put it, “We’ve got a culture that’s based on two things: music and food, and I think those two are pretty good.”

It’s an understatement to say that food has been on my mind, from keeping an eye out for just what local joints have on their handwritten menus to listening to fishermen talk about their concerns over the federal government opening up the shrimp season just a little too soon before knowing what the real health effects of dispersants are going to be.

The devastation that New Orleans went through in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina permeates every conversation and every interaction. The idea of “restoration” is everywhere, and that includes the food movement. With such a central role in this city’s culture, it’s no surprise that food can easily be used to bring people together after disaster, and to assist in simple community building.

Last month, Cafe Hope opened up in Marrero, on the West Bank of the Mississippi River, and has become a shining example of how food and community building certainly go hand-in-hand. “Cooking up great food and bright futures,” the non-profit restaurant was set up to give at risk youth the educational and professional skills to succeed. This is done through a 12-week curriculum of hands-on training in the kitchen and dining room with participants responsible for working as kitchen or wait staff during lunch hours, five days a week. The apprenticeship program is aptly called Seeds of Success, and along with training its participants, it partners them with a member of the community to become their mentor.

The menu is chocked full of regional classics like Southern Comfort Bread Pudding and Cochon de Lait Poboy, and the restaurant even has its own vegetable garden (deemed “The Farm”), another key element of building more sustainable communities.

Cafe of Hope is new, so keep checking back on its website as the farm and restaurant expand.

Editor’s note: This is the latest installment of Anna Brones’s column at EcoSalon, Foodie Underground. Each week, Anna will be taking a look at something new and different that’s taking place in the underground food movement, from supper clubs to mini markets to culinary avant garde.

The post Foodie Underground: Bringing Hope Through Food in New Orleans appeared first on EcoSalon.

Last week I wrote about about my friend Mary Osborne’s trip to the Gulf. Writing it hit me a hard emotionally, as I’m preparing to tour the area with a delegation of people from my hometown of Portland, Oregon in the next few weeks. Right now, we’re doing logistics, fundraisers, etc., readying ourselves for time on the ground interviewing, hearing stories and communing with the gulf residents.

Reading the headlines, we typically hear only about BP crap this, or Obama crap that, but we don’t hear much from the voices being affected; the people who can’t wake up from the nightmare. One journalist, Mac McClelland, a humanitarian writer for Mother Jones has been detailing the crisis in the gulf from an authentic, human perspective – talking to residents and getting involved in the community where this horror is taking place. Her stories are hard to hear at times – finally, this spring, residents were hoping for a big boom in tourism dollars after years of residue from Katrina. Well, we all know what happened.

Oil is both a blessing and a curse for states like Louisiana. The oil and gas industry essentially changed this state from an agrarian society to an industrial player. Oil and gas accounts for some 320,000 jobs in this region, which is no small sum. What statistics like this tell me is that I have to ditch my presumptions, my preconceived notions of what story I want to tell. It’s going to be way more complex than I can imagine, and it’s going to hurt the heart.

The goal is to bring stories back to Portland, and share them with our community. I was in a meeting with our media team, talking to our videographer who was on the fence about going. I’ll be directing a lot of what we focus on, and his simple question to me was, “What is this film about?” I couldn’t answer. That’s the rub exactly. I’ve worked on documentaries before, and typically you go into the whole deal with a treatment or at least a shot list. But we’re going to be Dante searching for Virgil here, and I’m overwhelmed. I have no idea what we’re going to see down there. Sure, we’ll see oil, and we’ll see birds in pain, but what are the cacophony of thought bubbles drifting out from front stoops?  What are the permutations of fisherman who have lost their livelihoods? Their identity? There are so many questions.

I guess I’m going to listen to my heart as we wander and do my best. I’m going to listen for the quiet voices in the room and work on telling their stories. You’ll hear them all on EcoSalon in the coming weeks.

Here is a video from Louisiana resident and TED speaker Casey DeMoss Roberts, talking about the intricate relationship between two very different but interconnected ways of life – shrimp and petroleum.  We’re about to feel this, firsthand. Heavy.

Image: Shrimp Petrofest

The post Shrimp, Petroleum and a Hurricane Named Katrina appeared first on EcoSalon.