Where Our Food Comes From

Lunch was simple.

I had it made the way I like it—a bowl of greens with lettuce, spinach, mint, and arugula, a few cherry tomatoes, finished with olive oil, honey, and balsamic vinegar, with a bit of Canadian ham and two soft-boiled eggs on the side.
When it was set in front of me, I found myself thinking about where a meal like this comes from.

It’s the same kind of salad my grandmother used to make for me growing up, and the same one my aunts would insist I eat whenever I needed to lose weight—something that felt ordinary then, and somehow different now.

Back then, I didn’t think about it. Food simply appeared. It was normal.

As an adult, I notice it more.

I think about the ingredients—where to find them, how to choose them, how they come together. Over time, I’ve seen how much that process has changed, especially for vegetables, meat, and anything considered “organic.”

I grew up in Negros Occidental, Surigao, and Siargao, where food was something we sourced from our own land. Vegetables were within reach, eggs came from the backyard, and even honey was something we could gather without thinking twice about it.

Living in the city, the contrast becomes clearer.

A meal like this asks for more intention now. You become more aware of where things come from, and that awareness stays with you.

Once you’ve experienced both, it’s hard not to want to do something about it.

And that’s where Mansi Sari comes in.

Not as a reaction, but as a continuation.

My family has land. Enough to grow something real, if used properly. Enough to bring food back to something simple, clean, and within reach.

The next step feels obvious.

Food like this can feel normal again.

I finished the meal quietly.

It was simple.

And it reminded me that it doesn’t have to be complicated.