My wife and I live in an old whaling town on the eastern end of Long Island, New York, where we tend a home garden and orchard. For much of the year, we don't have to buy produce. In the winter, we eat what we've canned, pickled, dried, and otherwise put up. We get eggs from a neighbor, trading him vegetables. We rake our own oysters and clams. We have a few local bakers who turn out warm, crusty loaves each day, and a cheese shop that offers dozens of American farmstead cheeses‹including a few made from the milk of cows grazing a few miles away.