Why the Chicken Isn’t Crossing the Road Anymore (It Got Delivered)

What Is Enough?

A Reflection on Consumption, Community, and Greenhouse Gas Emissions

The question of what is enough makes me reflect on what we consume, how we understand need, value, and wellbeing. I inevitably return to the way my grandmother lived and how different her relationship to consumption was. She lived through two wars, had very little materially by today’s standards, and yet never appeared to live with a sense of lack. She would go to the supermarket in the morning to buy half a loaf of bread and return if needed in the evening to buy the other half so it was fresh and not waste bread by buying to much(I just guiltily threw out some bread that went bad today). She cooked healthy in season local food from scratch for everyone and made it stretch if more people arrived. She washed dishes by hand(or made us do it), reused the dishwater to clean surfaces, wipe floors, water plants, and sometimes even do laundry, and My dad said when he was a child that water was first for the children to bathe in then for all the rest mentioned (boy, I hope they didn’t pee in it) then hung everything outside to dry, which made her clothing that she had been wearing for 40 years still look amazing, thanks to her mending it when needed. Every jar every box every yogurt container was reused, repurposed, up-cycled. What stands out is how resourceful she was, and mostly how content she seemed with very little. This was something they found in common with all BlueZones, gratitude for what you have.

Food, in particular, she went to a potato farmer(or send us, child labor was alive and well), because it was local and because she knew the family and wanted to support them. The farmer was a widower with four children, and my father even had a small job as a child helping to distribute potatoes. She knew whether the crop was doing well or struggling, whether there had been too much rain or too little, and the whole community felt those changes together. Eggs came from one farmer, meat from a specific butcher, vegetables from people she spoke to regularly and exchanged goods. That effort alone created value. When food represents time, labour, weather, and relationships, wasting it feels sacrilegious. That’s why you had to sit at the table and finish your food(like Japan portions were controlled) or never leave the table again.

One story that captures this difference particularly clearly came from a friend of my father’s, who described what eating chicken meant when he was growing up. If you wanted chicken, first you had to chase the chicken, which could take hours and left you physically exhausted. Then you had to pluck it, clean it, gut it, and prepare it for cooking. By the time the meal was ready, much of the hunger had already been worked off through effort alone. The result was You did not feel like eating chicken every day. Effort acted as a natural regulator of consumption. Meat was eaten sparingly, not because of ethical campaigns or environmental calculations, but because it was hard work.

This stands in stark contrast to modern consumption. Today, it is possible to buy 12 chickens in bulk on offer, already butchered, packaged, and stripped down to specific cuts. My husband, for example, is currently bulking and buys large packs of chicken breast. The numbers add up quickly because effort is no longer a limiting factor. When food is reduced to an anonymous product on a shelf, consumption can easily exceed what is reasonable or necessary. This matters because livestock production is a major source of greenhouse gas emissions, particularly methane and nitrous oxide, and increased consumption directly increases environmental impact (Poore & Nemecek, 2018). Plus think of all the freezers needed from factory to home.

Enough was established by what could reasonably be carried, cooked, stored, and shared. In contrast, my own life is shaped by supposed convenience and constant availability. Groceries, household items, clothing, and even small treats arrive at my door with minimal effort. Despite this, I feel perpetually rushed and behind and would love to buy anything the marketing says on Amazon will make my life easier with one click next day delivery.

This shift has implications for greenhouse gas emissions. Modern consumption relies on global supply chains, packaging, and transport, all of which contribute significantly to carbon dioxide emissions from fossil fuel use. Food systems alone account for roughly one third of global greenhouse gas emissions, particularly through methane from livestock production and nitrous oxide from fertilisers, as well as emissions linked to transport and food waste (Poore & Nemecek, 2018; EPA, 2023). When poor harvests are compensated for by importing food from elsewhere, consumers are shielded from environmental realities, further disconnecting consumption from consequence.

A small but telling example of this disconnect occurred when my child recently said he missed Bazooka gum from the US. My immediate instinct was to order it online, as it would have cost very little and arrived quickly. When I stopped to think about it, I felt ashamed. A low-value item would require long-distance transport, warehousing, packaging, and final delivery, all for a few seconds of enjoyment. The environmental cost, particularly in terms of emissions, was entirely disproportionate to the benefit. This kind of decision has become normal because convenience hides consequence, even when the cumulative impact is significant (IPCC, 2023).

Conversations with my lovely centenarians Neighbors reinforced this. They described a gradual but very visible shift over their lifetimes. When they were young, most people had little, and because of that, they shared more and compared less. During this time, they had the best Relationships with their neighbors just like my Oma and hers. As material abundance increased, even when financed through loans, people began to display more, erect fences, and grow more distant from their neighbours. Possessions became signals of success, and the pressure to keep up intensified. Despite having more, people seemed less content and more anxious, constantly working to maintain appearances and feeling as though they were never quite enough.

Marketing plays a significant role in sustaining this pressure. When has it ever suggested that we need less? You weren’t fully happy because you didn’t have this. If you buy this, it will solve your problems and you’ll be happy. Ultra-cheap platforms selling disposable goods shipped long distances normalise this behaviour.

It was harrowing talking with Indigenous people, the Muhhekunneuw (Mohegan) people in Connecticut, and another with a Diné (Navajo) chief on a reservation in New Mexico. Despite their different histories and geographies, both described remarkably similar views on ownership and accumulation. They explained that collecting and storing large amounts of unused objects, as is common in Western households, would traditionally be understood as a sign of imbalance rather than success. Objects are valued for their use and their movement through the community, not for accumulation or display. Keeping as much stuff as we do, would raise concern about a person’s mental and emotional wellbeing rather than signal prosperity.

These perspectives align closely with Indigenous scholarship, which emphasises balance, reciprocity, and responsibility as foundations of wellbeing (Cajete, 2000; Deloria, 2003). They also align with psychological research in Western contexts showing that materialism and excessive accumulation are associated with increased stress, anxiety, and lower life satisfaction (Kasser, 2002). In this sense, the Indigenous critique is not symbolic or romanticised, but supported by empirical evidence. Many people who are now centenarians lived in ways that unintentionally mirrored these values. Research on long-lived populations shows common characteristics such as low consumption, limited meat intake, daily physical activity embedded in routine life, reuse of materials, and strong social connections (Buettner, 2012). These behaviours emerged from necessity and locality rather than environmental awareness, yet they resulted in lifestyles that were both lower in emissions and higher in wellbeing.

Taken together, these reflections suggest that the challenge of sustainability is not simply technical but cultural. For me as a consumer, this means questioning purchasing habits, recognising the role of marketing in shaping desire, and prioritising sufficiency over convenience. Practical actions include buying less frequently, planning meals carefully, reducing food waste, and resisting impulse purchases that offer short-lived satisfaction at high environmental cost. For policymakers, it highlights the need to support local food systems, regulate emissions from transport and packaging, improve transparency around supply chains, and address marketing practices that promote disposable consumption. Structural change is necessary to make sustainable choices accessible and normal rather than exceptional (OECD, 2021).

In conclusion, answering the question of what is enough requires listening to those who have lived with limits and understood them as a source of stability rather than deprivation. Respecting and valuing Indigenous peoples knowledge around the world, as well as centenarians who grew up before mass consumption, demonstrate that wellbeing does not depend on accumulation. Their ways of living were shaped by gratitude, effort, proximity, and shared consequence, which naturally regulated consumption and reduced waste. There is an urgency to learn from them before their knowledge is lost. Taking a page from Indigenous communities and older generations does not mean rejecting modern life, but rethinking the values that guide it. Understanding what is enough may be one of the most important lessons we still have time to relearn.

Images from the original