Do you take home the certified organic, cage-free dozen from California, or the non-organic but vegetarian-fed eggs from the family farm in nearby Willamette Valley? Do you spring for the Omega-3 eggs at a dollar more a dozen, or wait for your next trip to the Feed & Seed, where you can buy 9-year-old Nathan’s mismatched rainbow of uncleaned eggs packed into re-used cartons? Not to mention large or extra large, Grade A or Grade AA. Is the notion that brown eggs are healthier real, or is the difference from their white counterparts only shell-deep?

I have found myself paralyzed before that wall of eggs, staring at each label in an attempt to tease out a choice that will best quell the stampede of questions running roughshod through my brain. Who raised these eggs? Were they paid a living wage? Are the eggs from a family farm? How fresh are they? How far away were they produced? How many food miles did they travel, and even if they came from nearby, how efficient was that travel?

Does one semi truck delivering whole pallets of eggs from California have a smaller carbon footprint, or shall we say carbon foodprint, than 10 local farmers driving to town twice a week to deliver a couple of crates of eggs in their own pickups? And what kind of conditions do the chickens live in? Is it humane? What are they fed? Can I believe the label? What’s the most nutritious egg for my body? Is the healthiest one the most expensive one? Can I afford it?

So spins the brain of an Ecotrust Food & Farms staffer. There have been times when I am too overwhelmed to buy eggs at all. I leave, and in a defeated ceding of all responsibility, I call Danny to innocently ask if he could stop at the store to pick up some eggs on his way home. Or, I hope that my dog will run out of food so that I have an excuse to make a trip to the Feed & Seed to buy Nathan’s eggs, assuming it’s not winter and his hens are back in action.

There is something easy and obvious for me about buying them from a local 9-year-old who hand-picks greens for his flock of backyard hens, and whose eggs contain yolks as perky and vibrant as little tangerines. If they’re in season and the dog is out of food, that one is a no-brainer.

But usually it’s not a no-brainer and we are faced with the challenge of making daily decisions about what to eat, mostly without much time to do it. The market responds by giving us labels and certifications that function as proxies for trust, so that one single word can confirm for you that a strawberry is not laced with pesticides.

Yet as the foodscape morphs and shifts, as Wal-Mart emerges as the largest retailer of organics, and best-selling books like Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma incite a new inquisitiveness about food, it is becoming clear that the word “organic” isn’t saying everything we want it to say anymore. An organic label tells us something about how our strawberry was grown, but it doesn’t always tell us where it was grown, or if it’s in season here at home, or who grew it, or at what scale. More and more, people want that part of the story as well.

Enter, “local,” the word that has charmed foodies, spawned the new self-titled breed of "locavores"; inspired a nationwide wave of "Eat Local Challenge" campaigns; sparked debate (click here for the ongoing public dialogue between Whole Foods CEO John Mackey and journalist Michael Pollan); and become a significant competitive force in the marketplace. So much, in fact, that a March 2007 issue of Time magazine featured a cover story boldly admonishing readers to “Forget organic. Eat local.”

“Local” resonates for many because it suggests a more homegrown intimacy with our food, a connection to family farmers, and a transparency in the overall system that delivers food from farm to fork. The notion of shortening our food supply chains and reducing food miles carries weight as we stare climate change in the face and begin seeking ways to reduce our carbon footprint. For these and other reasons, local has become the new organic. But like pink became the new black, I am crossing my fingers that food isn’t on a fast track to join ranks with fashion, where “organic” and “local” go down in history like corduroy bellbottoms—a memorable but passing fad.

Nevertheless, the current fever around “local”—not unlike that which heated up around “organic” a decade ago—leads me to wonder if this undefined five-letter word is any more equipped to convey everything important about food sustainability than its predecessor. In an animated dialogue with the Ecotrust Food & Farms staff, a food industry colleague remarked, “To imply that food is better only because it is local is a misstatement. If I live on the Colorado River and all my local greens are polluted with perchlorate, am I better off eating local than bringing my food from more distant points? We can try to make it simple… but in doing so, we make it stupid as well.”

What I’ve started to wonder amidst all the ferment about local and organic is this: Why turn it into a boxing match? Why the reductionist, either/or mentality? Why not local and organic, and while we’re at it, grass fed, family scale, socially just, economically viable, carbon neutral, humane, culturally vibrant, community based, and ecologically renewing?

The trouble seems to be that there isn’t a word that can say it all, or a system that can certify it all, which poses a challenge to the everyday eater on a budget, who wants to grab and go. It’s simply not simple. Even if your primary concern as an eater is focused more tightly around pesticides or reducing your carbon foodprint, it’s still not always easy to know what’s best to eat.

But there is something central to remember: there is no perfect answer. Tradeoffs abound. Systems are complex. Food is messy. Eggs are perplexing. Far-flung conventional pineapples leap unexpectedly into shopping carts. And one question leads to another. If you’re asking those questions—of yourself, of the grower at the farmers’ market this summer or the person stocking eggs at the grocery store—it’s a very good sign that you’re engaged square in the middle of the complex system that feeds you—sleeves rolled up, learning, and awake. The good news is that there’s no better time to roll up those sleeves and start asking questions than during our bountiful summertime here in the Pacific Northwest.

And if you need good eggs, I know where you can find ’em for awhile.

Zoë Bradbury grew up on a farm in southwestern Oregon and farmed with Sauvie Island Organics for three years. She is now working with Ecotrust’s Food & Farms program while she completes her Masters in Rural Development & Food Systems and grows a whole bunch of food in her backyard.