You got your animal, you got your vegetable, you got your mineral.
Skinny, juice-squirting Hebrew Nationals, homegrown spuds what had to be scrubbed, Grandma Rubin’s dills from the teetering pickle shelf in the dungeon. The mineral? Salt of course.
This meal speaks to me primally, must be the Russian-ness of it. My ancestor’s remains whispering to me from garden soil. Say you are living in the Moscow environs, haven’t seen daylight in months cause it is February and are committed to the “eat locally” creed. Wheat for bread? No way. The three P’s, Pork, Potatoes and Pickles? Yes way.
Salt. Could salt be considered local? Me thinks not.
The Lunch Encounter 