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Let’s get this out of the way: You don’t have to turn vegetarian to make a meaningful dent in your carbon emissions. You don’t have to start eating insects or experiment with precision-fermented plant-based proteins. You don’t even have to eat less meat, necessarily. Just eat less beef — or, if you prefer the idea of “more” to the idea of “less,” you could even say: Eat more chicken.
Either way, the reason comes down to some of the simplest carbon accounting we have. Cows are, by far, our most carbon-intensive protein source. Every kilogram of beef produced in the U.S. emits about 38 kilograms of carbon from cradle to slaughterhouse, according to Arthur Gillett, chief research officer at HowGood, an emissions research and data service for the food sector. Compare that to roughly 3.8 kilograms of CO2 per kilogram of chicken, and even 4.9 kilograms of CO2 per kilogram of pork, and you can start to see why even such a small change can have a big impact. A chicken needs to eat just 1.6 kilograms of feed to produce a kilogram of meat.
“1.6 is basically magic, right?” Gillett told me. “Why are we messing with crickets?”
Beyond that, though, the picture gets murkier. Because here’s the thing: Even if you wanted to track every single ounce of carbon related to your food intake, you couldn’t, at least not with any meaningful degree of accuracy. Of all the many systems operating in the global economy, the food system is perhaps the most complex, involving processes we’re still trying to understand, let alone track.
For example: dirt. Essentially all the food we eat depends, at some point in its life cycle, on dirt. One reason beef is such a high-emission product is that it takes a lot of dirt to grow all the feed a typical cow eats over the course of its life — which runs to the thousands of pounds (including byproducts from other agricultural production) — plus a lot more to grow the cow itself. Even in the U.S., where cows are mostly finished on feedlots, livestock occupy 41% of available farmland, but are raised on just 30% of farms. In Brazil, the world’s largest exporter of beef, where cows are mostly grass-fed, cattle graze on somewhere between 189 million and 253 million acres of what used to be the Amazon rainforest, depending on whose estimate you use.
But back to dirt: Climate scientists still don’t really understand how it works, from a carbon perspective. How much carbon is stored in the Earth’s soil? Estimates vary pretty widely, biogeochemist Rose Abramoff told me. How much is it emitting each year? That’s even less clear. Does it make a difference whether that soil is planted with genetically modified soy versus heirloom squash? No idea.
Until seven or eight years ago, it was accepted practice in the life-cycle analysis world to resolve these uncertainties by assuming soil-related emissions were stable and therefore marking them at zero, according to Gillett, “which is incredibly wrong,” he told me. Analyses are starting to be able to account for those emissions now, he said, but to be really meaningful, they would have to be recalculated every year. “So then every LCA, to be worth its salt, has to be a multi-year LCA. That’s impossible.” Gillett said.
In other words, the science is very much still changing, and you could drive yourself crazy trying to keep up with it. These days, Gillett is excited about the potential for regenerative agriculture practices like no-till farming and co-locating livestock with crops to transform dairy into one of our most carbon-efficient sources of protein, he told me — something he never would have expected to say a year or two ago.
Similarly, “Maybe 10 years ago, all of us were talking about food miles,” i.e. the distance from farm to table, according to Minnie Ringland, manager of climate and insights at ReFED, a food waste reduction advocacy group. You may have experienced this in the form of admonishments to “eat local.” Since then, however, cold storage supply chains have gotten a lot better, particularly in the Global South, which means that we’re losing a lot less food to spoilage — compared to the agricultural process itself, shipping represents a negligible portion of the emissions related to just about any given product.
It's also important to remember that not all farming regions are created equal. California, for instance, is a great place to grow lots of things; Arizona, less so. “Depending on the geography where the food is being produced, it can be super intensive in terms of land use change, if land is being deforested in order to make way for agricultural fields or for grazing,” Ringland said. Another factor is the use of nitrogen fertilizer, which is both emissions-intensive to produce and generates carbon dioxide from its use, the environmental effects of fertilizer run-off on nearby land and waterways notwithstanding.
That’s not to say there aren’t other important benefits to eating locally: contributing to your local economy, supporting biodiversity, encouraging holistic farming practices. The farmers at your weekend farmers market are a whole lot more likely to be practicing regenerative techniques and fertilizing with compost instead of industrial chemicals. But they’re also not going to be there at 7:48 p.m. on any given Tuesday when you’re midway through cooking a batch of chicken cacciatore and realize that you forgot the bell peppers.
Speaking of compost, though, here’s a bonus trick to reduce your food-related carbon emissions: Collecting and composting your food scraps is good, but wasting less food is even better. The reason why is pretty obvious: Before it can be composted, food still has to go through the entire supply chain. And while composting food produces fewer emissions than landfilling food waste, it’s not an entirely emissions-free process, and can be more or less carbon-intensive depending on where and how it’s made. Reducing your food waste requires a bit more planning, but it will also save you money and send a more accurate demand signal down the farm-to-grocery-store supply chain.
I could go on and on about things like the relative carbon impact of plant-based proteins and the emissions reduction potential of standardizing expiration dates on food labels, but all of that is still being worked out. If you are fake meat-curious, you can check out our guide on that here. And if you’re already a vegetarian or curious about it for reasons of health, ethics, etc., that’s great. The most important thing you, as a consumer, can do to reduce emissions from the food system is hold companies accountable for their carbon claims, which means not getting sucked into the stuff that sounds too good to be true. There’s plenty of delicious food out there that doesn’t take elaborate math to justify eating.
So to recap: Eat less beef, waste less food. You can make it more complicated than that if you want, but everything else is gravy.
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Paradise, California, is snatching up high-risk properties to create a defensive perimeter and prevent the town from burning again.
The 2018 Camp Fire was the deadliest wildfire in California’s history, wiping out 90% of the structures in the mountain town of Paradise and killing at least 85 people in a matter of hours. Investigations afterward found that Paradise’s town planners had ignored warnings of the fire risk to its residents and forgone common-sense preparations that would have saved lives. In the years since, the Camp Fire has consequently become a cautionary tale for similar communities in high-risk wildfire areas — places like Chinese Camp, a small historic landmark in the Sierra Nevada foothills that dramatically burned to the ground last week as part of the nearly 14,000-acre TCU September Lightning Complex.
More recently, Paradise has also become a model for how a town can rebuild wisely after a wildfire. At least some of that is due to the work of Dan Efseaff, the director of the Paradise Recreation and Park District, who has launched a program to identify and acquire some of the highest-risk, hardest-to-access properties in the Camp Fire burn scar. Though he has a limited total operating budget of around $5.5 million and relies heavily on the charity of local property owners (he’s currently in the process of applying for a $15 million grant with a $5 million match for the program) Efseaff has nevertheless managed to build the beginning of a defensible buffer of managed parkland around Paradise that could potentially buy the town time in the case of a future wildfire.
In order to better understand how communities can build back smarter after — or, ideally, before — a catastrophic fire, I spoke with Efseaff about his work in Paradise and how other communities might be able to replicate it. Our conversation has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.
Do you live in Paradise? Were you there during the Camp Fire?
I actually live in Chico. We’ve lived here since the mid-‘90s, but I have a long connection to Paradise; I’ve worked for the district since 2017. I’m also a sea kayak instructor and during the Camp Fire, I was in South Carolina for a training. I was away from the phone until I got back at the end of the day and saw it blowing up with everything.
I have triplet daughters who were attending Butte College at the time, and they needed to be evacuated. There was a lot of uncertainty that day. But it gave me some perspective, because I couldn’t get back for two days. It gave me a chance to think, “Okay, what’s our response going to be?” Looking two days out, it was like: That would have been payroll, let’s get people together, and then let’s figure out what we’re going to do two weeks and two months from now.
It also got my mind thinking about what we would have done going backwards. If you’d had two weeks to prepare, you would have gotten your go-bag together, you’d have come up with your evacuation route — that type of thing. But when you run the movie backwards on what you would have done differently if you had two years or two decades, it would include prepping the landscape, making some safer community defensible space. That’s what got me started.
Was it your idea to buy up the high-risk properties in the burn scar?
I would say I adapted it. Everyone wants to say it was their idea, but I’ll tell you where it came from: Pre-fire, the thinking was that it would make sense for the town to have a perimeter trail from a recreation standpoint. But I was also trying to pitch it as a good idea from a fuel standpoint, so that if there was a wildfire, you could respond to it. Certainly, the idea took on a whole other dimension after the Camp Fire.
I’m a restoration ecologist, so I’ve done a lot of river floodplain work. There are a lot of analogies there. The trend has been to give nature a little bit more room: You’re not going to stop a flood, but you can minimize damage to human infrastructure. Putting levees too close to the river makes them more prone to failing and puts people at risk — but if you can set the levee back a little bit, it gives the flood waters room to go through. That’s why I thought we need a little bit of a buffer in Paradise and some protection around the community. We need a transition between an area that is going to burn, and that we can let burn, but not in a way that is catastrophic.
How hard has it been to find willing sellers? Do most people in the area want to rebuild — or need to because of their mortgages?
Ironically, the biggest challenge for us is finding adequate funding. A lot of the property we have so far has been donated to us. It’s probably upwards of — oh, let’s see, at least half a dozen properties have been donated, probably close to 200 acres at this point.
We are applying for some federal grants right now, and we’ll see how that goes. What’s evolved quite a bit on this in recent years, though, is that — because we’ve done some modeling — instead of thinking of the buffer as areas that are managed uniformly around the community, we’re much more strategic. These fire events are wind-driven, and there are only a couple of directions where the wind blows sufficiently long enough and powerful enough for the other conditions to fall into play. That’s not to say other events couldn’t happen, but we’re going after the most likely events that would cause catastrophic fires, and that would be from the Diablo winds, or north winds, that come through our area. That was what happened in the Camp Fire scenario, and another one our models caught what sure looked a lot like the [2024] Park Fire.
One thing that I want to make clear is that some people think, “Oh, this is a fire break. It’s devoid of vegetation.” No, what we’re talking about is a well-managed habitat. These are shaded fuel breaks. You maintain the big trees, you get rid of the ladder fuels, and you get rid of the dead wood that’s on the ground. We have good examples with our partners, like the Butte Fire Safe Council, on how this works, and it looks like it helped protect the community of Cohasset during the Park Fire. They did some work on some strips there, and the fire essentially dropped to the ground before it came to Paradise Lake. You didn’t have an aerial tanker dropping retardant, you didn’t have a $2-million-per-day fire crew out there doing work. It was modest work done early and in the right place that actually changed the behavior of the fire.
Tell me a little more about the modeling you’ve been doing.
We looked at fire pathways with a group called XyloPlan out of the Bay Area. The concept is that you simulate a series of ignitions with certain wind conditions, terrain, and vegetation. The model looked very much like a Camp Fire scenario; it followed the same pathway, going towards the community in a little gulch that channeled high winds. You need to interrupt that pathway — and that doesn’t necessarily mean creating an area devoid of vegetation, but if you have these areas where the fire behavior changes and drops down to the ground, then it slows the travel. I found this hard to believe, but in the modeling results, in a scenario like the Camp Fire, it could buy you up to eight hours. With modern California firefighting, you could empty out the community in a systematic way in that time. You could have a vigorous fire response. You could have aircraft potentially ready. It’s a game-changing situation, rather than the 30 minutes Paradise had when the Camp Fire started.
How does this work when you’re dealing with private property owners, though? How do you convince them to move or donate their land?
We’re a Park and Recreation District so we don’t have regulatory authority. We are just trying to run with a good idea with the properties that we have so far — those from willing donors mostly, but there have been a couple of sales. If we’re unable to get federal funding or state support, though, I ultimately think this idea will still have to be here — whether it’s five, 10, 15, or 50 years from now. We have to manage this area in a comprehensive way.
Private property rights are very important, and we don’t want to impinge on that. And yet, what a person does on their property has a huge impact on the 30,000 people who may be downwind of them. It’s an unusual situation: In a hurricane, if you have a hurricane-rated roof and your neighbor doesn’t, and theirs blows off, you feel sorry for your neighbor but it’s probably not going to harm your property much. In a wildfire, what your neighbor has done with the wood, or how they treat vegetation, has a significant impact on your home and whether your family is going to survive. It’s a fundamentally different kind of event than some of the other disasters we look at.
Do you have any advice for community leaders who might want to consider creating buffer zones or something similar to what you’re doing in Paradise?
Start today. You have to think about these things with some urgency, but they’re not something people think about until it happens. Paradise, for many decades, did not have a single escaped wildfire make it into the community. Then, overnight, the community is essentially wiped out. But in so many places, these events are foreseeable; we’re just not wired to think about them or prepare for them.
Buffers around communities make a lot of sense, even from a road network standpoint. Even from a trash pickup standpoint. You don’t think about this, but if your community is really strung out, making it a little more thoughtfully laid out also makes it more economically viable to provide services to people. Some things we look for now are long roads that don’t have any connections — that were one-way in and no way out. I don’t think [the traffic jams and deaths in] Paradise would have happened with what we know now, but I kind of think [authorities] did know better beforehand. It just wasn’t economically viable at the time; they didn’t think it was a big deal, but they built the roads anyway. We can be doing a lot of things smarter.
A war of attrition is now turning in opponents’ favor.
A solar developer’s defeat in Massachusetts last week reveals just how much stronger project opponents are on the battlefield after the de facto repeal of the Inflation Reduction Act.
Last week, solar developer PureSky pulled five projects under development around the western Massachusetts town of Shutesbury. PureSky’s facilities had been in the works for years and would together represent what the developer has claimed would be one of the state’s largest solar projects thus far. In a statement, the company laid blame on “broader policy and regulatory headwinds,” including the state’s existing renewables incentives not keeping pace with rising costs and “federal policy updates,” which PureSky said were “making it harder to finance projects like those proposed near Shutesbury.”
But tucked in its press release was an admission from the company’s vice president of development Derek Moretz: this was also about the town, which had enacted a bylaw significantly restricting solar development that the company was until recently fighting vigorously in court.
“There are very few areas in the Commonwealth that are feasible to reach its clean energy goals,” Moretz stated. “We respect the Town’s conservation go als, but it is clear that systemic reforms are needed for Massachusetts to source its own energy.”
This stems from a story that probably sounds familiar: after proposing the projects, PureSky began reckoning with a burgeoning opposition campaign centered around nature conservation. Led by a fresh opposition group, Smart Solar Shutesbury, activists successfully pushed the town to drastically curtail development in 2023, pointing to the amount of forest acreage that would potentially be cleared in order to construct the projects. The town had previously not permitted facilities larger than 15 acres, but the fresh change went further, essentially banning battery storage and solar projects in most areas.
When this first happened, the state Attorney General’s office actually had PureSky’s back, challenging the legality of the bylaw that would block construction. And PureSky filed a lawsuit that was, until recently, ongoing with no signs of stopping. But last week, shortly after the Treasury Department unveiled its rules for implementing Trump’s new tax and spending law, which basically repealed the Inflation Reduction Act, PureSky settled with the town and dropped the lawsuit – and the projects went away along with the court fight.
What does this tell us? Well, things out in the country must be getting quite bleak for solar developers in areas with strident and locked-in opposition that could be costly to fight. Where before project developers might have been able to stomach the struggle, money talks – and the dollars are starting to tell executives to lay down their arms.
The picture gets worse on the macro level: On Monday, the Solar Energy Industries Association released a report declaring that federal policy changes brought about by phasing out federal tax incentives would put the U.S. at risk of losing upwards of 55 gigawatts of solar project development by 2030, representing a loss of more than 20 percent of the project pipeline.
But the trade group said most of that total – 44 gigawatts – was linked specifically to the Trump administration’s decision to halt federal permitting for renewable energy facilities, a decision that may impact generation out west but has little-to-know bearing on most large solar projects because those are almost always on private land.
Heatmap Pro can tell us how much is at stake here. To give you a sense of perspective, across the U.S., over 81 gigawatts worth of renewable energy projects are being contested right now, with non-Western states – the Northeast, South and Midwest – making up almost 60% of that potential capacity.
If historical trends hold, you’d expect a staggering 49% of those projects to be canceled. That would be on top of the totals SEIA suggests could be at risk from new Trump permitting policies.
I suspect the rate of cancellations in the face of project opposition will increase. And if this policy landscape is helping activists kill projects in blue states in desperate need of power, like Massachusetts, then the future may be more difficult to swallow than we can imagine at the moment.
And more on the week’s most important conflicts around renewables.
1. Wells County, Indiana – One of the nation’s most at-risk solar projects may now be prompting a full on moratorium.
2. Clark County, Ohio – Another Ohio county has significantly restricted renewable energy development, this time with big political implications.
3. Daviess County, Kentucky – NextEra’s having some problems getting past this county’s setbacks.
4. Columbia County, Georgia – Sometimes the wealthy will just say no to a solar farm.
5. Ottawa County, Michigan – A proposed battery storage facility in the Mitten State looks like it is about to test the state’s new permitting primacy law.