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It’s a blustery, cold winter Saturday and my husband, son and I are in our bright red SUV on a snow swept backroad near Millbank, Ontario. We’re a crimson smear on a landscape made up of white and grey tones. While I check my blog stats on my iphone, my son watches a Family Guy episode in the back seat.

In the plain black car ahead of us, Rachel Bauman, a young, smiley, fresh-faced girl in a neat and trim sky blue, dairy maid’s frock and gauzy Mennonite prayer veil, leads us to David E.M. Martin’s pig farm. Driving behind us in his black Lexus hybrid is top tier food photographer James Tse. His cargo includes his assistant Ron, powerful computer and tens of thousands of dollars of state of the art photography equipment that Ron manipulates to work with this computer so that James can create the lovely images we all expect to see in modern food magazines and cookbooks.

The big topic of conversation in our car is the weather; I’m worried about how we’ll get home later if the storm that’s blustering outside intensifies; my husband Martin points out that our snow tires, all-wheel drive and his cautious driving will get us home easily. As our discussion continues, we pass both open and closed horse-drawn carriages transporting black-clad, grim faced passengers. There’s no doubt that heated, leather seats are keeping us warmer and more comfortable than they are.

We pull into David E.M. Martin’s farm and park our salt-splattered car across from a shiny black, enclosed buggy tethered to an impressively sleek black-brown horse; both stand at the ready for a passenger. We’ll learn shortly that this vehicle belongs to David’s brother who has come down the road to check out the city people who want to take pictures of the pigs.

We’re here because my husband, chef Martin Kouprie, wants not only to meet David so that they can talk about business, but also so that James can photograph the pigs for a book project Martin has in the works. I’m along not just as Martin’s wife but as a food writer eager to learn more about naturally raised pork. We’ve been visiting other artisan food producers for this project to gather background about the ingredients Martin uses in his restaurant and to take portraits of the producers in their work environment. At this stop, only the pigs will be asked to say ‘cheese’ since the Martins are old order Mennonites who don’t allow their photos to be taken for religious reasons.

Arranging this meeting required calling our friend Ruth Klahsen, the owner of nearby Monforte Dairy. Ruth sees David frequently since she sells whey, a byproduct of cheese making, to him, which he in turn feeds to the heritage variety pigs he raises with absolutely no hormones or antibiotics. None of us can phone David because he, like most members of his sect, does not use electricity, telephones or other electronic communication technology. He uses the post, answering letters in a craggy but legible long hand, but that’s the only other way to contact him besides knocking on his door personally.

Although it’s certainly easier to e-mail a wholesale butcher and order 100 pre-portioned pork chops, for chefs like Martin, it’s worth the extra effort to write a letter and do a bit of knife work to enjoy the sweet, succulent pork David E.M. Martin raises.

After we bundle up and follow Rachel through the squalls into the barn, we meet David, a pleasant, slight man with an intelligent twinkle in his eye. He takes us upstairs to meet the heritage breed sows and piglets that live in this lovely old, light-filled barn that smells of animals, dry straw and century old cobwebs. The pigs are shyer than expected, running off squealing when my son Oliver and I put our hands into their pens only to ease back so that they can snuffle our hands cautiously once they decide we’re friendly. Their skin is taught and firm to the touch, covered by a smattering of bristly hair; their ears and snouts are silky and soft.

A few of the pigs I’m petting will make their way to Pangaea over the coming months to be butchered artfully into loin chops and served as delicious entrées such as grilled pork chops served with Brussels sprouts, glazed chestnuts, porcini mushrooms, turnips and sweet red chili and maple sauce. The rest of each beast will be turned into prosciutto, salami, chorizo sausage, bacon and headcheese. These cured items will be arranged elegantly on Villeroy & Boch china and placed on white linen clad tables before the many appreciative diners who come to Pangaea for this handmade charcuterie.

After more than an hour spent talking with David and his brothers about raising pigs and growing heirloom tomatoes, I’m feeling inspired to write articles and blog posts that underline the importance of nurturing a local artisan food culture. I want to tell people to support restaurants and farmers’ markets who carry their products. I’m feeling practically evangelical about the purity of traditional farming and its importance for the future.

As we creep slowly along snow-covered Highway 401 back to Toronto, I realize that to these new acquaintances my job is, if not ineffable, certainly without relevance to their day-to-day lives. Not only do they not watch people like me on TV or read homemakers.com, they aren’t likely to buy one of my cookbooks or pick up a Food & Drink magazine when they’re at the LCBO, either.

The odd thing is that this realization isn’t depressing. In fact, it gives me a liberating new perspective: if I don’t get my blog post about gourmet cupcakes edited in time for my self-imposed 7:30 a.m. posting deadline, it doesn’t really matter.  While the picture of the peanut buttercream topped chocolate cupcake may delight a few people and the concept may give others the dessert solution they need for a party, this post isn’t going to change anyone’s life.

On the other hand, if artisan farmers — Mennonite or otherwise — quit raising quality food, the world could change quite a bit. Their participation in the food chain enriches my life greatly, while mine has little impact for them unless I tell their stories and keep all of us focused on not just the joy of a well-made cupcake, but the importance of supporting local agriculture that has integrity.