100 books like The Columbian Exchange

I’m grateful to see how the narrative about Columbus, the Pilgrims, and European colonialism has changed since I was in elementary school, but for someone who was taught that Columbus was a kind of hero-genius, this book was a revelation.

One of its most powerful lessons is how efficient pre-capitalist systems of commerce were; the Incan Empire, which was far bigger than the Holy Roman Empire or the Ottoman Empire, never experienced famine because they prioritized life and well-being over gold and profit. This book also shows how flora in the Americas exploded during the sixteenth century, leading to the Orbis Spike, or the beginning of anthropogenic environmental change.

The lessons from the pre-Columbian, pre-capitalist, and pre-Enlightenment world are invaluable for confronting contemporary problems of American democracy and environmentalism today.

“The face that launched a thousand ships,” as Homer would say. Pollan’s witty and well-written treatment of how plants think and act to modulate their environments inspired 21st-century “critical plant studies” in the Anglophone world, including mine.

The book starts you thinking about the thousands of ways plants elbow into your world and how much they matter to your existence on earth, in economic but also spiritual senses. You end up agape in wonder.

Elizabeth Kolbert is a respected science writer. In this book, she pieces together hard facts, historical background, and personal stories to help us understand the 6th extinction currently underway.

This deeply researched book doesn’t just leap to blame climate change (which is a factor) but looks at this loss of biodiversity through a much wider lens of humankind’s impact on our environment. Kolbert is a gifted writer and entertainer who finds ways to bring humor to this dark subject. 

In addition to providing a fascinating biological history of North America, this book is also extremely well-written.

Its chapters offer history lessons of North American landscape and ecosystems, disguised as lyrical essays that focus on a series of unlikely non-human protagonists (or antagonists, depending on how you look at them)—including hessian flies, gypsy moths, pigeons, starlings, and honeybees.

These stories matter because they remind us of how great our illusion of control is, especially when it comes to the natural world, and how far the consequences of even the most well-intentioned actions can reach. It also showed me how engaging a story can be when the human characters are resigned to the margins.

This book is admirable for its breadth and scope.

It offers sundry examples of “revenge effects” of modern technology and human acclimatization efforts to highlight the irony of what it means to live in the age of late capitalism—where everything is supposed to make our lives easier. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

This is the book that taught me about the walking catfish that escaped from the back of a van in Florida, and why you shouldn’t plant Eucalyptus trees in fire-prone areas of California. I can’t help but wonder how this book might be updated to discuss the lantern flies that invade my hometown in eastern Pennsylvania every summer.

One-stop shopping on the recent history of unwanted (by people) plants.

Though Mabey does not delve far into the past, his treatment of how colonialism in the past two centuries re-shaped the botanical landscape of the entire planet is comprehensive. He is particularly good on islands, where "invasive" plants arrived and thrived with shocking regularity as European and other ships created denser transcontinental connectivity.

He proves that modernity and its technologies did not fix the ongoing human incapacity to control vegetation, but if anything, left us with a bigger and more hybrid botanical mixture.

Perhaps not a page-turner, but a deeply engrossing study of how English people grew and foraged for the food that sustained them in the first millennium AD. The great value added here is the reliance on the very latest archaeobotanical data, in other words, on the fossil remains of plants, their seeds, glumes, bits of stems, and their pollens, which archaeologists have begun to salvage from digs and cores, to analyze in labs, and now thanks to McKerracher also to historicize.

The excellent British system of preservation, cataloguing, and online dissemination of archaeobotanical information bears fruit in a book that shows us how complex and sophisticated early medieval farming practices were.

This marvelous account of setting up and running a sheep farm in Hawke’s Bay at the end of the 1800s proves the power of human observation, as well as the amazing literary craft that even average Victorian schooling imparted to its pupils.

Guthrie-Smith meticulously chronicled every tiny change in season and ecology over the course of several years and thus rendered an invaluable description of human impact, specifically capitalistic European impact, on an environment that humans had used more lightly before the advent of European herbivores. His sardonic wit, his keen ecological sensitivity, and his awareness of the big picture into which his small “sheep station” fit separated Tutira from all other English-language accounts of environmental transformation.

While several books have been written about the horrors of industrial livestock production, none have moved me more than Blanchette’s Porkopolis.

With unforgettable stories and startling photographs, Blanchette details how workers perform all manner of intimate tasks to make industrial pigs reproduce and stay alive. I also love how he flips common-sense ideas of efficiency on their heads, showing how industrial meat production is anything but wasteful. Every bit of those pigs is used somewhere to the extent you wish they weren’t.

I have taught this book three times in my politics of food classes, and it never fails to blow my students away.

I can’t remember how I discovered this book, but once I cracked open the spine and began reading, I found myself going underline crazy.

The book is a captivating read about the history of the future of food, which is a bit of a tongue twister. How do we look back to the future? Belasco does this by investigating the ways in which we’ve projected our current outlook (from fears to concerns) around what’s to come––a bit of doomsday Tarot card reading if you will.

Despite its pub date, 2006, the book continues to inform. Belasco, a professor emeritus of American Studies at the University of Baltimore, helped bring food studies into a legitimate academic field.