About two years ago, I became the editor of a magazine — my own, the one in your hands. I never, ever could have applied for such a job. I had no qualifications. And I didn’t set out to create a new women’s magazine “ahead of the curve,” as Pam Krauss, my new Random House book editor, said in her press release. It was a mail-order catalog that simply got out of hand.

My premiere issue (I put an ‘e’ on the end of premier hoping to enhance its status) started finding its way in the world Christmas, 2001. Shortly thereafter, December 31st to be exact, I left for town on a routine shopping trip. My youngest child, Emil, was still living at home. He hollered after me as I was leaving, “Grab some easy snacks.” Our New Year’s celebration was going to be quiet — just Emil and me. Actually, I had in mind some laundry projects to welcome the New Year — a fresh start with some clean rugs, slipcovers and bedspreads.

It was midday when I pulled into the parking lot of our food co-op. I was disappointed to find a closed sign, so I drove to a regular supermarket. Grocery lists work there too, only my cart ended up containing a bunch of stuff I don’t usually buy — Tide, Doritos, bleached white toilet paper, dish soap, and Oreos. “Paper or plastic?” the clerk asked. What the heck, I thought, “Plastic.” For some reason, if you think of yourself as an environmentalist, plastic can tarnish one’s image, but paper uses trees. I guess that means I should never, ever forget to bring along my cloth shopping bags, but I do.

I wrote out a check and handed it to my cashier. Something about my check gave her a burst of energy, “Oh, you’re MaryJane! I just read your magazine cover to cover.” She was about to say more when we both looked down at my bootie. She never finished her sentence and I didn’t bother with my pitiful explanation. But I drove away worried that I had popped her bubble, that maybe now she would feel discouraged and betrayed. After all, headlines as far away as New York are saying, “Butters could become a living brand name, at the forefront of the organic food boom.” My shopping bag that day didn’t speak organic, simple or wholesome living.

Putting myself out into the world — pictures of me, stories about me, who I am, is part of this idea I have that we deserve a face to our food. “Who grew this, made that?” And if I tell you who I am, you’ll tell me who you are.

Who are we, anyway? Well, I think we can be a lot like the burro I spent the summer with umpteen-plus years ago when I was a wilderness ranger. His name was Banjo and he was Forest Service issue, which meant he’d been passed around way too much. His confusion made him stubborn beyond belief. But Banjo was my companion for the summer and I was determined to make things work between us.

Banjo was unbelievably strident … in a curious way — he wouldn’t go downhill. I mean he would only walk uphill. Think about that for a minute. Downhill is harder on your knees and uphill is better for your lungs. Banjo was happiest on high ground. But his need to be on high ground made me utterly miserable. Our progress was step by step. I’d slap his rear, then nuzzle his face, slap his rear, nuzzle his face. And he wouldn’t step over fallen trees. I had to walk us around the end of every log across every trail we traveled.

At one point, Banjo and I were working our way across Flat Top Mountain in the Uintas, a mountain range in the top northeast corner of Utah, when a summer midday lightning storm snuck up behind us. I got scared. After all, we were above timberline, sticking up like a couple of lightning rods. I pictured myself fried to my backpack frame like fish on a grill.

Our nuzzle/slap routine wasn’t going to get us off the mountain fast enough. I tied Banjo to a rock. Twenty feet away, I dove for the ground and flattened out as flat as I could get. “Please take Banjo, not me,” I thought. His high-ground attitude deserved a bolt of lightning, I reasoned. Well, neither Banjo nor I passed to a celestial cloud that day, and as I’ve learned over the years, burrowing in can be lonely and addle-headed. The need to be right, “blinded by right,” is downright inefficient.

High ground — solar cars, wind energy, slave-free goods and pure food — awaits us. If I go uphill mostly, downhill some, I’m bound to feel less alone, forging friendships along the way. I’d rather be a good traveling companion.