My grandparents live in a small village in the south of France where they grow most of the fruit and vegetables they consume. They raise their own chickens, pigeons, and rabbits. I spent most of my summers as a child in their house. I'd help them feed the animals, collect the eggs, and water the garden. I'd cook a “stone soup” for them—my first culinary experiment—made of well water, stones, soil, and grass. From the glass wall at the back of their house, hilly vineyards and garrigue unfolded.

Today, that land is covered by rows of identical prefab houses. The butcher, who used to drive from Lozère to deliver his meat, no longer makes the trip. Where once there were three bakeries, only one remains. The little grocery store has closed its doors. These days my grandparents drive to Carrefour to buy their butter.

The tailor also closed, and the cobbler as well. More and more, people come to live in this village because the housing is more affordable than in Montpellier, but they buy their clothes and shoes at H&M and Zara. These cheap, poor-quality clothes satisfy a desire to wear what is hip in a given season, leading us to follow fashion dictates rather than create our own style. We find ourselves at parties wearing the same clothes, which, in turn, deteriorate quickly. We no longer repair them, as once our grandmothers would have; instead, we throw them away.

In a continuous pursuit of profits, the fashion industry has relocated its production to North Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. After the clothes are manufactured, they are transported back to the consumers' countries, depleting oil reserves and increasing greenhouse-gas emissions. These foreign producers are under pressure to achieve the lowest possible costs and to deliver within the shortest time. With such priorities, the environmental impact of their production is the least of their worries. Blind obsession with profit also induces appalling working conditions; wages are low, accidents myriad, and child labor common.

If we refuse to accept unfair prices and dangerous working conditions in our food systems, we must maintain the same principles in all sectors. Awareness of the environmental impact of human activities is growing. For food, it means buying more organic, local, and seasonal products. For fashion, it should mean more organic, local, and less seasonal. A piece of clothing should last for decades. Like a recipe passed down from generation to generation, we should pass our clothes down to our grandchildren.

Beyond the environmental and ethical considerations, choosing the items that compose our wardrobes should be as satisfying as shopping at local food markets. Finally discovering the little black cotton dress that fits your body perfectly should be as exciting as finding a perfect marbled côte de boeuf. Let your mind wander and imagine how the taste of the grilled meat would pair with equally beautiful seasonal peas, green beans, and asparagus. Or how the dress would look with the mustard kitten heels you bought in a vintage store ten years ago and the hat your mother gave you for your twentieth birthday. Or how the next day you might serve the cold beef, thinly sliced, with dark bread, mustard, and pickles, as you would style down your new dress with leather-look leggings and a pair of high tops.

The beauty lies not only in the creation itself, but also in sharing it with others. All year long, my personal style has surprised the people of Colorno. From the first day, I have endured long looks, raised eyebrows, and whispers. People are suspicious of me; they question my appearance in the same way they might question the quality of someone else's mother's tortelli di zucca. Whatever their reactions, my outfits never leave them indifferent.