At the University of Canterbury in Christchurch, New Zealand, Associate Professor David Denkenberger and his team are asking a question that sounds like science fiction but carries urgent weight: what if we could feed billions of people from leaves?
For the past 15 years, Denkenberger has been studying how humanity might survive catastrophic disruptions to global food systems—the kind of rare but devastating shocks that could cripple agriculture overnight. A massive volcanic eruption blocking sunlight. An extreme solar storm knocking out electricity grids. In those scenarios, the leafy parts of crops and forage plants that we currently discard could become humanity's lifeline. The UC researchers are now investigating whether leaf protein concentrate extracted from plant material, combined with sugar derived from remaining fiber, could sustain populations when conventional food production fails.
The research emerged from practical necessity rather than abstract speculation. When Denkenberger began exploring food resilience in 2011, he discovered a striking gap: the world had no proven alternatives for feeding seven billion people if the systems we depend on suddenly vanished. His work culminated in the 2015 book "Feeding Everyone No Matter What," and in 2017, he helped establish the Alliance to Feed the Earth in Disasters (ALLFED), a nonprofit spanning scientific research, policy engagement, and implementation.
What makes this work particularly elegant is its dual potential. Yes, the leaf protein research targets catastrophic scenarios. But Denkenberger sees immediate, practical applications in our current food system. A wheat field, for instance, already produces grain—but its leaves could be processed to extract additional protein. The leftover fiber could then be converted into sugar, effectively creating more food from the same plot of land. On grazing land, plants like alfalfa and red clover—currently inedible for humans—could be transformed into nutritious human food ingredients through the same extraction process.
This approach sits within a broader ecosystem of UC research into resilient food systems, including work on controlled-environment agriculture, alternative proteins, seaweed, and microbial-based foods. Each represents a different arrow in the quiver, a different way to ensure that if one system fails, others might sustain us.
The timing aligns with growing international focus on food security and disaster preparedness. Climate change, geopolitical tensions, and supply chain fragility have made food system resilience less a theoretical exercise and more a practical imperative. Yet Denkenberger's work remains grounded in realism rather than fear. He and his team are not predicting doom; they're building options.
"We're looking at different options that could be used if conventional food production were disrupted," Denkenberger explains. "Leaf protein is one of many possibilities, but it could play an important role in improving resilience." The research may also eventually open doors for citizen science participation, inviting public engagement in this exploration of how we feed ourselves.
What emerges from UC's work is neither dystopian nor naïve. It's a practical acknowledgment that rare global shocks do occur, and that humanity benefits from having thought through how to survive them—while knowing that the same technologies could help us farm more sustainably today.