Soup's On!

Forgive me, dear readers, for my absence.  The blog has suffered from “way the heck too much other stuff going on” syndrome. Also, less time in the garden after final harvests has given me room to move in other directions. But now, I’ve been called back by the influx of cold air which has jump-started another seasonal love of mine: fall cooking.

I live in a house that could be sufficiently heated by the oven.  Because of this, the modern day hearth doesn’t get much use in the summer.  Once cold weather hits, I’m reminded of this seasonal toy and look forward to one of my favorite past-times – baking bread.  But your title is about soup, you say.  Yea, I know…I’ll get to that.

I grew up in a home where things that can be lovingly made by hand were purchased instead.  My mother was at an impressionable age during World War II when her country, Ireland, tightened their belts, rationed their goods, and got out their knitting needles to help their English neighbors whom they were rooting for in the war.  In school, they made socks, hats, gloves, and sweaters for the English soldiers.  To hear my mom tell about it, you’d think she’d been forced to make all those things every day for the duration of her childhood and beyond.  She’d moan with exhaustion at the mere mention of my wanting her to teach me how to make a sweater.  “Just go buy one!” she’d say.  Ah,… industry.

And yea, I know.  I’m getting to the soup…

For me, the thought of making something from two sticks and a ball of yarn seemed like magic.  But the first time I got to bake bread in Brownie Scouts (where I learned to knit), something even bigger lit up inside me.  Most likely it was the aroma that put bread ahead of knitting in my awed esteem.  I ran in the house after the bread baking meeting yelling, “Mommy, mommy!  Let’s bake BREAD!”

She groaned. 

“It’s hard, hard work,” was all she could manage to say.

I had just done it, like an hour before, and I guess since Brownie leaders were probably the first to discover “kid friendly” projects, it hadn’t felt like work at all.  Somehow I convinced her, and we set out to bake a loaf the following Saturday, starting in the morning, because, you know, this would take ALL day.



I started my kids at it much younger.  I needed something for them to do as an alternative to their ususal daily activity of bruising their faces which, believe me, was getting OLD....



I won’t bore you with the slightly comedic details.  Suffice it to say that at age 7 I had experienced the first and last bread baking extravaganza in my home of origin.  In addition, the lingering memory of the effort involved was spoken of well into my adult years, without any mention of the delicious bread we made.  A Buddhist would suggest my mother actually slaved over the dough thousands of times with all her mournful recollections.  I, on the other hand, just remembered the good part.

So, when I was on my own, I started experimenting with different kinds of bread.  Believe me, coming home from college with a loaf of something unique and tasty impressed my mother to the point that she forgot about yelling at me about my grades.  Clearly, I was achieving great things, and she didn’t have to suffer through watching the painful process.

And bread led to soup, because besides butter, what else goes so well with fresh baked bread than real soup?  Oh, and canned doesn’t count.  The acidic aftertaste is the great equalizer of any store-bought variety, and really, I’d just rather not.  It’s not because I’m a foodie snob.  It’s because fresh homemade soup is on the same wavelength as fresh homemade bread and to break the spell on one just screws up the other.



Split-Pea!  Yum!

Plus, soup is easy.   Just give Stone Soup another read and you’ll know what I mean.  For me, to grab a few things from the garden, including wild greens, a carrot I missed earlier, or the potatoes that dodged the fork just adds to it; a blending of flavors where repetition is a rarity.  Mmmm…., time to savor the best the good earth has to offer.

Mo Power to Ya

Space time continuum?  Time space continuum?  Which is it?

I wonder as I’ve just spoken to a friend who reports his infant baby girl is feeding, eyes wide, arms outstretched, with her mama in the NICU.

Time depends on what you’re doing.  As life emerges and unfolds, time is completely relative.  Widening eyes on a tenacious new life, punctuated by an eager acceptance of love and nourishment, take us to a place where a clock means absolutely nothing.  A new kind of time supersedes what we’ve known, and space opens up for us to explore these feelings that have never stirred us before.

It’s like falling in love.

It’s power.

(The good kind).

Seed Savor

For those of you who want to extend the delights of your summer for time to come, may I suggest seed saving.  I’m sure there are scientific procedures that will ensure optimal viability, but for now, I’m just writing about what I know.  I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities in my future to study this further, at which point, I’ll keep you informed.

But for now:  Seed Saving 101 with the Garden Miner

Arugula gone to seed.  Check out the pods on these long stalks that recently displayed  beautiful white flowers. (Strawberries nearby...if you've never tried it, a salad pairing arugula with strawberries is quite delicious.

Step 1:  Know what to look for.  When your leafy green plants, such as spinach, cilantro, arugula, lettuce, kale, etc., start to flower, enjoy their blooms and wait for the seeds to present themselves.  I usually wait until things look dry and ready to drop.  And, if you think about it, isn't that how the plant would naturally perpetuate itself?  Dried out and withered, all it would take would be a nice gust of wind to scatter the seed.  The protective pod (below) would assure shelter for the months to come, finally softening and swelling with rain and warmer soil, thus easing the protective layer open, allowing the seeds to emerge.

Which brings us here...I did natures work so that I can put the seed where I want.

 Step 2:  Collect.  In the above picture, I've gently cracked open the pod to find the arugula seeds. The two pieces of pod are separated by the finest film membrane. Nature is so well designed!

Or if you're dealing with seed inside the fruit....

 In the above picture, I am pulling seed from the fruit.  These little tomatoes are packed with seed, and selecting just a few really good fruits will assure me summers of plantings to come.  I was surprised the first time I saw this technique.  Out here in the country, we have what we call "old-timers."  They're people who grew up around here, and who know how to do things well without having to use every available gadget known to mankind.  The man who gave me some Ox Heart Tomato seed (what he called "Aunt Claire's" due to his aunt's amazing skill at growing them) was the first to show me this trick.  I remember asking, "That's all?!"   To which he replied, "Well, ya gotta label it!"

A few years later, I received in the mail seed similarly stored from a friend in Washington state who introduced me to these above pictured sweet-as-candy tomatoes (I call them "Little Hawaiians" since they originally came from there...not sure of their real name).  It was very cool to see that even more people in the know were perpetuating species with such a simple technique.  Cooler, still, was that upon opening the package I knew exactly what kind of seeds they were.

Which takes us here...label your seed.  This is packed, ready to be stored in the freezer

Step 3:  Label.  Believe me, I store so many things that I'm sure I'll remember, and then don't.  I tend to plant things as well, knowing the logic (or lack thereof) of my placement will stick with me until the plants emerge.  Um...no.  That doesn't actually work, and for some strange reason, I'm still not convinced.  But, when it comes to seeds, I do manage to label them.  Maybe it's because I know if I store five different types of tomato seed, I might forget which is which.  When I actually plant them, I know they'll show me who they are, and labeling my patch never gets done.  But, for seeds:  label, add the date, and stick in the freezer.

or...place in a paper bag and stick in an airtight cooler.  Seed separated from pod.  Pod a nice treat for the chickens.

Finally, after you've saved seed you can envision your plans for next year.  I sometimes think about a new way to grow something, and then use my saved seed, knowing they came from the same crop. I'll test my proposed theory with both an experimental and a control patch.  Over the years, as well, you'll get to know your plants better since you've maintained a line.  Whatever your goal, the best part of all of this is the added understanding you'll have about growing your own food.  Most definitely, that's something satisfying to savor.

The Day No Pigs Would Die (and lamb is what's for dinner)

Nothing screams “WRITE IN YOUR BLOG” louder than a crazy déjà vu.  Sadly, this entry is much like its predecessor, but thankfully with a very different grander meaning.

On this fabulous Friday, I had the pleasure of a well spent morning home alone, followed by some relaxation and a lengthy writing session where I felt I was making excellent progress.  As Bach, performed by Yo Yo Ma, wafted and commingled with my brainwaves, a sudden shriek followed by my dogs zooming off the porch and into the depths of the yard zapped me back to my consciousness of the here and now.  As I headed out to see what was up, the unmistakable squeal of a pig penetrated my soul.

OH MY GOD!

Off I ran, and lo and behold, yes both had gotten out AGAIN.  I called off the dogs, but what’s this?  They ignored me.  I covered an important task, heading straight to the garden gate to shut it tight so that the whirling dervish of animals could only do so much damage, leaving the garden unscathed.

The ringleader, my border collie who presently is on the naughty list, was intractable.  He was attacking one pig while the other two dogs joined in for sport.  Maybe shrieking for him to stop wasn’t effective, but neither was my normal command voice.  Finally, I threw a football at him, and he came to, finally following orders. 

But not willingly...  I had him by the collar, pulling him towards the house, when he decided that maybe I wasn’t really in charge.  Now I had one dog pulling me while the other two KEPT at the pig.  This was truly awful and ugly.  I had nowhere to go, pigs running amuck with crazed dogs flanking them at every turn, and Cujo at arm’s length snarling to get back into the fray.

I looked up and saw the closest field was unoccupied, so I went for it with the dog.  He protested, but it wasn’t too far, so I had confidence.  When we got there I saw I had been mistaken of its emptiness as a donkey and two rams were settled behind the barn.  We darted in and shut the gate, then I quickly got the border collie into an adjacent field, realizing he might give the sheep a hard time.  OH!  How I wish I hadn’t been so considerate.



It's a pity that you bruised my hip 'cause I'm....
(Chrissy Hynde is a GODDESS)



Once I got him in the other field, I watched to make sure he couldn’t get back into the yard.  As I was bellowing to him to behave, a unknown force knocked me straight into the fence.  My heart dropped into my stomach as I realized there was a donkey in the field with me, one I had assumed (big mistake) was settled off a ways.  I quickly looked back to assess the situation and saw a ram rearing back for his second blow.  There was no time to react, and I was smashed again.  The only thing worse than getting a huge bruise on your hip is getting one right on top of the one you got 2.3 seconds ago.

I scaled that fence in no time flat, and through panicked sobs, limped towards the house calling the other dogs, who decided since the ringleader was gone, I was top dog again.  I shut them both inside and grabbed my phone (Note to self – always carry your phone when initially responding to shrieks, barks, and squeals).



Bad Boy in the background, tender soul in the fore.



Looking for the pigs, I found them happily grazing on the delights in the yard: pork salad (aka pokeweed), grass, lamb’s quarters, etc. They looked so peaceful after their ordeal while I was still shaken and breathing hard.  I called my husband to ask how soon he’d be home to help get the pigs back.  When he answered the phone, he heard, “Hussslake…hasassa….aahagduglaaaa….” to which he replied, “Slow down! I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”  So, I did the only thing I could at that point; I hung up.

I tried to figure out what to do, and felt relief that things felt calm and the pigs weren’t charging at me.  The (bad) dog was intently watching from the other side of the fence, and my husband called back to see if this time I’d speak something closer to English.  He offered to take care of getting the pigs back when he returned after coaching, but I said no.

Which brings us to the enlightening part (at least for me).

I could certainly head inside, tend to my wounds, and feel sorry for myself while cursing the dogs, but I decided not to do that.  Panicked me thought the pigs would surely try to dart out of the yard at the first possible chance, but something told me not to worry.  The peacefulness of this now-panic free situation inspired me.  As the pigs grazed happily, I headed to the barn to find materials to fix the fence: mallet, pliers, and wire.  I got a bucket of corn, and returned to the pigs, giving them some bits of a treat I’d use to lure them back into their enclosure after my work was done.  I stopped by the rams to give them a piece of my mind, and realized their orneriness is due to, well, the fact that it’s fall, and they’re rams, and the ewes are out of reach.  Haven’t I learned this lesson before, like as in last fall?  Ugh…just glad it was me and not the kids.

As I worked on the fence, I felt drawn to being in the moment despite the fact that half an hour earlier I only knew my afternoon to be time carved out to finish an assignment.  Time is an interesting dimension.  Sometimes, when we’re waiting for something we long for, it seems to take forever.  Other times, when we’re in a panic to get away from danger, it seems like there’s never enough of it.  And when we can just be, it doesn’t even matter.  As I worked on the repair, heart-rate and breathing finally steady again, the pigs explored; nothing to panic about. The only time I had was the moment.  And when things were fixed and they could go back in, they did, no questions asked.  A little more corn sweetened the deal.




So cooperative...just ask nicely and they respond.

 

Life has interesting ways of teaching us that it’s all ok.  We’ll get where we need to go, maybe not in the way we intended, but when we stop to see what’s of interest along the route we learn a few things.  Who would know that pigs gone AWOL could bring me such tranquility and trust in the universe on what turned out to be a peaceful afternoon despite the craziness that preceded it.   Dwelling on the bad without listening for the whisper of what’s good get us nowhere.

Thank you, life. 

And now for that lamb burger...

Really, I'm Not a Pig

Farming has been good for me.  It has taken me out of my comfort zone numerous times, and I’ve learned over the years that a shake up every now and then is a good thing.  Think about a tremor or a tree-toppling, power-outaging storm: once the dust settles, don’t you look around and ask, “Everything o.k.?”  When you discover it is, great, and when you see there’s work to do, then that’s what comes next, no questions asked.

It's easy to be zen-like when the animals are plastic, 1/64 your size, safely behind solid wooden barricades, and polite enough to let you finish your cup of tea

Every once in awhile I’m left in charge of the farm, and let’s just say, I pretty much count the days until I’m not ranchero-numero-uno anymore.  The work is good, don’t get me wrong, but the responsibility can be daunting.  Once, while sitting comfortably reading a book and enjoying a nice hot cup of tea, my oldest, then 8, ran in yelling, “The pigs got out!”  Not taking my eyes from the book, I replied, “Honey, daddy’s out of town...”  His eyes widened as he replied, “That’s why I’m telling you.”

Slowly, I felt the gears grinding to a halt, and it registered.

Is it so wrong for a mother to cry out, “CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!”?  I know the foot stomping probably set a bad example, but it’s not like he hadn’t already behaved that way himself many years before.

Just like in the storm analogy, I started looking around, wondering what to do.  I could call the neighbor, but then that would mean I can’t even handle my own farm, and why should a woman have to call a man for help?  That’s what that would be, right?  I could send my boy out to catch them, but he actually came to me for help, so scratch that.  Plus, back to reason number one...well, you get it.

There was no choice but to deal with it, and in the true inconvenience we call farming, the need was immediate.



Not a pig, and I am oh, so grateful



I recall the day my younger son was born.  My reaction when my older one ran into the room wasn’t, “Hey sweetie, come meet your little brother,” but rather, “Good God, you’re enormous!”  Well, I felt the same way about the pigs looking at them roaming outside their gateless pen.  I won’t bore you with the details of the capture which included my fearless dog, but will take you to the punch line…theirs, not mine.

In fact, I’d be lying if I attempted to give you the lowdown, because truth be told, I can’t remember the details.  Sort of like getting teeth pulled, falling from a tree house, or spinning off the road across oncoming traffic, the numbing haze of post traumatic stress has erased the sequence of events from my brain.  Only the highlights of my anxiety remain.

Which is why you find me screaming, holding a pig semi-aloft as the writhing muscular porcine vessel of testosterone attempts to devour my ear, knowing I have to do this one more time so BOTH of them will be back where they belong.  I vaguely remember screaming at my son for advice, which I’m sure I didn’t hear or listen to due to either the squealing pig, the crashing white noise in my head, or the cacophony of the two.  As I hurtled the beast back into his enclosure I caught the stunned expression on my son’s face.  A thought bubble would most likely have revealed, “So that graceless being is the one I refer to as ‘mother.’  Is it possible to make an exchange?”



A nice diet of sweet potato vines to whittle away their waistlines



As I caught my breath, he offered a bit of advice.  “You shouldn’t throw animals.”  Thank god my penchant for biting sarcasm didn’t emerge to attack a person half my size.  I was able to lower beast number two closer to the ground for his final descent, which was more palatable for all of us, despite the fact that the squealing screech-fest could have rivaled the war cries of opposing cheering sections led by Robert Plant and Ozzy Osbourne at a tension-filled girls’ volleyball game. 

Breathing hard, hair disheveled, and wearing an expression that was, let’s just say, nowhere near runway ready, I thought of the Talking Heads as I wondered, “Well, how did I get here?”  Now with things a bit calmer as my two dogs maintained order, circling the pen while I sutured it up, I could sense my son’s strange wonder about the woman he just saw man-handling the pigs.  Could I possibly be the same person who baked bread that morning, nursed his ailing teddy bear back to health, and cheered his every effort to make a “real” video about prehistoric beasts?  Let’s face it: a kid wants to know his mommy has her shit together.  When pigs gone AWOL pull her off center, it can be alarming, to say the least.

So farming has done that for me.  I can go where I’d never have imagined, and quickly run back to sanity once escaping it.  I still have an ear, and my son has been formally introduced to my limits, and at an impressionable age at that.  To think it took me until the stately age of 11 to discover my mother wasn’t perfect.  What can I say?  My boy is advanced.

Aye En!

I could encapsulate all the differences between my two kids by their early attitudes towards books.  One, if he could speak at 9 months, would have said, “These treasures open up fascinating new worlds to me.  Now that I don’t teeter over anymore, go about your business, mother dear, while I respectfully handle these precious objects whilst gazing upon them for hours.”  The other would say something more like, “Yeeeee-ha!  AVALANCHE!”  His actions quickly introduced me to the caustic glare of the librarian, who for some reason no longer held me in high esteem.

It was the second kid who later coined the term used as the title of this post.  Forget about the story and the pictures; the best part came when the final page was turned and he could yell out, “Aye En!” His brother and I had to sneak off for secret book readings where the words “Just wait!  Not yet!” weren’t appended to every third sentence.

Aye en’s enthusiasm for the predictability of endings came from someplace other than my psyche.  I tend to dread them, preferring the unknowns carefully placed safely within the pages of a book, rather than those uncovered when the volume is closed. 

At one time, my gardening seasons came to an end in November.  Here on the farm, final harvests around Thanksgiving made way for the sheep to enter my haven and graze on some new delights, followed by a good tilling from the pigs.  As I watched one annual gate opening in which the sheep were led into the garden, older and wiser Aye En stroked my arm and asked as we looked into the drizzly grayness from the porch, “This is a hard day for you, isn’t it?”

 Now, though, I have too much in the way of perennials, and too little in the way of time, to build cross fencing which would allow the animals to move about in sections.  So, now, the garden is off limits to them.  I kinda like it that way.

But sometimes I wonder.

The stirring up by the pigs, following some of the best fertilizer that I don’t have to scoop up and tow in myself is a good thing.  Endings are a part of living in a dynamic cycle.  Yesterday I ran into a friend who does his own version of stirring and digging as he thinks about life experiences.  He posed the question that if challenge brings us to a place where we learn and grow, expanding our understanding of this experience called life, encountering new thoughts and ideas that broaden us, why do so many want to avoid it, staying sheltered in what’s safe?

Good question, I thought.  Change is hard, there’s no denying that.  But avoiding change, when it presents itself as part of the natural rhythm, is stepping away from living.  For some, like me, predictability is important, but I have to also remember that like the storybooks which take us safely to “Aye En!” predictability isn’t the same as reality.

The Big Guy

My 14 year old could have been 4 today. 

“There’s snow!  I saw it from the plane!  Dad said he’s going to take us to where there’s snow!”

Coming from a kid who barely blinks at most things I find amazing, this was over the top, quick take his temperature, enthusiasm.     


Imagine his joy for the real stuff!


And I felt so good talking to him today.  He’s on an adventure with just his dad where I won’t be telling him he really ought to be getting into the shower, as in NOW, checking that’s he’s put on sunscreen, or barreling ahead to point out what I think could possibly be poison ivy.  He’ll get blisters, he’ll get sunburned, he’ll reek to high heaven, and he’ll be thousands of miles away from any comment (or worse…suggestions) from me.  Heaven to a teenage boy, I’m sure, and heaven to a mom who’s happily oblivious of his hygienic state.  Ahhhh…..

So why put this in a garden blog?  Well, it’s nature, and it’s wild, which my garden is getting to be these days – partly by choice, but mostly from too much necessary time away from it - more than I care to spend away from it, but life circumstances make it so. 

Speaking of wild.... I wonder if they'll encounter an exuberant Two-headed dog?

And, today I am so grateful for a conversation I had weeks ago.  My husband was about to head out for his yearly yoga retreat and wanted to talk about my mom’s illness.  He asked what I would do if she died while he was away, and offered to not  go if I perceived it to be greatly problematic.  I thought about it, and knew deep down that only one thing was important to me, and that was simply this: people need to live.

Gleanings of his interest early on, as in on the wall, on his desk, in the basket, and on the floor.

So much of what my mother went through indicated to me that being overly cautious, anxious, tentative, etc. stops us from living.  Since he asked, I jumped immediately ahead to the planned father-son Sasquatch seeking trip and said under no circumstances would I want that changed.  My son has been looking forward to it for almost a year, has read enough to earn an honorary doctorate in cryptozoology from Bigfoot U., and has endured my ridicule and sarcasm for months (my favorite delivered with over-abundant guffaws was this beauty:  “Watch you don’t get Sas-squooshed! ”).  Tee-hee!

Man, is he ever going to be mad at me for this.  So freakin' worth it!

So, like in the garden, when I accept as truth all the possible ways something could go wrong, I don’t stretch.  I’ve been told certain things won’t grow here, and I’m sure I’d still believe that if I hadn’t tried.  Forget Brussels sprouts (and really, shouldn’t we all?), but nevertheless, they are growing in my garden even though the garden books suggest it’s way too hot here.  They didn’t take into account the amount of rain we’ve had this year or the cooler spring temps which got the crop going.

So that’s the key…circumstances may be similar from year to year, but they’re always unique.  In my own life, I can think of many times when Plans B, C, or D replaced Plan A.  When my snow-delighted boy was born, I said forget the generic baby books, I want the book for this special one-of-a-kind model.  But alas, there was no book for a work in progress.  Life’s the same…we can’t write it, we need to allow ourselves to be open and to freely live it.

Flowers

There’s a reason the family of the deceased makes the “in lieu of flowers…” request. 

No, there are at least two reasons.   

Money spent on flowers can be put to much greater use if spent to perpetuate causes the deceased believed in or places that mattered to them.  When my father died, he had his obituary ready with the sole request for all donations in his memory to be made to the Salvation Army.  When he was a kid, this is where his family went to get bikes, toys, clothes, and household supplies.  He figured, if people are going to give money, give it to a place that makes a difference for those who do not have much to give themselves.  I know today that might sound presumptuous, but in his day and age, only the poor looked for things at the Salvation Army, and it was the poor he was looking out for and trying to help along.

I’ve just recently discovered the less obvious second reason for the request only because of a feeling that came over me.  Not everyone follows the “in lieu of flowers…” request.  Some send flowers anyway or in addition to the cause because let’s face it, flowers are nice.  At my sister’s house, near where my mother had lived, there are loads of bouquets sent in memory of my mother which were carried from the church to the place where everyone gathered afterwards.  One arrangement in particular caught my eye.  It had deep purple flowers among others in a lovely vase.  I considered asking if I could take it home with me when I left since there were so many others, but I stopped before I could even finish the thought.  I became overwhelmed with the realization that the flowers would die, and that was something I didn’t want to see happen to the beautiful blooms in front of me.  The empty vase, regardless of what I might fill it with in the future would always remind me of the emptiness I feel inside.

I didn’t ask to take them.  Remembering them would be so much better.

Then today, as I was in the garden, I spent time looking at all the flowers around me.  I rarely, if ever, cut my flowers and bring them into the house for an arrangement.  I like my flowers to peak in their natural environs, and rarely do I even snip off the dying ones.  I see the plants’ progression to be a thing of beauty without need for cosmetic surgery.  My flowers are abundant, and for the first time, I considered snipping a few and bringing them inside.  At first I leaned towards my usual way of doing things (in this case, my usual way of not doing it) but decided, why not?  In the garden, I might spend a few hours a day enjoying what’s around me.  The flowers could extend that time, and could serve as the memorial bouquet that I wanted. 

Yes, I know these too will die, but it’s different here.  These can be replaced with the ones yet to bloom, and after each arrangement moves beyond its peak, the compost bin will accept the debris as part of the cycle for the next growing season.  My flowers belong here, and will continue to be here season after season.  As one variety slips into dormancy, another will begin to grow in force, allowing my bouquet to alter gradually.  Plus, the pieces of the bouquet, the individual varieties, are with me in the garden.  Parts of the whole, they show me that beauty exists in different contexts, and there’s a place for each.

False Start

Every year when I plant sweet potatoes I feel like within days I need to get down on my knees and beg their forgiveness.  The word that comes to mind when I furtively glance their way is “assault,” and I feel bad about it.  Their perforated leaves look like mini hail clouds parked right over them and dumped, only moving on when every last leaf looked like it had been sufficiently battered.



Oh, dear....



But, every year I also come to realize this early stage is short lived.  Within weeks the slips shoot out hardier vines and leaves that stand up to the sky with an air of defiance.  The bugs that caused the real damage move on.  Once the sweet potatoes establish that yes, they belong there, watch out.  And be sure any gardening implements are out of their way because you’ll surely never see them again unless the vines themselves decide to scoot them back out to you.



More like it....



Babies (of two kinds) under cover

The sweet potato doesn’t cave when conditions appear unsavory.  It grasps its power from within, and explodes with confidence.  With each new day the crop grows stronger, spreading out a green wave of vitality while cool quiet orange fortitude ripens with stamina.

Happiness!  Best results always come from hilled plantings, newspaper mulch, covered in lovely heat absorbing black plastic.



The Way I See It

Always a welcome sight

This growing season in Central Virginia is like no other I’ve seen.  Regular spring rains emerging into regular early summer rains have kept the ground soft, always at the ready to absorb more generosity from the sky.  Roots have dug in deep, branching out and reaching nutrients ready to work their way towards the setting fruit or fattened root. I have potatoes the size of my fist which I'm giving away by the bagload. Big Red, our Super A Farmall Tractor, could barely make it through the alfalfa pasture due to the density and lushness of the grass.  Nobody was complaining about that, except for maybe Big Red.

A few steps up from the reel mower, and just as green when operated thusly.

So getting all philosophical, I have been looking at this on a metaphorical level.  What has affected the growth all around me has been the conditions.  You can artificially water anything, but you come to a point where you realize if it isn’t happening naturally, it’s not really going to reach its potential.  It’s important to nudge things along and help out where you can, but even with that, the external conditions still rule.
 


Humble beginnings...

  

Some people treat plants (and other aspects of life) with artificial fertilizers, tricking nature into thinking the goods are there.  But the downside to this is the residue, the poisons that linger long after the fruit has been picked.  I, for one, don’t feel that simulated goodness can keep anything surviving for long. Over time the once fertile ground has been robbed of what’s real.



What a difference plants, sun, soil, water, and care make.



Conditions matter.  This is evident in health, happiness, and relationships.  The best examples of these come from conditions that are conducive to growth without artificial anything.  Vitality is a thing of beauty, made so by the zest and energy from within.  When an uncontained spirit can move through life without artificial barriers, it is something amazing to behold. 

On the Road Again

One major lesson I’ve learned from farming and gardening will stick with me forever, no matter what I do or where I go.  The book I’ve just read, The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love by Kristin Kimball speaks to it like this: nothing turns out the way you’d expect – never as perfect as you’d hoped or as awful as you feared. 

But for me, there’s a bit more, and that’s tied to what was never expected in the first place, the surprise that surfaces where you least imagined it.  For positive things, this elicits feelings of good fortune, and for negative occurrences, a state of shock that cuts wallowing off at the pass and steers you in the direction of figuring out what to do about it instead.

It’s like traveling.  I may hope to get from point A to point B in record time, but who knows what will happen along the way?  And as I’ve gotten older, record time is rarely, if ever, a goal.  I just want to get there, and if I end up on a detour that shows me places I never knew about, then all the better.  Quite possibly, I'll learn something.



Two cows diverged on a rainy road...



And on the farm, minor detours (and some major ones) occur pretty regularly.  A few weeks back I had gotten my morning work in, showered, and was ready to sit and relax with a cup of tea and a book on the back porch.  Before I managed even a sip I heard a sound that my brain attempted to classify as “not a problem,” but the gardener in me stood her ground and proclaimed “No chicken is free to roam my garden!”

I shouted into the house, “Chicken’s out, I got it!” and not even changing out of my dress into more appropriate farm clothes, I put on my boots and headed out with the dogs to catch her and put her back in the tractor to join the others, lickity split.  When the dogs headed in two different directions, the optimist in me paid no mind.  I looked in the tractor, which is when the pessimist revealed herself, hissing, “Oh, shit!”

So they were all out.  OK, so maybe I don’t got it after all.  I went inside and told the others, who were also enjoying other plans, to stop relaxing and help me catch the chickens.   I changed clothes, ready for some real work.

Have you ever gone on a chicken catching expedition?  One with fences, and brambles, and plants you don’t want trampled?  Oh, and with chickens? I had the added quality of “I CAN’T GET STUNG!” as part of this mix, so crawling over a yellow jacket hive was high on my list of things I didn’t want to do that day.

This is more his style, but he's willing to put in overtime herding chickens.

Squawking, fur flying, and confirming evidence that humans cannot (and should not) dive through fences ensued.  The dogs managed to push a few out from the grapevine tunnel allowing my son and me to each catch one as they sprinted past.  More were scurrying around in the pasture, so the Border collie rounded them up, nipping at their tails while we caught up and pounced. 

After those were caught, we realized we had a couple more to go.  The brain starts in with the dialogue of what may be.  No sign of them, which could mean they might have been taken by fox, weasel, or raccoons.  At this point I had no idea how long they’d been out, and anything was possible.  They could be in a tree somewhere or on the neighbor’s farm, either scratching at the back door or simmering in the stew pot.  I decided the best way to figure it out was to stay put in the garden, and just listen.  The book would have to wait, I’d have time later for another cup of tea, and what’s two showers in one morning?  It has rained cats and dogs this year and I'm on a well.

I worked in silence for a good thirty minutes.  I mentioned earlier my need to avoid stinging insects for the time being, so late morning gardening proved a bit nerve racking as everywhere I turned I heard buzzing or saw my nemeses zip by.  Believe me, I love them all, but until I know which one morphs me into a human strawberry, I have to be careful. 

The rest of the family altered their plans as well since they were already out, forced into farm work about seven hours before they had planned.  If there’s a mantra on this farm it’s this:  Adjust.



OK, now I get it.

So as I was discovering the reason why we thin carrots, I noticed my lab inching towards the blackberry bushes, ears cocked, nose doing the hula.  I crept behind her and heard a low baaaaaaaawk.  “Get it!” I cried.  She looked up at me slowly, her eyes clearly expressing, “But that will hurt.”

I called the Border collie, and the rest of the family came running, hearing the urgency in my voice.  When the collie approached, his eyes said the usual, “I live to serve.  What do you require of me, your humble servant?”  Without hesitation he burrowed into the brambles and sent two chickens exploding out.  My son caught one, and I just missed the other as I watched it slip through the fence.  I was over it in flash and trapped the chicken as she tried to get back through. The dogs were there in a heartbeat to help.



Home, home again....

So my morning hadn’t turned out as planned, and despite the potential problems, all was well.  The chickens were safe and sound again, the humans experienced challenging agility exercises, and the dogs got to practice what they do best.  It wasn’t my ideal late Sunday morning, but the outcome was ideal.  I guess it doesn’t matter how you get there as long as you enjoy the journey.

El-a-strate Me! (oh... you can't!)

I’m reading the book The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love, by Kristen Kimball. This woman has gotten into farming way beyond what I have, but periodically she stops to explain something I’m already well-versed in.  I admit that feels pretty good.  I want to feel like I’m growing and changing as a person in this farming experience, despite the fact that I naively got into it thinking it was mostly for the kids.

When the author mentioned the elastrator in her book, I knew I was in good company.  I even sort of felt, you know, like official and all that.  Every so often I get reminders that yes, I’m a farmer.  Sometimes it’s when I have some nugget of knowledge about garlic bulbils or goat cheese processing that makes city folk gasp in amazement.  At other times, it’s when I say something that makes people wonder how far I’ve gone off the deep end.  My elastrator knowledge put me in the latter category.

A fellow grad student was lamenting the upcoming neutering and subsequent vet bill for her golden retriever.  As we sat at our desks, side by side, plugging away at our computers, I suggested she just let me do it.  It would only cost her the price of a rubber band, and I’d throw that in for free.

Still focused on my computer, I told her how easy castration is with the elastrator.  Just slip the band over the four collapsed metal prongs, widen it out with the hand lever, slip it over the testicles as you lace them through, release, and viola!

Silence.

I looked over to see two faces, hers and the office mate’s beyond, searching me like they were still trying to figure out if I was joking or if they’d just discovered what a sick individual I really am.

“What?” I said with honesty.

That gave them their answer.

They quickly fixed their eyes rigidly on their computers, breathed deeply and calculated what to say.

The dog owner broke the silence.  “That can’t be sanitary.  And besides, how would you even anesthetize him?”

Pshaw!  That’s easy!  No anesthesia necessary.  It’s a slow, painless process.   The animal has no idea.  In fact, the sheep just run off and play after getting banded.  We do the same to their tails. You see, the band cuts off circulation.  The testicles just wither up and fall off in a few weeks.  The kids get a kick out of it when they find them in the fields.

Less inconspicuously, both women grabbed their stomachs, eyes wide with alarm and disgust.

“Whaaaaat?!” I said defending standard farming procedures.

The other friend exclaimed, “HOW can you do that to sweet innocent babies?!”

Easy, I said.

A farm full of adult male animals is a slew of problems waiting to happen.  After having a Jack on the farm, I understand the potency of calling someone “a real jackass.”  Roosters, Billy goats, rams, and jacks will fight, knock down fences, intentionally hurt young animals, and pee on themselves if there’s a female nearby they want to impress. Billy goats spray their own faces.  Nice,huh?  Maybe they’re really out to demonstrate flexibility, who knows?  I recommend when you go for goat meat, choose the skinless variety.

 When my boys learned that the daddy sheep had to be removed from the lambing field so he wouldn’t kill his offspring, they were shocked and hurt.  But, that’s nature.  The mama has the genetic disposition to want the lamb, and care for it at any cost.  The ram hates the competition and is suspicious of the newcomer, wondering where the heck he came from anyway.

The ounce of one elastrator band is worth many pounds of cure. In fact, wethers (neutered goats and rams) pack on a few extra, which means more meat per animal. Plus, they become sweet, gentle, and will lovingly befriend the newborns frolicking in the fields.  I’d say having their manhood squeezed off of them brings a marked improvement in disposition, not to mention civility. 



A mama with two females and a male (for the time being).



So yea, after being on my farm seven full years, I can say that I have an elastrator, and will use it with supreme( ball handling) skill.  My friends aren’t as alarmed at my understanding and know how when it comes to ear tagging, but then again, my friends have pierced ears.

Lunch Line

Lately I’ve been noticing how kids these days have quite a different perspective on food than was typical when I was young.  In my day, going to McDonald’s was a treat.  Today, kids do a pretty convincing vomit act at the mere mention of the place.  I felt kind of sorry for my son’s basketball coach when his team reacted with such vehement disgust after he enthusiastically told them they’d get to go to Micky D’s on the way back from a game.  Here he was trying to be cool and with it, but instead must’ve felt like all the kids were hand gesturing upper case L’s on their foreheads, extending them in his general direction.  They went, but some kids, including mine, chose not to eat.

And this stance didn’t come from me.  It’s part of the peer culture.  A couple weeks ago I took my 11 year old son and his friend to Subway, right across the road from their school, 20 minutes before a school activity was set to start.  The friend walked in, looking around like he had just stepped into a bizarre wax museum.  Before they ordered he asked, “Is the food here organic?”  Um, no.  “Is it local?”  No, it’s Subway, whattayawant?  He wasn’t sure.  Putting the pieces together here was a whole new experience for him. 

A recent issue of “Educational Researcher” had an article on nutrition tied to academic achievement.   The authors suggested that a deeply entrenched stigma of poor quality has been the accepted norm for school lunches for years, and big business contracts have kept cheap food (aka crap) on the lunch line.  But gradually, people have taken stabs at changing this.  Currently a local district is facing parental concerns that the food choices are too high in sugar and too low in nutritional value.  The parents are becoming vocal, and have garnered support from key figures in the mayor’s office and on city council.  The request is this simple line: Please serve nutritious food.  All kids deserve it regardless of whether their lunch is subsidized or not.

And there’s the rub.  For many children, 2/3 of their daily meals are free or at a reduced price, and school systems strive to cut costs in the interest of volume.  Some of these children actually receive all their meals at school, as dinner isn’t served in every household.  So yes, I’m willing to have my tax dollars go towards improved nutrition for these kids for the simple reason that they’re kids.  They’re growing, they’re learning about food choices, and they can’t do it on their own.  Just as I feel the school system should teach them how to write, I feel they should teach them by example how to eat.

And a cool thing about eating well is that there’s this added benefit of feeling good.  Who doesn’t learn better when their body is well-tuned towards it?  I have seen calm, quiet kindergarteners get out of control after their breakfast of sugar cookies (well, the label said “cinnamon rolls” but the actual item was a cookie with a swirl of cinnamon icing) and strawberry milk.  When adults scold children for acting out after watching them pump themselves full of sugar, I just cringe.  Bodies respond to what’s inside them, so let’s give kids some real power in the form of nutrition.  If standards are the end all and be all, how about we legitimately address nutritional standards? Perhaps one day we’ll actually have fewer people taxing the health care system with bad-habit induced health problems. 

No, don’t look away policy makers.  Pay attention!  The problem won’t go away by ignoring it or quibbling over immediate costs, which is the overused counter line.  Yea, it’ll cost money.  So does childhood obesity, diabetes, and a whole slew of health problems that will surely follow.  Instead of digging a hole where nutritional value gets buried, why not build a garden instead and get kids moving and eating right?  Quality in every way, shape, and form is worth it.