5 August 2010

Basil, Tendersweet cabbage, Eggplant, Orion fennel, Lettuce, Onion, Parsley, Pears, Purple Viking potatoes, Squash, Tomatoes

Earlier this week a reporter for a Russian language broadcast interviewed me. I have done nothing newsworthy recently here or in Russia—or anywhere else that I am aware of. Apparently, that was sort of the point. The reporter, Vlad (like Count Dracula he said when he called to arrange the interview, which must puzzle a lot of people since I suspect most Americans don’t associate the familiar vampire with the somewhat more obscure15^th Century Transylvanian ruler of the same name), has been producing a series of stories about the sorts of Americans that Russians do not usually hear about. They just know about celebrities and President Obama, just know what appears on the first page of the New York Times, Vlad told me. Meaning, in other words, that his audience members are at least as well informed about America as the average American.

But not well enough informed, according to Vlad. I think he worries that the information they do get gives them if not an incorrect then at least a far from complete view of what this country is really like. It is hard to disagree with that. I would certainly like to think that the Russians who listen to his radio reports about obscure American priests and former prostitutes and vegetable farmers begin to get some idea of the range of experiences in this country.

Of course, I have no idea what Vlad says in his stories since I have never heard one—and would not even if I had since I don’t speak any Russian (sadly I have already forgotten the all-purpose rude phrase Vlad taught me at the end of the interview). He might be using us as examples of the depravity of American life or to prove that our culture has used up its core energy and like a star is about to fade away or explode spectacularly. The whole thing could turn out to be a hoax and we will all appear as earnest laughable dupes in his movie. To think that anyone would give a damn about a small-scale vegetable farmer in the boondocks. What a joke.

Well, it would probably be a joke in this country. It is just possible that Russian radio audiences actually take an interest in the lives of random, ordinary Americans (I use the word ordinary here in its broadest sense, particularly as it applies to me). Americans prefer to know about “real” Americans, which is to say shallow personality types pushed towards juvenile hysteria in entirely manufactured situations. I am talking, of course, of Sarah Palin. No, no, to be fair I am really thinking of reality television—and Sarah Palin.

To be fair to American radio, there are a few excellent programs dedicated to covering aspects of our country—ordinary, quirky and downright weird aspects—that generally receive no coverage at all. You can find stories about people who, while interesting, are not in some way elected, whether by voters, money, family, looks or possibly even talent.

By and large, though, we only ever hear about and from people with something to sell—even if what they have to sell is nothing more than their naked desire to sell themselves. No doubt learning about such people can tell one a great deal about this country. But it is far from clear that we derive much benefit from showing ourselves almost exclusively to be like this, especially since we aren’t. The rest of the world seems increasingly unimpressed, and we seem increasingly uninterested in dealing with the nuances—with the fact, for instance, that a town of real Americans such as Wasilla might be home both to can-do hockey moms and fiercely independent moose hunters, and to a lot of chain stores and methamphetamine dealers, plus, presumably, a fair number of people just getting on with their lives.

Given that it is never easy to take a dispassionate look at yourself, it seems to me that Vlad might do at least as much good sharing his stories with us as with Russians. It might help us gain a little perspective. Not that I am suggesting that having people hear about me on the radio will make the world a better place. Vlad and I had a pleasant chat for a couple of hours, but I cannot imagine how he will make an instructive or even coherent story out of it. I would, however, be interested to know what he has to say about the former prostitute.

Perhaps the former prostitute would be interested in what I have to say. Such as that the potatoes came out of the hard, dry ground pretty roughed up so we went ahead and washed them. I recommend you not wait too long to eat them.

Or that you can cut your fennel bulb (the thing that smells like licorice) into thin slices and add it to a salad.

Or that we hope to have a tomato tasting at our next farm day (Saturday, August 14^th) to see which variety people like the most—assuming we can find the little wooden tags in the rows and figure which variety is which.

Or that there is nothing better to do with tomatoes than make a simple salad with basil, a little sliced onion, olive oil, a splash of vinegar, pepper and a lot of salt. Well, nothing better than to make the tomato salad and then eat it.

Or that, speaking of loosing track of varieties, I do not remember what kind of pears these are, but they taste good and the tree is remarkably productive (we go enough pears for everyone off of one tree). You could slice them up and add them to the salad with the fennel, and toss in a little blue cheese too.

Or that we continue to hope that you return empty boxes to your pick up site so that we can bring them back to the farm. Half of the boxes from the first week have already been returned, which is good news.

29 July 2010

Basil, Merlin and Chioggia beets, Fordhook, Magenta Sunset and Rhubarb chard, Cucumber, Lettuce, Onion, Carmen, Islander and Flavorburst Peppers, Red Norland potatoes, Squash

Several towns in Washington County, including Easton, have recently taken on the pressing matter of defending the English language. Sadly, not from misuse by native speakers. There will be no fines levied against those who make egregious grammatical errors, repeatedly misuse words or generally demonstrate a poor sense of style. No, what our language needs to be saved from, it turns out, is other languages—evil, rapacious languages lurking out there just waiting to pounce on some defenseless, innocent one sweetly minding its own business. Given its modest standing in the world and its obvious desire to carry on quietly without bothering anyone else, English is a tempting prey.

The Easton Town Board, ever a leading light in civic matters, wishes to be clear that while it fears for the safety of English, it has no particular language in mind as the enemy. Who knows, Basque or Swahili or Turkish might force itself upon us. And by force itself upon us I mean, if I understand the concerns of our Town Board correctly, that some day a speaker of some unspecified foreign tongue might have the gall to request a copy of our Comprehensive Plan translated into their language. I know, it shocks one even to contemplate such an entirely hypothetical event. Actually, it would be surprising enough if anyone ever asked for a copy of the Comprehensive Plan in its current English version, let alone demanded a translation. But one must be vigilant again all possible attacks.

They do, of course, have a specific language in mind even though they lack the courage to own up to their pathetic little anti-immigrant sentiments. They, like so many of their fellow citizens, fear that Hispanic immigrants will come to our community to change our way of life. The fact that we already have a fair number of Mexican and Central American workers on our dairy farms—their labor and low wages helping our one major industry to survive—and that these people have shown no sign of trying to change anything hardly seems to matter. In fact, our immigrant population remains almost entirely invisible. You would have to go into the barns and milking parlors of Easton to find them.

Oddly, that probably makes things worse. Though they remain out of sight for the most part because they are here illegally—not that anyone has tried to make them feel welcome—it is taken as further evidence of their unwillingness to integrate. This is a key charge against them since just about everyone making it is an immigrant, many of them from some ethnic group at one time viewed as a threat to our way life. To finesse this seemingly sticky point, anti-immigrant folks have come up with (well, revived—but they don’t know that because they ignore history) the argument that Hispanics differ from previous immigrants because they refuse to assimilate and so will by sheer force of numbers overwhelm us and leave us strangers in our native (so to speak) land. If they really meant to fit in they would speak English like all the other immigrant do.

Take me, for instance. My great grandmother came to this country from Eastern Europe and yet I speak English more or less fluently, whereas the Mexicans who did the milking for the Allens can barely speak any English. Sure, when my grandmother arrived there were whole Yiddish-speaking neighborhoods in New York with Yiddish newspapers and Yiddish theaters and restaurants serving weird bread rolls with holes in them, just as there were—and in some cases still are—Italian and German and Chinese and Norwegian and Polish and Czech and West Indian neighborhoods where newly arrived immigrants spoke their own language and followed their own customs—and there were real Americans warning about the terrible threat this all posed to our superior WASP culture. But let’s not get hung up on the past.

Imagine what will happen if we let this new wave of immigrants settle here and infect our culture. Not only will our language suffer, but we might end up eating their food. We have to protect our American culinary heritage from unwanted outside influences too. We cannot let these folks from south of the border mess with the potato. All right, maybe that is not the best example. Okay, but what about bagels, pizza, egg rolls, wieners, sauerkraut, spaghetti, Budweiser? Everyone else who came to this country adapted to eating just like we do. But these Hispanics, I just know they are going to try to slip some of their dishes into our diet. No thanks, I say. Get your hands off my American food, Mexicans (except, of course, when you are picking it). I am sticking with Taco Bell and Chipotle.

I suggest anyone who believes there is some sort of coherent, untainted, fundamentally Anglo-saxon American culture to defend take a walk around a farm field. If they walked through ours they would find crops that have traveled from all over the world—not just obvious immigrants like bok choi and cilantro, but peppers and eggplants and beets and onions and tomatoes and turnips and melons and cucumbers and beans and peas. In fact they would find few crops native to this or any other Anglo-saxon country. Thomas Jefferson may have grown many of these crops at Monticello, but they were available to him because people have always moved around the world for all sorts of reasons, and they have carried with them not just their language and beliefs and history, but also their food. Newcomers and natives (people and plants) have mingled in their own frequently hostile fashion. Picking out one moment in this ebb and flow and setting it apart as an inviolable institution worthy of defense is silly and pointless. 75 years from now during hard times the grandchildren of Mexican migrant pickers will join their fellow Americans to decry the influx of Estonians and warn everyone of the danger these strange newcomers pose to our Spanish-inflected language, our beloved barbecued goat tacos and the all American Quinceanera.

Speaking of the unwashed coming to our shores, you may be wondering why the potatoes did not take a bath before settling in your neighborhood. Since these are new potatoes—dug while the plants are still alive—they are surprisingly fragile. We have found in past years that washing them on the farm not only strips off their skins, but also causes them to go bad quickly. We though you would rather wash a few potatoes than get some mushy ones.

One you have scrubbed the potatoes you might want to mix them with some olive oil, salt, a few dried herbs (rosemary or thyme, for instance) and a dash of smoked paprika if you happen to have it (and you should have it), and pop them in a 425 degree oven until they are crunchy on the outside and creamy within, which takes somewhere around an hour. You could cut an onion into eights and roast it with the potatoes. They go very well with sautéed chard. Or you could boil them and the beets and make a cold salad with sliced onion and basil. You can also eat the beets raw. Peel them, slice them as thinly as possible (a mandoline makes that much easier as long as you don’t jam your finger into the lethally sharp blade (and yes, that is the voice of experience)) and dress them with some olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper.

I strongly recommend roasting and peeling the peppers. They taste fine as they are, but better roasted and peeled. I put them on a burner to char the skin all over (the pepper’s skin that is), put them in a brown paper bag or piece of paper towel for at least ten minutes (where they steam themselves, which loosens the skin) and then wash the skin off. You could add some slices to your roasted potatoes or a grilled squash and mozzarella sandwich or puree them with oil, vinegar (sherry vinegar would be good), mustard, salt and pepper to make a red pepper vinaigrette. Or if you happen to be in an ornery mood you could reprimand them for coming to our country without proper papers and have them deported back to their native Mexico.

I do hope that you will send your boxes back to where they came from. You can return the empty, flattened box (please try to preserve the tabs on the bottom when you flatten the box) to your site. It is fine to bring it back when you pick up the next share. We have enough boxes to deal with the time lag. We do not, however, have enough boxes to deal with getting them back many weeks later or not getting them back at all, so we ask that you try to remember to return them reasonably promptly. Thanks.

22 July 2010

Jade or Carson beans, Farao cabbage, Olympian cucumber, Hercules dill, Eggplant, Lettuce, Pepper, Indigo radicchio, Squash

I am thrilled to report that the raised bed maker I purchased this spring is working like a charm. Literally like a charm. Not that it does not also function perfectly well mechanically—perfectly well, of course not meaning literally perfectly, merely as well as one might reasonably hope a new piece of equipment would work. One, in this case, being a farmer who has bought a number of pieces of equipment over the years with increasingly modest hopes for them. In other words, the new bed shaper functions roughly as advertised with a few minor glitches, irritations, and the occasional breakdown.

It certainly works better than the old bed shaper, which required multiple passes to make anything resembling a usable bed, resulting in terrible soil structure in the beds and some pretty terrible language on the tractor. And no doubt some of the new bed shaper’s failings, such as they are, are entirely due to operator error—to my inability, for instance, to drive a tractor in a perfectly straight line while look back over my shoulder, or my failure to buy a farm with acres and acres of rock-free, dead flat, well drained, deep loam. And I certainly cannot blame the bed shaper for my decision to unhook it—well, almost completely unhook it—from the tractor and drive off with the electric cable still attached to the tractor battery—or at least attached until it snapped in half. Though come to think of it, I could blame the bed shaper. It is unlikely to declare its innocence so nobody will know I caused the damage.

Whatever its and my shortcomings may be, working together we can fairly reliably produce a good looking raised bed half a foot tall with a firm, level planting surface. Sometimes the beds even come out straight and parallel—or close enough to it that someone driving by and not paying much attention would hardly notice the difference.

But we don’t just make these attractive raised beds to impress passing motorists. They also happen to serve a purpose. Planting our vegetables on these beds keeps them warm and dry—and vegetables tend to appreciate that. Especially in cold wet growing seasons such as we have had the past two years. The rain washes away nutrients, the cold soil slows down germination and growth, the constant moisture creates a fertile breeding ground for all sorts of diseases. If the soil stays fully saturated—meaning all the spaces between the soil particles are filled with water—for long enough, the plants drown.

None of which has really been an issue this year. Our raised beds have stayed remarkably warm and dry right from the start of the growing season, and we have the bed shaper to thank for that. But not because of the beds it has shaped, which have of course proved more or less beside the point. It is the mere fact of its existence on the farm that caused these conditions. Given the weather’s deep sense of irony, on which I have remarked often, it was more or less inevitable that any serious effort on my part to counteract the effects of the cold and wet we have battled the past two years would result in a year like this. You might think that knowing this I would have spent my money instead on an irrigation system, but of course that would only have prompted an epic flood. And if I had tried to be especially crafty and get the irrigation system and the bed shaper at the same time, in addition to bankruptcy this would surely have called down upon me climactic catastrophe.

To be fair, the weather could be treating us worse—and probably would be if I had had Herbie put in a lot more drain tile this spring. The lack of consistent water has stressed some of the crops—especially the cucumbers and beans and broccoli—and made it a bit harder to get some direct seeded crops to germinate consistently. But the cabbage certainly does not seem to have minded too much, and the eggplants seem to be having a fine old time out there in the dust. Plus if we had more water we would just have more squash. Not that I think of having a lot of squash as such a bad thing. I cut up a pile of them into stick the other night and sautéed them in olive oil with some cubes of spicy sausage. They were good hot and cold. You could add some eggplant too, though I still think it is best grilled—or turned into eggplant mush (see the recipe on the web site). You can also grill radicchio, though it is probably just easier to have it in a salad with the lettuce or shred it with the cabbage for coleslaw, for which you could make a dressing with some of the dill.

The crops may not mind growing in this weather, but they enjoy it less after they have been picked. We hope they feel better in a box. We hope you like the box too. In fact, we hope you like it enough to look after it and make sure it gets back home safe and sound. To increase the chances of that happening, we ask that after you have removed the share you pull the bottom apart carefully, making sure not to rip off the tabs that hold it together, and flatten the box. To get the box back to us you could return it to the site if possible and leave it for us to retrieve (we will see if can figure out places at the various sites to leave boxes) or of course come out to the farm and drop it off in person. This Sunday would be a good opportunity to do that since we are having our second Farm Day of the season from 10 to 2, meaning that in addition to shepherding the box back to its pasture, you can also meet the people who grew the vegetables that were in it and see the crops in the fields that will turn up in future shares. In addition, you could join us in harvesting some garlic and hanging it to dry in the barn, except for a few heads that I might use while showing you how I make a dishes, such as that eggplant mush or marinated grilled vegetables. Feel free to bring along a picnic, including any vegetable dishes you would like to show off. We will provide drinks and snacks. We hope we will see—with or without a box—this Sunday.

15 July 2010

Basil, Chioggia or Merlin beets, Blue Wind broccoli, Minuet Chinese cabbage, Olympian cucumber, Cilantro, Lettuce, Sugar Snap peas, Scallions, Squash

Sometimes I wonder why I continue to grow broccoli. It is the Goldilocks of vegetables: this spring is too cold and this spring is too hot. Theoretically our spring is just right. On average we have the sort of climate to make a picky crucifer happy. But when did we last have an average spring?

I am not complaining about the weather so far this season (I was just starting to think yesterday that we really needed some rain and then it rained). But the broccoli is. The heat and lack of water stressed it out, leaving it cranky and pale and unwilling to make a serious effort to do its job properly (fortunately the farm crew responded differently to the weather). The past two year it sulked in the rain and cold and did an even worse job.

Some of the best spring broccoli we have ever had got thrashed by hail at a tender age. Even since then I have considered whipping it into shape. I figure I could approximate the hail damage by going at the young broccoli with a weed whacker. But something (the voice of reason?) tells me my experiment would fail—plus I would turn up in a video on the web site of some group dedicated to fighting cruelty to vegetables and I am not willing to put up with the shame and protests just to get early broccoli.

Especially since I don’t like broccoli all that much. It is fine, but if it knew better it would be cauliflower. I have never understood why so many picky kids consider it one of the few acceptable vegetables. If I were going to be a picky child I would definitely not include broccoli on my list of vegetables I would deign to eat without throwing a fit. Cauliflower might make it. Lettuce certainly would, and onions and garlic and tomatoes and beets and eggplant and escarole and arugula and zucchini and chard and turnips and...

All right, so that is not the list of a picky eater. I am afraid I don’t have much experience being picky. My mother is English and grew up during World War Two. We ate what we were served. You never knew when the next convoy would make it past the U boats. It helped that most of her cooking lessons took place in the south of France rather than the suburbs of Birmingham. Otherwise I might have made it to adulthood without tasting garlic.

I don’t know if they eat a lot of broccoli in the south of France, but if they do they almost certainly douse it in garlic. That sounds like a good idea for a number of reasons. Aside from tasting good, it might help to keep at bay some of the creatures that want to eat the broccoli. And I am not talking about picky kids, though garlic probably would deter them. We don’t have a real problem with picky kids going after the broccoli out in the field. We do have a problem with flea beetles and cabbage loopers and deer. Not that the deer are serious about eating broccoli. They just browse on a few plants as they pass by and quickly decide they would rather go and destroy the beets and beans. But the other two can’t think of anything nicer to nibble on. A floating row cover helps keep them off the broccoli, but it also helps keep the heat on the broccoli. When it is ninety degrees out you have to choose between heat and bug damage.

We have an organic spray, DiPel (Bt. Kurstaki)_for the loopers that is pretty effective if you can get it on the stuff they are eating, but that is tough to do when they are in a head of broccoli. You cannot get a sprayer nozzle into a head of broccoli still attached to a broccoli plant. As for flea beetles, I don’t know of any spray that stops them. Conventional farmers must have some toxin that works, but I cannot imagine you would want to eat a crop sprayed with a chemical strong enough to do in flea beetles. Whatever it is, I doubt it is as good for you as garlic.

On top of all that, broccoli demands a lot of space and nutrients. Each plant takes up about two square feet of field and a lot of nitrogen in order to—if we are lucky—make one head of broccoli. The Chinese cabbage occupied less that half that space while producing something far bigger. The three rows of snap peas take up only a bit more space than a single planting of broccoli and they actually make nitrogen in the soil.

Despite all this I keep on planting broccoli. We will put in six plantings during the season, and we will fertilize and weed and spray and cover them in the hope that at some point—or maybe even several points—we get a good crop. It is kind of a pain, but it is our job. We are not just going to stick to things that are easy to grow, and anyway lots of crops require some special effort. We have to trellis the tomatoes and keep them on a regular dose of fungicide. The cucumbers are on raised beds covered in biodegradable plastic mulch and need a lot of help to survive the striped cucumber beetles. We have to hill the potatoes twice and check them weekly for outbreaks of Colorado potato beetles. The onions don’t respond well to competition; we have weeded the patch four times so far.

I sometimes think of the vegetables as my employees. I bring them to the farm to do a job, try my best to nurture them and to create a healthy working environment. But they can be a difficult bunch to manage. They make constant demands, object to my suggestions, take time off without asking, get sick frequently, and often have substandard work product. Sometimes I feel like getting rid of the bunch of them. But I need them to do the work so I put up with their foibles, even when, like broccoli, they are apt to produce inferior results when things don’t go exactly their way.

8 July 2010

Mei Qing choi, Fordhook or Rhubarb Chard, Lincoln leeks, Purple mizuna, Parsley, Sugar Snap peas, Peppers, Multipik and Cashflow Squash, Hakurei turnips

There may be times when you wonder why you pay someone to grow your vegetables. How hard can it be? It is not like we are doing surgery here on the farm. Or even car repair. Car repair requires training, special tools, a certain mechanical aptitude. Growing vegetables does not require much more than a little time and space and dirt. Just about anyone can grow some crops.

I took over my family’s vegetable garden when I was maybe twelve, and if I did not enjoy complete success with every crop, at the very least I managed to grow a lot of pole beans. Enough one summer to maintain a sort of perpetual green bean salad like a sour dough starter. I had no particular gardening knowledge and no tools other than a fork and spade and my hands. I knew enough to dig up my little patch of the back garden, sow the seeds in rows and pull out the weeds, and that was enough to know.

Sure, I could have done a better job if I had learned more about growing vegetables—if I had known to make compost and add it to the soil, for instance, or built a little hoop house for early and late crops or chosen the varieties that would do best in my climate and dirt. But I had other things to do, I didn’t see the need to increase my bean yield, and it was a lot harder to find good gardening information way back then. These days a kid of any age with a desire to grow some food can get on the internet and get all the knowledge and supplies needed to create a productive garden.

I won’t pretend that if you did it yourself it would turn out to be better or cheaper or easier. Guys who get paid to grow vegetables often have a few advantages, like owning tractors or employing a farm crew or having nothing else to do all day. But that is not the point. It is the fact that you could easily do it yourself that matters. You are unlikely to be able to replace your own hip or even figure out why your check engine light keeps going on. But you could definitely grow some beans.

I recognize that this may be a farmer thing, the idea that because you can do something yourself you should do it yourself. Farmers are an independent, obdurate, cheap bunch. We would gladly sacrifice efficiency and quality and free time in the name of self-sufficiency. People often hope I can offer some tale of spiritual awakening or moral purpose to explain my career choice. But the simple fact is that I started farming because I like eating and figured I might as well grow the food myself—well that and because I am not much good at working for other people.

I would suppose that most normal people do not suffer quite so seriously from this pig-headed desire to make do without help. Indeed, the common idea of luxury is to have other people do just about everything for you. Still, farmers are not the only people with a do it yourself instinct. Even if you don’t actually intend to start a small farm in your yard (and some of you have already done it), you can still from time to time entertain the notion that you could easily do what we do.

Perhaps not so frequently this week, though. This is the sort of weather to make you feel good about having had the sense to leave the pea picking to someone else.

It is also the sort of weather to make you feel good about farming somewhere that rarely gets so beastly hot. We have suffered through a few sultry days, but we have not had a heat wave like this in several years. We could be farming in Rajasthan, where our high would be the average temperature and it would not count as a really hot day until it go up to around 115 degrees. No wonder so many Indians end up working in call centers. As miserable as it must be to spend one’s day talking irate Americans through pointless troubleshooting procedures, it is probably better than being outside in that climate.

I cannot imagine that many of our crops would enjoy that climate either. They all look a bit sulky by the middle of the afternoon, even the allegedly heat-loving ones. Only the weeds thrive in these conditions. They grow like bamboo in this heat.

As you can see, we and the vegetables have not completely given in to the heat yet. And as bad as it is, it is certainly better for the crops than the rain and cold of the past two years. Just for a start, the slugs are gone so we actually have a pepper crop. The chard certainly prefers this weather—we could have picked everyone a second bunch and still not made it all the way down the row—and the squash continues to do its things, its thing being to produce more than we need. Even the leeks have prospered. They are supposed to like moisture but they have sized up far faster this year.

Sized up may seem an odd way to put it given that the leeks are hardly bigger than scallions, but this is their intended size. At least, it is the size we intended. I don’t actually know what the leeks had in mind. They should be tender and tasty—though like leeks of any size, not so tender you would want to eat them raw. You could grill them whole along with slices of squash, toss them with a vinaigrette and chopped parsley and eat them cold. Or chop them up and sauté them slowly in butter with the turnips.

If you are just too hot to think about food you can enjoy the mizuna’s decorative qualities. Or you could use it in a salad.

As for the peas, you don’t have to do anything at all to them—other, that is, than eating them. I do prefer them quickly (and I mean quickly—absolutely no more than two minutes) steamed, but given that we are all being steamed already you might want to skip that. Just sit in front of an air conditioner and munch on them straight from the bag and enjoy the fact someone else picked them.

If for some strange reason having us do the work leaves you feeling a little unfulfilled, you can come out to the farm and pick something. No, I am not suggesting that you join us for the next pea picking. But we do have a lot of black currants right now and if you would like to have some you can come out to the farm and pick your own. Just let me know if you are interested (thomastheallegedfarm.com) and we can arrange a time (I would recommend early or late in the day unless you are a mad dog or Englishman).

1 July 2010

Arugula, Basil, Beets or turnips, Dill, Endive (escarole or frisee), Kohlrabi, Lettuce, Radishes, Scallions, Squash

It is fortunate that the World Cup only happens once every four years. It gives me plenty of time from one tournament to the next to forget how much I dislike watching the best soccer players in the world cheat. Not that all the tripping and diving (observe anybody on the Argentine team falling over at the slightest contact, arms raised, back elegantly arched, to see the dive at its operatic best), the pushing and jersey grabbing have destroyed my enjoyment of the game. There is still plenty of spectacular soccer taking place, from some obviously remarkable goals to the subtlest of touches, which comes as no surprise. These are all, even the North Koreans, highly gifted soccer players, men who have dedicated an astounding portion of their lives to the game.

You would think that if you could play a game that well you would not have to cheat at it. Your practiced skills would be your advantage, not a fistful of your opponent’s jersey. And you would think that having given so much of your life to a game—to an endeavor entirely defined by its rules (if you pick up the ball and run around holding it or bouncing it off the ground you are no longer playing soccer)—you would take a keen interest in sticking to its laws.

But I guess rules were made to be broken. Actually, I have never understood what that is really supposed to mean. It sounds less like an acute observation than a piece of self-justification, the sort of thing you would say as you jumped a turnstile or fudged some numbers on your tax return or created a shell company to hide your crippling corporate debt from your shareholders and government regulators. It is true that by their nature rules can be broken. Of course, Ming vases by their nature can also be broken, but nobody says that they were therefore made for that purpose. I cannot help thinking that in fact most rules actually were made to be followed.

It is also true, obviously, that breaking rules gives you an advantage—as long as you are not caught. Some people break rules just for the fun of it—possibly the same sorts of people who fly the Confederate flag to show they are rebels. But most people do it because they gain from cheating. That is certainly the case in the World Cup. The players are looking for any way to win, and if that includes a well placed elbow to an opponents lower back or spending half a minute writhing on the ground clutching an uninjured leg, so be it. It works most of the time, and anyway, as many of the players would be quick to point out, everyone else does it so not doing it puts you at a disadvantage.

I do not mean to single out soccer players in this regard. The best athletes in just about every major sport routinely cheat. I doubt there were many foul-free downs played in the NFL last season. The Tour de France and most track meets would more accurately be called pharmaceutical rather than athletic competitions. Baseball players are busy improving bats and balls and bodies in various banned ways. It would not surprise me at all to learn that ping-pong champions bend the rules at least as skillfully as they do their serves.

Of course the best athletes cheat. They did not become that good at their chosen sport simply for the love of the game. They may well love it (though, as Andre Agassi wants us to know, they may also hate it). But it is competitiveness that keeps them working so hard to be as good as they are. When you are that driven and have given up that much of your life to one thing in order to win at it, it is hardly surprising that you would try for victory any way you can even if that means breaking the rules of the game to which you have dedicated yourself.

So one lesson sports can teach kids—and of course we should all look to sports to inculcate our offspring with moral sensibilities—is that people who strive single-mindedly to succeed will cheat at least a little when the ref is looking the other way if it helps them get ahead. Obviously, a lot of bankers grew up wanting to emulate their sports heroes—and did. Fortunately, there are a few other lessons to go with this one. Such as the fact that an unmediated desire to win warps your sense of fair play. Or the fact that putting a few more referees on the field to keep an eye the players and penalize cheaters would cut down on the misdeeds. Or the fact that a deeply cynical governing body that regards money and popularity as greater goods than governing will help foster a culture of cheating. Or the fact that being good at a game is not the same as being good.

These are all excellent things to teach a kid. Not, I hasten to add, that they apply in any way to the rest of our lives. Goodness no. We are just talking about soccer here. It is only a game, a pastime, a simple amusement, an escape from the real world.

I believe at this point I am supposed to offer some nifty segue from soccer to farming—perhaps offer up agriculture as a shining counter example of ethical behavior or provide recipes from each of the quarter final countries. Unfortunately, farmers are people too, and if Ghanaians have wonderful ways of preparing kohlrabi I am sadly ignorant of them. I have nothing for you. Well, nothing but some vegetables, a familiar cast of characters. Consider the squash a sort of early warning, a reminder of what could be headed your way. Start looking for squash recipes.

The squash is also, I hope, a more positive omen, a harbinger of summer crops to come. So far the cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, onions and beans show real potential. The weather has been decent to us. The equipment has worked. The deer have exercised some restraint (mostly because we have used a lot of deer repellent). It is an oddly, almost unnervingly promising year.

That is not to say that everything will go as planned from here on out. The weather, pests and diseases all play dirty no matter how close an eye you keep on them. Just when you think you have reached your goal they will catch you unaware and drive you to your knees. You just have to learn to expect that sort of behavior, anticipate and sidestep it the best you can, strive to maintain your balance when they hit you, keep moving forward. And kick them in the shins when nobody is watching.

24 June 2010

Beets or turnips, Cilantro, Frisee, Garlic scapes, Kohlrabi, Lettuce, Mustard greens, Radishes, Scallions

I bought a button down shirt a few weeks ago. I don’t buy real shirts often, for obvious reasons. When—infrequently—I do put on clothes free of oil stains, paint splotches, frayed collars and holes people tend to remark on it. Perhaps if I did more clothes shopping I would not have paid as much attention to all the extra stuff I got with my shirt.

Useless extra stuff I hasten to add. I don’t want any of you feeling bad about missing out on some fabulous exclusive shirt emporium offering enticing perks to its customers. There was no excellent cup of espresso offered while I contemplated my purchase, no coupon for dry cleaning, not even any obsequious admiration of my remarkable physique and obviously impeccable taste in shirts. No, I got none of that. But I did get a plastic bag, cardboard, tissue paper, stiff plastic collar inserts, plastic ties for the labels and some pins in addition to the cotton material and thread, dye and plastic buttons that were actually needed to make the shirt.

To be fair, I could find uses for some of the extras. Pins are obviously reusable (not that I ever use them), and I suppose I could come up with some other purpose for a plastic bag or a piece tissue paper. Perhaps I could nestle a delicate, ripe heirloom tomato in the paper and slip it into the bag for transport. Then if I bought lots of shirts I could package the whole tomato crop for free. At least I can recycle the cardboard. And if plastics manufacturers took their social responsibilities more seriously (by which, of course, I mean if they were compelled by law to do so) I would probably be able to recycle all the plastic too or put it in the compost pile. Well, I could have put the plastic that came with the shirt in the compost pile. I mean put it in the compost pile and have it break back down into non-toxic organic matter.

I admit that all the plastic and paper and pins made the shirt look good in the store, all neatly folded and flat, with the collar held perfectly in place. I understand the point of presentation. I just think we may be overdoing it a bit. I do not wish to suggest that we create a totally utilitarian world in which everything must serve a sober function in order to justify its existence. Aside from the fact that such world is entirely unachievable—when was the last time we managed to agree on what is absolutely necessary?—it would also be intensely boring. If I were trying to live a rigidly frugal life I would not be out buying a white button down shirt with blue stripes when I already have a drawer full of t-shirts that do an entirely (or almost entirely in certain cases) adequate job even if they are a little grubby and worn. In fact, it is not entirely clear that I could justify having the t-shirts either since an old potato sack might do much the same thing (though in defense of my t-shirts they are rather less itchy than potato sacks).

Given the drilling, timbering, mining, refining, smelting, pulping, molding and god knows what else required to produce the objects intended solely to display my shirt attractively to potential buyers, it is hard not to think we could do with a lot less presentation. Surely we can find better things to do with our time than ripping up the earth in order to potentially increase the sales of consumer goods. I feel confident I would have been able to assess the merits of my shirt at least as effectively if it had merely been neatly folded and put in a pile on a crate. Of course, that would leave a lot of drillers, lumberjacks, miners, smelters, etc. out of work. But if we are willing to cover their wages every time we buy a shirt then surely we would also be willing to use the money we would save on buying more simply merchandised apparel to give them jobs restoring forests and mountains, cleaning up toxic waste sites, and building renewable energy infrastructure. Instead of making my shirt look good they could make my planet more presentable.

But it is not just the shirt that has me thinking about sensible packaging. It’s your vegetables too. I have been contemplating other ways to pack the shares for some time, ways that might help ensure they still look presentable when you get them. In an ideal world (my ideal world) you would all come to farm to get your produce and see how nice it looks straight from the field. But since for most of you neither your actual nor, most likely, ideal world involves making that weekly trip we need a good, practical way to get your share to you. A waxed cardboard box seems like it would do the trick, and we have 1100 of them sitting in the barn now. Sturdy and reusable, they should afford your vegetables greater protection than the bags. The question is whether or not I can afford them. At $1.28 apiece, the cost adds up fast. If I used them every week and never got any back I would have to spend nearly $5000 a year on boxes. That I cannot afford. In order to make this work I need to get a substantial number of the boxes back in a usable condition. I recognize that this would require a small extra effort on your part and may present logistical challenges at some sites. So we will try using the boxes soon and see what happens. If they come back to the farm we will keep using them. If not we will either have to go back to the bags or, if you think the boxes are worth it, ask for a box deposit to cover the extra cost. If you have any opinions about this or ideas about how to make it work well please share them with me.

A weekly trip to the farm may not work for you, but I hope the occasional one does. This Saturday, for instance, when we have our first farm day of the season from 10:00 to 2:00. You can see how good the crops look when they are still in the field, meet us and other members, get a sneak preview of those boxes and try a simple farm task to reconfirm your decision to let us do the work for you. As part of a season-long effort to offer you more information about what we are up to on the farm, we will focus on cover cropping for this farm day: on what that means, how we do it, and why we make the effort to grow acres of inedible crops that we just plow under. We will also provide drinks and snacks. Feel free to bring a picnic and friends (but please leave your dogs at home).

In anticipation of visiting the crops in their native habitat, you can eat some in your native habitat. Such as some mustard greens, which you could use in a salad with a dressing of oil, vinegar, Dijon mustard, soy sauce, sesame oil, mirin, chopped scallion, sugar, salt and pepper. Or turnips sautéed slowly in butter. Or frisee in a salad with roasted beets.

However you prepare the vegetables in your share this week, do not forget to spend some time on their presentation. While I do not have any specific recommendations, you might want to consider an arrangement involving a certain amount of plastic and tissue paper, which can really show things off to advantage. You might, however, want to avoid using any pins just to be safe.