Weeding and Ice Cream Party: No Weeding, No Eating

Our very first “Ice Cream (and Weeding!) Party” with our CSA members was fifteen years ago, in the very first year of our very first CSA garden, near Ithaca, NY. Homemade, hand-cranked ice cream in return for an hour or two of weeding sounded like a great deal to us, especially since our hours of weeding were (and are) not generally followed by creamy, delicious, homemade, hand-cranked ice cream.

We planned it all out: we would weed for two hours, and then we'd start cranking the ice cream, just in time for afternoon snack. With all the hordes of people flocking to the party, we'd surely get the fall carrots and the beets and the broccoli and the cabbage and the winter squash weeded, and if we needed more to do, we could tackle the onions and garlic. We made a big tub of ice cream mix, with six quarts of milk, cream, sugar, vanilla, and a pinch of salt, all ready to be churned in our ice-cream mixer.

Then we sat on the porch, and waited for the hordes.

And waited.

“But where are all the people?” said I, as the minutes ticked by. “They were supposed to be here at two, and it's two-fifteen already.”

“Hmm,” said my fellow farmer. “I'm not sure. Maybe all their cars broke down?”

By two-thirty, our then baby began to appear a little restless, waiting on the porch for the people.

“I guess we have to go weed by ourselves,” I said glumly.

“Yeah,” said my fellow. “I don't really feel like it. Maybe we should just make the ice cream right now?”

“But what if somebody comes? What if they got their cars fixed, and they're coming? Let's just take a little walk around and look at what needs weeding. The baby will like that, too.”

My fellow sighed. “That's half our trouble here, isn't it? That we just walk around and look at what needs doing.”

“Nah,” I said. “Half of our trouble is our CSA members won't come and help us weed.” We got a good giggle out of this, and, once we got out to the desperately weedy beets and carrots, we couldn't help ourselves. We started weeding, as the baby took a little nap in the pathway.

“We're just having a party all by ourselves,” said my fellow. “And it must be time to make the ice cream by now.”

I lifted my head. “No, wait! I hear a car! Somebody's coming!”

My fellow jumped up. “You're right! Let's go see who it is!”

By this time, we were so sure no none was coming that the arrival was a pleasant surprise: three fine weeders, and never mind that two were under six, and more interested in ice cream than tidy garden beds.

Now, fifteen years later, we still have our Ice Cream and Weeding parties, though we call them Weeding and Ice Cream Parties these days, just to be clear on the order of things. We still hope for far more weeding to be accomplished than could ever reasonably be (ah, there it it is: the optimism necessary to sustain the farming fire for all this time!).

We have also learned over the years that making six quarts of ice cream is a little too much for our ice cream churn: the mix squishes out the top. But five quarts is an ideal amount for any number of people. It's been ideal for the giant parties of ten plus weeders, and it's been ideal for the weeding party in the (light, very light) rain, where we had one stalwart fellow in a raincoat. And it's been ideal for the parties where two farmers, and one now teenage daughter, walk around and look at what needs doing.

Of course, we three have to weed a little, even if no one else shows up, because that's the Weeding and Ice Cream Party rule: no weeding, no eating. And gosh, just think if we had Weeding and Ice Cream Party rules in effect all the time: imagine the gloriously weed-free gardens, the fantastically fit people, the peace, love, harmony, justice, and happy farmers in the world!

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Sept 2-Sept 8, 2015

Putting Food By

 

Here on the farm we are entering the season of Putting Food By. It is a long season, and a hectic season, the urgency compounded by the fact that it is also the Hot and Heavy Haying Season, the Little Bit More Fall Planting Season, the Everlasting Weeding Season, and the Intense Harvesting Season. The tomato harvesting alone can take up to twelve hours a week. Then there's the beets and carrots and lettuce and scallions and eggplant and green and red and hot peppers and kale and chard. And, of course, there's the exuberant yellow squash, zucchini, and cucumbers, which must be picked every other day, Or Else.

Or Else? Or Else we are inundated in the farm kitchen with giant zucchini, massive yellow squash, and portly cucumbers. These are vegetables that any CSA member in his or her right mind wouldn't dream of taking from the surplus-and-sharing tray, especially on top of the five pleasantly sized zucchini, four yellow squash, and several cucumbers that might be in the regular share for the week.

Still, despite our best efforts to keep the food flowing to the people, and not inundating the kitchen, we still must Put Food By. No longer can we say, “Oh, it's faaaarr too early in the season to start freezing or canning or drying anything at all.” Now we must buck up and buckle down, making marinara sauce and zucchini soup and blobs of frozen Swiss Chard for the winter months.

Now we must say firmly to one another, “It's just as important to Put Food By as it is to do all this other weeding and harvesting and planting and haying. It's part of the whole sustainable farming picture. Right?” This speech tends to happen at 8 or 8:30 at night, after a full day in the garden, when we might be faced with an enormous bag of basil that has to turn into delicious pesto for the winter.

There are some evenings that the only turning that happens is the turning into bed, because we two farmers are just too worn out. Then the next morning we hope that the fine enormous bag of basil will hold one more day, so that we can have the Putting Food By Speech again at 8 or 8:30 that night, and actually accomplish the pesto.

And we must accomplish the pesto, because in August and September the household has a law in effect: the Putting Food By law, which translates to One Act of Preservation a Day! It might be a small act of preservation, such as chopping up a bunch of parsley, and freezing it, or it might be a big one: canning 14 pints of tomato sauce, plus a little batch of raspberry jam, since we've already got the water in the canner boiling, plus some hot peppers in vinegar, since, yeah, we've already got the water boiling. . . Too, if we put by more than one thing a day, that surely counts as One Act of Preservation a Day! for multiple days, giving us a little leeway with the law, and, yes! a little leeway with early bedtime.

Luckily, since we are rather weary farmers this time of year, leniency of any kind will suffice: often the basil or the tomatoes or the squash will hold one more day . . . and maybe one more day . . . one more . . . and then there is always the Great, Merciful, and Compassionate Compost Pile, which turns a crime of Food-Wasting into a Potential Marvelous Crop of Vegetables for the Next Garden Season. Oh, all that miraculous Compost Clemency! It surely gives us sweet dreams in this busy, sleepy season of Putting Food By.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 5-Aug 11, 2015

Fair Weather Friends

“Gee, I hate to be a fair weather friend,” says the voice on the answering machine, “but I can't help you with haying today.”

“What ? What?” say the farmers, not sure if we are hearing correctly. “That's exactly what we do want! A fair weather friend!”

Haying of course, is all about fair weather, three days of fair weather in a row, in fact. One day to mow the hay, one day to rake it, and one day to load it up and then unload it safely in the barn, away from the rain.

My fellow farmer pays close attention to the weather reports this time of year, looking for the magic three days. 10% chance of rain? That's not much. 20%? 30%? “What do you think?” my fellow asks me, hoping my growing-up-on-a-dairy-farm-my-whole-childhood-was-about-hay wisdom will kick in.

“Oh gosh,” I waffle, as I weed the beets, “I don't know. Maybe, but we've got so much garden work to do: weeding, harvesting, mulching, planting fall crops, the CSA, the Farmers Market. Maybe we should wait . . .”

“Can't wait! Can't wait! Can't wait!”' says my pepped up farming fellow. He loves haying. I, on the other hand, come to the project with a little more trepidation. After all, my whole childhood was about hay: hay mowed, raked, baled, loaded, unloaded . . . mower broken down, baler broken up, loads of hay tipped over . . .hay dry, hay half-wet, hay all the way wet, hay ruined . . .

“Four horses,” says my fellow, “only four! Only four nice horses munching on the delicious nutritious hay from our own farm all winter!” He is trying to remind me how very different this present haying is: hay put up loose for four horses, using a sickle bar mower, a wheel rake, and a hayloader, to make 800 bales of hay, more or less, as opposed to tractors, mowing machines, balers, and 150 head of stock eating 10,000 bales of hay over a winter on my home dairy farm.

“Oh, okay,” I sigh. “I guess we should get started. Or it'll get too late in the year.”

“Great, I'll get the horses harnessed,” says my fellow, tearing to the barn. He harnesses the team and is on his way to the field with the sickle bar mower before I can consider changing my mind.

He returns cheerfully two hours later, the field mowed, the mower still working, and the horses sweaty, glad to return to their cool, dim, fly-free stalls.

My fellow checks the weather again, “Uh-oh. Now they're saying 40%,” he says. “What do you think?”

“Well, it;'s too late now,” I could say, but instead I muster up a few words of encouragement for my good-hearted fellow: “Sky's clear right now!”

“Yeah,” my fellow says happily, and the next day he rakes the hay, turning it over so it can dry on the other side, and making windrows.

On the third day, it is overcast. “Uh-oh,” says my fellow again. “Forty percent. We'd better hurry and get it in. Don't you think?”

“Well, is the hay dry? Did you check it?” Now I am weeding the carrots, trying to get some garden work done in haying-time. It makes perfect sustainable sense to make hay from our own fields to feed our own horses who plow our gardens so we can raise vegetables to eat and sell and make a living so that we can keep making hay from our own fields to feed our own horses who . . . But gosh, haying-time sure takes a lot of time in prime gardening time.

“I haven't looked yet. Come check it with me, please? You know all about it,” he pleads. “Please?”

We go up to the field to check, both of us hoping my fellow farmer's faith in my childhood haying is not entirely misplaced. The clouds seem to press down more heavily as we walk around the field, massaging clumps of hay through our hands. Is the hay dry? Kind of. Mostly.

My fellow looks worriedly at the sky, at me. Heck, I don't know. It's practically dry. It's got to be dry, considering the clouds. “I guess, “ I say finally, and my fellow heads for the horses and the wagon and the hayloader.

“Great, let's get it in, before it gets wet!” he hollers enthusiastically to the sky and the field and the hay and any fair weather friends that might happen by.

“Let's,” I say. “Let's try!”

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 8-14, 2015

Big Day on the Farm

June is the great month of arrangements: graduations and parties, vacations and weddings . . . vegetables and CSA harvest pick-ups. Of course, months of preparation have gone into these grand events.

There's preparing the ground, weeding and watering, organizing days and times budgets and guests, all in anticipation of the big flourish. It is exciting, and the final details can also be a bit stressful. This last was especially true in the early years of our CSA farming.

“All right,” a farmer might say, one fine June morning, “Who's ready for our first CSA pick-up today?”

A hundred heads of greenhouse-raised lettuce clamor for attention: “I'm ready! I'm ready! Pick me! Pick me! Me me me!”

The farmer backs up a step. “But I only need twenty head of lettuce today. I've only got twenty families coming to the farm today.”

“Pick me,” holler all hundred head. “I''m sick of this boring old hothouse! I'm ready to graduate into the world! Otherwise I'm going to bolt! See, here I go, I'm out of here, I'm bolting!”

The farmer covers his ears. “Ai-yi,” he says, “Okay, two heads per CSA share, that's 40 heads of lettuce, oh gosh, all this beautiful lettuce! All ready at once! Let's see, three heads per share . . . ?”

Meanwhile, the fellow farmer is optimistically striding out to the kohlrabi patch in the field. “Okay, kohlrabi, who's ready for the big day?” the farmer calls enthusiastically.

The kohlrabi shrinks back in alarm. “Oh, no, it's been too dry. It's been too hot, it's been too cold, it's been too wet, it's been too everything and anything. We're too young, we're much too young, oh let us alone.” The kohlrabi begins to looks a little teary; the kohlrabi has cold feet. The kohlrabi is not ready for the big day.

“Well,” says the farmer, “Huh. Jilted at the altar.” But she goes on to the bok choy, which is looking bold and vigorous under its protective row cover. The farmer flings off the cover, and the bok choy bursts out into the air.. .. bolted, reeling.

“Oh-oh,” says the farmer, “What's this?”

“Oh ha ha ha,” laughs the bok choy helplessly, “We had such a good time at the party, oh ha ha ha . .” The gone-to-flower central stalks lean drunkenly one way and then the other.

“Oh no no no,” says the farmer, “The party hasn't even started, what have you been doing, we need you today, fresh and bright and ready for harvest!”

“Oh ha ha ha,” says the bok choy, falling over, “Ha-ha-ha-harvest. Don't you know it's been too dry? It's been too hot, it's been too cold, it's been too wet, it's been too everything and anything!”

“Oh, gees,” says the farmer, stepping over the ridiculous bok choy, to check the salad greens. The farmer lifts the row cover tentatively, peeking under: is this promising green a sign of beautiful mizuna and arugula and tatsoi and other delicious mixed greens? Or is this green a promise of a fine mix of weeds?

“Hello?” says the farmer. “Salad greens? Are you under there?”

“Oh hi!” comes a perky answer. “Are we glad to see you! Everything's going great here, we 're all so relaxed and easy-going, life is wonderful, it's like a vacation, we haven't done a thing! We just let the weeds do all the growing!”

“Don't say that,” says the farmer, “This is the first CSA pick-up day. We need you!”

“Yawn,” say the salad greens, “I guess we're ready for another nap on the beach . . . why don't you check the salad turnips instead?”

“All right,” sighs the farmer. “Salad turnips, here I come.” Another hopeful look under another row cover: “Aww, what happened here? You're still tiny!”

The turnips start up a familiar refrain, the spring, summer, and fall farming song: “Oh, it's been too dry! It's been too hot, it's been too cold, it's been too wet, it's been too everything and anything!”

“Oh, gees,” moans the farmer, going back to the greenhouse with the morose field report for the fellow harvester.

The fellow harvester is awash in lovely heads of lettuce. “Look at this!” he says, holding one up. “Isn't this beautiful?”

It is beautiful, crisp and fresh, brilliant green with red speckles. “Yeah, wow! But gees, everything is supposed to look that good, and be perfectly ready by now. Maybe we should put everything in the greenhouse from now on.”

“Yeah! Let's cover the entire farm with a giant sheet of plastic!” says the happy lettuce man. “Here, help me pick some more lettuce! This is going to be the biggest best lettuce salad the people have ever had!”

“Maybe all the people can serve their giant lettuce salads at their graduation and weddings and vacations and parties?”

“All right!” The farmers join in a sort-of-victory high five. Everything might not be perfectly ready for the grand event, but everything's perfectly all right.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, June 10-June 16, 2015