carrot codependency

total crap

It was the first Saturday since May when I wasn't expected to be working. I had big plans, involving Scott Simon's buttery radio voice. Coffee. Bed. Morning sunshine. Reading. And observing (from a distance) Burton's Saturday routine, which took shape during my absence and included a vacuum, Swiffers, a variety of earth-friendly cleaning products, bitchy Swedish mops, and the manliest of elbow grease.

But somehow, without my consent, Scott Simon had the day off (he's not gone, right? RIGHT?). There was no sunshine, on account of the SNOW THAT FELL ALL DAY LONG. And Burton informed me that the cleaning-routine offer expired when I stopped working Saturdays.

To that, I say pththbst.

before the fat lady sings

Pulling up plastic mulch: It's the equivalent of that most-awful clean-up job that, even though you know you shouldn't, you save for the very last minute before moving out of an apartment. After you clean out your fridge and decide whether to chuck the whole butter dish with butter still on it or actually go to the trouble of washing, drying, and putting away, which you really can't stand to do after days and hours of packing. After you take care of that mess behind the litterbox, or maybe the greasy dust bunnies that--who knew?--had been breeding and growing like gremlins in the darkness behind your garbage can. After all that, the only thing standing between you and getting-the-hell-out-of-Dodge, in this farm metaphor, at least, is the plastic mulch.

For those plants that prefer warmer climes than New England can provide (peppers, eggplant, melons, and okra, for example), we put down a layer of black plastic mulch. The edges are tucked under the soil, thanks to a really cool plastic-laying machine, and the plants grow through small holes in the plastic.

To get rid of it, we mow down what's left of the plants: The eggplants, shriveled and brown and crispy, look like the walking dead; the peppers look perfectly fine, still dangling shiny Thai hots, jalapenos, and assorted bells. Then two people, one on each edge, pull the plastic out from under the earth and weeds and plant nubs. It takes significant effort. Rotten peppers have been decomposing on the plastic for months, cooking in the heat and leaving behind just skins and stench. It gets on your hands, clings to your pants and boots, and the stank sticks to your upper lip like an unwelcomed guest who won't leave.

There is one redeeming aspect of pulling up plastic, though. After all the mowing and pulling and yanking and kicking, the ground is littered with thousands of peppers, some rotten, some grocery-store pristine. And as you make your way down the row, they pop underfoot. Like bubble wrap. Little crunchy pepper explosions.

June 18, 1936

Florence's letter-writing slowed during the cross-Atlantic trip. She described in long detail the seven-course meals ("French coffee is foul.") and the daily movies, horse races, and lack of mingling, but I wonder if the tedium of life on board the ship got to her a bit. Finally, though, they arrived:

Thursday P.M.

To bring our chronicle up to date: We were called at 5 A.M. Tuesday by our porter and went to breakfast. Before that we had to do our tipping: 2 dollars each to the dining room steward; same to the room steward--you're supposed to tip the deck steward but we didn't bother, then 25 cents to the porters who carry your luggage to the tender. I certainly was surprised to find out that we didn't land at Plymouth. The harbor is too shallow, so they send out a floating dock and the trucks, baggage, and people are all crowded on and taken to the dock.

First of all we were sent to have our passports checked by the British officials and to get an alien or "landing card." You have to have one of these to get on the gangplank to get to the tender. That gives them a double check on the people--so stow-aways can get off.

Maybe you think it wasn't wonderful to see grass and land! The entrance to Plymouth Harbor would have looked wonderful even if it hadn't been pretty. The first thing we say was "Pilly," the car, waiting for us. They never found the cigarettes Jim gave to us for that fellow. We're only allowed to have 50 each. They used the "hit and miss" system for checking luggage. While we were waiting to be called to the customs official, we thought we'd have a cup of coffee--first boner we pulled--no English money, so we dashed over to the Cook's exchange and got $50 changed to English pounds. Honestly their money looks like waste paper. I'm half afraid I'll throw it away by mistake.

The car was finally OK'd. You should see the license plates! Great big black and white things about four times the size of ours. When we first left the Plymouth dock we nearly died laughing 'cause we certainly had a guilty feeling driving on the left. The people are such polite drivers we've been shocked to death. Hurry is a word not in their dictionary. The people in cafes and restaurants say "Thank you" every time they get your order, say it again when they place your meal before you, and again when you pay. What they're thanking you for is more than I can tell you.

Those pictures in the National Geog. didn't lie. That's exactly what we've seen all the way. The roads are very narrow. All the people ride bicycles. Automobiles have to treat "bike" riders as if they were other cars. I'd guess, as a conservative estimate, that we've passed 25,000 bicycles these 2 days.

I'll send some pictures home but be sure to save them for us. It is 10 to 12 so I'll hop for bed. Chris has been sawing them off for some time now.

Loads of love,
Florence

recyclables: my cross to bear

At a lecture last night, food was served on those saucer-sized black plastic plates--the kind caterers must live, breathe, and cough up in the night. And while recycling bins lined the hallways, inviting cans, bottles, and paper goods, there was no option for my black plastic saucer-plate. I reread the options: cans, bottles, and paper goods. Then, off to the side, a trash can.

Flashback four years. Burton and I enjoy two weeks of honeymoon bliss on the islands of Maui and Kauai. But in a land covered in pineapple plants and fine arts and crafts, my only souvenirs were empty cans and water bottles, spilling out of my suitcase and carry-on. (Well, there was also that new ring on Burton's hand--not the one he got at the wedding--and my insurance company's number on speed-dial, but that's another story.)

Burton stood beside me last night and watched me survey the options, still gripping the saucer-plate with its clearly visible recyclable number on the back. "You're going to bring that home, aren't you?" It was pouring rain. We had bags and umbrellas and jackets to fumble with. But obviously, yes, I did.

ah, the domestic life

A nor'easter is blowing through the area, so farm work was called off for the day. I'm tucked inside, watching my recycling bins stumble down the block like blue plastic tumble weeds, trying to finish up a knitting project, and mediating conflicts between the cat and dog, as they battle for the best spot on the couch.

FAQs

It’s pretty much over. Everyone keeps asking, so let me explain: Our last harvest was Saturday. Temperatures were in the 30s. Bippies were frozen. People were sick, we went home early. It was much more of a whimper than a bang.

Now, all that remains is the taking down and putting away of farm equipment, weeding the blueberries, mulching the strawberries, and a few other tasks that we never got around to, all winter-preparation-related. I will likely be unemployed by the end of the week.

Then what will you do? Look for a job. Hopefully not too far away from writing and editing, but also not too far away from food, organics, sustainability, and the like. I’m open to another adventure. Like making cheese. Because as much as I love lettuce, cheese is where it’s at. Stay tuned.

let the games begin

Every year, we stock up on apples at Phil's U-Pick in Harvard. Every year, his identical twin brother, not-Phil, takes our money, guesses our ages, and makes inappropriate jokes about the interrelationships within the group. This year, Leah "The Nanny" suffered the brunt of it. Poor woman, thought she was getting out of the house for a spell of fresh air. Never imagined she'd be harassed by a man in a pumpkin hat. But bad things happen to good people.

Anyway, our fridge runneth over with apples. They must be eaten, and preferably with heaps of sugar, raisins, and crumbles. I smell another Annual Apple Bake-Off. Who's in?

on dirt

A fifth-grade class from the Cambridge Friends School paid a visit to the farm yesterday. We greeted them in the driveway, next to the barn, where they were introduced to the farmer. As he explained a bit about the farm, he peppered them with questions : Who knows what 'organic' means? Do carrots grow on trees? What is genetically modified seed? Several dislocated their shoulders as they shot their arms into the air, hoping to be called on to rant against GMOs. They grow them wicked smaht in Cambridge.

I took a group out to harvest leeks. No one knew what a leek was, and when I explained that they're like onions, the level of satisfaction sank. I demonstrated how to harvest one: Step one: grab firmly. Step two: pull. When I got to step three (shake off excess dirt), a petit girl in a pink track suit and black leather boots shrieked and recoiled at the flying dirt. I thought we were sunk for sure.

Eventually, though, she found jobs she could manage: Telling everyone else how many they needed to pull and directing the leek-stacking system. She didn't notice the dirt as much, although she did complain to me about the slime on the leeks--something I can't disagree with.

When we had wrapped up the leek harvest, it was time to dig potatoes, an activity that brings out the child in adults and small children alike. They ran. Screamed. Grabbed. Made up songs. Threw. ("WE DON'T THROW POTATOES," the farmed screamed back.) In essence, they had a blast. By the end of it, pink tracksuit girl had stripped off her hoodie, spread it on the soft, moist soil, and used it as a potato-collecting device. And she was having the time of her 10-year-old life, dirt and all.

closure

With two harvests remaining in the season, the farm crew stands on the newly germinated cover crop in the eastern field, where row after row of tomatoes, strawberries, cabbages, and broccoli once stood. Gazing toward the sun's last gasps of the day, they contemplate what the future holds for each of them, particularly as it relates to dinner.

on gravity

It's Saturday night in Boston. We walk past the Hard Rock Cafe. Under the awning, sheltered from the rain, a small crowd of smokers huddle together. They look like a herd of some tacky breed of animal, with their hairsprayed dos and gaudy clothes and scowls. We turn the corner. Burton points out a pair of grungy undies in the street, flattened by that day's steady rain. Their owner is long gone. "They must've fallen off?" Surely.

a grand outing

My grandfather’s cousin, Florence, was a tremendous lady. She lived and died in Ohio, never married, and even in her 90s towered near six-feet tall. I remember our rare visits to the one-story house she shared with Marie (candy! they let us eat candy!), but despite the distance, Florence was a pro at keeping in touch. Like clockwork, she sent birthday cards. Inside, you could count on a crisp bill and pages of her tiny, slanted handwriting, sending news of relatives whose connections I could never keep straight.

In June 1936, while in her early 20s, Florence and her friend, Chris, traveled to New York City, where they boarded the steamer, Ile de France. With “five bags, a hatbox, armloads of junk,” and a convertible, they set sail for Europe. Over the summer, they visited Great Britain, France, Italy, and that year's summer Olympic games in Berlin. Florence, always the faithful correspondent, documented their trip in letters home to her parents and family.

Thursday 11:30 P.M.
Greetings. Can you hear my dogs barking? We’ve been seeing N.Y. And how! Got up at eleven, ate breakfast, then started for the AAA office in Rockefeller Center. We walked from there to the Grand Central Terminal and watched the mobs of people coming and going. It’s a mammoth building, but not so new as the Cleveland Terminal. There is a door there that opens when you cross a beam of light.

Our next stop was to visit some of the model homes in the Fifth Avenue shops. Whew!! It’s hard to believe, but in Saks, on 5th Ave., one pair of fuzzy anklets cost $3.50!! You should see the gorgeous promenade from 5th Ave. to Rockefeller Center. St. Patrick’s Cathedral was next. It’s difficult to realize that such a quiet sanctuary exists right in the heart of the exclusive shopping district.

Eating came next. There are so many different and clever places to eat that you could find a different place every day of the year and all of them would be novelties. Rockefeller Building (where N.B.C. Studios are located) was as interesting as a carnival. The window decorations could amuse one for days. We hurried on our way to the Battery. We rode our first “L”, or elevated R.R., to the Battery (lakefront section), where we visited the aquarium. You would have enjoyed that, Mom. Penguins, turtles, seals, pelicans, and every kind of fish imaginable.

Next came a boat trip across the harbor to Bedloe Island to see the Statue of Liberty. Not to be outdone by anyone else, we hiked up a spiral staircase, and I mean spiral (about 1 ft. wide) to the top of the crown where we had a good view of the harbor. Our legs were trembling so we could scarcely stand when we got back on ground level.

We’re going to make grand sailors, cause we nearly spilled the beans getting to Bedloe Island. We saw the largest yacht in the world anchor right off the island. Such luxuriousness! All white and carrying four beautiful launches.

Back to the Battery, up to Wall Street and Child’s Restaurant, all via the latest stream-line model car, “Two Legs.” From there it goes on endlessly—subway to 42nd St., bus trip through Chinatown (Have to tell you about that later.), and back to the Hotel Astor Bar Room. I’m so tired I can’t make sense in this letter, so I’ll call a halt until tomorrow night.

Love to all,
Florence and Chris

everyone loves an implant

Yesterday, someone drilled a screw into my jaw. Despite all the Novocain, I felt the threads working their way into the bone. The sound of it didn’t help. Or the way the doctor’s hands shook from the exertion of his whole-body effort to jam the thing into my head, then the screw went in too far and—CAN FEEL THAT!—pushed up against the sinus wall. Do over.

I am one step closer to replacing a baby tooth—a tooth that went way, way, way beyond expectations. In nine months, hopefully, after this screw has fused with my bone, I may—just maybe!—get myself a new tooth. Sure, people grow entire human beings in that time, but what’s the rush? They sure don't make them like they used to.

true story

A fall day. Work has been called off due to rain, yet the rain never shows. I make myself a cup of peppermint tea, dig out a fleece, leash up the dog, and the two of us set out to the local farmers' market on foot. I am blissed out. Then a rusty Taurus wagon pulls up alongside me. An ugly dude leans out of the driver-side window and, from behind aviator sunglasses, screams at me: "Be nice to the little dog, bitch!"

not at all lost

In high school, George was always The Artistic One. Sure, the rest of us showed up to art class most days, and (perhaps for that reason alone?) Ms. Haness awarded us grades we didn't deserve, but few of us could have drawn ourselves out of a paper bag. I, for one, early on abandoned the idea of ever drawing a human figure. George made it look as easy as getting an A in health class.



Last weekend, those of us at Love Lettuce journeyed off-campus to see George's first solo show, "Lost World." The gallery, in Brooklyn, was at the back of a shop, where visitors could purchase--in addition to some fine art--vintage clothes, striped socks, and a haircut, if necessary. The show's guest book had all sorts of compliments ("Seals are my favorite!"), evidence that the works had been well received. And on Sunday, the last day of the show, a second painting was sold. Few things beat seeing an old friend successfully navigate his way on a path he started out on so. long. ago. Are we adults now? Ugh.

If you missed the show, you can visit George here.

between you and me

Would it be so wrong to play hooky in order to go see the new Wallace and Grommit movie? What if I physically cannot wait until next weekend? Seriously.

Please join me in praying for a thundering, soul-drenching, work-canceling rain on a non-harvest day.

not good with goodbyes

I cried at work today. Over a vole. I cried over a rodent. But it was dying, an unlucky victim of the roto-tiller, which had recently cleaned up the rows between the strawberry beds. I found him sitting in the soft, overturned soil, looking like he was slouched on a couch. But he wasn’t.

With my trowel, I picked him up and set him on a bed of weeds in a bucket. I carried the bucket to the edge of the woods and put him down in the shade, a feeble attempt at what I don’t know. The blades of the roto-tiller had taken out most of his back. No amount of ibuprofin, physical therapy, vitamin E, or any combination thereof would bring him back from this one. I tried to gingerly arrange his body into a shape that nature had intended for him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything more. I reluctantly walked away.

As I sat back down in the strawberries, I thought about the little thing laying in the shade, his vole chest no doubt still heaving up and down. When Ward came by to set about working, I told him what I’d found. We sat there quietly for a few minutes before I showed him the spot, at the end of the bed, at the edge of the woods. Then I ran off like a little girl, already crying, not wanting to hear the sound of it.

byo wool

I'm worried. Very worried. About what it's going to cost to keep my house from icing over this winter--I've heard estimates ranging anywhere from 25 to 70 percent increases over last year. Which may mean, by spring, Burton and I have 25 to 70 percent fewer fingers. We are cheap sonsofbitches, particularly when it comes to home-heating costs. We have a history.

Back when he was in school and I was earning about what I am now and we couldn't afford anything more, we set the thermostat to 55 degrees. At night, we reeled it back to 50. (Right about now, my mother is thinking: "How warm and toasty!" This is a genetic defect.) We slept in sweaters and ski hats, under double down comforters, and cut back on showers--because stepping out of the hot water and into the 50-degree air was like plunging into a glass of ice water. Friends stopped coming over to visit, sometimes because they didn't own enough sweaters to keep themselves warm in our apartment.

I suspect this year it will start with a challenge: How long can we go before we turn on the heat? By then, we'll be acclimated. The ski hats and sweaters will already be out. Bulk orders of chapstick and herbal teas received. By then, there's no turning back.

back at the office

what are YOU doing?

I had walked back to the barn to refill my water bottle when a CSA member stopped me. “What are you doing?” she said. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the end of the farm season and what in general lays in store for me in the next year, so at first I was taken aback by the right-to-the-pointness of her question. Until I realized she was speaking shorthand for: “What is keeping you farmhands busy, now that my share of the veggies is getting so darned small?”

Specifically, we try to get around to weeding the fall crop of spinach. There are four or five rows of it, much of which has been weeded by various people over the last few weeks. The rest of it struggles against the pigweed and errant grasses. Both competitors have been slowed by the shorter, cooler days, but the weeds have a definite Darwinian advantage. The project is mentioned just about every day on the list of urgent to-dos.

We try to get around to weeding the strawberries once more before we tuck them in for winter. There are so. many. rows. of. strawberries. Yesterday, my co-weeder and I set out there for the day’s last hour-and-a-half of work. I couldn’t say if it was a coincidence, but I was immediately blinded by a white-knuckle headache and had to go sit in the darkness of the barn for the rest of the afternoon.

We try to get around to weeding the blueberries. Haven’t been within spitting distance of them in months.

We dig potatoes. Saturday last, we hauled in 1,600 pounds of the suckers. They are plucked from the soil and dropped into buckets, which are emptied into tan crates, which are loaded (by two people) into the truck, which delivers them back to the barn, where they are stacked in a cool, dark corner, where they will sit and stew until they are distributed to CSA members in the next eight pick-ups. (If any of them suffer blinding headaches, they are well-positioned.)

More philosophically, we try to get used to the idea of not being around anymore. We patch together plans for the winter. We watch the crows and the hawks, the creep of fall colors, the comings and goings of familiar faces, and we wonder how many more visits we’ll have.

how?

Even if your diet consists mainly of dog kibble, which you eat with apparent delight day in and day out, and your general aesthetic includes such joys as rolling on dead birds and sniffing your friends' butts--even so, how can you possibly consider kitty litter critters a tasty treat?

little man

Johnnie from Berlin, Mass., (say it with me: BER-lin) delivered 200 bales of hay the other day. From the cab of the truck, he whipped the flatbed trailer up and down and around the farm road, guided by intuition or maybe god’s will. Making a tight turn (backwards) with no more than four inches to spare, he never looked nervous. As the cab passed me on its way to one of the drop-off spots, I saw a tow-headed thing asleep in a child's car seat next to Johnnie. Just then, the kid woke up and, after his eyes whirled around from the back of his head, he looked at me and must have wondered where on earth am I and who is this lady starring at me.

The little guy eventually got himself out of his car seat and came back to help unload hay bales. No taller than my waist but with easily twice my determination, Jason (as he was introduced) heaved the things over the edge, making the rest of us look real bad. With his little-kid jeans tucked into his working boots, he didn’t chat. He didn’t kid around. He was a working man. When Johnnie hopped back into the truck to back up to the next drop spot, Jason dropped down on his right knee, he left elbow rested on left knee, and with his right hand he made the back-it-up motion. At the appropriate moment, he gave the hold-it-up signal. Then immediately, back on his feet, hauling hay bales.

When the work was done and we stood waiting for the boss to get the check, Johnnie leaned on the empty trailer. Jason folded his arms and looked up at his uncle to make sure he got the pose right. Johnnie talked with his hands; Jason didn’t talk but copied the hand gestures. If he wasn’t so obviously six years old, you could have believed he was a little man. The only time he broke out of character was when he ran off to pick raspberries, then doubled back and said, “Can I please have a basket to put them in?”