Remnants of the Roamers

Leftovers are, arguably, the best part of Thanksgiving. My family struck extra gold this year because a) due to a minor misunderstanding, we prepared enough food for three more people than actually came, resulting in half-full platters at the end of the night, and b) we had the privilege of roasting a heritage bird that was pasture-finished on the land of Dylan's family's farm in Vermont.

At first my parents--used to the factory-farmed birds bred for plump breasts--expressed a lack of faith in our thirteen-pound free-ranger. Deeply concerned about having enough meat for dinner and leftovers, Dad bought an extra turkey breast (to be deep-fried). I tried to empathize with his last-minute decision: The long trunk and legs of the turkey certainly exhibited a lean quality. "This is one athletic bird," Dad kept saying as he moved the legs back and forth as though the dead animal was a toy. "Look! There's not a scrap of fat on this guy!"** The enviable shapeliness of the turkey, however, caused one of those dreaded last-minute-and-the-grocery-store-is-closed problems that could not be ignored: gravy. With so little fat to drool from the corpse into the roasting pan, my parents rushed to the nearest gas station to find some cheap canned chicken stock as a means of beefing up the anticipated meager drippings.

As these things always do, everything worked out in the end. We did use the chicken stock to ensure a healthy (or unhealthy) serving of gravy. But we never needed the extra hunk of meat. Even if everyone expected had come, the store-bought turkey breast would have been unnecessary. Our farmed athlete surprised us with its hidden reaches of edible tissue. And who needed more white meat anyway? The unusually deep-brown legs, thighs, and wings of the turkey so excited the palate that for the first time on Thanksgiving, I filled my plate with dark meat instead of white. And I had many more opportunities in the coming week to relish the otherworldly meatiness.

Over the next few days, Dad and I ruled the kitchen counter at lunchtime, enlisting a cohort of condiments, supplemental veggies, and cheese to make the quintessential Thanksgiving leftover meal: turkey sandwiches. Sadly, the meat dwindled quickly and soon enough we were left with nothing but the carcass. Never before had we utilized the culinary potential of the bones, but this year Dad declared, "We're making stock. Then we're going to make soup." He quartered an onion, sliced a few carrots, trimmed some stalks of celery, added water and the turkey remains, then let it simmer.

Later in the week, I took the lead on the soup. I didn't do anything extravagant--for about four quarts of stock, I added a large chopped onion, five medium coined carrots (from Early Morning Farm, incomparably sweet), three diced stalks of celery, and two cans of white beans. After generously salt-and-peppering, I stirred in a thin layer of fresh parsley, a generous sprinkle of dried rosemary (harvested this summer from Dad's garden), and roughly two teaspoons of fresh thyme. The soup simmered for forty-five minutes. Nearly forgetting, I added a bag of frozen kale (aside from red peppers, the only item I managed to preserve from the farm's bounty, disappointingly, but that's another story) just before serving with steamed broccoli and homemade spaghetti in a sage butter sauce with crushed red pepper. It was one of those meals that reinforced the savoriness of ridiculously simple cooking; with quality ingredients, a little foresight, and the increasingly rare attitude of thriftiness that encourages one to use as much of anything as possible, tasty food comes with little effort. Many days after the holiday itself, I remain thankful for the animal itself, for the people who ethically raised it in a manner that imparts superior flavor, and for our ability to enjoy it.

**A short story to serve as a humorous reminder that our Thanksgiving feast was once a living being with its own interests and quirks:

In addition to fluttering about the sweeps of pasture, the Black Spanish turkeys of Common Crook Farm enjoyed climbing cars, a hobby that undoubtedly gave way to their toned muscles. Typically, this leisure activity remained confined to the vehicles in the driveway. But one day a cop pulled someone over in front of the farm. As the officer approached the parked car in front of him, the turkeys spotted the blinking blue and red--a new climbing opportunity!--and bolted for the cruiser. When the officer turned back to his car, several turkeys perched contentedly on the vehicle. He laughed and took a picture as Dylan's mom rushed to lure the troublemakers away with bread scraps.

Beet Emotions

We harvested the last of the root crops—beets and radishes—in cold rain on Friday. The wetness stuck to my skin, and at one point, after hours of violent shivering, I was convinced I had hypothermia. But, as Dylan said, quitting on our last day would have been like running 26 miles of a marathon and dropping out before the last 385 yards. So I took a quick break to make some tea, and I pressed on. Just as we finished storing the topped and washed roots in the walk-in cooler, the sun reached through the thick sky for the fields, highlighting the death that saved us.

“You guys are badass,” Chris said with a pat on the back (this coming from the person who at the height of the season worked seven days a week and who will continue to work in even colder weather by himself over the next few weeks preparing the farm for next year and harvesting greens for market—he is badass). Mostly I could think of nothing more than changing into dry clothes after a hot shower. But an inkling of pride forced a meager smile in response to Chris’ praise.

After all, making it through the entire season was no small feat, as evidenced by the continually decreasing number of workers on the crew. At the beginning of April Anton hosted a potluck orientation for the seven enlisted crew members. I spent the evening fantasizing about my farm experience, having wanted to work on an organic farm for the past couple of years. Anton wasted no time subduing my eagerness though, when he said, “Farming isn’t for everyone. If you reach a point where you’re thinking about quitting, don’t have any reservations.”

Most people didn’t. One girl, having worked on much smaller farms prior to Early Morning, quit during my second day. She was the first crew member, with Chris, to begin working and had already acquired hours for three weeks before telling Anton that the scale of the farm was too big for her taste. The second girl quit in the middle of June, discontent with the work to pay ratio and our crew leader. The last two ended their terms at the beginning of September (quite possibly the busiest time of the season), which left me, Dylan, and Chris mostly alone (with the exception of temporary help) for the last two months.

Truthfully, I thought of quitting more than once, and I’m currently reveling (for what will surely be a short period of time) in the disgusting indulgence of laziness that comes with unemployment. I am unsettled by my hypocritical content with the ability to retreat from growing food, though. If I hope to provide my own sustenance in the future with a small garden or a large homestead, I will have no easy escape from the work.

In reflecting on the experience, however, I’ve realized that farming is not personal gardening, a hobby that in many ways offers more incentive and gratification than working for pay at a commercial farm. More importantly, I’ve grown aware of the fact that the intensity of the work buried the root of my frustration.

Over the course of my six months at Early Morning, I learned more about people (others and myself) than I did about growing produce. In the end, I believe that the personalities of my coworkers ultimately fueled the mental exhaustion about which I wrote in previous posts. This is not to say I disliked anyone with whom I worked. My moodiness undoubtedly affected others negatively in the same way that the idiosyncrasies of others gnawed at me. When you spend forty-five hours working with the same few people every week, interpersonal issues are inevitable. As bodies are confined to the same space in a bed of vegetables for long periods of time, so are individual quirks; the tedious physicality of fieldwork compounds the mental stress, and what starts as tiny pricks on the skin quickly mushrooms into a sore that festers. Apparently all of those job seekers aren’t joking when they underline the importance of good interpersonal communication skills in the workplace.

Despite all of the unexpected drama that erupted over the course of six months though, I couldn’t leave the farm on Friday without saying to Chris, “We’ll probably be back next year.” I had barely thought of the words before blurting them, and I immediately knew I wasn’t kidding myself.

Saturday night we hosted a potluck and most of the people who had worked on the farm came. It was the first time of the season that all of us spent time together outside of the farm, and everyone was in high spirits. As we savored the good food, drink, and conversation, it became clear that any petty issues to have arisen between one another in the field, died in the field with the plants. As I cooked a stew with vegetables from the farm, I thought of all the dinners we shared with others and that our customers undoubtedly shared with others, using the produce we had helped grow. Surely we’ll continue to enjoy collective dinners during the next few wintry months, but I think the degree of one’s connection to the food enhances one’s connection with other people.

An inexplicable emptiness seems to always accompany the coldness and the gray of winter. I imagine this void will deepen for me without tangibly creating peace through the growing, harvesting, and communal distributing of good food.

I Once Envied Those with a Year-round Growing Season

The CSA has officially ended. Though Early Morning Farm will continue to appear at market every Saturday for the next few weeks, the main purpose will be the sale of a dwindling supply of produce--mostly root crops, onions, and, for a short period of time, hardy greens like kale.

We have emptied the greenhouses, relieving the tomato vines from their losing struggle against the heaviness of cold air. We have relieved our backs of the weekly bent harvest of peppers. The eggplants, having curled their paling tips into themselves like shriveling grapes, were mowed. Blackened basil decays next to crisp sunflowers bowing to gray sun. I am now bowing to early evenings and late mornings.

There was a celebratory picture of the crew after setting up the stand for our last market haul. After the photo, I stood at the center of the pavilion's three converging wings and watched other vendors set up and mingle. This would be my last day at market for the season--a long season--and I devoted my pause to appreciating the moment's finality. My gaze traveled down the central wing to the dock and over the lake. As I took in the sudden bareness of the surrounding trees, stark in the morning sun filling the air, I took comfort in my preference for fall.

Planting Ideas

Twice a year, my dad's cohort of cousins (spouses and children included) escapes the melancholy of suburbia to the wildness of the Poconos for a weekend of "roughing it". Next to a picturesque stream at Council Cup campground, the gaggle of thirty-some Italians, ranging in age from five to fifty, assemble their camping stoves, deep friers, stereos, and Taj Mahal tents--complete with air mattresses and/or cots (sometimes even bunk beds) and space heaters--on a Friday night then light a fire and commence intoxication.

There is no denying that little, if any, true natural reflection happens here; the woods merely offer a sanctuary away from those who would condemn the roaring voices of thirty Zonetti's in the same area at once and free of the distractions that prevent one from doing nothing but eat all day. The hell with inside voices and mealtimes. It is a weekend of deafening loudness and feasting, of Sunday morning headaches and Metamucil. It is a weekend of excess.

After pregaming Friday night, we begin Saturday morning with pastries and bagels, then move to eggs with bacon/sausage/scrapple/steak, and end breakfast with some form of fried potatoes. This dictates the manner of the following lunch and dinner hours: eat, clean, eat, clean, eat, clean, drink, sit, drink, sit, drink, sit, eat more. Alcohol is always present--waking up with mimosas and baileys, easing into beer and wine, then crashing with liquor. The picnic tables continuously offer platters of meat; a typical day consists of multiple chicken dishes, london broil, fish, beef chili and/or soup, AND, maybe even a deep-fried turkey. Whew. I'd have to worry a lot more about constipation and short-term weight-gain if I didn't eat CAFO meat.

Of course I disapprove of almost all of the food present. No free-range, local, organic, or preservative-free labels here. Of course I say nothing. I don't wish to sound ungrateful for the free grub I willingly gobble in large quantities all weekend or for the mounds of unused food I take home. But I also wish to avoid accusations of food snobbery. Though I take pride in my pretentious attitude toward eating, people simply aren't receptive to preaching. Many family members are familiar with the motives behind my meat consumption choices, but I only engage in discussion of food politics when others raise the subject.

Fortunately, plenty of opportunities presented itself this weekend. What are you doing these days? How's the farm? With little else in our lives to talk about, both Dylan and I related our farm experience as a way of spreading the word on producing and eating good food. I even received a number of compliments (or something like that) on my work hands, caked with callouses, cuts, and dirt.

Around lunchtime, Dad and I set up an unplanned exhibition. I was making salsa, he a tomato salad. Like fishermen bobbing cast lines, we lured family members with smells and colors as we stood next to each other chopping the only homegrown goods there. "Is that a green tomato?" my aunt asked. I sampled the ripe "Green Zebra" tomatoes from the farm and explained the richness of flavor that distinguishes ancient varieties of vegetables. Others approached us to praise the perfection of my Dad's juicy "Early Girl" tomatoes, picked just the day before from his backyard garden. To heighten interest, I cut strips of the sweetest of sweet red peppers, an Italian variety by the name of "Carmen", to demonstrate their gustatory intensity and textural tenderness. Father and daughter shared the ultimate slow food moment as we cooked together with sustainable produce and simultaneously educated others.

Later in the day, a second impromptu education session (in case anyone missed the first one while playing horseshoes or taking a walk) occurred as I prepared veggies for dinner. Golden delicata squash, radicchio of the deepest magenta, red onions the size of softballs, and bunches of fresh leafy kale, arugula, and basil colored the table. As they walked by, my cousins echoed Farmer's Market customers: "Those vegetables are beautiful." I sampled some more peppers; I described the difference between heirloom and hybrid plants; I explained organic pest and weed control. After trying my squash saute later that night, one of my teenage cousins asked again for the name of the variety, having enjoyed the new flavor so much.

I've come to mentally prepare myself when leaving Ithaca for the norms and attitudes--the general lack of interest in food--that characterizes the outside world. And so I didn't expect such genuine curiosity in my produce endeavors during this blissful weekend of escape. I remember a couple of years ago instigating the first conversations with my parents about sustainable consumption choices; I preached, and while they didn't blatantly ignore me, they didn't change the way they fed themselves. I remember thinking, If I can't even convince my own parents to change their attitudes of food, how can I convince anyone?

After three years of sharing stories and recipes and food experiences with my parents, my father rediscovered his love of growing food and has harvested from a backyard garden for the second year in a row. In the span of a day, I sparked a teenager's interest in organic delicata squash, a vegetable she was completely unaware of--had never before seen in the store--before this past weekend.

I am learning that changing the attitudes of others is not impossible, but rather, that it requires dedication, patience, and strategy; it requires a suspension of one's assumptions about the way in which others think. Knowing how to properly entice the easily skewed senses is, perhaps, the key to inception.

Rejuvenation

I knew my romantic visions of farm work would quickly dissipate after a few months in the fields, but I anticipated the fault resting with an aching body. In fact, the physical rigor of this work appeals to me in a masochistic sort of way. Rather, my weariness of farming (to be expected at the height of the harvest from novice and experienced farmers alike) has grown more from mental exhaustion.

The work is tedious. Repetitive. Uninteresting, after awhile. One reaches a point at which he/she must force oneself to look up from the soil and stare flatly at the sky or the flowers or the butterflies to remember the beauty of the place. But even this is not enough to keep the spirit at ease in the harvest season, after months spent working day after day with the same three or four people. The thirteenth planting of lettuce. The umpteenth picking of equally tired kale. Another day of back-bending tomato picking. And still two-and-a-half months to go.

Admittedly, I've been struggling to retain sanity. More than once this summer I've crumbled. Other factors compound the stress, but the farm remains at the center of the web. Not once before starting this job did I expect to feel stressed out during the day. Growing vegetables, however, is anything but frolicking in the fields. Chaos regularly ensues, especially on harvest days (which, at this point in the season, are virtually every day) when the work MUST be finished--no stopping simply because it's 5:00.

Something else unexpected: The peaceful expanse of undeveloped acres that surround me offer little escape. It's quite the paradox, feeling trapped amongst rolling hills of country. But the isolation of rural life, even a mere thirty minutes outside of town, can constrict just as much as the buildings and roads of a city. I mostly enjoy living on the farm but imagine leaving your workplace only once or twice a week.

I remember Anton talking about the demands of this work during my first week at the farm; he said, "You've got to be here for something." At the time, that motive was at the forefront of my mind, but the exhaustion gradually buried it. Until this week. Today I worked market for the first time. I look forward to going every week as a customer, witnessing a community--a community that cares deeply about its local food system (Ithaca has the highest rate of CSA participants in the country--10% of Ithacans belong to a local CSA!)--come together and revel in artisan food and crafts underneath a gorgeous wooden pavilion on the bank of Cayuga lake. But today, standing behind a glimmering display of produce that I helped create made me feel like an artist watching people awe at her work in a gallery.

"Everything looks gorgeous!"

"These are the sweetest peppers I've ever eaten."

"Oh my goodness, the basil, the cilantro, these tomatoes--it all smells amazing!"

People walking past the stand literally gasped in admiration. As CSA members packed their share for the week and market customers opted for farm-fresh produce instead of retail food, I remembered that every week five other people and I grow clean, healthy, tasty food for about 1,000 people. "We are awesome," our crew leader Chris said the other day, referring to this accomplishment. We laughed at the crudeness of the statement, but, seriously, it's hard not to feel a cocky sense of pride. After witnessing the visible respect fellow community members have for our work, two-and-a-half more months doesn't seem so bad after all.

Sometimes I Want to be a Housewife

A couple of weeks ago, I bought Bringing it to the Table, an anthology of essays about farming and food by Wendell Berry. After studying the cover of the book (above) for a few minutes, I thought, This image would have probably offended me at one time. The antiquated picture depicts a woman in an ankle-length dress and apron coming from the kitchen to serve a table of men in overalls. Why was it that the women had to serve the men? is what the defensive feminist inside me, typically subdued, would have sneered.

In a way, such a comment wouldn't be out of character. In the memoir Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, author/farmer Barbara Kingsolver empathizes with today's generation of independent women who, after years of fighting to get out of the kitchen and into the workplace, would loathe day after day of nothing but housework.

But just a few months of farming has illuminated the reality of common life before grocery stores, a reality that actually makes this image, for me, somewhat idyllic.

My love for cooking brought me to the farm. I used to feel stifled in the kitchen because I didn't have this or enough of that when I was trying to follow a recipe, but on the farm, I have plenty of almost any vegetable or herb I could want. What I don't have enough of now is time or energy. Cook? After nine or even ten hours of physical labor? Start making dinner right after work, eat at 8:00, then go to bed? Meh. For the first couple of months at the farm, I favored peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or even pre-made cans of soup over energy-intensive fresh vegetables. Even Jen, the partner of our farm's owner and a professional chef, told me, "Yeah, Anton and I use so little of what we grow on the farm. It's ridiculous."

I often fantasize about Dylan leaving for the fields in the morning while I stay at home, set for a day of cooking hearty and healthy dinners or staging food for winter (preserving summer's bounty definitely has not found a spot in the weekly routine). I would have time to play with recipes and make everything--butter, yogurt, pasta and bread even--from scratch. I would let little of the produce left over from market go to waste and can, freeze, or dry as much as possible. I find myself romanticizing the housewives-in-aprons, who undoubtedly filled a crucial role in days past.

One of the paradoxes of the modern small farm is that it is not nearly profitable enough to allow time for kitchen work. I'm sure some small farm families manage the old-fashioned style of living in which the husband farms while the wife does housework, but they probably constitute a tiny minority of an already minute percentage of small family farms. The more common scenario rather: Both partners toil in the fields all day to produce enough for market or one partner has a job off the farm, leaving the house empty for the day. Perhaps there's enough time for a quick dinner, but quick food often partially relies on store-bought food.

Surely, this isn't the worst aspect of modernity known to the world, and I'm hesitant to excessively sentimentalize traditional ways of living. But part of me wishes that I didn't have to feel grateful for the existence of grocery stores.

A Tribute

One of the many intangible miracles of food is its ability to act as an agent of memory. I have never forgotten the origination of what I deemed in the previous post as my mom’s meat sauce; in fact, long before I wrote that entry, I wrote a piece during my junior year of college that awards proper credit for the creation of the Zonetti family tomato sauce. The following is the first half of the piece:

The Italians of my father’s family share many features—short height, raucous voices, and flamboyant gestures, to name a few. But when I think of the quintessential trait that binds us all, I think of sauce. We like sauce a lot. We like sauce so much that it’s a crime to leave dirty streaks of red coagulating on your plate after you’ve finished your homemade pasta; acceptance in the family requires swabbing your dish with a piece of crispy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside Italian bread to absorb the previous remains. My grandfather once scolded a newcomer (my mom) to the family who, innocently trying to help my grandmother clean up after dinner, nearly washed the sauce platter used to hold the spaghetti. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed, frantically seizing the dish and grabbing a piece of bread. At home, store-bought sauce is illegal and cause for scoffing and/or chastising if spotted in the pantry.

When I was born, my family wasted no time with my Italian baptism; they introduced me to the sauce as a toddler, just after my teeth had developed, at the weekly Sunday night family dinner. My parents placed me in the high chair in my grandparents’ dining room and set in front of me a dish with my grandfather’s made-from-scratch spaghetti smothered with my grandmother’s homemade tomato sauce. Then the two of them along with Dad, Aunt Lisa, Uncle Joe, Aunt Mary, and Uncle Gary crowded around me, wide-eyed, leaning forward, as Mom fed me my first bite of the family meal. Will she like it? Will we be able to accept her into the family as a true Zonetti?

The recipe for this sauce originated with Patty, or Nanny as I called her, my paternal grandmother. Her mother, who came from Northern Italy, had made a light, chunky, and watery tomato sauce. As a married woman in America, Nanny would diverge from this recipe and create a thicker, smoother, meatier sauce; through trial and error, she worked to establish this keystone family recipe. I was the first-born grandchild, so my potential aversion to the sauce would have betrayed not only Nanny but also every member of the family, all of whom inhaled her heavy, unsweetened, slightly tangy creation. And so my family waited for me to swallow that first bite. Will she disappoint us?

Not in the least. I eagerly opened my mouth for more and have savored the dish ever since. Nanny died when I was four, ending the tradition of weekly family dinners. But several times throughout the year, the family reunites to celebrate. The memory of Nanny dwells in pouring her sauce over pasta from the same luxurious glass spout that once graced her table and which now rests in my parents’ hutch, used only for this special meal.

Farm luxury

We shit in a bucket that we must empty medieval-chamber-pot-style every few days. In the loft of a barn, we co-reside with dust, fleas (thanks to the feral cat and her five kittens who have learned what cat food is), a bat that occasionally flies into our room, bees that have colonized the central beam of the roof, and relentless mosquitoes. We wake up at six o’clock every morning to work a ten-hour day of planting, weeding, seeding, and/or harvesting fifteen acres of organic produce. We often do the same activity in the same position—kneeling, bending, stooping, standing, lifting—all day. We work in one hundred degrees, thirty degrees, sun, rain, and snow. We shower once, maybe twice a week. We earn minimum wage and receive no overtime pay. Farm life, for all its surface beauty, is difficult.

But then, there are the evening hours. Watching the sun cast its dying glare over the fields that are our backyard. Listening to the frogs on the banks of the pond commence their choral croaking. Sitting. Drinking. And, of course, there is dinner.

How fortunate we are to enjoy regular meals made almost entirely of organic food produced right outside our window. Last Friday, I snatched some of the first ripe tomatoes from the two 144-foot-long hoophouses in an eager frenzy to make fresh tomato sauce. I grew up in an Italian family, and there is no food that makes my knees weaker than my mom’s meat sauce (it is the only dish that I could not refuse during my two years as a vegetarian). I made some recipe revisions: I used local, grass-fed Italian sausage instead of store-bought beef chuck roast, some fresh basil, oregano, and parsley instead of the generic dried Italian seasoning, and, most importantly, I replaced canned tomato sauce and paste with the real thing fresh-from-the-vine. But I maintained the integrity of mom’s execution—first browning the heavily salt-and-peppered sausage in some olive oil, then removing the meat, adding the crushed tomatoes with a bit of water and the herbs, bringing it to a boil, placing the meat in the sauce, and finally letting it simmer.

To serve, I tossed it with some whole-wheat penne alongside a fresh sauté of just-picked yellow and costata squash with kale, and a glass of 2006 pinot noir from the Willamette Valley in Oregon (not local, but it was a gift). The wine was smooth and the sauté was crisp, but the sauce was bold—a medley of flavors independent yet harmonic. And oh, the tomatoes—how can I possibly go back to canned now? We finished with a simple dessert of newly-ripened raspberries from the field and dark chocolate. Engrossed in gustatory pleasure, we hadn’t talked much through the meal, but Dylan, holding a berry, appropriately punctuated the experience by saying, “This is why we do it.”

The Fruits of Cultivation

It is already dusk. The fields glow with gleaning eggplants and squash, glistening hoophouses of transpiring tomatoes and peppers, and flowering wild mustard that flanks the rows of brassicas and lettuce. Invisible crickets have started chirping in the purpling expanse. I no longer feel the lasting marks of the scraping soil on bare knees or the straining stretch of planting a bed’s third row or the blistering of a hoe—I only feel the roughness of fingertips and palms itching bugbites or massaging overworked muscles. I am callused already.

The romantic is not lost, but spring has passed. Summer bears fully developed life—wanted and unwanted—the fruition of reality. Now it is time to write.

Welcome to THE FARMBOOK—a blog cataloguing observations, reflections, interviews, and reviews of the fields, foods, and flavors that sustain us.

http://harpers.org/archive/2009/12/0082736: "The Necessity of Agriculture," Wendell Berry