Day 101, August 27, 2010

The most promising prospects for the future of our communities mostly lie fallow. They rest before their forgotten fields, peeling, rotting hollow shells. These once-prominent farm homes are often the step children of bitter disputes between ambitious developers and local zoning boards. Eventually, these farms fall, one-by-one, and often like children of thoughtless, irrational divorce, the results are long-lasting and difficult to cure.

Quite often, the only ones able to pay for intact farms are big developers with big box tenants. It seems that every time a new Stop & Shop opens on virgin land, another one down the road simply closes, becomes a Home Depot or Lowes. The new stores get bigger, and yet the cost of groceries never seems to go down with these ostensibly new efficiencies. I believe that store development is a predatory practice which weakens the entire market over time.

It's been the same way with housing. We have become a land of sub divisions and cul de sacs....

Everyone wants land and privacy, and the result is miles and miles of roads and utilities, and expenses to municipalities... All in the name of two acre zoning, and higher taxes. Each and every family must now tame the wilderness around them. They wonder why there are bears in their beds, and bucks on their blossoms, and why they must drive everywhere... in a vehicle sufficient to transport their woodland beasts to a distant park.

It seems that the places we best remember living and playing in as kids are the traditional neighborhoods. These are simple villages or towns. Places like Noank or Mystic Connecticut, or Upper Montclair, New Jersey. There are narrower streets with single and two family homes, with neighbors living closer together. There are parks and places of worship, and stores in scale with the community. When we were children, octogenarians lived next door to starter families. Today, these are the most desirable communities, but as the authors of Suburban Nation point out in their treatise on new urbanism, it is mostly illegal to build the communities that seem to make the most sense to an enduring quality of life. Our present system of zoning encourages, unintentionally, it would seem, the consumption of vast amounts of land for relatively small, select, groups of homeowners.

Four months in the field, on a farm, have brought back challenge, peace and quiet, and reflection to my life. Soon, my crops will return to the ground, but I hope to take from my experience a purpose and a passion to preserve farms, bring awareness to their value. I believe that there are forces in motion that respect and reward a local way of life. Yet, if the answers were all apparent, then everyone would be doing it. There are options to traditional development, and it is our responsibility as a region to serve a common good.

We still need supermarkets, and Walmart is not going away. Nor should it! Yet with the decline in property values to more realistic levels, and with the unfortunate, but necessary diminishment of our immediate expectations, it may be possible to change the term, "Highest and Best Use" to simply "Best Use." And who better to put valuable property to use for, than the needs of an entire community?

In the end, we have engaged in an experiment in whiz-kid thinking since the end of World War II. This experiment has led to a consumption society, where our value as humans has been measured by the size of our homes, and the depth of our soft drinks. We drink "Tanks" of Iced Coffee, and the only way to afford the Suburban and the Food Service Gas Grill in the back of a raised ranch is to convince more of us to buy one, too.

There is something about a farm and a living community that is exciting. There's something appealing about being able to count on our neighbors, or simply walking, breathing... and living again.

Day 95, August 21, 2010

This garden is full. There is not an inch to spare. The tomatoes are so heavy with fruit, the support strings that I tied to the stakes have snapped. The only way to check the romas and cherries for ripe fruit is to lift matted sections of vine from the ground. I often find large red masses, and the dirty tomatoes are fine with a quick rinse.

I have to admit that I have been very busy taking care of my customers, basically harvesting, delivering and eating my share. Weeding has been ignored. Today, however, I intend to weed whack the borders and weed the cucumber and flower patches. The cucumber area is, I believe, a premonition of autumn. O.K., there are still yellow flowers, and the cukes, bless their evil seed, are quite robust. At the same time, the patches, especially with the weeds removed, are thinning, and the leaves and vines are whitening, and becoming thin and brittle. Except for the edges, where new growth pushes forward. Onward, and into the Jalapeno garden.

Sometimes I am temped to just end the cucumber patches. I fantasize standing in the middle of the pickling cukes, ripping up each hill, swinging the three plants in lasso fashion up, up and over the ten-foot sunflowers. On the other hand, I love all life, even invasive vegetables. Although many of the cucumbers are swelling to seed, and flying over the wall, I am committed to caring for them, and getting as many as possible to customers or friends. All this, in spite of the fact that cukes are now fetching between thirty five and fifty cents per pound. Erg!

On the other hand, the tomatillos look like a festive Cinco de Mayo party, each fruit with its own protective lantern. The bees are drunk and seemingly unsteady from the thousands of blossoms in our tomatillo hedge. I wonder if there is mescal in the pollen, the bees so love these plants.

We'd like to harvest the tomatillos, and we have a Mexican restaurant who will take them, but they are slow to ripen. I want to make a batch of salsa with some of the tomatillos, but I am still afraid of this fruit. Debbie said to cook them under the broiler, but I also hear of some cutting them up raw and adding to a salsa. Eventually, I'll figure it out. If not this season, perhaps next.

I have to admit, this is a very beautiful time of the season. I worked my butt off today, and my hands feel a little rougher and I am tired. In my garden weeds are more than little patches of chickweed. Within weeks, entire saplings can grow as fast as sunflowers, and often as tall if left unattended. Sadly, I have been unable to identify most of the weeds that grow at Wychwood Farm, but I know they gotta go!

Perhaps, however, the most invasive species in my garden, are the plants I have planted. For example, the pumpkins continue to stretch their vines, marching over whatever gets in their way. Today I decide to take a walk through the corn rows, and as I pass by each one, I can see where the pumpkins have toppled entire corn stalks in their alien invasion.

Amazing, it is, how the early view of our grandest visions is so much clearer than August 21st with sweat in your eyes.

Day 94, August 20, 2010

There it is! It appears to me to be fluorescent orange, like a maritime safety marker. A welcome apparition glinting in a sea of fading green.

Black-green stem tight to the vine, an umbilical cord, of sorts. This baby's been growing outside, on mother earth, all summer. She's been basking in rain and haze. Thriving in dousings and dry spells. Giant leaves are still guarding her from the late August sun, and I cannot wait to cut the cord.

It's a symbolic harvest. Honestly , it's all about wanting to be the first in Noank to put out a pumpkin.

I cut the pumpkin free. It's unceremonious, but it feels good to this hunter- gatherer to be gathering a new crop in the garden. We tried our first cantaloupe yesterday, and today I will leave our second for Farmer Brown and his wife. Nevertheless, I am certain that I'll be bitching about harvesting pumpkins, before long.

For the first time, I am able to see evidence of her brothers and sisters in the pumpkin patch. Most of the young pumpkins are military green, growing rapidly. I believe that as the leaves become brittle, the gourds grow faster. There are a variety of sizes, and since I am growing "Jack-o-lantern" and "Howell" cultivers, there will be a

wonderful variety of sizes and shapes. I have a feeling we're about to have a pumpkin boom, as the entire patch is about 1/8 of an acre. The vines have run into, and trampled some of the cosmos and bean plants, and on the other side, they have infiltrated the corn rows.

My red-handled garden shears cut through the stem easily. It's a wet stem, looks like a unique fiber. It'll dry quickly, and like human cord, it should eventually fall off. I inspect the pumkin, and it looks pretty good for being field-grown. No pesticides. No fertilizer. A 30-pounder... A Great Pumpkin in August? Good Grief!

Day 92, August 18, 2010

BUSTED!

When I first found this brilliant garden slug sucking on one of my prized Beefsteaks, I assumed that the tomato meal had changed the slug's color. In reality, it appears that I met up with a European import. It is called The Red Slug (Arion rufus). This tomato thief grows to four inches (10 cm), but can reach a length of seven inches (18 cm). I love finding unusual surprises in the garden, knew they'd appear, planted enough for unexpected guests, friends, and customers alike.

Notice how Big Red stretches as he attempts to flee, during an impromptu photo session. In truth, this wannabe sprinter actually learned to fly when I tossed the slimy ginger slug, and the embattled Beefsteak, into a swampy beck at the edge of the field.

Didn't get much time in the garden today. It was pretty much a matter of picking beefsteak and Brandywine tomatoes. Kind of nice having customers who will take all the tomatoes we can grow. Wish it were the case with the cukes.

When I am at the garden, I normally take time to smell the roses, so to speak. I like to check out the pumpkins, the cantaloupes and other more-fun-than-cucumber/green bean patches. I'm really tired of the cucumbers, and I'm sick of the green beans.

On the other hand, just the other day, Debbie made a delicious three bean salad, and she used our green beans in the recipe. It was a simple salad, blended in a whole grain dijon vinaigrette. It was simple, all right, and simplicity, I believe, is the essence of indulgence.

Check it out. One can make it, I believe, by following the above photo.

Day 91, August 17, 2010

Wedged between the doors of his unmarked Crown Victoria, radar snout to his forehead, the trooper looks like a comical alligator in what appears, in blurry vision, to be grey and green. He's stalking me in the weeds along Route 2 just outside of Colchester.

But I have Brandywine, Beeefsteak and Roma tomatoes in my truck, so I'm driving carefully and well within the requirements required of me this humid, sultry Tuesday. The snack delivery to Sysco went easily, so I'm ahead of schedule.

I'll stop at the Spa and Inn at Norwich, then make a couple of deliveries at Foxwoods. After that, it's an hour at the farm, meet up with Deb, and it's off to The Ocean House in Watch Hill, Rhode Island.

In Watch Hill, Corvettes have been supplanted by Ferrari's, but my crusty box truck feels right at home among the other trucks and vans at the $140 million Inn's service entrance. The hotel is magnificent, and several hundred yards out and down in the distance, cloth cabanas flutter in the rarified August air. I suspect that the Inn's multi-star service extends to the breakers rolling up on the beach.

Eventually, we find Forager, Pam Stone's office at the end of a long hallway. The layout feels busy, complex, and very professional. We can tell that Pam is busy, and in spite of the

fact that she offers us a tour of the upstairs, we know that it would be impolite to accept her offer.

Pam joins us at the tailgate of my truck and decides that we should bring in the Brandywines, Beefsteaks and Roma Tomatoes. "Do you have Mystic Chips?" she asks

"Right here," I answer, grabbing a bag from a case I luckily have in the truck.

"Great," she adds. Debbie laughs because she knows I pulled that one out of my hat.

Inside the kitchen, the Inn's Executive Chef joins us. There must be fifteen or twenty food professionals at various stations, stirring, mixing, decorating and simmering. Chef grabs a Roma, and in a blur, the fruit is sliced in two. He inspects it, sprinkles kosher salt on it, and eats it.

"Beautiful, he declares, comparing the Roma to the same cultiver from another farm they deal with. I smile, still contending in my mind that my tomatoes need no salt, but I know many love salt on tomatoes, so what do I know?

Chef looks at the collection of Brandywines, decides he doesn't want them. I grab a "split," taking a risk, and offer it to the tall, bespectacled chef. "Please try this. I dare you." He takes it, smiling and wields his razor-sharp knife. In seconds, six sections of the tomato lay before us. He sprinkles salt, offers a slice to Pam, and declares, "These are wonderful!"

By the end of the meeting, they have taken most of our tomatoes, and Pam asks me to call for an end-of-the-week order. I feel certain that they'll use the Mystic Chips, but I have learned never to count on an order until it is is hand.

On the way out of Watch Hill, we grab an iced coffee at The Cooked Goose. Chef Andrew Nathan is there to greet us. It's fun to reacquaint with an old customer and friend. On the way out Andrew places a small order for cherry tomatoes and green beans.

We stop at the farm to grab Debbie's car, pick tomatoes and beans for a half hour. It feels a little sad at the farm. Plants are thinning out, and the sun is setting earlier and earlier. At the same time, I feel energized, knowing that this experience is opening new opportunities, and each day, a strategy for the future becomes more and more apparent.

Copyright 2010, Ben Greenfield, All Rights Reserved

Day 88, August 14, 2010

It starts out with a tired but happy camper.

It's Elizabeth's homecoming from a week at a little woodland camp about ten miles from the farm. Right now she's napping in the back seat. There's a cool breeze blowing, and I need to pick twenty pounds of green beans for Dog Watch Cafe in Stonington. I leave the car windows wide open. We're parked next to the barn and the path to the garden is a tomato toss from the car. Either Eminem or Lady Ga Ga, or some synthesized post-pubescent pop radio lullaby serenades my slumbering ten-year-old daughter as Deb and I prepare for the drudgery of bean picking.

Ten minutes later Elizabeth emerges from the car. She looks taller than I remember her, ambling down the path to the garden. She's thinking about the birthday party this afternoon, and picking beans doesn't seem to suit her sensibilities. Regardless, she joins us, a quiet cheerfulness, almost awkward and foreign to her life. As though she is visiting her immigrant father, whom she rarely sees. A Walker Evans Life photo shoot, of sorts.

In spite of her misgivings, Elizabeth picks beans, and by the time the crate is full, she's fully involved. In fact, she is smiling.

"Que hija hermosa! Gracias." "What a beautiful daughter! Thank you," I say.

"Dad, I don't speak Spanish," she says.

"You will, sweetie... you will," I say with a hug and a sinister chuckle.

Afterwards, we pick up a gift certificate, a card, and some peppermint horse treats at The Paddock (http://www.thepaddockinc.com/). Elizabeth's friend is an avid

equestrian. The countdown to the birthday pool party begins. We drop her off at the birthday girl's house. I think, what a great homecoming.

Before we can return to The Farm, we must deliver the green beans to Dog Watch Cafe in Stonington. We arrive in the tony borough, dusty and smudgy crop carriers. I feel the contrast with the tightly woven plaid Egyptian cotton set. I no longer feel in contention for the Lily Pulitzer prize. Besides, my writing has years to go before I deserve such an honor.

Nevertheless, I like the contrasts. The friends I see in the street are the same, my customers work as hard, if not harder, than I do. I realize that I have nothing to prove... but much to accomplish. On my own terms. I like farming.

Chef Jim receives the green beans, but he explains that the beans from the last order kept turning brown. I can not imagine what the problem could be.

"How are you preparing them?" I ask.

"We blanch them, then they go into an ice water bath."

"Jim. I have no idea what could be wrong. There are no additives or pesticides..."

"Let's try them again..." he suggests, and he gives me his business card. "Call me next week."

Driving to the farm, I explain to Debbie about Jim's comment about the browning green beans.

"Baking soda."

"Huh?"

"Baking soda. Add it to the cooking water, and it will help preserve the greenness." Deb finds a web article on her IPhone to support her assertion. It discusses chlorophyll and minerals and adds a cautionary statement about the use of baking soda, but all in all, it makes sense. Since I now have Jim's phone number, I call him, passing on the suggestion.

"Thanks, Ben."

Later, I find interesting comments from a blog by Kathy Maister's Startcooking.com. It appears that lots of people experience the discoloration of green vegetables, but Debbie's obscure, modern homemaker reference to baking soda is amazing. (http://startcooking.com/blog/195/A-Guide-to-Green-Beans)

The day is slipping away, perhaps as rapidly as the power of the shifting sun in this transitional season. Pumpkin and cucumber leaves are becoming brittle, and the other day Rick Whittle, at Whittle's Farm, told me he just planted a new crop of cucumbers. "There's enough days left," he tells me. I'm thinking that they'll never get the yield we got with the first planting, but then again, what do I know. Im just in the novitiate stage before joining this temple of green.

Debbie is hoping to take us to Providence to see one of the final Waterfire events of the season. http://www.waterfire.org/. I'm fine with it, but as we weed and harvest, and talk and inspect, and well, you know, the day runs out. The birds and the bees fly away.

The curtain is closing on this busy, beautiful day.

"Let's make something with the Brandywine sauce."

"Yeah?" I'm thinking meatballs.

"Let's buy a bag of shrimp and some shells."

"I like spaghetti."

"Ben. You need a shell-type pasta for shrimp."

"O.K."

It goes something like that. On our way home, we stop at a Stop & Shop and buy the pasta, shrimp, and a bunch of other stuff. On the way out, a shopping cart kid starts telling us how frustrated he gets when people leave shopping carts at the multiplex

three hundred yards away.

"Hey," I tell him. "You might not appreciate this right now, but the exercise you're getting will serve you well. I consider you lucky."

"Maybe," he responds... "But rude people sure suck."

We chat in the dimming light, the cobalt sky above. Then we say our goodbyes, and as we get into the car, Debbie grabs a red zinnia she'd picked earlier at the garden. She takes it from a large kitchen bouquet resting on the back seat. "Here, this is for you." she plucks the stem, and places it in a button hole on his polo. "A boutonniere because you are the nicest carriage attendant I've ever met."

"Thanks." The boy smiles an awkward smile. "Only time I've ever gotten one of these is at homecoming."

Somehow, every day, the farm becomes a metaphor for a day well lived.

Copyright 2010, Ben Greenfield,

All Rights Reserved

day 87, August 13, 2010

It is 1:30 and somehow I've ended up at home after a busy morning. I've decided to make a marinara sauce using some of my split Brandywine tomatoes, using a post from What's For Dinner Across State Lines. What's For Dinner Across State Lines: Marinara Sauce with Brandywine Tomatoes:

Since I'm sharing Gina and Robbyn's post, I'll borrow their colorful shot of split tomatoes on a bake sheet! Honestly, I had already started steaming the tomatoes to release the skins before I got to the spot in their recipe suggesting the use of a baking sheet. Guess I'll make two batches, and I'll report back if this man's tin tongue perceives a perceptible difference.

All in all, I've had a really satisfying day, feeling like the king of blog queens. To wit, I woke up to a wonderful compliment from journalist/author Jennifer Skiff with a simple four-word compliment: "I love your Blog." Jennifer has published God Stories, Inspiring Encounters with the Divine (http://www.Godstories.com), and is compiling and editing her second collection, entitled, The Divinity of Dogs, a collection of Spiritually Enlightening Canine Interventions. I'm not sure late black lab, Chelsea, ever led an intervention on my behalf, but she had wonderful eye contact, could carry a rolled up newspaper and drop it on a

doorstep. Her spirit still shines in my heart. Her memory gives me strength and a smile. Guess that's why I plan to submit a story; hope you will, too!

Another gardening blogger from California wrote to compliment "the beautiful and humorous voice" of my blog, and to advise me to fill out my profile a bit more. Good advice, it seems. Her blog, The Gardeners Anonymous Blog is colorful, eclectic and useful. http://www.chigiy.com/the_gardeners_anonymous_b/2010/08/sierra-azul-sculpture-garden.html . Chigiy has another blog, as well, Doggie Heaven Hotel, sure to resonate with the canine clique, especially because her experiences are amusing and honest. (http://www.doggieheavenhotel.com/) Hopefully, Chigiy will check out Jennifer's Divinity of Dogs site... I'd love to be a match maker!

Finally, Debbie's sister wrote to compliment the blog, and then we spoke about an idea she has for surplus tomatoes. I love it when everyone gets involved.

Copyright 2010, Ben Greenfield, All Rights Reserved