Some Country for Old Ben: 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."