Mow Meditation

The meticulously maintained front lawn has become an overtly expressed trait of The American Dream. The front lawn is a mainstay of American culture. Food culture journalist and icon Michael Pollan has poked both seriously and lightly at the merits, or demerits rather, of the front lawn. And in the end, he posits that residential landscapes are personal matters. I agree. Don’t get me wrong, I think edible yards are really cool. But beyond the debates of dual use, aesthetic, fertilizer, and pesticides, I have found the simple act of mowing the lawn to be a tremendously calming and healing act.

For 4 months now, I have been living with my 89-year old grandfather in Pinehurst, North Carolina. Grandpa needed help recovering from the post-operative effects of anesthesia. He had a carpal tunnel release surgery for hand pain and stiffness. I was also the grandson charged with staging his home for sale. The Friday morning following surgery, Grandpa asked, “Sean, what do I have to do to get up to Vermont?”

The task was a welcome call. I was in a funk. I had recently said farewell to a girlfriend and hello to the personal demons that haunt my relationships. I was just recovering from a gnarly bike crash that just about crushed my spirit on the asphalt. I was also in between careers. But mostly, I relish getting my hands dirty in soil, paint, wallpaper glue, even relish -- anything to hide the privileged whiteness ahead and under my cuticles.

So I began preparing my Grandpa’s home and property for sale. I soon found myself very connected to his home. The sensation brought to mind the movie Life as a House?, where the recently jobless and terminally ill cancer patient played by Kevin Kline expresses himself through the renovation of an old property. I’m not terminally ill, but I am officially jobless, and here I was working on my Grandpa’s home, feeling for the first time in a long time, like I had a home.

Out on the property, I weeded the driveways and spread blue stone. I ordered in a few yard of mulch. I got the irrigation working. I spread some more grass seed. In particular, I’ve enjoyed mowing the lawn. I temporarily relieved the hired lawn crew for a few months. It’s not that Henry and his crew were not excellent or overpriced -- it’s just that I could do the work. I needed to keep busy. And when I go some day, we’ll bring Henry back. Grandpa needs the company.

Pictured above is the old Craftsman lawn mower I found in Grandpa’s garage. The bars were rusted, the blade was dull, and duct tape held one wheel together. The lawn mower hand’t been started in years. I primed the small engine, and unloaded my strongest pull of the start cord. But I could not get the relic started. Grandpa swiftly came to my aid with a spray bottle of ‘Starting Fluid.’ The can looked vintage. 1940’s vintage. I was skeptical. I had never seen or needed starting fluid to get my Dad’s mower started when I was younger. Alas, she fired and I was mowing.

Instantly, I was in the zone. That precious quality of timelessness and mindlessness. All there was to do and think about was the task at hand. Put one foot in front of the other. Just cut the grass. There is a clear start and a clear finish. Enjoy the sun beating on my bare shoulders. Walk the line. I did not own that property, but for those 45 minutes, I pretended that I did. And it felt good.

The practice of mowing the lawn also transported me back in time. To my teenage years in Vermont. My father maintained a very nice front lawn. He hired Chem-Lawn at the start of each season for their magic spray. The fertilizer and pesticide formulation might as well have been spray-on deep forest green. It was the nicest lawn in the neighborhood. My Dad preferred to mow diagonally, alternating direction each week, to bring out that signature ballpark cross-hatch. The kids in the neighborhood asked me how my father did it. When I reached some esoteric age of uncertain talent and appreciation, of which I do not recall, my father allowed me to mow the lawn. Even the front lawn. And I enjoyed doing it. It was part chore but mostly craft. I mowed a straight line.

The front lawn came at a cost though. Not only was it part chore, but part showcase of green blades and precisely placed tire tracks. My brother, sister, and I were not allowed to play in the front yard. Our ball throwing, kicking, and croquet were relegated to the backyard. It should also be known that the backyard was also a very nice spot of lawn. My father’s care of the front lawn extended through the Winter season -- he preferred that my brother and I not play in the snow in the front yard. It was a pristine blanket not to be touched. My brother, sister, and I respected the Summertime Mandate, but like any Vermont kids with life in them, we played in the front yard snow! Snow forts. Snowmen. Ski tracks. Dad’s carrot nose cringed.

I continue to cut my Grandpa’s front lawn. It’s a weekly meditation. It reminds me of a time when I was a child, innocent and free, yet also wholly entrusted with a task. It helps remind me what having a home of my own one day will feel like. And for now, I guess I’ve done such a good job with the house that Grandpa has decided to stay. Pinehurst is his home. And this is my yard.

The Final Eggplant

I'm sitting at Shenandoah Joe Coffee Shop on Ivy Road in Charlottesville, Virginia. It's a rainy day. Not bad for harvesting, though, with the temperature in the mid-50's. Only problem is that there is nothing to harvest! I guess the seasoned farmer would enjoy this rest and relaxation. I yearn for more! So I retired to my computer and created a little video showing what my father created back in Vermont with the Final Eggplant of the season: Yummy Ratatouille.

What really made the texture of this dish was the Hartwell Brie Cheese from Ploughgate Creamery in South Albany, Vermont. I believe this cheese is also marketed now through Jasper Hill Cellars. You can learn more about the Ploughgate Creamery in another blog: http://junipersrestaurant.blogspot.com/2010/10/ploughgate-creamery.html

And if you don't have Hartwell Cheese, any Camembert or Brie will do. Bon Apetit!

Farm to the Rescue!

Dear RumiNation,

I am now two weeks removed from full time farm work in Craftsbury, Vermont. Two weeks removed from the rural paradise known as the Northeast Kingdom. I arrived in Vermont five months ago as a farm intern. A student. Coachable. Open. In Taoist speak, I was trying to approximate The Uncarved Block. A ball of clay awaiting its master to spin myself in to a shiny symmetrical masterpiece of form and function. Asymmetrical I still am, though, my right shoulder hanging lower than the left and my right eye all the while a bit more closed than the left.

Nonetheless, I can’t shake the locally responsible and neighborly respecting culture in which I had immersed myself. I see the world through a new filter. As in the movie, The Matrix, I see a code of letter and numbers, and these letters and numbers spell out the source of all things. Just last night, in downtown Springfield, Massachussetts, I had to know if the Red Rose Pizzeria made their own tomato sauce. They did. And where did those tomatoes come from? In Ithaca, NY, just two days prior, we paid premium dollar for not just dinner, but dinner and lunch the next day, at the Moosewood Restaurant. They use local produce as much as possible. Around the bend on Cayuga Lake, we drank wine from the Hosmer Vineyard whose white grapes rival those of the West Coast. The Pinot Gris was fantastic, and it was created right there. Three days prior in Rochester, New York, I chose the locally owned and operated Muddy Waters coffee shop to experience the locally sourced urban hipsters, and of course, surf our global online network. Even on the road, traveling, I yearn for a sense of place. I yearn to be connected to the people and land I am visiting.

I’ve become a first grader again, connecting dots across the universe. Connecting the dots of both our financial and social transactions. Keeping track of which transactions fulfill me, which ones turn me off, and which ones I can rely on to spark a smile on an otherwise stoic landscape.

Breathe.

So there I sat. I was in downtown Rochester, New York. My girlfriend was interviewing all day at the medical center, and this was my one chance to envision which type of dot I could be here and who I would connect with. Here I was in the city. After reading Wendell Berry essays this summer, I was at first skeptical of this and all cities. The 4 hour march along a gloomy and monotonous I-90 corridor was not inviting. Would the downtown assimilate me? Would my newfound small town values succumb to the convenience of a suburban economy? Would I frequent Quizno’s and Subway for starchy treats again? I held on tightly to my loaf of 5-seed multigrain bread from the tiny bakery back home. The city would not assimilate this loaf. This loaf was mine.

I park on the corner of Fitzhugh and Main. I round up just enough coins to afford me a half hour visit. I shuffle up Main Street. I was fully caffeinated, but hungry. I pass a hot dog cart. Another hot dog cart. A bus station with a largely African-American clientele. Hot dog cart. Tex Mex. The bank district. White men in suits. Hot dog cart.

Maybe I could grow a half acre root vegetable crop and market the Rawchester Roasted Veggie Wrap at my Organic Cart to rival the hot dog vendors.

Finally I arrive at Java’s. I see minimally processed food in the showcase, but the line is out the door and on to the sidewalk. Next door at the coffee bar I order a cream-topped hot chocolate. Darn, no yogurt. The drink is named after a local farm, so I think it’s safe. The coffee bar hosts a lively number of cold weather hipsters. I scuffle back to my car. Still hungry. I dive in to my loaf of bread and chow down a few more slices.

Time to escape the city.

Earlier in the day, I scouted out a few of the local organic produce farms on the internet. One farm in particular caught my eye -- Peacework Farm out of Newark, NY, about 40 miles down Highway 31. They boast a 200+ member CSA, and shares are provided twice per week to customers. 15 acres is devoted to vegetable production this year. 95% of their vegetables are sold through their CSA option. The farm also boasts working days, when CSA shareholders volunteer a half day of work and receive discounted shares.

At Peacework Farm, I met owners Greg Palmer and Ammie Chickering, pictured above with farmhand Ruth Blackwell. Ruth is from Cabot, Vermont and familiar with the organic enterprise, Pete’s Greens, that I had just finished up an internship with. Greg and Ammie had also heard of Pete’s Greens, so I got to walk in with some street credibility. Or rather, field credibility!

As I stepped in to their barn-turned-wash house, Ruth was washing orange carrots in their vintage barrel washer, also pictured above. They were getting ready to dish up their final CSA share to customers. The final share traditionally boasts a beautiful head of savoy cabbage, so we headed out to pick cabbage. Yup. We. I decided that my hands had been enjoying a little too much warm and dry time away from the fields. I also just happened to have a knife in my pocket for cutting the thick stems of savoy. Cheers to Peacework on a beautiful crop. The cabbage was perfect. Greg and Ammie really focus on dialing in the quality of the food in their CSA shares. Ammie instructed me to pull off any leaves with blemishes or dirt; while Greg styled himself more in the laissez faire, organic fashion of leaving more vegetation on the vegetable. Interns Geff and Kim were also on hand for the cabbage harvest, curious about this stray farm intern who showed up out of nowhere!

As I scanned the landscape, I saw the hoop structures that house their cherry tomato operation. The broccoli was still looking brilliant in the ground. Greg and Ammie have cleverly rotated their broccoli crop to confuse the pesty swede midge that plagues these brassicas here.

Ahhhh. There was now balance in the force.

I returned in rush hour traffic to pick up MacKenzi at the hospital. I had surrendered myself back to the city. And an IPA at a South Wedge district bar. Peacework Farm needs another farmhand March 2011. Hmmm...

Your Life as a Key

If I were a motivational speaker, I’d develop a segment called, Your Life as a Key.

I want you to pull out your keychain.

Right now.

Pull out your key chain.

Take a look at the keys you carry with you. Which keys are worn? Which keys are fresh out of the hardware store? Which keys do you carry around for no practical reason? Which keys are critical to your daily survival?

How many keys do you carry with you? Three? Four? Five? What is the story behind each key. You likely have a home key. Do you rent your home? Is that home attached to a mortgage? Do you share that home? Do those keys unlock the sanctuary you have created for your family? Maybe you have two home keys, one for each lock on the door. Why do you have two locks? There may be a key to a shed or barn which houses the instruments by which you groom your land. You likely have a key to your car. How many times a day do you lock your car? How many times a year? Do you have a spare key? Who have you trusted with the location of your spare key?

If you are a working man or woman, you likely have a key to your office or building of work. Perhaps your company has replaced your key with a keycard. How many keycards do you own?

What responsibilities and obligations accompany each and every one of these keys? Which keys enable your dreams? The key to the Porsche Roadster? Which keys chain you down? Who carries the keys to those chains?

Now put those keys back in to your pocket.

Walk around.

Jump up and down a few times.

Feel the weight of those keys. Feel the weight of those obligations. Feel the weight of those responsibilities.

For those of you whose one or two lonesome keys have escaped from your pocket, what is the story behind the scarcity? How many keys used to decorate your keychain? Are there keys remaining to fill your pocket? Which keys are those? The keys yet to come.

How are these keys a mirror for how you have chosen to live your life? What story do these keys tell about you?

The beauty of these keys is that you get to tell the story. You get to shape your relationship to them. I’d love to hear!

A Farewell Rumination

Please forgive me! I haven’t posted here for over 3 weeks. You know what they say: if you don’t have anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all! Honestly, it has been cold. The October Harvest has been long, wet, and cold here in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. I’ll leave it at that. And also mention that I am seriously overwhelmed and amazed by the sheer quantity and quality of beets, carrots, potatoes, onions, squash, and miscellaneous root vegetables we have picked for you! Enjoy that Winter CSA Share, Good Eats!

So I have just completed 4 months of farming at Pete’s Greens Organic Farm in Craftsbury, Vermont. The short term mission is complete. It’s perhaps too early to reflect on the season as a whole, but I owe you a blog post, and I am overwhelmed by emotions, and I thought it’d be fun to try to put them on paper.

I embarked on this adventure for so many reasons. I had wanted to invite more people in to the ‘localvore’ local eating movement. I had wanted to inspire others to volunteer and work on farms, purchase CSA shares, and plant gardens. I had wanted to promote food as medicine for body, soul, and community. I had wanted to fulfill a personal duty to know more about soil, farming, and food. I had wanted to promote this idea that we all have a civic responsibility to know more about soil, farming, and food. I had wanted to return to my homeland and, rather than being a tourist in my parents’ lives, I wanted to commune with family again. I wanted to break from an unconscious past. I wanted to sleep better at night. I wanted to harness my physical energy to create products of immediate and intrinsic value. I wanted an adventure. I wanted a mentor. I wanted to be a farmer. I wanted to live in harmony with my surroundings, both land and people. I came here to test the hypothesis that local economies promote connected, responsible, and healthy communities.

But that’s just a wordy hypothesis. An artifact from my days as a scientist. I don’t know how to measure connectedness or responsibility in a community. And in my goals above, I see some genuine heart, but I also perceive a hint of righteousness with a dash of martyrdom. Neither of which I hold dear to my heart.

Despite all my preconceived reasons for being here this summer, it wasn’t until I lived here for 4 months that I now realize what I wanted. I wanted to live and work in a community that felt like family. I wanted family again. I feel like I shouldn't be leaving this place.  I feel like I’m laying a part of my soul under this Earth, and I don’t want to say goodbye. I’ve become connected to the land and the people. Bob and Joan so quickly became grandparents. She cooked the most comfortable Mac n Cheese for my farewell party. He believes in me more than I believe in myself. On the other side of town, Jean always greeted me and cooked for me with the loyal concern and support of a mother. Noah became my kid brother, you know, the one you pick on endlessly to the point where he no longer wants to hang out with you, but then you make up, and it’s all good. Pete became the Big Brother I always wanted. A mentor unlike any other. Someone who set the bar high, and all I want to do is keep climbing higher with him. Johanna, like the spiritual and warm Aunt, joined me for coffee on Friday mornings. We talked about energy. Judy greeted me one day with a gift of her own oil painting. I wish I had learned more about her. And just last night, I finally made the time to visit Steve’s home and get to know his family. Kids running all around. In an instant, I was another kid in the family. Actually, I felt like that cool cousin who lives abroad and visits once a year. And just as Steve would do anything to protect his children, I had an inkling that this strong Jack of All Trades wouldn’t hesitate to defend me, too. Like a father.

A sister soul told me last week that we live ‘like tourists in other people's lives.’  My Mom says I’ve been living like a gypsy. In the moment, though, I was no tourist or gypsy. I was here. And a part of me really really does not want to leave. This morning, I walked at Bear Swamp with Naturalist Richard Smyth, a 79-year old instructor at Sterling College. He is pictured above, walking in to the woods. Like him, I will keep walking along, hoping to one day settle where I can watch the sun set from the same perch every day just as Richard has chosen here in the Kingdom.

I hope to keep the Ruminations coming, but first I’ll take some time to process. And before I dig any deeper in to the philosophical and practical values of my experience here, I hereby present my first outtake. Enjoy! And here is a link to a pretty cool video I made: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SRRfKTvPy0 (copy and paste)

~

The Art of Listening (Outtake #1)

When I was young, my father understood that I was special. And special people need special directions.

“Sean. I’m going to repeat this real slowly, okay?” My father was so fond of saying.

He would then repeat the directions very slowly so there was no way I could misinterpret or forget the directions at hand. And sometimes he would repeat the directions a third time even slower! At first, I’d roll my eyes in denial, but then I’d laugh because I absolutely accept that I can suck at directions. I usually run in to trouble when I start trying to complete a task too thoroughly (Sean the Perfectionist). Or I start adding in a bunch of other actions to create something even better (Sean the Artist and Visionary). Or I take a little time to enjoy the roses (Sean the Buddha). And more often, I simply don’t listen (Sean the Space Cadet).

On the farm, on this farm, I had to re-learn quickly how to listen and process directions. Pruning and picking tomatoes back in August, Pete asked me to run a bunch of tomatoes up to Tim in the wash house. He also asked me to bring back a couple large serrated knives to cut down the inter-sown chard. Before I knew it, I had returned from the wash house empty handed.

“What were you thinking about that had you forget the knives?” Pete asked sternly.

Like I had done with my father so many times prior, I rolled my eyes. I blamed being distracted in the wash house, etc etc etc. But then I woke up to the fact that I had absolutely forgotten. I was responsible. I had to start paying attention more. I needed to start plugging in to the work and make sure I was ready for the upcoming move. I had to break out my chess skills on the farm. I was tempted to ask Pete to talk s-l-o-w-l-y like my father always has to do, but then I reconsidered. One father is plenty!

October Harvest is Underway...

Dear RumiNation,

I sit perched on the west face of Craftsbury Common in Vermont. The dark blue and graying sky is fading quickly now. I just witnessed one of the most amazing sunsets of my life. As a romantic lover of Red Skies, I do attest that tonight’s sky was magnificent. For the first time in Vermont this year, I raced to gather my manual film camera. I maintain that digital holds nothing on the femptomolar resolution of silver citrate film. I quickly loaded a new roll of film and took a few shots.

The ripples of fiery red clouds, though, were preceded by both a hailstorm and several hours of on-and-off-again cold rain. Three hours earlier I had just finished harvesting 60 pounds of brussel sprouts with 5 fellow gents in the field. It is a time consuming harvest that costs our customers and retailers at least $6 per pound. Well worth it thought. I’m a big fan of brussel sprouts, these tasty little mini-cabbages. I routinely roast them in olive oil.

Yesterday was bittersweet on the farm. We were directed to pull up the tomato plants in both the Head House (a.k.a., Greenhouse #1) and Greenhouse #2. I’ve come to know them, though, as Casa de Verde Caliente and Casa de Verde Dos. Most of our Wednesday afternoons were spent solely in these greenhouses picking and pruning tomatoes. Tomatoes constitute a large part of both our labor and market here. So to uproot the plants is sweet. The work is done. The next season will inevitably come. But bitter in that we had nurtured these plants along since March. From March to October, with proper pruning, the stems will have grown to over thirty feet in length. There is a practical and soothing genius to the repetitive picking, pruning, and tresseling of these plants. If I am to ever farm again, I know that I will have tomatoes, planted and hung just as Pete has planted and hung.

We also welcomed Pete back on to his farm yesterday! The eight days prior, he had been touring farms and agriculture-based businesses in Europe. One business in particular especially caught my attention. There is a 45,000 member CSA service in Denmark -- could you imagine??? 45,000! This company provides about 60 different CSA food options for its 45,000 members. And I thought we were setting a pretty fine example here with over 300 CSA members. So I wouldn’t be surprised if Pete’s Greens begins to custom tailor more of its CSA options in the future. I’m a big fan of some of these new ideas. Whatever it takes to bring new and curious customers in to a market of healthy foods, I’m in. Meanwhile, I’m glad to have Pete back here safe and sound, on his tractor, and leading us in to the remaining October Harvest that looms before us.

Best wishes,
Sean

p.s. Some personal and work photos can can be found at (copy and paste):
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2234480&id=1314141&l=1b7dfe4f07

Don't Take My Word For It...

I'll have another post up tomorrow. Meanwhile, enjoy Dan Rather's November 2009 segment on the farm I work at and our greater agricultural economy here in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont.

Cut and paste http://vimeo.com/7729181 in to your browser or click on the title above.

Bests,
Sean

"We'll Smoke 'em."

Dear Nation,

In my last post (scroll down), you got to see my first publicly available video compilation from the farm. In so doing, I also made good on my promise to show you video of our new potato digger platform. We just have twenty beds of potatoes remaining in the ground!

Just yesterday, Noah, Paul, and I dug up most of our sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes are a challenging crop in Vermont, but this season’s warmth coupled with a few season’s worth of experience amounted to a beautiful yield and nutritious quality. I’m curious to discover how Steven transforms our sweet potatoes over at Claire’s! The best part about yesterday’s sweet potato harvest, though, was the company and crew. We got Paul off the tractor, and I rather think he enjoyed picking a few vegetables with us.

With the onions drying, squash curing, and potatoes almost fully harvested, we’ll soon be moving on to harvesting our copious quantities of beets, carrots, turnips, parsnips, and cabbage. We have a lot of squash in the farmstand, reasonably priced at $1.10/lb, so come on by. And I hope to keep Bonnieview’s Coomersdale Cheese stocked through the remainder of the stand’s season.

Speaking of which, I have almost now completed 3 months of my internship. One month to go, and I will be celebrating by throwing a party for myself and my farmhand colleagues. Pete has given me the green light to give a personal tour of Pete’s Greens to my friends, familiy, and RumiNations followers at 2pm Saturday October 30th. Following the tour, we will convene at my rental home up on Craftsbury Common for some good music, great food, and a stellar view of the Lowell Range. Please pencil in on your calendar. All are welcome! Door prizes, music, good food. Saturday October 30th. 2pm at Pete’s Farmstand. 4pm at my place on the Common. More details to come.

Best wishes,
Sean

p.s. Here a few sound bytes from the season:

“Where’s Vermont?”
asks a touring farmstand customer after telling him I grew up in Essex Junction, Vermont.

“How do you cook those?”
She points to the kohlrabi. I’m still working on my ability to cook this obscure vegetable.

“I feel like I’m in Central America.”
Paul exclaims as we pick some hefty sweet potatoes from our northern Vermont location.

“I need you to weight twelve turkeys.”
Amy Skelton, our CSA Manager, gives me these directions so that we can harvest our turkeys at the optimal selling weight. I proceed down to the turkey pasture and wrestle turkeys for thirty minutes. I weigh four. I decide four is enough. This is a job for Noah. He is the intern with both youth, lower center of gravity, and cat-like reflexes. Nonetheless and allthemore, wrestling turkeys has been -by far- the most athletic task to date on the farm. Like local state champion Greco-Roman wrestler, high school colleague, and fraternity pledgebrother Will Roya once told me, “95% of fights go to the ground.” Well I was on the ground with the turkeys like Roya on Paeplow (Dear Rumi Nation, please excuse the inside joke and long sound byte explanation).

“Two percent milk works best. And don’t use milk from a carton.”
Words of advice re: steamed milk frothing advice from an employee at Bee’s Knees in Morrisville. I am now the Crafstbury Common Stardust Co-op Cafe barista on Friday mornings.

“Like I said, I’m a jack of all trades, master of none.”
Steve Perkins, our tractor/repair technician and baby greens planter, is farmer, mechanic, plumber, electrician, carpenter, heavy machine operator, big truck driver, hunter, lumberjack, maple sugarer, Dad, and wife. And I’m sure that’s about 10% of the list.

“I bet you were a cross-country runner.”
Bob Twiss notes as I dart from wood pile to basement, basement to wood pile.

“We’d smoke ‘em.”
The confident words of Running Bear, a Croatan Native American that I met at Parker Pie Saturday night. He didn’t care for the band. He said that with his voice and my power chords on guitar, well, that we’d smoke ‘em. He proceeded to blast harmonica directly in to my right ear for the entirety of an Otis Grove song. Literally, the harmonica was touching my ear. Fortunately, I was sporting a Zen-like unannoyable disposition. Just ask Andy. There might as well have been three trumpets blasting in my left year. Can’t Touch This. By the way, I thought Otis Grove was really good, and if you saw me dancing early in the morning, I think you’d agree.

“You have to start thinking about what you want in life.”
The sage words of advice from a concerned family member last weekend. I never did like sage. I’m more of a thyme & rosemary kind of guys. But apparently, if you cook sage in brown butter, you have something beautiful.

“I’m really worried about you guys.”
Tim exclaims to the two interns.

“This is not a barn.”
My girlfriend looks at my dirty feet and directs me to the shower before spending the night with her on a brief mid-internship visit to Virginia.

“Oh shit.”
After leaving my car door open by the pasture of turkeys so I can enjoy music from the stereo, I find that my car has now become home to a couple hundred flies. Oh shit.

“Porque America mas rico?”
The words of one of our young Mexican farmhands, after he has just told me his plan to work in America for 5 years straight, all seasons, to make enough money for a home and small farm back in Mexico. Translated in English, this immigrant worker has just asked me why America is so rich. I am stunned by the irony of the dialogue. I let the question endure and hang in silence, heartily appreciating his contributions to this farm and our food system, knowing that he is treated and paid well, but also questioning the imperative of our Global Economy.

“You look like you’ve joined a hippie commune.”
My Grandma’s interpretation after seeing a picture of me in a bandana on the farm.

“No. It’s because you look like a Swedish tennis star.”
Pete Johnson comments on my appearance. Another inside joke. You’ll have to come work or volunteer on the farm to get it!

Be well! Cover crop those gardens of yours!

Tractor Attachments Make All the Difference

Potato harvesting got a whole lot more efficient this year with an Isaac Jacobs custom built potato digger attachment platform. A few years ago, a separate tractor attachment enhanced baby greens harvesting, thus dropping the cost of this popular product.

There is so much room for mechanical design innovation in farming. I wish more universities would tackle the challenge of developing better farm technologies, especially at the mechanical design level. Not at the genetic engineering level!

Bests,
Sean

An Open Invitation

It is the evening of Monday September 20. 8:45 pm. I’m writing from my basement apartment below a house under construction. This is, however, no ordinary basement. Four windows line the wall walking out to an incredible view of both the Lowell and Green Mountain Ranges. A lone window decorates the South wall. To the East, the home is nestled in cozily to the Western slope of Craftsbury Common. Black slate lines the floor. A granite top finished kitchen greets my every evening cooking desire. Looking upward, the builders have waived the finishing touches on the ceiling, leaving me with an open warehouse style exposed beam canopy. The perfect place do my morning pull-ups!

When I pulled in tonight, I was greeted by my landlords enjoying the sunset from the skeletal beginnings of their first floor. Lords of Land. I’d love to know the origin of that word. Etymology. Not to be confused with insects. I’m grateful for this home. What a great little sanctuary.

I quickly run some beet greens over to Bob Twiss. He is a loyal farmstand customer, and he is a loyal purchaser of beet greens here at Pete’s Greens. We had a bunch of extra beet greens come back from the Market in Montpelier on Saturday, so I bagged them up for Bob. One of the few perks of neighboring with a farm intern I suppose. He is a 86 year old man. Veteran of World War II. Military Police in the Philippines. Public School Principal during his post-war time as member of the Greatest Generation. Great Smile. Great Energy. He asked me to come on board and do some landscaping and wood chopping for him this Fall and early Winter. Absolutely. My Grandfather, 87 years old, is visiting tomorrow from Pinehurst, North Carolina. He served as Military Police in Egypt. My Grandpa is also bringing his older brother Raymond, 89 years old, a highly decorated WWII and Vietnam War Navy Officer. So I hope to bring Bob, Harris, and Raymond together tomorrow night.

I return from the beet greens delivery to find a couple of Sterling College students enjoying the post sunset colors decorating the sky. I say hello, welcome, please enjoy, and then shuffle to my lower sanctuary for shower and food. The shower is especially necessary after wrestling chickens and turkeys all day during their transit to new pasture. Tonight, I pan saute garlic, ginger, and baby spinach in canola oil. I finish it off with some butter and mustard. And with the colder weather, I diverge from my usual Coors Light for a Long Trail IPA.

Last Thursday, Pete lent me some time to prepare lunch from our recent harvests. Farm Lunch is a weekly occurrence here. It’s important. On a farm of this scale, we rarely come together as one large team, but farm lunch affords this opportunity. In weeks prior, I drop off vegetables to the village deli so they can prepare a pizza with our produce. We get to be patron to our local store, and we get a tasty thick crust pizza in return.

Last Thursday, though, I wanted to sport the essence of what we have growing here. I am a hobby chef for sure. I am a fan of purity in the dishes I cook for others. I tend to emphasize one particular ingredient heavily in any one dish. If I’m doing carrots, I roast them and finish them with a honey glaze. I don’t like to lose the carrots in a medley of cabbage and buttermilk. If I’m doing beets, I peel, slice, and roast them to caramelization. Sure, they taste great with goat cheese and walnuts, too, but there’s nothing wrong with a solo beet dish. So I cooked up some caramelized beets and honey-glazed carrots for lunch. I also roasted corn, roasted squash seeds, caramelized red onions, and made a roasted pumpkin and squash soup with ginger, fennel, cider, cream, salt, pepper, cinnamon, and honey.

But the best part was dessert. And the lady that cooked dessert. My Mom showed up from a few counties over with her famous 100 Dollar Chocolate Cake, Pumpkin Bread, and Bran Muffins. She also helped me finish off the soup I was preparing. So my Mom and I got to come together as a team and provide lunch for the farm. After lunch, she helped out and cleaned the dishes so I could get down to the wash house to help process and clean food for our wholesale and Famers Market deadlines on Friday. My Mom soon joined me in the wash house to help shuck and trim up dried red onions with Maria and I. And here we were. Working together on this farm. One-time volunteer and one-season intern. Mother and son. I would soon find out that this day was the most energizing of the year for my mother.

I have this vision, however naive, however idealistic, that farms will one day unite communities like no other organization can. Like they used to! That farms can unite families. That farms can heal both land and people.