The farm's Community-Supported Agriculture members have a choice between shopping for items at our farm stands or picking up a collection of produce that we select each week. Normally, Jen packs the CSA totes each Wednesday while I help finish the harvest for it. She's on vacation this week though, so Ted packed boxes and I did the deliveries. In previous years I've delivered more often for various reasons, but this might be my only chance this season to share how it's done... so get out your CSA geek glasses and let's dive in to the nuts and bolts!Read More
It's finally fresh corn season on the farm. In just the week I was gone, our first planting came and (almost) went. Our next one is fully pumping now, and we have four more waiting after that. Imagine: the youth farmers were planting baby seedlings for our last round, just down the field from where others were harvesting from the first round last week. Field two, behind the greenhouses, is a microcosm of the summer season, with three successional rounds planted side by side, baby to kid to teenager corn stalks, all still waiting to tassel and reproduce. The crazy part of it all, I realized yesterday, is that each planting's maturity brings us one week closer to the end of the crew's season. By the time they say goodbye at the end of September, we'll be closing in on those last plantings that today seem so far off from ever producing ears.Read More
I was drowning in salad mix at the end of the day. The coolers were packed full of totes and we needed more room, so I was stuffing bags and bags of leafy greens to free up a few tote spaces. It felt like a burden, but at the same time, I felt rich. This stuff is like gold, and not just because it earns us seven dollars a pound at our farm stands. It's one of the most vibrant, colorful, texturally interesting crops- not to mention nutrient dense and gut-healthy- we grow at the Youth Farm. It lasts for around two weeks in the fridge because it's so fresh and only a bit of every piece has been cut through in the harvest process, and it's my go-to easiest meal base- just toss in a bowl and add dressing and some sort of protein. The process from seed to bowl is relatively simple and quick:Read More
They had scurried away around the tool shed, giggling and obvious, when I pulled up on the tractor just after five o'clock. No one else was around, and when I started walking around to lock up the sheds, they came back.
"Can we have some strawberries?"Read More
Consider the tomato.
It's been a long time coming, and I've written a hell of a lot about them.
From planting and keeping the first seedlings alive in freezing nights of February to grafting baby Big Beefs onto rootstock plants in March, running out of room for them and marveling at how quickly their scars healed in April to pruning and trellising the quick-growing plants in May, it's been a long time coming.Read More
With all the daily to-do lists and weekly goals and pushes to finish big projects in farming, I often forget to look back at-- and especially to really appreciate-- my successes. This morning, I would never have guessed that I would be looking back on the day with pride and joy. I was in a sour mood. Lately I've been focusing on some of the things I don't have, and it had caught up to me by this morning. I could have crawled back into bed and given the leading to others, hid in the weedy onion patch by myself and sulked in my ungrateful thoughts all day. Even on the brightest morning meeting up with the most positive people, sometimes I'm just caught like that, blind by choice to the good.Read More
"I showed up around ten o'clock for my environmental studies class assignment. I had a hard time waking up, and the sun felt really intense even by mid morning. A woman showed us around for a while, and I tried raw kale for the first time. It was actually pretty good. Leafy tasting. I volunteered to thin apples before I knew what it meant, and I was happy I did: I got to be in the shade most of the morning, just cutting baby apples off the branches to make better fruit. I even climbed up into some of the trees, and for a few minutes I forgot all about my classes and final projects-- the sound of apples plopping onto the tarp, light filtering through the leaves, birds chirping nearby. What a relief."Read More
There's nothing and everything special about days like these, when the sun finally breaks out in the late afternoon and our backs are waking up for the week and I have no idea what to write about because any single moment could become an entire book if I explored it. I'm searching to find the most magnificent part to share, but it's all magnificent. It's all normal and wild, monotonous and exhilarating, tiring and energizing, frustrating and peaceful. It just is. And it's all really, really good.
So here. Here's this most majestic, perfect squash blossom to top off this most sublimely imperfect last day before Harvest Season begins.Read More
I arrived early today to finish revamping a little herb and flower garden near the farm stand, and to document all the beautiful crops approaching harvest. I've been struck dumb a lot in the past couple weeks, walking through a field, looking down to notice how fresh and thriving the [insert broccoli, green onions, carrots, peas, etc etc] are looking. It warrants another photo journal, since the brief evening one I did about a month ago caught nothing of this sort. It's really time. We're on the verge of harvest season.Read More
After a mini vacation over the weekend and a grand hurrah event today, I still feel pretty out of the loop on what's happening at the farm. While I was away, the interns transplanted several beds of brassicas and lettuce, but there were very few volunteers over spring break, so not a ton of projects were able to happen. While everyone started catching up on field work today, I was thick in preparing for our annual Chef's Night Out fundraiser at the Hult Center in downtown Eugene. I prefer to stay really involved and on top of all the myriad moving parts of the farm, but I must say that checking completely out for a few days felt like a huge relief. Everyone needs a break, right?Read More
After some time of my detailed rambling about how to find the last of the Napa cabbage, I hesitated after mentioning collards. They're behind the greenhouses, hidden amongst a sea of overwintering (and very similar looking) cauliflower.
"Why don't you just come with us?"Read More
"Do you want to try some chickweed?" I get laughs, and more questions: "What's that?" "Is it a weed or a vegetable?" "What will it do to me?"
I scoop up a few more sprigs of this rampant, delicate garden weed from our greenhouse beds and hand them to the fraternity brothers that've come to volunteer today. A couple try it and nod ambiguously.
"Tastes like grass!" they say with smiles. At least they seem to like it.Read More
It is time to begin, again. The emergence of spring's heralds-- the crocus, the daffodil, the ornamental cherry blooms in every third yard around Eugene-- brings me to anticipate, look up, shake my winter-softened arms out a bit. It's been a whole year.Read More
I finally, finally spent a few minutes taking photos on the farm today. The rhubarb is alive again, popping forth crinkled leaves from buxom pink buds on the soil surface. The biggest leaves are the size of my palm, and I find myself wondering how many 2-inch stalks it would take to make a rhubarb pie. But no, it deserves to grow.Read More
Microbes are blowing my mind. Well, no: I can accept how active, ubiquitous, and adaptable they are. I get that. Okay. To my rational, scientific mind they make perfect sense. Give them the right temperature, moisture, and material, and they'll eat and reproduce like mad until their poop outweighs their food. Even then, they'll continue, calling in their cousins to work on the stuff left over. To my human parts, though-- my eyes, ears, and hands, which can never perceive the billions of microorganisms engulfing and supporting me every second-- microbes make magic.Read More
Tuesday, October 25. Good a day as any for the first frost of the season. I had been anticipating it for weeks, trailing off to imagine the frantic covering of rows and harvesting of tomatoes and basil that, in the end, didn't happen. We were all-- rough yellow basil, split tomatoes, puny zucchinis, worn down hands-- ready. We knew it was coming. We'd been waiting and wondering and not really sure if a few degrees would really matter. Yes: everything changed in one night.Read More
Today is my last day in Ecuador. ...Wait, ¿¿¿Qué??? How did that happen?! While I have been soaking up sun and wandering markets and letting español plant itself surely in my brain, four and a half months passed. Right under my nose. Like my constant ache for home and simultaneous love for this country could continue forever, side by side confounding and delighting me. I want to cry when I think of how joyous it will be to reunite with my family and friends, and I want to cry when I think of how much I will miss the places and people I´ve known here. I already miss many of them, more than I imagined was possible. I will miss being able to get on or off an interprovincial bus at any point along the highway (forget bus stations!), and the whirl of raucous music bumping in time with the curves and jolts in the journey. I will miss the steep scent of eucalyptus that cuts through the Panamerican highway smog and inundates me, welcoming me back to the Sierra. The rows of roasting chickens in windows along every street, and the way they stealthily pique my appetite even when out of sight. The sight of indigenous women in ponchos and felt hats, colorful and daring amidst the hubbub of modern Quito. A warm sea. One-dollar golden coins jingling in my pockets. Machetes and banana trees and being told I´m linda by random passerby.
I will miss making fleeting decisions and acting them without needing to consult anyone. What I look forward to, though, is having people I love and trust to consult, when needed. I look forward to reliable hot showers and free, clean public bathrooms. To not worrying about only having $20 bills that no one can break. To exercising my precise usage of the English language, and to fresh greens and salads at my disposal. I look forward to having a cell phone and a computer, and to spinning my gorgeous nieces until we´re dizzy and giggling. I can´t wait to show you more photographs and try to express all that I´ve been unable to in writing. It will be good. It will be, and has been, all very good.
All this time to myself has given me an opportunity to brainstorm-- probably far too much-- about what to Do With My Life. The world works in myriad, mysterious, marvelous ways, and I can´t say that I have a much firmer idea about how to continue than when I arrived here. I might still need to study more (in Academia) to satisfy my tenacious search for understanding. I will certainly be practicing more agriculture and participating in local food movements-- what I see as solutions to un montón de problemas that we face. No matter what, the fact that I often catch myself thinking in Spanish will serve some good. De ley voy a seguir con todo que me gusta, y de ley seguir encontrando lo bueno más y más cada año.
I named this blog from a song I wrote late last year: ¨I´m the shape of milk pouring, steady, steady...¨ Funny, now, that the shape of milk has shaped my many paths during my stay here in Ecuador. Fresh milk first flowed into my life at the FBU farm, every morning at sunrise, and made its place in my heart (and stomach) during my stay with Marco. It has made instant coffee delicious and ¨boring¨ queso fresco ever-distinct and tasty. What strikes me now is that it is dearly missing from my homeland. Even whole fat organic milk can´t compare with that glob of yellowish cream floating atop a pot of boiled milk from a nearby vaca.
Maybe I´ll end up raising cows and providing you all with the sweetness of that daily froth. In the meantime, as paisajes and avenidas fade to memory and my body adjusts to clean tap water and burritos, I´ll be saying a long, loving adios. Gracias.
Martes, 12.4.11 @ FBU 6:20-- First wakening, from the kitten that is now staying in the volunteer house. I want to name it Pluma since it´s so light and feathery, and it´s face reminds me of a bird sometimes. The German boys have given it a boy´s name, even though we already know it´s female. Its whiskers tickle my cheeks as it rouses for the day.
6:30-- My alarm finally goes off and I force myself not to fall back into my wild dreams. I´m signed up to collect milk this morning (and show the new volunteer, Felix, where to do it), so I can´t drift back. I throw off the four thick wool blankets and follow Pluma to the bathroom.
6:50-- After leaving the two liters of fresh, still-warm milk to boil with Felix in the kitchen, I set back out in my rubber boots to feed the chickens and collect any eggs they´ve left over the weekend. They are the same kind as our old chickens on Bell Avenue, and as I open the door to their run I´m bombarded by memories of leading Camus, Gloria, Rosey and Pollo around the back yard with a stalk of flowering broccoli. They stare and cluck as I measure out their daily corn ration, chasing me to the feeder past verdant tufts of grass. Something must be done to make them eat that grass. The yolks just aren´t orange enough... but they´ll do. Twenty eggs.
7:05-- I retreat to my room for 20 minutes of yoga. My mind switches back and forth between concentration ont eh stretches and everything there is to do on the farm. The volunteer coordinator and de facto huerta manager, Fred, is in Guatemala this week doing a training in microbusiness, and he basically put me in charge of the garden while he´s away. Yesterday I spent all morning flinging myself from bed to bed, feeling almost frantic about what needs doing. Much of it is already planted, but the thought of manually preparing all the spent beds-- hoe, deeply, in clay-mud, wheelbarrow compost and pumice, pitchfork it in, rake it out, shape the bed...-- makes my back ache even more. Ahhh, back to that stretch. Temporary relief.
7:30-- I emerge again for breakfast. Today, since we´re one egg short of a full cubeta to sell in the afternoon, I go for oatmeal. Mix water and milk, boil with oats, add salt, sugar, and cinnamon, and top with a couple of those famous ripe oritos. No coffee for now, though I might buy some when we go to Intag later this week to pick up warm-weather produce from an allied farmer. They have an association of organic farmers there, and they happen to produce the best quality café in the country.
7:50-- Philip, another young German who´s here at FBU for a whole year (the gap year is paid for by the government if they choose social service like this), finally enters the kitchen. I was about to go wake him up, since today is harvest day and, though I helped last week, he´s needed to direct the show.
8:00-- I go out to ¨piddle around¨ until the others are ready. I find one of the giant pigs with an hours-old litter of nine piglets, all dazzling and fluffy, stirring around her overfull teats. One is laying, bare and soggy, ont he other side of the concrete pen. It was stillborn, I learn later. The rest look healthy and already plump.
8:20-- We begin harvest. Felix, Kirsten (another new German, a bit older and here for just a few weeks), and I set out to collect chard. A sad crop, but we gather four bunches of ten leaves each, plus a pile of holey or old leaves for the cows. Kirsten gets pulled out by Esteban, who runs the tree nursery, to help move 5000 saplings. She wants to practice her Spanish anyway, right?
9:30-- As we harvest, I can´t help jumping back to GTF last year. The smell of lettuce butt as the ugly leaves fall to the ground. How many times did it take me to make a presentable bunch of chard? Delicate cauliflower leaves hugging the glistening head-- almost coy. And carrots: how I miss those power hoses on a muddy day.
10:00-- Felix, Philip, and I finish the harvest: 4 chard, 2 celery, 10 head lettuce and 6 romaine, 14 beautiful broccoli, 8 cauliflower ranging from golf ball to plate-sized, a few tomate de arbol, 4 nice fennel, several zucchini, and a pile of stout carrots. Last week we made about $15 selling to various restaurants and conscious individuals in Tabacundo and Cayambe. Compared to Corvallis prices, our customers are some lucky SOBS.
10:20-- I´m zig-zagging plastic string between two not-so-taut wires we´re just rigged for the sweet peas. Poor things were flopping all over the place. Despite the mud (and therefore kinda wiggly posts) and hand-tightened wire, I can already see the plants happier. Two weeks from now the supports will be smothered, I reckon.
10:30-- I sign out to make lunch. Collect 6 or 7 loose heads of broccoli, a couple romaine, some neglected beets, arugula, and the carrots left over from Saturday´s sales on the Panamericana. So much to do in the garden, but it feels good to walk away for now.
11:50-- I´m ladling quinoa-broccoli-onion soup into the blender as people trickle in from work. I want the soup to be cream of broccoli, so I do one more blender-full before carrying out the salad and boiled beets. The soup is a successful experiment, chunky and creamy with a nice grainy texture thanks to the quinoa. Lots of veggies for one meal, but I´m happy as a clam and relieved that everyone eats it without a fuss (... well, I´m the only one eating the beet greens...).
1:00-- After cleaning the kitchen, taking the compost to the pigs, and collecting three more eggs to fill the cubeta, I need to lie down for a minute. Nobody´s about to give me a hard time. And besides, Valentine (the fourth German, here for a year) ends up reading and sleeping all afternoon instead of going to sell with the others. It´s raining for the moment, though, so...
1:30-- I´m back in the garden, somehow getting myself to hoe up a little bed where I want to transplant chard and onion. After hauling compost and cascajo (the pumice), I´m only half disappointed to be forced under cover by the rain. I retreat to start a project that´s been calling me since I first got here and spilled a handful of cabbage seeds while trying to find the rosemary packet.
2:00-- The seed shed. It´s a mess. Filthy, like with rotting potatoes against one wall and a pile of semi-fresh cow shit right in the middle. (Why, cow, here?!) I get to work, piling and sorting what I can on the floor (boots, old milk jugs, animal medicines, bunched sheets...) before honing in on the seeds. Most are in a plastic storage bin, but some are lying out in packets or cans, and even in the bin there´s exactly zero sense of organization. After a half hour or so of sorting and deciphering hand-written labels, I´m standing in front of a shelf full of plastic cups: the Brassica, the lettuces, the onions, etc. At the bottom of the bin, I find a big bag of soy beans and couple disintegrating baggies of purple corn. And sunflower seeds! I´m excited.
4:00-- After a proper inventory with Felix and another six eggs collected from the henhouse, I sit down with a cup of German black tea and try to make sense-- for the second time in a week-- of what needs to get done in the huerta. Seeds we have, seeds we need, starts ready to transplant... and to top it all off, what phase of moon we´re in. Today´s the first quarter, so five days from now ill be perfect for seeding fruits, leaves, and bus crops. Roots and some leaves are best left for once the moon is waning; the gravity shift pulls all sap and water (and blood, apparently!) downward, so roots develop faster. Vice versa for fruits (sap and water pulled up by the waxing moon means greater production above ground)-- but leaves like lettuce and arugula are a draw since we´d like big leaves but no flowers. How much of a difference does this practice actually make? Lots, according to the old volunteer coordinator and most farmers here. I believe it, but for now I´ll worry more about getting anything to grow at all.
5:10-- I´m running down toward Picalqui, the nearest village, and somehow I´ve dodged the rain. It´s easy flying downhill, long as I don´t slip or trip over bumpy grass or cobblestone. Once I hit the valley floor and begin to climb, I remember that I´m at almost 10,000 feet. Huff. But hey, it´s easier by the day. To distract myself, I remember my mantra from running with Marco: ¨Fuerza fuerza no se para!¨ I wonder if I have a future in garden planning, and what adventures I´ll get up to with Maria in May.
7:00-- As we eat mashed potatoes and frittata prepared by Felix, he and Valentine try to teach me some German. They´re insisting that you can never write how someone speaks (like, ¨Gimme that¨ or ¨Nothin´to it!¨) in German. Blasphemy, they say. One day, perhaps I will understand. For now, my English has gotten more clear and proper so they understand me, and I can never quite figure out whether I think and dream in Spanish or not. Almenos un poco.
9:30-- After writing all this, I go out to brush my teeth and am pleasantly surprised and amused that the whole house is dark. We be tired.
I was sitting, eyes closed, in the lap of a wide, white tree in the pasture far behind Marco´s house. The moon, waxing crescent, had just set behind the wall of forest to our backs, and the stars were sparkling bright as fireflies. In one sense, I was alone with just a backpack and machete. In every other, I was with multitudinous company: one by one, I tried to hone in on each sound in the darkness. Though I recognized none, I knew the raucous calls spoke of grasshoppers, frogs, cicadas, and a haunt of nocturnal insects. There, an owl. Here, a growing swarm of mosquitos trying to poke its way through the shirt I´d tied around my head. My breath, finally calm. Layers upon layers of foreign sound; I could barely hear a thing. Then, POWWWoooaaaaooo!!!
One single shot. In the half hour I sat there listening, I had almost forgotten why I was there. Marco had been sitting silently, as well, just a hundred meters away in the forest, high up on two logs we´d tied around two trees. From his lookout in the darkness, he was waiting over the feeding grounds of the wanta, a large rodent that only comes out in the darkest hour of night. Oh yes: it all came back to me before the echo of munitions faded into the animal chants of the night. Oh yes: we had arrived around sunset to fix the lookout, re-tying and testing the logs, tracking the wantas´ previous feast of forest fruits, calling back and forth to a wakening owl in the distance. The moon was still high in the sky when darkness set, so we went to fish until the silvery light disappeared. We dug wriggly worms by the stream nearby, hooking them tightly and letting them sink to the mud under dangling grasses. We´d caught about six little barbudas, similar to catfish, before Marco went to chase an armadillo that was digging around the hill we faced. No luck this time...
(...Unlike the time he went wanta hunting last week, when he brought home a fully grown male armadillo in the backpack instead. I was convinced to de-scale, peel, and clean it that night, concentrating on each square inch of skin or shell in order to ignore the stench.)
I digress. By the stream, Marco returned as I held the ad hoc fishing pole in the moonlight, waiting for one more nibble. The night was still young, we already had a bag of fish, and we were still full of energy from the chonta that afternoon (a type of palm fruit that´s orange and savory, boiled and peeled with salt and cup of coffee), so we set off through the jungle to bag more fish in a bigger river.
The sensation of walking at night is dizzying. I mean, walking even on a sidewalk in pure darkness can be harrowing, ¿no es cierto? And, of course, walking through the forest at Opal Creek at night, hurrying with head lamps to find a campsite, is even more disquieting. So this night in the selva amazónica-- surrounded by utterly foreign smells and sounds and sensations as I passed through brush and stepped over nurse logs-- was quite possibly the most alien experience of my life. On the hunt as we were, I tried to stay alert and aware of all the noises around us, but it was nearly impossible for me to differentiate what Marco knew instantly as a grasshopper or bat. It was all I could do to keep up with him, tread quietly over the sea of leaves and sticks at our feet, and try to not panic as we crossed slippery rivers and searched for wanta along the way. We stopped to fish at a larger, slow bend in the river, keeping our lights off to not frighten the barbudas. Marco called to the monkeys in the distance and huffed deeply to communicate to the little jaguar across the way that we were peaceful. I sat, utterly stupefied, mechanically stashing each fish he caught in a pocket of the backpack. For all my time and attention here, I realized I knew practically nothing of this forest.
At the next stream we were along the edge of the trees again, and I waited in the pasture for a moment as Marco fished. Looking uphill at the sparse tree trunks in the last rays of white light, I imagined I was in the oak savannah of the Willamette Valley. Bald Hill, or Avery Park, or even down around Mount Tamalpais in California. For a few breaths, I ignored the jungle air and incessant chant, and I felt safer, steadier, sturdier-- like I could teach Marco something, this time around. Then the aroma of orchids wafted by, I caught a whiff of my jungle sweat, and the vision morphed back.
Marco always tells me, si tienes confianza en la selva, te puede dar tanta energía, tantas cosas. If you trust the forest, it will give you lots of energy, many gifts.
Just trust it.
The moon was falling fast along the horizon, so we started back the way we came. The wanta would be coming out soon to search for food underneath Marco´s lookout post. Along the way we stopped just once as the wavering whistle of nocturnal monkeys approached. In the trees above, they bounded and leapt loudly, stopping at a safe distance to watch us watching them. The size of large cats, they shifted curiously as their beady yellow eyes reflected Marco´s torch. Tan bodies into the trees. The night was full. We trekked on.
That is how I came to be sitting, eyes closed, in the lap of a wide, white tree in the night. After the shot rang the songs of night continued undisturbed, but I was waiting anxiously for Marco to emerge from the forest´s edge. When he finally did, flashlight bouncing along the tips of pasture grass, I peeked around the smooth leg of tree, squinting into the light, and spotted one delicate paw dangling at his side. It was a young one, just three months old according to the fat on her belly, soft and warm and heavy. We were happy, and I congratulated Marco for his long-awaited wanta. On the long walk home, as we stopped suddenly here and there to listen for armadillos in the brush, I reached behind me to feel the its silky fur sticking through a hole in the bottom of the backpack. I wished I could have seen it alive, pawing through the forest floor with its little toes, gnawing on pasos or uvas amid the grasshoppers´ crescendo.
But you know, I was also happy to see it scorched and brushed clean the next day. I was happy to learn how to take its guts out and chop its spine into meaty hunks. Most of all, I was happy to savor each bite of its fried meat, tender and fatty like prime rib, over a pile of boiled plátano and wash it down with fresh warm milk.
As Marco would say with a thick accent, This is jungle life.