Hard work

I actually worked today.

Yes, I actually work every day that I’m at the farm. But a lot of it’s the same kind of work, almost all day every day these days: Squat, kneel, or bend at the hip to scan and choose bright fruits and vegetables to harvest; chop, pull up, or twist off said produce and bunch, rip off leaves, feel for soft spots, or fill hands with as many little prizes as possible; fill crate or tote or bucket with the bounty, hoist it against my hips, and carry it to the cart or truck; set up tables or wash tubs to sort, bunch, bathe, or spray; carry full totes to the coolers. Apart from the glory of the still-alive produce I get to admire, taste, and smell all day, my physical work is essentially squatting a lot, lifting and moving around heavy oversized boxes, and levering my torso up and down, up and down all day.

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College guys try weeds

College guys try weeds

"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.

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