In Season

Based on my experiences today alone on The Farm I came up with many inspired, beautiful possible chapter titles, including:

I Don’t Want Rooster Love

Hoeing Skills (that would make any father proud)

I’m Gonna Get a Spatula After This; You Want Any?

(in reference to a jar of apple butter…. obviously)

First Taste of the Season: Strawberry

I’m Not Wearing Sunscreen Anymore, It Just Attracts the Dirt

Today I followed Farmer Thomas’s lead and plucked one bright, red strawberry right off the bush and ate it. Within a week alone berries have gone from barely visible to slightly yellowish green, to edible. There are not many, but with every step down the row I see at least one plump for the picking. My personal goal is to beat all the deer and slugs to the harvest.

I’m anticipating a decent amount hanging nicely and ready for the taking by Monday morning… Our CSA deliveries and Farmer’s Market Saturday’s are still a couple weeks away… What to do? What to do? Chris has a hankering for a strawberry pie, and I’d just love to eat them straight from the bowl.

Tomorrow marks the completion of my second month as Farm Girl, an identity I’m still trying to embrace. Dirt underneath what’s left of my stubby fingernails, freckles across my nose, the same three pair of Dickies in my Monday- Friday wardrobe rotation. (But I only wear two pair per week… yep, that’s me.) I weed carrots on my hands and knees for hours at a time, crawl through rows of onions, flame weed garlic, prune tomato vines until my fingers are sticky with a yellow and gray that doesn’t wash off with soap and water.

Plants plants everywhere. Busy days sunup to sundown. Somehow I still managed to make my Granny’s biscuits tonight and sauté up some crookneck squash (from California I’m sure.)

Chris mocking the photographer...

First strawberries of the season...

Unidentified

(first blooms on the eggplant)

The sun is setting in a light pink and lavender beyond the newly cut hay fields. Behind the trees and hills and raised beds in the far west fields of the farm. And it’s already 8:30pm. At 4:30am the sun will rise again lighting the endless sky.

…

It was as if 5:00pm would never come today. And it wasn’t even as if the labors of the day were that wearing. I’ve had more brutal days. There have been days of more pain and more sweat and physical exhaustion.  I was just not feeling it today. Soft pink daydreams of a previous life, of grandiosity; of living where I was three months ago kept spinning through my mind. I’d have rather had my hands around a Starbucks latte and a department store handbag instead of in potting soil and reeking of rotten fish.

I’m here for a season. For the honk of the geese and the breeze in the evening and the butterfly that lands on my shirtsleeve just as much as I am here for the first chard I’ll eat. Just as much as I’m here to learn about squashes and cukes and peppers and cilantro, I’m here to stand at the gate of the pigpen and watch Amadaeus and Megaton eat avocado rind and banana peels.

I’m here for the way I feel when I stand in the herbs panted between the two greenhouses: thyme, rosemary, lemongrass, lavender, and oregano

To see the six goslings living the first days of their lives near the pond by the potato patch

To drink Love My Goat red table wine- Bully Hill Vineyards

To live rent-free

To inhale bright green, tender basil leaves

To learn names of various watermelon- sunshine, new queen, sweet little flower

I have yet to taste my first Poc Choy, Arugala, Artichoke or Strawberry of the season, but I know that all this hard work will be worth it. Not that I ever doubted that, or think that living in Manhattan makes me, as a person, any more important or any more valuable- but on some days it just feels like that life- right now, in this moment- would be easier. I knew that life. That Stefani. That commute and church community and vegan restaurant and neighborhood coffee shop.

Here, at The Alleged Farm, I don’t go further than a mile most Monday- Fridays. I talk to more animals than people. I eat three meals a day with my husband and entertain myself with books or movies or puzzles or by writing letters to people I love.

I just don’t want to feel like I’m wasting my time, wasting my life. I guess it’s a state of mind. I could feel like I was wasting my life Anywhere, USA. I could feel like anything any day of the week, I guess. And today, I longed for something else. Something that Merlot and a hot shower didn’t bring after a hard days work.

Memorial Day

Today was Memorial Day. And we didn’t complete our workday until after 6:00 this evening. Today was the first day I sweat. Really sweat, all day long. Sure shoveling for hours in the greenhouse, even on a fifty-degree day, was no small chore. There have been difficult moments. And, there have been more difficult days that today, overall. But today was simply a hot day. And we were out in the field all day along.

Even after refilling my water bottle four times and drinking over sixty-four ounce of water and an Emergen-C, my head is currently rumbling into a headache. One of dehydration. (Not that the glass of Reisling I downed at 6:05 helped whatsoever.)

Even after drinking all that water, I didn’t need one bathroom break all afternoon. But I took one at 5:00pm anyway, just so I could sit down. Seriously.

I have to admit that was hopeful that Farmer Thomas’s son soccer team would excel into the final bracket of the Memorial Day Weekend Tournament and that yes, indeed they would be playing for the championship today…. Which would mean Thomas would still be in Washington DC. No such luck.

And I’ll be honest, even if he weren’t here, Chris and I still knew eggplants needed to be planted today, and we knew in which field and which rows and could have figured out which order. We are aware of some other farm chores and things that have been left undone: we could finally attach the ground cover between the green houses where the artichokes and lemongrass are now growing. We could wash out potato bins and shim-up the new door that sticks in the 144’ greenhouse. We could drive into town and fill up the propane tanks so that we could continue flaming weeding the garlic.

Then we’d have the afternoon off! You know around 2:00 or 3:00 or so. I’d read in the shade of the big tree in their front yard. Maybe make some homemade bread or head into Greenwich to get a dip of ice-cream from The Ice Cream Man. It’s Memorial Day. Everyone else is off work, right?

Turns out we planted eggplant until noon. After lunch Mike, the additional part-time farmhand that’s been working here for five years, arrived. The three of us planted tomatoes until 3:00. Then headed out to trellis the pea beds, which took until 5:00pm. I was more than happy that two strong, capable men were able to put in the stakes and heave the heavy post-pounder. Chris and I would have been out there until 7:00pm and probably in need of some marriage counseling if it would have just been the two of us. Perhaps Thomas knew this.

Mike, Chris and I found our groove. I enjoyed weaving the trellis and fitting it taught in the stakes. Of course, the pea plants are still my favorite. I think they are so feminine and delicately gorgeous. I was happy to help them. They want to climb and grow and twist those tiny little arms around something strong enough to help pull them up. Lovely girls, those Sweet Ann Peas.

The last hour of the day, I stood and watched the men work. Well, let me explain: they were trying to air up a tubeless tire that was unseated from the rim on the attachment that is used to lay plastic on flat rows. In regards to this: I’ve got nothing. I did manage to kill two yellow jackets with some spray that Thomas had brought out. They had built a nest in the attachment and he had killed most of them. I chased two more around the farm, until about 5:30 when the men got things figured out.

Then we all headed out into the field to see if the half-hour effort had been worth it. This particular piece of equipment hadn’t been used since last season. Two perfect rows later the day was complete. And I had only reapplied sunscreen five times. I was sure my arms would look like leather by nightfall.

No invite over for dinner. No burgers on the grill or, “Hey come over for margaritas after you shower,” just the end of a really long, hot day. Which was nice enough, I guess. I just had high hopes. How will I ever make it to August… ? I think I need to invest in an insulated thermos. 

Photos

 Chris wrestling with Winston, the 150 lb. Saint Bernard 

 Planting squash

 And the neighbors cows are out... again

 Gorgeous views 

I'm pretty sure that's Vermont in the distance 

The chickens and Seamus heading in for feeding time

One More Week

 Friday I weeded for eight hours. I did not think I’d encounter another day of non-stop weeding quite so soon. Little did I know, Monday would bring more of the same. Weeding could be a non-stop activity on an organic farm.

Friday I weeded leeks and peas before lunch; some work on my hands and knees, some with the stir-up hoe. In the afternoon I weeded turnips – again on both my hands and knees and with the stir-up hoe.

After lunch I hoed the new strawberries. And pulled weeds in the old strawberry rows. This was followed by quickly putting the row cover back over the weeded turnips and (believe it or not) picking up rocks in an empty, recently plowed bed. After 5:00. On a Friday. We filled the bucket on the tractor with rocks from one bed in the field. After this thirty minute bending and lifting exercise I did not feel that it was necessary to go on my walk. Nor was it any longer desirable.

Monday, after planting what the rabbit or gopher or groundhog had left of the lettuces, which had been sitting in the cold frame, I finally finished weeding the pea beds. Just in time for the rains that will begin falling tonight. This afternoon I got to weed with the flamethrower that greatly intimidated me, but I moved past it quickly nonetheless. There is no time for fear on the farm. Just do as your told and trust all will turn out for the best.

Upon completion of weeding with fire, it was back to the old stir-up hoe and down the garlic rows. Row after row. The garlic is also weeded with the flex-tine attachment on the back of the tractor, so I sort of sped along, getting the big gnarly weeds but was still nowhere near finished when Chris called for help with some transplanting at 4:15.

From 4:30- 5:30 we put scallions and beets in the ground. This was by far the most rewarding, desirable activity of the day, and somehow it got crammed in the very last few minutes. This is why I’m here. This is what makes it worth it, to me and what keeps me going and yet, 80% of my time today was blah, blah, blah…

I also stumbled into some stinging nettle near the donkey barn after work. I was trying to capture a good photo of the duck, Terry, who is back momentarily. Terry (short for Tarragon) is (was??) a pet duck, which seems to spend most of his time elsewhere and comes and goes as he pleases. He’s the oddest-looking duck I’ve ever seen.

Here, the sun is up by 6:00am and stays up past 8:00pm. The days are long and filled with activity and work. I can’t even imagine what it will be like in only a month when we are harvesting and washing and packaging vegetables to deliver and sale across these counties. Insanity.

I look forward to talking to people. To answering questions. To dealing with the public and sharing information regarding food preparation and storage. Chris, on the other hand, is not looking forward to this aspect of farming. And I think many, if not most, farmers really would like to remain unseen. Inconspicuous. Home on the farm, in the field plowing or fertilizing or something besides being the prime candidate for 101 questions.

In addition to this blog, and my own personal journal, I’ve been telling this story through letters sent via USPS to many of you. Thanks for being a part of this journey. Your words, pictures, candies and prayers are what have brought me this far. 

Happy Mothers Day

To my beautiful mother, who is so much of the reason I am who I am today.

                                       Across the miles. All my love. XO Stef

The week in photos

 Milk and Honey(comb): Energy for the Farmer

 Chris watching the piglets 

 Our bee boxes 

Beautiful, aromatic Basil  

Greenhouse full of tomatoes 

The new front of the greenhouse that we put on earlier this season- and a new door too 

Kohlrabi  

Value Added: It's worth the price

These days my hair feels like straw and my freckles are multiplying. My boobs have gotten rounder and my ass plumper thanks to no cardio whatsoever in over a month. I know we work hard daily, and my muscles ache- I am tired, but it’s not the same as a big shot of endorphins at 6:30AM.

I enjoy the smell of the tomato plants as we placed them in the mulch-covered soil and I could almost taste the basil as we planted them 4” apart five rows deep. Delish. Chris and Thomas found some of last year’s garlic growing in the field where they planted turnips and gathered up 40-50 bunches. Thomas told us about garlic shoots and we’ve been eating them now for three days. Delish!

I’m reading Animal Vegetable Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver again and feeling guilty about the Saltines and Almond Butter on my cabinets while I drink my Fresca. I wish I could eat local, really local, for an entire year… and while I feel like I do what I can, I know I can always do more.

I am enjoying making homemade bread, but feel like it is extremely timely, and I have to factor it into my week. This in addition to the fact that it is gone so quickly. I want to pickle and can some of our fruits and veggies as the harvesting begins. And I’d love to make my own wine… but we’ll see how that goes.

After getting the piglets on Tuesday I’m continuously reminded of their awful smell. Yes, pigs do stink. After simply helping Chris load them we both stank of pig. Maybe after I wash my Northface fleece jacket the smell will subside, however I’m beginning to think that we live in a barn, therefore we smell like the barn. Period. End of discussion. So, I stink, and I’ve got to learn to live with the aches and pains of throbbing knees and sore fingers.

It’s getting to be the time of year when the weather will no longer effect what we do on a daily basis. Wind, rain, cool temperatures aside, I think that if something needs planted we’re going to have to get out in the field. Up to our ankles in mud, we’re going to have to do it. And that sucks.

This weekend I hope to make it to the Farmers Market in Troy. This is the second weekend they are outside on the Riverwalk instead of inside like they were during our visit almost a month ago now. I know I should not yearn for such things. Pretty soon I’ll be at the Farmer’s Market (in Glens Falls) every single Saturday morning and long for rest and time to do whatever I’d like… But for now, this is how I’d like to spend my time; shopping for asparagus and leafy greens and maybe some yogurt or cheese.

I’m seriously learning to appreciate all the time and effort and planning and preparing that go into growing a simple fruit or vegetable. It’s not all for nothing, even though sometimes it sure does feel like it is. I had no idea that the kale and the sprouts and the apples and the cabbage and the potatoes and the parsnips and the blueberries I bought at Farmer’s Market were worth so much.

Whatever you pay for organic strawberries, it’s not enough! 

Reality Check

So much of this work is not comfortable: crawling, on my hands and knees through muddy, murky soil- rocks jabbing my knees and shins. There is no way to comfortably do this job. Crawling hurts. Squatting makes your legs go to sleep quickly. Kneeling is really out of the question because there are rocks everywhere. Bending at the back is probably the worst option, but sometimes it just feels so good.

Like yesterday while planning tomatoes I did an up-dog followed by some cat/ cow’s in the middle of mulch and manure just because my back hurt so bad. Currently, my legs are riddled with bruises all along my shins and knees. And there’s also the softball sized bruise on my calf that I got over a week ago now, when trying to alter the water pressure as we zipped down the rows on the transplanter. 

This week has been mentally challenging. Now that I’m well into my fifth week and made it past my first month, got my first paycheck--- I keep asking myself what am I doing here? Why do I want to know how to farm? And what am I going to do with the knowledge after the fact?

The plants are victim to rodents, and rains, and mold, and deer, and slugs, and frost and…. It’s depressing to me. It’s as if all the hard work I’ve put it to this point pointless. And it should be easier here, on this farm, that isn’t my farm. It’s not my land or loss or customers, but already in one short month I really care. I want the plants to grow and the soil to be rich and the CSA customers to sign-up.

I did spray something called Liquid Fence in the greenhouse to deter the critters. I’m not sure what exactly it is, but it’s organic and the first ingredients are garlic and egg whites. Chris thinks it smells much worse than fish emulsion, but I do not agree. Fish emulsion lingers on your clothes and under your fingernails for days. Liquid fence simply smells like garlic. Hot, steamy garlic in the middle of a compost pile. (Cause after all, that is exactly what it is like in the greenhouse).

Monday we worked hard- knowing that Tuesday would bring rain. Strawberries got planted and carrots. We weeded and planted and moved things. Tuesday it did rain, so we planted tomatoes in the greenhouse: Pink Lady, Green Zebra, Jet Setter, First Lady, Martha Washington, Valencia, Black Cherry, Yellow Mini’s among others.

In the afternoon Chris and I drove the Ford to the other side of Albany, NY to pick up the two piglets. We literally tossed them in the bed of the truck (which has a cab on it and was filled with hay) and drove them home. They spent Tuesday night in the truck. Poor things. They are eight weeks old, but much larger than I anticipated. I was expecting something the size of a football—these pigs were pretty hearty and long and not near as cute as I thought they’d be. But they were scared to death, and it didn’t help Wednesday morning when we drug them back out of the truck, by their hind legs and placed them in their new pig pen.

The pigs were welcomed the barnyard by loud chatter from the henhouse and the feral roosters sat on the pigpen fence almost all day long. The donkeys were curious and felt left out, hollering to get some attention and some sweet feed. I felt like a character in Charlotte’s Web as all the animals let Wilbur know, “You were brought here to be slaughtered. They will eat you one day.”