Part 1 — Do you know your farmer?
If you had asked me 10 years ago if I know my farmer — I would have laughed at you. And then I would have dismissed the concept. Living in NJ at the time, doing what everyone else with a corporate job and a busy lifestyle, the idea of cooking my own food, let alone knowing where it comes from — was unheard of. It was also relatively impossible. Don't get me wrong — we were health conscious. We bought mostly organic produce, we ate lean meat, we made sure to get our greens in at most dinners. We were even somewhat adventurous — we knew the difference between red russian and dino kale, we could tell you what cheese to eat with which olives, what wine to choose for which dish. We exercised. We went to yoga. But were we cultivating true health? Knowing what I know now — no — we were missing the mark by a mile.
Five years ago, I moved my family to Vermont in search of the ultimate outdoor lifestyle. And while we certainly now enjoy endless hiking, biking and skiing — we found something of infinitely greater value. The food. All of the acronyms and new generation concepts you hear about in the media seem to literally have been born here. Organic, non-processed, locally sourced, free-range, antibiotic/hormone free, raised with love...you name it, Vermont has it. And has it in spades.
After selling our 3000 sq ft home in NJ and moving into our tiny ramshackle ski "chalet", we very optimistically started the search for the closest Whole Foods. Good luck with that in the middle of the woods. There was not even a Trader Joe's within 150 miles. The closest grocery store was a 40 minute drive and had possibly never even heard of creating an "organic section." And so to the farmer's markets we went — searching for items that used to be at our fingertips — triple washed and carefully packaged items shipped in from California to Spain and everywhere in between. What we found was something vastly different. Certainly there was lettuce and kale, and green beans, cucumbers and tomatoes. But there were also easter egg radishes, purple cauliflower, and more varieties of tomatoes, potatoes, onions, carrots, and specialty greens than we could even name, let alone know how to cook. But they were covered, literally covered, in dirt. Our market bags would develop a coat of mud after just one trip to get the weekly supply of food. The back of the car was covered in dirt, grime, onion toppings, carrot greens, and stray potatoes. A simple trip to the market quickly became an all day affair between the 30 minute drive to the "local" Wal-Mart parking lot where the market was held (not exactly what you picture for buying organic local produce) to pushing through crowds to get to vendors, to choosing the produce, weighing it, paying for it, chatting with the seller about what we'll do with the products (farmers love to hear how you use their product), and then driving 30 minutes home and washing all of that produce and prepping it for a week's stay in the refrigerator. What we learned about vegetable storage and food preparation and cooking could fill a novel — or a blog — but in addition to this unexpected and invaluable lesson we also gained something more. In immersing ourselves into our new environment and loving the food from the local farmers markets, we also began to find ourselves developing relationships with the folks growing our food.
Our first farmer friends were the good folks over at Evening Song Farm in Cuttingsville, Vt. Ryan and Kara grow about 5 acres of vegetables for CSA (community supported agriculture), farmers' markets, restaurants, co-ops, schools, and camps. They specialize in varieties that are unique, heirloom, and visually appealing, as well as those selected for exquisite flavor. They control pests and disease by prioritizing the health of our soil through techniques such as cover cropping, crop rotation, composts, micronutrient foliar drenches (think probiotics for the soil!), biodynamic field sprays (such as fermented compost teas made of wild harvested medicinal herbs), and providing habitat for beneficial insects. They only use organically approved pest and disease sprays as a last resort, and under no circumstances use a conventionally toxic application that would affect the health of humans or the earth. Their goal is to create a healthy farm ecosystem that doesn't depend on these inputs. These folks will talk to you all day long about soil management practices, specialty heirloom vegetables, pet project failures and successes, cooking, and food preservation. Over the years, as we've gotten to know them better, we chat over the farm stand table about life, travel, their farm, our work, our families, pretty much everything. They are quick to offer preparation techniques and are genuinely interested in how you use and enjoy the food they produce.
While working on this project, I had the opportunity to visit their farm, eat lunch in their home and chat on a more personal level about what their life is really like. The net of it is that farming is hard. I think that most of us would assume that yes being a farmer is hard. But actually having this conversation and hearing about the realities of farm life, was sobering. Ryan & Kara lost their first farm in Hurricane Irene a few years back and had to start from scratch on new land. They spend back breaking hours weeding by hand, covering five acres of vegetables to protect them from frost, uncovering the rows in the morning to allow the vegetable to soak up a few precious hours of waning north eastern sun. Life on a farm is hard anywhere, but here in Vermont it sometimes feels like the land itself, with its mountainous terrain, tricky water supplies, limited sunlight and warmth, short growing seasons, and rocky soil is just fighting to beat the farmer and return to wilderness.
But through all of these seemingly unsurpassable obstacles, they retain their openness, candor, and general sense of gratitude for a life worth living. They are truly happy and grateful for the life they built and honored to do the work they have chosen. They are also grateful to have a community that appreciates and supports their endeavors. That day at lunch, Kara shared her first impressions of my wife and myself when we met them so many years ago. She says she's never seen another customer like us — we would swoop in to the farm stand, divide up and start filling big market bags full of produce, each keeping an individual tally of what was going into the bag and then meet in the middle to add up our totals, hold a quick chat on items to ensure nothing was forgotten, and then give a total to Kara for noting in her handwritten accounts log. We bought more vegetables each week than many of her corporate accounts (think restaurants, co-ops, schools, etc) and came back week after week for more produce. She likened it to something out of the matrix and often said to us that "this is how people are meant to eat". Its funny to me now because I see our NJ mentality in her narrative. We are used to long lines and crowded stores. We are used to having to divide and conquer and completely willing to abandon a cart mid store if it will take too long to complete the purchase. But for us, life slowed down when we moved to Vermont. Simple things like weekly shopping at the farmers market, taking time to think about the food we would purchase and prepare for our family, and enjoying meals together each night took on new and special meaning. Kara saw our rushed habits and interpreted it as enthusiasm, while we learned that slowing down made the simple things in life all the more worthwhile.