Purple peppers are just cooler.
Yesterday, Brian told me to watch the moon that night. Its track across the night sky would be a preview of the sun’s track during the winter. The moon would show me how little sunlight we would have.
And indeed, the moon’s track was low on the horizon that night, skimming along just below the tops of the trees upon the ridgeline on the southern side of the property. Shafts of moonlight would occasionally flood the farm as the moon slid into an open space between two trees, but it would soon disappear again. The overall message was clear: those trees, while quite effective in shielding the farm from wind during storms, are also effective in shielding the farm from sunlight in the winter. It’s going to be a dark winter.
This understanding serves to make me appreciate the farm’s current abundance even more. As I wrote a few days ago, the sun provides the farm with an incredible amount of wealth: food, energy, warmth, pleasure. It transforms the land and the life upon it, including us. It helps to provide an almost unimaginable abundance.
Garlic hanging to dry.
We have so much food right now. Nearly every meal seems a ridiculous spread, each day a testament to the current bounty. The farm is now pumping out cucumbers, eggplants, peppers, tomatoes, basil, squash, beans, carrots, beets, and potatoes. Not to mention kale, chard, salad greens, arugula, spinach, head lettuce, garlic, broccoli, cabbage, radishes, parsley, blueberries, and I think there may be a few stray strawberries around, too. The chickens are providing their own abundance in the form of multiple eggs a day. Brian, meanwhile, has been catching Chinook salmon, providing us with incredibly delicious fresh fish. Ginger has been trading at the farmers market, using our incredible veggies to bring home cherries, peaches, raspberries, locally-baked breads and pastries, local milk, blue cheese and grass-fed meat. Before long, we’ll have melons, corn, another round of snap peas, duck eggs, wild blackberries, honey from Ginger’s hives, and a few apples from the still-young orchard.
It’s not just the food, either. The farm is blanketed in beautiful flowers and the growth of everything (including the weeds) has exploded. There are birds everywhere, the cats are playful and energetic, the chickens and ducks are ever-busy, and uncountable wild creatures, bugs and critters abound. Thanks to the sun, we usually have abundant electricity and hot water. And, finally, we find ourselves with a never-ending stream of engaging, thoughtful, hardworking Wwoofers.
While farming is a joy year-round–even when the cultivated food has yet to arrive–it’s particularly satisfying this time of the year. When the incredible abundance arrives and you find yourself with an almost embarassing selection of delicious, fresh, healthy foods to choose from every day, the true glory of being a farmer–of this way of life–makes itself clear. This, here, is one of the many rewards of good work. Not only abundant and delicious food, but the forging of community and the fostering of life, health and happiness. While it may prove a dark winter, the memory of such a bright and sustaining summer will no doubt carry us through.
The summer makes kittens playful and keeps them adorable.
Our farm kitten, M, attempts to nurse on Fiona--even though Fiona is her aunt. Not to mention dry. And barely tolerating it, by the look on her face. Completely adorable, though.
Earlier tonight, Brian (who is the co-owner of the land I’m farming on) arrived home triumphant, holding a 10 pound wild Chinook salmon he caught while out on the nearby Nehalem Bay in a row boat. He carried the fish with a certain pride and excitement, exhilarated at his success. He had about ten hours invested in catching the Chinook, providing–from a purely utilitarian perspective–a reasonable exchange of a pound of fish per hour of work. From a physical and spiritual standpoint, on the other hand, he had traded a combination of play and work for unmatched sustenance.
After Ginger and I admired the fish for a few moments, Brian unearthed a new fillet knife and soon we both stood over his catch, laid out on a wooden table outside. Brian carefully slit open the fish’s belly, made a few cuts around the gills and then began to scrape out the guts of what turned out to be a male fish. It was fascinating to watch. I couldn’t help but think that the fish’s interior seemed surprisingly simple and well-organized. It was not a mess in there, which on some odd level is what I expected. The organs were well-arranged, packed tight but functional, each residing well in its place. The fish’s body was purposeful. Brian’s cleaning of it was, as well.
As Brian opened the fish, cutting each side of flesh away from the bones, he accidentally left a few good pieces of meat still attached. These he went back to and sliced off carefully. We shared in these fresh, raw strips of the Chinook, eating them both in celebration and with a certain reverence. I’ve never eaten raw salmon in that way and so it was both a new experience and a treat. The taste was mild, the texture somewhat chewy but not unpleasant. I could feel my body responding to the meat. It not only tasted good, but felt good.
Our farm kitten, M, inspects and tastes the Chinook.
Once done cutting the fish, Brian temporarily hung the remaining carcass on the fence, intending to pack it away later to be used as crab bait. As the cats quickly discovered it and began inspecting, playing with and nibbling on it, we retreated into the main house with our bounty. The wood stove, fired up in search of hot showers on this surprisingly cool August evening, awaited the Chinook and Brian obliged with half of the fish, settling it onto a metal pan and sliding it into the oven unadorned. He had caught the fish at 7:20 that evening. Within an hour, we were eating raw strips of it. By 8:45, we were eating cooked, dripping pieces of it. The flesh was tender, flaky and delicious. The belly meat was like butter. We ate it with our fingers, walking back and forth between the salmon on the counter and the hot wood stove, marveling at the amazing taste, the incredible texture, the gift of this food–this creature.
And it was a gift. It was a gift of nourishment, of the passing of one life to provide for others. It was a gift of the amazing fertility that still exists within the local land, despite all the abuse and degradation it’s received in recent decades. It was a gift of Brian’s work, his play, his desire to teach me, and of this community I live in. But it also was a gift of connection to a tradition and culture rooted here in the Northwest. Tonight, we ate fresh salmon with our fingers, bound by the sharing of that food and the sustenance provided us by the land and sea. We did this much as past communities, tribes, and native cultures have. We shared in a human tradition that extends back thousands of years and derives from this land and the interplay of its inhabitants, both human and nonhuman.
Tonight, we laid claim to and celebrated this tradition. We did it with our hands: piece by piece, taste by taste.