Nature Bursting at the Seams

The farm was glorious today. The sky is its brightest blue and the clouds, varied and exuberant. The sky sang with birds; deep green trees arched lazily to meet it.

As usual, we went first to the little shelter, checked off my name, and filled bags with the prepicked offerings. This week we were given salad mix, red lettuce, summer squash, peppers, collard greens, colorful swiss chard, carrots, scallions, and--an exciting new offering--potatoes. Then the best part: u-pick time.

We strolled to the fields and examined the little chalkboard perched like a lifeguard its tall stand to learn what we could pick today. I kicked off my sandals and ran right for the rows of cheery flowers to cut a few stems, while C. began on the green beans. Soon I joined her in the dusty rows, turning over leaves in the hopes of finding a bean beneath. We munched as we picked, and the beans were delightful, earthy and sweet. (All the vegetables have been unbelievably fresh and crisp, but also, often, not as pretty or large as grocery store goods. G. raised his eyebrows when I brought home the first bunch of greens a month ago. He wondered whether the price of our farm share was worth it, and, feeling snarky, asked why they couldn't grow anything without holes. Then we ate the best salad we'd ever had, and he wondered what the hell the big farms are doing to their vegetables to keep insects from taking even a nibble.) She departed after picking her share of beans, while I lingered a bit over the cilantro and basil. It was a fine day for dawdling.

Picking my own food feels sacred. My weekly time on the farm wakes me up and wipes away some of the brain-static. I'm already learning from the turn of seasons, which is obliterated in the grocery store. Everything has its time. Usually the time is brief: two weeks of strawberries or garlic scapes, for example, but once one crop ends the next is ready. The chaos so many people believe in is, I think, manmade. The earth has its harmony.