Big pants farming

Tuesday was Day One on my parents’ farm, where I’m now working a couple of days a week. These are the ducks. Last spring, Dad got four ducks, which quickly became but one. I’ll spare the details and just say that this is a farm and one must get accustomed to seeing dead things on occasion. There are predators here, both the wild (owls and coyotes) and the tamed-wild (the family dog). So, Dad headed back to Gaston Feed where he bought 13 more ducks for good measure. He beefed up the pen and constructed a refuge island in the middle of the pond; he crossed his fingers. Four months later, and sans one that "failed to thrive" according to my mom, the ducks are going strong. They are quite a pack of talkers and eaters. Their favorite activity (if one can read enjoyment on a duck) is following me to the apple orchard, where they cajole me with insistent quacks into smashing apples into bite size pieces with the bottom of my shoe.

My first task on the farm was to propagate cherries by way of stratifying seed–Prunus Mahaleb (for sweet and sour cherry root stock) and Prunus Mazzard (for sweet cherry root stock)–to be exact, which this business is. 

My job was to expedite the sprouting process by fooling the seeds into behaving as though they’d experienced a couple of seasons. First, I took six 50 pound bags of cherry seed (pits) and divided each of them in half to make twelve 25 pound bags. Next, I tied the bags shut and meticulously labeled them with their variety, source, date and weight. I then lifted them into a giant water-filled trough where they soaked for 24 hours (a bit like soaking beans overnight). The next day, out of the water they came. I opened the bags and filled them with equal parts sawdust which I fully incorporated so that each seed was surrounded by sawdust (thus the term stratify); this keeps the seeds moist and cool for a period of time. Phase One in the process of cherry making. Stay tuned for the next step.

Back in the city plot things are beginning to look a lot like fall. I’ve scattered a cover crop of vetch, peas and rye grass in one bed; a fresh round of brassica starts are settling into another; shelling beans swell in their pods; and I have covered the tomatoes and peppers in plastic to prolong ripening. Soon, I’ll remove the bush beans that do little more than leak beans like a faucet that has just been turned off but still drips a bit for a minute or two. Thankfully, there is an inverse relationship between the garden and the pantry; as one empties, the other fills. 

Savoring summer

Yesterday we joined the masses at Sauvie Island Farms, picking the fields to fill our larder. In the mid morning sun, we walked the rows of marionberry thickets searching for dark, long fruit that would easily acquiesce to our plucking. As is sometimes the case when berry picking, opportunities for eavesdropping were equally ripe. Thick rows of canes give the illusion of privacy. 

Tom and I pick different rows in silence; Tom taking in the natural world, and I listening to snippets of the conversations all around me. A couple in the row next to me have the same conversation for about twenty minutes, which goes something like this: "These are too hard to pick. They poke you, and they are either too ripe or not ripe enough.  I’m going to pick the raspberries because they are easier." I wonder why these people have gone to the trouble of coming to the farm. Shopping at a grocery store might better suit them. 

When I’m about halfway down a long row, seemingly alone, the unmistakable smell of pot overwhelms me. For a moment, I wonder if they are growing weed under the cover of the berries. But then I come to my senses, reminding myself that pot probably doesn’t smell this way when it grows. Soon, I hear the equally unmistakable sound of people getting high—giggling.  I look up to find a trio of old men who look like they just arrived from Beaverton, and maybe from a game of golf. One is bent over taking a drag and it occurs to me that I should suggest that he offer some to the unhappy couple who can’t tear themselves away from the marionberries they claim to detest.

By 11:30am we were back in the truck and headed for town. Together we’d picked 10.5 pounds of marionberries and three pounds of green beans. As soon as we got home, I threw open the door to the back porch to let the breeze in, and got to the task at hand. By sundown I had four quarts of frozen marionberry pie filling,  four quarts of dilly beans and a loaf of bread for the week. My face glistened with sweat. Blobs of thick marionberry pie filling dotted the kitchen floor and the soles of my feet. The scent of hot sugar and vinegar permeated the house. It couldn’t have felt more like summer, and I couldn’t have been happier.