Every cultivated and wild plant is growing and maturing. The first ripe tomatoes, a few tiny green peppers and an abundance of turnips, cabbage and potatoes. I wonder how many people have eaten a freshly-dug potato?
Weeding is never-ending. The meaning of “thinning” depends upon the master gardener you ask. I love having lots of fresh carrots for snacking. Bindweed is pretty, but makes weeding a slow task and unlike chickweed, I doubt it’s edible.
I’m just beginning to establish a sustainable relationship with my food. My respect for Barbara Kingsolver deepens with every weed I pull. I haven’t begun to work with animals, as she has done. This year I buy free-range eggs from a fellow gardener.
My shift at the garden begins at 5:30 AM. I love being outdoors at first light. I work more efficiently before the summer sun beats down on my back and neck. I am deeply grateful to have such an intimate connection with my food. I cannot help thinking about the people who harvest the food we buy and the brutal conditions under which they must work. If the hand that picks the crop is under duress, maybe that contributes to my sense that the “fresh” food at the store often has no flavor.
I cannot imagine working in a field longer than the 4-hour shift I put in. I cannot fathom performing this arduous work with no place to go to the bathroom or wash my hands or take a break under a shade tree or sip cold water.
I’ve been too busy weeding to take photos. After my work shift, I harvest my share. Potatoes, cabbage and carrots are heavy. The first string beans, squash, eggplants and tomatoes are a treat. After I get home, it takes the rest of the day to store or preserve the harvest.
Even if I could find a wage job and purchase food at the store, I cannot see how I’d be better off. I’m eating locally. The food tastes better. I have enough to eat. If I’m bored with turnips and beets, I can cook and freeze them for winter use.
I’ve given up trying to remove the dirt embedded in my torn cuticles and under my fingernails. Even if they made gloves that fit my short fingers, I like the feel of the earth. It has been dry and the texture and flexibility is different than just two weeks ago. Back then, the carrots slid out of the earth. Now I have to wiggle and sometimes twist to get them out.
Robins hang out and seem to know I’m going to disturb and earthworm before I see the worm. I’m sure I can hear the worm yell, “Turn out that light,” as the robins call, “Worm sighting.”
When it comes to foraging, I’m confident that my bolete classes are paying off. I’m deeply grateful that it’s raining. Mushrooms have been absent since it stopped raining three weeks ago. I hope this round of precipitation gives the earth a much-needed soaking.
This is a good year for wild blueberries. The berries are huge, juicy and sweet. The towhee calls while I’m harvesting. Even after I eat until my tongue is blue and fill several containers, the branches are still laden with ripe berries. I share some berries and freeze the rest.
Farming and foraging are hard physical work. If I had any power or influence, I’d pay the farmers and farm laborers the big bucks and let the politicians and celebrities fend for themselves.