Feeding Ourselves

Tomatoes hang heavy and green from sturdy branches. As I prune each vine for maximum air flow to the fruit the sun lights up the hairs on both our limbs. I look at my arm then to the arm of the vine admiring the similarity. The tomatoes which hang from each vine are not all the perfect round globes found in the produce isle. These are not Monsanto GMO (genetically modified organisms) from the local green house. These are not the tomatoes engineered in a windowless lab to arrive on our grocers shelves all perfectly round and lacking in taste. No, these are real tomatoes bred by a friends mom, and raised from seeds saved by a friend.  These are heirloom tomatoes with ridges and bumps and oblong shapes. The way tomatoes are supposed to be in the wild.

Last night the first of these fruits was borne from my hand to my mouth and then Mike's mouth. We shared, equally, the first ripe tomato of the year. I have friends who have been eating Home Depot tomatoes for weeks while I have been waiting for the first glimmer of red to appear between the leaves. It was worth waiting for. The little tomato was shaped more like a fat pepper than an orb. It's skin was firm as was the meat which gave way to a delicious sweetness on the tongue. I closed my eyes, swallowed and thought, "candy". Mike's reaction was the same. I was full of pride. I had fed us.

It is here I have to admit that the garden looks more like an after thought this year. We were recovering from last years cancer journey, I had quit one job and started a new job and the garden did not take a front seat. There was no annual trip to Erickson's Greenhouse. I grabbed some left over seeds from a friend and pretty much let 'er buck. It was a rush to get seeds in. The tiller was broken. I was stressed and in the back of my mind, though I knew different, I thought the garden would just take care of itself. And it did, till the bunnies.

This spring while raking straw off one of the beds I discovered baby bunnies. Seven sweet little bundles of fur with big shining eyes. I should have, as Mike suggested, dispatched them, but hindsight is 20/20. The babies grew up. Moved in under the woodpile and while we slept mowed down pea shoots, beet tops, cabbage babies and chard. I sprayed with Liquid Fence. The ate the bean shoots and the carrot tops. I sprayed with Liquid Fence. We ate one rabbit for dinner, we moved the woodpile I sprayed with Liquid Fence and the garden finally grew. The beets, peas and chard did not make it. My garden looked sparse and I became frustrated and disappointed. I stopped weeding. I didn't spend much time with the plants. I chose to watch Deadliest Catch on the computer instead of playing in the garden. I gave up on it.

Still, like I said, we have tomatoes. The garden didn't give up on me.

We had our first meal of green beans. The herbs are doing well and lemon basil is now a favorite. Our fist zucchini is growing by the second. I have a couple of squash turning dark green, thumb sized cucumbers are hiding under the thick leaves of their plants, the remaining cabbages are big and developing heads and the corn is sending up it's tall flower heads. The garden is going to feed us, though not on a grand scale this year.

I'm listening to the audio book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbra Kingsolver. It's a book about how she and her family tried to eat locally and why. It's not a how to book. It's their story of eating what they could grow or what they could buy from other farmers and why they did it. Though they did it as a way to help their impact on global climate change I am hearing the deep satisfaction which rewards them for providing for themselves. This I understand. There is much satisfaction, much pride in being able to carry food from your garden into your kitchen and then nourish the bodies of you and your loved ones. There is a smugness, when, in the middle of winter, you pop open a jar of jam or beans or tomatoes you picked way back July or August. There is comfort in knowing where your food comes from and raising it yourself. This reward is why I grow vegetables.

Maybe this makes me a farmer. I like to say I'm a farmer. Mike teases me about this. He says, "Karen, you are a gardener." But as I look out my window towards the garden, I see crops. Crops feed people. I'm a farmer. A small scale farmer.

Peace from Down on the Farm

Karen