Two days after the blizzard, the sun shone bright and the thermometer crept boldly past 50 degrees. Streams of melting ice and snow cascaded off the roof and rambled down the muddy roads. Three pairs of Canada geese, honking as crazily as if they were in crosstown traffic, flew downriver, heading to Lake Superior. The breeze, whispering softly of its southern origin, dispersed a cool, crisp scent. Snow lay two feet deep in the yard, and the ice on the patio was two inches thick, but the air was ripe with spring, so I headed out to the farm.
Seeds & Spores Family Farm practices the latest in friendly farming - community-supported agriculture. It is a small operation of five or so acres growing a variety of produce and flowers, shiitake mushrooms, and raising cattle, hogs, laying hens, and Thanksgiving turkeys. From June through October it supplies more than 125 families, or subscribers, as they are called, with weekly bins of fresh food. As well, the farm helps supply the local food cooperative, the farmer's market, and a handful of restaurants. It also offers a down-on-the-farm experience for a loyal group of volunteers, of which I am one.
"Do you know your farmer?" is a bumper sticker one can see around town, and yes, I know mine - two guys named Jeff. And their wives. And their children. And, in a sense, all and any of us who go out to the farm and plant a seed, pull a weed, pick a bean, wash an egg, harvest a mushroom, dig a potato, pick a tomato, thump a pumpkin, bundle some parsley, pluck a turkey, wash some lettuce, hum a packin' tune or dance a rain jig on a hot, dusty day. But the ones who orchestrate it all? That would be the farmers. That would be the two Jeffs.
One of the two Jeffs had called to tell me that despite the blizzard it was planting time. In the greenhouse, where flats of tomatoes and peppers (among other things) were already sprouting, the air was warm and moist, reminiscent of a long-ago July. Just give me a lawn chair and a piña colada ... who needs Jimmy Buffett and tickets to Florida? I was given planting instructions and a palmful of brown, round seeds, each the size of a pin head: Gypsy broccoli. I dropped the seeds, one by one, into the little squares in the flat of soil. They nestled in the dirt and were on their way: destiny. Their metamorphosis, in just a few short weeks, would be dramatic. From speck to spectacle, from figment to food, from barely there to a bevy of nutrients. So many of us fear change, but where would our food be without it? Stuck in a mousy brown, pin-head sized seed, hunkered down in the dirt.
Seeds & Spores Family Farm practices the latest in friendly farming - community-supported agriculture. It is a small operation of five or so acres growing a variety of produce and flowers, shiitake mushrooms, and raising cattle, hogs, laying hens, and Thanksgiving turkeys. From June through October it supplies more than 125 families, or subscribers, as they are called, with weekly bins of fresh food. As well, the farm helps supply the local food cooperative, the farmer's market, and a handful of restaurants. It also offers a down-on-the-farm experience for a loyal group of volunteers, of which I am one.
"Do you know your farmer?" is a bumper sticker one can see around town, and yes, I know mine - two guys named Jeff. And their wives. And their children. And, in a sense, all and any of us who go out to the farm and plant a seed, pull a weed, pick a bean, wash an egg, harvest a mushroom, dig a potato, pick a tomato, thump a pumpkin, bundle some parsley, pluck a turkey, wash some lettuce, hum a packin' tune or dance a rain jig on a hot, dusty day. But the ones who orchestrate it all? That would be the farmers. That would be the two Jeffs.
One of the two Jeffs had called to tell me that despite the blizzard it was planting time. In the greenhouse, where flats of tomatoes and peppers (among other things) were already sprouting, the air was warm and moist, reminiscent of a long-ago July. Just give me a lawn chair and a piña colada ... who needs Jimmy Buffett and tickets to Florida? I was given planting instructions and a palmful of brown, round seeds, each the size of a pin head: Gypsy broccoli. I dropped the seeds, one by one, into the little squares in the flat of soil. They nestled in the dirt and were on their way: destiny. Their metamorphosis, in just a few short weeks, would be dramatic. From speck to spectacle, from figment to food, from barely there to a bevy of nutrients. So many of us fear change, but where would our food be without it? Stuck in a mousy brown, pin-head sized seed, hunkered down in the dirt.
