I found this tucked away on my computer the other morning. I was happy to find an apt metaphor for tomatillos–“they hang on their vines like Chinese lanterns.” I do miss the farm as we move into spring and summer.
The other morning when I drove to the farm, I had to use the heater. I was glad I threw my sweatshirt into the backseat before I drove off that morning because when I got out of the car I was downright chilly. Cool mornings, curling leaves, evenings as crisp as apples—where has the summer gone?
So seasons change–the basil thickens, the dill goes to seed, and our time on the farm draws to a close. But what makes this year different from the rest is I find myself wanting to curl into my thoughts and think what does it all mean?
I leave the farm with more friends and thicker calluses. This I know. I take with me mud stained jeans and an intense desire to own chickens. I search my mind for the scientific facts I have learned about vermiculite and cotyledon, only to find my thoughts clustered around the mystery of a flowering eggplant and the majesty of the tomato blight. I won’t forget the way tomatillos hang on their vines like Chinese lanterns, delicate and airy—but I have forgotten the acute ache in my back that comes from hand planting leeks.
Our friends and family want to know what the next step is. That’s fair. We did set this whole summer up as a “trial period” and I guess we wanted an “if then” statement to come out of the experience as well. I guess I’m learning that if you grow your own food, then it tastes better. If some seedlings don’t make it, then you are still thankful for the ones that did. If you find a turnip riddled by worms, then you cut around and salvage the good parts. And if you want to feel the seasons pass, you gotta get outside.
I found a soup recipe that uses potatoes, kale, basil, dill, and leeks. As I chopped and sautéed and pureed, I felt the kitchen air grow heavy with the humid heat of a good soup. I was cooking for a friend and the excitement of sharing good food with a good friend, made me salivate with anticipation. I dipped my spoon into the thick as pudding, potato leek soup and brought it steaming to my lips. I felt the aroma moisten my nose as I gently blew on it. It tasted like accomplishment with pinch of gratitude.
One thought on “Writer’s Notebook”
How I love what you write! I found another box full the other day while I was cleaning. Loved it!