Luck

I’ve never had much luck in the kitchen. College meals consist of peanut butter sandwiches and bowls of oatmeal, and cooking does not go far beyond the occasional omelet or scrambled egg. It doesn’t surprise me that potlucks have the name that they do. It would take a stroke of luck for me to be able to create a meal worth sharing with others.

Tonight was the monthly member potluck at the farm. Luckily though, I didn’t need to worry about coming up with a recipe, since my mom happens to be one of the greatest cooks I know. I spent the morning in the kitchen with her, closely following every direction she gave me, until a few hours later we pulled eggplant rollatini hot from the oven, ready to bring to the farm.

At the potluck tonight I sat next to a woman who told me about her father, her inspiration. This man traveled to nearly every country in the world, paid by a magazine to write about his passion, fishing. Figure out what you love to do, this woman said, then find someone to pay you to do it. We ate strawberry rhubarb and drank lemonade, listening to a man strum his guitar as children painted a tree stump and the sun colored the sky pink. I sat on the picnic bench thinking about luck and wondering if there was someone in the world who would pay me to stay right here forever.

Transplant

I can already tell that one of the best parts of working on the farm this summer is going to be getting to know the members who come by each week. The farm is a CSA, which stands for Community Supported Agriculture. This means that rather than selling the crops we grow, we divide our harvest amongst our members. Buying a membership commits people to four to eight hours of work on the farm per season, in exchange for this weekly supply.

After meeting many of the members this week, the one I can't get out of my head is an older woman. She held lettuce in her hand like fragile china and swore to me that her mother had cured herself of cancer by switching to a local organic diet. Thinking about this woman while working in the fields today, I realized it seems only right that the act of placing the seedlings into the earth should have the same name as a medical procedure that saves lives- the transplant.

A quick farming lesson: For most of the crops at the farm, we do not plant the seeds directly into the ground. Instead, we grow the seeds in a greenhouse until they have grown strong enough to survive on their own. Then we move them to outdoor beds. This is called transplanting.

Today we transplanted summer squash and cucumbers. Sitting on a seat attached to the back of a biodiesel-run tractor, I lowered plants into the ground as the tractor slowly traveled across the row, leaving small holes in the soil. Afterwards we laid straw around the rows to prevent weeds from growing. We finally finished at 6pm, the sun just beginning to set in the sky. After all that work, I hope those little plants rest soundly in their beds tonight. I know I will rest soundly in mine.

Reflections on Radishes

Today I learned the wonder of pulling a radish from the ground. It was not only my first day at the farm but also the first day of the summer harvest. We picked bok choy and broccoli rabe, lettuce and mizuna. But picking a radish is not like picking a leafy green. There is nothing like the surprise of pulling a radish root from the ground, each one extraordinarily different from the last.

At first I didn’t understand how each radish could look so different. I kept asking, "Should I throw this one away?" This one’s too white, I thought, this one’s too small. What I didn’t know was that radishes can be any shade, from pearly white to deep red to bright magenta, and any size from that of a quarter to that of a golf ball, and that this matters not in the least. Even though they look different, each one is just as good as the last. I think the world would be better if we could live like radishes, peaceful amongst such diverse neighbors.

I used to pick sliced radishes out of pre-made salads and toss them to the side of my plate. When they’ve already been picked and sliced for you, you only think to judge them on taste. Now when I see them in my salad, I will remember the surprise of pulling them from the ground and think of radishes in a new way- a little bitter, but mostly sweet.

Potted Plant Lament

My Gerber daisy plant was the first to go. It was a red daisy in a red pot, the happiest looking flower I'd ever seen. It wilted in my apartment two days after my mom gave it to me. I kept thinking maybe it would perk up. Three days later the wilted daisy turned from red to brown. Gerber daisies are hard to keep, said my mom, try violets. The violets died within the week.

Over winter break my mom bought me an aloe plant to take back to New York. Aloe grows in the desert, so naturally it needs very little water. Even still, days after I took it back to my apartment the leaves started to droop. The only reason the plant survived until the spring was because my friend and designated plant-caretaker Michelle lives only six floors below me. Good thing too, because the aloe gel came in handy two weeks before school let out. (Note to self: Wear sunscreen to sit by Hudson River. Water reflects sunlight.)

When the farmer asked me why I wanted to work on his farm this summer, I told him I'm an Environmental Studies major at NYU, and I’m interested in sustainable agriculture. He asked if I had any experience with farming. I told him I worked in a soup kitchen once, which isn’t exactly a farm, but at least it was food-related. You’re hired, he said.

New York City is only two hours away but it is as far from the farm as possible. When I visited the farm for the first time, the farmer commented on how the transition from the city might be difficult. Now it's only two days until I start working there, and I can’t stop wondering if I’ll be able to love both places, even though they’re opposites. Maybe that’s a contradiction. But then again, so is a farming intern who can’t grow a potted plant.