Maybe I’ll Become a Farmer

Nothing beats farm fresh eggs. I’ve become a fan for a couple of reasons.

1. They come from the chickens that live steps away from my cabin. The six ladies who occupy the coop reinforce my opinion that birds, including chickens, do in fact act funny enough in real life to be the best characters in children’s books. In the general bird category there are the Pigeon books by Mo Willems, i.e. The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog!, Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!, etc… Then there’s Duck on a Bike, and of course the classic story of Chicken Little. My current chicken neighbors make somewhat exaggerated movements when walking or eating, almost like they’re hesitating during each activity. They also seem to have their eyes on what the others are doing. If one finds something appealing most likely the others will follow suit.

2. The other reason I like the farm fresh eggs is because they taste rich and delicious. I had heard that eggs from chickens raised the old fashioned way taste better and have a darker yellow yolk. I bought free range eggs from the grocery store after reading how regular chickens at industrial farms live in tiny cages their whole lives with their beaks clipped so as to not peck at themselves. I was happy to be supporting farmers that don’t use such inhuman practices, but I didn’t notice that much difference in the taste. These eggs, however, are a different story. Their yolks are almost orange. So much so that when I made them into a frittata the yolk looked more like cheese than egg. The chickens eat leftover vegetable scraps in addition to their regular corn feed, so all that diversity of food must contribute to their richness. They don’t lay many—between the 6 chickens there are about 2 or 3 a day laid in total, but they sure do taste good. (Apparently the chickens are laying fewer eggs this time of year since there are less daylight hours. Also, the chickens are a little older).

One might wonder whether the chickens are loud, especially in the morning. Well, even though they do make sounds, especially if they want their coop opened, they are definitely not the loudest bird around. That title belongs to the neighbor’s goose—who Grady and Linda have dubbed the Hoopa Car Alarm. I think when the goose gets going she sounds like a loud vibrating phone, which can also change into a high-pitched honk/ squawk at the end.  She makes the chickens sound downright cute.

This is how the chickens roost. All six of them pile up there for the night.

Saturday I set my alarm for 5:20 a.m.—a time I rarely see except for the occasional early morning flight. Since the sun doesn’t rise until the 7 o’clock hour here these days, I’m used to getting up to start work at 8.  That’s one of the nice things of farming—you’re pretty much dictated by daylight hours for most tasks. Work in the fields, at least, can’t be done past sunset unless you want to pull out your headlamp. I actually heard a farmer after the market on Saturday (the reason for our rising early) joke about doing this.

We pulled out from the farm’s gravel driveway at 5:45. The twists and turns around the mountains in the foggy darkness called for a little extra caution. We arrived in Arcata a little after 7. The city, which houses Humboldt University, has a compact downtown. A colorful array of storefronts surrounds the central square where the market takes place. With the city still sleepy, we unloaded the truck bed full of containers into the designated area. Every Saturday from April until Thanksgiving Greenfire Farm’s produce has a home here. 

Linda chatted behind a bountiful display of carrots.

Linda guided us into how to set up the display, which includes eight tables formed into a U-shape. We draped fall themed tablecloths over them and began arranging baskets heaping with recently harvested produce. Kate, a fellow WWOOFer, and I practiced using the scale and soon after, by 8 a.m., folks began to trickle in. Linda chatted with regular customers, some of who seemed like old friends now.

Talk of the produce was also thrown into the conversation, especially as people discovered the celery root. Celery root, also called celeriac, looks like a creature out of a science fiction movie. As large as a head, these gnarly tubers stopped people in their tracks. Those familiar with them seemed elated at their presence and compared how they like to make them.  Apparently they can be prepared like other root vegetables and make a nice contribution to potatoes or parsnips in a mashed combination.

What is this crazy looking thing? Celery root.

A steady stream of people stopped in. All of them seemed happy to be out enjoying the nice Saturday, and also to be on the receiving end of bright orange peppers and leeks the size of swords. (Or maybe that man was happy just to have a new toy in the sword sized leek). They passed multiple items onto the scale and put my mental math skills to work.

By 2 p.m. we’d sold out of the celery root, as well as the carrots, leeks, onions, cabbages, and most peppers and herbs. We packed up the remaining winter squash and Linda filled a box with the leftover kale and collards to be donated.  The now empty containers of produce meant not only that Arcata’s residents had fresh ingredients for their upcoming meals, but also that we had a little less work in loading up the truck for the return trip.

These flowers from the neighboring organic flower vendor just beckoned to be photographed. Along with several vegetable and fruit producers, the market had flower, wool, and even a honey vendor.

The outdoor kitchen feels like a regular kitchen except for the row of hedges to the right that house the occasional bird.

My favorite meal of the day here is definitely lunch. After working for about five hours in the morning, by mid-day I have worked up an appetite and am ready to sit down for a while. More importantly, the smells emanating from the outdoor kitchen get my salivary glands going. We start work about 8 in the morning. And while I enjoy my oatmeal with homemade pear sauce on top and a cup of coffee, I sit with my fleece and winter hat snug on my head. It’s a little too chilly, and there’s the anticipation of the day’s work that’s more on the forefront.

The first work of the day since I’ve been here is harvesting the greens: kale, collards, chard, and cabbages. This family of greens harvest best and stay freshest when picked in the cool of the morning. And it has been quite cool. The first frost even hit the other day. The sun takes a while to rise over the mountains and illuminate the valley here, so it’s slow to warm up. This morning harvesting kale, the dew clung to the leaves. My hands operated a bit slower under the wetness, reminding me of being little and taking a mitten off while playing in the snow and the slight sting that results. Soon enough the sun brushed the top of the mountain and the rays encapsulated into each dewdrop, making the sheen on the field sparkle.  

Moving from the fields to the processing area, we weighed the greens, washed them, set them to dry, and packed them in the bins for the market. Then carrots and beets called, so we headed out to pull them up. Unfortunately, the stalks of the carrots weren’t allowing us to tug them up—the green tops snapped off instead, so we loosened the row to pluck them and then bunched them up. Next came washing the carrots, then harvesting leeks and tomatoes. I think that was the work of the morning—I could be missing an activity or two, but basically it’s busy but goes fast since we move from one thing to another.

Beets and carrots dry in the sun after being washed.

But in the midst of this—about the time I headed off to help harvest tomatoes, lunch preparations began. We alternate cooking lunch here on the farm. Right now it’s me and Rachel, the other WWOOFer, and Grady and Linda who own the farm. Today Rachel created a vegetable feast. She must have been inspired by our morning’s work since we stuffed ourselves on sautéed kale, steamed beets and carrots, and roasted buttercup squash. She called us over, carrying the warm squash from the oven. I washed as much dirt from my hands and I could and sat down. I savored the warm spread in front of me, and the efforts of the morning made complete sense. 

Recently harvested veggies make for a delicious, rejuvenating lunch.

  

 

 

The greenhouse stands behind a field of broccoli, pear trees, and flowers.

The weekend here at Green Fire Farm has been heavenly. I’ve been free to soak up the beautiful environs— marvel at the deep scarlet of late blooming poppies and relish in mulling over what fresh produce to enjoy. While I have stood up from plucking and bundling kale leaves to notice the brilliance of the landscape, not being preoccupied by actually working opens the door to deeper savoring.

I had a high school English teacher my freshman year who wanted to instill in us the importance of savoring and relishing. Besides wanting us to show rather than tell in our writing, she also wanted us to actually stop and savor. Maybe she realized that for fourteen-year olds, stopping and appreciating the color of changing leaves or the smell of freshly baked pie (or whatever beauty surrounded us) usually wasn’t on the top of our priority list. Even though amongst friends we didn’t always use the words savor and relish with total sincerity— those words, and the ideas behind them, have stuck. And being here on the farm, especially without the busyness of the workday schedule (no kale, collards, broccoli, squash, cucumbers, peppers, eggplant, or grapes to demand attention) I savored and relished both the beauty and the beautiful tastes of the land.

This morning glasses of juice became the object of admiration. Rachel, a fellow WWOOFer from Michigan, pulled out the juice machine shortly after breakfast. She planned to make some carrot juice and headed off to the fields with a bucket in hand. Soon she arrived back with the orange beauties and chopped the larger ones into smaller pieces that could be fed into the machine. The machine amazingly sent the liquid straight down and the pulpy remnants out the side. She added a bit of ginger to the mix and the carrots’ surprising sweetness became infused with the slightly spicy addition.

Wanting to take advantage of this wonderful machinery while it was out, I plucked a few apples from one of several trees on the property. They were deep red- and if not MacIntosh- a very similar variety. I chopped them in half and soon stuck them in to be transformed. Rachel mentioned that apple and carrot is actually a nice combination, so I filled the juice in a container with just a hint of the carrot ginger mix. The result was a smooth, wonderfully delicious drink. It tasted like apple cider without the tartness—the carrot blended so well it was almost imperceptible, and the hint of ginger combined harmoniously. I don’t know if any stores sell this particular juice—but perhaps that’s just reason to grow some apples and carrots myself- and buy a juicer.

Fresh apple carrot ginger juice makes for a delicious start to the day.

The neighbor's dog sauntered into the shot.

I ate a lot of grapes yesterday. After an afternoon of picking, and popping one from every couple of bunches, I slightly regretted having indulged so much. But they were too tasty to resist. I spent my first afternoon at Green Fire Farm amongst the picturesque rows of lovely Gewurztraminer grapes. Though their name is a mouthful, their taste is light and delicate like their pale purple color. Picking them was the first step in their transformation to a delicious white wine.

The journey to get to the farm took me two flights and about an hour’s drive. I transferred through San Francisco. With a short layover, I at least felt the city’s presence by passing a few Ghirardelli chocolate stands in the airport. Soon I hopped on a shorter flight up to the Arcata/ Eureka Airport. From my window seat I caught the magnificent red of the Golden Gate Bridge that shone through from beneath a shroud of fog on both ends. After the short flight up along the coast, our plane touched down between the ocean and hills of deep green coniferous forests.

Green Fire Farm is about an hour inland from the coast in the town of Hoopa. Every direction offers a striking view of hills of pine (or are they mountains?). Either way, it’s an impressive setting for the five acres of vegetables, herbs, and fruit produced on the farm.

With so many vegetables to harvest for the markets and wholesale accounts, the grapes had to wait until the afternoon to be picked. But they needed to be taken from the vine now since there is a threat of frost. So with clippers and buckets we made our way down the rows, our hands becoming wet and sticky from the escaping juice. Four of us took a few hours to harvest a total of 400 pounds.

The pale purple beauties then were poured in one machine that took off the stems (and somehow is smart enough to shoot the stem out the opposite side from the grapes and juice.) The grapes were then crushed even more in an old- fashioned barrel press from the late 1800s. Since this will be a white wine, the juice had to be completely separated from the skins when being fermented, unlike red wine.  Ultimately twenty-five gallons of grape juice pressed out—and will ferment for a year before it will be transformed into the slightly sparkly final product. Of course, as a perfect way to finish off the day of hard work we sampled a Gewurztraminer from the previous year. It’s definitely worth the work.