January holds up his lesson book.

Invariably it happens. Every time I set off to help others I end up feeling like I’m the one who has gained something. I forget and am reminded every time.

After our trip to the see the wonders of the Serengeti, Suzy and I made our way to the small village of Buswelu outside of the town of Mwanza. We carried the clothes, shoes, school and art supplies we’d been lugging since Chicago and a hope that we could somehow be helpful. The cab ride from Mwanza took us from the main road into the dirt roads of the village. We passed small mud and brick storefronts with tin roofs, and houses of the same materials, until we came to a crater-size pothole. Or maybe a better description is that half of the road wasn’t there. Many sections of the dirt roads showed the scars of rain, but this section was especially precarious. The first attempt of passing failed, though luckily we didn’t get stuck. A second go with more revving before allowed us to get pass the crater, just barely on the left, and make it to the house where volunteers at the Watoto Wa Africa Orphanage stayed.

After unpacking our things, a fellow volunteer from Australia who’d been volunteering at the orphanage for a few weeks brought us and the two other new volunteers from Belgium to the meet the kids. Being near the equator, the land was as tropical as one would imagine. Lush greenness greeted us in every direction. Most families had crops- corn, bananas, potatoes, sunflowers—growing right up next to their houses. Small yards consisted of neatly swept, compacted dirt, not grass.

The dirt roads of Buswelu rarely held cars.

We walked down more dirt roads, often going single file on the left side of the road where the ground was firmer instead of sandy.  Calls of ‘mzungu’—literally translated to meet white wanderer in Swahili, echoed in our ears from children in their yards. Whenever we walked in a group, our mzungu parade drew a bit of attention, at least for the little ones who seemed to enjoy the game of calling out and then sometimes running out to shake our hands.

The new Watoto Wa Africa orphanage buildings

We arrived at the orphanage the first afternoon after the fifteen-minute walk. The boys playing soccer in the yard spotted us first. Soon the fifty-some children came out to inspect the new visitors and grab the shiny soccer balls we carried under our arms. The toddler and preschool age children took our hands and lead us up to the buildings. The Watoto Wa Africa Orphanage has been run by a man named Josephat and his wife Rosemary since 2000. The Tanzanian government offers no support, and they rely on donors to help pay for everything including shelter, food, private school in most cases, and the hired workers who help with the daily care of the children. The orphanage moved to its current site (with new buildings and more room for the children to play outside) just a few months ago. We saw the girls’ and boys’ dorms, the simple classroom where supplemental lessons are held, and a room for cooking (where meals are prepared over low fires).

Boys play a game in the yard next to the dormitories.

The children’s dormitories consisted solely of beds and just a few clothes hanging from each bedpost—with no possessions in sight otherwise. And yet the children happily played and chatted or did their chores, unaware that other cultures, like ours, put such emphasis on things to make us, and our children, happy. One three-year old boy proudly demonstrated the effectiveness of his bow and arrow made from sticks and string—luckily without sharp arrows.  Other girls played skipping games on squares drawn into the ground with a stick. Through our subsequent walks through the village, it appeared most children must create their own games, lacking material goods as well.

Vanessa demonstrates how she can carry the water bottle on her head.

During the weekdays we made the trip to the orphanage twice daily—in the morning to do activities with the toddler and preschool age youngsters and then in the afternoon to tutor the small amount of school age kids that went to government school instead of private school. (Individual sponsors pay approximately $300/ year for a student to go to the better private school that is taught in English).

One Saturday afternoon Suzy and I brought out the colored thread we had carried with us and demonstrated to a group of boys who’d gathered in the classroom how to make friendship bracelets. They picked their colors and began criss-crossing their string into patterns. At the arrival of a car into the driveway they all ran out. Apparently a local physician had come and brought two more children to stay there. We saw everyone gathering and then heard the children singing. The doctor brought cookies and after the song ended they were each given a small package. Soon they came back into the classroom munching away.

A little boy named January, the one who fashioned the bow and arrow, came up to me breaking his cookie in half. Speaking little English, he simply offered one of the halves. I refused at first, saying no thank you. A large smile spread across his face as he continued to hold out part of his cookie to me. He emanated such joy in wanting to share. I accepted his cookie with a smile and a thank you in Swahili. Here was a little boy with essentially nothing of his own, and yet he wanted to share this one thing he had gotten. Another child offered part of her cookie to Suzy with the same happiness. And the next day, when another visitor brought a snack for the children- the same thing happened. And I thought: if there is one thing I have gotten from this trip- this is it. It was an unparalleled example of sharing and giving that I hope to keep and reference and emulate. If only we could all, especially those of us who have so much and don’t really even realize it, could share so freely as well.  

Nicko poses next to the cow (that often liked to lounge in the classroom as well).

      

Zebras and wildebeests graze near the western entrance to the Serengeti.

Next to a small gate, a simple sign with a buffalo skull perched on top announced that we had made it to the entrance of the Serengeti National Park.  Before entering the enormous land preserve famous for its multitude of animals and annual wildebeest migration, our safari guide, Ben, explained a bit of the park’s history. As we sat in our SUV he told us how the land had first been designated a game reserve in the early part of the Twentieth Century before it became a national park in the 1960s. The Tanzanian government had forced all of the people living on the land to move, except for the Masai tribe. I hadn’t considered this aspect of the Serengeti, widely heralded for being a sanctuary for many of the world’s great animals, before. Ben asked if we had any questions before we headed on. Anxious to begin our journey we all shook our heads no. And with that we drove past the small gate.

Grassland with occasional trees stretched as far as we could see. Moments after entering we came upon a herd of gazelle. We took closer views through our binoculars and even tested out the technique of shooting the camera through the binocular lens.  Shortly after driving on zebras came into view. They munched on grass and stood in groups. They often stand two or more together looking like they’re hugging, facing in different directions, in order to keep an eye out for lions. Up close some looked more brown than black and Ben explained that females and the little ones do have a more brown tint. Ben also mentioned that when a predator approaches the group, a stronger animal will stay behind longer in order to give the others a chance to get away.

The intermingling of all the animals struck me. The animals both shared the same space and sometimes cooperated together, like wildebeests and zebras that often graze and migrate together since one has better eyesight and the other better hearing. A Belgian couple we met related seeing a baboon in a tree that spotted a lion about to prey on zebras. The baboon sent out a call that alerted the zebras and made the lion miss his meal. The mixing went against the orderly separation of zoos. Throughout the first afternoon of our four-day trip we continued to spot giraffes, elephants, wart hogs, buffalo, hippos, monkeys, and a multitude of birds. 

Later, Ben asked if he were interested in visiting a Masai village. I knew a little of the cattle herding tribe and did want to know more. But we hesitated a little, feeling slightly weird about being tourists to their lives and homes. Ben explained how the Masai are traditionally nomadic, setting up their simple homes as they moved to better grazing land. The government had asked a few villages to stay put in order for people to get a look into their culture. The money paid to visit the village allows them to buy supplemental milk and food they need since they are not able to be nomadic with their cattle. We decided we would stop in the village two days later after visiting the Ngorongoro Crater.

On the third day, after having seen a wealth of animals up-close, including lions, cheetahs, and rhinos, we headed to the Masai village. The circle of small homes was nestled amidst a backdrop of stunning beauty, but also unimaginable isolation. The word Serengeti stems from a Masai word meaning endless plain. And endless it seemed. In the distance we saw boys and men wearing the traditional red and purple plaid blankets as they herded the cattle not far from where we had spotted lions.

The village we stopped at welcomes tourists at all times, so as we pulled up another safari group was heading out. It seems like it would be a bit tiring constantly greeting people with the traditional dance and song, but the men and women’s faces didn’t give a hint of this if they felt the tedium. Ben had prepped us that when tourists join in with the dances that sometimes this energizes the performance. So after being greeted by about six men and six women who sang out a range of repetitive notes, they ushered us into the village. The men danced first, jumping up as others sang. Then the women danced and sang with smaller hops. Not wanting to be the boring tourists who just watch, we joined in. I don’t know that our addition to the dances necessarily made the Masai feel like dancing more, but we enjoyed it having been sitting most of the day.

A young man, speaking fluent English, greeted us after the dancing. He brought us into a small house made of straw, sticks, and mud. We crouched down to get inside. The structure, not high enough to stand up straight in, had a low-burning fire in one section. The other section was for sleeping. Masai men have multiple wives, so each wife has a house for her and her children.

A simple Masai house

Our Masai guide showed us the small nursery school and then we visited the cooking area across the road where only Masai men are allowed.  Over a pot of boiling meat, the men clarified that the only food they eat is the meat and milk from the cattle and goats. I knew that these were the staples of their diet, but I didn’t consider that this is the only food they ate.

I asked Ben as we walked back to the car whether many Masai leave- thinking of how some Amish in the US end up leaving their contained worlds. He said that even if the men leave and work in the cities that they earn money to then bring back to buy more cattle. As we drove away, I thought how difficult their life seems due to the environment and isolation, but on the other hand, to be connected to the same land and traditions of countless generations offers a link to the past that few people in the world have. 

A Masai village sits amongst the stark beauty of the Serengeti.

Our word for the Tanzanian island of Zanzibar: exotic. Not only was this our first destination in Africa, but the island melded Arabic influences in such an otherworldly Indian Ocean setting that we had no other word for it. Suzy, Dan, and I spent a few days here then went inland for a safari in the Serengeti and Ngoronogoro Crater before Suzy and I headed to an orphanage near the town of Mwanza.

Zanzibar is known as the Spice Island due to its history of spice growing and exporting. While today the island relies more on the tourist industry than the spice industry, we got a peak into its famed products during a spice tour.  The Clove Hotel where we stayed (with a rooftop balcony that offered breathtaking views) connected us with the daylong tour.  We hopped in the white van and soon narrow alleys between whitewashed buildings gave way to a main paved road as we made our way north out of Stone Town.

Men carry large loads, and a large fish.

A view of the island we hadn’t yet seen emerged. The land became more rural, dotted with tiny storefronts and simple mud and brick houses. In addition, streams of people walked and rode bikes along the sides of the fairly fast moving road. Women, with their heads covered in hijabs, balanced loads on their heads. And the myriad of male bike riders either had an additional passenger on the back, or basketfuls of goods attached. Looking out the front window, I gripped the seat back in front of me on a few occasions as it seemed there’d be no way for our van, a speeding car from the other direction, and all the people on the sides of the road to all fit at once. Somehow we did.

After about a half an hour’s drive north, we arrived at the spice farm. As we unloaded from the van, a boy passed us driving an ox cart- a reminder that small farms here use traditional, organic methods not out of choice but necessity. Our tour guide explained that most family plots have a variety of crops— perhaps bananas, sweet potatoes, and spices, rather than just one in case of a crop failure. We began the tour with a fresh taste of pineapple—cut from the middle of the low growing spiky leaves jutting straight up from the ground. 

One of the tour helpers demonstrates how he climbs a palm tree using only ropes tied to his feet.

In addition to the tour guide, a half dozen boys around twelve years old assisted as unofficial helpers– fashioning every conceivable, and inconceivable item from palm leaves. The goods included spice holder cones, rings, bracelets, necklaces in the shape of frogs, and even an ornate crown. The boys asked our names and where we were from in between stops to see vanilla beans growing on the vine, the bark that makes cinnamon sticks, cardamom, pepper, and cloves. One boy when asked his name proudly responded, “Barack, like Obama”. Obama fever was high here in Kenya’s southern neighbor.  We wished we had brought Obama pencils or key chains to trade for the myriad of souvenirs we desired. Suzy asked her young helper if he was still in school, and he responded he was done. We later read that just 7% of Tanzania’s population goes on to secondary school. In government schools, primary school is taught in Swahili, but secondary school is taught in English. The difficulty in comprehension, in addition to being needed on family farms or to help run businesses, must contribute to this low number.

After tipping our unofficial guides for their assistance and goods we headed back into the van and made our way down the road for lunch. We had been told we’d have a traditional lunch in a village made by local women. So it was unsurprising as we drove down a dirt road and then walked amongst the simple structures to our eating area. Used to tourists coming through, the women cooking and children playing hardly looked up.  We sat on mats on the floor as the meal cooked over a wood fire outside was brought before us. We savored the potato curry over rice, cooked greens, and bananas for dessert.

Suzy dishes out the curry lunch.

The tour continued with a quick stop at the bathhouse of a former Omani Sultan who ruled large sections of east Africa in the late 1800s, as well as a cave where the Sultan had hidden 200 slaves during the time after it had been outlawed by the British to own slaves.  We had learned the day before at the museum in Stone Town that the influence on Zanzibar from the Middle East had included not only Islam—the religion of the majority of the island, and about half of mainland Tanzania, but also language with about 25% of Swahili words coming from Arabic.

Our last leg of the tour included a swim in the warm, azure waters of the Indian Ocean. As our tour guide said, “I know white people like to swim.” Our guide selected his dinner from one of several fisherman docked down the beach as we waded in.  

Fisherman and boats in the Indian Ocean.

I’ve said au revoir to the palm trees of Hawaii and am back wearing my winter hat in a not-so-tropical climate. But I do have a few tidbits about palm trees and coconuts I’d like to share. At one point on the farm, an order came in for 16 “drinkers.” Those are the green coconuts still on the tree with slightly sweet coconut water inside. In order to get them, someone has to harvest them from the tree. I feel like I’ve seen a TV show where young men with some sort of Spider Man gene scale the trunks.

Without anyone with such agile abilities on the farm, a tree stand was in order. I had no idea how the two metal pieces with cords that snapped around the tree would work. So I just watched. Both parts of the tree stand have claws that grip into the tree trunk, keeping it securely locked to the tree when pressure is applied. Rick, a fellow worker on the farm, attached both parts to the tree. He then hooked his feet into the bottom section and allowed the top section to come under his arms. He then shimmied up the tree, alternating pressure on either the top or bottom part to keep him steady, and moved the other section up. After only a few minutes he had reached the top. At that point, the green drinking coconuts could be cut down.

Here is the tree stand in use.

He was supposed to have tied a rope around them somehow so that they wouldn’t fall to the ground. It must not have worked because a showering of coconuts came down instead. Even though a few of them broke and couldn’t be sold, that just meant that we could enjoy the clear, refreshing coconut water instead.

In terms of coconut meat, the more mature brown coconuts that have naturally fallen have that. It’s a little difficult to hack the shell open and pry the white fruit from around the shell, but the succulent treat is worth the effort.   I also got to taste a sprouted coconut. These are fallen brown coconuts that have started to grow roots into the ground and a stalk on the top. Left alone, these would eventually grow into full palm trees. But harvested in an early stage, they offer a surprisingly delicious treat. Inside, the sprouted coconut has a spongy white ball that feels like angel food cake. The sweet and soft goodness melts in the mouth.

A sprouted coconut doesn't look that appetizing from the outside, but its deliciousness waits inside.

   Fruit most aptly named: Star Fruit.

Talk about a crash course in tropical fruit. Kumu Aina Farm has over 60 varieties of fruit- many with names I’ve never heard of.  Since the market is on Sunday, Friday and Saturday were spent harvesting the various fruit currently growing. Here are some of my favorites.

Most fun fruit to harvest: One of the first fruits we went after was lilikoi, or passion fruit. The smallish round fruit grows on a vine that has made its way over a few treetops. On the vine this fruit has a green color, but they’re yellow by the time they’ve ripened and fallen to the ground. So to harvest them we looked in the grass under the vine, occasionally spotting pockets of yellow balls a little bigger than golf balls. Searching for the round orbs in the grass reminded me of hunting for Easter eggs. I had heard of passion fruit as a flavor in drinks and candy, but hadn’t actually tasted the fruit. Peeling away the rind, inside a clear gel with seeds greeted me. Apparently you can eat the seeds too, which seemed easier to do since there were several stuck in the fruit. Juicy, sweet, and tart, it all went down deliciously. 

Largest fruit: Ever heard of a jackfruit? I find these guys remarkable for their sheer size. They somehow manage to stay hanging from the tree, often low, directly out of the trunk, without falling. They look to me like beehives: a tree of beehives.

The jackfruit manages to hang on.

Most surprising tree: I asked where the papaya trees were since I didn’t think I’d seen the fruit. I had somehow managed to overlook the skinny trees right next to my cottage. Compared to the rest of the sturdy trees, the papaya trunk seems almost delicate. In addition, the trunk is hollow.

The papaya tree has a skinny trunk and the fruit grows in clusters where the trunk meets the limbs.

New favorite fruit: Mamey supote is one of my new favorite fruits. These have brown skin, and when picking them you can tell the ripe ones from the unripe ones by scratching the skin. If an orange tint, as opposed to a green tint, comes through then you’re good to grab. Under the tough skin, the soft orange/ red fruit cuts away easily. Sweet, with a consistency similar to cooked sweet potatoes, these really hit the spot.

The mamey sapote is so sweet.

Craziest fruit: The durian wins this category for a couple reasons. 1. It’s pokey like a giant burr. 2. It’s extremely pungent—the soft, white flesh almost has a garlic hint to it. After I ate a sample and was asked what I thought, I tried to politely answer it must be an acquired taste. This fruit is extremely popular with people who eat a raw food diet—I’m not exactly sure why.

The durians have a pungent taste and smell.

Best fruit realization: Most, if not all, fruit can be made into wine. I enjoyed partaking in a little banana wine the other night. A little yeast, honey, water, and Voila! It took about a month to ferment into its sweet goodness. 

Here is the banana grove we cleaned up. The trees on the right have the brown leaves cut off and added to the base of the trees as mulch.

Well, I wielded a machete for the first time yesterday. The banana trees needed the dead leaves chopped off and the machete is the tool of choice. Terri, who owns Kumu Aina fruit farm with her husband Bob, sharpened the blade and told me to be very careful. After she demonstrated the proper technique of swiping the brown leaf off from the top and also cutting the thick cane grass away from the base, I began swinging. The first swipes didn’t go so well. Dried banana leaves are very fibrous (and apparently also high in phosphorous so they’re good as a natural fertilizer). But after I realized it’s better to cut in on a little angle I was on a roll.

These bananas are not quite ready to be harvested.

As we chopped away, Terri noticed that one group of bananas hanging down were ready to be harvested. The flower that blooms from below the fruit had dried up and a few of the bananas were starting to turn yellow. She chopped into the fleshy tree enough so that it could tip over, but not crash to the ground. Then she cut off the bananas, leaving enough of the stem so that they can hang and ripen more in the outdoor kitchen. Finally, she chopped the rest of the tree down. Banana trees have little offshoots that start up next to the existing trees. So the little kiekie (a Hawaiian name for children pronounced kay-kee) next to the harvested tree will take its place.

If on the two other farms I felt like I was channeling a pioneer spirit, here I feel I’m connecting with more primitive ancestors. Granted, the farm does have solar power, so I can plug in the computer to type away, or charge my phone. So maybe it’s not that extreme. But between the water catchment system that collects the water for the sinks and outdoor shower, the composting toilet, and my shelter with two screened-in sides, I feel like I’m living pretty close to nature. It took a little adjusting.

My living quarters

Part of the adjustment, with my shelter at least, came from the warning that wild pigs might be out at night and to not be alarmed if I hear them. They can be pretty dangerous to the animals on the farm. That was enough to make me almost put a machete under my bed. Almost. But I was reassured that the pigs aren’t interested in humans, and they couldn’t get into my shelter even if they wanted to.  I think I’ve heard them in the distance, but knock on wood, they haven’t come too close. The little brown coqui frogs create a cricket-like symphony that probably drowns out some of the pigs’ snorting. I’ve been sleeping with my headlamp (very necessary past 6 pm) wrapped around my wrist in case I hear the pigs in the night and need to shine a light on them/ make my escape. Oh paradise.

One thing I haven’t had to adjust to at all is the delicious fruit. Those bananas taste pretty good mixed into oatmeal in the morning with a little fresh coconut. There’s nothing like a good breakfast to welcome the sunlight that banishes the threat of those noisy wild pigs.

The sun melts into the Pacific in Hawaii.

I took a little detour. The week between Greenfire Farm and Kumu Aina Farm on the Big Island of Hawaii my fingernails have gotten a little cleaner as I traded in farming for sight seeing. Dan and I were lucky enough to stand among towering redwoods, drive where dramatic cliffs meet the Pacific, stretch our legs on the hills of San Francisco, and watch the early evening sun dip away into the ocean in Hawaii.

Amongst all this beauty away from the farm, one thing I have continued to wonder is where all the food I’m eating is coming from. At Greenfire Farm it was easy. The veggies that comprised the majority of our meals came from the field and the other basic food supplies came from the food Co-Op in town. But now, back on my own, I’m wondering more. Who picked the carrots I bought at the grocery store? How much were they paid since I only had to pay $1 for the bag? As I ate mouth-watering sushi in Waikiki, I wondered if any of the ingredients besides the ahi tuna came from the island.

Clearly it’s not always realistic to grow all of the food locally for a community—especially considering the space it would take for a large city like Honolulu and the restrictions on the types of food that can be grown and produced based on climate. But it does seem like it should be possible for the avocadoes in the grocery store to be Island grown rather than imported from California, as a newspaper article here today pointed out. I think articles like this one that highlight the work of people trying to get more local produce into grocery stores are a good sign. As the efforts of those working on behalf of farmers and local food producers converge with greater consumer awareness, the more our taste buds, environment, and farmers benefit.

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.