farm goodness
Last night I had another great summer dinner (the menu similar to the best summer dinner #1), something I looked forward to all afternoon while I was working at the library. In what seemed like no time Jay was firing up the grill; I was snipping Swiss rainbow chard and picking tomatoes; RugbyGirl was stopping by to drop off beer; Sierra was pouring drinks as I chopped chard, onions and garlic; TSO and Brett were arriving.
It's these simplest of simple moments that I cling to; pray that these are the moments I remember years from now; hope that when most things fade, I will have these nights. I want to remember how we didn't even notice the warmth from the stove-top as I par-cooked the potatoes--theses summer nights are getting cooler; remember the feather-like weight of the chard in my hand, how the stems fought against my old, dull knives; remember the smell of the grill, the sound of the cicadas; remember that familiar feeling of being comfortable with the people you are with, the place you are at--just being.
As we ate I marveled at another simple meal grown and raised less than 2 miles from my doorstep: Jay's chard, garlic, onions, tomatoes and potatoes; the Farm beef we'd lovingly raised. It is an amazing thing to eat truly local food like that, an experience that I wish everyone could share. As we walked up the hill--that is the road leading away from my house--under a starry sky I pondered my thoughts and just felt grateful. Grateful for the starry sky overhead, the chilly night, the full belly. Life is good.
I really liked this quote, thought I'd share:
"Farms embody the can-do work ethic that's so near and dear to our capitalist, American selves. The farm always looks forward, sacrificing long hours in anticipation of a good harvest. It knows what's important: on a farm, worth is judged not where you start but by where you end up. A runt chick is valued if she grows up to be a good layer; a poor layer, beautiful though she may be, ends up in the stew pot. And there's something in it of American stubbornness, too--a small, well-rounded farm says,'Trucks may stop in their tracks, cargo ships may drift in the sea, grocery stores may shutter their doors, but that won't stop my hens from laying, my orchards from fruiting, my corn from ripening.'
That sort of stubbornness gives me hope."
--Lynda Hopkins, The Wisdom of the Radish: and other lessons learned on a small farm
It's these simplest of simple moments that I cling to; pray that these are the moments I remember years from now; hope that when most things fade, I will have these nights. I want to remember how we didn't even notice the warmth from the stove-top as I par-cooked the potatoes--theses summer nights are getting cooler; remember the feather-like weight of the chard in my hand, how the stems fought against my old, dull knives; remember the smell of the grill, the sound of the cicadas; remember that familiar feeling of being comfortable with the people you are with, the place you are at--just being.
As we ate I marveled at another simple meal grown and raised less than 2 miles from my doorstep: Jay's chard, garlic, onions, tomatoes and potatoes; the Farm beef we'd lovingly raised. It is an amazing thing to eat truly local food like that, an experience that I wish everyone could share. As we walked up the hill--that is the road leading away from my house--under a starry sky I pondered my thoughts and just felt grateful. Grateful for the starry sky overhead, the chilly night, the full belly. Life is good.
I really liked this quote, thought I'd share:
"Farms embody the can-do work ethic that's so near and dear to our capitalist, American selves. The farm always looks forward, sacrificing long hours in anticipation of a good harvest. It knows what's important: on a farm, worth is judged not where you start but by where you end up. A runt chick is valued if she grows up to be a good layer; a poor layer, beautiful though she may be, ends up in the stew pot. And there's something in it of American stubbornness, too--a small, well-rounded farm says,'Trucks may stop in their tracks, cargo ships may drift in the sea, grocery stores may shutter their doors, but that won't stop my hens from laying, my orchards from fruiting, my corn from ripening.'
That sort of stubbornness gives me hope."
--Lynda Hopkins, The Wisdom of the Radish: and other lessons learned on a small farm
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