Diversity, Farmer-Style
Once, when camping in Big Bend National Park with a friend who had grown up on a farm, the difference between a farm-raised girl and me became obvious. When a herd of javalina discovered us at their watering hole and seemed annoyed, I made tracks out of there. My friend said slowly, They’re just pigs…until the leader of the pack started for her, at which point she threw her canteen and joined me. I’ve never known a real farmer, just a few people who grew up on farms and somehow transitioned to an urban life that passes for normal among the majority of the population.
Now living in an agricultural area, and just through reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore’s Dilemma and Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I’ve been visiting farms and farmers markets and asking the farmers about their foods and their farms. Friday was Northport’s market; and Saturday, Traverse City’s. Northport’s is a small affair, about ten tables. One of the farmers told me the peaches had not sweetened up like they should have, because of the cool summer and offered 3 varieties of apricots instead. He didn’t look like a farmer: medium height and build, dark hair combed back, probably in his 40s, clean polo shirt & slacks. Aren’t they supposed to wear overalls and chew on twigs?
A young woman who looked like an average high school girl had a sign out advertising “natural pork.” I asked her what kind of pork and she said Yorkshires. I meant, like, chops? Loin roast? She noted my blank look and said they would have all the cuts you’d expect. I signed up on their mailing list.
At the TC market, I was looking for pastured beef for our guests from Germany, who arrive tomorrow. We’ve noticed a distinct difference between the local, grass-fed beef and the corn-fed factory farmed beef. The meat seems sweeter and more flavorful. I thought we’d try steaks, but the Amish farmer didn’t have any and the other farmer who usually has some had driven a truck full of corn in, not beef. She, by the way, has curly dark hair, a couple of piercings and is quite pretty. Isn’t she supposed to be wearing an apron and holding a pitchfork? Anyway, I bought some ground beef and cheese from the Amish farmer; he was wearing overalls and had a long beard.
My local market had none yesterday and said they were through, but I saw some pints of the Balatons and Queen Annes on a table and ducked in to purchase some. I had let a few days go by without cherries and now felt desperate to make up for it. This farmer was tall, big and blond, like one of my Swedish ancestors who farmed in Minnesota before moving to Detroit to work in factories. He looked farmerish, but then started talking to me about the power and magic of the big thunderstorm last night and his eyes were quite intense. A sort of new-age farmer, I think. He offered me a yellow plum, sweet and juicy, so I bought some of those, too.
I saw some kale today and went to look and saw some purple stuff next to it and asked the farmer what it was and he said cauliflower. So I bought it, also a BIG bag of basil. He was oh, mid- to late-20s, brown hair and short beard, could’ve been mistaken for a musician from Seattle, and explained to me the difference between Italian and Thai basil and how the flowers are really good to eat, too. I think that was on the Thai kind. Said I should visit their farm on the Mission Peninsula where I could get a quantity of basil. And also taste some wines.
Then I was stopped by the fudge farmer. Yes, a late 70-something man about a foot shorter than I who reached out his hand as if to shake mine and said that I must sample their fudge. I tried to resist but he would not take no for an answer, told me theirs was better than any other, his son-in-law really knew how to make it, they had all kinds of flavors, I should just go look at the flavors. I looked over at the booth and saw a picture perfect old lady, gray hair in a bun, apron, doling out fudge samples. I had to buy and, of course, being an addict, have already eaten half of it. Which is why I didn’t want to buy it in the first place!
I’ve been afraid the blueberries were over, too and I can’t say I missed a day—probably ate a pint a day. But there were none at my local market yesterday. So when I saw some at an organic farmer’s stand, I bought two pints. She was a small, wiry woman, probably about 50, with long braids, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Hippie farmer.
Just a few stands down was a plethora of blueberries, an entire booth lined with boxes of them. I kind of like buying a couple of things from different farmers, to spread my spending among them. I bought a 5-lb box of blueberries to freeze. It reminded me of when I was a kid and we would buy big boxes of strawberries or blueberries and put them up in white cardboard boxes in the freezer. I am inspired by my reading to freeze some of these local foods for consumption this winter, rather than buying things flown in from other continents. I’ve bought some extra corn for this purpose, too. Canning seems a bit beyond my ken, but maybe next year.
Although I found that farmers come in a wide variety of types and little resemble the stereotypes urban types may hold, they did have several things in common: a tremendous pride in their products, friendliness, and a kind tolerance for the silly questions of the farm illiterati.
Now living in an agricultural area, and just through reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore’s Dilemma and Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I’ve been visiting farms and farmers markets and asking the farmers about their foods and their farms. Friday was Northport’s market; and Saturday, Traverse City’s. Northport’s is a small affair, about ten tables. One of the farmers told me the peaches had not sweetened up like they should have, because of the cool summer and offered 3 varieties of apricots instead. He didn’t look like a farmer: medium height and build, dark hair combed back, probably in his 40s, clean polo shirt & slacks. Aren’t they supposed to wear overalls and chew on twigs?
A young woman who looked like an average high school girl had a sign out advertising “natural pork.” I asked her what kind of pork and she said Yorkshires. I meant, like, chops? Loin roast? She noted my blank look and said they would have all the cuts you’d expect. I signed up on their mailing list.
At the TC market, I was looking for pastured beef for our guests from Germany, who arrive tomorrow. We’ve noticed a distinct difference between the local, grass-fed beef and the corn-fed factory farmed beef. The meat seems sweeter and more flavorful. I thought we’d try steaks, but the Amish farmer didn’t have any and the other farmer who usually has some had driven a truck full of corn in, not beef. She, by the way, has curly dark hair, a couple of piercings and is quite pretty. Isn’t she supposed to be wearing an apron and holding a pitchfork? Anyway, I bought some ground beef and cheese from the Amish farmer; he was wearing overalls and had a long beard.
My local market had none yesterday and said they were through, but I saw some pints of the Balatons and Queen Annes on a table and ducked in to purchase some. I had let a few days go by without cherries and now felt desperate to make up for it. This farmer was tall, big and blond, like one of my Swedish ancestors who farmed in Minnesota before moving to Detroit to work in factories. He looked farmerish, but then started talking to me about the power and magic of the big thunderstorm last night and his eyes were quite intense. A sort of new-age farmer, I think. He offered me a yellow plum, sweet and juicy, so I bought some of those, too.
I saw some kale today and went to look and saw some purple stuff next to it and asked the farmer what it was and he said cauliflower. So I bought it, also a BIG bag of basil. He was oh, mid- to late-20s, brown hair and short beard, could’ve been mistaken for a musician from Seattle, and explained to me the difference between Italian and Thai basil and how the flowers are really good to eat, too. I think that was on the Thai kind. Said I should visit their farm on the Mission Peninsula where I could get a quantity of basil. And also taste some wines.
Then I was stopped by the fudge farmer. Yes, a late 70-something man about a foot shorter than I who reached out his hand as if to shake mine and said that I must sample their fudge. I tried to resist but he would not take no for an answer, told me theirs was better than any other, his son-in-law really knew how to make it, they had all kinds of flavors, I should just go look at the flavors. I looked over at the booth and saw a picture perfect old lady, gray hair in a bun, apron, doling out fudge samples. I had to buy and, of course, being an addict, have already eaten half of it. Which is why I didn’t want to buy it in the first place!
I’ve been afraid the blueberries were over, too and I can’t say I missed a day—probably ate a pint a day. But there were none at my local market yesterday. So when I saw some at an organic farmer’s stand, I bought two pints. She was a small, wiry woman, probably about 50, with long braids, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Hippie farmer.
Just a few stands down was a plethora of blueberries, an entire booth lined with boxes of them. I kind of like buying a couple of things from different farmers, to spread my spending among them. I bought a 5-lb box of blueberries to freeze. It reminded me of when I was a kid and we would buy big boxes of strawberries or blueberries and put them up in white cardboard boxes in the freezer. I am inspired by my reading to freeze some of these local foods for consumption this winter, rather than buying things flown in from other continents. I’ve bought some extra corn for this purpose, too. Canning seems a bit beyond my ken, but maybe next year.
Although I found that farmers come in a wide variety of types and little resemble the stereotypes urban types may hold, they did have several things in common: a tremendous pride in their products, friendliness, and a kind tolerance for the silly questions of the farm illiterati.
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