Wednesday, September 18th
Cool, clear day, about 65 degrees
Walking underneath the white-painted, wooden trellis, I approach the metal
gate with a tall wire fence attached to either side. The fence encloses
the beds to keep out deer and other critters that might like to help themselves
to one of the many varieties of produce growing. Entering the gate, I
breathe in deep and exhale a long sigh, wanting to escape the torrent of
everyday life that I find myself immersed in.
The din of construction surrounds me, drowns out bird songs and cricket
chirps. Auditory pollution in an otherwise serene setting. I'm
annoyed. Your building things is ruining my quiet. But the sun is
shining and I'm soaking up vitamin D straight from the source as I crouch low
to the ground removing wilted and bug-eaten kale leaves.
It's hard to let my brain stop. Thinking about readings and
assignments and what someone said in class earlier today. It's all
floating around up there and clashing with the sounds of dump trucks and
backhoes. I want my brain to rest while my body works. I sit on the
earth and pull up weeds.
A mentor once told me to never weed with gloves on. Gloves distance you
from the work you are doing. Microorganisms, she said, live there in the
soil. They enter your body when you get dirt underneath your fingernails
and cause a reaction that produces serotonin. Most people associate
serotonin with its effect on a person's mood, but the body uses most of it in
the gut, in regulating intestinal movements. I never weed wearing gloves unless
a plant’s prickly spines insist.
I wonder how those tiny organisms benefit from such a situation. Was
this arrangement the result of co-evolution? Over thousands of years of
humans putting their hands in the earth, these microscopic creatures have found
a way to make a living by supplementing the human body with a much needed
hormone. The vast, interconnected processes and systems astound me.
A half hour has passed and my brain is on a different plane now. It's
let loose of the minutia of the day. Finally. Rest. The
sounds of the machinery several hundred yards away develop a sort of rhythm
like the constant ebb and flow of the tides. My body follows suit.
This is where I need to be, in this place with this state of mind.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Entry 1: First Impressions
I arrive at the farm to work without a clue of what tasks lie ahead of me for the day. I have worked on a farm before, so I know that no day of farm labor is quite like any other. It is hot this afternoon in Gibsonia, a small town about twenty miles north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Rather, it is hot compared to what I've been used to in Boone, in the Appalachian Mountains of western North Carolina, where the mild summer temperatures max out at 85 degrees about twice a year. Since I moved to Pittsburgh, the weather today is actually quite nice--not so hot.
As I wait for instruction on my first task as a farm assistant at Chatham University's Eden Hall campus, I take notice of the garden. Rows of swiss and rainbow chard catch my eyes first, as their bright yellows, reds, and purples stand out against the familiar green backdrop. Small heads of cabbage are forming in rows opposite the chard, and someone has recently harvested fresh broccoli. Cayennes, bells, and banana peppers are intercropped with basil. The tops of the potatoes have dried and are withering away, indicating there's some delicious tubers ready to be dug from the mounds of earth. Leeks stand tall and in an abundance, and tomatoes of all stages of ripeness hang from their vines.
But today, I won't be working with the plants. The three-week-old chicks are ready to be moved to their new homes. I help cover the large mobile chicken coops with tarp affixed by bungee cords. The tarp will protect the young birds against the wind, rain, and chilly nights. Entering the chicks' temporary home in the greenhouse, there's a smattering of peeps and faint flapping noises coming from their makeshift housing--two wooden oval fixtures set atop tables. The tables had been covered first with plywood, then with newspaper. Large pieces of cardboard are propped above the chicks' homes so as to prevent escapees.
Each chick must be picked up and put in a cardboard box so they can be carried to their new dwelling outside. When my hands enter their space, they flock to the farthest corner away from me, presumably, fearing the unknown, the danger that may accompany this unfamiliar creature grabbing in their direction. Alas, I cannot reach, and another farm assistant who has a few inches in height on me takes charge of scooping up the birds. She hands them to me, and I put them in the box.
You want to hold a chicken with both hands so that the tips of your fingers rest on their breasts and your thumbs and palms hold the wings close to its body. In the transferring, some of my grips aren't quite right, and the chicks' small wings flap frantically in an effort to free themselves. "Shhh..." I say to them and place them gently in the box. Back on solid ground, most of the chicks continue on their business like nothing just happened. Some of them poop and some continue to cry for a bit. "It's okay," I tell them.
With six people (including myself), the transfer of ninety-five birds doesn't take too long, and soon we're left with the clean-up of the temporary housing. Anyone who thinks of work on a small farm in a romantic, idealized sort of way should go help a farmer clean up chicken poop. It's not the most glorious, awe-inspiring task. With the poop shoveled into the wheelbarrow, I haul it to the compost pile where it will break down into nitrogen-rich fertilizer to use on future plant crops. I head over to the chicks' new digs where they've already begun to settle in. The feed they've grown accustomed to over the past few weeks will now be a supplement to their diet. These youngsters instinctively know what to look for to eat in the earth--insects and worms and the like. They peck at the ground, picking out tasty morsels for a satisfying meal.
The more protein a laying hen has in its diet, the richer and deeper color orange the yolks of its eggs will be. My mouth waters when I crack open an egg to discover a yolk the color of a dark orange sunset. Chickens that don't get to forage for their meals have pale yellow yolks, which aren't as rich in flavor and don't hold up as well in a frying pan. Some chefs will seek out eggs coming from birds that have been allowed to forage and pay the extra price per dozen for the extra flavor imparted on their dishes.
Generally, these eggs are called "free range" or "cage free," but these terms can be misleading. Firstly, I don't know of any small farmers who let their layers roam around without any sort of enclosure. Their flock would quickly be lost to foxes or other predators. Secondly, lots of different brands of eggs sold in retail outlets don this label "free range," but the color of their yolks tell me a different story. Indeed, I recently purchased a dozen "cage free" eggs from Whole Foods, and I have been sorely disappointed with each and every light yellow yolk emerging after I crack open the shell.
The demand for responsibly-produced food has skyrocketed in recent years, and large food companies have responded. Unfortunately, according to Michael Pollan in The Omnivore's Dilemma, "free range" on the label doesn't guarantee that your chicken has ever been in the grass or seen the sunshine. Pollan calls such operations "industrial organic," as the production systems only differ from industrial agriculture in that they meet USDA organic standards.
The chicks at Eden Hall will have it much better than their industrial organic cousins. At three weeks, they are already foraging through the grass, snatching up proteins with their beaks. Even though Eden Hall isn't yet certified organic, I feel much more comfortable with their practices than with some nondescript, giant facility that I've never seen. It irks me that industrial organic operations can print "free range" on their eggs cartons, and those inferior eggs get lumped into the same category as eggs from independent, small farmers all over the country. It's confusing for consumers, and it certainly doesn't help independent farmers when the retailers can sell the "same" products for cheaper. I think until Eden Hall has some layers that are big enough to produce, I'll check out a local farmers' market to see if I can find some real free-range eggs. The yolks will tell me the whole story.
As I wait for instruction on my first task as a farm assistant at Chatham University's Eden Hall campus, I take notice of the garden. Rows of swiss and rainbow chard catch my eyes first, as their bright yellows, reds, and purples stand out against the familiar green backdrop. Small heads of cabbage are forming in rows opposite the chard, and someone has recently harvested fresh broccoli. Cayennes, bells, and banana peppers are intercropped with basil. The tops of the potatoes have dried and are withering away, indicating there's some delicious tubers ready to be dug from the mounds of earth. Leeks stand tall and in an abundance, and tomatoes of all stages of ripeness hang from their vines.
But today, I won't be working with the plants. The three-week-old chicks are ready to be moved to their new homes. I help cover the large mobile chicken coops with tarp affixed by bungee cords. The tarp will protect the young birds against the wind, rain, and chilly nights. Entering the chicks' temporary home in the greenhouse, there's a smattering of peeps and faint flapping noises coming from their makeshift housing--two wooden oval fixtures set atop tables. The tables had been covered first with plywood, then with newspaper. Large pieces of cardboard are propped above the chicks' homes so as to prevent escapees.
Each chick must be picked up and put in a cardboard box so they can be carried to their new dwelling outside. When my hands enter their space, they flock to the farthest corner away from me, presumably, fearing the unknown, the danger that may accompany this unfamiliar creature grabbing in their direction. Alas, I cannot reach, and another farm assistant who has a few inches in height on me takes charge of scooping up the birds. She hands them to me, and I put them in the box.
You want to hold a chicken with both hands so that the tips of your fingers rest on their breasts and your thumbs and palms hold the wings close to its body. In the transferring, some of my grips aren't quite right, and the chicks' small wings flap frantically in an effort to free themselves. "Shhh..." I say to them and place them gently in the box. Back on solid ground, most of the chicks continue on their business like nothing just happened. Some of them poop and some continue to cry for a bit. "It's okay," I tell them.
With six people (including myself), the transfer of ninety-five birds doesn't take too long, and soon we're left with the clean-up of the temporary housing. Anyone who thinks of work on a small farm in a romantic, idealized sort of way should go help a farmer clean up chicken poop. It's not the most glorious, awe-inspiring task. With the poop shoveled into the wheelbarrow, I haul it to the compost pile where it will break down into nitrogen-rich fertilizer to use on future plant crops. I head over to the chicks' new digs where they've already begun to settle in. The feed they've grown accustomed to over the past few weeks will now be a supplement to their diet. These youngsters instinctively know what to look for to eat in the earth--insects and worms and the like. They peck at the ground, picking out tasty morsels for a satisfying meal.
The more protein a laying hen has in its diet, the richer and deeper color orange the yolks of its eggs will be. My mouth waters when I crack open an egg to discover a yolk the color of a dark orange sunset. Chickens that don't get to forage for their meals have pale yellow yolks, which aren't as rich in flavor and don't hold up as well in a frying pan. Some chefs will seek out eggs coming from birds that have been allowed to forage and pay the extra price per dozen for the extra flavor imparted on their dishes.
 |
| Look how orange! |
Generally, these eggs are called "free range" or "cage free," but these terms can be misleading. Firstly, I don't know of any small farmers who let their layers roam around without any sort of enclosure. Their flock would quickly be lost to foxes or other predators. Secondly, lots of different brands of eggs sold in retail outlets don this label "free range," but the color of their yolks tell me a different story. Indeed, I recently purchased a dozen "cage free" eggs from Whole Foods, and I have been sorely disappointed with each and every light yellow yolk emerging after I crack open the shell.
The demand for responsibly-produced food has skyrocketed in recent years, and large food companies have responded. Unfortunately, according to Michael Pollan in The Omnivore's Dilemma, "free range" on the label doesn't guarantee that your chicken has ever been in the grass or seen the sunshine. Pollan calls such operations "industrial organic," as the production systems only differ from industrial agriculture in that they meet USDA organic standards.
The chicks at Eden Hall will have it much better than their industrial organic cousins. At three weeks, they are already foraging through the grass, snatching up proteins with their beaks. Even though Eden Hall isn't yet certified organic, I feel much more comfortable with their practices than with some nondescript, giant facility that I've never seen. It irks me that industrial organic operations can print "free range" on their eggs cartons, and those inferior eggs get lumped into the same category as eggs from independent, small farmers all over the country. It's confusing for consumers, and it certainly doesn't help independent farmers when the retailers can sell the "same" products for cheaper. I think until Eden Hall has some layers that are big enough to produce, I'll check out a local farmers' market to see if I can find some real free-range eggs. The yolks will tell me the whole story.
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