Today started off with me in the cow barn, Kristen showing me how to milk Ella the cow. A wash of the utters a quick squeeze with the hands to empty any stagnant milk, then on with a vacuum pump. Four little nozzles attach to the utters and suck in cadence; on off on off, to mimic that of a real calf, into a large shiny metal container. I should have asked how many gallons it was, something like 3 or 4. Ella has a calf Lucy, who may be a calf but is at least 300 pounds. There is much talk of eating her because she has a fifth utter, "it's bad genetics" Fred claims.
Then as I returned to the house I am told to help Meg who I find in a beet patch, which didn't germinate but instead has filled with the "weed" purslane. As it turns out purslane is edible and has a fruity citrus like taste once crushed in your mouth. It also has the added benefit of being the best terrestrial source of omega 3 fatty acids; like those in fish oil. This begins a long day of harvest for the CSA (Crop Sharing Association or Community Supported Agriculture; either or) pick-up tomorrow. Some of the purslane had become enormous and resembles a weedier less thick jade plant, with its waxy succulent leaves.
First purslane then chard were harvested, yes the CSA members were getting a weed to eat this week, then dill which had become overgrown with weeds as well. The dill was reaching the end of it's life cycle, a perfect row for the pigs to root through. Incidentally they were slaughtered last night or early this morning by Nate (co-owner of the farm) who spent the whole day before building a caged trailer for the porkers to ride into town for the slaughter house, which he would later disassemble. Three little piggies went to the market, and ended up bacon, sausage, and ham. Dill on the other hand was still here, and we needed enough to fill the CSA shares. So Bridget and I settled in for a few hours of trimming off the spindly dill to make small bunches tied together with a rubber band. Bridget lives at the farm and is very dedicated, but it's her personality that stands out. She has a rough exterior and has admitted to not showering very often. Loves to play pinball, is a reader of science fiction novels (nothing pulp) Stanislaw Lem as of right now, studied anthropology and Japanese at the University of Pittsburgh. She is always cracking jokes, good jokes, witty jokes. It is hard to explain a girl like this but she just makes sense, there is something logical about her. Under the dirt and tangled mess of hair is a real girl (not too sensitive) veiled by her more than ordinary ways. As I write she is off reading a book and finding out what adventures the dystopian future might hold.
After Picking up some onions, we ride the Custom, a brown ford truck that has been around the farm, more than a few times. Actually it isn't street legal so it has to live on the farm. Mary hops in the back with me. She is a CSA member that has come to volunteer along with a handful of others who are across the fields in the Kale. Mary is no spring chicken, to use a colloquial term, and she has been working as hard as anyone out there. It is no comfy ride in the back of the truck, and all of the sudden there is some abrasive noise, like that of gears grinding together, as Meg loses control at the wheel and veers the truck into a field which drops sharply down the hill. Mary and I are startled. Meg applies the breaks before any real damage is done. I jump off to see what has happened, Meg assures us that it's fine, the truck has just stalled. With there being engine problems Mary and I are directed to walk down the hill to the barn.
First purslane then chard were harvested, yes the CSA members were getting a weed to eat this week, then dill which had become overgrown with weeds as well. The dill was reaching the end of it's life cycle, a perfect row for the pigs to root through. Incidentally they were slaughtered last night or early this morning by Nate (co-owner of the farm) who spent the whole day before building a caged trailer for the porkers to ride into town for the slaughter house, which he would later disassemble. Three little piggies went to the market, and ended up bacon, sausage, and ham. Dill on the other hand was still here, and we needed enough to fill the CSA shares. So Bridget and I settled in for a few hours of trimming off the spindly dill to make small bunches tied together with a rubber band. Bridget lives at the farm and is very dedicated, but it's her personality that stands out. She has a rough exterior and has admitted to not showering very often. Loves to play pinball, is a reader of science fiction novels (nothing pulp) Stanislaw Lem as of right now, studied anthropology and Japanese at the University of Pittsburgh. She is always cracking jokes, good jokes, witty jokes. It is hard to explain a girl like this but she just makes sense, there is something logical about her. Under the dirt and tangled mess of hair is a real girl (not too sensitive) veiled by her more than ordinary ways. As I write she is off reading a book and finding out what adventures the dystopian future might hold. 
After Picking up some onions, we ride the Custom, a brown ford truck that has been around the farm, more than a few times. Actually it isn't street legal so it has to live on the farm. Mary hops in the back with me. She is a CSA member that has come to volunteer along with a handful of others who are across the fields in the Kale. Mary is no spring chicken, to use a colloquial term, and she has been working as hard as anyone out there. It is no comfy ride in the back of the truck, and all of the sudden there is some abrasive noise, like that of gears grinding together, as Meg loses control at the wheel and veers the truck into a field which drops sharply down the hill. Mary and I are startled. Meg applies the breaks before any real damage is done. I jump off to see what has happened, Meg assures us that it's fine, the truck has just stalled. With there being engine problems Mary and I are directed to walk down the hill to the barn.
Lunch is served, there I meet James. James is a soft spoken thin dark haired man, about 25 years old, he lives just north of the farm, he has come to work in exchange for produce, and work he does. We set out to pick cucumbers. James thrashes through the patch of vines searching for the ripe fruit. He fills his lug, a large tan plastic bin, before me. I have a more lackadaisical approach, sticking my knife down to sweep away spiny leaves. Lugs get quite heavy when filled with the plump veg; Mary is working with Bridget alongside us in a row of yellow squash. Some time after that we head to pick broccoli. Meg tells us the crop has "buttoned" meaning that the broccoli heads, the part we all eat - the immature flower buds - have not formed well, in this case because of a July heatwave. So we rip them all out and throw them into the bed of the Custom. They will eventually be added onto the compost pile. I suggest to James that they be made into slaw and that my favorite part is the stalk anyhow. Later on we harvest poblano peppers and islander peppers which are a wonderful shade of purple and lavender with white speckles and stripes. Again my back is pretty upset with the amount of bending over I have done to get the peppers, and we would still have time to wash and package a hundred and forty shares of produce before calling it quits.
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