A certain crispness, out of place
A flicker. Then gone.
Crunchy leaves, cider, cardigans

Hope.

It is an almost universally acknowledged fact that a man in possession of an item of food  is in want of its origin. One can barely bring up the topic of last night’s dinner without someone bemoaning the fact that people don’t know where their food comes from. What they mean to highlight when they say this is the industrialization of our food system. By and large, not only do we no longer know the farmer who grew our food, we can’t even be exactly certain as to its continent of origin. And that’s true. A quick look around the produce aisle proves that most apples and garlic are from China, the asparagus is from Chile, and the raspberries are from God-knows-where. We could all get to know our food better, whether that means stopping by a farmer’s market or finally figuring out what’s killing the squash.

The bone I do wish to pick, however, is with the shallowness of the statement. “People don’t know where their food comes from,” is, at its core, a statement of geography. Nothing else. Concepts of terroir aside, we must recognize that food is more than geography.  There is more than a where, there is also a how. People don’t know how their food comes to them. They have no idea the kind of effort, skill, and knowledge that goes into growing food.

Having not grown many plants since my third grade photosynthesis experiment, I used to be in that camp too. Whenever topics such as gardening or farming came up, I found myself alternating between one of two clichés. The first was that any kind of farmy manual labor was just that- labor. It evoked images of peasants scratching at the dusty earth with sticks, dreaming of a few gnarled potatoes. In this notion, farming is hard work, plain and simple. No ifs, ands, or buts. Farmers are to be pitied as they have obviously been cheated out of a better life somehow. And are too poor or too stupid to do anything about it. No thank you. I was perfectly content to let some unknown person tear my apples and cucumbers out of the earth.

Other times, however, I would find myself falling toward the other cliché. I thought that farming was something akin to magic. It conjured images of Peter Pan-ish farmers dancing across their fields as they sprinkled seeds that looked like glitter.  Four months later they waltz back through the field and harvest baskets brimming with eggplants, tomatoes, and basil. Farmers are to be envied because they have somehow hoodwinked the gods into leading a charmed life. Inevitably, when under the thrall of this idea, I would go out and buy a pot of herbs or Gerbera daisies or something, committed to taking part in this lush part of life. Just as inevitably, my plants would shrivel or rot. I would grow tired of the failure and resign myself to a lush-less life. I was content to let some unknown person whisper my pumpkins and sunflowers out of the earth.

Mercifully, neither of these clichés is true. They are both just as hackneyed as the quiet mouse or the robin’s blue egg. In the last few years, as my life has come to revolve more and more around growing things, I have begun to realize what a farmer’s life is actually like. It’s true that’s its full of hard work. For us at City Roots, there’s lots of shoveling and sifting dirt for sprout growing, cultivating the fields (which is a nice way of saying ripping the weeds out), planting and replanting and re-replanting seedlings, and bending over sinks full of sunflower sprouts trying to cull the seeds hulls out. It’s also true that there is a little bit of magic in what we do. But it’s of a more common variety than waltzing fairies. The magic is this: When given the proper conditions, seeds will germinate and grow into plants. Given enough time, eggplant peels and apple cores become fertilizer. Chickens can turn dead fish into eggs.

Not one of us feels like we’ve been swindled and trapped in a life of drudgery; but neither do we prance around our fields sprinkling glitter seeds. There’s a middle ground that I’ve found hard to explain to people who are unacquainted with farm work (or were only acquainted with it as children). While I’m not a parent, I often compare it to having children. Kids are hard work. They run you ragged all day and still ask for another glass of water before bed. Any honest parent will tell you that. But, any honest parent will also tell you that they derive great satisfaction from their children. I imagine their must be moments of transcendence between parent and child.  It’s the same way with farming. It’s hard, dirty, sweaty work. I often get dirt pushed so far under my nails that it hurts.  But the thing that surprises me still is the personal satisfaction I get. While it is hard, dirty, sweaty work, the magic is in how pleasurable this life is.

• Two rusted caps- perhaps from an old car?
• A rusted tin lid
• A rusted canning jar lid
• 2 marbles- one blue, one yellow and red
• A green leggo
• Various worn glass shards, mostly clear but one blue
• A sliver of porcelain
• A blade of some kind
• A bottle cap
• A germinating pecan
• A wire fence buried six inches below the surface
• A new appreciation for the words “deep rooted”

The sky soothes into quiet and Light commences a waltz with Shadow around the sála.  The bamboo chimes begin to move, at first a slow seductive twirl like a dancer’s hips but quickening till the chimes spin way out like a whirling dervish’s skirts.  In the beginning, the rain is all humility and meekness. It’s coming is heralded by small, not gaudy, changes – the patterns running down the window, the spattered mud leaping a few inches up the wall, the banana leaves casually bouncing like a woman’s foot when she crosses her legs.  And the sound!…echoing differently off each wall, as if trying to find the right pitch.  It’s accompanied by the wonderful cool breeze that blows through the windows, making the curtains drum their fingers in rhythm.  Everyone in the room seems to perceive its advent at exactly the same moment, and they hover around the window to watch the nativity progress.

The birth of the rain smells like dust.  I count each tiny bead of water as it falls to the ground with a hollow plop.  But then the plops increase to higher sounds, like marbles dropped in a sink.  The air now smells clean, all the dust being purified from it.  I can’t do anything but lie back on my bed and listen to the sound of the whole jungle surrounding me, drowning in soft pattering drips.  The angel chorus of birds still sing…bursting out in occasional solos, their sopranos balanced by the deep bass of thunder.  All of this to the beat of a million drops, each one hitting its own note and boggling my mind that I am hearing every one of them.

Soon, its still small voice beckons to me between the drops. I rise from my bed and follow it. I hug the wall and slither past my mother.  Then it’s all splashing in puddles and squeezing mud between my toes and getting gloriously, gloriously wet.  The rain trickles down into my eyes and plasters my hair to my head.  The moisture hangs heavy on my eyelashes and transforms the ordinary world into  trickling visions.  The weight of it forces my eyes closed and the vision slides down my cheeks like tears. I look behind me at my footprints in the mud.  I watch as the rain fills them and the shapes are distorted into puddles.  I again think of each individual drop it takes to fill the puddle. As each new drop lands, the puddle itself reaches up, as if begging for more.

I gaze across the valley and watch the approaching wall of grayness, knowing I have only a few moments before I am discovered and my mother calls me inside.  So I race the oncoming bulwark to my favorite tree.  Slipping and sliding all the way, I scramble up the slippery bark, onto my favorite branch, barely beating the barrage of wetness.  It hits me in the face like sopping sheets.  I reach out to stop them, only to discover they slip through my fingers like ghosts and smack me anyway.  The rain swaddles me in its self, making me breathe in its rhythm.  I cannot see past the shroud it has hung on the outermost branches, burying reality.  It is easy to wonder if all the rest was merely a dream.

Just as I get accustomed to this revelation, my house begins to materialize…cloudy at first, as if turned impressionist, but becoming clearer and sharper.  A sense of relieved disappointment fills my chest as the rain welled up in my footprints.  I must go back. The way back is longer and more laborious.  I am forced to pick my feet up high with each step out of the mud, like an ancient Hebrew slave making bricks.  The clothesline guards the border to reality and I watch the rain drops tiptoe to the middle of the line and hesitate until the next one pushes too hard and it slips off into the unknown.  At the back door my mother is already wielding the hose, trying to look condescending, but not quite able to banish the smile from her eyes.  Deep down I recognize her own longing.  I see her mouth form the words “filthy” and “clean up” but can’t hear it above the rain on the tin roof.  With a shake of her head, she commences the ceremonial cleansing which I must endure if I wish to enter the house -first my face, then my arms and legs, and finally my bare feet.  I surrender to her ministrations until the mud swirls down the drain.  Then I shloosh free.  My feet smack against the cool cement floor and I find I must walk carefully or risk slipping.

Once inside, I prefer not to shower, liking the natural feel on my skin.  I return to the cloud of people at the window and join the eager curiosity of witnessing the front yard fill up like a bathtub and guessing which step that afternoon’s rain will climb to….

That is the rain in the Philippines.  Everything else is just drizzle.

*While this is my writing, the original inspiration came from another missionary kid many years ago.  He published it on a MK message board.  If anyone knows who it was, I would love to give him credit.

Somewhere in the middle of a normal day, amidst dirty dishes and laundry on the line, this happened. I don’t know when. Since planting these seeds almost three weeks ago, I’ve checked them compulsively. Nothing ever happened. Like a character in a parable, my faith wavered. And then, in the middle of wiping off the table, I happened to glance at the terra cotta pot supposedly cradling my seeds… and there it was. Someone less familiar with the terrain of that pot would not have noticed it.  All bent double, the bend barely visible above the dirt. But to me, who had studied this pot for days for any sign to bolster my flat faith, the effervescent green was as arresting as a soda can exploding in my hand.

I watched throughout the day as the fetal sprout slowly stretched and straightened. I also began to notice others bending through the surface. There are four now altogether. Such abundance to someone who despaired of having any seedlings just hours ago.

It is exactly this kind of event that rouses me to continue stalking wonder.  It reminds me that while I go about my routine of scrubbing sticky spots off the table and chopping onions, a ritual of a different kind is also in progress. And in the moment that our two quotidians meet, the whole rest of the world becomes wonder-full. That little shoot, like a good fairy tale, reminds that there is more going on in my world than me. I’m suddenly conscious of the earthworms deep under my feet as I hang laundry to dry. Of the yeasts that are feeding on the flour and water of my bread dough and making it rise. Of the microbes that are even now turning those onion peels into compost. Of all the hundreds and thousands of seeds that nobody planted that are germinating right along with my pampered seedling.

What makes me wonder most, however, is that this is not extraordinary. It’s not a once in a lifetime event, like seeing Halley’s Comet. You don’t have to be in the right place at the right time in order to experience it. It’s happening all the time, for anyone to see. Whether your routine involves an early morning shower and a commute or slippers and a pairing knife, there is another ancient routine progressing right alongside yours. The wonder comes in both slowing your routine enough to notice the other, and then continuing your routine heartened by having a steady companion on your way.

Dear Roundies,

As South Carolina shows its tropical side with muggy mornings and afternoon thunderstorms, our garden is doing well. The eggplants hang like purple comas throughout the garden, suggesting I pause in my daily labor and admire their bold, anime-like color. Most of the lettuce has bolted and is now almost as tall as me. Cucumbers hide their prickly faces behind leaves like an old man pulling the sheets over his face for a nap.

The one plant that is not doing well is our squash. The once sturdy and vibrant green stems are now wilted and yellow. Feeling like a CSI team, we have been scrutinizing the plants for any evidence of their killer. Unfortunately, this is destined to be a “to be continued” episode. We still have several suspects at large and no conclusive evidence. We’ve replanted some new squash plants, but for awhile at least, the mystery hit man/insect/virus has stolen a significant portion of your weekly share of squash.

Our basil, on the other hand, seems to have the opposite problem, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. We harvested over five pounds of it in one day, and there’s more to come. So, I figured this would be a good time to brush up on some basil recipes, storage tips, and a little basil legend.

Basil is known as the King of Herbs because of its centrality to so many of the world’s food cultures. Although most people think of basil as a Mediterranean herb, it is also a staple in Thai and Vietnamese cooking. Depending on the variety, basil can have anywhere from a pungent anise to a delicate lemony aroma.

Like many herbs, basil has its own peculiar legends surrounding it. The ancient Greeks and Romans believed that, in order for the basil seeds to germinate, the farmer must yell loudly and curse as he was sowing his seeds. Similarly, the French saying “semer le basilic” (literally “to sow basil”) means “to rant and rave.” In Italy, however, a girl will place a pot of basil in her window, not to advertise her anger, but to tell her lover that he is welcome to come visit her. Leave it to the Italians to mix food and love.

Despite its mixed heritage of explicative-induced growth and come hither stares, basil is a relatively easy plant to store and use. The ways to use fresh basil could fill a cookbook, but we’ll get to those in a minute. First, let’s figure out what to do with your basil when you get it home. Repeat after me: Fresh basil should never be put in the fridge. In the cold, basil turns black and slimy. Instead, there are several alternatives, depending on how you are planning on using it.

If you plan on using the basil within a few days, you should trim the ends of the stems and place them in a few inches of water in a jar. Leave the jar in on your countertop, away from sunlight. If you change the water everyday, your basil should stay fresh for at least a week.

If you are wanting to preserve your copious amounts of basil, you have two main options. The first option is to preserve the basil in its pure unprocessed state for later use. To do this, you could dry it overnight in a low oven or in a dehydrator. Or, you could chop it up, press the leaves into an ice cube tray, top it off with water, and freeze it. Once completely frozen the basil cubes can be stored in a plastic bag in the freezer. A few basil cubes added to winter stews is the culinary equivalent of a beach trip in January and coming home with a golden tan.

The other option is: Pesto! This is probably my favorite way to preserve basil because it is so versatile. On rushed evenings, you can whip up a batch of Presto Pasta, so called because such an easy meal seems like magic. All you do is boil some pasta, drain it and mix in a few tablespoons of pesto. It’s also a match made in heaven with grilled or poached chicken. Or, you can mix it into a block of cream cheese for a great party dip. It also makes a festive Christmas gift if you store it in little jars. I’ve included a basic recipe for pesto at the end of the blog.

Now that we’ve covered storage of excess basil, let’s get back to that large plastic bag of fresh basil sitting on your counter top. Basil is truly one of my favorite herbs. One of my cats answers to the name Basil, if that gives you any idea. Because of this obsession, I have found ways of including it in nearly every type of recipe imaginable. I will lob handfuls of whole leaves into a salad, use it in lieu of lettuce on a sandwich, or toss some into my favorite smoothie (strawberry is especially nice). Once tomato season arrives, I plan on feasting on Insalata Caprese (the salad of Capri). This is the perfect summer recipe. It’s fast, fresh, and doesn’t require you to turn on your oven or stove.

Summer is an especially good time to experiment with this herb because you are getting (and will be getting) a bagful almost every week. Try adding it to some of your favorite recipes and see how you like it. Just keep in mind that basil will quickly loose its signature flavor when cooked. So, with hot dishes, add it right before serving instead of at the beginning. If you find a recipe that especially benefits from basil (or one that basil should never be added to on pain of death), tell us about it in the comment section. Consider this my pot of basil on the window sill welcoming your suggestions.

Eat Well,

Jana

These are some of my favorite basil recipes:

Basic Basil Pesto

• 4 cups packed fresh basil leaves, washed well
• 1/2 cup pine nuts, toasted until golden, cooled, and chopped fine
• 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan (about 1 1/2 ounces)
• 2 large garlic cloves, minced
• 1/4 cup plus 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Have ready a bowl of ice and cold water. In a saucepan of boiling salted water blanch basil, a handful at a time, 2 seconds, transferring with a slotted spoon to bowl of ice water to stop cooking. Drain basil in a sieve and pat dry.*

In a food processor purée basil with remaining ingredients** until smooth and season with salt and pepper. Fill jars and top with a layer of olive oil. To use, tilt the jar to uncover the pesto, spoon it out, the let the oil recover it. It will keep in the fridge for a few weeks. To freeze, see note.

*This step preserves the vibrant color of the basil. It can be skipped if you want.

**If you want to freeze the pesto, leave out the Parmesan. It is best frozen in jars with a layer of olive oil on the top. When you’re ready to use it, thaw it in the fridge, then mix in the Parmesan.

Caprese Salad

• 2 pounds vine-ripened tomatoes (about 4 large), sliced 1/4 inch thick
• 1 pound fresh mozzarella, sliced1/4 inch thick
• 1/4 cup packed fresh basil, washed well and spun dry
• 3 to 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• fine sea salt to taste
• freshly ground black pepper to taste

On a large platter or individual plates, alternate slices of cheese, tomato, and basil leaves. Overlap them for a pretty spiral effect. Drizzle olive oil over the whole salad and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Welcome to Round River Farms!  The garden is built on the “square-foot” system.  Each box has several different vegetables growing in it.  In the back, near the middle, is the greenhouse where all the seedlings were born.  One of my first jobs is to fix the broken trellises on the right.

This is what the trellises are supposed to look like.  They’re made out of bamboo.  Eventually, when the peas and tomatoes have climbed up them, I think they’ll make a really cool tunnel – perfect for a romantic interlude.

A typical garden box- tomato plants, basil, and marigolds.  We also are growing squash, cucumber, eggplant, lettuces, dill, sage, lemon balm, onions, soybeans, collards, potatoes, and probably some other vegetables I forgot.

This is some broccoli I planted several months during my interview.  It’s proof that I must have at least a little green thumb in my blood.

A squash blossom.  At the bottom you can see the blossom growing into a cucumber.

My chicken friends.

The pond across from the garden.  Very Zennish, isn’t it?