Do You Know Your Food's History?

This morning’s sunrise brings the second snow of the season. Thanksgiving is a few days away and today we are invited to a turkey slaughter at the Alexander farm in rural Wisconsin. At first, I am apprehensive. Why would I want to see something so gruesome? Yet I have been immersed in this country community for several months now, learning how country boys, and women, survive. I take a deep breath and agree to attend the event and rationalize that it will be good for me to see where my food comes from.

The frozen snow crunches under our rubber boots as my husband and I make our way to the garage. In the summer the garage door is mostly open while friends and family wander in and out, sometimes stopping to share a beer at the end of the workday. But on this blustery day, it’s all business. The roll-up door to the garage is closed so I follow the blood splatters on the doorstep and go through the side door. I see two men gutting a large turkey. Two more carcasses are on the floor, headless, yet not motionless. 

                                                                        

One man is teaching the other how to slaughter and dress a turkey. It is a skill being passed father to son. It is not a pleasant job.

 A sack at the base of the tail must be removed in one piece to avoid contaminating the meat. The technical name is Poop Sack. Dwayne, the father, and a seasoned farmer is satisfied with the poop sack removal and directs his son, Dale to remove the crop located at the top of the carcass. The crop that grinds the turkey's food sits in the neck cavity where we sometimes cram extra stuffing. Dale again turns his attention to the bottom of the turkey. A few more pulls and yanks and out comes intestines, a gizzard, lungs, heart, and liver. I am thinking, broth for the gravy. Well, everything except the intestines.

It is time to kill the next three birds. This is the part that worries me. I have loved animals all my life. I am a spiritual woman that respects all life forms. I cannot stand to see anything, even an insect suffer. Yet here I stand on a Saturday morning prepared to witness a beautiful brown turkey’s life terminated for the sole purpose of feeding my family in a few days.

Before you start to judge these folks, let me explain how Dwayne found a nest of wild turkey eggs in our pasture last summer and did his best to incubate them and turn them back in the wild. His efforts did not succeed and most of the eggs didn’t hatch or the chicks were too weak to survive. But the point is he tried. He adores his Shepherd, Toby, volunteers at the local cancer center, participates in community fundraisers, always has several grandchildren and their friends running around on the farm, and has been teaching us city folks the fine art of country living.

Dwayne walks into the turkey pen and grabs the first bird within reach. His dark brown feathers  glimmer with a green shine. The bird is surprised and silent as he is dragged to the chopping block to meet his maker.

“He’s a beautiful bird,” my husband notes.

“Yeah, he’s a good one,” Dwayne replies. Dwayne believes you get a better turkey if you let the blood bleed out before removing the head. He holds a knife in his hand and the bird's neck in the other and before I know it he sticks the blade into the bird’s neck. Again, not a noise from the bird. The turkey looks directly at me with his black eye. I feel guilty and wonders if he is asking, why are you doing this to me? Dwayne stabs again and dark red blood spurts from an artery and splashes on the white snow under the bird’s feet.  The turkey stumbles backward as life ebbs away. He sits on the ground going into shock. Soon he cannot sit up and falls over. Wings and legs continue to flop.                                         

He’s dead,” the ten-year-old grandson says. I secretly say a prayer thanking the bird for his sacrifice.

“He’s not dead yet,” Dwayne cautions. “Keep away or he’ll splatter you with blood when he goes to bouncing around." When the bird is motionless and the snow covered in blood, Dwayne picks up the body and with one to two whacks, the head is severed.

 My husband leans close to my ear. “Pretty graphic.” I look at him and turn away, grateful I did not have any breakfast.

Inside the garage, a vessel that appears to be a deep fryer attached to a propane tank is boiling water. Each bird is held by the feet and dunked in the water to immerse the entire carcass. Chad, Dwayne's other son is experienced at this task. "Three to four dips is all you need or you burn the skin." The steaming bird is ready for plucking.

The plucking table is surrounded by four people and each pair work one bird. Joe rolls up his sleeves and jumps in. “It’s not that difficult,” he says over his shoulder. You should try.” The room smells like feathers and humidity. I am wearing my one and only winter jacket and do not want it covered in wet feathers.

“No thanks, I’ll document the event,” I tell him. Remember, this is educational.”

One of Dwayne's grandsons turns around to ask me, “Do you kill your chickens?” He is speaking of my sweet laying hens.

“Well,” I reply, “Hell hasn’t frozen over so no, I don’t kill and eat my chickens. They have a face and a name and are given a proper burial in my backyard at the end of their days.” The farmers laugh out loud. They are often amused at my city girl outbursts.

 In short time all that is left is the tail feathers. Wings are trimmed and the bird is passed on to remove the entrails. The cycle continues until the birds are washed, bag, weighed and labeled.

I wander outside and three greenish, blood covered turkey heads lay on the ground near the chopping block. This bothers me. Of all days to snow it was today, bringing to light what is really going on here. The words of a farmer I met last summer at the Baker Creek Seed Festival ring out in my head. He said, “People need to know where their food comes from. It sure don’t come from a grocery store. You gotta know your food’s history.”

I know the history of these birds. It was a hot June night when I first saw them, they were light brown, still with some yellow down feathers, about three to four inches tall. They grew up on this neighborhood farm with a kind man, who raised them with wholesome feed, didn’t shoot them up with antibiotics and hormones so their breasts would get so big they'd fall over. He gave them a good home and a good life. Now it was the end of their lives and they would go on to sustain ours.

I wonder what other city folks would have taken away from this experience. Gratitude? Fear?  Shock? Perhaps a new respect for life and our food supply?  Would they become vegetarians?  When Saturday Night Lives comes on that evening and they show a celebrity hugging a brown turkey, Joe and I squirm and groan a little, bringing to mind the beginning of our day. Soon I will prepare my bird as I always have, say a blessing over the food, but this year will be different. I will remember the cycle of life and how all beings have something to contribute to life.

Do You Really Want to Know?

A few months ago I attended the national conference of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics in Chicago. Always interested in our food supply, I sat in on a panel of experts that are responsible for insuring our food products are safe. 

You know that feeling that you can un-see what you've seen? You can't unlearn what you know. Yeah, it's like that.

For the next hour I learned about the horrific things that are found in our foods. This occurs on a regular basis whether we know it or not.  These governmental watchdogs try to put a stop to it, but the skeptic in me wondered what gets past the pros? This particular session focused on our seafood supply. Even now I shudder to think about the "near misses" I've had when trying to eat. So far it hasn't killed me.

But I keep thinking, you never know.

Or can you? When I got back I signed up for the Food Safety and Inspection Service produced by the United States Department of Agriculture Food Safety and Inspection Service. That's a mouthful, but this site provides regular emails that alert me to recalls and unsafe foods before it hits mass media.  I figure it's my duty as a health professional to protect my family and my community, and trust me, if I thought it was a critical issue, I would be sounding the alarm. 

A lot of it has to do with undeclared allergens or foreign suppliers failing to complete inspections. Our panel of experts said a lot of times it's about passing off an expensive fish fillet for a cheap ones. Sometime the buyers can't even tell and I'm sure consumers can't. I wonder if we ever really know what we are getting.

Today's recall notice: 

Washington, March 1, 2018 - Sensenig Turkey Farm LLC, a Lititz, Pa. establishment, is recalling approximately 1,925 pounds of turkey sausage products due to misbranding and undeclared allergens, the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Food Safety and Inspection Service (FSIS) announced today. The products contain wheat and soy, known allergens, which are not declared on the product label. The raw breakfast turkey sausage items were produced on various dates from Sept. 25, 2017 to Feb 26, 2018. 

Well, first of all I'm wondering why this food is so old? It was made in September? Strike one. Next, I want to know why there is wheat and soy in a meat product? How much grain can go into sausage before it has to be labeled as something other than meat? Strike two. And strike three, it is mislabeled and I'm not getting what I think I am paying for. I hate that.

Here is the link in case you want to stay up nights wondering when you're luck is going to run out with the next mouthful of food:  https://public.govdelivery.com/accounts/USFSIS/subscriber/new 

 All kidding aside, we live in a country that for the most part, provides a safe environment for consumers. While others struggle to find clean water each and every day, we walk to the nearest faucet for ours. We have access to organic foods if we so desire. Or like me, and many others, we dig up our back yards, shun herbicides and pesticides, and harvest foods knowing exactly where they come from. No middle man, except Mother Nature. 

  

Adapt or Die

It is mid-January in Arizona and I have just walked into the kitchen with a handful of tomatoes. That's right, tomatoes. Some will have to ripen indoors, but still, I have fresh tomatoes. Never in all my life has this happened. There was no die-back of the vines; no cold weather to tell the tomato plants another season had passed. There was no fall, there has been no winter. And in two weeks, my new tomato seedlings go into the ground for spring planting. Nothing like jumping from summer to spring.

Returning from my mountain cabin yesterday, I was dealing with a nosebleed. For the lack of rainfall, it is so dry in the mountains that by the third night I wake with a nosebleed, gagging from the dry air. Morning on the deck shows no signs of frost. It is too warm and there is no dew.

On the drive back I tune to a local radio station. The unhappy truth is that scientists have determined this is the longest stretch of drought in Arizona in nearly 700 years. I calculate that the last time this happened was just about the time that the Anasazi Indians disappeared from my state. And who could have blamed them? I think I'm having a rough time adapting? I'm guessing there were no grocery stores to run to when the rains didn't come. The Indians left to survive.

From our farm in Wisconsin, we get regular reports from our tenant, John. Weeks stretched on with temperatures below the zero mark on the thermometer. He talks of ice and cold but little snow. Apparently, these Wisconsin residents love to play in the snow but Mother Nature will not accommodate. Then the rains come. He sends us a picture of the farm across the road that looks like a lake. I wouldn't want to be the one to try to plant that field anytime soon and thank God I sit on higher ground.

Anyone in denial of climate change is clearly out of the loop. Climate change is no stranger to this planet, but during the last serious altercation in 1816, there were not as many hungry people on the planet. Still, there was untold suffering when crops failed.  The Year Without a Summer is a book worth the read if you want a first-hand account of what we may have to face. But instead of just one summer, it could be the rest of our lives.


 If one is not connected to the planet, unlike garden-types like me, it is easy to miss the subtle changes. But the big changes, such as entire glaciers melting before our very eyes and animals staved for nourishment, yeah, those are hard to ignore. Greed and power will dictate how we will face our changing climate. This saddens me but I take heart in knowing I can adapt by altering my planting schedule and finding heartier plant varieties to feed my family.  I stress over limited water in Arizona and too much water in Wisconsin; hotter temperatures in Arizona and cooler temperatures in Wisconsin. Nothing seems right and I'm starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland when she is tumbling down the rabbit hole. "What if I should fall right through the center of the earth...oh, and come out the other side where people walk upside down?"

Adapt, Alice. We all have to adapt.

We Bought An Old Farmhouse

It is the first day on our new farm. Actually, it is an old farm originally subdivided in the early 1800s. The farm house was built in 1900 and this will be my first night in a home that has lovingly provided shelter for many hard working farmers. I am not sure how it will take to having an urban farm girl under its roof.

This new adventure in my life is dedicated to all of you with an aching heart to follow your passion. Young or old, it is never too late. Hold the dream close, think about it often, and there will come a time when it is your reality. Destiny brought two people together that longed for farm living since they were small children. Our new journey awaits us.

We arrive eight minutes past my projected ETA for a trip that has brought me 1500 miles across the country.  When we left Arizona it was just under 110 degrees F. When we arrive in Wisconsin, it is in the mid-70s. After three days of driving and pulling a U-Haul trailer, we are anxious to see our first sunset.

"This road doesn't look right," I complain turning down another country road.  "But the sign says McMillen, that's our street."
 Joe continues to argue with me."Google Maps says we're on the right road."  It has been many hours of driving and my bladder longs to try out the plumbing in my old farm house.
"I would have been on time if you knew how to follow directions. Why don't we know where we're going?"

Through a series of wrong turns, we end up at the right house. Our first lesson in this new community is that there are two streets named Mcmillen less than half a mile apart.  The wrong one is spelled, McMillin with an "i". Not only that but McMillen turns into McIntyre. I drive by a farm named McCollough. There must have been a lot of Scottish farmers that settled here.

Our little farm house is a white, two story with green trim and a red brick chimney. It sits on seven acres and is surrounded by several "out buildings" and 72 acres of prime farmland. I have seen it in a dream. I know this sounds ridiculous, but over 15 years ago I dreamed I stood in a grassy yard looking at this very home. I never forgot the dream because I was so happy. It was more than happy, I was content and fulfilled. My eyes welled up with tears as the truck came to a stop. I look at the house and it is the same image that has remained in my mind for over a decade. Was I there before or was the dream a premonition of what was to come? All possibilities were on the table, but I was brought back to reality by my very human need to find a toilet.

The house from my dream

I am scared and eye the toilet with great suspicion.  The toilet looks modern as does the remodeled bathroom. Still, I don't know what will happen when I flush. I take my chances standing back in case something goes terribly wrong. There is a loud gurgle, a large gush, but the outcome, should I say outflow, is successful. Something needs tweaking but that is the plumber's problem. Later I would find out that it wasn't until the 1950s that an indoor bathroom was added to this farm house.  To the farmer's credit, he did have boys and girls outhouses to accommodate his family.

"We're going to miss the sunset," Joe whines. We bolt out the door following the farmer's tractor tracks that lead to the back forty acres. Topping the second hill where the last tree stands we are rewarded with a beautiful view and acres of fuzzy soybeans or just beans, as the farmers say. It has been a day of wonder as the solar eclipse took place earlier today. Astrologers believe eclipses bring change. I have a feeling they are right.

I had been advised that the mosquitos attack 20 minutes before sunset and 20 minutes before dawn.  Obviously, they were aware of this rule as the assault begin immediately. I learned that the rumor was true: Wisconsin mosquitoes are larger and slower than those in Arizona. This made them easier to swat and murder with great joy on my part.

On return, I approach the screen door.  "There's a frog on our door," I state, trying to sound calm like this is an everyday occurrence. He is bright green and adorable. "Is it normal for them to cling sideways like that?" Our Sonoran desert toads do not climb things.  They lay in my garden and snuggle in the mud. Joe does not answer me. His mind is somewhere else and I have grown accustomed to this behavior.

I turn on the faucet to wash my hands. "There isn't any water pressure," I state again, but this time with more anxiety in my voice.  "And no hot water. Didn't you turn on the pump in the barn?"  The well that supplies our little farm has a pump switch in the old dairy barn out back. It is dark and the first time Joe went out there something or someone was not happy at being disturbed. Racoon? Badger? Possum? Wild, rabid farm dog? There are so many choices.

"I can check in the morning but I really don't want to go out there now."

I can't blame him.  Sadly, my hot shower is put on hold. The survivalist in me formulates a new plan.

"You can pee outside.  I just won't flush. We have bottled water from the trip. 'Long as I can make coffee in the morning, we'll be fine." 

Time for sleep. I try to make my "nest" but there are cobwebs, live and dead bugs and spiders everywhere. I hand him a flyswatter.  "Kill everything that moves," I command. So much for live and let live. "And close the bedroom door in case someone wants in. And leave a light on so I can see them coming." My demands have been made. 

Our furniture if you can call it that, is all portable and must be stored in the basement when we leave. It is our hope that we can rent the farm house until our return next summer. For now, we must make a few cosmetic changes and prepare for new occupants. My bed is a twin mattress and a metal trundle frame brought from our cabin. His bed is a futon pad that sits on the floor. This will be home sweet home for the next few weeks.

Things are always better in the daylight. Joe discovers he really didn't turn on the well pump yesterday. He flipped a switch belonging an old light that didn't even exist anymore. Wires and cords wander everywhere from generations of remodeling. The old is never removed, evident by many farms with collapsed out buildings.

My house will be filled with contractors for the next week. The first new visitor is our electrician, Jody and his assistant, Rob. Like all Wisconsin folks, he is so nice. They actually have a name for this behavior, "Wisconsin Nice." Clean air and happy people. It is nice. My peace is short-lived.  I make my way down to the stone basement. Halfway down the stairs I stop and call out, "Joe! Can you come get this dead mouse?" I can't be sure but it looks like he/she has not been there long. Again, I am ignored.  I leave the mouse and back out of the basement.

Old wiring and light fixtures that were replaced.

Later I hear Jody call out to Rob. "Can you come down here and get this snake?" I make eye contact with Rob trying to keep a poker face. "He hates snakes," he explains. I can feel my skin getting thicker. Spiders, dead mice and now a snake.  I may be getting used to this lifestyle but I am not happy about it. No one answers Jody's call. I take pity.

"What kind is it?" I call down, thinking of my friendly rattlesnakes at home in Arizona. I had relocated one last summer, sunning himself on my cabin porch.  I grab a plastic tub and meet Rob in the basement. Jody stands in a corner. I note the dead mouse is only a few feet from the snake. The little, mottled snake is shoveled into the tub and I carry him to daylight.

I must familiarize myself with this new environment. They say there are no dangerous predators in this land. I approach my locksmith, Brandt. "Do you know what this is?" He looks in the tub.  How would I have known that he was a snake afficionado?

"Oh sure, that's called a milk snake, member of the king family, they are constrictors, harmless.  Farmers thought they would milk the cows." I was right, the mouse was a fresh kill and IJody had interrupted the snake's lunch. But how and why was he in my basement?

Before the day is over Jody discovers one of our supporting walls is weakening in our stone basement. "You can actually move the stones," he tells Joe. What else would I expect after 117 years? This explains why the kitchen floor tilts several inches toward the back deck and the refrigerator door closes automatically. 

"Tomorrow the basement contractor comes," Joe tells me. I send out positive thoughts that this is not a serious issue. 

When I wake on my second day I take my coffee outside and sit on the front porch. Around me, the world comes to life. I hear bird calls that are unfamiliar. Down the street, Moose the burro, is singing his morning hee-haw. Dairy cows bellow in the distance and somewhere a train whistle blows. The rumble of a tractor announces its passage as farmers race to collect and bale alfalfa. Trees that have stood for more than a hundred years rustle in the breeze. Our plan to rent this house, build, and live in a new one is on the verge of change. I wander to the back where Joe is standing. "I feel like I'm waking up in a park," I say. 

My Victorian style porch

"I know, if we build on a new plot we won't have these trees."

"And this house has such-- character," I add. Despite yesterday's issues I still feel good energy from this house. "Maybe we can work out the kinks, add our own style." Neither one of us commits either way.

When the realtor calls on the third morning to see how we are doing, I meet his question with honesty and sarcasm, my usual style. "Well, the first day there was the dead rodent and the live snake in the basement and we found a crumbling foundation wall so I wanted to leave." Pete is the epitome of Wisconsin Nice. There is a long pause on the other end and I worry he is feeling guilty for selling us this land. I continue. "But then we killed all the spiders and wasps, Joe figured out how to turn on the well pump so we have running water and I can shower. And then there are these beautiful trees. So now I think I want to stay. But it's early in the morning.  I'll let you know how the third day goes."  I hand the phone to Joe and prepare to meet another day.

When I was in nursing school the instructors warned us about the challenges we would face over the next two years.  They had a special mantra, "Every day, a new beginning, many times." Stepping outside, I repeat the familiar mantra out-loud knowing I can get through this adventure and may even come to enjoy it.

Next: Exploration

Children and Gardens, How Do They Grow?

It is that time of the year that lingers between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Fall comes late to the Southwest and the leaves are just beginning to turn brown and fall off the trees.  It is predicted to be the first freeze of the year which means I will have to pick all my vegetables and fruit tonight or risk losing them to the frost.  Other plants will need to be covered to protect tender leaves.  After a fast writing tour in Southern Arizona I am scrambling to catch up with my life when the phone rings.  It is my youngest adult child, my son, requesting my precious time.

“Are you sure you can’t come with me to look at the truck? I need moral support.”  I sigh, but not so loud as to let him hear me.  My work as a writer allows me more flexibility than his father who is boxed in a traditional job.

“OK, but you’re gonna owe me,” I reply. “I need help with the gardens. I have pumpkins and squash to bring in; beans, peppers and corn to pick; the new lime tree needs to be protected, and I have to put sheets over all the vegetables.” Negotiations complete, I tell him to pick me up in thirty minutes.  Pulling out of the driveway I note the time at 12:21 pm.

This is the first new vehicle for this young man.  His previous car, a hand-me-down from his Nana, is terminal.  The white, GMC Jimmy, has served him well for many years.  A decade ago he used it to take his Nana to the grocer, and patiently wait for her to pick out just the right tomato paste while she showed off her handsome grandson to the cashiers.  Her spirit clings to the Jimmy and there is a certain sadness to selling an old car, yet it is time to take the next step.

We find the shiny, silver pick-up he has been eyeing positioned in front of the dealership.  It is used, in good condition, and has earned an acceptable amount of miles. Like all of us, this truck shows the marks of life: a stain on the upholstery, tiny scratches by the door, the faint hint of an odor that lingers in the cab. 

Each of us circle the vehicle like a pair of sharks.  I am looking for all the things I have been surprised with when I have made a vehicle purchase in the past.  He has a look of longing on his face.  I have seen this look before with other men wandering through car shows.  The men age, their hair grays, but the look never changes.  The desire and admiration for polished metal and roaring engines remains forever, and I see my son is in love.

On the test drive we push every button we can find to make sure it does what it is designed to do.  He floors the pedal down an empty street and suddenly he has wings!  In a parking lot he switches to four-wheel drive, and I envision him at the family cabin meandering down snowy roads.

Back at the dealership we sit down to level the playing field.  The truck needs to be detailed and taken to a mechanic for a pre-purchase inspection. I ask to see the dealership’s license and the owner complies.  We run a check on the VIN number, discuss interest rates and credit records. Signatures are exchanged with a small cash deposit, and I am assured my son gets his money back if this pretty truck sours into a lemon.

He drives me home and the clock reads 3:30 pm. The sun is low in the sky and the air is already chilled.  My desert bones tell me it will definitely freeze tonight. We head out to the back field and he moves my heavy pumpkins to the porch while I pull beans for drying.  The vegetables that can survive the frost will still need to be nurtured and protected and I race to beat the fading light.  It is quiet for a while as the shadows elongate and then he speaks.

“You know, I don’t know how I would do this stuff without your help.”  I feel my heart slide up to catch in my throat.  My firefighter son that runs toward burning buildings still needs his Mom! I understand what he is says, vaguely remembering feeling the same way about my own parents and how it would be impossible for me to function without them.

“It’s generational,” I reply. “Nana and Grandpa taught me what I needed to know.  You pay attention to the details and do your homework. Then throw in some hard-won life lessons and you figure it out. Someday you will do the same with your children.”

“But what about people like Josh.”  Josh, a childhood friend, has come up the hard way.  He is a self-made man, and has been since his early teen years.  Everything he has learned has been through his own efforts. Joseph continues, “His parents always needed him more than he needed his parents.”

“You’re right,” I said.  “Josh is an old soul. He has always known what to do and how to do it right.  And now he has broken the cycle.  He understands what it takes to be a good parent and will lead his children forward the same way Dad and I have guided you and your sisters.”

He continues to care for my vegetables, deep in thought, undoubtedly about his new truck. Holding a basket full of the fruits of my labor, I watch him from across the yard and recall a comment from a friend with two wonderful sons of her own.

“I don’t get it,” I had said to Margie.  “We were young parents with no experience.  How did we manage to produce three adult children that respect their bodies and minds, assume their own responsibility, love each other, and are as beautiful inside as out?  Hell, I had no idea what I was doing.”

“It’s an investment,” she replies. “You put in the time when they are young and vulnerable and it pays off later.”  I had a “Duh” moment. Why had I not seen this earlier?  She was completely right.  I thought about all the times we had struggled to make it to parent-teacher conferences, holiday recitals, dance classes, drum lessons, soccer games, and heal broken hearts.  We made sure they had the right friends, respected animals, treated the less fortunate with kindness, marveled at nature, learned from history, acknowledged authority, and questioned authority. Instinctively, we spent every ounce of energy protecting and nurturing all three of them, and routinely reminded them they needed to the same for each other. Now, nestled in the autumn of my life, I am amazed we had the energy to get through each daily challenge.

Back in my real world the sun is down, and another day has passed. My baskets of vegetables from the season’s harvest are lined up in the kitchen.  Because I have invested the time to take care of my gardens, the vegetables will take care of me later.

 I am hoping my kids will too.

How to Adopt a Vegetable

For the first time in my life I am making my own cornmeal. I can't begin to tell you how fascinating and comforting it is to see the yellowish-red cornmeal collect in my mixing bowl. It has been several months from planting to harvest to processing to baking. My husband and I have delighted in every step. It is fairly unusual behavior for a couple of city folks, acting out as urban farmers.  But don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Out in the Grain Garden as we call it, I peel open a full, dried ear of corn and show it to my husband, our first attempt growing corn to make flour.

   "It's beautiful!" he exclaims, examining the dried corn still clinging to the cob. The kernels are deep gold, tipped in a maroon red. It is a variety named Red Floriani, and is coveted as a premium corn for grinding into flour or making polenta. But this corn has made it clear it does not like growing in our desert.  It has taken a lot of pampering to get the ears we have collected.  Contrary to this the Blue Hopi desert corn, did very well in its small plot across the yard.

   "Well, it was an experiment," I reply.  "At least now we know which variety will grow best in this heat." Secretly I look at the pile of dried corn and wonder how much we have actually produced.  I am thinking in terms of quarts instead of pounds.  "If we were pilgrims, we'd be facing a harsh, hungry winter," I continue. He chuckles and agrees, and then adds that we are fortunate that scenario is not playing out today.

It may not be playing out like that today on my little U.S.A. urban farm, but somewhere it unfolds.

I say nothing but I am thinking of families in other countries that do not know how they will get through the next season or even the next meal. In my mind I recall this week's news and see children running through the streets as bombs explode nearby.  I wondered where their family was, if  one even existed. I remember "The Lost Boys," one of which works near my home at the neighborhood grocer. What does he think of our society and land of plenty? Are we a fortunate society or just ungrateful?
 
Thanksgiving is three days away.  Today I take my meager collection of reddish cornmeal and make a large pan of cornbread.  This will evolve to my famous cornbread dressing which my son claims he cannot survive without during the holiday season. At least that's what he tells me. Again, I think of the irony.

I have this notion that I want everyone to grow something edible at least once in their life.  I want them to relate to the little plant that begins from a tiny seed programmed with all the DNA it needs to produce the identical plant for generations. I want them to feel the excitement of seeing a flower blossom and fruit; how water, dirt and sunshine create food in partnership with this living thing. Then I want them to delight in the taste of food harvested and prepared in minutes. Finally, I want them to collect those seeds and save them for the next planting season. And while all these little miracles are happening before their very eyes, I want them to appreciate the journey.

In between Christmas and New Years we will be planting our winter wheat.  In the meantime the Grain Garden will be cleared of the corn, beans and pumpkins.  The soil will be turned, possibly seeded with a cover crop, and the cycle will start all over again. We're hoping Mother Nature will be in a good mood and will work her magic once again.

If we could only convince her to harvest, thrash, and process the wheat, it would be a more-than-perfect world. However, if I have convinced you to adopt a vegetable, then I am equally delighted. May your garden, table and belly always be full. And please pray the same for the rest of the world.
 

When a Home is Not a House

When my mother died several years ago I was given the option of buying my brother out for his half of Mom's home.  He was more than ready to let it go, but I clung to it like a life-preserver, for that's what it was: a building filled with memories that would keep my grief manageable in the years that followed. I rented the home to a neighborhood family that supported my mother after Dad died.  Steve had provided her handyman needs and he was a man that she trusted. This was no small accomplishment in dealing with a Sicilian grandmother.

Today Steve's granddaughter, a child with diabetes, lives down the street in Mom's little brick house. It is a comfort to the families that they are so close together and can be available to help each other as needed. That is the definition of community and family rolled into one.

From the early weeks after my mother's death I was badgered by realtors and investors wanting to buy my mother's home. I pictured them stalking the obituaries. At that time I was angry and bitter and replied with aggressive, ugly letters that accused them of being piranhas. In time, my anger faded and I came to recognize the trash envelopes in my mail containing the annoying solicitations. Usually they were dumped in the outside trash before they could contaminate my home. I continued to find them filled with false promises to people that believed they would be given a fair price for a home they could no longer afford to keep. In my eyes these so-called investors were stealing dreams; in their eyes they saw dollar signs. That is until Scott came along.

Several days ago I received yet another solicitation. I am not sure even now why I bothered to open it. Inside was the usual promise of money magically manifesting when my home was taken, but down in the right corner was a photograph of a young man in a suit and tie and I was immediately taken by him. He had a kind, sincere face and a future of promise was written all over his smile. I knew then it was my duty as an Elder to educate Scott about life when several decades have passed and lessons lay at your feet like a pile of presents.  Likely I will never know this young man, but I have placed a lot of faith in his ability to make this world, my community, a better place.  This is the letter I wrote to Scott, the realtor: 

Dear Scott,

For the umpteenth-millionth time I got another solicitation for the sale of my home. Today it was your letter.  Please take a moment to read what I have to say.  I like your picture and you look like a nice guy with a promising future. I want to share some wisdom. This makes you special!  You do not want to know about some of the replies I have made in the past to these kinds of letters.

I know you want to buy my home. It is located in a “hot” area. Your letter promises to close fast, eliminate stress, and with this I get an unconditional cash offer.  Oh, and my home will sell for a "Premium". 

I also know that investors prey on people that are stuck with a home tying up precious cash. Maybe a relative left it to them and they can’t pay the taxes; maybe it holds painful memories. It could be run down and they don’t want to bother fixing it.  All they want to do is get rid of the house. Then there are people like me.

We call our home on Vista Drive the Alamo. That means it is the last place I will retreat when I can no longer care for my farm. It will be a small home where I can still have my hens, my small garden, and my irrigation. It is the home where I started my life.

How would you ever know that home was built for me sixty years ago? It was in the county then. My mother was seven months pregnant when she was nailing the shingles on the roof.  My father built his house paycheck to paycheck, and it was paid for when they moved in with their teenage son and their new baby girl.  Until I got married, I did not know what a mortgage was.

You would not know that my first grade birthday party was held in that very carport. That the mulberry tree in the house east to us was also our property, and I could scale it like a monkey.  I cried in that tree when I was mad at the world. We delivered eight Dalmatian puppies in that storage room. My sixteenth birthday party was hosted in the dining room. My parents and their friends got drunk and put together my swing set on Christmas Eve in the living room. One day, hiding in the back bedroom, my older brother and I scanned the personal ads in the newspapers looking for his future girlfriend. The one I picked became his wife and they were married over thirty years until he died last spring. And I watched tears run down my ninety-year-old mother’s face as she sat in her kitchen watching me take her clothes out the door to the group home where she would die five months later. You see I am the only surviving member of the family that lived in that wonderful, old home.

                               The yellow brick house that grew into a home.


The family that rents this home is the daughter of the man that helped care for my mother after my father died. Their child is diabetic and they want to be close to their each other.  I am happy to rent my home at a fair price to return the service they provided for my family.

You are playing the numbers game.  But for people like me and my family, you will need a different approach.  Put a few extra sentences in your letter addressing the other side, those of us that will find it difficult to let go of the memories attached to not a building, but a home. There will be people like me that will see your approach as different, special, and you will earn their consideration. 

Good luck to you Scott.  I hope you remember to make this world a better place. I am putting a lot of trust in your generation. I see a lot of promise, even in those younger than you. There is a reason I am picking on you and I’m not sure why that is. I just feel like you are the guy that is going to make a difference in your profession.  Don’t let me down.

Josephine DeFalco