Call for SCRANCH Interns

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Soon, my isolated farm world will be turned on its ass with intense travel and giant ruby milestones – a wedding, a reunion and a week-long comedy fundraiser to run. But before landing in Colorado and California, a request:  

Call for SCRANCH Interns! I need some help and most importantly, I need a witness and temporary sidekick. 

Duties:

• Field Work: help harvest, maintain garden and assist with Farmers Market
• Kitchen Work: assist in using harvested produce and herbs when cooking
• Reporting: document the experience – writing, photos, video, music and yes, social media. Did I mention video?  

What to expect: hard work, unpredictable weather and a unique view of an expansive hidden America where the food industry starts. There will likely be pie.

Considerations:

• Required 4-6 days in August – October.
• Uniform not required but khaki is nice.
• Can cover 1/2 airfare, lodging, transportation and most meals.

Curious? Here's a post from last summer's intern. 

Taters in bloom!

Interested parties shoot me an email (clizbiz@gmail.com) or contact me via Facebook. 

Stubborn Realities

Orphan sprouts!

I'm the decider. This time of year, I must thin the plants. My maternal instinct pains me to waste even a single plant baby so I end up collecting them all in cups filled half with water. They line my kitchen counter, which is already tiny.

First, I try to replant them in a deep hole with a solid drink of water and wishes of luck on life anew. Or, I bring some to the Market to sell fresh - mostly Lemon basil, sage, cilantro and parsley right now. Finally, I strive to use them in cooking. Tonight, I baked a sweet potato and covered it in sea salt and chopped parsley. Then, I sauteed some garlic (from the store, mine's not ready yet) in olive oil with onion slivers, apple chunks and cubes of local sausage. At the last, I added scissored bits of garlic scapes.

Garlic scapes and parsley

Still, the act of choosing who will live and who faces an uncertain future feels slightly God-like. I am still not comfortable with the concept but have grown used to the power and the idea that's it's another teensy version of what real farmers (and ranchers, especially) must face. Culling the herd, as it were, so everyone has enough room to thrive and reach full potential, is a necessary evil.

The wide open skies of this region drive home this point. My mind has room to roam here, to play within itself, wander around and open new doors. There is surely something to the need for head space, else why would so many suburban home layouts include vaulted ceilings?

Through my windshield on the way to 'town'

***
At my usual running spot the other day, I chatted with a farm worker I usually see there. He was high up in his semi cab and delivered a warning: "If you see a red flag behind me, on the edge of the road, that means we're spraying for bugs. Pesticide," he said, dragging on his cigarette. "I'd find another spot to run that day, if I were you."



Sigh.

***

Two steps forward, one step back: A pal of mine runs a local farm here with her hubby and four kids. This year, they managed to get their Romaine lettuce into the local grocery chain store, Leever's. I was excited to purchase a head (before mine came in) knowing it had been grown just down the highway. I suggested to the cashier that they put a small sign up labeling the lettuce as "Locally Grown" and name the farm. He was baffled by this concept, no matter how many ways I tried to explain it.

"But all our produce is local."

"What? No! Most of it is from California and Mexico. I think people would prefer it if their produce didn't have to travel so far."

"I don't understand what you are talking about."

I tried again and his eyes glazed over. I left, highly frustrated, with him saying to me apathetically, "Sorry I ignored you."

The audacious heads

When I urged my pal to ask the manager to label it "Local", she had already done so and met the same resistance. "Yeah, I tried that. He said, 'I don't think people care about that. If anything, they would prefer their produce come from some other place.' Seems backwards but in his mind, there are no benefits in doing that."

It is hard to fathom this ancient mentality, especially in a grocery store literally surrounded by fields of wheat, corn, potatoes, soybeans, canola, pinto/navy beans and barley. You'd think being so close to the beginning of the food industry would bring insight to those selling it but alas, no. Perhaps I'd have to survive a winter here to grasp the persistent belief that only produce from warmer climates will do. With the price of gas, you'd think that idea would get tossed out at first chance.

Local potatoes in bloom

***

Bemusement. Finally, I've settled on a description for the look that I sometimes get here. So often, people's faces contain a notable mix of amusement and confusion when talking to me. Occasionally, it goes beyond that.

At a family funeral last week, my cousin (part of a hugely successful family farm operation) got a gander at my business card, read my made-up title: "Blogger/Farmer" and laughed a bit too hard. "Farmer?!? Oh, that's a GOOD one!" With watering eyes, he clutched his belly, looked at the card, then at me, then snorted another hearty guffaw.

Tractor Talk: The beau, Walter and Cousin Carol

Meanwhile, my cousin, Walter, age 94, likes to poke fun. "You still here?" he often says upon greeting me, and then chuckles to himself. I gracefully resist the urge to ask him the same.

My Cherry Belle radish haul

A few days ago, Brent and Wayne stopped in the lane on their way to hauling grain. Both had watched me carrying a wheelbarrow's worth of composted dirt toward the garden. By my estimations, it was 85 degrees with 1,000% humidity. They pulled up next to me, shaking their heads in wonder. I put down the 'barrow and slumped my head on the passenger side door jam, at the burly arm of Brent. "Wanna switch jobs?" I said, panting.

"Noooooope!" said Wayne.

"Not a chance," said Brent.

"Oh, that's right. You guys are off to make real money."

"Um, well…" said Brent.

"Oh, well, not exactly," said Wayne. Corn prices had been painfully low as of late.

"At last you guys got air conditioning," I offered.

"No air conditioning," said Wayne, "it's broke."

We chatted a bit more about the grueling heat and the relentless cruelty of bugs - mosquitoes, specifically. Then, they drove off, happy at least not to be me, doing everything by hand with no help, no spray and no machines. Why? they must wonder. What is the point? Everyone has a garden here but nobody - and I mean, NOBODY - would think of not using pesticides or herbicides on their plants. When the skies are filled with crop dusters (I can hear them buzzing right now overhead) and the roads are loaded with fertilizer tanks, the idea of turning one's back on modern-day 'progress' seems ludicrous.

The organic trenches

My beau often teases me. "Y'know, honey, just a couple squirts of RoundUp'll fix up that garden real quick. Lot easier than hoeing."

"No. No. And, just to be clear, NO!" I say. "You really think I came all this way just to cave in to chemical ease? That sod spot is pure! I'm not going to f**k it up after all this work."

"So if I came out to farm and sprayed it behind your back you would be mad?"

"You are CORRECT," I said, fuming at the idea. I glared at him. He stared back, smiling, and above all, bemused.

CERES: The Goddess Rests With Me

During my first summer here, after lugging every bit of my earthly goods to the shed, I began to sift through a half-lifetime of souvenirs. Opening one cardboard box after another, I came upon a metal street sign, clearly stolen by someone, somewhere, long ago. I knew immediately the sign would hold a place of prominence here on the farm, the irony being too rich to ignore.

In the early 80s at Lakewood High School, I was a member of the sorority, CERES. We were a 'service club' meaning we were supposed to raise funds for those less fortunate than... no, wait, we just raised money for parties, for ourselves. Parties in Big Bear (winter), parties in Newport Beach (summer), parties in Palm Springs (spring)...just parties. We held car washes and bake sales, whatever we could do to keep our dance cards full. The rush period was horrific - entire scenes from "Mean Girls" and "Heathers" verbatim - and I'm certain I was grudgingly admitted based solely on the high desirability of my older brother, Rob, commonly known as "Hot Rob."

Shed living room

Once in, I learned many of the club's traditions - the CERES song ("We are the Ceres girls, red lips and bouncy curls..."), the colors (dark blue and light blue) and by god, we even had our own car honk (long-short-long) which came in handy when convoying to the next party. There were no other sororities at the school and I had never heard of any sorority in a high school, not then and not ever. Other than laughter, silliness and branded souvenirs (t-shirts, sweatshirts, mugs, jewelry, etc.), the club had no real point and I had only the vaguest idea about the club's name. It just never came up.

Fast forward 30+ years and I am standing in a North Dakota shed, my 46-year-old hands hold a sign reading CERES AVE. Only then, do I remember the uncanny significance in my present life: Ceres is the Goddess of Agriculture! (Technically, the Roman name for the Greek goddess, Demeter.) What are the odds?

Early in the 1970s, this sign was acquired by the club and a tradition was born. Starting with Judy Centers in 1971, a passing-the-torch concept continued for 13 years ... until it got to me. At the annual beach house - a tradition planned by all the sophomores and juniors as a 'send-off' to the seniors - a senior girl would select a junior girl (can't recall the criteria), paint her name and graduating year on the back of the Ceres Ave. sign and present it to her in some drawn out ceremony of sisterly love. In the summer of 1983, a lovely girl, Crystal Eble, choose me and I was honored.

1971-1984

A year later, I prepared to select a name and present the sign and was informed that there would be no beach house that year; the young 'uns simply didn't have their act together and the tradition was broken. And so, the Ceres Ave. sign remained with me. Occasionally, I felt some guilt over my possession but I also took great care to display the momento wherever I hung my hat.

In the end, I cannot imagine a more suitable resting place for the Goddess of Agriculture to rest than with a Ceres girl who became a farmer.

And also, I tip my hat to the women whose names now live in my shed:

• Judy Centers - 1971
• Laurie Crawford - 1972
• Teesa Alorn - 1973
• Diane Hess - 1974
• Karen Judd - 1975
• Bonnie Britton - 1976
• Jeri Helwig - 1977
• Patty McGarry - 1978
• Karen Lee - 1978
• Linda Walton - 1979
• Tracy Billingsly - 1980
• Susan Rainey - 1981 (Hot Rob's prom date)
• Michael Ann Arce - 1982
• Crystal Eble - 1983

I'll take good care of it, ladies.  HOOOOONK-honk-HOOOONK!

First Day of Summer

Summer Solstice Evening

When you live in a box, things warm up quickly. Right on time, the heat blasted me awake on the first day of summer. This year, I have taken to wearing only shorts and a sports bra while working on the farm, which sounds much sexier than the reality. 

Still, why be modest when there is nobody around? Time to go native. Whenever I start to use my turn signal - after decades of dutifully doing so - I laugh, knowing that nobody - and I mean NOBODY - is behind me to care enough about which direction I am going.

Things on my mind include the stagnated US hemp industry (thorn in my side), the local Farmers Market (which I now lead), my upcoming Smile Train fundraiser, glyphosate in our blood (active ingredient in RoundUp) and, oh yeah, my garden, my reason for being here.

Not hemp seeds, tomato

This week, I spoke with Rachel at North Dakota Department of Agriculture about obtaining a license to grow hemp. She told me that getting a state license is one thing - and fairly simple - but you have to get approval from the DEA as well, and that is less likely. “There is currently 0% acreage of hemp being grown in the state at this time,” she said, with a sigh of frustration. 

Evidently, you can bring hemp seeds across the border from Canada but only to make oil or other products, not for planting. If you have seeds, you must provide a sterilization certificate to accompany them or you're in hot water.

The minimum amount of acreage for hemp production in North Dakota is 10 acres, quite do-able but still, I have questions:

• How would you harvest? Are there hemp headers out there?
• Who would you sell it to? Do we have industrial hemp production facilities here? 
• How much would a bushel sell for? What is the market rate? 
• I'm told Kentucky farms grow hemp like crazy but I wonder, what do they do with it? 

Bugged Rep. Massie about it on Twitter but got no response. (Also, have a friend in Kentucky who is going to make a call.) He is the lead sponsor of H.R. 525 and S.359, the Industrial Hemp Farming Act of 2013 which would, "amend the Controlled Substances Act to exclude industrial hemp from the definition of marihuana, and for other purposes." 

This would clear the way for the US farmers to finally cut in to some of Canada's billion-dollar hemp industry pie. Money on the table, people!  

***

Had to cancel the Farmers’ Market debut last week due to rain, which we needed. I don’t have any produce yet to sell but baked goods ladies were going to come, plus somebody who makes homemade doggie biscuits. I was just going to play my ukulele and see if anyone had questions. Plus, I'm going to start taking orders for funky homemade ice cream because, well, why not?

Impending disaster

Also, I hired the beau to make me a wooden sandwich board sign. Unfortunately, I agreed to do the lettering which has proven disastrous. The black paint made the cardboard stencils stick to the wood. Brent lent me some brass stencils but in the meantime, I tried big, fat black Sharpies, which unfortunately, have produced similar results. Wish I was talented enough to just do it freehand. 

***

Prep for my annual Smile Train Comedy Improv fundraiser is chugging along. The festival is going to feature 40 performers at four different venues in Denver and Arvada, including the famous Lannie’s Clocktower Cabaret in downtown Denver. Somewhere around this time, I also must attend a very important wedding in Denver and, if possible, my 30-year high school reunion in Long Beach. Great time for the beginning of harvest, no?

I fear it will involve planes, trains and automobiles and my already maxed credit card in various orders.

***

The super sharp Robin Talbott alerted me to the idea of glyphosate testing on Facebook the other day. DUH. Why didn’t I think of this before? 

Sprayer, in action

Glyphosate is an herbicide, the active ingredient in RoundUp. Seems like a no-brainer, except there are few tests available for the human body. How much of it sprayed in the field ends up in our cells? Turns out a test is difficult and expensive to obtain. A recent effort by Moms Across America was made and the results are being debated but I've contributed to this IndieGoGo campaign to get a nationwide testing effort going. 

As for glyphosate's effects on our systems, I do not trust Monsanto with their assurances of safety. They only point to the studies that they themselves commissioned and funded. (The same could be said about the Moms campaign, I suppose.) Color me officially suspicious, but I long for a un-biased third-party long-term study. Y'know, other than the one currently being done on our children...

As a rule, I hate needles but this is one little prick I would welcome.

***

Believe it or not, I am still planting in the garden. I KNOW, but I am feeling older and slower this year! Sometimes, I look at the size of the plot (approx. 50' x 100') and think, "What the hell? How am I supposed to do this by myself?"

However, everything long-term - melons, squash, popcorn - has long been in the ground. Everything going in now is fairly quick - lettuce, radish, spinach, flowers and herbs. 

Sadly, no hemp in the ground yet...SOMEDAY. 

Bugs, Beauty and the Lessons of Now

I met this wee rooster on his fourth day.

At this exact annual moment, I always wonder what I am doing here. Doubt sneaks in to my brain like a thief trying to steal my vision, my resolve and any shreds of sanity laying about. Internal arguments ensue until physical exhaustion, social isolation and relentless bug trauma wear me down into a groove that I now know well.

More fun than the real thing.

Regarding insects, how is it that something so very miniscule can steal all the focus - can suddenly run your entire life? Oh, the invoked terror that comes with the high-tin buzz of one lone mosquito in a tiny RV bedroom! Or the slow realization that a wood tick is crawling somewhere it shouldn’t be, which is everywhere on my person. My now-robotic gesture of pinching, capturing and immediately drowning ticks is my only real form of defense. I once picked off two in the middle of a conference call without breaking my sentences. (I’m up to 5 today but my record is 8 in one day.) And don't even get me started on the gnats - loathsome bastards, every last one.

But when I come out on the other side of this dubious, buggy darkness, my eyes register the stunning beauty of the season.  I am surrounded by endless carpets of budding green fields, made orange every evening around 9:30 p.m. by a falling sun slowly diced even by a flat horizon. And though everyone here proclaims victory over dead dandelions, I find the sunny yellow dots endlessly charming. These prairie images leave me gobsmacked and my crush on North Dakota intensifies. Now, snug in the belly of the Mae Flower, I hear vigorous thunder from Canada.

Green and blue, everywhere.

As for the garden, between intermittent rain, bug swarms and an aching lower back, the planting isn’t happening over night. Like the real farmers around me, I often play the hurry-up-and-wait game, dependent on weather and soil conditions. But instead of an elaborate plan, like in previous years, I am going in relatively plan-less, with more focus on planting long-range crops first. Also, when my seeds were stolen last fall, it was a gut punch I hadn't let myself feel until recently. At the time I rationalized it – balance of the universe and such. “Bad things don’t happen to me that often,” I said bravely, “if this is my slice of Life Shit That Ain’t Fair, then I’ll take it.” I had successfully avoided my white hot rage, I dared think, but in reality, I'd only postponed it.

Just a few weeks ago, standing before a double rack of seeds at Echter's in Arvada, Colorado, I took a deep breath and began to peruse. I was exhausted, a bit hungover and emotionally detached; I just wanted to grab some seeds at random, then go. But the more seed names I recognized from my former stash, the tighter my lips and fists got. Clenching my teeth, the rage eeked out just a bit.

“Assholes,” I hissed. “JUNKIE FUCKERS!”

I had underestimated the emotional whack that loss delivered - it knocked the wind out of my agricultural sails. But I'm working to get it back. I bought a tobacco plant yesterday and the novelty of bringing back dried tobacco for smoking in LA tickles me to no end. Little tricks like this, y'see.

Brent, filling up the garden's water tank

Also, I'm now running the local Farmers Market, which is bizarre. The previous lead, my friend, Victoria, called me up over the winter with a request. "Please, please, PLEASE run it next year! You're much better than policing people than I am." A-hem. It's true that I lack that layer of Midwestern Nice that comes naturally to the locals, and I am not one to shy away from confrontation, but was I really the right person to take over?

Doesn't matter. It's already happening. Thankfully, we've got a Facebook group so communications are easy. I've already met with the Chamber of Commerce dude and we picked a more visible spot for it - no longer in the gorgeous City Park but right along Main Street. I've scheduled a vendor meeting, taken over the bank account and contracted my main squeeze to build me a sandwich board sign reading: "FARMERS MARKET OPEN TODAY" so wheels be turnin'.

I've never done any of this before but why let inexperience that get in the way of a juicy challenge? After all, isn't that why I've come here? To learn?

Ah, yes. Now I remember.....

Back on the Farm

Giant bizarre machinery has returned to my life.

After seven months of gallivanting and two weeks of driving and visiting, I am finally back on the farm. To get here, I survived brutal hail storms three days in a row in two different states, and was pulled over for speeding just 8.4 miles from the farm (only a warning, thank god). I also was blessed with spectacular skies and the warm laughter of many friends along the way.

I love me some menacing clouds.

My Colorado visit was epic. I stopped in Crestone to see Miss Bliss and Nealio and grab me some blessings at the stupa. (Bliss and I did powerful work up there - some wheels be turnin'....)

"Hello, Universe? Um, is this thing on?"

And returning to the familiar folds of Hearthstone, my Colorado co-housing community, was such a boost of love and friendship. It was an amazing stroke of luck that was able to call this place home for nearly two years and my fortune has continued with their willingness to welcome me back again and again.

Hearthstone music night

Adam, Noah and Tracy, jammin' on the porch

Susan, Harriet and Scott, hanging at the Common House

Also, I caught up with the Kirkpatrick clan - Reid, Molly, Ben and Boudreaux - some of my favorite beings in the world. Again, they let me remain in the fold of their lives and I am so, so grateful. Not long after I left Ben and Molly became engaged so congrats to the happy couple!

This guy is happy because he is awesome.

Reid, Ben and Molly at Little Man Ice Cream

Boudreaux Kirkpatrick aka "Mr. Handsome"

Plus, I got to hang with my old pal, Amy, just as she was checking on her new hive - whee! She still calls herself a "newbie" when it comes to beekeeping but she taught me a ton. I am super grateful too all bee folk who help this crucial insect thrive in the face of a serious decrease in their populations.

Free to Bee Me!

While in Denver, I also accomplished a long-held goal: to lead a Listening Workshop. With the encouragement of my friend, Maria, who leads successful workshops of her own dealing with fear around climate change, I made it happen. There were just six attendees - exactly the amount I envisioned - for the 'beta' version of the workshop. Of course, it came together Hearthstone - where else would such an ambitious project begin? It went well enough that I was encouraged, so more to come.

Two of my hosts, Annika and Kiki

It all makes me wonder why I ever left such a beautiful place. Seriously, it seems crazy to me now. Oh wait, that's right, I remember, I left to come here and play organic farmer. Well, I removed the first wood tick from my body today so I guess the season has officially begun.

I've arrived smack in the middle of a planting frenzy. Though the skies are clear, the air is thick with harried stress. With the fields still wet and muddy, farmers face a race with the rain and the pending insurance deadlines. (Certain crops have 'must be planted by' dates or they face a percentage decrease in their pay.)

Brent seeding wheat.

I've cleaned out the shed where a lot of living gets done - music practice, yoga, writing, brainstorming, seed planting and such. Lots of dust rabbits (bigger than bunnies), mouse carcasses and oil stains to deal with but I enjoyed cranking up my 80s and 90s cassettes and settling in. After a long, filthy day, I treated myself to a sunset yoga session followed by a nice cold shower. (No hot water yet, sigh.)

Yogaaaaaaaah!

The garden has been tilled (thanks to Brent) and I've got Glass Gem popcorn planted, plus some onions. I wanted to plant more today but winds are too high (25 mph) and I've got a meeting with the new head of the Chamber of Commerce anyway. Somehow, I've become the new lead for the Cavalier Farmers Market so we're going to make some changes, maybe move it from the park to main street for higher visibility and more customers.

The plot is 50' x 119' (6 of that are garlic rows) which never sounds very impressive when people ask me, "So how many acres do you farm?" (Sheepish answer: "One-tenth of an acre.") However, considering I am doing it all by the hand and hoe of yours truly, it is plenty acreage.

Trust me on this.

Yay For Spring!

''Tis SPRING! 

The fertile season has officially launched - at least on the calendar - and so my thoughts turn to farming, growing and all things SCRANCH.

Truth be told, my brain never really left the farm. As much as I enjoy gallivanting about here in Los Angeles, seeing old friends, gorging on movies and sushi, running on the beach and discussing the brilliant character development on (insert title) TV series, my heart is deeply embedded in the gorgeous black soil of the Red River Valley.

And when my earthly shell ceases to be, could someone bury me deep down in my garden soil? No box, no shroud, just use the frontloader in the barn and compost me direct as a final gift back to the land that has taught me so much. Not sure if this bloggy statement will stand up legally but such are my wishes. Should my survivors be squeamish, I suppose my ashes will work just as well for soil enrichment.

Planting those first seeds 2 years ago.

But I morbidly digress.

Watching NE North Dakota this past winter has, nevertheless, made me grateful for the California sun, even the gritty smog that comes with it. The average North Dakota temperature this past winter (December-February) was 4.3 degrees. On December 16, it was -27 degrees. In fact, I'd heard about a record number of days-below-zero this winter, something like 45 in a row. Crazy, right? All that plus 60-mph winds? For the love of God, what crazy-ass humans are still there this time of year?

Brent, for one. I spoke to him last night and evidently, the 2013-2014 winter was especially brutal. "It was either the second or fourth coldest winter on record, depending on which station you listen to," he said.

In Walhalla, just 16 miles west of the farm, 35 houses are currently without water because the water lines broke. Why? Because they are buried 6-8 feet down and this year, the frost goes down 10-feet deep. That's 10 feet of frozen topsoil, people.

Also, my garlic is still hibernating under a huge snow drift. I had to ask, "How high?"

"'Bout up to m'crotch," Brent explained helpfully. (Brent is 6'4" I believe, so that's a high crotch.)

This bracing reality has cooled my jets. No need to rush back to frozen ground. Anyway, this gives me time to plan crops. Reflecting on lessons learned from the past two summers, I'll make some adjustments. Some crops are getting fired, others, promoted. Here's the pink slip (or reduction) list:

• Green beans - Too much labor, not enough sales and so, too much waste.
• Yellow Crookneck Squash - They became orange gourds much too quickly.
• Carrots - They are harvested so late in the season, they sometimes get wasted, never sold.
• Tomatoes - I love 'em but it's overwhelming. Maybe just four varieties instead of eight? (Last year, I was making giant batches of tomato soup every single day for weeks.) Plus, everyone grows their own so I don't sell much.
• Lettuce - Just one variety instead of four, and not so much. They bolt fast and are heartbreaking to till under.

Meanwhile, some crops are getting an enthusiastic 'Welcome, back!' and maybe, more space:

• Spinach - my favorite crop of all, especially Lavewa and Bourdeaux. I sell it like crazy, it never freezes and I eat tons of it myself.
• Herbs - especially Lemon basil. Dill, cilantro, sage, basil, parsley, chives, oregano, thyme - they are easy to transport and sell
• Watermelons - though I will no longer use saved seeds, easy since they were all stolen. I believe the quality was weaker last year - not as red or sweet.
• Ground Cherries - Delightful, easy to harvest and kids love 'em.
• Peas - only because they are fun to eat in the garden while doing other things.
• Eggplant - I still cannot believe I had such success last year, even planting by seed and fighting potato beetles. Amazing.
• Lemon cucumbers - But only if I can sell then again to the organic co-op. Locals at the market are scared of them - too exotic.
• Lakota Winter Squash - beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Oh, and sentimental.
• Uncle David's Dessert Squash - Super yummy and long-lasting. I am STILL eating them.
• Onions - Like spinach - they always produce, never complain, easy to harvest.
• Popcorn - Not getting a fair chance to succeed and it's my fault. I need an electric fence to zap those fucking raccoons who pillage every year. 

I told Brent I'd be going online to purchase a solar-powered electric fence to battle the varmints and was immediately scolded:

"No, no, NO. Don't be doing that. We've got enough material around here - we can make our own. We got wire, we got chargers, we got everything we need."

"Um, okay, but you realize that 'we' means you, right?"

"Just don't be buying anything off the internet."

And then, just yesterday, I just had to see the headline, "Grow Your Own Tea"…. dang! Now, I want to be a tea farmer. 

***

My favorite seed sources:

Echter's - incredible garden store in Denver. Love picking out packets on my way north.
Landreths' - a 230-year old American company that I adore. Their catalogues are works of art and they get personally involved in your happiness.
Prairie Road Organic Seed - a small, family-owned North Dakota company. I met Theresa, a co-owner at the MOSES conference. I went to her house to buy seeds and she and her husband popped me popcorn from their fields.
Peaceful Valley - wonderful company in Grass Vally, CA - this is where I get my garlic and shallots every year.
Seed Savers Exchange - I've heard about this wonderful nonprofit for years but I have yet to get involved. This is the year I learn more.