Organic farming gets a little more dangerous....

Before I get too far into the events of the day the farm got more dangerous it's about time I introduced some of the characters we have been sharing this experience with over the season. Adam, the main character in this story, is soon to be 27. He comes in on Monday and Tuesday to give us a hand. He worked for the farm last season, so he has insight into the details of cultivating our specific piece of land. On top of that he has an amazing sense of humor and great taste in music. I learned recently that Adam is very stoic and can take a joke, even when the situation doesn't warrant laughter.

The day started off pretty typically. Marisa and Melody (our farm manager and friend) were a little more tired than usual. The clouds hung a little thicker than we're used to, but other than that, a normal morning. We all met in the barn at 7am and divided the harvest duties needed to fill our CSA bags, due to be dropped off that afternoon. Marisa, Adam and I teamed up to harvest the summer squash. It's a task that can take three hours singlehandedly, so it's nice to have the company. Adam and I were working down the same block, lifting runners and peeking under enormous, spiky leaves. We were tediously clipping and collecting every baby patty pan, gentry, magda and yellow zucchini we could find. We were almost an hour into our day, discussing Adam's experiences at previous Gwar concerts and complaining about the endlessness of squash season, when minor tragedy struck!

I saw Adam leap back in a very animated manner. I didn't think anything of it at first glance. I have worked alongside Adam for quite a few harvests and the guy could be the poster child for making unnecessary contact with bull nettle (see our previous post). Originally he had the same perception of the event that I had. I'd like to say that I heard the rattle over his cursing, but I didn't. Adam was about 6ft away from me when we realized that he had just been bit by a rattlesnake! Initially the situation was a little surreal, mostly because Adam wasn't reacting in any way I would have thought. He was still very much alive and wasn't foaming at the mouth even a little bit. I am admittedly no snake bite expert, but I expected more. I sprinted to the barn to grab a bag of ice to hopefully slow the venom. I heard this trick from Crazy Rick down in Costa Rica. He is the only other person I know to have been struck by a deadly snake. I blazed past Melody as I attempted to calmly ask her to google rattlesnake bite on her iPhone. Her reaction to the situation was a little more drastic, as it should have been.

I placed the 15 pound bag of ice on Adam's shin, who was now sitting next to Marisa's and my former residence, an airstream trailer on the edge of the squash row. He was lying down and had on an icepack. Other than sucking venom out of the top of his foot, my snakebite knowledge was exhausted. Adam was very determined to not have any mouth against his dirty foot. He was also very set on not going to the emergency room. This was a problem because Melody had dialed 911 to get a game plan. Instead of a game plan, the operator ordered an ambulance and the only free advice we got was "Get help immediately and stay away from the animal". He didn't want help at all, initially stating that his foot didn't hurt very badly and he wasn't sure the venom even got in. I can't blame him. I hate doctors too, or at least doctor bills. Melody called off the ambulance. Adam now stated that it felt like an anvil got dropped on his foot. Not a good sign. So a compromise was made after some cell phone research confirming that no cheap clinic has anti-venom and without it the effects of the venom will spread up his body as soon as he starts moving again. Melody borrowed our Subaru and shuttled Adam down the road to San Marcos, 20 minutes away.

I jumped at the opportunity to use my McLeod, a tool that looks like a massive hoe on one side and a thick metal rake on the other. Marisa got it for me for my birthday to satisfy my nostalgia of working on trail crew, the only job these things are used for besides fighting wildfires and now...REVENGE. I am firmly against hunting a predator. I feel that it goes against the food chain and the natural order of things to use technology to take the life of something that would otherwise murder me. I, however, have realized two exceptions to my rule: 1. protecting my friends and family and 2. revenge. Like Dwight Schrute says, "Sometimes a farmer has to do what city folk can't." I am a farmer and as much as I wanted to hold up the headless body of that snake so that we could all gather squash with a sense of comfort, I didn't find it. I went back to the barn simultaneously relieved and deflated when I ran into Amilcar. Amilcar is from Guatemala and he doesn't speak much English, or he likes to watch me struggle with my Spanish. I told him what was going down in Spanglish mixed with a lot of sound effects and graphic hand gestures. Over the last 5 months my Espanol has gone from infant to caveman; a milestone, but when I really need to use Spanish, I have trouble pulling it off. Thankfully, I have patient teachers. Imelda, his wife, works in the fields with us, so he took the situation very seriously. He asked me where the snake was and my Spanish wasn't good enough to do anything other than walk the 1/4 mile to the spot and say, "Aqui."

I grabbed my trusty McLeod and Amilcar, being the superhero he is, grabbed a small 2ft stake labeling the ayote (that's Spanish for squash, most of our farm signage is bilingual). We patrolled the block of squash, all 5 rows of it, and the tomatoes and eggplant next door as well. Very carefully we grazed our weapons against the weeds and crops in attempts to flush the snake out. Hunting the hunter. Our dialogue was mostly "mira, mira, ayote, serpiente, serpiente." At one point I tried to use some Spanish vocab on Amilcar. I said "El serpiente es peligroso." Meaning, "The snake is dangerous." However, I accidentally inserted a question mark. "The snake is dangerous?" Amilcar looked at me very concerned as if to say, "What is this gringo doing? Adam is hospitalized, we have been searching for this creature for 45 minutes and he doesn't know it's dangerous?" I realized my mistake, but didn't have the vocabulary to take it back.

While Amilcar and I were calling it quits on the serpent crusade, Melody was catching up on 'The View' and the happenings of last January, according to Time magazine, in the waiting room. The nurses were monitoring the swelling by tracing the creeping bulge coming up Adam's ankle with a sharpie every 30 minutes. They had to make sure that the bag of anti-venom that he was receiving intravenously through an IV was sufficient. Anti-venom is very expensive and dangerous if one receives too much. From my understanding, Adam also received some lectures from the staff at San Marcos Hospital for farming in flip-flops. The lessons I have learned from all this: 1. Rattlesnake bites are a serious deal and no matter how tough you are you should never attempt to walk it off. 2. Ice slows down the venom flow in your blood, however, unless you plan to sit on your butt with a bag of ice on your leg for 3 weeks, you should probably just go to the ER. 3. Don't ever cut into someones leg to suck the venom out. It's gross and doesn't actually work. Never has. 4. Getting bit by a poisonous snake is painful and very expensive and although it's a cool story, it's probably cheaper and easier to go to Thailand for a month.

Adam came back at 2:30 in the afternoon, 6 hours after he had left for the hospital. He was in good spirits when I last talked to him although he did say that it hurt to walk and putting on a shoe was excruciating. When I asked Adam if he was going to wear shoes from now on, he just shook his head sadly and said, "No...I don't think so, it's just too hot."

Miss Mae's Duck Addiction

As a preface to this blog post, I would like to introduce our dog, Maggie Mae. For those of you who aren't acquainted with Maggie, she is our 9 year old border collie, black lab, pomeranian mix. We adopted her about a year and half ago from a rescue organization in Portland called The Pixie Project. If you are looking to adopt a dog or cat in the Portland-Metro area, I highly recommend them. The first month that Maggie lived with us, she spent 95% of her time hiding in a cardboard box in our living room. The other 5% was spent eating and going for walks. Little by little she came out of her shell and we were able to discard the cardboard box as she eventually opted to sleep on some blankets next to our bed. Maggie was a pretty good city dog. She was mindful of cars, got excited about but didn't chase squirrels and was great at running next to a bike without a leash. Maggie was a good city dog, but what we learned after moving to the farm, is that she is an awesome country dog. And a duck addict.

One of my favorite parts of the day happens between 9 and 9:30 in the morning....Duck Time! Letting the ducks out of the duck house is hilarious. They have been cooped up in their house for 12-13 hours and they are ready to be out. As soon as they hear me yell, "Get the ducks, Mae", the quacking starts. Maggie and I make our way into the duck yard and I walk up the ramp to the duck house. At this point, the quacking has become deafening. I yell a loud, "Good Morning" to the ducks and throw open the large, metal door. The stampede begins. It's duck insanity for 30 seconds as they pour out of the duck house. Feathers flying, ducks barreling over each other, ducks flying into the metal guardrail, ducks crash landing on the grass...and then it's quiet again. The ducks settle into their morning routine of chowing on bugs, taking a dip in the pond, waddling about and ruffling their feathers and I can begin the egg hunt. We have approximately 50 ducks and on any given day I will collect between 8 and 35 eggs. Each nesting box is checked by hand, sometimes revealing one egg, sometimes seven eggs and sometimes all I come out with is a handful of duck poop. Ducks are some of the dirtiest creatures I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. More than once, I have seen a duck jump into the feed box, poop, jump back out and then turn around and eat it. Same goes for their watering troughs. Poop doesn't phase ducks one bit. After my morning egg collection and feeding of the ducks is over, I'm done with them for the day, except for occasionally yelling, "Get the ducks", to Maggie and watching her sprint frantically towards the duck yard and then stare, crazy-eyed, through the fence until we call her off or something more exciting, like a cat, walks onto the scene.

Sunset brings another round of duck action. Maggie barrels out ahead of me as I head towards our duck friends. She sprints the fenceline as she waits for me to open the gate. Once the gate is open she runs inside and begins herding the ducks. I go about my business of re-filling the water and food and doing one last egg check. Then, it's Maggie's time to shine. I step out of the duck house and watch as she does her very best to herd the ducks up the ramp so I can close them in for the night. 20% of the time she does it all by herself. The other 80% I am obliged to jump down and assist her by running around, flapping my arms and yelling various, helpful, phrases to entice the ducks to hurry up and get into their house so I can go back to mine. And then they're in! Depending on how quickly and easily they were put up I either slam the lock shut and yell "Lock Down!" or I sing them a little song, much like I used to sing to my chicken, Bernadette. Maggie and I bid the ducks a good night and head for home, already anticipating the fun to be had when we start all over again tomorrow.

The Taste of Tejas (Part 1)

Taste of Tejas quiz:

1. What is queso (other than the Spanish word for cheese)? Be specific.

2. True or false: Over the last decade small businesses have realized just how horrible styrofoam is for the environment and thankfully the product is a thing of the past.

3. True or false: The best Mexican restaurant in town is rarely found under the same roof as a corporate gas station.

4. How far must one travel to get the "Best BBQ in Texas"?

5. How many varieties of tea are commonly found while dining in a restaurant in Texas?

6. What is the most common thing to order for breakfast in Texas, especially while on the go?

7. How many languages must one know in order to order migas in Austin, Texas? Sub-question, What are migas?

8. What can commonly be found in the meat case at Fiesta Mart?
A) A whole, skinned cow head, eyeballs intact
B) Pigs legs with the hooves still attached
C) Foot-long cow tongues
D) All of the above

An ounce of queso has 300 calories. At least the queso found at Mikal's work. Queso is very popular in Texas. If you are reading this from north of the Mason-Dixon line, I should probably tell you that queso is really just nacho cheese, similar to what you would find at the 7-11, only taken much more seriously. I would like to dedicate this blog entry to the experience of dining in central Texas.

Before I get too far into it, I would like to take a step back to the previous entry 'Death, Destruction and Diatomaceous Earth'. I participated in the slaughter and preparation of six ducks a couple months ago. I decided to go with the Beatles 'White Album'. My only logical explanation for this is that it is two discs and de-feathering a single duck takes well over an hour, at least for a first timer. Anyway, back on track to "The Taste of Tejas!"

Styrofoam is a thing of the past, right? I mean, it will be in the landfill and on ocean beaches for well over the next 1.5million years, but no one in their right mind is still using it, right? Fair warning: if you order take-out in Texas, from Chinese to fine dining, expect a styrofoam clamshell style box, usually three-times the size of your meal. What's worse is you can even expect to get styrofoam when you order for here, especially ice tea. It seems odd to me to be in a place that takes so much pride in its landbase, sipping from a styrofoam cup. I'll find myself eating a hamburger under a massive Texas flag, staring at the eye sockets of a longhorn skull looking back at me. The waitress brings me the state beverage. Three cups of tea and six cups of ice, all mixed together with ample amounts of sugar in a 64oz thick, white, styrofoam cup. Sometimes I want to say, "This is the wild west, yo, can't I drink out of a rusted tin can or at least something made out of glass?" Marisa usually has the foresight to bring a quart or half-gallon jar for her restaurant beverages. As for me, maybe I'll start building a fishing vessel of some sort with all of these durable, otherwise useless, containers. Usually I just wait to get my afternoon caffeine fix after lunch. The upside is you can take your gigantic cup into almost any restaurant in town and get a free refill, because every one's to-go cup is exactly the same. The Nalgene of the south and it comes with a thousand lifetime guarantee.

As far as restaurant culture is concerned, there are three main aspects represented in Texas, Barbecue, Mexican and Tex-Mex. Finding the "Best BBQ in Texas" is easy. There is usually one restaurant in every small town that boasts the title and at least four or five in every city. The best BBQ I've had in Texas was in a little town called Lockehart. This place is timeless. I don't think a picture has been put up or taken off the wall since 1950. The fire they cook on is close enough to the cash register one could accidentally fall into it if they are not careful. They sell their fully cooked links, ribs and brisket by the pound, plus you have your choice of fat brisket or lean. The lean is actually quite fatty. They also offer a few slices of Wonderbread with every order and/or a half a packet of Saltines with the white plastic still on. The meat is served on two pieces of brown wax paper. The dining hall is made up of 8, enormous, cafeteria style tables. Pickles and jalapenos are complimentary and for a couple extra quarters you can purchase a whole avocado or a chunk of cheddar cheese from the nice ladies in the dining area. The sauce is served cold and a poster that shows all the old courthouses of Texas is framed neatly in the center of the wall, covered in dust. Even the prices seem to be timeless. We got three meals out of our order and paid less than seven dollars. It would seem the only way to get away from styrofoam in central Texas is to go somewhere that hasn't changed its business plan since the invention of plastics.

Stay tuned for part two.....

The hot, hot, heat.

Hi friends. Many of you probably know this, but for those of you who don't, or who aren't aware of the excessiveness, I'm gonna let you in on something; Texas is hot. I'm not talking about dry heat, either. I am talking about hot, humid, blazing sun, drink 3 gallons of water a day and never go pee because it has all exited through your pores, type of heat. Yesterday the high was 107. The low was 82. I have never felt so dependent on air conditioning for survival. The problem with AC, however, is that your body never really adjusts to the heat and every time you step outside it's like walking into an oven and then being wrapped in a slightly damp, hot towel. Ick. A few weeks ago, when it was only in the 90's, I decided to become Zen about the whole blazing heat thing and just take it in stride. I accomplished my goal for about 3 weeks and the heat didn't bother me all that much. Then the mercury began creeping up into the 100's and my Zen attitude evaporated, much like all of the water we put out into our fields....This week I hit the wall and my positive attitude crumbled. While working the Farmer's Market on Wednesday from 2-6 (the hottest part of the day), any customer or CSA member foolish enough to greet me with a "How ya' doing" or a "hot enough for ya?" was met with a look of dismayed contempt, with just a hint of desperation buried underneath. Needless to say, my customer service was not at an all time high, but I did the best I could under the circumstances. Everyone assures me that this is an unusually hot summer and Texas isn't generally this hot until August. A fat lot of good that does for me now! But, enough complaining about the heat. It's not going anywhere until at least mid-September, so there's not much point in dwelling on it. At least that's what I try to remind myself every time I start on the downward spiral of despair over the temperature!

Let's talk about patriotism. Nothing says patriotic like a 4th of July parade. We were fortunate enough to participate in our town's parade last weekend and it was amazing. This may not surprise anyone, but small town Texas is way into America's birthday. Our farm entered a float in the parade and by my biased judgement, out of the 60 entries, we were definitely in the top 3. We managed to wow the crowd not only by having an awesome float, but also by throwing vegetables into the crowd. The sugar addled kids were generally either unenthusiastic or just plain confused by the vegetables, but the parents were way into it, often instructing their children to "go get another onion" or "grab some more peppers." Mark made the mistake of handing a melon to someone when we were stopped and all of a sudden our float was enveloped in a crowd of folks clamoring for melons. All in all, it was a blast and I think we generated a lot of community interest about the farm and hopefully attracted new customers. Cross your fingers.

Many times throughout the parade I had the almost overwhelming urge to jump off the float and snap some pictures. Turns out, our town is very patriotic. There were, of course, the obligatory American flag themed camping chairs and the older women sporting red, white and blue visors. Some people, however, went above and beyond. On one section of the parade route there was a crew of over 30 people sporting t-shirts that said 'Freedom isn't Free' on the front and 'Freedom estb. 1776' on the back. Each of them was waving at least one American flag and some of the more ambitious ones were waving two. My absolute favorite show of patriotism was a miniature poodle sporting a sequined red, white and blue tank top and a headband that had two sequined stars at the end of spiraled wires, causing the stars to shake every time the dog moved. It was awesome. I haven't felt so patriotic in a long time, possibly ever. Living in Portland for so many years made me forget that most of my fellow Americans take great pride in this country and its policies and influence over the rest of the World. I talked with my Mom on the 4th and she mentioned that for the first time in 8 years she had decided to put out the American flag for the 4th of July. She said that this was the first time in a long time she has felt our country is headed in a positive direction. Let's hope her feelings are right.

Death, Destruction and Diatomaceous Earth

After we first arrived on the farm I tried to capture the feel as much as possible. We briefly left 85% of our music library on the back burner and listened to mostly country and bluegrass for the first month. At one point, both Marisa and I could recite all the words to John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy". Today is 4 months to the day that we started working here and now I listen mostly to Wilco, Spoon and an hilarious podcast called 'Jordan, Jesse, Go!', unless of course, the workload calls for something a bit heavier.

One of the biggest surprises I faced when becoming an organic farmer were the amount of hands on killing one has to do in order to save the crops from weeds and insects without the use of toxic pesticides and herbicides. One of these insects is the harlequin beetle which in the south is referred to as a stinkbug. They are reminiscent of a lady bug, but about four times bigger, with larger spots and a flatter back. Harlequins have a taste for braising greens. My first week on the farm I was instructed to strap on a backpack tank full of propane and connected to a blowtorch and torch an entire 300 ft row of infested kale. This sounded like a fun enough job. However, I had never attempted to burn a living vegetable before. It took an excessively long time. The kale immediately changed colors when the heat hit it. It looked surreal, cooked, yet still in the ground. The beetles jumped off the kale and crackled in the air. After 5 minutes of direct heat, the kale finally began to burn and I could move on to the next one. Kale being one of Marisa's favorite vegetables, she was horrified. It was a little difficult for me to have to do this in front of her. After all the romantic idolizing I did over the beauty of organic farming, I never thought once about mowing, weed whacking, spreading deadly earth based insect irritants and most of all, torching kale and a beetle of which I had never even heard. Luckily, I'm flexible. After the first 30 minutes I decided I needed to change the mood, so I reached down deep in my pocket and began scrolling the I-pod for something more appropriate than bluegrass compilations. I started with Jay Z's Black Album, then moved on to some random songs by Tupac. Nothing seems to epitomize the merciless annihilation of a beetle population, coupled with destroying perfectly good vegetables, than some gangster rap.

A couple of weeks later I was "asked" to spend 18 hours a week on a weed whacker. The whining roar of a two stroke engine and the thrashing of biomass just begs for headphones with the volume cranked up. When it comes to slaying just over half of the plants on the farm, I enjoy a little 'Appetite for Destruction' by Guns n' Roses. When I have to chop down an amaranth plant taller than myself, it feels appropriate to hear Axl Rose scream, "Welcome to the jungle baby, now you're gonna die!" I also find the intensity of Slash's guitar solos cover up the obnoxious ruckus of the task at hand quite nicely.

If you are looking for a chance to feel like the bad farmer in the animated classic, The Rats of Nimh, I recommend cruising between the rows on our lawn mower. When crushing habitats that the local rodents and lagomorphs have created in the few weeks since someone last mowed, I suggest either Merle Haggard or AC/DC. You may even have the opportunity to watch field mice and little bunnies run for their lives after the triple blade action transforms their residences into mulch. When I'm sabotaging fire ant holes with molasses and orange oil, I listen to 'This American Life'. It takes a great podcast to alleviate the long and boring job. I am also not entirely convinced that anything kills fire ants, so I don't need music to set the mood. Plus, I hate them and could probably slaughter a million of them while rocking out to Cat Stevens. More on fire ants in later posts.

The one action I do on a regular basis that I have not been able to find a fitting soundtrack for is spreading diatomaceous earth. Diatomaceous earth (referred to as DE in our field) has the consistency of talcum powder. DE is made out of tiny fossilized water plants. To insects, it is a lethal dust with microscopic razor sharp edges. These edges cut through the insects protective covering, drying it out and killing them when they are dusted. If they ingest the DE, it will shred their insides. Sick? Yes. Brutal? Definitely. Effective? The jury's still out. The softness of DE and its flower white color make me feel more like a baker than a farmer. It gets all over my hands, arms and face. When it's over 100 degrees and I am inevitably sweating out of every pore, it doesn't take long before I am covered from head to toe, like an Aboriginal holy man engaging in a ritual involving other realms of consciousness. This seems appropriate, being that at the moment I am a harbinger of death to thousands. I play the part with a constant sidestepping and squatting from plant to plant, while simultaneously shaking a magic powder in circles around eggplants and squash. Perhaps the missing piece in our music collection is something more indigenous.