Army in Repose

I love the farm right now. In the height of the season, nature will gladly consume you if you loiter in the wrong place for too long, but right now the gardens seem quiet, almost pensive. The forest is naked and you can see deep into what will be nearly impenetrable in a couple months. Everything appears so innocent, so vulnerable, and I feel honored to bear witness to it. The parsnips are the only thing still growing in the garden, and on Thursday I went to the farm to harvest them.

One at a time, you loosen the root, pull the beautiful, unearthly creature out of the ground and bang off the excess mud before grading them. When one breaks you take the opportunity to smell the sweet flesh, and savor its freshness amongst all the grey and apathetic surroundings. Madusa-like, they often resemble something Jim Henson might have used as a muse, but flavor-wise, they've no doubt been the inspiration for innumerable legendary creations. That afternoon we roasted some and ate them like corn, then we had blueberry pie with fresh raw cream, because on the farm you work like a peasent and eat like a king, and eat dessert for dinner because without the excessive sugar, a blueberry pie is simply a blueberry roast with crust. And when you grow your own food, you eat whatever the hell you want for dinner because you know it's good.

Then there's the high tunnel. When the rest of the farm is stoic, life in the high tunnel is vigorously pulsating. When you step in, you're instantly transported to the forthcoming explosion, and the forthcoming workload. You see weeds covering the floor like napalm; you see all the incomplete projects and the signs of an upcoming battle; you see hours of cultivation in the hot sun, the heavy lifting, the long days, the sunburn, and the soreness. But then you see green, and it's everywhere, and you're reminded of the sheer beauty of where all this labor takes place, and then you laugh, because this is the last time the high tunnel will look this calm.