Farm Stories: Shelter from the Storm

“In actual fact, people seldom remember things they have no use for.”
- Daniel Quinn

Two massive floods hit the farm last year, and right now the moon is in roughly the same position and constellation that it was for both floods. But the third storm in three days is passing over head right now, and I'm watching it from the safety of my house and I hate how little it's going to affect me.

I notice nature more since the farm––storms and temperatures and such. It means more to me than it used to. A storm doesn't just pass, and it's gone. A storm is an event on the farm and it lingers. You have to sprint up to the shade-house at three in the morning to save the new transplants from being demolished by pounding rain; or kayak out onto the creek to rescue bags of peat moss that floated away in the flooding; you have to clean up any fallen trees blocking the road; then a few days later you have to cultivate all the germinated weed seed. Storms are what nature lives by, and yet we fortify ourselves against them.

+++

One week we went for it. We planted a bunch of things that needed fertility and a lot of water, even though it had been dry and hot, but we needed to. It was a gamble. We were exhausted from the rough, long harvest that Friday and none of us had much energy for transplanting but knew it needed to be done and persevered. Then, that afternoon, as I was lying on my bed in a sore heap of fatigue, I heard the rumble of thunder, then the sound of rain drops across the tin roof of the barn and I cheered. I'd never cheered for nature before, it felt good, and god dammit, we needed that rain.

+++

And now here I sit, like most of the country, sheltered from the storm. If we're out in it, we're bitching about it. If we're inside, we're ignoring it, waiting for tomorrow when the storm will be gone and we can talk about how nice it is to see the sunshine. Most of us (writer not excluded) will never think of this storm again. While for others, it might have been the rain they were waiting for, or possibly the rain that washed away some topsoil. Either way they're rarely ruined by it, as they're always in a position to reap the benefits of storms, not just the catastrophes.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: Part 4

Welcome to Friday and another edition of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

As a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity, no running water, no kidding. During that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to drop everything and go farming. Once we catch up to the present, I'll use the occasion to explain what I'm up to now, beyond the blaug. Is this preface going to appear at the beginning of the entire series? Damn straight. Ready? Wunderbar.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: Books

A great book begets great curiosity. You find yourself in places like restaurants cooking; in New York City drinking; in the vineyards of France tasting dirt; and living in a barn because books exist, and because they beget such powerful curiosity. A bartender friend of mine once suggested that a good book should change you––this is an homage to a few of those books.

As I sat in the garden that fall in Burgundy, minding my own business, I was suddenly accosted by Michael Pollan's genius. Sometimes a good book is just well-written and I've experienced many of those, but sometimes a good book is both well-written and well-timed, and those books can become something more than just books, but revelations. "The Omnivore's Dilemma" was precisely that.

The book had been exhaustingly recommended to me, I just hadn't got to it yet. Finally a good friend shoved it in my hands and demanded I read it while in France. When I opened the book, I had just come from tasting dirt at Bertrand Gautherot's house (see last week's post), and was more-than-a-little vulnerable. I was familiar with the issues Pollan focuses on––conventional agriculture, big-organic, localvorism, etc.––but I'd never paid any real attention to them. Having gained the perspective of Bertrand's methods versus those of his neighbor's, the subject was suddenly tangible. Also, Pollan has this way of writing that makes it seem like your super-logical buddy Mike is just saying "Hey dude, this conventional farming shit is kinda messed up," and then proceeds to detail why––masterfully and without pretension. After this book, I became annoyingly fastidious in my food choices. I read labels intensely, went to the farmer's market often, and began to read more about food––not just wine. In a lot of ways, this book was the beginning of my road to the farm, and as I heard time and time again last year, I was not alone in this.

Kermit Lynch did a number on me as well. The first time I read "Adventures on the Wine Route" I was way too impressionable. Not only did the sentiment of the book speak to my convictions, but the style with which it was written spoke to my sensibilities as a reader. At the time I first read it, I was progressively drinking more French and Italian wines, mostly organic, and wasn't sure exactly what made them so different––so much better. Kermit helped me to understand.

Like all great works, it's timeless. It was first published in 1988 but reads like it could've been published yesterday. I devour it once a year, and take something new from it each time. If you ask me what my favorite book is, I'd be hard pressed to say another. It's a book about wine, but it's also about everything. To me, it's about wine in the way "The Sun Also Rises" is about bullfighting, and I write, sell, think and drink the way I do with many nods to Kermit.

Lastly (I say lastly because I'm limiting myself to three here) is Masanobu Fukuoka's "One Straw Revolution" which I mention just as much for the book as for how I was introduced to it. A man by the name of Eric Texier recommended I read it, and afterward I realized something I'd never realized before: I know nothing about nature. It's a wonderfully poetic read, endlessly quotable and never overly technical, but it's mainly about nature. I loved the book but knew I'd love it more if I could understand it's subject, and felt compelled to follow Fukuoka's example.

Fukuoka was an everyday man turned farmer who developed a style of no-till natural farming that works with nature's example, rather than trying to control it. It's another timeless classic and a word you will increasinly begin to hear in reference to farming practices: Fukuoka-style. More and more farmers are moving towards no-till, non-intervention, permaculture-like methods and Fukuoka is among the most widely-known voices. Texier was inspired by his writings and next week, we'll talk about the role he and another natural winemaker played in my future... as if introducing me to Fukuoka wasn't enough.

But there are so many books that belong here, so many writers. If you were to traverse the route from my living in a barn to my childhood, you could simply follow the trail of books (as well as breadcrumbs, respectfully) until you arrived at a skateboarding young Fraust rocking a Wu-Tang t-shirt and baggy-ass jeans quoting "Ishmael" wildly, because that's more or less where it all began.

Postscript: The best part about writing this was that the only book I mentioned that I don't have a copy lent out, is Kermit's. It's the only one I never lend.

Eating Animals II: eating vegetables

In preperation for Friday's post, I got to thinking about animals...

This summer along with lambs, cows, and pigs, we raised turkeys. We decided not to raise the heritage breed, but to raise the conventional, broad-breasted turkeys, and to raise them unconventionally. They lived their entire lives outside, protected from predation by solar-electrified fencing, with constant visits from your's truly. I loved those turkeys. I loved Tomahawk, and I loved Iceberg. I loved Galliopo, Chaos, Gunnison, Gravner and Beardo. I named them, too, because I was a fool in love. Then November came and we had to process them.

As Michael Pollan has pointed out, "process" is a kind term for killing, cleaning and packaging, but that's what it is: killing. The night before, we loaded them all in the truck, and as the truck pulled away with all of my buddies staring at me, my heart sank, and the next day we killed them. I helped. I can't be more honest when I say it was the hardest day of my life, and I still haven't reconciled it completely. Killing is not easy, and truthfully, I'm glad it's not easy. I'm glad it was hard on me. It shouldn't be easy.

Having raised food in this manner I look at food I didn't raise very differently. And this doesn't just apply to meat, but to vegetables as well.

It's hard in the winter to get fresh, local, organic vegetables. Hard, but not impossible. It's important to do so however, as an animal lover, vegetarian, or what have you, because the chemicals, preservatives, clear-cutting and soil depletion involved in conventional vegetable production (not to mention genetic modifications, poisoning of ground water, encouragement of monocultures, etc. after etc. after etc.) is massively detrimental to wildlife and humans alike. Get your veggies from organic, local farmers when you can. The devastation caused by conventional vegetable farming is less spectacular than feedlots obviously, but it's not necessarily less harmful in the long run. I didn't intend on this being some brand of public service announcement, but that's sorta what it's become. A vegetarian is equally as responsible for making responsible food choices as an omnivore. And, as a shameless natural wine plug, both are equally as responsible for making good beverage choices to go with their diets. Drink wisely, eat wisely, still party, but do it responsibly. After last season on the farm, I can't see it any other way.

Now enjoy the lamby lambs. I call her Boogie.

Wine Glass Music - Jamey Turner

Just feeling a little patriotic after Friday's post.

Happy President's Day, that is, if you're not among the many making up a snow day...

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.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: part 3

Welcome to Friday and another edition of "How I Came to Live in a Barn," the series that strives to connect drinking to farming as relevantly as humanly possible.

As a quick preface to this series, from April to December of 2010 I lived in a barn. No electricity, running water, MTA strikes or lollygagging. During that time I worked on a legitimately (though proudly uncertified) organic farm in Southern Kentucky. This series is about the many whims, fascinations and revelations that eventually inspired me to kick the kicks, buy some boots and go farming. Once we catch up to the present, I'll use the occasion to explain what I'm up to now, you know, beyond the blaug. Is this preface going to appear at the beginning of the entire serious? Almost definitely. Ready? Wunderbar.

How I Came to Live in a Barn: The Bertrand Gautherot Edition

Champagne. September of 2008.

After letting me babble at him in French for a few minutes, Bertrand kindly suggested we speak in English. I liked Bertrand Gautherot Immediately. He was genial, friendly, excited and honest. He grabbed a garden fork and we hopped in his van with his dog Chops (pronounced "shops" in French) and headed down the road to see his cows.

Vouette et Sorbée is located in the southern part of Champagne in Buxières sur Arce, not far from the city of Troyes (pronounced "Twa"). Bertrand, the farmer and winemaker, farms 5 hectares of vines, both pinot noir and chardonnay. An hectare is approximately 2.47105381 acre (thereabouts) and the only compost he uses for everything (including his personal garden) comes from these cows. He's emphatic about how important they are to the farm and how they are the best indication for how things are going. Needless to say, as a very involved winemaker, he checks in with them daily.

We stood and talked about biodynamics while the cattle regarded me impassively, then he brought me to his vines. Vouette et Sorbée has been Demeter certified biodynamic since 1998. His neighbors do not farm organically, however. If I remember correctly, they sell most of their grapes to the bigger houses in Reims and Épernay including Veuve and Moet, both well-over an hour's drive. Making that type of farming a lucrative option, one must boost the yields of their vines exponentially through the use of chemical fertilizers and the like, forming a veritable "wall of grape clusters" as Bertrand puts it. It was a bit freakish-looking, even to a neophyte like myself.

I was there in September, so I got to taste a grape from each kind of vineyard; I got to witness the vitality of his vines in comparison to their's while they were still alive; I got touch the leaves and examine the clusters. It was all wonderfully educational to someone simply trying to understand what the hell biodynamics did, and what made them so different. The answer was far more tangible than anticipated. Bertrand ran to his van and brought back the garden fork. He scooped a chunk of soil from his neighbor's vineyards, and set it gently on the ground. Then he took a chunk of his own (below, left) and sat it right next to his neighbor's (below, right).

Unsurprisingly the differences were remarkable. Barely could you call these two things kin. On the one hand you had somewhat oily and flaccid mud, and on the other you had a fluffy, mossy pillow of soil with an earthworm for punctuation. Bertrand's soil smelled sweet and tasted even sweeter, while his neighbor's smelled like nothing at all so I decided not to taste it. In that moment, organic farming completely made sense to me.

We finished off the tour and went to his house where he opened a bottle of "Fidèle" (his 100% pinot noir), and chatted at his table. He said something that I've never forgotten as I was leaving that afternoon. When I wished him luck on his new importation into the US, he said graciously, "Thank you, but I hope that one day I wont have to import my wines to the US. You can make wine there, maybe one day you'll make your own champagne..." then I left. I'm not even sure if I responded.

Later that evening as I was sitting in a garden in Burgundy, drinking my glass of aligoté, I couldn't shake what he'd said. It was both mind-bendingly ludicrous and completely logical. If one is to view wine as a what it is––a necessary, but simple fermented beverage––then we don't need it to come from anywhere in particular: there's plenty of fruit in the United States from which to make "wine." All that's required is fresh fruit and time, which I'm pretty sure we still have here. It wont be champagne, but who's to say it couldn't be comparable. Or even better––better?

I pondered it for a while, feeling the occasional twinge of patriotism, then returned to my book. I was half-way through "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and completely unaware of how it, and a number of other books, would come to shape my future. Bertrand had planted quite a seed, it was about to receive some cultivation.

Alors, á la semaine prochaine, as they say in French––till next week.

Tony Coturri Talks About Biodynamics

Why listen to me, when you can listen to Tony Coturri? I love these videos and this man makes some of my favorite tipple in all the land. Also, is it ironic that most of the videos you can find on biodynamics are about wine and Rudolf Steiner was a teetotaller? Anyway, enjoy these - Tony Coturri is definitely a good source for information as well as inspiration (foreshadowing?).

Biodynamically Flavored Books

Yesterday, in observance of Valentine's day, I booked myself a flight to New York for Natural Wine Week and I'm now taking dance-card reservations, happy hour reservations, coffee reservations and dinner reservations that preferably need no reservations because homeboy (moi) is poooooooor-or. So hit me on the hip and we'll drink something funky.

In continuation of our biodynamically-themed week, I came across some books worth sharing. When I was first introduced to biodynamics I immediately tried to read some Rudolf Steiner but was rendered completely and utterly confused. Steiner makes for a fascinating read, and I've just recently been able to truly enjoy the lectures, but a preface to the philosophies is extremely helpful. I've still got a lot to learn about the subject, but these are the books that got me started.


Monty Waldin's "Biodynamic Wines" (pictured)
Monty has accomplished a wonderfully approachable read here, kicked-off by a mesmerizing introduction. The meat of the first half thoroughly outlines both the philosophies and preparations involved in biodynamics. The latter half of the book is dedicated to biodynamic winemakers across the world, and makes for invaluable reference material. I highly recommend this book for anybody even remotely curious in the practices.


Nicolas Joly's "What is Biodynamic Wines?"
Anyone familiar with Joly, knows he is decidedly dedicated to the philosophies of Steiner, and it helps to make his writing entertaining, engaging and exciting. Joly is among the more well-known proponents for biodynamics in winemaking and makes a very special set of wines in the Savennières region of the Loire Valley. This book is a bit more esoteric than Monty's but nonetheless an instant classic, covering a wider range of the spiritual aspects behind biodynamics. Also, the stuff about crystallization is pretty rad.

Gunther Hauk's "Toward Saving the Honeybee"
Without a doubt, one of my favorite books I read last year. It's depressingly short, however. I think I could happily read about Gunther Hauk's take on the world everyday and be happy. The book is technically about beekeeping, but limiting it to that would be incorrect and a mistake: this book is somehow about everything. Gunther does a superb job of demonstrating the personality behind biodynamics without being fancy, placating, or pretentious. He's just a delightful and honest dude. This is a book for everyone, curious about biodynamics or not. If beekeeping further interests you, there exists a book written by Steiner about the subject, which I've yet to read.

Also, pick up the Stella Natura Calendar. There are always some interesting articles by people like Jeff Poppen and Gunther Hauk, and then the calendar itself is fascinating, akin to the Farmer's Almanac, with a list of the best times to plant, to prune, etc.

That's where I started, and I'm admittedly still a newb to the subject, but the beauty of these practices is that the literature is so dense, there's always something new to learn from Steiner or his followers.

Biodynamic Preperations

I reckon I should probably at least touch on the subject of biodynamics going into Friday's post, yes? I don't want my blog to become so esoteric that it will lose that HBO-like, suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat feel I've been creating. It feels like that, right? Just let me know if it gets too... Soprano's-ish.

There are a lot of things that go into biodynamics, but I'm not going to go nuts here: knowing the basic principles, or the theories behind them––which I admit is a hard thing to pin down––is a good start. Historically, the man credited with the creation of biodynamics is a man by the name of Rudolf Steiner (also known for his work in Theosophy and Anthroposphy). In the 1920's he gave a series of lectures which formed the foundation of the agricultural practice we call biodynamics. He was considered by some to be a "seer" and he believed in a very special relationship between the cosmos and life on earth. He saw the effects of the moon and the constellations as more than just gravity, but forces; he saw the earth as a living organism; and he saw the earth as in need of healing and humans to be the stewards of it. The lectures can be hard to read, but if you ever get a chance to hear someone talk about the subject, go. Leave behind any pretense though, understanding biodynamics takes an open mind.

===

Bugtussle 2010

One warm April evening, Eric and I were reflecting on the day near the upper garden, as we were want to do at the end of most days. Soon we would be planting it with our main-season tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, etc., and he suggested we spread some barrel compost, a biodynamic preparation developed by Maria Thun.

Out of a little box he pulled a slightly measured handful of dirt and put it into a five gallon bucket full of water. Now, this garden measures about an acre. Five gallons of water, I asked, are supposed to fertilize this whole acre? He explained that biodynamics isn't about substance, it's about forces. It's about intention. Then we stirred the water/compost mix with our arms for twenty minutes (though people will go for upwards of an hour), 30 seconds in one direction, creating a vortex, then stopping the water and going the other way, creating chaos. The Vortex brings the forces in. The chaos helps oxygenate and enliven the preparation. When twenty minutes had elapsed we grabbed a couple handfuls of rye grass, our own buckets and went out into the garden, dipping our rye switches into the water and gently slinging the mixture into the air. The reason you do this at night is because nighttime is when the earth is "breathing in," pulling moisture towards itself (dew) and we utilize this natural rhythm to "impregnate" the dew with our compost preparation.

Eric laughed and added, "Anything you can do to make your neighbors think you're crazy is probably good, too."

===

Hopefully this story illustrates the idea that there is definitely something different about biodynamic agriculture than, say, conventional, or even just organic. And I'll be dammed if those tomatoes weren't amazing and if those peppers and eggplants didn't produce well into November. Literally. Extraordinary vitality. Not to mention how relaxing it was to stir and apply the compost. I have no idea if what Steiner preached is correct, but I have nothing to refute how effective these practices are, or how enjoyable they are to practice.

More later.

Easy

In lieu of doing a Valentine's day post tomorrow, I'm planning some post's on biodynamics... which is sorta like giving Valentine's to plants, so I suppose it's relevant. However, if you'd like some tips on buying Champagne, here's what I wrote for The Breedings' Blog for New Year's, and the same basic rules apply, but you don't have to stay up until midnight.

If you're needing to get even nerdier however, Brooklyn Guy just got back from Champagne and he's doing a pretty amazing series of posts about champagne that I recommend you read.

Happy Valentine's day, just don't take your date to yesterday's Vanderbilt game. Take her to last year's instead, she'll like that––time tarvel is romantic, as is winning

Take it away, LIONEL RICHIE!