Thursday, June 19, 2008
It's catching!
Having my first coffee of the day, surely not a local food product grown or even roasted near Boise, ID, I'm checking email, paying some bills and listening to a locally produced story on Boise State Radio about a local eater, a locavore, actually. Locavore was last year's word of the year in the Oxford English Dictionary. The word refers to one who makes a conscious choice to eat as locally as one can. In short, it's a choice to eat with purpose, to eat politically, to keep money and jobs as close to home as possible.
I applaud these good folks and the movement lead by people like Scott, profiled in the radio piece, moves me to continue to think more carefully about what we eat in our home, where we eat out when we dine away from home, and where we buy most everything. And I am not alone.
So many conversations at Morning Owl Farm Market are ones centering on the woes and possibilities of these times. I know people are afraid, they're not confident about the future of food, the stability of their incomes, the planet's health and the world to be inherited by their children.
Quite often, I find we come down to conversing about choices, and I'm struck by how often the chat focuses on consumer choice, rather than political choice. This fact strikes me as a true marker of our times, that we democracy-loving citizens so often see ourselves as empowered only to the extent, perhaps, that we can or can't buy things. I believe we are more powerful than that and I hope that all of this self-reflection will lead us past thinking of ourselves as radical or righteous to the extent only that we drive or don't, eat locally, or not. These activities surely matter, but I hope we will learn from these choices and make better choices now in the realm of citizenship as well. We can choose to pay attention to the position of various candidates, attend meetings when elected officials are deciding whether to pave some portion of Treasure Valley paradise or leave it open where various lifeforms might thrive or some farmer might plant a seed to feed those living nearby. We might demand our ozone-clogged air be cleaned up by enforcement of laws that are tougher on polluters. We might let the deciders know we don't really want another lane on I-84 so much as we want electric trains, or commuter lanes, or anything to stop rather than encourage another accident, another stop and go drive, another waste of fuel and time and human energy.
I drink this coffee brewed here but not grown here and not roasted here. I look out the window over the Barber Valley at the hundreds of houses in my viewshed, hearing the cars spinning by and the birds competing to be heard. I am going to have bread baked 8 miles away from flour grown and milled 25 miles away with eggs raised on our pasture. I will have a mostly local breakfast today and know I'm lucky, but I'm not righteous. I need to find time today to do more than buy, or not. I need to think about my role as a citizen, my place in the stop and go flow and where I can make a difference as a citizen, not just a consumer.
All of this consciousness is contagious, I really think so. Let's take hope in that today. Let's celebrate that we're waking up, paying attention and making changes one sip and one vote at a time. Hang to hope with me, won't you? What alternative do we have anyway?
Friday, June 13, 2008
Summer arrives divinely
Today was one of the glorious days. Three apprentices arrived in good spirits this morning and with willing hands. We spent the first hour or so talking about the miracle of making compost and how farmers choose the varieties of vegetables that they grow. Collectively, the group has arrived at some pretty good criteria: growing season, precipitation, humidity, maturity day length, yield and taste, ah, taste. We talked about the beauty of being small acreage, direct marketing farmers. We can pick it in the morning and distribute it in the afternoon. The food can be fresh and the food can be grown because it tastes great, not because it travels well. Ah, taste.
After the Apprentices left, I stayed in the garden, weeding and looking about at the 100s of hours of work to be done, but then I thought about something my friend and neighbor said recently. Jude advised wisely that when you finish anything, folding clothes, weeding a bed, putting away the tools, watering the birds, wiping down a table, whatever it is, Jude says to stand back just a moment and look at what you've done with some pride. Today, I tried that. I did what she said to do and it was a damn good day. A day that I'm proud of.
And now, after a salad our farm grew and some asparagus from across the valley, I drink a large glass of water, head to the radio to quiet Terry Gross and head back to the field to move water on the pasture, weed another bed and get ready to stand back at the end of this day and say, ah. For taste, time, for farming, for life. Ah.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Good Questions
This summer I'm grateful to share the farm's work with an inspiring group of women apprenticing at the farm. In exchange for their enthusiasm and hard work, they're learning how we do things and taking notes (I hope) on how not to do things when one day they've their own farms. I suspect it's my history as a professor that propels my desire to provide a place on the farm for learning, but it's my less altruistic desire, too--to eat in the future--that moved me to create the opportunity for on-farm learning. You see, while there's much to celebrate about the "local turning," the movement toward and for more localized and good food, services and goods, we aren't living within a system yet that much supports such a turn. We're moving, as we always are, toward a more sustainable system. We'll not build one fully, not in my life, but we will get better and smarter and wiser, and it will occur as we are better with and to each other. About that I feel strongly, but we're not there; not yet.
But back to the Apprentices and the questions that they ask. Last week, one asked if I might articulate my fantasy for the local food system and for Morning Owl Farm's place in it. In another post, I will lay that out with gladness, but what matters here is that when I started the farm, I was told that the fifth year of business was crucial. If one is lucky enough to have a fifth year of business, it's a good thing. But the fifth year is also very hard, because you know you must grow or remain stagnant. In this, our fifth year, I decided to grow. The truth is, I had to. I could continue with a CSA I could sustain by myself that would feed maybe 25 families and drive me into the poor house, or I could increase the number of folks I fed by creating a different model to do so.
In five years as a farmer, I've learned a decent amount about living smaller and less expensively, but as you age, life is more costly. Your cars get older and need more repair, insurance companies assume as you yourself age, you too will require more frequent tune-ups and they charge dearly for the speculation. Taxes on property rises, mortgages spiral up as they do. Everything we buy is more costly and even as a farmer, I can't NOT buy. Feed costs for the ducks have doubled in a year, the power to run the pumps to water the crops have increased, too. Hell, even my waist size has increased . . . Nothing stays the same, small or cheap, that's for sure. Not all all. And so when Lori and I penciled out what percentage of our income I'd have to contribute from the farm for us both to feel good about our coupling and ourselves, we had one figure. Today, we have another and the truth is, I'd feel good about neither my contribution to our coffers nor to my own financial stability were I to continue to toil away to gross roughly $13,000 to feed 25 CSA families. And that's gross . . . not net.
So I made a move to stay alive as a farmer. I grew us.
What we decided to do was to seek investors, or CSA members, and have them help us do some start-up financing in the winter. This is basically how all CSAs work. But after amassing a few of them, investors with as little as a $50 investment and others with as high as $900 for the year, we opened our farm stand to the public. To do this, I had to begin to add products--produce and less perishable food stuff--to my offerings. Consequently, this year, rather than grow ALL of the food, I'm aiming to grown about 65-80% over the full season and offer it with some value-added products based on our farm's duck eggs, along with meats and other veggies, baked goods and other nice things from other producers in the Boise area and a titch beyond.
This new model raises the bar on uncertainty to some extent. For instance, the persistence of winter in southern Idaho in 2008, left me to purchase some veggies not just from other area growers, something I'm glad to do, but to even go out-of-state (gasp! to California) for some items. Doing that isn't desirable, but it's been feeding us and a lot of our members, and in the end, it's what's required if one is to eat as we await more harvest from our own soil.
Something we often fail to realize is that in our area, the number of producers can be counted almost on one's hands and toes. We are that small a community. The desire for what we grow seems limitless, but the supply is minute and we need desperately to bring more growers in. So, this year, while I start the season stocking the farm stand for the first few weeks with more out-of-state product than I'd like, alternatively, we're working to grow more farmers for the future through our Apprenticeship program, hopefully, more farmers who will stay put and grow food right here near Boise. I'm grateful for the opportunity to make a small contribution to that, and grateful to them for their excitement and optimism.
Let's grow!
But back to the Apprentices and the questions that they ask. Last week, one asked if I might articulate my fantasy for the local food system and for Morning Owl Farm's place in it. In another post, I will lay that out with gladness, but what matters here is that when I started the farm, I was told that the fifth year of business was crucial. If one is lucky enough to have a fifth year of business, it's a good thing. But the fifth year is also very hard, because you know you must grow or remain stagnant. In this, our fifth year, I decided to grow. The truth is, I had to. I could continue with a CSA I could sustain by myself that would feed maybe 25 families and drive me into the poor house, or I could increase the number of folks I fed by creating a different model to do so.
In five years as a farmer, I've learned a decent amount about living smaller and less expensively, but as you age, life is more costly. Your cars get older and need more repair, insurance companies assume as you yourself age, you too will require more frequent tune-ups and they charge dearly for the speculation. Taxes on property rises, mortgages spiral up as they do. Everything we buy is more costly and even as a farmer, I can't NOT buy. Feed costs for the ducks have doubled in a year, the power to run the pumps to water the crops have increased, too. Hell, even my waist size has increased . . . Nothing stays the same, small or cheap, that's for sure. Not all all. And so when Lori and I penciled out what percentage of our income I'd have to contribute from the farm for us both to feel good about our coupling and ourselves, we had one figure. Today, we have another and the truth is, I'd feel good about neither my contribution to our coffers nor to my own financial stability were I to continue to toil away to gross roughly $13,000 to feed 25 CSA families. And that's gross . . . not net.
So I made a move to stay alive as a farmer. I grew us.
What we decided to do was to seek investors, or CSA members, and have them help us do some start-up financing in the winter. This is basically how all CSAs work. But after amassing a few of them, investors with as little as a $50 investment and others with as high as $900 for the year, we opened our farm stand to the public. To do this, I had to begin to add products--produce and less perishable food stuff--to my offerings. Consequently, this year, rather than grow ALL of the food, I'm aiming to grown about 65-80% over the full season and offer it with some value-added products based on our farm's duck eggs, along with meats and other veggies, baked goods and other nice things from other producers in the Boise area and a titch beyond.
This new model raises the bar on uncertainty to some extent. For instance, the persistence of winter in southern Idaho in 2008, left me to purchase some veggies not just from other area growers, something I'm glad to do, but to even go out-of-state (gasp! to California) for some items. Doing that isn't desirable, but it's been feeding us and a lot of our members, and in the end, it's what's required if one is to eat as we await more harvest from our own soil.
Something we often fail to realize is that in our area, the number of producers can be counted almost on one's hands and toes. We are that small a community. The desire for what we grow seems limitless, but the supply is minute and we need desperately to bring more growers in. So, this year, while I start the season stocking the farm stand for the first few weeks with more out-of-state product than I'd like, alternatively, we're working to grow more farmers for the future through our Apprenticeship program, hopefully, more farmers who will stay put and grow food right here near Boise. I'm grateful for the opportunity to make a small contribution to that, and grateful to them for their excitement and optimism.
Let's grow!
Monday, May 5, 2008
Localvores, Organicos and Makin' a Livin'
There's an old adage that it takes a business about five years to make a profit. That old adage has been haunting me a lot of late because this is our farm's fifth year of business and profits don't seem yet within reach. I need a tractor, need to hire help, need an egg washer, need to pay for construction of the "clean room" that will be started this very day and that is estimated to set me back to the tune of a couple thousand dollars.
As I consider the start-up money taken in from our members this spring--around $13,000 this year--I think too about where that money's gone in five months. We bought veggie and flower seed, a few small trees, paid the power bill, bought 70 new ducklings, secured registration for workshops on legal liability, food handling safety (hence, the clean room construction), paid the monthly mortgage, kept the health insurance lights on, made sure the vehicle insurance is in good standing, made repairs on all sorts of winter-worn farm stuff, got myself some stylin' new Carhartt shorts, and stocked the farm stand with plants I grew and food I didn't because food's been growing slower than normal this winter-spring.
We had our "soft" opening just this past weekend at the farm stand, worked through a few kinks, met some real nice folks, and sold a good number of plants, greens, herbs, asparagus, jellies, Sconies, duck eggs and more. We had a lot of fun most of all, and as I counted the receipts, I was pleased to see we'd made enough to put together a new coop for our third flock, our research flock, the ones who will tell us how effective are ducks at increasing soil fertility, managing weeds and pests, and laying eggs under au natural conditions--no lights except what the sunshine brings. I'm excited about that project, but I already know one outcome of all that studying: selling 80 dozen duck eggs a week and trying to absorb feed costs that have doubled in the last year alone are more likely to break a farmer than make her. That said, I need to get this blog posted quickly because I have ducks to go feed and water in just a few minutes . . .
But before the morning's chores begin, it's important to note that like an awful lot of small acreage farmers, I spend a lot of time looking at bills, bottom lines, projected costs, obligations and where it might be possible to tuck in, scale down and draw the blinds to save a few dollars here and there. As we enter our fifth year as a farm and as a business, I have had to stew over some tough decisions, decisions I'm not fully comfortable with at all times, and will write about more in my next post.
All those worries aside, what makes me smile today is that my niece and her boyfriend are asleep downstairs, visiting for the first leg of a little post-semester vacation before Will begins a summer internship on an organic farm in Chelan, WA., and Erin starts summer work for Washington State University, where she'll learn more about orchards and integrated pest management, her major at university. Will grew up in the Washington orchards and has thoughts of taking some of the acreage of those trees into organic production. Erin is interested in bugs and the good work they can do for farmers. She wants to help farmers like me better understand the relationship we need to cultivate with those bugs to make us better at what we do.
It makes me happy to think of them and the qualities they embody and embrace: courage, thoughtfulness, hard-work, ethical eating and living, strength and generosity. I have already learned a lot from them both and look forward to all they can keep teaching me.
It thrills me that as I age, young people, my own niece, will keep on fighting the good fight, in a battle of her choosing with her own arms. But the thought that I need to make a living at this small acreage farm venture nags, knowing that this farm must thrive if this farm is to put to work all the good lessons Erin and Will have to teach us. And I think we can thrive, but not based on the business model that has sustained my soul, sustained the bellies of my community of eaters for four summers, improved and sustained our land, but not my wallet. This is the year, the fifth year, and this is the year in which we will make it or not, and don't think for a moment that thought isn't there looming most moments of most days these days.
But here's the deal right this moment, the ducks need to be let out now and need to eat and want to swim and drink.
And I need one more cup of coffee for the road ahead today.
More on money later, it's going to be 80 degrees today and seeds need planting and weeds need yanking.
As I consider the start-up money taken in from our members this spring--around $13,000 this year--I think too about where that money's gone in five months. We bought veggie and flower seed, a few small trees, paid the power bill, bought 70 new ducklings, secured registration for workshops on legal liability, food handling safety (hence, the clean room construction), paid the monthly mortgage, kept the health insurance lights on, made sure the vehicle insurance is in good standing, made repairs on all sorts of winter-worn farm stuff, got myself some stylin' new Carhartt shorts, and stocked the farm stand with plants I grew and food I didn't because food's been growing slower than normal this winter-spring.
We had our "soft" opening just this past weekend at the farm stand, worked through a few kinks, met some real nice folks, and sold a good number of plants, greens, herbs, asparagus, jellies, Sconies, duck eggs and more. We had a lot of fun most of all, and as I counted the receipts, I was pleased to see we'd made enough to put together a new coop for our third flock, our research flock, the ones who will tell us how effective are ducks at increasing soil fertility, managing weeds and pests, and laying eggs under au natural conditions--no lights except what the sunshine brings. I'm excited about that project, but I already know one outcome of all that studying: selling 80 dozen duck eggs a week and trying to absorb feed costs that have doubled in the last year alone are more likely to break a farmer than make her. That said, I need to get this blog posted quickly because I have ducks to go feed and water in just a few minutes . . .
But before the morning's chores begin, it's important to note that like an awful lot of small acreage farmers, I spend a lot of time looking at bills, bottom lines, projected costs, obligations and where it might be possible to tuck in, scale down and draw the blinds to save a few dollars here and there. As we enter our fifth year as a farm and as a business, I have had to stew over some tough decisions, decisions I'm not fully comfortable with at all times, and will write about more in my next post.
All those worries aside, what makes me smile today is that my niece and her boyfriend are asleep downstairs, visiting for the first leg of a little post-semester vacation before Will begins a summer internship on an organic farm in Chelan, WA., and Erin starts summer work for Washington State University, where she'll learn more about orchards and integrated pest management, her major at university. Will grew up in the Washington orchards and has thoughts of taking some of the acreage of those trees into organic production. Erin is interested in bugs and the good work they can do for farmers. She wants to help farmers like me better understand the relationship we need to cultivate with those bugs to make us better at what we do.
It makes me happy to think of them and the qualities they embody and embrace: courage, thoughtfulness, hard-work, ethical eating and living, strength and generosity. I have already learned a lot from them both and look forward to all they can keep teaching me.
It thrills me that as I age, young people, my own niece, will keep on fighting the good fight, in a battle of her choosing with her own arms. But the thought that I need to make a living at this small acreage farm venture nags, knowing that this farm must thrive if this farm is to put to work all the good lessons Erin and Will have to teach us. And I think we can thrive, but not based on the business model that has sustained my soul, sustained the bellies of my community of eaters for four summers, improved and sustained our land, but not my wallet. This is the year, the fifth year, and this is the year in which we will make it or not, and don't think for a moment that thought isn't there looming most moments of most days these days.
But here's the deal right this moment, the ducks need to be let out now and need to eat and want to swim and drink.
And I need one more cup of coffee for the road ahead today.
More on money later, it's going to be 80 degrees today and seeds need planting and weeds need yanking.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
When the food's ready
The other day a friend asked when I was opening the CSA farm stand and without much thinking I blurted out, "When the food's ready." And that's the answer, but I think I was supposed to sound more thoughtful than that, to at least give the appearance that I had a plan. Well, I have a plan, but the truth is that my plan doesn't mean a damn thing. To state it and lay it out there is to do nothing but invite the laughter of the gods of wind and goddesses of hail and snow. To them I say, "No plans here. Nope, not a one. Just waiting on your benevolence. Just sittin' it out."
I'm starting my fifth season on the farm and like the last season, this season isn't like any of the others. The thing is that this season is even less like any of the other seasons that weren't much like any of the others. The blasted snowflakes keep showing up in the NOAA five-day forecast, one minute it's blasting sunshine, the next a cold wind comes down from Lucky Peak and as I look to raise my balled fist at it and curse, there's that lovely cloud of new snow falling in the highest hills. A cloud of white coming down, sprinkling moisture and a reminder of just which of us pushy women will have her way. I lower my fist and giggle. Good god I don't mean a thing and I like it.
So when I'm asked about when we're opening, the answer really is, when the food says to. Right now, tomatoes planted six weeks ago are only today begging for more shoe space. Brassica I'd normally be hardening off under a cold frame seem just as happy where they are in the big greenhouse. Chard and spinach direct seeded three weeks ago are saying, no way I'm poking my head out yet, nah, Think I'll just hang right here with the worms.
This year is doing whatever it wants and I am learning to shut up and enjoy it. Finally, a real winter in Idaho. Knowing I may never see another like it, I'm glad it's nothing like the others that weren't like the others. It's just like it ought to be. Grab your coat and hat and bend into it. The long hot summer is just a wave away.
I'm starting my fifth season on the farm and like the last season, this season isn't like any of the others. The thing is that this season is even less like any of the other seasons that weren't much like any of the others. The blasted snowflakes keep showing up in the NOAA five-day forecast, one minute it's blasting sunshine, the next a cold wind comes down from Lucky Peak and as I look to raise my balled fist at it and curse, there's that lovely cloud of new snow falling in the highest hills. A cloud of white coming down, sprinkling moisture and a reminder of just which of us pushy women will have her way. I lower my fist and giggle. Good god I don't mean a thing and I like it.
So when I'm asked about when we're opening, the answer really is, when the food says to. Right now, tomatoes planted six weeks ago are only today begging for more shoe space. Brassica I'd normally be hardening off under a cold frame seem just as happy where they are in the big greenhouse. Chard and spinach direct seeded three weeks ago are saying, no way I'm poking my head out yet, nah, Think I'll just hang right here with the worms.
This year is doing whatever it wants and I am learning to shut up and enjoy it. Finally, a real winter in Idaho. Knowing I may never see another like it, I'm glad it's nothing like the others that weren't like the others. It's just like it ought to be. Grab your coat and hat and bend into it. The long hot summer is just a wave away.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Duck Tails
Yes, it is an easy pun, but yesterday, I spent some time around a duck tail and it wasn't fun. Two mornings ago, as I let the ducks from the barn loose on the world, I noticed one hen struggling. She was having trouble moving with her usual speed, so I pursued and got hold of her. Her belly was warm and distended. As I gently touched her stomach, I could feel two eggs, a sure sign she was eggbound. My previous research on this topic told me that I had to get her by herself, warm her muscles, insert some oil in her vent, and if possible, work the backed-up eggs out. Other research I'd consulted said the opposite, though, leave it alone and let nature and the duck work it out, literally.
The problem for duck wranglers like me is that so damned much of the info out there is of this nature-conflicted. On one hand, you should intervene. On the other, leave it alone. The answer so often is, it depends. While I'm as comfortable with ambiguity as the next person (not very), I aim in my writings to provide information that might help others doing what I do.
The amount of information, for instance, on raising chickens, hogs, sheep and cattle is relatively ripe for the picking. The information on ducks, I fear, is rarer.
If anyone reading this has particular questions about ducks or better, has a suggestion for how I might best distribute the info I've acquired and am acquiring, let me know. The paucity of information I've so far found online has almost always helped, even when that information is inconsistent because it provides me perspective and experiences I can weigh against my own as I decide how to move ahead.
When I let the girls out this morning, I'm going to hope that my eggbound girl has fewer eggs today, but I'm not confident. I wish all of farming were as romantic as it seems in the magazines, but it's not. Worrying over an eggbound duck, deciding how to proceed when you don't have a good clue . . .it's part of the work, just not a part I prefer.
The problem for duck wranglers like me is that so damned much of the info out there is of this nature-conflicted. On one hand, you should intervene. On the other, leave it alone. The answer so often is, it depends. While I'm as comfortable with ambiguity as the next person (not very), I aim in my writings to provide information that might help others doing what I do.
The amount of information, for instance, on raising chickens, hogs, sheep and cattle is relatively ripe for the picking. The information on ducks, I fear, is rarer.
If anyone reading this has particular questions about ducks or better, has a suggestion for how I might best distribute the info I've acquired and am acquiring, let me know. The paucity of information I've so far found online has almost always helped, even when that information is inconsistent because it provides me perspective and experiences I can weigh against my own as I decide how to move ahead.
When I let the girls out this morning, I'm going to hope that my eggbound girl has fewer eggs today, but I'm not confident. I wish all of farming were as romantic as it seems in the magazines, but it's not. Worrying over an eggbound duck, deciding how to proceed when you don't have a good clue . . .it's part of the work, just not a part I prefer.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Spring Mornings
One of my favorite novels of the last decade or so is Barbara Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer. Here is a novel full of musky mountain ripeness, laugh aloud observations, and a sensuality that nearly stains your fingers as you turn the pages. I read the book the year it was published, and recall that it perfectly fit my springtime mood of feeling younger than I am, of sensing some liquid filling up in preparation to burst and bloom, and feeling love and connection to every beautiful thing. And in spring, I am convinced most everything is beautiful and so everything can be loved.
This season is for farmers the time of dreaming and seeing what others don't yet. It's a moment of sighing and letting go of the tightness built into our our bodies, a way of holding ourselves that we perfect sometime in mid-December as a protection against the winter cold, and early and late dark and the random sloppiness of the elements surrounding us. Now, in February, or maybe early-March, but as soon as we can, we release and open again to the life within the soil, the power of the golden sun, the miracle of the colors of green and brown and red that thrust upward awake and alive, and to the songs of the birds and the insects and the leaves forming on the trees and bushes as the movement of air sweeps and caresses and moves them softly and wildly.
Springtime, ah. I'm in love and you're beautiful. Aren't you now. Springtime is the promise that life is itself all the wonder we need. It's a promise we can fulfill. Plant something.
This season is for farmers the time of dreaming and seeing what others don't yet. It's a moment of sighing and letting go of the tightness built into our our bodies, a way of holding ourselves that we perfect sometime in mid-December as a protection against the winter cold, and early and late dark and the random sloppiness of the elements surrounding us. Now, in February, or maybe early-March, but as soon as we can, we release and open again to the life within the soil, the power of the golden sun, the miracle of the colors of green and brown and red that thrust upward awake and alive, and to the songs of the birds and the insects and the leaves forming on the trees and bushes as the movement of air sweeps and caresses and moves them softly and wildly.
Springtime, ah. I'm in love and you're beautiful. Aren't you now. Springtime is the promise that life is itself all the wonder we need. It's a promise we can fulfill. Plant something.
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