Fresher than fresh… it’s exciting
THERE'S
a story that’s been making the rounds — a little
girl was once asked where pizza came from and she
replied ‘the phone’. Other variations to that
anecdote are her replying ‘from a box’ or ‘from the
freezer’. A smile tugs at your lips till you realise
that the point being made is the fact that kids no
longer know that long before sliced bread or pizza
there is wheat. That oranges and potatoes aren’t
born in a grocery store but on the farm, on trees or
in the ground. Well, whether these stories are real
or urban myths, a string of similar tales have had a
cumulative effect.
“Get the kids outdoors,” is the
newest mantra. Nature Deficient Disorder is what
they’re calling it when kids don’t experience the
great outdoors. My suburban kids have seen more
green and with it more deer, rabbit and squirrel in
our backyard, than I ever saw trees growing up. But
summer is a fleeting pleasure and winter keeps us
indoors, so being outdoors in the sun makes good
sense, I reasoned as I signed my two up for a farm
experience.
Yes, farms have become all the rage.
Kids get to work on a farm, or at least observe it
being worked. They till, they toil, they reap and
sow. That’s a semblance of what mine did for three
days. They participated in an 1800’s American farm
experience where they helped feed the horses, dug up
veggies and or plucked herbs off stems and stalks,
cleaned and cooked them, did some fishing and some
embroidery, played with hand-made wooden toys and
got to be real 1800’s kids.
They even churned ice-cream in an
old-fashioned ice-cream making pail. “You’d never
like being a woman in the 1800’s,” Taskeen said to
me. “All they did all day was cook. They only got a
20-minute break from morning to night.” Apparently,
back then each meal was a mini-feast and when lunch
was done, preparations for dinner began.
I thought my kids would complain
about the mice rummaging in the horse feed — the
bins of oats and corn. I imagined they’d fret about
gnats and mosquitoes, but I think they enjoyed the
novelty of the exercise so much that they quite
forgot to whine. Instead they narrated how back
then, farmers had to cut sheets of ice from rivers
and tow them back on sleds to the barn where they
had deep wooden ice-boxes, packed with saw dust, to
keep the ice from melting.
They also knew a little about
picking eggs straight from a coop and tapping trees
for maple syrup. I was thrilled I’d signed them up,
but knew I wouldn’t have been half as brave as them,
especially in sun that hot. My tryst with nature was
simpler even though it ended up costing me a pretty
penny.
My guilty pleasure was signing up
for a bushel of organic farm produce that was
straight from the farm, dirt sticking to it and all.
It was THAT fresh. I loved the idea that I would be
feeding my family only the freshest, organic veggies
and I especially loved the idea that I didn’t need
to leave home to get it. It arrived at my door-step.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, I
also imagined I was saving the earth and the
environment by buying locally rather than spending
on vegetables grown in California and trucked 25
hours away to Chicago. Co-op farming, they call it.
All those interested first buy a membership in the
co-op for a portion of the produce. Our memberships
enable the farmer to decide how much to grow.
By the time it’s summer, he begins
harvesting and a share arrives at our doorstep for
which we pay an additional $19. The first week I
received a bag of turnips, beets, carrots the size
of my little finger and all manner of tubers, none
of which I knew how to cook. Cleaning the mound of
salad leaves was not pleasant either.
Dwindling dollar signs lit up in my
head. That membership may not have been worth it, I
worried. By the second delivery, I decided to pull
the plug on the deliveries. “I don’t know what these
vegetables are and I do not know how to cook them,”
I e-mailed WellHausen Farms.
Guilt nagged. I had paid for this
co-op membership and now wasn’t even using
vegetables it produced. I reasoned that the novelty
of it all, plus the thought of eating healthy and
fresh, had been too much of a lure. But as the weeks
wore on I almost regretted my decision — Why did I
have to go jump on the latest bandwagon? I should
have investigated further before shelling out my
hard-earned greenbacks.
I’d almost given up when my silver
lining arrived. There in my in-box was an e-mail
from WellHausen Farms about the upcoming delivery
tomatoes, corn, potatoes, green beans and more.
These I could cook well and I even had down time to
actually do the cooking.
“Sure send me this weeks order,” I
responded happily. The stuff arrived. A bag heavy
with corn cobs, onions, tomatoes, potatoes and green
chillies. I washed some cherry tomatoes and popped
them into my mouth. These were the sweetest cheeries
I’d had in a while.
I boiled the corn. Again, delicious
and juicy. I boiled the baby potatoes and adding
some salt, pepper, cumin and coriander powder, I
roasted them . But I also wanted to try making some
salsa. I had long wanted to but rarely had all the
ingredients at hand. This was a rarity. I pulled
some recipes off the Internet and began the process.
In a chopper, in went the onions,
the coriander, the chillies. Brr. Grrr. Grrr. Next,
I roasted each tomato over the gas flame. The recipe
called for me to discard the charred tomato skins
and deseed the flesh. I decided against it. In went
the tomatoes, skin and all. Brr. Grrr. Grr. I dumped
the mixture in to a bowl, then peered at the recipe.
Salt and pepper and a dash of lemon juice, it said.
I added them.
Then with my whole wheat chapatti
and my spiced potatoes, I sat down to eat. Wrapping
the chappati around the potato, I dipped it into the
salsa. I took a bite. Salsa? This wasn’t Salsa. If
the recipe hadn’t called it so, I would never have
known it was Salsa. It tasted no different than what
we call Kucumbar in India. As I chewed, I grinned
with deep satisfaction. Salsa or cucumbar, it was
just as delicious as it had been back then.
Cooking dinner tonight, with another
fresh load of veggies from the farm, the jingle for
a grocery store runs through my mind. “Fresh from
the farm to the store,” croons the woman. I smile.
I’ve gone one step ahead. It’s fresh from the farm
to my plate. Even better, I’ve done my little bit
for the environment. One large step for my family,
one small step for humanity.