Such a rich tapestry of life unfolded yesterday! I had called for help! Forecasters predicted four more days of rain, with the potential for eight inches of rain from Hurricane Florence. Last weekend, our local creek closed our road as five inches of rain fell on ground already soaked. I wanted to pull the carrots and leeks out of my garden before they rotted and to share them with others while they were at the peak of freshness.
The first friend offered to help me pull them out of the garden. An experienced gardener, she and I looked at two long rows of leeks. I had planted the leek seeds in February and transplanted the plants, as slender as baby yarn, into two long beds in April. Now their stems were thick and firm; their blades of leaves opening 18 inches across and high. They were by far the best leeks I had ever grown. I had planned to harvest them mid fall, to be enjoyed through Thanksgiving.
“Should we pick them all, or do you think some of them will hold until later in the season,” I asked her. We looked closely at the plants. Some of them had already started to rot at the base; others were cracking. “Pick them all,” she advised.
For the next hour, we pulled two rows of leeks and one row of carrots. We washed them, trimmed the leaves and roots of the leeks, put them in a basket lined with fabric and stored them in my root cellar. She took an ample supply of leeks and potatoes home to make her own soup. Later we enjoyed a lunch of fresh tomatoes, tomatilloes, peppers and Feta cheese.
Mid-afternoon, another friend came with her young son and aging father. We walked to see my two tom turkeys. “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” I called as we approached them. “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” they answered exuberantly. They strutted at the fence, their iridescent brown feathers puffed out; their dewlaps a bright red and icy blue. The young boy call in a normal tone of voice. “Higher!” advised the father. “Put the accent on the first syllable--GOBble, GOBble, GOBble,” I coached. He called again; they responded. We saw what looked like a bat flying high above us; we examined the large black and yellow spider and her web. We picked Swiss chard, peppers, squash, okra and tomatoes. I thumped the last watermelon. “Does it sound ripe?I asked the father. “Almost,” he replied. In four days of rain, it would crack and be ruined. We picked it.
After they left, I weeded for a while. Then I went to check on the red raspberries. I picked a short quart of fruit. Two days earlier, I had checked on them in misty drizzle. The canes had been full of berries: some over ripe, some moldy, some oozing a dark juice. I pulled the rotten, oozing and moldy berries off the plants and imagined that the quart of berries I picked would be the last of the season. A black and white hornet sat motionless on a berry; a small spider's nest hung on one plant; all else was quiet.
My third friend arrived after dark. I had arranged food on the table on the back porch. She took Swiss chard, leeks, carrots, Perpetual Spinach, potatoes and two bunches of fresh flowers. I thanked her for coming and began my speech, “I just don't know where people think their food will come from...” I talked about massive greenhouses, supply chains, giant refrigeration, storms and road closures.
“People don't realize that the life force in food is important!” she responded. I had seen the light that radiated from the stems of the leeks, the vibrant orange of the carrots and flowers from the garden, and the subtle radiance of the fresh raspberries. The food from this garden, fresh-picked, was filled with light: de-light in the food was delight for my soul. As we prepared for the storm, we had had another de-light-full day at White Rose Farm.