Yesterday, I stopped my other chores and made okra pickles. They are one of my signature dishes: distinctive and unique—a hint of salt; a hint of garlic, a hint of heat, in a texture that is more than juicy, but less than slimy. When I open a jar, especially when someone from Texas or parts south is visiting, the pint is devoured in one sitting.

I began growing okra as a adult. I have always tried growing new vegetables. One summer, while I was in the midst of my canning frenzy in August and September, I must have made my first okra pickles. Back then, my garden was small and I struggled to have enough okra to make pickles.

When I moved to the farm, I began planting long rows of this crop. This year, I lpanted two long rows of 300 feet. The okra thrived in the drought in July, producing quart after quart of delicious produce. Once Michael had shared a jar of my okra pickles with other vendors at the farmer’s market, we had no trouble selling okra. Quarts and quarts of it

The rhyme about the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead sums up okra: when it is good, it is very, very good; when it is bad, it is horrid.  

For okra to be good, it must be fresh. As it ages, it becomes tasteless and slimey. Good okra has a nutty flavor, a semi-crunchy texture, and an ooziness that is not slimey. It is the main ingredient in gumbos. I slice it sideways, saute it in olive oil or butter with garlic and serve it over rice; I add it to omelets or stews.  

My favorite, however, is okra pickles. The trick is to pick them fresh and pickle them right away. I get the canning jars boiling; I make a brine of water, salt, dill seed and vinegar. I go out into the field, pick the okra, wash it, cut it to fit into wide-mouthed pint jars, pour hot brine over it, add a hot pepper and a clove of garlic, seal it and process it in a hot water bath. I can make eight pints in about an hour.

This morning, I picked ten quarts of okra in our front field. It was hot; bees buzzed in the flowers.  Some of the okra is now as tall as I am; the The plants are becoming pyramidal in shape and developing side shoots—a sign that they are nearing the end of their growing season. I saw the okra flowers at eye level: they have crinkly, soft-yellow petals which unswirl around a black center. I got lost in the okra for a little while, then lost in the pickling process as I cut the okra and put it in the pint jars.  

Okra and okra pickles--I relish my time with this plant and with this pickle.

Two weeks ago, Michael and Janet went to the farmer’s market. They worked in the pouring rain. We had our second best sales day of the season. Janet raved about how much she loved the market. Last week, they produced our best market this season.

Janet loves to connect with people; Michael loves to sell. They thrive at the market—pricing, selling, talking and presenting. When Michael starts talking about the market, his eyes sparkle: he is like a racehorse that sees the track. They both read the market, and our customers, and then they strategize how they can do better. It is a sizzling, synergistic team

Last week, Michael asked for twice as many flowers. They came back with one bunch. Next week, I may send even more, if I have time to pick them. We have sent black-eyed peas and quarts of okra, the only crop that flourished in the hot, dry weather.  

Connie, the Korean from Los Angeles, had seen sweet potato vines and suggested we take them to the market. Last week, we took three bunches. We sold them all. Michael had done his research. He explained that the leaves are used in other parts of the world. “Put them in stir-frys, “he suggested.

“Do you have any other exotic vegetables?” he pushes me.

Now that it has rained, we have plenty of lustrous produce: lima beans, Roma beans, beets, squash, tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, carrots, Swiss chard and kale. During the drought, we did not have much to pick, now we don’t have enough picking hands to pick all our produce.

Meanwhile, Michael appeals to the senses. “Smell it!” he says about our pork, wrapped in paper. “Taste this!” he says about our honey. “Flowers for the wife,” he cajoles men as they pass by. He has probably already noticed the ring on their fingers.

“Find me a Saturday market,“Michael pleads.

“Michael,” I say,” If we pick for Sunday, at the rate you are selling, we will not have enough food for Saturday too. We need a mid-week market when we will have more produce ready to pick.”
 
But if there were a way I could magically find produce in the garden for a Saturday market, I would let this racehorse run again……

Rain!  I heard small rain drops hit the parched earth outside my bedroom window last Thursday morning. I softened as I took in the sweet, comforting smell of ozone-laden air. Strong winds and pelting rain, a full-blown thunderstorm, ensued. Another shower came that evening. The drought was broken.  

“How are you coping with the severe drought?” I was asked at a pool party the previous night. ”Are you irrigating?”

“No.” I replied. Three years ago in another drought, I asked my neighbors, the Blums, how I could tell when my well was close to running dry. “When you run out, then you are out,” they said and Roland added, “I don’t think your well is too strong.” 

What a sobering reality. Another neighbor, Sandy Peterson, told me that they sometimes get a soybean harvest in a drought if enough dew lands on the leaves. We began filling 50-gallon barrels with cool well water to warm it in the sun. We misted our crops close to sunset. We watered tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers by hand.

We began adding “Charlie’s water” about a month ago. My friend, Charlie, had bought a machine that adds oxygen to water and removed toxins—he calls it “light water.” (johnelliswater.com.) The water has improved his health and the health of his plants and animals. Our plants seemed to green in front of our eyes as we misted them. They kept living, but did not produce fruit.

We still had no rain; though the weatherman repeatedly predicted showers. None had come. Our sky was dense and hazy-white with pollution; our air humid. I pulled out A Biodynamic Farm by Hugh Lovel. He attributes some lack of rain to stagnant atmospheric conditions. One summer, he experienced four weeks of stifling hot weather, brown and hazy sky and high humidity, but rain clouds did not form.

In the book, he outlines a regimen of spraying biodynamic preparations starting one evening and continuing morning and evening for four applications.  The regime, he says, helps rain clouds form: it also takes 3 hours of extra work a day. We stirred preparations morning and evening for an hour and then sprayed them onto the fields.

The morning after our last spray, rain began falling. Would it have rained anyway? I cannot know, but I suspect that just as the machine that makes Charlie’s water actively works to clear pollutants, we will need to learn to work more actively with the atmosphere to clear pollutants there too.

It rained--blessed rain—and the air cleared. Now we are planting our fall crops furiously: beets, carrots, turnips, kohlrabi, lettuce, radish and chard. Alleluia!

The yard in front of the farmhouse felt sublime Sunday morning--like something special had happened there. It had at our High Summer Feast: it was a deeply filling time.

One guest said, “We go through life with 300 channels and nothing worth watching. This event was fulfilling.” Another said, “I am constantly multi-tasking. I seldom focus on one thing and give it my full attention.”

Saturday night, we focused on taste. "Taste is a two-way conversation with whatever we take in….for eating, tasting in an intimate matter,” says Albert Soesman in Our Twelve Senses: How healthy senses refresh the Soul.  Soesman clarifies the twelve senses that Rudolph Steiner outlined nearly a century ago.

Those senses include not just the physical senses, but also spiritual and soul senses, including the sense of the other and the sense of language. In the book’s introduction, Cheryl Sanders proclaims, “We begin to see that the body itself carries the capacity to heal the world, if we understood and lived in balance with the gifts of the senses.“

To live in that balance; however, we need honest experience. We need to connect. The feast connected us to the Earth and its bounty, to each other and to ancient traditions. The feast is held at Lammas, a time when our ancestors honored the first fruits.  

We harvested food from the farm and gave it to Chef Rich Hoffman. He, Erik Yeagar and students from the Baltimore International College School of Culinary Arts transformed the food into a culinary exposition--each course featuring one main ingredient fixed to highlight its textures and flavors—a theme with variations.

Chef Hoffman introduced each course. After the meal, he introduced the chefs who worked tirelessly in the kitchen. The crowd applauded heartily. Storyteller Diane Macklin wove stories before, during and after the meal, including a folk tale from Africa and a story about her nightlight.  

Crickets and cicadas droned, birds chirped, the sun set over the Catoctin Mountains.
The event was a living version of “This is the House that Jack built:” This is the farm that grew the food; this is the farmer that tended the plants; this is the chef that prepared the meal, this is the way that food can taste; this is the other that I just met; these are the sounds that fill my senses; this is how it feels to be filled….

Sublime fullness. Thanks to all who came and gave themselves to the evening!

We will feast tonight on our own farm's fare--Saturday, August 7 from 6:00 to 9:00 p.m.

Chefs from the Baltimore International College School for Culinary Arts have already prepared the food; master storyteller Diane Macklin has prepared stories, and we have prepared the farmhouse and the grounds of the farm for visitors.

The weatherman is predicting temperatures in the 60's tonight, so you might even want to bring a sweater or a light jacket. We have room for those who have not pre-registered, and we ask you to call or e-mail and let us know you are coming, if possible, so we can be prepared for our guests. Please check an earlier blog (below) for tonight's menu. Hope to see you at the farm!

Sally

Nothing says high summer better than beefsteak tomatoes! We have had Early Girls and Sun Gold cherry tomatoes now for a month, but the season of the giant beefsteak tomatoes has arrived! We picked nearly twenty this week: Goldies and Soldacki’s.

 The Fedco catalogue describes the Soldacki tomato as the perfect sandwich tomato—large, meaty and flavorful. Goldie—a personal favorite of many here on the farm--is gold, not so tart, smooth, firm and meaty. 

 My son, Alex, and our biodynamic apprentice, Michael, headed off to the farmer’s market yesterday with a basket of prize winners. I was left with the seconds—those tomatoes that had some animal taste in the garden. A chicken? A turtle? I will find out and put up a fence if I have to to prevent them from eating more of my prizes.

 Yesterday for lunch, I cut up the good parts of those seconds—one Soldacki, one Goldie, and another tomato we grow—called a Green Zebra. It is relatively small, the size of a giant cherry tomato. It stays green on the inside with stripes of yellow on the outside. Its green color complements the red and gold tomatoes, and its flavor adds tanginess. I added some green pepper, onion and cucumber. Then I crumbled Feta Cheese over the top, threw in fine olives and tossed it.

 I made a bowlful, planning to eat it again that evening. It is gone, done, finished. I savored the juicy sweet meatiness of the big tomatoes, the crunch of the peppers and the saltiness of the olives. I was satiated and satisfied by this salad: the best of my life.

 Tomatoes come at a time when it is brutally hot—when the long hours in the field wear down the strongest spirit. Field help needs to be hydrated by the hour. The rich sweetness of the tomato contrasts with the acrid smell of a soil panting for rain.

 Last summer, the farm crew ate tomato sandwiches every day for several weeks. We varied the bread—sourdough, white, pumpernickel, rye, whole wheat. We varied the meats: ham, Lebanon bologna, salami. We varied the thickness of the tomato, and the amount of mayonnaise. We varied the salt, the pepper, seasonings, but day after day, our tomato orgy continued.  We could not get enough.

This year had been a hard year. We have had little rain, and we have worked hard just to keep our plants alive. Few people have ventured out in the extreme heat to buy food from the markets, so our sales are down. The last two times the weatherman has predicted rain, we have had drops.

It has been tough, really tough. Maybe that is why that tomato salad tasted so sweet….

Master Storyteller, Diane Macklin will warm the heart with stories of love, triumph, and joy with her lyrical voice, mbira, and dancing hands. Her performance will delight listeners of all ages, so bring the whole family to a food and story feast!

Diane will perform at our High Summer Feast, next Saturday night, August 7 from 6:00 to 9:00 p.m. Chefs Rich Hoffman and Eric Yeager and students fron the Baltimore International College, School of Culinary Arts, will be preparing the feast with food from the farm. Cost is $25 in advance; $27 at the door. (We encourage you to sign up ahead of time so we can get a good count!) 

Last year, this event was MAGIC! Hope you will join us!

Sally

Connie arrived last Wednesday from Los Angeles. She described herself as a “down-to-Earth-Asian” who wanted to experience farm life. She got farming at its worst. The sun baked the farm with temperatures over 100 degrees. Strong winds dried out everything.

Even seasoned farmers wilt in such weather. We picked early; we watered late; we weeded. We put her in charge of feeding and watering the chickens—three times a day--in such heat. She did not water midday. Four chickens died. Connie, a Buddhist vegetarian, faced those chickens reluctantly.  

Sunday night, she joined us for our full moon celebration. The program was on hearing: one of the twelve senses Rudolph Steiner had discussed.  At the last minute, I had to lead the program.   

“Connie,” I asked, “What would the Buddhists say about hearing?”

“Buddhists would say that we pay too much attention to the outside and that we need to listen to our inner voice,” she responded.  

I gave her a ride early yesterday morning so she could catch the Greyhound bus to her next adventure. After my nap, I planned to catch up on some of my household chores. I woke in a fog. I looked at the clock: no numbers showed. I flipped the switch over the sink; no light came on. The power was out. I had planned to wash clothes, iron. vacuum, listen to the news, call friends on the phone and read my mail. I read my mail, musing about how dependent I had become on electricity.  

In church on Sunday, my friend, Charlie, asked me how I was doing with the heat and the drought. I put on a brave face: we had hand-watered critical crops--the tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and eggplant--and misted the other crops just at dusk.

Charlie seemed amazed. “A farmer without a generator!” he scoffed at me.

He has a generator, a pump and a large water tank. He drives his tractor, tank in tow, to the pond, hooks up his gasoline-powered generator to the pump, fills the tank and then waters his garden.  

Maybe I should buy a generator, a pump and a tank, but as the weather gets more chaotic and extreme, I think we may have to face a time when the lights go out and our machines cannot do the job. We will face the fury of nature and our own inadequacy.

At that moment, I wonder if Connie’s words will be a gift to me, “Listen to the inner voice…”