The mystical world of plants

There are people who believe that Nature, if left to her own devices, can heal the land; the best we humans can do, according to these folks, is get out of the way (or, barring that, try to mimic the natural cycle of things as much as possible). There are some who embrace practices from an earlier time or faraway places that seek to transform the land through a series of somehwat pagan rituals. There are some pretty out-there ideas, theories of farming, accepted by a decent segment of the population, that rely on lunar calendars and mineral preparations and buried cow horns. There are some who garden barefoot, believing that this way the soil comes to know them and provide for their specific nutritional needs. I don't know what to make of some of these ideas, so different from my previous views of the human-earth-plant relationship. But while I tend to seek out logical explanations for why and how things flourish, modern science doesn't account for everything. At least not yet.

I got to thinking about more mystical explanations of the interactions between people and plants while working with Deborah at her homestead in Uvalde, TX last week. Deborah's interest in eastern philosophy informs her book choices as well as her organic farming practices, and while I was there I leafed through a number of unconventional, back-to-the-land paperbacks with titles like "The Secret Life of Plants" and "Gaia's Garden." Among these cursory book skimmings, I came across a chapter in "Secrets of the Soil" that my hostess had mentioned during one of our morning chats over goat milk lattes. It discussed a soil purification ceremony originated in India that involves burning cow dung, rice, and butter in a copper pyramid while chanting. I was intrigued.

Stay with me here, I haven't gone off the deep end. (Do insane people know that they're going insane? Hmmm.)

Scientists cited in the book, admittedly written in the 1970s, confirmed significantly reduced levels of radioactive activity in areas where these soil purification ceremonies -- known as Agnihotra -- were performed. This was true in a variety of formerly infertile locations around the world. I mean places as improbable as Chernobyl. Claims of a boost in the nutrient content that the burnt offerings contribute to the soil (carbon, nitrogen, and all kinds of minerals) don't seem so far-fetched, considering the nutrient-rich things being burned. There's a bit more of a leap of logic required to accept proponents' claims that scattering the resulting ashes cuts down on pests and weeds, but it's somewhat plausible, maybe similar to mulching. But then there's the chanting of a mantra at sunrise, sunset, and other important moments during plants' circadian rhythms. This is the most hard to swallow element of the whole shebang for those of us schooled in western science. And yet...

Most scientists may not concede that singing to your plants will help them grow, but many of us still do it. Does it actually affect the plants? (I swear I saw my basil plant wincing on the windowsill once or twice when I would hum while watering, perhaps slightly off key. "The Beatles again??" it lamented, shrugging its foliage.) Why not? Maybe the extra carbon dioxide we're exhaling in close proximity to the plants gives them a boost. Maybe it's our pointed attention focused on the plants, rather than the singing/breathing specifically, that actually helps them grow. I'm not getting all "Celestine Prophesy" on you: many well-respected people, from professional athletes to surgeons to particle physicists, put great stock in the power of intention, one's ability to influence the outcome of an event through positive thought. It works in sports and in medicine -- why not farming?

And how about the sound vibrations themselves? Maybe it's the pitch that's the key. (Har, har.) The vibrations from the chanting, as I imagine it, seem strikingly similar to the group chant with which many of my yoga instructors would open and close class. The "Ohm" supposedly is the sound the universe makes, and by joining in we are aligning ourselves with the collective energy around us -- energy that can, some believe, heal us. (It's no wonder that the places I've read about where agnihotra is practiced tend to be ashrams.) There might be a scientific explanation for the effects of the sound as well: maybe it somehow stimulates a reaction on a molecular level that we don't yet know how to recognize. Frankly, I don't know quite what to make of it. But I'm curious.

I'd love to spend a few days working at a place that practices agnihotra. This purification-by-fire ritual that I read about taps into a realm of possibility that is pretty improbable. But what if...?

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Happy as a pig in, um, fresh straw

After the "udder chaos" of bottle feeding calves back in New England -- good one, Sheffy -- one might have thought I was done with hands-on dairy, but no. Within an hour of my arrival at Nothing But Nature, I was milking my first goat, Rosie. (Well, after a snack -- I'd biked nearly 60 miles that day.) It's a very hands-on kind of place, and master gardeners Diane and Phil encouraged me to get right in there during the days I spent at the farm: pickling cucumbers, driving a bobcat, harvesting tomatoes, milking goats. Phil in particular is a thoughtful and patient teacher, and Diane is a darn good cook -- I must have that chicken and dumpling stew recipe! And the herbed chevre? Divine.

I'd learned about the farm in my WWOOFing guide. (For those unfamilar with the term, WWOOF stands for "Worldwide Workers On Organic Farms" -- a global organization that supplies folks interested in working on organic farms with information on farms willing to host volunteers.) I'd worked at a number of WWOOF-affiliated farms by now and had come to this farm with the hope of learning about some of their biodynamic practices. I did, a bit, but found myself more powerfully taken with the way the farm runs as a whole, especially in regard to the livestock.

Every animal on the farm is named: goats, sheep, pigs, cats, dogs, calves. Naming is one thing -- heck, I named my bicycle and even my friend Ben's bike that I learned on (Ollie and I miss you, Sheldon!) and Diane named the electric golf cart the couple zips around in between the house and the barn. That's not unusual, right? What is really cool is how each animal responds when called and trots on over, even from across a field. "Emily!" Phil would call, and the she-goat would gallop over. My first morning at the barn, I arrived a few minutes earlier than Diane's son Scott and his wife JT for morning chores. Dave, Buster, Tennyson, Emily, Lily, Gail, Bullseye, Buttercup, and others ambled over to survey whether or not I brought alfalfa or food scraps for them. They were friendly without being needy, clearly comfortable around people, and the goats were downright eager to be milked. When a baby sheep was born prematurely a few days before my arrival, it was named after JT (whose birthday it was, too) and Diane and JT (the human one) patiently worked with the mama sheep and the little lamb to help it suckle, cooing and coaxing until by the fifth day or so the little guy could nurse on its own. Would this happen on an industrial farm? Hardly.

The following day Phil explained a bit more about his philosophy on raising animals. They are in many ways treated like members of the family: named, coddled, talked to, well fed, and left to roam the large grazing area as they chose. Their diet of grass is supplemented with sweet dried alfalfa, buckets of apples and watermelon rinds, organic grain, and occasional table scraps. In the fall, the farm receives truckloads of dry leaves that are scattered around the barn, nearly 5 feet deep in some places, over a few piles of table scraps. The animals root around, nibble on scraps, add their own fresh fertilizer, and mix everything up with the hay bedding. As Phil adds more scraps and hay throughout the winter, the compost develops for his spring crops, the animals are well fed, and the heat from the composting process warms the barn. Genius! How come I haven't heard of this before?

The animals seemed to live happy lives -- good food, plenty of land to graze, thoughtful and affectionate caretakers, a comfortable barn -- and I'll tell you, the fresh goat milk was amazing. Maybe there's a connection between the quality of an animal's life and the food (milk, eggs, meat) it produces after all....


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Take cover!

From my friend Katie's house just west of Cleveland, Ollie and I made our way south to Wooster, OH to work with Matt and Debora on their small farm (or, rather, large garden) and learn about green manure. Matt, a professor of environmental entrepreneurship at the nearby college, spoke passionately and eloquently about the many merits of green manure -- using "cover crops" like oats, rye, and vetch to keep down weeds and enrich the soil in between food crop plantings. (Have you heard of vetch? I hadn't before I started working on farms. It's a kind of legume with little purple flowers, but every time I hear it I think "kvetch." Ollie has asked me to refrain from making jokes along the lines of kvetching about sowing seeds of vetch, so I'll do my best.) Green manure isn't the only green farming principle at work here: the couple is testing out using rolls of inexpensive (biodegradable) brown craft paper and old newspapers -- rather than the more common plastic sheets -- to block weed growth, retain moisture, and minimize soil erosion. The first morning I was there, Debora and I measured out and laid down enough of this paper and covered it with a 1" layer of compost to prepare space for 10 rows of spinach and lettuce, most of which Matt and I planted that evening (mere hours before a severe thunderstorm).

The second day was pretty rainy, so I wasn't out in the garden too much. Instead, I spent the day cooking, playing "spaceship" with 4-year-old Luka, and learning more about cover cropping and green manure. During my visit to the Rodale Institute a few months back, I'd seen a demonstration of a contraption that "crimped" (rolled over and bent) rows of cover crops where they stood, converting fields of rye into instant mulch that suppressed weeds while trapping moisture and warmth for the soon-to-be-planted seeds. Here at Hopeful Gardens -- Matt and Debora's operation -- cover crops are used in much the same way, but on a smaller scale using hand-operated equipment. Matt joked that he and his wife have a symbiotic relationship with weeds, but aside from perhaps the potato patch (and they were rampant there) I didn't notice much undesirable greenery in the garden. Rather than rows of crops interspersed with bare ground, as I've seen most other places, one sees rows of various vegetable crops amid neatly trimmed grass, with a few beds of newly cut cover crops awaiting seeds.

One of the cool things particular to legume cover crops (like clover, vetch, or soybeans) is the additional benefit they provide of trapping nitrogen moving about the surrounding air and soil, slowly releasing the valuable compound back into the soil when they decompose. Why don't more farmers use legume cover crops instead of chemical fertilizers (for nitrogen) and herbicides (for weeds)? My suspicion is that it takes more attention and careful planning to plant and cut these crops at the appropriate time than many farmers have the interest in committing. And, Matt added, there is the uncertainty of exactly how much nitrogen a particular cover crop will yield in a given year... what if it's not enough? (One of the experimental beds at Hopeful Gardens had too thin of a rye crop to block the weeds in the bean patch, for instance, but on a comparatively small scale this was a nuisance rather than a tragedy.) With so much uncertainty inherent in farming already, who can blame a farmer for seeking out the certainty of chemical fertilizer, a known quantity? It's easier and there's less room for error. But with so many obvious benefits to the non-chemical, cover cropping method, isn't it worth the effort? It may work out to be more economically sound as well: my initial suspicion is that the machinery involved in cover cropping vs. fertilizer/herbicide methods would be comparable in price, so unless all of the chemicals work out to be cheaper than a sack of vetch seeds -- and in the current industrial agricultural scene it may be -- cover cropping may make financial sense as well. (Are there agricultural economists or researchers out there who can help me out on this one?)

You're probably wondering why there is a picture of tomatoes included in this post. Well, the short answer is that I am perhaps as obsessed with heirloom tomatoes as Matt is with cover cropping. And I've been eating them constantly since I arrived. And, well, aren't they just gorgeous? A perfect accompaniment to the red onion and rainbow chard quiche I made for dinner....


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Two steps forward, two steps back

It took me a little while to recover from the inadvertent 12-mile detour between Caledonia State Park and King's Gap State Park -- scenic, yes, but also quite hot and also hilly -- on Wednesday. After a day of rest and recuperation at Don & Caroline's lovely home in Carlisle, PA, I marveled at what a few naps, good food, and charming company can do. I feel great. Ollie's looking well-rested, too.

Yesterday, I traveled with the friendly folks at The Rosemary House to help out at the annual Herb Festival in Baltimore. (Yes, Baltimore, putting me just about a day's ride from where I started nearly a month ago. Don't think that little detail escaped my notice or that of my dad who could not help but point out that my route thus far has been less... efficient... than it could have been. I noticed the same thing when traveling through Bedford and seeing the "Cumberland: 34 miles" sign last week. This journey is about learning, so I'm hoping I become a better mapper as I go along....) Anyway, back on point, the festival was pretty cool. While my master plan to secure for myself a cone of lavender ice cream (my current obsession) was foiled, I did learn quite a bit. David -- an amazingly knowledgeable herbalist -- on the drive down helped me clear up some confusion surrounding my understanding of the relationship between "natural medicine" and "homeopathy." I had always equated the two, but it seems this is a common misconception. (The fact that I did not sack out on the drive down -- we had woken up at 4:45am to drive to the festival -- is a testament to the engaging and thoughtful nature of David's conversation.)

At the festival itself, I spent most of my time devouring a quart of fresh strawberries and (wo)manning the used book section of the Rosemary House booth. I was in my element. I mean, used books on gardening and cooking?? I think I did a fairly good job on sales, but I also managed to read up on using plants to control various garden pests and got somewhat sidetracked thumbing through a book on using herbs and flowers to make natural soaps. I also had a bit of a reprieve from the heat when I went to a talk in the chapel called "Enhancing your health with culinary herbs," given by near-Dr. Andrew Pengelly, a charming and somewhat self-effacing Australian gentleman. It was here that many of my instincts surrounding the curative and preventative nature of herbs and spices were confirmed. I learned new things about some of the health benefits of some of my favorite spices, too. Of note were

• garlic (eating as little as a half of a raw clove per day has been shown to reduce cholesterol, blood pressure, and blood clotting, never mind that your garlic breath keeps most swine-flu-bearing folks at a safe distance)



• parsley (high in iron and also good for GI issues)



• ginger and turmeric (anti-inflammatories -- I still stand by my claim that tea made with lots of chopped, fresh ginger and honey cures just about everything from sore muscles to insomnia to allergies)



• cinnamon (believed to help prevent/control diabetes due to its glucose/insulin-moderating properties).

I also learned about some preliminary clinical studies on the health effects of various herbal extracts. In Asia, for example, a study of the elderly in relation to the amount of curry they consume -- lots, some, or none -- seemed to have a direct correlation to their cognitive function. Now, obviously there are many factors and biases inherent in such a study, but imagine -- just imagine! -- if we could prevent or drastically reduce the onset of Alzheimer's, dementia, or other memory loss afflictions by periodically consuming curries and other flavorful food. I believe in modern science and medicine (ahem, Justin) but I also can't help but note that for so many years and in so many other cultures there are natural, food- and herb-based remedies that work. (Don't worry, Rudy, I'm steering clear of coffee enemas....)

I'm hoping to learn much more about the growing, storage, and use of herbs over the next few days. For those who might be interested in lavender ice cream (and making me green with envy: I will be somewhere in Connecticut by then), you should check out the PA Lavender Festival, which runs from June 19-21.

A little culture

So I spent yesterday morning harvesting and packing greens and herbs for today's deliveries. Kale, collard greens, chard, 6 different kinds of lettuce (including one related to the Chrysanthemum which tasted mildly like parsley and had me daydreaming about tabbouleh for the last hour before lunchtime), oregano, sage, and thyme. There were also some beets and asparagus that were too small for shipping so we divvied them up among ourselves. Yum.

As we worked, I had the opportunity to get to know some of the full-time folks at Maggie's: Phyllis, Eric, and JJ. (Cliff was on mowing duty for pretty much the whole day, so only a few jokes and sarcastic comments back and forth there.) Inevitably, the conversation turned to food. Sure, I can talk about all kinds of other things -- books, music, art, film, the need for universal health care coverage, the decline of the public education system in our country, the evil powers responsible for the inane Washington Sports Clubs' member cancellation policy (and how a lack of a forwarding address should not bring the system to a screeching halt) -- but food is my favorite. And as we worked in the cooler for hours with gorgeous, newly-harvested produce, I began to brainstorm. Arugula pesto. Sauteed chard with garlic and nutmeg. Roasted asparagus with mint and lemon juice. Baby beet salad with mustard vinaigrette.

[Writing intermission: snack break.]

Clouds lingered after lunch and the weather seemed iffy, so I worked with Phyllis for a few hours on the "Defragging Phyllis' Brain" project -- essentially, it was a download of a lot of information from the farm manager's brain onto a working spreadsheet to map out weekly, monthly, and seasonal plans for the farm. Again, during lulls in the work, food occupied the majority of the conversation, so once we got to what we deemed an appropriate stopping point for the day, Phyllis let me into her kitchen and I fiddled with some of the miscellaneous organic ingredients in her refrigerator and some herbs I'd snipped from around the farm. I'd cut some fresh lettuce in the greenhouse and we proceeded to enjoy an herbal salad dressing sampling for the prototypes I was working on, each one featuring a seasonal herb: oregano, chives, sage, and thyme.



It seems both Phyllis and I liked the thyme one best, which had fresh orange juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and mustard; I seem to have overdone it on the chili powder in the chive vinaigrette; the other two were fine, but nothing too crazy. As we nibbled, Phyllis told me of a gentleman in town with 6 Jersey cows who sells raw milk. I think I may have been out the door and let myself into her car and had my seatbelt on before she finished that sentence, but I can't be sure. Raw milk! We picked up a gallon, stopped for a few dozens free range eggs from another neighbor, and headed directly back to the farm....

I am perhaps a little overzealous about my affinity for fresh, plain yoghurt. It's hard to find these days outside of farmers markets. (I wouldn't characterize my frequenting of the 3 dairy suppliers at the Dupont Farmers Market as "stalking" per se, but I would get a little panicky when the supply of plain yoghurt ran low as I tried to wait patiently in line.) Phyllis pulled out her recipe and we got to work. The next morning, it was ready... and ridiculously delicious. We devoured about half the quart between us, garnished with raspberries frozen from last summer. And it was so easy!



If you want to make it yourself, here's the recipe:
- Heat 1 quart of raw milk (or store-bought milk is fine, too) in a saucepan to 180 degrees.
- Remove from stove top and cool milk to 116 degrees.
- Stir in 2 tablespoons of plain yoghurt culture. (This can be the last 2 TBSP of previous yoghurt batch or simply 2 TBSP of store-bought, plain yoghurt, preferably organic)
- Pour into a glass container and cover. (We covered a large glass jar with some tin foil.)
- Store at 116 degrees for 6 hours or overnight. (We wrapped the covered jar in a small towel, then a wool blanket, and placed it on a wooden cutting board set atop a small, metal space heater set on low overnight.)
- Chill for an hour or two. (This may apply to you, but certainly applies to the yoghurt.)

Soooo delicious.... and easy. I'll bet it would be a blast to make with kids. But then you'd probably have to set a good example and share some of it. Hmmm.... maybe make two batches.

Grow, Pittsburgh!

The past few days here in Pittsburgh have been packed. The weather has miraculously held out for the most part, allowing Ollie and I to venture all over the city exploring farms, gardens, fairs, and markets. Okay, and a few coffee shops. (What can I say - the 'burgh has a ton of fabulous independent java joints and I feel I would be remiss if I were to neglect these cultural centers. Also, they have free wifi and Will had kindly offered the use of his laptop for a few hours so I could do some online research without suffering thumb cramps trying to surf the web on my blackberry.)

Friday's action included an extended stop at the annual May Market, held on the grounds of the impressive Phipps Conservatory. There were dozens of garden clubs and urban farmers selling all manner of seedlings to throngs of local greenthumbs. It was also where I had a chance to meet Susanna, one of the Grow Pittsburgh movers and shakers, who gave me a rundown on some of the local gardening programs around the city. There's some great work going on here, including a fledgling Edible Schoolyard program (modeled on Alice Waters' famed Berkeley pilot project that integrates growing and eating healthy, sustainable food into the public school curriculum). Good stuff.

Saturday provided a chance to check out "Farmers at the Firehouse" - the farmer's market in the hip and happenin' downtown Strip. Unfortunately, my morning dilly dallying meant that Will and I arrived too late to get in on the wild mushrooms, which had sold out hours before our arrival. And my chat with the 2 Jonathans at the mushroom booth has not yet yielded an invitation to go morel hunting with them. I guess I shouldn't be surprised: Michael Pollan alluded in The Omnivore's Dilemma to the secret-of-life degree of guardedness among avid mushroomers. C'mon, I can keep a secret. Just toss me a few chantrelles and mum's the word.

After a sandwich and a stop by REI for the much-needed rain cover for my bike helmet and shoes (I had foolishly mocked helmet cover wearers in the past, but 6 days of biking in pouring rain changed my tune), Will and I poked around the Friendship neighborhood's Folk & Flower Fest. Here at last I met Barb, one of the founders of Mildred's Daughters, and managed to snap a picture of her and a few of the other workers and volunteers at their seedling stand. I had been to the farm earlier in the week and learned about the rare history of the 5 acre plot (which has been farmed since the late 19th Century) and working group alternative program to traditional CSAs. From here, we walked to the nearby Montessori school to check out their vegetable patch and then it was off to the Frick Greenhouse, where we encountered a good variety of seedlings and seasonal produce.

Ah, but the story of Pittsburgh was not over yet. Sunday morning found Ollie and I pedaling back to the Landslide Community Farm for - you guessed it - the brunch. Really, can I resist an opportunity to be around good people and good food? No, clearly I can't. They even let me into the kitchen, where I proceeded to sneak garlic into just about everything but the french toast. And I'm glad I loaded up on carbs because I needed them for the cross-town, hill-laden trek to Braddock Farms. (Oh my, did I say hills? I think I looked *down* and saw Mount Olympus from my vantage point on Forward Avenue.) The farm was alive with asparagus, garlic, lettuce, tomato plants, and strawberry shrubs. Pretty sweet, and oddly, but somehow fittingly, ensconced next to one of the city's few remaining steel mills.

I managed to navigate a different route back, with considerably fewer hills, that took me once more past the fantastic East End Food Co-op. I picked up a few last goodies and headed back to Steve's apartment. After dinner and a hot bath, I think it's time for a mug of tea and some flannel pjs. My legs are going to be sore tomorrow - I can tell.


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