Without question, I believe farmers have always been inventive, creative individuals, perhaps taking on one of the hardest jobs of all – working with the ever-changing conditions of Nature.  It requires a lot of ingenuity.

I have been kicking around farms and gardens since my early restaurant days in Highlands, NC and continue to do so, partially in hopes of some sort of magic “gardening dust” rubbing off on me, maybe helping me to grow my own garden successfully.

Over the past few years, Venessa Campbell and Alex Brown of Full Sun Farms in Big Sandy Mush have humored me and let me visit.  I have always been impressed with the quality of the vegetables they grow.  I was out there this week, enticed by Vanessa’s description of the lunch she fixed. It sounded delicious.  I offered to work for food.

Tuesday and Friday are harvest days, preparing for the Wednesday and Saturday tailgate markets – and those are the days that Vanessa cooks, so I headed out North Turkey Creek through some of the most beautiful mountain valley land in western North Carolina.  I arrived mid-way through the morning’s work, as I had an early business meeting downtown.  Most of the day’s harvest was complete and now it was time to wash and pack the produce.

Necessity is the Mother of Invention

The task I was given by Alex was to wash the chioga beets for the CSA boxes and the tailgate on Wednesday. Over the seasons, Vanessa and Alex have collected various contraptions to make their farming task more productive.  As the era of equipping small farms has passed, at least for the moment, much of what they use is refurbished, antique equipment built before either of them were born.  For my assigned job, I was introduced to the Torrent Bunch Washer circa 1940. Two counter rotating brushes, belt-driven by an electric motor and a Rube Goldberg arrangement of two spray nozzles, this small machine would scrub the remaining earth from the mornings pickings.  Alex was clear and direct in his directions of how to wash the beets.  “Don’t press to hard, the motor can overheat, if you push too hard.  Be careful, there is a tendency for the brushes to pull the beets into the machine.  Be sure to get all the dirt off the beets.”  Using it was sort of like working with your grandmother, she knows what she is doing, but she’s not too quick about it.

So, I washed a-bucket-load of beets.  I liked it, very Zen.  At one point, Unnoticed, I caught Alex inspecting my work.  I had to chuckle to myself – I have spent 38 years picking and cleaning vegetables and inspecting others work – to meet my own high standards.  It was wonderful to see someone else as attentive to quality as I have been.  It seems I passed, he said nothing. It is one of those hidden, essential qualities for producing something of value.  Often it is unappreciated, but one of the reasons Full Sun Farms has always produced outstanding vegetables.  This trait would show up many times in the day.

Without question, I believe farmers have always been inventive, creative individuals, perhaps taking on one of the hardest jobs of all – working with the ever-changing conditions of Nature.  It requires a lot of ingenuity. To achieve what they do, which is to run a small, successful family farm, Vanessa and Alex have had to search far and wide for the tools of their trade.  The 1940 “Grandmother” Torrent Bunch Washer was only one example.  The barn area was littered with other, fine examples.  (Somewhere in all of this is the seed of a revival in small equipment manufacturing -as we MUST rebuild our local food systems).   These photos tell that story.

My task almost took until lunchtime.  Checking his watch, “we have five minutes”, Alex directed us to a few tasks, and one was clearing some straw from underneath tomato plants.  At Full Sun, tomatoes are grown in a greenhouse “tunnel”, in order to control moisture on the plants.  Excessive moisture and soil splash back from falling rain is the cause of a late season blight, which essentially kills the tomato plant.  One strategy is to plant them as they do here.  More work, superior product.  Our particular work, just before lunch, was to remove the straw mulch from some plants that inadvertently had some herbicide on them that was affecting the growth of the plants, causing them to spiral in on themselves, leading to destruction of the plant.  Additionally, this straw was suppose to be organic and had apparently slipped by from their source provider.  This done, time for lunch, the reason I was here.

Lunch was delicious, but, surprisingly, it was not about the food.  There were ten of us – Vanessa, Alex, their two daughters; Ada and Bella, Joseph and Joy (who are part of the Full Sun CSA and work 6 shifts on the farm as part of their payment), their 3 interns, Megan, Maggie and myself.

It was a very civilized – we sat together, ate lunch, talked about everything in the world, including farming.  When we finished, everyone pitched in to clean up and then headed off for hour of “private time”, letting the heat of the day pass until mid-afternoon.  I sat outside, while the kids climbed trees – the world slowed down.

I had an inkling about all these implements and recycled devices.  While I was washing the beets, I noticed an old washing machine.  I did wonder what it was doing out here in the barn, knowing full well, in the winter, everythng out here would freeze.  I was about to find out.

We were washing lettuce, filling two large sinks with water.  First we removed the root ends of the plants, discarding any bruised or rotten outer leaves, then a good soak in the first sink to remove the dirt and a final rinse to make sure all the grit had been removed.  (Trust me on this one, getting clean, grit free lettuce is not just a luxury, it is a necessity – too many times at the restaurant we had to reject lettuce that arrived unclean.)  Then the lettuce was allowed to drain on a drain board.  Next, Vanessa told me to me to fill nylon “onion bags” with five handfuls of the salad mix.  She moved over to the washing machine and told me that they had figured out that if they spun these bags on the Polyester Knit Spin Cycle, it was exactly forceful enough, without bruising the lettuce, to remove all the water!  I howled – a giant salad spinner.  So Nick and I proceeded to spin and bag lettuce for Wednesday’s CSA boxes.  

Like almost everything about this farm, and the others like it – returning to small scale, family farms requires making do with what you have or what you can find.  Alex and I discussed the fact that there no longer are small scale, durable farm implements being made, just like the Torrent Brush Washer, or the tractor attachments.  Returning to a rural farming lifestyle, one needs to be a pioneer, indeed, it may be the new frontier – the post-industrial, post-digital world.

Finding the tools to do the work is one thing  - keeping them working is another.  In addition to being able to actually grow something – in and of itself a daunting task – a farmer also must know how to maintain and repair equipment.  This is another dimension of Full Sun Farm, keeping things working.  Full Sun is also a “teaching farm” – each year hiring paid interns to help run the farm.  More important, they are learning how to farm and to keep it going.  I witnessed this exchange of knowledge and skill often.  At one point in the day, Alex was teaching Megan how to change the oil on one of their tractors.  

After preparing the lettuce – it was time to pick blueberries.  And so the afternoon went – until it was time for me to head back to town.

Beyond the exquisite tranquility of Full Sun’s setting in Big Sandy Mush, the relaxed working conditions, the pride and attention to growing food – I came away, again, connected to the food I cook and eat.  Still lingering is a sense of hope, seeing this wonderful family prosper in a way that dollars will never be able to measure.

In the big picture, we are surrounded by a broken food system – virtually every facet: corporate farms struggling to exist through hugh subsidies, chemical inputs, and food transported thousands of miles, to name a few – but here, on this farm, in this region of Western North Carolina, those essential “provisions of nature” are flourishing. The connection to life itself is alive.

“Once we lose touch with the spendthrift aspect of nature’s provisions epitomized by the raising of a crop, we are in danger of losing touch with life itself.”  Honey From A Weed - Patience Gray

-Mark Rosenstein

-Alisa Hixson

The email this morning read “ The Crop Mob must go on. ” Noting the weather forecast of rain and possible thunder, we set out to take part in Asheville’s first “Crop Mob.”  The notion and community effort of a “Crop Mob” are not new — just the catchy moniker. For the uninitiated, a “Crop Mob” is an amorphous group of volunteers with varying   skill levels who share a common goal of keeping local farms alive. They work hard, learn or share their knowledge, enjoy the community of others and have some fun.

Mobbers descend on a chosen farm and, side by side, crank out some key tasks that need doing. A meal is shared after the work has stopped and perhaps some live music. Collaboration, camaraderie, and completion of tasks that many farmers will admit they’d be unable to accomplish even over a few months time. Think barn raising fast forwarded  by the internet. A continuation of a long tradition of  “Do unto others….”

The first Asheville Crop Mob takes place on a Sunday at Hickory Nut Gap farms, one of the area’s most popular farms and one about which a family member wrote a book “We Plow God’s Fields,” tracing its ancestors’ social engagement as founders of the “Farmers Federation.” View the Crop Mob Portfolio

We have been told, my son and me, to bring an extra set of dry clothes and I soon understand why. The hillside we are to plant has just been cleared, is somewhat steep and very muddy.  It is also raining. We wait a few minutes for other crop mobbers to arrive and, once gathered, are told that today’s work has been called off due to the weather. I joke with our team driver Jamie Ager, whose family owns the farm, that we might become an angry mob if we don’t get to crop mob. We are ready, motivated and of common mind. We press on in spite of the weather.

We cross a small stream which, at the end of the day, will serve as our makeshift sink  (where later we attempt to wash off  the thick clay mud that sticks to our bodies) .We march up the hill under drizzling skies and survey our project, whose location provides a misty but magnificent view across a furry, green valley.

Many hands appear and after a few minutes the work gets organized. The longest tape measure I have ever seen is used to mark a planting spot every four feet. A tiny dayglo orange flag then marks each hole to be dug. We dig a hole about 8 inches deep at each spot and begin planting blueberry bushes. Several varieties.

The fruit is native to North America and North Carolina is one of the largest producers of highbush blueberries.  Seven Year Blueberry Cobbler Recipe.

Charles, the master planner  (a local U-pick Blueberry farm owner)  is at hand and he begins calling out the order in which we must plant. The bushes have each been labeled with a brightly colored tape, a presumably idiot proof system that helps assure we keep things in the proper order, as they require cross pollination, we are told, and the orderly planting keeps like-ripening fruit clustered in the same vicinity. The wisdom of this ripening strategy strikes me immediately. I pause and reflect on the hefty body of practical knowledge owned by and guiding people who live closest to the earth.

The soil is heavy. Being unprepared for rain this morning, ( read novice crop mobber)  I borrow boots a few sizes too big and with mud clumping underfoot feel less than agile. Unaccustomed to digging, I feel the need to jump on the shovel each time to assure penetration into the thick, root full dirt.  Sweat is soon dripping from my face, enough so one of the other mobbers asks me if it is sweat or rain. He seems to be doing this almost effortlessly. I later learn he works there.

I toil alongside many different people over the next 3 hours. Our works begins silently but by the end of the afternoon there are many exchanges. Though today’s work was completed in one afternoon, the benefits of today’s labor will take a few more years before the resulting berries can be popped into a ready mouth. Blueberry bushes need to mature before harvesting the first crop. A few years worth and apparently can take up to six years before they reach full productivity. So this seemingly straightforward job today is just one piece of a several year project. This realization will help soften the sticker shock I may feel when my son is clamoring for those out of season organic blueberries.

The blank soil canvas we worked today first had to be cleared from its inhospitable, bramble thick and stump-laden state.  The highly acidic nature of the soil at first challenged the Agers as they pondered what to plant. Primarily a purveyor of meats,  Hickory Nut Gap farm does not grow a lot of fruits and vegetables, but mostly apples. Then it came to them.  Blueberries thrive in this kind of soil.

An impish red haired three year old arrives near me just when I am ready for a break. I see that that rain has stopped and can feel the sun behind the clouds. I  kneel down and tell him I am hoping for a rainbow. He says  “A rainbow comes when rain and sun are smashed together.”  I am impressed and tell him that his phrase is poetry, he then asks me what poetry is. I regret not being able to answer his question with equal simplicity and beauty. Leave it to a child to make you think deeply.

The crowd assembled is a mix: farm owners, other farm professionals, one meteorologist, a chef, a carpenter, a small business owner, a student or two.  A fair number are new to Asheville. In addition to the Blueberry farmer directing our planting, two other local farm owners are present helping out –Immaldris Farms and Green Hill Urban.  Their skill and direction are very beneficial throughout the day. I meet several people who speak other languages and even carry on a conversation in French for some time. This is no motley crew. There is a near equal balance of men and women and folks of ages between 3 and 63.

We seem to work well together. Moments of singular effort punctuated with shared  experience. At midpoint, energy seems to lag and I wonder if we will finish this today. We press on, digging holes for and eventually planting more than 500  blueberry bushes. We finish “ahead of time” and collectively survey our joint  accomplishment. It feels good.  My 10 year old son is literally covered with mud from cap to boots. I am not far behind. I notice that the farm “professionals” don’t seem to be nearly as muddy as we are. They must know things we don’t. But we are learning.

We change clothes in our car and head to the historic Ager farm house, a former inn and stopping point on the Drover’s Trail, where we are invited to savor a supper together. We find Jamie’s angelic looking wife Amy busy firing up steaks for the mob. She had been out on the hill too, with her infant son slung across her back, but returned to prep the mob meal. Jamie leads us on a tour of the historic property, but soon we are feasting in the dining room that feels like a page out of a history book. We toast our hosts and break bread (cornbread, of course a North Carolina fixture).

For the first time in the day, we take turns introducing ourselves. Some take a moment to explain why they have come and just how they got there. Different paths to a shared destination. We talk a bit about which farm will harness the next Crop Mob’s people power next month. Though it might be tempting to sum things up saying the farm has been the primary beneficiary of our presence,  I know our day here was mutually symbiotic. I can  hear it, during dinner, around the table. This is a full-bellied, happy mob. I feel confident that today’s eager hands will reappear at future crop mobs. Mine too, count me in.

-Alisa Hixson

General information on Crop Mobs

Hickory Nut Gap Farms

Immaldris Farms

Now that it is behind us, I can say it without fear of retribution – I hate Winter, the short days, the gloom of fading light at five o’clock.  I miss fresh food and savoring the flavor of sun on dirt transformed into tasty goodness.  I am weary of cooking beans and kale and cabbages.

The return of longer days isn’t the only thing I have been waiting for.  I have been waiting for the emergence of all those wonderful wild things that grow in the surrounding hills and mountains.  (Not to mention the intoxicating fragrance of daphne – which is blooming now, as I write this).   Since moving to western North Carolina in 1972 I have foraged – mainly mushrooms, but also poke salad, branch lettuce and most wonderful of all – ramps.

Allium tricoccum – wild leeks, “are one of the first plants to emerge in the spring, traditionally consumed as the season’s first greens.  They are considered a tonic because they provide necessary vitamins and minerals following long winter months without fresh vegetables.” I love them because they taste like garlic, have a fresh crunch and seem to get the juices moving again in my winter weary body. This is most likely true, as research now shows that the sulfur compounds in onions, garlic and leeks has definite, positive medicinal properties.

Last week I drove over to Stecoah, North Carolina to meet up with Beverly Whitehead and Dustin Raxter.  I met the two of them in Torino, Italy of all places, in 2006 when we were all attending Slow Food’s Terra Madre – a convention of producers of indigenous foodstuffs from all corners of the globe.  At that time, we made a connection – having common interest in wild foods found in the Smoky Mountains.  Over the past four years we have worked together some on a project that Beverly heads up – The Smoky Mountain Native Plant Association (SMNPA) – but more on that in a later post.  I have been working on an “invitation” to meet her group and gather native plants with them – ramps among the plants they gather.  So, after a long time waiting, not just a season, but years, I was invited.

Ramps are an endangered species, on the USDA plant list they are listed “special concern, commercially exploited”.  Some of the work that SMNPA does is to train their members in sustainable harvest, as well as carrying out cultivation trials.  So, it didn’t seem strange that I was told I would be blindfolded when we left their office on our drive out into the mountains.  (It is true that ramps do have a broad range in the eastern North American mountains – however, the fact that in recent years wild ramps are ‘stylish’ in many restaurants, there is ecological pressure on these plants as a result of over-harvesting and unsustainable practices).  The life cycle of a ramp is six years from seed to seed-bearing plants.  The plant will regenerate from a stalk harvested in a manner that leaves the roots in the ground.  For this reason NEVER purchase ramps with the roots attached – they should show evidence of having been cut above the root plate.

Bear Hunters’ Cornpone circa 1835

A simple food typical of the time and place – nothing fancy – but something to keep you trekking across the mountain.

• 2 cups cornmeal
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/2 cups buttermilk
• Mix together.  Bake in a hot overn (400F) in a greased iron skillet unitl golden.  Cool, cut and stuff in your ruck sack.

On this particular day, Dustin was going to take me into the woods to learn to identify terrain prior to the first emergence of any plants – learning the “tell-tale” signs of the woods as it were.  Dustin is a Mountain Man, without question.  His home is the out-of-doors.  Given a choice, he would rather walk a half day into to town, than drive.  For practical reasons, much of the meat his family consumes is harvested from the woods surrounding his home.  (Graham County, including the towns of Stecoah and Robbinsville, is one of the poorest regions in Appalachia).  He is a guide of the native trout waters in the area, he is an excellent hunter.  When I arrived he was ready for the woods – dressed in full ‘camo’, including calf high snake proof boots, something he added to his gear last year after taking a rattlesnake strike in the ankle.  It required four vials of anti-venom to offset the poison.  For a portion of our walk, he carried a 12 gauge shotgun loaded with a 1 ounce slug – as protection against a pack of coyotes – which he claimed would kill and eat anything.  The country we were headed into is as wild as it gets east of the Mississippi.

As we were still a month ahead of the scheduled harvest, which this year begins April 16, determined by the moon phase and other signs (“when the leaves on the maple trees are as big as squirrels’ paws, 6 weeks to corn planting time”) Dustin was relying on his knowledge of the area and typical places the ramps would grow.  I asked what the signs were – “moss covered rotting trees, damp spots, near by creeks, shade.”  Of course this time of year, there is no shade, as the leaves are not out, only the faintest whisper of tender red and light green bud tips.  On the way in, on the north side, we walked through snow, as well as being turned back from another spot, as the road was impassable.  Our walk was a ramble, hiking down, crossing over, rooting around on hands and knees.

Virtually every spot he cleared, we found the tender shoots just emerging from moist earth, not yet warm enough to smell of “life”, composted leaf matter and fulfilled promise of another Spring.  Not everything we found was a ramp – which is something to be wary of, -  some were other types of lilies, some plants the names I have forgotten. Dustin explained that he has been collecting in the wild all his life.  Since becoming a member of the SMNPA he has changed his view and his methods.  Today he only collects by cutting, never removing the root plate from the earth.  He has also learned to cultivate the plant and has a number of patches growing above where he lives (the area I was led blind-folded).  He has developed a disdain for others who do otherwise, having come to realize the real value of these native and wild plants.  The small amount of money he makes in the few weeks of ramp harvest keep his grandmother’s home in winter heat, where he lives with his wife.

We hike for a few hours, we are quiet most of the time, as is the habit of one that spends a lifetime in the wild.  It is my way in the woods as well, having landed in a similar spot to this when I first moved to the mountains.  Our aim is not to collect much, rather, to reconnoiter and share some time together.  We dig a handful, enough for Beverly to cook with some potatoes and a few for me to take home.  The afternoon is glorious, a harbinger of the coming harvest.  I will come back in a month to work with the crew, collecting and processing ramps.

We head out, drive back to Dustin’s house and sit down to a meal of red beans, collards, corn bread and some ham that Beverly has previously cooked and canned.  There are corn-meal fried wild brook and brown trout fillets, crispy bones and heads, plus Dustin’s grandmother’s cornbread, slightly sweet.  All washed down with ice tea or coke.

As I leave, Dustin hands me a haunch of wild pig that he has hunted and a handful of the ramps we picked.  Standing outside his house, I felt like I had come home again.

BREAST OF CHICKEN WITH COUNTRY HAM AND RAMPS

This is not what you will find to eat in Stecoah, North Carolina.  I rather doubt such an extravagant dish would ever be served – the ham would have it’s very own place on the table as well as the chicken.

For two people

• 1 boneless breast of chicken, about 7 ounces
• 1 tablespoon of bacon fat
• 1 ounce of finely cut country ham, such as Hickory Nut Gap or Benton’s
• small handful of ramps, cleaned
• 1/2 cups chicken stock
• 1 cup finely shredded cabbage
• salt & pepper

In a heavy skillet with a lid, heat the bacon fat over medium heat.  Lightly brown the chicken on both sides, about 1 minute to a side.  Season with salt and pepper and remove from the pan when browned.  Add the country ham and the ramps to the skillet and brown and stir for about a minute.  Add the chicken stock, bring to a simmer and reduce the heat.  Return the chicken to the pan, correct the seasonings, cover and simmer for 6 – 8 minutes.  Poke the chicken and make sure it is not getting ‘hard’.  It should remain springy to the touch.  At the 8 minute mark, add the cabbage and cover once again.  If the chicken is done, remove it from the pan, keep warm.  Cook the cabbage for about 4 minutes – it will depend on how finely you have cut it.    Reduce the liquid slightly, if necessary.  To serve, place the cabbage on the plate, slice the breast, dividing it equally on the two plates, spoon the sauce around.  Serve with grits or potatoes roasted with more ramps.

Mark Rosenstein

“Find something you can do with your children.”

Michael Porterfield

Urban farming is not a new concept.  Evidence points to the existence of urban agriculture in ancient cities, including – Paris, Rome, Peking and others…does Macchu Pichu ring a bell?  We have also certainly read about elaborate urban gardens in mythical places and classical ones. The positive benefits are many, generating a fresh local food source and esthetics among the most obvious. Why and how did such a sensible idea vanish? Why and how to bring them back into the 21^st century?  What ever happened to those Victory gardens?

With these thoughts in mind we head to the Oakley neighborhood of Asheville, North Carolina where we have an appointment at Gladheart Farms. We arrive at the end of Lora Lane as directed and find  three  houses of varying styles plus an old barn, a couple of yurts, a trailer home, a wandering goat and the shiny silver frame of a green house in progress. And lots of people. This is not exactly what I had envisioned. Though I don’t know it yet, the next three hours will shift how I think about farms.

The soon -to- be green house is my only clue that this is a working farm. (OK, the goat too.) Though technically the farm is within Asheville’s city limits, this residential area feels more like suburbia. We meet owners Michael and Michelle Porterfield and their three children, Asah, Atarah and Hannah and begin our walk around the farm. At this point my nine year old takes off in the direction of the goat.

There are several men and children under the greenhouse frame readying the structure to receive its tender tenants. A few clusters of dirty snow remain as a reminder of why there is a “new”  greenhouse being built at this unlikely moment.  I soon learn this is greenhouse number two, same spot; new structure. Number one fell prey to the weight of the snow during the last big storm.  I am getting a rapid education in farm risk management 101.  And no, insurance did not cover the replacement costs, well over 10K.

A young man in his early thirties, Michael sports a dark beard and a tidy ponytail.  A southerner by birth he first came to Asheville in 1998 after getting married, considered moving here but found real estate too expensive.  He and Michelle eventually did come back and bought a home in Asheville’s Montford district. Now home is here on the farm. Two of his children dart about the farm as we talk and the third rests comfortably tucked into a sling on her mothers back.

Though it is a Sunday, here it is not a day of rest and there are many active hands.   Michael confirms that they are a community and have comprised up to 100 people. Today it seems there are around 20 adults visible. He explains that Asheville is a good draw for interns and volunteers and that his farm’s proximity to downtown adds incentive to the recruitment. I know very little about farm business models but I cant help but think these extra hands help productivity.  Michael reminds me that not all who come are skilled and many must be taught and consistently directed.

This does seem  an unlikely location for a farm but as Michael explains that is exactly the point.  Having purchased property originally intended for residential property development,  Michael admits to having paid the asking price AND at a high moment in property prices.

His goal  ”farm restoration”   return the land to its former state, a farm. Though much effort has been focused in North Carolina  on transitioning former tobacco fields into diversified farms, it takes a  vision, tenacity and much patience  to transform urban land  into a profitable  farm and fuel it with biodiesel. “Our state leads in farm loss, and our county leads the state. Buncombe County is the epicenter of farm loss.”

I ask Michael how he came to farming.  “I thought you had to be born into being a farmer…being a farmer seemed unattainable.” Though he seems to have enjoyed a successful career marketing tea he experienced less personal satisfaction than financial rewards.  Michael began looking for something  else.  A friend counseled him, “ Do something you can do with your children.”  A small garden started with his son was the seed of this current endeavor. He became so immersed in their garden that he explains  ”Gardening and growing things almost became an addiction.”

As we walk around the 7.5 acre property here  (The Porterfields also lease 11 acres adjacent to the French Broad  River from the city of Asheville, he believes they are the first to do so ) he explains the many challenges they encountered while pushing this project uphill. He readily admits to experiencing  a “huge learning curve”.  (Losing his entire greenhouse this winter certainly falls under that painful category).  Still,  he is  upbeat in recounting his good fortunes.  “This could not have happened elsewhere.” referencing Asheville and the  food – centric culture that helped provide  the necessary support and momentum to plod through the administrative hoops and become operational and certified organic very quickly.  Within 2 years they were selling their produce. He acknowledges that “We were at the right place at the right time…farm land is vanishing, especially around places like Asheville.”

Michael’s frequent travel for his work in the tea business enabled him to garner  a great deal of expert advice from random sources “ I am fairly driven, ask questions and react quickly.”  Apparently he  knew the right questions to ask.

He mentions the guidance and support offered by the Appalachian Sustainable Agriculture Project,  which he said makes farmer friends in other regions envious. Clearly his knowledge of distribution, sales and marketing have not hurt their farm.

In two years he has been able to sell all that they can produce on 15.5  acres. At present wholesaling their produce is the path they travel. Michael suggests this model may be frowned upon in certain farm circles, but he is a businessman first.  “The wholesale market has been very welcoming to us. “

He explains that Gladheart Farms has modeled itself after the larger wholesalers in California and New York and he  feels very confident in that choice. This model is different from that of many others in the Asheville region and he hopes to eventually move from wholesaling to selling CSA shares- -entirely skipping the more common tailgate market route. CSA stands for  Community Supported Agriculture,  in which a share holder gets a weekly portion of the farm’s produce for a certain pre-established price for a specific number of weeks.  A CSA share is the most efficient way to sell a farm’s goods and directly connect local farms with local families. 

Michael laughs while  explaining that the farm business cycle is comprised roughly of earning money for six months and spending money for 6 months. “ This defies any business sense I am familiar with.”  CSA’s,  however are paid up front, providing a farmer with capital to sustain them in those pre-crop generating  months. Gladheart’s CSA boxes include a diverse array of vegetables, some of which are  too unusual or delicate for sales at conventional grocery stores; herbs; and flowers, as well as options for artisan bread and coffee.

Michael believes in sustainability and biodiesel. We walk to the site where used restaurant cooking oil is transformed into biodiesel fuel.  Hearing him explain the the complex  and time consuming  process necessary to supply the farm with biodiesel, it becomes clear, producing biodiesel fuel is not for the tentative,  it requires firm commitment. His fuel will heat the new greenhouse and  fuel the farm equipment.

Michael  invites us to stay and  share a farm lunch with him.  We sit at a picnic table and  his 7 year old son Asah joins us as does my nine year old, muddy and smiling from discovering more goats in the barn. Micheal rattles off  a list of  the products they grow – a staggering number of greens, vegetables, ( hybrids and heirlooms)  and cut flowers,  many just for the CSA’s. Michael says they are especially proud of their selection of beets and asian greens.

I ask his son, who has been listening attentively to our conversation,  ”What is your favorite thing from the farm ?”  “ Black Seeded Simpson.”  His father just smiles broadly.  Children may be notoriously picky about green vegetables but given that  the spontaneous answer came from a 7 year old,  I know this must be tasty stuff.  I don’t know if I have ever eaten a Black Seeded Simpson but you can bet as soon as spring rolls around, I will do so.  The french have a saying “ La vérité sort de la bouche des enfants“. Truth springs  from the mouths of children.

29 Lora Lane
Asheville, NC 28803
(828) 989-1089

- Alisa Hixson

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Robert Werth (on right) with Tom Young

Chef Robert Werth dedicated his life to mentoring and inspiring young culinarians.  We met in 1974, when he sent the first of many students I was to train.  Over the past 36 years of our friendship there was one quality of his that outshone any other and remains an important quality I strive for in my own work.  He had a big heart and always placed humanity and compassion before performance.   The great success of his life was instilling confidence, passion and a positive self-image in those he taught.  A priceless gift.   Though I was never enrolled in AB Tech as a culinary student, I was one of Robert’s pupils.

My kitchen has been filled with his teachings and his spirit all this time and there are many of my own pupils that owe their success to the lessons of his I have tried to pass on.

Peace be with you, old friend.

Mark

Friday I had a meeting for a project I have been working on for almost four years.  This year will see the fruit of a long conversation.  Over the course of this time, a deep relationship has developed between us.  One that I hope will continue, as what is shared goes way beyond the discussion of food.  It is about the relationships that come together at the Table.

Four years is a long time to work on something and recently, just as things were picking up – my friend “evaporated” – emails stopped, no phone messages were returned.  I was pretty sure it wasn’t something I had said, so I was glad when we were finally able to get back together yesterday.  It only took a few minutes to get caught up and to understand the delays – life – once again had intervened to change well laid plans.

My friend had just gone through a trying episode regarding the care of a grandchild.  He is now living with his grandparents and adjusting to a different environment.  This is a story we are familiar with in some fashion or another.

My friend allowed how one of the biggest adjustments was the fact that Michael; the grandson, had never eaten dinner at the table – he was used to sitting on the couch in front of the television.  There is no television in his new home.  What was remarkable, now that he was ‘at the table’, a big change was beginning to occur – he had a place to share his feelings, ask questions and feel like someone was listening.

I would say, he was feeling love.

This is the essential core of everything I am motivated to write about – gathering at the Table to commune. Without question where our food comes from, being connected to it, knowing how to cook it and find joy in that, and supporting a local farm economy are vitally important.  But none of that can happen unless we make our Table and sit down to share that food.  Actually, food is only the vehicle that allows the sharing to happen.

To me, it seems rather simple, yet somehow, this escapes us – which is to take time to regularly sit together and break bread without other distraction.

If you slow down for a moment and listen, you will agree, this is a familiar story – the Power of the Table – to improve our health, to nurture our family and friends, to share love.  What else is more important, what better use of our time?

Mark Rosenstein

Alisa forwarded this email from her cousin:

“I’d love to make a winter salad but things like a “silicon” board and drying the produce..WHAT.  I like  to get my salad greens from the bag of salad section because it is  so much easier to throw some Romaine, baby spinach and sliced tomatoes and cucs into a bowl with feta and balsamic and olive oil.  We usually add some chicken.  So how about some stuff for those of us who have no clue what fennel is, don’t own any kind of board but a nice blue plastic cutting board and don’t know a ceramic dish from a little bit of pyrex.  Some of us don’t take pride in our kitchen ’cause we want to get in and out as FAST as possible, We’ve got multiple loads of laundry, kids to drive to swimming, basketball, brownies and two Dioramas due to the 3rd and 5th grade teachers by Friday.   Hold on ’cause while I was in the middle of crisping my greens the dog threw up on my oriental carpet, while I was cleaning it my greens got a bit over crispy, read BURNED.  LOL.  Its us ignorant American housewives who really need help, after all our chidren also deserve whole, clean food with out toxic substances that cause obesity and mess with our brain. ( because they have neurotoxins)  ………horrors, no wonder we are all suffering from anxiety disorders, we are probably consuming a stew of anxiety in our food.”

Sound familiar?  Reminds me of my restaurant days.

As she said, “no wonder we are all suffering from anxiety disorders.”  You are what you eat, or more precisely you are how you eat.  What are we rushing towards?  It is easy for me to write about cooking, sitting in my chair of Forty Years of Kitchen, so it is a bit unfair to suggest one go out and do everything I might suggest, but changing a habit begins with Intention then Action in small steps.  A friend of mine told me recently “we can’t save the world” – I would certainly agree, though it is possible to contribute to it’s improvement.  Over time, I hope to help.  So, charge ahead I shall, with a tiny comment for Cousin Sister.

Of course, a silicon baking pad is not essential, a piece of oiled foil or parchment baking paper works, too.  I would suggest sharp knives and a wooden cutting board (it is like the difference between wearing silk and burlap) – better, simple tools that do the job will make it more fun and easier.  I have suggested using the oven in a certain way, because it usually is less stressful (in the case of the “Finger Salad” – this was cook’s play).  Instead of kale, try tossing broccoli and cauliflower in oil, salt, pepper and some kid-friendly spice mixture (will write about this in one of my Paint Pot articles).  But, I will stick to kale for winter and it has been child-tested and child-approved.

Pick one thing your children love to eat and have them help you make it.  If you are roasting a vegetable, give them the timer, let them check the oven.  While this is happening, discuss the Diorama project.  When it is time to SIT DOWN to eat, don’t answer the phone, power down all the silicone chips, clear the table of everything but dinner.  And talk.  This is the best, cheapest, most effective therapy there is, it is great Family Time.  I promise, your children will remember for the rest of their lives the food memories you have created, long after the Diorama is cardboard trash.

On a snowy no-school day I set off with my 9 year old son to meet Jeanette Wilson of Hominy Valley Farms Land and Cattle in Candler. A third generation farm raising  natural beef cattle,  pastured raised chickens and organic vegetables  (some from heirloom seeds). Much snow had fallen and we were not sure we’d  be able to make it up to her home at the top of the farm even with 4 wheel drive. We agreed to meet wherever we both ended up. She’d walk down the mountain and we’d drive up.  It was one of those mornings that can make you love winter. A brilliant rising sun and the countryside blanketed in pastel morning light,  the snap of the cold an energizing force.

We find the road just past the Kubota tractor sign. We climb the hill up towards the Wilson home, grateful for the frozen ruts forged by her husband’s tractor. We find  Jeanette walking towards us boots up to her knees. We meet and  decide to walk the rest of the way up to her home, snow crunching underfoot. I turn around and look out over the valley we have just climbed through. It is a postcard.

I liked Jeanette even before meeting her . Her warmth and humanity had already reached me via telephone. She carries a basket over her arm and our first stop is what I think is the chicken coop but is actually the chick incubator, where my son delights in the presence of 20 or more scurrying little yellow heat seekers. Jeanette graciously lets him hold one and I wonder if he will realize that they are destined to become dinner somewhere.

We talk about what brought Jeanette back to Hominy Valley as we walk towards her home at the top of the  90 acre farm. She and her husband Frank moved back here in 2003  as her father then  in his mid-seventies  had  decided to step down. Now into the third generation of her family on the farm, her move back was not initially part of the grand plan. She looks wistful when mentioning her father’s advice to her decades ago — “You can pay someone to do your farming for you.”  She explains that she did try to follow her father’s advice and looked for a career outside of farming, trying to study computers as he had suggested, but it did not hold her interest.  She married, raised four children,  they lived at Claxton Farms where her husband managed the estate, fine tuning their breeding and farming skills.

Jeanette is lucid as she explains, the work involved in keeping the farm going and talks at great length about finding the most appropriate model to make sure that it remains sustainable. The talk of family is the theme most central to our conversation. The common sense of her comments is refreshing.  “ We are raising our food the way we would want our own family to experience it.  I am sitting here with a farm. If I can grow enough to feed my family and more than we can use, it makes no sense  not to do that.” Frank, Jeanette’s  husband, has other work outside of the farm as a contractor and so I  think about  her choice to continue this hard work farming.  Jeanette says “ I felt called to do this.”

Hominy Valley Land and Cattle, whose name includes the corn staple of generations  past, does not grow corn as her ancestors did but has not eliminated that idea for the future.  Jeanette’s  brother also lives on this family land and he too might play a part in its future.  A wise line from her website comes to mind.

“ A farm works best if it is diversified in its enterprises.”

She mentions her grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Plemmons, delivering food to fine families in grand houses in Montford on market days. Having recently seen some of these old historic photos with horses and carts, I imagine the length of those days, the need to sell all of the produce at a good price and then returning  to the farm only to start the process all over again. Her father’s  advice starts to make  sense.

I ask how she learned to farm “My Grandmother just took me on, didn’t talk me through things, just showed me. They’d see what we are doing here as logical.”

I think about our culture’s information saturation and how we too might learn more from keener observation and less talk. Our conversation  turns to elders, and the practicality of their lifestyles.  I  can’t help but wonder,–  when and how did we begin to lose the wisdom of these smart, simple ways ?  I wish my own grandmothers and great grandmothers were alive now. They too grew up farming, hauling their produce to  market. I have many questions for them.

I ask Jeanette what her grandparents would think of her taking over the farm .

“ I think it would be hard for them to imagine that what we do here now and what they did then were that unique. I don’t think they would have realized that in, only a couple of generations, the skills they thought were basic to one’s existence were so uncommon that they became a novelty.”

The truth of this last comment weighs on me.  I think of a statistic — fewer than 2% of American’s farm for a living today.  This confirms what I had suspected.  Jeanette and her family are a rare breed.

She laughs as she explains her first, nervous attempts to sell her chickens at market. I think about the difficulty of establishing a price which can’t possibly take into account all of the hours really worked. They raise livestock but also grow summer and winter squash, kale, okra, swiss chard, broccoli, carrots, green onions, potatoes , spinach, sweet peppers, lettuce, salad greens and cut flowers. She repeatedly mentions her gratitude in having the full support of ASAP, the Appalachian Sustainable Agriculture Project, to lead her through the critical steps of getting set up and launched in the right direction.

Like her grandparents, Jeanette and her husband have also delivered produce weekly to certain families, leaving the goods in exchange for a check tucked in a box or some other discreet location. The trust required makes me smile.

Recently they have decided to put most of their eggs in the basket of the Western North Carolina Farmer’s Market.  Beginning this spring they will have their own  stand named “Loca-Motive,” a reference to  local produce and the train tracks that run right through their farm,  tracks that one of her sons , a local train conductor, drives his train along on certain runs.  Fate or serendipity?

Next up, the chickens: “We process our own poultry. As a culture we have become so desensitized to the process. We have become too prosperous and too busy to use all the parts of an animal.  My grandmother didn’t waste anything.” Of her own farming style Jeanette says  “We are raising our food the way we would want our own family to experience it.” I ask about the impact of hard economic times on food choices. Her optimism shines through: “People given the right information will make the right decision and make choices within their realm of influence.” She firmly believes that demand for their products will come from a more educated consumer.

Is their farm certified organic?  Jeanette admits that jumping through the USDA organic hoops is extremely challenging and the resulting prices would probably be prohibitive for their consumers. Thus, certification  is not their goal at present but, for example they do not use synthetic ingredients, growth hormones, herbicides  or antibiotics  in their cattle feed.

It is almost noon and I regret that I must leave the warmth of the Wilson kitchen. As I say goodbye Jeanette offers me a box of the most beautiful chicken eggs I have ever seen. Pale blue, pale green, butterscotch colored eggs. Once home we gently lay them in the snow and take their pictures. Delicate, little gifts.

I email Jeanette and write half -jokingly that Martha Stewart would love these.  She emails back that Martha is already a fan. The eggs come from the Araucana hen, apparently originally from Chile and thought to have been cultivated by the Araucana Indians. I begin to wonder if a few of these wouldn’t do well on Lakeshore Drive. We are planting a garden….

Alisa Hixson