Is it October yet?

This phrase became a running joke during the most brutal days of summer last year at the River Ranch. "Is it October yet?"  During the time when most of our time--nearly every day--was spent harvesting endless rows of tomatoes, the weeks stretched on interminably, and it seemed there was no end in sight.  "Is it October yet?" was code for, I need a friggin' break.  October, we were told, was when things finally slow down.  Days are shorter, so the workday starts later, the weather is pleasant, and the bulk of the harvesting is in the past.

That phrase definitely came up a few times this summer between Eric and I.  The weeks before the Fall Equinox Fundraiser at the Hurley Farm, on September 22, were frenetic, with extra hands on the farm helping to mow, weed-wack, weed, and beautify the place for the big party.  It felt great to see the place all spiffed up, and so gratifying to have so many people come that evening, and to join them in eating great food, drinking free microbrews and celebrating a great season.

Michele and Hurley, all dressed up for the Fall Equinox.

And then, it was October.  After the fundraiser, I really started to feel like the season was ending. Most of our plants had been pulled, our tomatoes were slowing down, and we're due to finish now in less than two weeks!  We've spent the past couple of weeks slowing down, treating our sore bodies to yoga classes again for the first time since spring, waking up a little later, and enjoying the lack of stress and the absence of that feeling of too-much-to-do.

I thought taking the tomatoes down last week would be bittersweet, but it turns out, it wasn't so hard to see them go.  Eric and I were finally sick of tomatoes--even the giant, tangy heirlooms--and have rediscovered our love for winter squash, kale, and arugula.   Eating seasonally is great in this way, because each seasonal change brings newness and excitement at the return of the vegetables six months ago you never wanted to eat again.  It's kind of like the first day of school, except instead of homework, you get to cook delicious food :).

Some of the winter squash, pre-harvest.

Fall out here is nothing like fall in the Northeast.  It was 87 degrees today.  It still hasn't rained since May, and the only fall colors we have are the golds and rusts of dried out grasses and shrubs.  Fall is more like spring in the way that, despite the lack of rain, new growth comes from cool nights and dew lingering longer in the morning.  Spring crops come back--our rhubarb plant has exploded with the cooler weather, and the strawberries have picked up again (for real!).  There are still apples and pears and pumpkins.  I kind of like the Central Valley autumn, even without the leaf peeping and sweaters.

Tomatoes are down, and pigs are enjoying their "last meal."
(You can see their cute ears peeking from behind the white tent, on the right.)

In a couple of weeks, the field and garden at the Hurley Farm will be tucked in for the winter under a blanket of cover crop, Boda the pig will be "harvested" and in the freezer, and Eric and I will be closing the door on this little adventure in hand-scale farming.  At some point this winter, we'll move back to the River Ranch, into "the duplex," over there, into one of the two staff apartments (the cozier side), and I'll be moving into a couple of new roles at Soil Born.   I'm excited about winter at the Ranch.  It's lambing time, and three little babies have been born this week.  There will be two calves, in February and March, which means fresh raw milk again!  The farm is beautiful and quiet in the winter, with everything green and damp, the animals fattening up on lush winter pasture.  It will be such a gift to have the river and the parkway next door, and a bit more of a buffer from the concrete jungle of "parking lot-landia," that is outer Sacramento.  I couldn't be happier that it's October, and that finally, the dog days are over.

 Here are some of the ways I've taken advantage of "October":

Eric and I played hooky and went to the beach in Half Moon Bay

Ian and Anila came for the weekend and we visited the Ranch....

....and then we visited Meg in San Francisco

I went on a gorgeous solo overnight hike in Desolation Wilderness, near Tahoe.

This is how happy it made me.

Coming back

I've had itchy fingers for a while now.  I've had lots of time to think, and I've found bits of narrative floating through my brain, just begging to be written down.  A few weeks ago, I listened to the audiobook version of David Sedaris's  When You are Engulfed in Flames, which he narrates in his delightfully dry, nasal voice.  That week David Sedaris narrated my thoughts.  It was awesome.

But I haven't written a post since last June, and, though these fingers have been itching since at least January, it's taken me until now to take the plunge.  To be honest, I've struggled the most with the question of honesty and audience.  I am so eager to share what I'm doing and thinking, but at the same time, I'm scared to death of just that.  My written self is way more revealing than my spoken self; it's scary to think about how much I'm exposing through these posts.  On the other hand, I love having an audience,  and I think that, however uncomfortable, the vulnerability I feel because of what I share with "the world" is ultimately a good thing.

And while I also struggle do decide who I want to write for (for me? or for you?  Both, I think, but who more?), I know that I often feel very, very far away from many of the most important people in my life, and I want so badly for them to know about my life on the other side of the country.

So my (growing) season resolution will be to sit down and write, every now and again.  I'm not going to fuss with finding the perfect words, or the perfect photo to fit the post, because those details, I find, have more often kept me away from the keyboard.  I will sit, I will write, I will click the "Publish" button, and I will share my stories with whoever wants to read them.  Starting now.

There is SO much to tell, and I just can't let it pile up anymore!  One month ago, Eric and I moved from "The Ranch" where we had lived for eleven months (first in tents, then, starting in December, in a room in "The Duplex" with the rest of the farm staff), to the Hurley Farm, or more precisely, "The Farm on Hurley Way."  This is the one and a half-acre backyard farm that the founders of Soil Born Farms took over twelve years ago and slowly transformed into a Garden of Eden in the middle of a sprawly, shopping plaza-filled neighborhood.  Eric and I have been given the amazing opportunity to farm this little jewel for Soil Born as contractors through a farmer training grant from the USDA.  After learning the ropes last season on the ranch, this year we will attempt to apply what we've learned and see what it's like to be new farmers, with the bonus support of our mentors at Soil Born.   We live on-site at the Hurley Farm, and have a significant amount of autonomy, which is both liberating and scary.

So far, things are going really well.  Winter has skipped the Central Valley this season, and instead of the rain cloud that usually camps out over Sacramento from November through February, we've had nothing but blue skies and mild weather.  Which means that instead of starting planting in early March (this week), we started back in January, and have been shaping garden beds and readying the farm for the season ever since.  We're going to grow a range of produce this season, which we'll sell to Soil Born for the CSA and farm stand, as well as to a few restaurants in Sacramento, including my new employer, OneSpeed Pizza, which makes ridiculously delicious pizzas out of high-quality, responsibly-sourced ingredients.  I started serving there two nights a week in January, which has been a great complement to the farm bubble.


One of the exciting projects we're taking on this year is raising ducks!  We now have twelve hilarious Indian Runner ducks, most of which are much bigger than they were in this photo, and happily living outside in their own little house, spending their days running around in a cluster and munching on grass.  We will move them around on some of our garden beds when they get a little bigger, eating up the slugs and aphids and weeds, and will lay yummy eggs for us to eat and maybe sell.  We also snagged a bunch of hens from the Ranch, so we are poultry farmers now, doing morning "animal chores" and deriving entertainment from watching these little ones and wrangling chickens when they get out of their "paddock."  (I've got to get Eric tackling a chicken on video one of these days, it's hilarious!).

Much more to tell, but I'm spent! Also satisfied to be at it again.  Thanks for reading!  It feels good to be back.

California, I'm coming home.

This is where you will find me for the next eight months, beginning March 1. I'm packing up and moving to California. Sacramento, more specifically, or rather, to this farm right outside of Sacramento. I'll be working as a farm apprentice there for the upcoming season, until the end of October. I'll be living in a tent and getting paid close to nothing, but I couldn't be happier. This adventure combines a number of goals I've had for the past few years:

1) Live on the West Coast;
2) Work for a full season on a farm;
3) Get involved with a project that's improving food access for low-income populations; and
4) Live simply.

I had had two previous interviews for this position before the final phone interview last Tuesday, so the possibility had nestled itself comfortably into my brain as just that: a possibility. I had pretty well decided that it was a long-shot, too, because I was unable to go out and visit for a working interview, as had the other candidates. So it was a bit of a shock when I found out, a few hours after the interview, that I had been offered the position, and then decided soon after to accept. It was a quick transition from "life as usual" to "moving across the country in a month."

So, is farming my Job? I'm not sure. People keep asking me what's next, after the apprenticeship is over. I don't have a clue, which is fine. I'm still getting used to the first next, which will be upon me in just three weeks. If I love this, then perhaps I will continue farming and gardening in some capacity. I don't see myself becoming strictly a commercial farmer, but working with a non-profit, educational farm could be great. Maybe I'll realize that a backyard garden is about as much "farming" as I care to do. I know myself well enough to know that I won't know until I do it, and "next" will remain a question mark for many more months. At the end of the day, this apprenticehip might be a career move, but that's not necessarily the point.

So now, I'm getting organized. I'm gathering and sorting and purchasing things that'll prepare me for eight months on a farm. I feel like I'm going abroad again--I keep having to remind myself that it's okay not to bring everything; I'll be able to buy what I haven't brought once I'm out there. California only seems like a foreign country.

And, I'm trying to prepare psychologically for the change. I've had about the coziest winter of my life this year, doing crafts and cooking daily in my parents' comfortable home, reading classic literature by the fire while watching the snow fall. Though it's hard to imagine exactly what it'll be like, I know for sure that nearly all of these comforts won't be a part of my life come March 1. So the challenge will be to maintain the Zen contentment I've got going on here amidst a much more demanding, more dynamic and hopefully fulfilling, lifestyle. Now, however, I've got to get back to my knitting.

What is my Job?

I've been thinking a lot these days about jobs. I currently have one, thankfully, but I'm looking for another one, and trying to figure out what kind of job I want. I find the most difficult aspect of this is sifting through and reconciling "The Way Life Is Supposed To Go" with "What I Want." These two things, I'm realizing, may not overlap so much. Twenty-eight years of subtle and explicit cultural and societal messages about ambition, success, career, education, etc. have become a mountain atop the latter, which I am now trying to unearth, slowly but surely.

I read something today that helps. It's by Jon Kabat-Zinn, a Buddhist teacher who wrote the book Wherever You Go, There You Are. I read one short chapter every morning before meditating. It is an excellent and accessible guide to meditation and mindful living. The passage I read this morning is called, "What is My Job on the Planet with a Capital J?" I want to share a small part of it:

Rarely do we question and then contemplate with determination what our hearts are calling us to do and to be. I like to frame such efforts in question form: "What is my job on the planet with a capital J?", or, "What do I care about so much that I would pay to do it?" If I ask such a question and I don't come up with an answer, other than, "I don't know," then I just keep asking the question. If you start reflecting on such questions when you're in your twenties, by the time you are thirty-five or forty, or fifty or sixty, the inquiry itself may have led you a few places that you would not have gone had you merely followed mainstream conventions, or your parents' expectations for you, or even worse, your own unexamined self-limiting beliefs and expectations.

...[Asking this question] may not mean that you will change what you do, but it may mean that you may want to change how you see it or hold it, and perhaps how you do it. Once the universe is your employer, very interesting things start to happen, even if someone else is cutting your paycheck.

Kabat-Zinn also talks about Buckminster Fuller in this chapter, and about how, from the depths of depression, Fuller decided to live his life from then on as if he were an employee of the universe, basing his actions on the question, "What is it on this planet that needs doing that I know something about, that probably won't happen unless I take responsibility for it?" He says that Fuller also liked to point out that, for the honey bee, it's all about the honey, but in its pursuit of honey, it becomes nature's (or the universe's) pollinator.*

It's still not easy to figure out whether I want to be a farmer, a baker, a social worker, or something else entirely, but it's reassuring to know that no matter what job I find myself doing, if I approach it right, it will be my Job.

*from Kabat-Zinn, Jon. Wherever You Go, There You Are. New York: Hyperion, 1994.

The Power of Vulnerability

I've known about TEDTalks for a while, but I've only recently started watching them regularly. Here's one of the many reasons why. Posting on my blog makes me feel vulnerable.

Muddy Boots and Cacao Fruits

Back in February, on the farm, I met Jose, the Ecuadorian boyfriend of a fellow volunteer, who was volunteering for the month at the farm next door. Soon after she arrived, she offered the rest of us some chocolate, which was an amazing treat, and then told us that Jose’s grandparents had made it from their own cacao fruit, and I was completely in love. After meeting Jose and talking to him a little more about this delicious family business, I asked if I could go and visit. He enthusiastically agreed, and Ecuador was officially added to my itinerary.

The first week and a half in Ecuador were spectacular. Though I’d been to the country twice before, I had seen very little of it, and this time, I was absolutely taken in by all of it: by the green, patchwork rolling hills of the sierras, the misty, fog-shrouded windy mountain roads, the Quichua-speaking, chestnut-skinned Indians of the highlands with their peacock-feathered porkpie hats, and the country’s fondness for my favorite flavor combo: red onion, tomato, cilantro, lime juice, and salt.

Making my way up the center of the country from the south, I was headed to Quito to head off for a tour of the rainforest in the northeast for a few days, after which I planned to try to meet up with Jose’s family and visit their cacao plantation. In typical Sarah fashion, I was really just making it up as I went along, so when I arrived in Quito on a Sunday, I was ready to leave on my jungle tour the following day, and hadn't been in touch with Jose's family at all yet. Having not had an internet connection for the past several days, I was surprised to find in my inbox an email Jose had sent that day, saying that his grandparents, brother and sister were heading to the cacao plantation on the coast the very next morning, and it would be great if I could go with them.

Serendipity. I immediately changed the date for my jungle tour, called Jose's brother Juancho and made arrangements to have them pick me up the next morning and head for the coast. It was a somewhat frenzied hour or so of plan-changing and plan-making, and only afterward did I have a chance to think, with a stomach-butterfly of apprehension, that I was about to tag along on the family vacation of complete strangers, and hope that we all hit it off!

I need not have been worried. Grandpa and Grandma, Pepo and Lili, treated me like one of their own nietas, or grandchildren. Jose's sister Vale was about the most mature fifteen year-old I’ve met; she and I chatted throughout the eight hour drive to the coast. 20 year-old Juancho, his friend Kika, Vale and I spent countless hours that week laughing and storytelling.

The places we visited that week were like settings from a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. Sade, the tiny, remote jungle town where the family had a cabin and a cacao and palm plantation, was our first destination. After an eight hour drive north from Quito, taking us across the equator, through mist-shrouded highlands and countless one road tropical villages, their inhabitants gathered around open-air pool tables. Barefooted girls sold tube-like plastic bags of mandarines and juicing oranges to passing motorists. Finally we turned off the paved highway and drove a bumpy hour on a rutted muddy road, which took us past ramshackle cabins on stilts and soldier-like rows of oil palms. A tiny ferry carried us and our loaded down 4x4 pickup truck across a slow brown river, and a nausea-inducing hour later, we arrived at the family's neat little cabin.

The next morning after breakfast, the “kids,” Vicente, and Pepo set off for the hour and a half hike to the cacao plantation. We had stopped on the way to buy me some rubber boots, and within fifteen minutes of walking, I could see why they were the footwear of choice in these parts. We slogged uphill through slippery red mud, pausing occasionally to examine highways of leafcutter ants, giant, iridescent bugs, and tiny frogs, until finally we reached the cabin of the plantation manager at the base of the cacao fields. Vicente led us further uphill, past a stream and through a grove of short, big-leaved trees, their branches dripping with what looked like giant, wine-colored ears of corn, the cacao fruit. He used his machete to remove the thick outer skin, and we passed around the oblong fruit, sucking the juice from the tart, soft, white-skinned flesh around each seed. I never would have guessed that this could be turned into the rich chocolate bar I’d tasted at the farm back in February!



That evening, after hosing down our muddy boots and showering, I went with Pepo and Lilia quarter mile up the road to the school they had helped to build for the local children. Working with a Jesuit organization called Fe y Alegria (Faith and Happiness), Pepo had helped organize the creation of a boarding school for the forty or so students who previously had been walking up to two hours each way for school. Night was falling, and children of all ages played outside on the soccer field, and inside a brightly lit multi-purpose room. On our way home, the young school director and his smiling wife stopped their motorbike to catch up with Pepo, whom everyone in the village greeted as “Ingeniero” or “Engineer.” It was clear from these interactions that “Ingeniero” was a well-loved member of the Sade community.

The following day, Wednesday, we loaded the pickup again and set off for Las Peñas, a beach town four hours away where Pepo and Lili owned a small hotel. On the way, we unexpectedly found ourselves behind a small town parade. Children dressed in traditional afro-Ecuadorian costumes, indigenous costumes, as well as clowns, cheerleaders, drag queens, and…buses. We never quite figured out the occasion for the festivities, but it made for a highly entertaining diversion.



The next few days were spent at Las Peñas, a beautiful coastal village lined with small, thatch-roofed restaurants and simple beachfront hotels. It was a picturesque spot, but despite the warm, sunny weather, we saw not a single tourist while we were there. A few years ago, a band of suspected Colombian paramilitaries had passed through, turning what had been a growing beach destination into the ghost town it is today. Pepo and Lili's small hotel was closed, but Jorge, the hotel caretaker, and his family, were living there and cooked delicious meals for us, including empanadas de verde (plantain), shrimp ceviche, and langostinas, the mini-lobsters that are the primary commodity for the locals, now that tourism has died.



We spent our days there swimming in the calm, shallow Pacific waters, playing hopscotch on the beach, and exploring the nearby coastal caves. On a walk down the road to one of the few functioning, but empty, hotels to use their swimming pool, we passed a small, half-built brick and cinderblock house, nearly hidden by vegetation. Lili told us that the owner had driven from Esmeraldas on the weekends to work on his dream, building by hand what would become a vacation cabin for his family. After six years of work, however, he abandoned the project suddenly, leaving it nearly completed. No one knew why.

The abandoned house was just one of countless characters that littered the balmy north coast. I imagined that he had discovered that his wife was having an affair, and, heartbroken, had given up the dream of a cottage by the beach. Or maybe he stopped coming after the tragic death of a child. That week, my imagination ran wild with stories inspired by this rich and exotic setting and its characters.

The family trip with the Merlos was a highlight of my year. I returned to Quito incredibly grateful to this generous family for letting a random gringa tag along and making her feel like one of the family. It confirmed my suspicion that the best way to travel is by connecting with local people, putting down the Lonely Planet, and taking advantage of unexpected opportunities. And it kindled new friendships that will surely endure far beyond borders and time zones.

Reasons to Love Buenos Aires

I'm fully recovered from my initial city-shock now and soaking in the advantages of urban life, but one discomforting aspect of the city that I noticed upon returning here a few weeks ago, and which I still struggle with, is the overwhelming presence of consumerism. I spent days holed up in my friend Andres's apartment, where I was staying, because, it seemed, to go outside meant to spend money. Of course, this isn't necessarily true, but after spending so much time on the farm, where I was only in the vicinity of commercial institutions once a week or less, and then in nomad mode, where purchases meant a heavier backpack, I found myself suddenly stable, and in the midst of seemingly endless opportunities for consumption. Not only that, but I also was reminded of how easily I fall under the spell of the wizards of retail. These days, my purchases are mostly of the edible variety, as I'm still trying to avoid collecting things which I'll need to find space for in my backpack someday soon. I frequently find, upon arriving home, that I have several bags of various food items hanging from my wrists. This discovery is somehow always surprising.

So in an attempt to overcome the temptation to buy, I set off the other day on a long walk, with the explicit intention to purchase nothing. With the Japanese Garden, several blocks to the north, in mind as my destination (I never did make it there), I went in search of those features of this city that define and enhance it.

I didn't have to look too hard. As I made my way north, through the neighborhoods of Almagro, Villa Crespo, and Palermo, I found Buenos Aires charm on nearly every corner. Here are the fruits of my latest afternoon stroll, and a few of the things that, for this girl, make this city special:

1) Free flowers! Okay, so technically this one involves consumption, but since there's no monetary transaction, let's let it slide. I had only walked a few blocks when I came to the "flower district," an intersection lined with flower shops, which I had passed before, and marvelled at, but which this time offered an important new discovery, which I think has changed my life here. Though it was the middle of the day, boxes of discarded flower bouquets and plant arrangement lined the streets and bordered the dumpsters. I'd been tempted by these flower stalls before, but, unable to reconcile a frivolous purchase of fleeting beauty with the nagging knowledge of the realities of the cut flower industry (pesticides, poor working conditions, etc.) in countries not so far away, I'd until now gone flowerless. Free, dumpster-bound flowers, however, posed less of an ethical hurdle, and so I rescued a still-beautiful bouquet of multi-colored daisies, which spent the day with me, riding around in my backpack (and are still, two days later, brightening up my room in yellow jug by the bed). Though surely not a feature unique to Buenos Aires, this floral free-for-all is a huge discovery--I have already started walking out of my way to pass by, and last night put together another bouquet to give to a friend I was meeting.







2) Old stuff: Cobblestone streets, antique subway cars, antique shops, old cars, nineteenth century architecture--history is everywhere in this city. Not just in the cute, touristy, historic neighborhoods like San Telmo, but all over the city. Cobblestones abound, peaking out here and there from under asphalt caps, or just as often, on proud display for blocks and blocks, in curved, fanning patterns or straightforward rows. Grand, ornate buildings with cornices and gargoyles and large wooden-shuttered windows provide a visual feast, and, though I didn't take it on this particular day, when I'm lucky I get to rest on the wooden benches of the 1920s-era cars of the A-line of the Subte (subway). These still-functioning relics make the city's distant past seem not so far off.




3) Street art: Again, all over the place. Vibrant, wacky creatures, political murals, artistic graffiti tags--they're everywhere, making a walk through the city like navigating a huge, labyrinthine art gallery.



4) Used books: Okay, so another questionable inclusion in this supposedly non-commercial list, but they're used, which in my mind is different, and I have somehow successfully resisted purchasing even a single one. There are rows of stalls lining Parque Centenario, where I go running each day, filling up a pocket of Parque Rivadavia, five blocks west of me, and along a median on Avenida Santa Fe, in Palermo, among other places, I'm sure. Though I haven't been buying books, I love browsing, and the very presence of so many yellowed, crinkly pages all over the place is reassuring.



5) Verdulerias: Fruits and vegetables are so much more alive when displayed on street corners in stacks of rainbow-hued crates. These I do purchase from, daily even, but also find it a soul-warming pleasure to walk by and absorb the vibrant energy of so much fresh produce.


6) Balcones y Terrazas: Especially after being a New Yorker for five years, I have a keen appreciation for the urban 'backyard' known as the balcony. While apartment searching a few weeks ago, it was all I could do not to exclaim out loud in excitement upon being shown the terrace, rooftop, or balcony. Only after visiting four or five apartments, all of which had one or more of these, that I realized that what in my city is practically an urban myth, is considered to be a human right here in Buenos Aires.

Each day I find new things to add to this list. I haven't completely cured my consumption blues, but at least, moving around with an eye out for the subtle beauty Buenos Aires has to offer, I've managed to hold on to a few more pesos.