Jay and I just came back from the field up the street where Dave now farms, with a nice head of cauliflower and a bunch of turnips. I am feeling blue, frozen by the loss of my sweet work contract. The mud sticks to my sneakers, reminding me that I have totally forgotten how to dress for the field. Tonight we will have curried cauliflower with lamb shanks, and tomorrow turnip something or other.
It's been several years since we've farmed. This year we planted a few things in Grampy's garden, where our first little greenhouse used to be. Because of the weather and blight, we ended up with some lame kale, but great cilantro and parsley. But today, walking out in the field, I felt a loss greater than my own. We've lost a huge part of our lives, on the pretense of being too busy and/ or too old. Although we've filled it with other food related obsessions, the authenticity of harvesting field to table cannot be replaced.
I've often thought of what a crazy life I've been leading, spending hours at the airport and on a plane every other week, and how unreal and unpleasant it had become. But what I will miss is the brain excersize, and the pleasant warm feeling of a final design that works. Satisfaction, I think that is called. Where will it come from now?