The ways of old are ripe for rediscovery...

Last summer, while overseeing activities at the Farmers’ Market, an eight-year-old kid wandered into my office and sat down. Being one of the farmers’ kids, she was a regular at the market. And, of course, I was a regular there. That is why when she sat down next to me, I tossed her a casual “hi” without looking at her because I was busy logging data into my manager’s notebook and she returned a greeting, sitting down to focus on her task at hand – enjoying her afternoon snack.

It was a simple enough exchange between two friends focused elsewhere that it wouldn’t have taken root in my memory long enough to survive to the next day let alone this cold January six months later if it had not been for what transpired next.

What transpired next was an eight-year-old child digging into an afternoon snack like a lion digs into a downed antelope. The crunching was but a mere distraction; what caught my attention and held it was the commentary that came with every nibble: “Oh, delicious! Yummy. Mmmmm. This is so delicious. Sweet! Yummy, yummy. Oh, delicious…” Her narration of what seemed pure gastronomical pleasure went on and on and on, as she worked her way through her basket of … raw shelling peas.

Yes, folks. I looked up and there was a kid going bonkers over raw shelling peas! Now, I’m a fan of raw shelling peas myself so I didn’t think much of it at the time, though I kind of expect kids to muster this sort of enthusiasm only for Skittles of Reese’s Pieces or M&Ms. But, no, she was definitely enjoying shelling peas… really enjoying them.

I’m reminded of this moment this weekend because many mothers of young children struggle to get their kids to simply tolerate vegetables. Some even resort to disguising vegetables in order to get them into their kids’ diet. Having kids who actually enjoy veggies seems too much to ask. But really, it’s not. Tasty food draws crowds.

The problem, as I see it, is that most kids today only know vegetables by what they see at the local grocery store. That means the vegetables most kids know are just at the edge of spoilage, having been in the food delivery system for nearly two weeks and having been genetically altered so they “look” fresh even though they really aren’t. (Slimy baby carrots come to mind. So do moldy raspberries or January strawberries that are hard as a rock!)

Produce found in most grocery stores can’t be legitimately called “fresh,” and none of it tastes remotely like its counterpart grown and picked close to home. And that goes for those costly organic brands that travel the same routes and spend just as much time in the warehouse. Worse, the variety of vegetables at the grocery store from which moms can choose for their kids is sorely limited. (Do you remember seeing shelling peas in the grocery store recently?)

So, moms and kids, if you want to know how good real fresh vegetables can be, you have choices that don’t include grocery stores. You can plant a garden. You can go to a farmers market; there are plenty of them all across the state. Or, consider Community Supported Agriculture, where every week a basket of farm-fresh produce is assembled just for your family. Learn more here.

Of course, it is winter now and fresh, local shelling peas and raspberries and asparagus are months away from being available. In the winter, choices are few unless you planned ahead. That’s why, once farm-fresh produce comes available once more, even an eight-year-old knows it’s time to savor every yummy, delicious nibble.

A history in the making...

I have been away. Not in the sense that first comes to mind, as in a holiday from the cold and dreariness of a farmstead in winter. (I wish). No, I've been away in another sense. Preoccupied. Focused. Immersed in a story of a life. A story of a humble life. A story of an immense life. A life all of us could learn a thing or two from if we felt so moved to try.

And so I apologize to all you followers who have come here recently looking for whatever it is you usually find here that keeps you coming back and found instead my silence. I've been fashioning a story of a life...and I'm almost ready to share the fruits of my labor. Almost.

Wake up and smell the .... ice?

The number on the left is our outdoor temperature upon waking this morning while the temperature on the right is the ambient temp in the kitchen. I dedicate this photograph to my brother who spent last night sipping margaritas in Arizona...in his bare feet, no doubt.

Old friends. New friends. Just friends...

I was a bit down yesterday when the January propane bill arrived before the December one had even been paid. The large shack hubby and I share with farm dog isn’t the most energy efficient home, even though we’ve done our part by adding plastic to the windows, closing off unused bedrooms and keeping the thermostat to a level that forces us to get up and move around every hour to keep our digits from falling off.

Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be better, or at least less costly, to board the place up in the winter and live in a teepee somewhere along the coast of Belize. But then, I’d miss the friends who still find Four Cedars Farms a welcome respite from their city lives, even in winter, and ask to come down for the weekend. Some time their visits to hockey games at the University; some will come to help with winter pruning in the vineyard; some want to break out the snow shoes or cross-country skis; still others come just because we’re here. Thinking about each of them makes it easier for me to write the check for propane without feeling too badly about it. You can’t put a price on friendship.

Of course, friends will come and go throughout a lifetime. Some come into our lives exactly because we need their special gifts at the time. But then they eventually drift away. There’s no need to feel bad about those friendships. I’ve heard them described as seasons – each playing a distinct role in the “year” that is our lifespan.

Sometimes, though, friendships can span decades; in those cases, it’s often shared history that cements the friendship more than what we are able to offer one another. After all, our needs and their gifts, and vice versa, change a lot in the span of twenty or thirty years. It is the past, more than the present, that carries these friendships forward. We bask in remembrance of the persons we once were; we compare ourselves, then and now, to see how far we've come, or not come, how far we've grown or not grown. Looking at an age-old friend is like looking in a mirror.

I believe it’s important to stay open to new friendships. Friendships can come at surprising times in one’s life and can be formed in unexpected places. I know a woman who first met her very best friend when she was in her 50s. It was like we’d known each other all our lives, she said of her best friend. Some people just click that way and it’s sort of lovely to know that aging doesn’t exempt us from forming new friendships — important friendships.

Speaking of age, one of my newest friends, who I met last summer, had a birthday yesterday. She turned nine. Sure, there’s a forty year difference in our ages (and our world view) but this friend of mine is no less valued to me that my friend, whom I saw Monday, and with whom I shared a locker in tenth grade.

Both of these friends have a special place in my heart this week; Julie, who I met in 1975 and who buried her mom on Tuesday, and Sam, who turned nine on Wednesday. Both of these friends are with me in spirit, if not in flesh, and the simple thought of them warms my heart.

And here’s a bonus: writing about my friends warms my fingers. That’s more than the now-filled tank of propane has ever been able to do.

Old Friend: Julie and middle daughter, Nikki. Our shared history started in a school hallway in 1975.

New Friend: Samantha decorated her own cake for her birthday. I wonder if she got a horse?

Cherished friendships warm our hearts and our souls. That's especially important now when we are surrounded by so much coldness. And I'm not talking about the weather, folks.