The Urban Orchardist

Texas is hard.
Like it’s so hot, even in November.
Driving through the lone star state, the time/space continuum expanded–or contracted–and we seemed to be in the same place yet hours had passed. Like the Blair Witch Project. Then suddenly, we were in Austin. Land of rivers and trees and my dear friend Leilani and everything was better. I’m riding a bike again. I feel like a new woman. Leilani lives about 5 miles from downtown, in East Austin, so it’s a haul, but lovely to see. I went to the Saturday urban farm stand at Boggy Creek Farm (sorry, still no card reader and now the digital camera appears to be kaput), one of the nation’s first urban farms. They folks who started it are getting old and gray, yet are still so enthusiastic about their farm and providing Austin with some much needed greenery–kales, radicchio, arugula, and chard. Coming from the Bay Area this might seem ho-hum, but compared to the grocery stores in Texas, these greens were a revelation. Funny too, because then I went to the Austin Farmer’s market and was disappointed. All the “real” farmers had was okra, turnips, and meat. Maybe the urban farmers were more in touch with what the urban people wanted? I can only speculate.

Um. We packed like idiots, just throwing whatever into the car. In terms of food that meant: 8 jars of tomatoes, 6 packets of Italian pasta, honey, tea, 20 pink lady apples, peaches, pistachios, dried figs, olive oil, then, at the last minute (thank god!), we veered into Eccolo and grabbed three salamis. We’ll find food on the road. Actually, no. We forgot polenta, the dried peaches I made, pickles, almond butter. So much. And Bill forgot his underwear. At least we can buy underwear. Walk into a store in Bishop, CA or Sells, AZ and you’re going to find processed food, pale veggies, and sad meat. In Bishop we asked for some local beef (there are beef cows everywhere!) but the counter guy glumly told us the meat they sell comes from the Iowa feedlot. “We can’t sell our stuff.” Meanwhile, someone packed some deliciously red elk meat behind him. Sigh. The only up side is the Mexican influence–we bought great corn tortillas, and Oaxacan cheese last night for dinner. Now I know why everyone wants to tell Alice Waters to stuff it. She should really come out here to the real America and see how bad it is.
p.s. sorry no photos yet, i forgot my flash card reader.

It’s supposed to be blog action day, but I’m going to write about olives.
We’re busy packing, tying up loose strings, preparing the animals for our departure from the farm. We’ll be gone for almost a month! And yet, it’s olive season. Usually we drive up to Davis, Ca for olives, but this year we found some right down the street. One tree is in the ghetto. There’re olives on the ground, and a few prostitutes standing on the corner. We picked there first, then went to Emeryville, a weird new tech region of the East Bay. After five minutes of picking from a local parks four trees, a woman yelled at us from her door: “Watch out for the plants! Don’t step on the plantings there.” I couldn’t believe this barbarian. Has she no manners? “Ok,” I was forced to yell. “We’re not stepping on the plants.” The plants were some mexican feather grass. I think it freaked her out that someone was actually harvesting fruit in a neighborhood. We must’ve been so desperate. Maybe we are. Once home, I washed the olives, poured them into a pillow case, and tossed in a whole box of kosher salt. We’re expecting them to be ready when we return.

Please meet my illin’ chicken Ophelia.
I came home Friday after a long meeting to find a chicken floating, dead, in the communal chicken/turkey/pig water container. I thought she had fallen in and drowned. When I pulled the chicken out of the water I noticed that she had a huge cut on her head. Since one of the other chickens is missing feathers from the top of her head, I figured it must be the nefarious work of the turkeys. They are pretty brutal (I’ll be slaughtering them in a few days). Feeling glum, I tossed the dripping chicken in a bucket and carried her out to the garden where I bury dead animals. Then I saw her beak open and close. Another almost dead animal!
I wrapped her in a towel and whipped out the blow dryer. I sang her an Elliot Smith song, which she liked, especially with all that warm air blowing her soft under-feathers dry. Then I put some hydrogen perioxide on her wound. After more singing and blow drying she was warm and finally opened her eyes. She slept in our room during the party, neatly nested up in her towel. The next day I put her outside on the deck to recuperate with the duck, who had similar problems. She’s adjusting nicely and her wound seems to just be a superficial thing. Today I’m going to recruit another chicken from the yard to be her friend so when I reintroduce her to the flock, she won’t be alone.
An insta-urban farmer in Brooklyn said he found taking care of animals to be “miserable, soul-crushing work”. I raised a chicken from the dead by singing to her and using a simple tool invented by man. She’ll eventually bear me eggs. How can we consider this anything but the opposite of soul-crushing?

Yesterday was Bill’s last day of working for the man. The man being the sweet but bossy owner of the Garage, a high-end Japanese car repair shop. After almost five years, Billy called it quits. To celebrate we invited our best friends over for a party with beer and pork. Pork cooked at low temperatures for many hours. I went to the garden and cut two big banana leaves. Then I rubbed a pork loin with cumin, chipotle, salt, chilis, lime and honey. I wrapped the loin in the leaves and put it in the oven. In a cast iron dutch oven, I crammed a rack of spare ribs with pineapple, roasted tomatoes and onion, and put that next to the banana leaf experiment. Then I went to bed. In the morning, the whole apartment smelled sweet and spicy and porky.
When the guests arrived at 7, I shredded the spare ribs, unwrapped the banana leaves and fried up tortillas. People pulled strips of tender white meat from the loin and dredged it in the cumin/fat drippings and tossed it on the tortilla with some onion and cilantro. We raised our dripping tacos in toast to Bill. Here’s to quitting.

Any bug experts out there? I found this guy in the garden today. At first I thought it was a cabbage worm and was going to feed him to the chickens. But he sure is big for a cabbage worm–and those stripes! Pest or friend? Anyone know what he is? Manny? Har har.