We've Hilled The Leeks
Milestones occur, often, unexpectly. Simple acts or accomplishments that seem, at first glance, to be somewhat mundane do, in fact, at times, represent a major step forward in one's existance.
We've been in work frenzy of late, trying to beat a rainstorm that just won't come. A forecast for several days of solid rain that was announced a week ago put us in constant work mode, and we've been in the fields non-stop ever since (but for a brief holiday fete yesterday.) And the fields do look good. Things are green. They're in strait little rows. The weeds are at a near record minimum. Stuff that's supposed to be planted out is (pretty much) planted out. And, today, I hilled the leeks.
Leeks, you must understand, have never been hilled on this farm before. Ever. It's always on the list of things to do, but never seems to jump into the Top 10 in terms of immediate priorities. That all changed today. I hilled the leeks. With a hoe. With dirt. Around the leeks.
What that does for us, as well as our beloved customer, is provide more succulant white leek part than a non-hilled leek. In my mind, it sort changes the leek from something that was stuck in the ground into a gourmet specialty item, provided to you with loving care from your friendly organic farmer. It's just that type of care that I want to bestow upon all my vegetables. It's, to me, the difference between dirt farming and craft. The difference between planting and poetry, if you will.
And it happened today, at about 10:30, under a slight overcast haze, with a gentle breeze from the north-west, after a squoze a lemon wedge into a glass of ice-water and said, "Leeks are done. Let's move on to the bok choi bed. Wait, let's take an extra minute and hill the leeks."
I still don't know why. I've been feeling, of late, bereft of that wolf-at-the-door sensation. That excrement-quickly-approaching-the-12-inch-oscillating-fan sensation. That one-more-flat-tire,-one more-broken-tool-and-we'll-lose-it-all sensation. I've been feeling, in fact, on top of things and together. So together, in fact, that I hilled the leeks.
We've been in work frenzy of late, trying to beat a rainstorm that just won't come. A forecast for several days of solid rain that was announced a week ago put us in constant work mode, and we've been in the fields non-stop ever since (but for a brief holiday fete yesterday.) And the fields do look good. Things are green. They're in strait little rows. The weeds are at a near record minimum. Stuff that's supposed to be planted out is (pretty much) planted out. And, today, I hilled the leeks.
Leeks, you must understand, have never been hilled on this farm before. Ever. It's always on the list of things to do, but never seems to jump into the Top 10 in terms of immediate priorities. That all changed today. I hilled the leeks. With a hoe. With dirt. Around the leeks.
What that does for us, as well as our beloved customer, is provide more succulant white leek part than a non-hilled leek. In my mind, it sort changes the leek from something that was stuck in the ground into a gourmet specialty item, provided to you with loving care from your friendly organic farmer. It's just that type of care that I want to bestow upon all my vegetables. It's, to me, the difference between dirt farming and craft. The difference between planting and poetry, if you will.
And it happened today, at about 10:30, under a slight overcast haze, with a gentle breeze from the north-west, after a squoze a lemon wedge into a glass of ice-water and said, "Leeks are done. Let's move on to the bok choi bed. Wait, let's take an extra minute and hill the leeks."
I still don't know why. I've been feeling, of late, bereft of that wolf-at-the-door sensation. That excrement-quickly-approaching-the-12-inch-oscillating-fan sensation. That one-more-flat-tire,-one more-broken-tool-and-we'll-lose-it-all sensation. I've been feeling, in fact, on top of things and together. So together, in fact, that I hilled the leeks.
1 Comments:
At June 01, 2005 4:48 PM,
Casey said…
Enjoy the feeling while it lasts. Not that I'm being a pessimist or anything: my glass is always half-n-half.
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