Large, Lush Weeds

Recently I was standing at the garden gate with one of our CSA members. Mostly we saw large, lush weeds.

“How do you even decide what to do next?” the person asked.

I laughed. “This is the time of year when I have to block out 98% of the farm in order to get anything done.” This is especially true on harvest day, and especially true in a year that has been so soggy that sowing, transplanting, and weeding are sketchy at best.

Earlier that very harvest day, I picked the salad turnips out of our little greenhouse, trying not to worry about the lettuce in the next beds. Given that we just lost two plantings of outside lettuce to the rain, we thought we’d better put this lettuce under cover. That meant the lettuce lingered in the flats far too long, as we gradually harvested the previous greenhouse crop.

The lettuce has taken pretty well, and it needs weeding already. But I can’t think about that right now. I hurry back to the shed with my turnips, to hear the Swiss chard harvest report from my sighing fellow: “I had to toss half the leaves. They were all shot from the rain.” 

For his part, my fellow had to block out the leeks, right next to the chard. It was probably pretty easy to block them out, as they are so weedy you might not even know they were there. My fellow went on to pick the broccoli, ignoring the nearly invisible-for-the-weeds carrots in the next bed. 

Meanwhile, I had the happy task of harvesting the scallions, which were undaunted by all the rain. The cabbage seemed to be all right too. If only we had planted nothing but cabbage and scallions this year! Wouldn’t our CSA members have been surprised - there must be lots of interesting ways to fix cabbage and scallions for supper.

My fellow farmer and I had to gird our loins to pick the next crop – yellow squash, zucchini, and cucumbers, if you could call them a crop. Normally this time of year we are harvesting six five-gallon buckets of cucurbits. But with the unhappy circumstance of squash bugs overwintering in the greenhouse, carrying the virus that kills the plants, followed by an aphid infestation the likes of which we’ve never seen, and hardly any sunshine, we came away with a half-bucket total of cukes, 4 yellow squash, and zero zucchini.

But we had to keep going. It was harvest day, after all. The shiitake mushrooms have done pretty well, though the rain-loving slugs are enjoying more mushrooms than we’d like. The tomatoes taste particularly good this year, perhaps because vegetables grown under tougher circumstances tend to taste sweeter, but there aren’t nearly as many as usual. Same with the eggplant and sweet peppers and basil, all greenhouse crops: they’ve been getting less rain directly on their heads, but the lack of sunshine hasn’t helped them at all. 

But hey, the kale looks great, inside and outside the greenhouse! Our CSA members could add kale to their lovely cabbage and scallion salads. The cutting flowers look good too: maybe next year we should grow all edible flowers, instead of decorative ones. (Of course, next year there could be drought instead of flood.)

Back in the shed, harvest done for one more day: 98% of the garden sort of successfully blocked out, so we can get out our 2% accomplished. 

“Look at this abundance!” says our nice CSA member, gesturing to all the freshly harvested and washed vegetables.

We do look, and are pleasantly surprised. We’ve got some veggies for the people. Maybe not as much as usual, but still there is quite a lot, despite the rain and the weeds and the worry. We may be sodden here, but we haven’t lost everything to floods, as some farmers have. Plus the large lush weeds sure help keep the soil in place.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 23 - Aug 29, 2023

Farming Vows

Sometimes this writer-farmer takes a little break in the summer from writing about weeding to write about haying. Happily, thanks to a hot dry July, we already have all our hay in, and it is good hay, too. Only the very last load of the season got a tiny bit wet, just one small rain shower. After a marginal hay crop last year, and three horses pushing their noses through their daily doses of hay without enthusiasm, it is a relief to have a barn full of sweet-smelling hay.

It is not a relief, however, to come back to the weeding after the haying. The garden has gone completely amuck during our hay-hiatus. I begin to worry that, in fact, we are going to lose a crop entirely again to weeds this season, despite my recent claim that this hasn't happened in years.

I mean, heck, I can't even remember now what we planted under those towering weeds.

“Did we plant anything under these towering weeds?” I moan to my fellow farmer.

“Gee, I think so,” my fellow answers. “Leeks, right? And weren't you harvesting scallions out of there?”

Ah, yes. Now I remember, and one hay-free day, I dive in, and liberate the leeks. They still have a chance, valiant Welsh vegetables that they are. (I love leeks, my mother's family is Welsh, and the Welsh symbol is the leek. Therefore I start by weeding the lovely leeks. A person needs to bring some sensible order to her weeding.)

Next in the weeds is the Swiss chard. Chard is a nice big leafed sturdy vegetable, the Swiss are nice orderly people, and the chard has not been entirely overpowered either. I weed more quickly now, and then come to an abrupt halt.

Let's see, I did harvest a lot of scallions out of this section some time ago. But are there any still lingering, hanging on to life, or can I just rip out all these monstrous weeds? I rip, making relatively quick work of the weeds in the almost empty of scallions section, and we use the last few determined bunches for our lunch.

There is still a big chunk of the bed left to weed, probably 100 feet, and I peer into the weeds, hunting for food. Then it occurs to me: Oh no! The dill and cilantro!

Luckily, my fellow farmer isn't nearby to hear my muttering and cursing, because this dill and cilantro planting was a mistake in the first place.

Years ago, I announced: “No more big plantings of dill and cilantro! We can't keep it weeded! We're only going to plant a tiny bit in the herb garden from now on!”

“All right!” announced my fellow farmer back.

This is what happened too, for several seasons, until I was once again swayed by my optimistic fellow farmer, and by a big empty space in a bed, that needed something planted in it, quickly, before the weeds came on. I had foolishly forgotten my dill and cilantro vow, after so many peaceful herb years.

“How about dill and cilantro?” my fellow farmer said, also clearly forgetting my vow, or, perhaps, happily bypassing it.

“Isn't that too much?” I said, a faint bell ringing in my head.

“Nah,” said my fellow, “Everybody loves dill and cilantro.” He got the seed packets out of the storage tub.

“We're going to keep it weeded?” Bells rang more loudly.

“Of course,” he said, dumping the seeds in the seeder.

“We're going to harvest it on time? Before it bolts?”

“Of course!” he repeated, as he barreled down the empty stretch of bed with the seeder, planting dill and cilantro. A lot of it.

“I don't know if this is a good idea,” I called after him.

“It's a great idea!” said he, man of action and enthusiasm.

And so it goes.

And so I sat, glumly contemplating the huge weeds, and the supposed dill and cilantro planting. I don't even like dill all that much, I thought. And cilantro's pretty darn good in salsa, but some people are allergic, and think cilantro tastes like soap. Why are we planting this much soap?

Then my herb vow came back fully and clearly to mind, all bells clamoring. I also had a sudden understanding of my farmer-daughter's sighs and groans when sent to harvest dill and cilantro, as well as an increasing understanding of her paltry harvest.

Then and there, I made a new farming vow, or at least a new weeding vow: to write all my brilliant vows down, and announce them, at top volume, every morning, all season long. Now that sounds like a fine start to a farming day!

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 28- Sept 3, 2019

Can't See the Garden for the Weeds

We've come a long way in our weeding since we first started farming. Why, back in the early days, we lost entire crops to weeds.

My fellow farmer and I would go out to check the planting of carrots, recently germinated. A little weedy, we said, but not too bad. We could wait a bit to tend the carrots, surely, while we tackle the much weedier peas and salad greens.

A week passes, and we check the carrots again. We are in complete agreement: these carrots are getting urgent. We better get to them this week.

Another week. Getting urgent turns to “Oh my gosh, the carrots are desperate! We have to weed these, without fail!”

But, yes, another week passes, and the carrots have entirely disappeared, under nearly knee-high weeds.

“Don't panic,” we farmers bolster each other, “We're having a weeding and ice cream party this very weekend, and our fine CSA members will clear this out in a jiffy!”

Oh, ha ha ha. Even with our fine CSA members, and our careful work, trying to hold in the wisps of carrots while rooting out the gigantic weeds, we are able to clear about twenty feet, out of six hundred, in three hours.

“Well, we've got a good start?” we say, with more hope than sense, and rush to another crisis in the garden.

The next week, one stalwart volunteer returns. We are surprised to see him. “I just wanted to help you finish those carrots,” he says.

“Oh,” we answer, looking quickly at one another. We don't want to break this kind member's heart, but we have to admit the the sensible truth. “We, uh, we realized, we didn't think, there was no way, without losing everything else, the weeds were just so big, the carrots didn't germinate all that well, we just had to . . .” we stumble around, and finally get it out: “We plowed them under.”

“Oh!” the nice fellow says, not seeming heartbroken at all, but looking rather jaunty. His whole afternoon has opened up before him, and he makes his escape, before we suggest yet another crop desperate for weeding.

Now, we can't say we've gotten to be better, faster weeders over the years; in fact, we may be just a smidge slower and creakier than we were 25 years ago.

But we are smarter weeders. Since we couldn't see the garden for the weeds, so to speak, we decided to open up a little more garden land, in order to rest garden sections in yearly succession, rather than having every bit of the garden in production all the time. Over the long-term, what with bare fallowing and cover cropping, we've been able to knock back the weed seed bank considerably.

In the short-term, we've been able to prioritize our weeding. We look at how vigorous the crop is, and how long it needs to stay in the ground. Those carrots, for example, need serious and speedy weeding. Carrots take three weeks to germinate, which means most weeds already have a head start. Carrots also have such fine feathery tops that they're not able to compete with any broad-leafed and vigorous weed, or really even any narrow-leafed and not very vigorous weed. Carrots also stay in the ground a long time, compared to some other crops. Salad turnips are sown at the same time, but they grow quickly, and so are harvested quickly, which means a different weeding technique altogether. We have another vivid memory of a volunteer, in a salad turnip bed, who was wading in weeds. Her progress, not surprisingly, was very slow.

We went over to see how it was going, and realized she was taking out every weed, from the giant to the miniscule. She also had a look of weeding despair on her face. We recognized that look, and we knew how to help.

“Oh,” we said gaily, realizing we hadn't explained what we meant: “These salad turnips will be out of the ground and into people's stomachs in less than two weeks! You don't really have to weed them! You just have to find them!”

We demonstrated: finding a crop means cutting out the giant weeds with a pair of clippers, so that we can see the vegetables to harvest. Things speeded up considerably, and our volunteer began to whistle.

Of course, we are still all about weeding, here on our sustainable vegetable farm, especially in July. But happily, we haven't even had to “find” a crop, or plow a crop under, in many years, which is excellent progress. Speaking of which, I believe I'll go out and weed those carrots.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 3-July 9, 2019

Farmers Helping Farmers

Recently, in a meeting with our farmer-friend-colleagues, my fellow and I were asked how our 2018 garden season shaped up. We instantly launched into a detailed description of weather, equipment, and crop woes, simultaneously shaking our heads and making feeble jokes about it all.

“This has been one of our toughest years farming,” we finished up, and our farmer friends all nodded sympathetically. They had such looks of tender concern that I turned to my fellow and said, “Let's see, can we think of anything cheerful to tell these people?”

The nice bunch of people chuckled, and my fellow farmer said, “Well . . .” he looked at me. Neither of us wanted to discourage the other farmers with our sad stories.

“We have every intention of doing it again next year?” he said, the question mark strong in his voice, looking at me and laughing. I laughed too, and one of our colleagues said, “At least you're laughing!”

We are still laughing, and we are also glad to say goodbye to the end of this tough gardening season. One of the bright spots has certainly been joining this group of  farmer-friend-colleagues. The group began meeting monthly for an hour or two last winter, with the idea of helping increase support for local farmers from our communities, as well increasing access to high-quality, local produce for all income levels. Early on, the conversation turned to more ways we farmers could support each other, and thus “Farmers Helping Farmers” was born.

“Farmers Helping Farmers” is a practical group. Sometimes we have a written agenda for our meetings, and sometimes we don't, because we're all scrambling around in our fields with no time to write agendas. There is a mission statement, however, which was written during the slower winter months: “Farmers Helping Farmers is a group of Monadnock Region small farmers who choose to recognize each other as allies and friends rather than competitors. We would like farming to be a viable and valued vocation, and for the high quality food we grow to be accessible to more people in our communities. While the group is intentionally led by farmers, we welcome support from other individuals and organizations. ”

For the past several months, our practical support of one another has manifested in working parties at each other's farms. We have weeded carrots on two farms, weeded lettuce and salad greens on another, dug heirloom dahlia tubers on a fourth, and had potlucks at most every farm. Our potlucks tend to feature the fast and fresh crop of the week: a bowl of sugar snap peas and a basket of husk cherries, grated carrots with dressing, lettuce greens, watermelon. Luckily there also seems to be at least one farmer who's not having a farm crisis on meeting day, and comes with an actual cooked dish: pasta and beef and greens, zucchini bread, apple crisp. Once we even hand-cranked vanilla ice cream together, in a devil-may-care flourish of worn-out, mid-season farmers.

The food is good, and the company is good, and the ideas are good. We exchange tips on planting and harvesting, on CSA membership and produce sales, on keeping records and keeping sane. Speaking of farmer sanity, it's also been mighty fine to see how big the weeds are in each other's gardens.

“We totally lost this section,” said one farmer, as we waded through waist-high weeds at his farm.

“This looks just like our carrot patch!” said another. 

“Yeah, I sent my apprentice into a section with the weed-whacker the other day, to see if she could find any crops under there!” added a third.

We all laughed then, a little giddily. It sure is nice to know that other farmers have the same troubles we do: huge weeds, too much work, too little time, and, of course, painfully tight budgets. We are all working towards environmental sustainability, physical sustainability (as in, can our farmer muscles hold up the enterprise, or will we gimp over to the compost pile, settle down right on the black, rich, warm, sweet-smelling stuff, and then gaze at the blue sky, to seriously contemplate another career? Or perhaps we should lie down in the unfinished part of the compost, the raw horse manure and the rotting vegetable scraps, in the pouring rain. Then we might really be serious about another career), and the ever-pressing financial sustainability.

In any case, anything we famers can do to help each other makes it more possible that we will all keep farming, even after a tough season, for another year.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Nov 21-Nov 27, 2018