Spend a Day Down on the Farm
by Elizabeth Foss in Homemaking on Thursday, June 18, 2009 6:00 AM
The dates are circled on the calendar as if they were summer holidays, and the children know the order in which they will come: strawberries, cherries, blueberries, peaches, and then two rounds of apples. Those are the days we will drive an hour west into the countryside. Those are the days that stand out like bright squares on a quilt of happy childhood memories.
The children climb out of the van on Strawberry Day. The farmer is waiting. He’s bursting with excitement and thrilled to see them. Perhaps he thought he’d be all alone on this chilly, damp morning. He tells them that the barn is a bit of a mess and shows them the pawprint he’s circled in the mud. A bear visited in the night! He ate his fill of berries, but there are still plenty for us. Distributing cardboard boxes, the farmer points out the rows of berry bushes ready to be relieved of their fat, bright burdens.
Our boxes fill quickly; I have several seasoned pickers and many hands make light work. I watch as Karoline, who is two, searches for berries that fit the parameters we’ve set down for her. In the process of looking for one strawberry that is ripe to the very tip, she steps on four or five others. Zealous two-year-olds might just be the strawberry’s natural predators.
The baby, against my chest in a front pack, giggles as I squat and straighten, squat and straighten, struggling a bit to pick my share. I know I will feel this particular outing in my thighs for days.
Once we’ve picked our fill, the children go check the peach trees, searching those small, green fruits for signs of the harvest to come. The trees are planted in widely spaced rows, leaving aisles just perfect for running as the rain begins to fall again. I sit in the van and nurse my baby, taking in the splendor of the lush Virginia hills as the children have a few more minutes of unbridled exuberance before driving home.
When we arrive in our kitchen, we begin our well-practiced routine. There are berries to clean and cut, sugar to be measured, jars to be prepared. The big kids direct the smaller ones. Someone begins to sing “A Few of My Favorite Things” and the big kids are bemused by how hokey it all seems.
Still, they sing along. In no time, jewel-colored jars line the countertops and pies are popped into the refrigerator. Freezer and pantry shelves are cleared to make room for the season’s bounty. In our suburban home, the rhythm of the farm begins to beat for yet another year.
I admit that in my youthful imaginings, we did not live in a suburban neighborhood, confined by planned community rules. We lived in rambling farmhouse with a history, surrounded by trees and bushes that bore fruit. Alas, I didn’t marry a farmer and those rambling houses are far away from the baseball diamonds and soccer fields where my children spend most of their time.
When I stop to truly consider it, I don’t think I’d be all that good at farming. I do think it’s important—and immensely enjoyable—for all of us to know how our food is grown and to spend at least a little time gathering it ourselves. I think that days in wide open spaces, plucking perfect fruit from its stems is utter joy. There are wide open spaces not too far from almost any urban location.
At PickYourOwn.org, there are lists of fruit and vegetables farms all over the country. There is also a cache of tips and recipes for every season. There is no reason that every child shouldn’t know what it’s like to climb a tree and sit in the branches while the warm, sticky juice of the freshest possible fruit dribbles down his chin and makes a mess of his shirt.
Working with our harvest is very simple. Most supplies are sold at every grocery store in suburbia, leaving me to wonder how many suburban housewives once thought they’d be farm wives. All the basics of canning and preserving are spelled out clearly at the Ball preserving website and we find that for most jams and jellies, the recipe inside the box of pectin is the best recipe of all.
On the evening of a picking day, I like to line all the jars of jam in neat rows on my kitchen counter. The kitchen has been scrubbed clean of sugary spills and brightly hued juices. A couple of pies promise an exceptional dessert. Soup bubbles in the crockpot. Those are moments to inhale, moments when I know that I gave my children a day to remember, provided well for my family, and just plain lived fully in the moment. Those are good days.
—Elizabeth Foss is author of Real Learning: Education in the Heart of the Home
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photo credit: Karoline Foss by Maddy Ashwell
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