The Memory of Taste: A Proustian Experience

All hands on deck, we start harvesting the rows of tomatoes—Brandywine, Jubilee, Early Girl, Striped German, Blue Beech, Amish Paste, Polbig, Eva Purple Ball. The vines smell minty when you lean in close to find a tomato wedged in the middle of the vines. Sometimes the tomatoes are hanging from the vine, other times they are nestled within the trellising. You can hear someone talking, but you can’t always see them, hidden by a green tangle with dabs of red or yellow. We reach in, twist off the top, and place the tomatoes face down in the crates so they don’t bruise each other. I like harvesting Black Princes, Russian heirlooms with mixed hues, a dark reddish purple with green shoulders. The color of Eva Purple Ball, a German heirloom, is also remarkable, a bright pinkish red; this variety dates back to the late 1800’s. Sometimes they are soft or split, so you can chuck the tomato out of the field if you are feeling strong, or toss one at an unsuspecting friend walking by. I like startling experience of walking through the farm and finding an unexpected tomato in the tall grass, a small sign that someone harvesting before you has a good arm.

While harvesting tomatoes one of our volunteers, Alex, mentioned a fascinating phenomenon. He remarked on what power a taste can have to evoke an emotional memory. This phenomenon is known as the Proustian experience.  Marcel Proust made such a moment famous with his Remembrance of Things Past, after he bit into a petite madeleine cookie and took a sip of tea—“the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.” While harvesting beans this week, I bit into a bean and, suddenly, I was a little kid, barefoot in the garden picking green beans that climbed up a bamboo teepee. It took me right back to afternoons where I’d go search for caterpillars crawling up our crab apple tree and on our orange slide. I’d look for cicada casings, upright, still clinging to the bark, frozen in time. Sometimes I was afraid to touch them, thinking they were real cicadas. I remember hanging from my knees, looking at the world upside down letting my hair brush the acorns, wishing my hair was longer. Going behind our small wooden playhouse, I remember finding moss and wondering why it only grew there. Sent to find raspberries, I’d wander into the furthest back garden. It’s overtaken by rose-a-sharon now, higher than your shoulders.

One of the elements that makes memory so vivid is the emotional content of it. I learned this at Kenyon’s Writing and Thinking program. You may not remember the details of a childhood memory precisely, but the emotion will be accurate. In “Blackberry- Picking,” Seamus Heaney captures the joy of picking blackberries and the strong childlike urge to pick as many as possible—

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.

At the close of the poem, he vividly remembers finding a fungus among the berries,

I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair

That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.

Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

Onion Skins Very Thin, Mild Winter Coming In

Photo Art of an onion by Claire Staples

When harvesting onions, you wait for them to weaken at the top of bulb and flop over onto the ground. When the scape of the onion has drooped to the side, you know it is ready to be harvested. Afterwards, the onions are moved to the greenhouse. The temperature of the greenhouse reminds me of hot yoga class, but it is appropriate for the onions. Cutting the onions involves snipping off the tops of the onions so that they do not mold. All you can hear is snip, snip, of the scissors and a rustle of the dried tops, sometimes a little crinkle of the outer skin of the onion. After snipping them we put them in harvest crates, only two layers to allow the onions to breathe. Sometimes it would smell like onions when snipping off the tops, but mostly it was not strong enough to make you tear up.  I discovered, according to the onion association, that sulfuric compounds in onions are what make you tear up. But crying is not the only cultural association with onions, they are also fabled in an old English rhyme to predict the coming winter: “Onion skins very thin, mild winter coming in. Onion skins very tough, coming winter very rough.” I think our onion skins our thin, but this could be wishful thinking!

Similar to onions, when you gather sunflower seeds, you should wait for the sunflower to flop over and for the petals to fall off. One interesting fact that Joanna shared about flowers is that there are ascetic choices to be made when making a bouquet of flowers but that it is also important to cut flowers at the right time in their growth in order to make them  last longer in bouquets. If you cut flowers when they are still closed they will bloom in the vase. For instance, when cutting sunflowers, the flowers will last the longest in a vase if they have a mostly flat seed section in the sunflower (as you can see in the photo). The seeds in the middle are flat before they start to grow and as the sunflowers begin to mature the middle of the flower will become more rounded.

 I think the sunflower's height is what makes it so exciting to witness. I like to imagine it counting "the steps 0f the sun" as William Blake puts it in Ah! Sunflower— 

Ah Sunflower weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;

Squelch and Slap

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands. 

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.       
                                          Seamus Heaney, Digging

 Now when I read Seamus Heaney’s Digging, I understand the process that he is writing about: burying the edge of the fork, sometimes rocking back and forth to make it go into the soil, leaning on the wooden handle to unearth the potatoes. We kneel close to the ground, digging through the soil with our hands in search of a flash of red, feeling for the firm roundness of each potato against our fingers.  When looking at the dead outer stem, a blackened thin vine, the discovery of each potato seems unlikely, but this part of the plant is deceiving. You never know how many will be on each plant or what size they will be. This is the thrill of it.  Each one seems to be an unexpected gift—Red Norlands waiting to be discovered with each churn of the soil. Sometimes the potatoes grow in odd shapes, I remember one from last season looked remarkably like a bunny. The discovery of a particularly large potato or one with an odd shape also makes harvesting potatoes exciting. With each thrust of fork, we hope that one red treasure is not pierced straight through with the fork, ruined in a second. While it only happens occasionally, there is always a little sigh of relief when the potatoes are revealed unblemished and still intact.

Seamus Heaney’s Digging is my favorite Ars Poetica, beautifully linking the act of writing with digging potatoes.  He sees digging with his pen as a way to follow his ancestors. In his biography, the poetry foundation mentions that Heaney felt insecure about being a writer in his family of farmers (visit the poetry foundation to read the entire poem and Seamus Heaney’s biography). But this poem seems to reconcile the two worlds.  I can identify with his admiration of the skill of his grandfather. When I look over at the farmers at Rushton, I am often struck by their experienced and efficient ways of farming. Heaney seems to relish the messy nature of harvesting potatoes. The seed potato that you bury when planting each potato often molds and liquid oozes out into the soil, making your hands sticky—

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Heirloom Tomato

Greetings from Cape Cod!
 I hope you are enjoying your tomatoes and looking forward to melons!









Heirloom Tomato
                            By Natalie Staples

The green vine digs deep and pierces its fruit,
shapes it like dough,
sends a crease down the middle,
skin is stretched like a child’s cheeks,
full of pent up air. It hangs
in its own teepee cradled in bamboo.

I know that kind of love.
I was working with my knees pressed
 into the soil when a farmer told me
that mulching was like tucking in a baby.
Pulling the covers of hay over its vines,
sometimes discovering a tiny watermelon.

But it’s a little more than that—
the crunch of fresh straw in the pitch fork
bits of it sticking to my legs in the heat
we slip and slide, it’s so new
I can’t shake off the feeling of wanting to roll
all of the straw fluffed and ready,
waiting for a horse to walk through
that cozy feeling at the close of the day
when the sweat is scraped and the pony
is left grazing, the lead line drags along grass
he wanders in for a bucket of sweet feed
nosing his way back to the barn
gone quiet except for contented munching.

                                                            
                                                            

The Precision of Tasks

This past week we were weeding the beans, two varieties, Providers and Edamame, while Cape Cod winds whipped through the fields. They are the kind of winds that send shirts and towels billowing on clothes lines. Wind that makes flags twist and yes, sometimes sends the row cover flying. It was the kind of wind that makes you glad you are outside, watching nature take the long meadow grass in its palm and let out a long breath. It makes the farm look neater somehow, freshly mulched rows, a little crunch of straw as you walk between the beds. This is the kind of weather where everyone looks around and smiles.

Fine-tuned weeding is a welcome, meditative task on these days. As we knelt to pull the grass between the beans, I thought of one of the aspects of farming which has always interested me, the precision of tasks. Weeding, sowing, planting, and even counting while harvesting each crop, the careful measurement that happens on the farm is significant. My favorite tool for such precision is the collinear hoe, which is so called because it allows the person using it to weed parallel to the beds. It is best for weeds that have just begun to grow.  As we carefully pulled weeds from between the roots of the beans, Noah told us that one of the reasons we weed these crops is to prevent fungus from growing and to increase airflow between the plants.  On particularly hot days, the lack of circulation creates an ideal climate for a fungus to grow and the need to create space between the plants becomes even more necessary. Another interesting aspect of the beans that Joanna shared is that the beans are able to fix their own nitrogen.

Virgil also believes in precision, but in the way of careful observation, believing that close attention to nature would allow a farmer to predict the weather patterns. In the Georgics, he provides advice concerning crops, trees and shrubs, livestock, and bees. The work was written in four different books and was completed in c.29 B.C.

You can readily predict impending gales
By shooting stars that blaze their way through the night sky
And leave a white trail printed there.
You’ll see airy chaff and fallen leaves afloat on waves,
Down and feathers fluttering there.

The Georgics of Virgil Book 1,Translated by Peter Fallon.

Sweeter After a Frost

The best part of harvesting root crops is the little bit of the unknown, not being able to predict exactly what the crop will look like before it comes out of the ground.

This is definitely true for the Easter Egg radishes that we harvested this morning. The Easter egg radishes are different colors: purple, red, or pink so you are surprised by each color. I like hunting for the next fully grown radishes, gently pushing the greens aside to search for the largest bulb. The size of the radish is about the size of a small egg and sometimes the oval ones look particularly like dyed eggs.

Carrots also share this little moment of surprise. Some have little knobby ends, others snuggle and twist around one another. But these are the unusual ones; most of them are long rounded carrots.  One of the varieties we harvested was Mokum, an early variety. Carrots have a long germination and are often planted near radishes. Since radishes come up quickly, it is easier to spot where the carrots have been planted.   Carrots can also be a variety of colors just like the Easter Egg radishes. Sometimes we would pull up a wild carrot, a thin white root with a flower, commonly called Queen Anne’s Lace. It is possible to eat a wild carrot, but only when it is young because its xylem tissue becomes woody as it ages. Carrots are also grown in several parts of the world, the first carrot was harvested in Afghanistan. But one of the most fascinating facts about carrots is that they are sweeter after a frost. They are biennials so if you keep them in the ground, over winter they will bloom! Before Rushton Farm began all of the fields were full of wild carrots.

As we harvested, the bees were right next to carrots in the buckwheat. You could see all of the honey bees gathering pollen before the buckwheat shuts off the supply of pollen in the afternoon. It is fascinating to witness the different elements of the farm taking place side by side, nature’s reminder to observe the farm as a whole and to take notice that Rushton is one several farms all over the world cultivating carrots.

Pancakes for Dinner

In these early days of summer, we are more likely to assemble dinner than to cook it, throwing together a salad of the freshest of the crop, tossed with a dressing made of whatever we have on hand.  A bit of grilled meat or fish; grilled corn; perhaps a pasta dish if we are feeling fancy.  Nothing difficult.  No recipe required.


When we found some early zucchini in our weekly share, however, we felt the need to fire up the stove and head to the cookbooks.  We have toyed with zucchini fritters in the past, and we have always been disappointed.  Like their breakfast cousin, the pancake, it is hard to get everything about a fritter just right: the batter; the flavor; the heat of the cooking oil; the kind of cooking oil; even the topping with which to serve the finished product.  Zucchini has an incredibly high water content, so we knew we had to shred it and let it drain, but beyond that, a successful fritter had always eluded us.


For help, we turned to one of our favorite blog, www.smittenkitchen.com, and like most of Deb Perlman's incredible recipes, this one scored well in all categories.  With only one major change -- we shredded and drained the zucchini, and THEN weighed it -- this recipe is a keeper.  Our advice: make the sauce first. You are sure to eat the first of the fritters piping hot, just out of the pan, while standing over the stove making the rest of them; you'll want to have the sauce ready when you are.


Zucchini Fritters
Adapted from http://smittenkitchen.com/2011/08/zucchini-fritters/
Makes about 16-20 2-inch fritters, or enough for 4-6 adults


3-4 medium zucchini, weighing slightly more than 2 pounds total
2 teaspoons Kosher salt, plus more to taste

4 scallions, diced

2 large eggs, lightly beaten
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
Canola oil, for frying

Dipping Sauce

1 cup sour cream or plain, full-fat yogurt
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 pinch kosher salt
1 small minced or crushed clove of garlic

Make the sauce: Stir all ingredients together and adjust salt to taste.  Can be made a few hours in advance.

Trim the ends off the zucchini and grate them on the large holes of a box grater.  In a colander, toss the zucchini with 2 teaspoons of kosher salt, and set colander in your sink to drain.  After about 10 minutes, wring out the zucchini, either by squeezing small handfuls at a time or by using a spatula to press the zucchini against the holes of the colander.  Skip this step at your peril; you don't want soggy fritters.

Weigh out 2 pounds of shredded, drained zucchini, and dump into a large bowl.  Add 2-3 pinches kosher salt, to taste.  Mix in scallions, eggs and pepper.  In a separate bowl, whisk together flour and baking powder, and then add to zucchini batter, stirring until just combined.

 

Preheat oven to 200 degrees.  Heat 4 tablespoons of canola oil over medium to medium-high heat in a large skillet, until shimmering.  Working in batches, use a spoon to drop 1-2 tablespoons of batter onto the skillet, and flatten slightly with the back of the spoon.  Cook until golden at the edges, about 3-4 minutes.  Flip over and cook 2-3 minutes on the other side, until golden.  As with all pancakes: reduce heat if browning too quickly; keep a sufficient amount of oil in the pan to prevent burning; and rotate pan to avoid hot spots.  Drain on paper towels, and then keep warm in 200 degree oven, which has the advantage of crisping the fritters even further.   

Deb claims that these are a good make-ahead dish: "These fritters keep well, either chilled in the fridge for the better part of a week and or frozen in a well-sealed package for months. When you’re ready to use them, simply spread them out on a tray in a 325 degree oven until they’re hot and crisp again."  We will have to take her word, having had no leftovers whatsoever at the end of our dinner.