Because I moved to the Southeastern part of the U.S. this summer, I am often asked, “How y’all doin’ with the hot weather?” When people learn I am a new comer to this part of the country, many try to assure me with, “It’ll get cooler in October.” In truth, I expected the hot climate and the intense humidity. This was no surprise and I take heed to follow the natural inclination and slow down.
There have been many pleasant surprises about living in the South. I am eager to learn the names for the native plants, insects, birds, reptiles and amphibians in this environment; the Carolina Wren, the Green Anole, the Zebra Butterflies and the Crape Myrtle that all reside around my new home.
The biggest challenge of this transition has been adapting my inner clock to the differences in the harvest season. In the first few weeks after our arrival, we found turnip greens, okra and black-eyed peas at the growers’ market. Friends dropped off gifts of Tupelo honey, local sausage and goat cheese. I found some herb plants for the patio and watched in amazement at how quickly the bay laurel grew. As the weeks went by, however, there was less and less produce to be found that had not been trucked or shipped from other parts of the country. I sampled the thick-skinned Muscatine grapes and hard pears. But, “Where are the tomatoes?” I kept thinking. Remembering the overflowing baskets full of tomatoes, corn, squash and early apples that are available at this time in the Northeast. I felt oddly out of sync with my new surroundings.
Food tastes better to me when it is grown locally, picked fresh and prepared at home. No carrots have ever tasted as sweet to me as the ones I picked as a child from the backyard garden patch. I washed these slender carrots under the outdoor spigot and ate them unpeeled. My Uncle Bill would do the same with a tomato from his garden; eating it like one might eat an apple or pear. The only asparagus that I have ever truly enjoyed eating came from the little row that was planted along the back fence of my childhood home. The asparagus that was not picked early enough turned to fern, leaving a feathery background for the beans and yellow squash that would spring from the earth later in the summer. When we visited the farm where my mother grew up in Nova Scotia, there was a hearty supply of food from the garden. The fisherman’s truck pulled up the driveway once a week with that morning’s catch of the day. My motivation for helping my Uncle Byron milk the cows was getting a taste of warm whole milk, still laced with cream before it was put through the separator and stored in the refrigerator. Most of the food that was not produced by the farm was purchased from the Coop.
In the early 1970’s, I was fortunate enough to discover a local dairy that would deliver the milk to our door in reusable glass bottles. A few years after that, I started purchasing eggs from a farmer whose wife worked with me. Each Tuesday, she would carry home the egg order from all the staff members and, on Wednesday, her husband would deliver the cardboard cartons of eggs to all of us. I liked knowing the people who provided the ingredients for my food by name. It was fun to watch the cows in the pasture and chickens wandering freely around the barnyard. Most of all, I liked the way the fresh milk and eggs tasted.
Is it any wonder then, that we have joined the local food coop? We also started shopping regularly at the growers markets. And, now we are participating in Community Supported Agriculture. We joined by paying a fee to the farm to guarantee us a share of the produce harvested each week. In a few weeks, we will start picking up our share of the freshly picked vegetables. When my subliminal clock says that it is almost time for this year’s crop to end, it will just be beginning.
My Turn 