I hate leaving this party. I
go from person to person, a hug here, a kiss on the cheek there. I
wave goodbye to Farmer Monte and thank him for all the harvests he
has shared this year.
October has always been my favorite
time of year in New Mexico. Part of it is the weather, of course,
clear blue skies, crisp mornings and warm afternoons, the
cottonwoods turning yellow. It’s also the smell of roasting chiles
and the taste of green tomatoes picked and fried before frost.
This year is even better than most. Earlier this summer,
my husband and I joined a CSA, which stands for community supported
agriculture. Every other Tuesday, we’ve picked up locally grown
foods from Los Poblanos Organics, a 12-acre farm in Albuquerque.
Here, Monte Skarsgard grows 75 kinds of fruits, vegetables and
herbs and also distributes produce from other local organic
growers. So this year, Harvest Festival was an intimate experience.
It didn’t mean walking past food vendors and chatting with growers
I didn’t really know.
While strip malls and suburban
tract housing have reclaimed much of Albuquerque’s agricultural
land, this Saturday in late October I am standing on farmland where
gaggles of kids play together, jumping off stumps and chasing one
another around the trees, checking out the irrigation ditches. They
are kin to my daughter; I know they’re eating the same avocados and
apples that she loves. And I know there are other people in this
orchard who, like me, have stood in the kitchen, wondering how to
cook beets.
My husband and I do not have expendable
income to blow on fancy food. As subscribers to Los Poblamos, $104
buys us enough produce to last eight weeks, and if need be we could
figure out a work-share arrangement. And I’m no Rachael Ray or
Martha Stewart: I don’t even enjoy cooking. I’m only marginally
proficient in the act, and only if there’s a detailed recipe to
follow.
To get to Los Poblanos, my daughter and I drive
along a narrow road, lined with cottonwoods. Each time we come, I
place her on the no-longer-moving antique tractor, though we
usually have to wait our turn while the big kids clamber around the
tires or sit on the seat and fiddle with the giant steering wheel.
We peek in on the chickens — they’d been molting — to
see if their feathers are finally coming back. As we walk to the
barn, we say hello to the farm workers, smile at the other members
counting out their produce.
This week there are no more
green tomatoes or pale purple eggplant. As Harvest Festival
signaled, summer is over and we’re close to the fall and winter
crops. Today, we pick up a bunch each of edamame, broccoli, and
collard greens; three avocados, a pint of the sweetest cherry
tomatoes I’ve ever popped into my mouth, garlic, a pound and a half
of potatoes, one bag of seedless grapes, five green apples, a bunch
of carrots and a vacuum-packed bag of roasted and frozen green
chiles. These are the fruits and vegetables we’ll eat for the next
two weeks. We say goodbye to the folks in the barn, and I grab a
copy of Farmer Monte’s Journal.
As I
drive home, I feel grateful to have found this farm and the
families that support it. Not only because I enjoy the fruits of
its labors, so to speak, but also because the farm has created a
local food economy here in the land of giant grocery chains and
expensive health food stores. As a result, farmers, almost
surrounded now by upscale subdivisions, have been able to preserve
agricultural land along the Rio Grande.
While the
broccoli and garlic sauté in my kitchen, I read what Farmer
Monte had to see about the celebration. It’s clear that he’s still
wearing that ear-to-ear grin he had on Saturday. After a long, hard
season, he writes, the festival gave him and his staff the “energy
and purpose” to keep doing what they’re doing. He continues: “A
child who knows the difference between what tomatoes should and
shouldn’t taste like when they are five, will be a force to be
reckoned with when they are 20+ years old … And after the
festival, I have no doubts that we will all be in good hands.”
Across the dinner table, I look at my daughter. She’s
cramming eggs into her mouth, avocado is stuck to her chin. Better
eat up, kiddo, I tell her; you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.
Laura Paskus is a contributor to Writers on the
Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org).
She lives and freelances in Albuquerque, New
Mexico.
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