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Goodies in the Garden

June 1, 2010

Fava Beans
Our first introduction to fava beans happened in 1998 when a local Mexican farmer (the uncle of Dr. Duran who had a few acres in Carmen, just south of Tubac) invited Stewart to see his small farm. When he arrived, the farmer was working with an ox between rows of a plant unfamiliar to Stewart. “Son abas,” he explained using the Spanish word for the bean. After a tour of the garden, the two of them went into the house to talk shop. Stewart was pretty new to farming back then and wanted to glean any information he could from the few people in the area still growing vegetables. They sat in the man’s kitchen where a bowl of abas soaking in a salt-water brine was waiting. “Very popular in Sonora,” the farmer explained, popping the salty beans in his mouth, “you should grow them, too.” It was a few years later when a customer referred to the beans as “favas” and we have since learned that the beans, which are actually a giant pea, go by many names; vicia faba, the broad bean, field bean, bell bean, tic bean and more. Elio (from our local Italian restaurant, Melios) was ecstatic when he learned that we were growing them. He recalls a springtime tradition in Italy when families would head out to farms in the countryside for the early fava harvest. I wish I could successfully write in his charming Italian accent as he explained with enthusiastic nostalgia how they would eat the sweet, young beans, fresh and raw with chunks of pecorino cheese and glasses of good wine – ahhh – Italians make eating and food so romantic!
We have been harvesting fresh favas the last couple of weeks and I am hoping to leave the rest to dry for winter use.
Garlic
Garlic is a mainstay in our diet – we use it to flavor almost everything that we eat. Fortunately, it also has a relatively long shelf life, so when we run out, a new crop is just around the corner. If you have fresh garlic growing in your garden (or if you visit a farm that does), you can get green garlic in the spring. The garlic leaves or scapes that shoot up from the bulbs are packed with flavor and can be robbed from the plant well before it is ready for harvest. Garlic is relatively easy to grow in Southern Arizona, mostly because it is pest resistant and also because it grows through the winter when the weeds are less persistent and the temperatures more bearable for cultivation chores (we plant ours in October or November and harvest in June). The garlic harvest is in full swing by the 2nd week of June in time for our annual Garlic and Onion Festival the 3rd weekend of the month.
Onions
I have come to learn that onions are one of my favorite vegetables (I know – I have said that about many crops). Isn’t it amazing how the flavor of an onion changes from crisp and hot when raw, to tender and sweet when cooked to down right delectable when caramelized? – mmmm! Onions also have a long shelf life and are a part of most of our meals. We are harvesting them this month and hope to sell most at our Garlic and Onion Festival.
Mulberries
Other than the shade that they have provided, I have taken our mulberry trees here on the farm for granted for many years. The branches are too high making the berries too difficult to pick and when the overripe fruit drops, it gets tracked into the house and stains the bottoms of my bare feet. A few years ago I was sitting on the roof close to the branches of one of these trees when I noticed a beautiful bird – the Western Tanager – with colors that reminded me of grenadine and orange juice in a Tequila Sunrise. They come for the berries and I enjoyed the birds and envied their harvesting technique. Then, this spring, while combing the internet for canning recipes, I came across one for mulberry jelly. My first though was – what kind of idiot would climb up on a ladder and struggle for hours to get a pint of berries. Then I Googled “how to harvest mulberries” and, duh, I’m the idiot – you just lay a sheet on the ground underneath the tree and with a stick, shake the branches above and catch the berries in the sheet – SIMPLE! The first morning, Stewart and I harvested about seven pounds in fifteen minutes. That was enough to make 3 batches – 24 jars of mulberry jelly! The berries will be done soon, but there is mulberry jelly in the Farm Store!
Tomatoes
When I think of tomatoes I have mixed emotions. One of the most versatile crops, tomatoes are a magnet for customers who know the difference between a farm fresh and store bought tomato. They can be sliced in sandwiches and salads, made into an infinite variety of sauces, purees and salsas, are amazingly flavorful when sundried and are easy to can for later use. They also are hard to grow, sensitive to many blights and diseases, have reactions to you-pickers who have tobacco on their hands, split quickly after a monsoon rain and attract the MOST hideous creature – the green horn worm, best removed by hand – UGH! I am praying for a good tomato crop this year. We have had bad luck with tomatoes the past three seasons and this season, so far, so good. We have some planted with plastic mulch and we are using drip tape to water instead of flood irrigation. All signs point to success and we hope to have a tomato crop by the 4th of July.
Other goodies in the ground for the summer include squash, cucumbers, okra, melons, basil, dill, zinnias, cabbage, broccoli, chilis, sunflowers and beans. Be sure to come to the farm for our 3rd Annual Garlic & Onion Festival this June 19 and 20 from 4 in the evening to 9. Scenic hayrides, great food, music under the giant mulberry trees which will be sure to be done dropping their messy fruit! More info at www.AguaLindaFarm.net

Written by Laurel Loew · Filed Under Agua Linda Farm Journal | Leave a Comment 

Agua Linda Farm Journal – May

May 1, 2010

This month, thoughts of farming are overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
My Papa was our first dance partner. Standing on his cowboy boots with bare feet, our hands wrapped around his thumbs, my and I sisters waltzed and two-stepped. We danced to the rhythms of his harmonica and to the um-pa-pa of his accordion and, as he sat, legs crossed, we perched on his boot, bouncing and laughing, pretending we were riding a horse.
On dark, cold, snowy Christmas mornings, Papa made sure we believed in Santa Claus. Jingle bells and pounding on the roof could have only been reindeer and a sleigh! His hands helped to build our first home and he was our hero in his big yellow truck that he used to plow the snow out of our driveway and, once, to rescue our school bus that was stuck in a snow drift. He loved to fish and taught us how to thread wriggly worms onto a hook. As adults, Papa eyed our boyfriends with skepticism. When he met Stewart over 20 years ago, my future husband had long hair, a tie-dyed t-shirt and was driving a pink and purple striped truck. “Why don’t you ride with me? ” Papa said, taking me firmly by the arm. I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away from Stewart, feeling honored to be protected by my Papa, who I knew would sit down with Stewart soon enough and would approve.
When I walk into the garage at my grandparent’s log home on Lake Ida in Alexandria, Minnesota, I pause and inhale deeply. My sisters do the same and we smile at one another. They know. We have spoken of it many times before – how the smells of Mama and Papa’s home never change and the first whiffs upon arrival – always after a grueling, long trip – bring back flashes of memory going back to our earliest years. And, over there, where it always is, waits Papa’s chair and a spare for a visitor or maybe one of us, and a side table with his collection of pipes. Here we would sit and talk endlessly as he puffed. That sweet smell of tobacco, too, was the smell of fond memories. Then the door to the entry is opened. The screen door bangs its familiar greeting as we step into the living room, our luggage in tote. “We’re here, Mama! ” we shout, looking around the living room at the furniture that we have sat in for decades. We briefly marvel, once again, how nothing has changed – the rug where we played with dolls and Lincoln Logs (that are in a box in the loft) is the same and is where, more recently, we watched our own kids – the great grandchildren – play with the same well worn toys. The staircase to the loft is in front of us and I am so happy that I will be sleeping up there instead of in the new bedroom that was put in the basement. I will climb those stairs tonight – stairs that I used to slide down on my bottom – to sleep in the loft where I will be able to hear the comforting tones of conversation continuing in the kitchen below but will not be able to make out words as I drift into sleep. Beside my bed I know I will find a basket of children’s books that will include, along with a few recent additions, worn copies of Ferdinand the Bull and Miss Lucy which I will be sure to read before heading back to Arizona.
Through the picture window in the kitchen, we can see the lake and it is magnificent. The ice, we are told, has just melted, and now the water is choppy and rough. It will be too cold for a swim this trip, but we will dare each other and will walk down the hill to the dock and perhaps stick in a big toe, just to say we did. Squirrels busily hop and scamper precariously from tiny branch to tinier branch on the maples that frame the lake view. The trees are still leafless from winter and I can see more of the lake from the kitchen window than I can on most visits which are in the summer – July or August, when a break from Arizona heat is needed and the lake will be warm enough for swimming.
We sit in the familiar chairs of the kitchen where everyone gathers, even if it gets too crowded and someone has to sit on the floor. Cousins will stop by, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews and friends – “We could sit in the living room, I suppose, ” Mama will say at some point, but we won’t move. We will visit and talk and laugh while we sip coffee and sample new recipes and stuff ourselves full of my Aunt Sam’s homemade bread – still hot from the oven, or Aunts Doris’ “hot dish” (a Minnesota word for casserole). So much is the same this sweet, wonderful place locked in time and I feel embraced like a child, comfortable and safe within these walls, surrounded by family. A sanctuary preserved to which I have always been able to return, but this time things have changed.
Now, Papa’s chair in the kitchen is empty with his fishing journals in a basket on the floor. His tools in the garage are untouched and his boots are on a shelf in his closet. Papa’s garden is ready for spring planting of potatoes and peas so we help my Aunt Sam who has decided to double the size of the plot this year. We till, pound in fence posts, string chicken wire and stake out rows. Most significantly, we all join forces to remove a giant rock that Papa and Aunt Sam gave up on every spring and cheer as the boulder was finally dislodged.
That night I go to bed listening to soft voices coming from the kitchen as I have done so many times. The log house creaks as it settles and when someone walks through the house it sounds just like the shuffling of Papa’s boots and I drift into slumber.
Agua Linda Farm
520-398-3218
Stewart@AguaLindaFarm.net
www.AguaLindaFarm.net
P.O. Box 975, Amado, AZ.
85645

Agua Linda Farm Journal – May
This month, thoughts of farming are overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
My Papa was our first dance partner. Standing on his cowboy boots with bare feet, our hands wrapped around his thumbs, my and I sisters waltzed and two-stepped. We danced to the rhythms of his harmonica and to the um-pa-pa of his accordion and, as he sat, legs crossed, we perched on his boot, bouncing and laughing, pretending we were riding a horse.
On dark, cold, snowy Christmas mornings, Papa made sure we believed in Santa Claus. Jingle bells and pounding on the roof could have only been reindeer and a sleigh! His hands helped to build our first home and he was our hero in his big yellow truck that he used to plow the snow out of our driveway and, once, to rescue our school bus that was stuck in a snow drift. He loved to fish and taught us how to thread wriggly worms onto a hook. As adults, Papa eyed our boyfriends with skepticism. When he met Stewart over 20 years ago, my future husband had long hair, a tie-dyed t-shirt and was driving a pink and purple striped truck. “Why don’t you ride with me? ” Papa said, taking me firmly by the arm. I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away from Stewart, feeling honored to be protected by my Papa, who I knew would sit down with Stewart soon enough and would approve.
When I walk into the garage at my grandparent’s log home on Lake Ida in Alexandria, Minnesota, I pause and inhale deeply. My sisters do the same and we smile at one another. They know. We have spoken of it many times before – how the smells of Mama and Papa’s home never change and the first whiffs upon arrival – always after a grueling, long trip – bring back flashes of memory going back to our earliest years. And, over there, where it always is, waits Papa’s chair and a spare for a visitor or maybe one of us, and a side table with his collection of pipes. Here we would sit and talk endlessly as he puffed. That sweet smell of tobacco, too, was the smell of fond memories. Then the door to the entry is opened. The screen door bangs its familiar greeting as we step into the living room, our luggage in tote. “We’re here, Mama! ” we shout, looking around the living room at the furniture that we have sat in for decades. We briefly marvel, once again, how nothing has changed – the rug where we played with dolls and Lincoln Logs (that are in a box in the loft) is the same and is where, more recently, we watched our own kids – the great grandchildren – play with the same well worn toys. The staircase to the loft is in front of us and I am so happy that I will be sleeping up there instead of in the new bedroom that was put in the basement. I will climb those stairs tonight – stairs that I used to slide down on my bottom – to sleep in the loft where I will be able to hear the comforting tones of conversation continuing in the kitchen below but will not be able to make out words as I drift into sleep. Beside my bed I know I will find a basket of children’s books that will include, along with a few recent additions, worn copies of Ferdinand the Bull and Miss Lucy which I will be sure to read before heading back to Arizona.
Through the picture window in the kitchen, we can see the lake and it is magnificent. The ice, we are told, has just melted, and now the water is choppy and rough. It will be too cold for a swim this trip, but we will dare each other and will walk down the hill to the dock and perhaps stick in a big toe, just to say we did. Squirrels busily hop and scamper precariously from tiny branch to tinier branch on the maples that frame the lake view. The trees are still leafless from winter and I can see more of the lake from the kitchen window than I can on most visits which are in the summer – July or August, when a break from Arizona heat is needed and the lake will be warm enough for swimming.
We sit in the familiar chairs of the kitchen where everyone gathers, even if it gets too crowded and someone has to sit on the floor. Cousins will stop by, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews and friends – “We could sit in the living room, I suppose, ” Mama will say at some point, but we won’t move. We will visit and talk and laugh while we sip coffee and sample new recipes and stuff ourselves full of my Aunt Sam’s homemade bread – still hot from the oven, or Aunts Doris’ “hot dish” (a Minnesota word for casserole). So much is the same this sweet, wonderful place locked in time and I feel embraced like a child, comfortable and safe within these walls, surrounded by family. A sanctuary preserved to which I have always been able to return, but this time things have changed.
Now, Papa’s chair in the kitchen is empty with his fishing journals in a basket on the floor. His tools in the garage are untouched and his boots are on a shelf in his closet. Papa’s garden is ready for spring planting of potatoes and peas so we help my Aunt Sam who has decided to double the size of the plot this year. We till, pound in fence posts, string chicken wire and stake out rows. Most significantly, we all join forces to remove a giant rock that Papa and Aunt Sam gave up on every spring and cheer as the boulder was finally dislodged.
That night I go to bed listening to soft voices coming from the kitchen as I have done so many times. The log house creaks as it settles and when someone walks through the house it sounds just like the shuffling of Papa’s boots and I drift into slumber.

Written by Laurel Loew · Filed Under Agua Linda Farm Journal | Leave a Comment 

January

January 1, 2010

“It all started with arugula…” my husband, Stewart likes to say when asked how he got into farming. His mother, Regina had returned from Europe in the early 90’s yearning for the hot, flavorful green she had enjoyed while on her trip. She found a small seed company and ordered a few packets and planted arugula in and amongst her flowerbeds. The result was a bumper crop of greens that she washed and bagged and gave to friends. When she still had some left over, she asked her friend Ellen March if she could sell her arugula outside the Tubac Market. Regina ordered more “European” greens and recruited her son to build some raised beds in the backyard. I think Stewart was looking for an excuse to get back to the farm. He had followed me to Tucson while I went to the University of Arizona and had been working with a film studio in town. We were a young couple, just starting out and making big decisions, planning our future. Originally Stewart wanted to get into the film or sound industry. His father, grandfathers and great grandfathers had been monumental figures in the Hollywood film business so this seemed like a logical choice for Stewart. Every weekend, however, after my last class finished on Friday, I would cycle back to our apartment in the Tucson barrio where Stewart would fire up our V. W. van (often a very time consuming task and one calling for the crossing of fingers…) and we would head back down to the farm. This was where Stewart wanted to be and, with the lure of the country and horses and a very fun family to visit, it was also where I wanted to be.

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December

December 1, 2009

This is the time of year when the weather reminds us why we live in Southern Arizona.  Evenings are cold enough for a cozy fire while afternoons are warm enough for t-shirts.  It is also the time of year when things slow down at the Agua Linda Farm and my family can take a breath and enjoy the fringe benefits of farm life.  For my kids, and me this means horses.

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November

November 1, 2009

I would like to dedicate this month’s journal to all the people who have helped us on the farm all year and during our Fall Festival.

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PUMPKINS!

October 1, 2009

Agua Linda Farm Fall Festival.  Weekends in October. Saturdays and Sundays 10am-5pm.  Movie Nights Fridays  Oct. 16, 23, 30 It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown  by the pumpkin patch!  Hayrides, music, petting zoo, farm raised burgers, hay maze, farm store, you-pick veggies, pony rides, pumpkin patch and more!  $7/car admission.  Opening weekend only – FREE ADMISSION, Oct 3&4  more info at  www.AguaLindaFarm.net I-19 to Exit 42, Take East Frontage Road south.

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September

September 1, 2009

Much time has been spent the last few weeks with hoes in hand, or on hands and knees weeding in the vegetable garden and the pumpkin patch. Though we miss the summer rains, the poor monsoon has helped to keep eager weeds at bay and I feel guilty for appreciating the drought. Larger weeds come up easier after a good irrigation and Stewart and I have been getting very intimate with the mud in the fields. Usually, I love the country girl in me. I am not afraid to get dirty and smelly. When I head out the door in the morning I often look like a bag-lady in my favorite sweat stained hat with a torn light-weight long sleeve shirt still crusted with yesterday’s mud, mismatched gloves and chlorophyll knees on my khaki work pants. I feel practical, smart – ready for the day. I have never claimed to be real tough or strong, but I know how to work hard and efficiently. Usually, I feel proud of my grubby self – that is until it’s time to go out into the real world, or certain folks come to the farm for a visit.

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My Kids On The Farm

July 1, 2009

This summer marks the 10-year anniversary of the adoption of our two wonderful kids, Desarae and Jesse. They were 2 and 4 years old when they came into our lives. People who know us say that our kids are very lucky to have us. Both are full of energy and needed the space and activity that a farm provides. The truth is, we are the lucky ones. Stewart tells of the first day they came to visit before the adoption. His father, Arthur Loew had died a couple of years before and Stewart felt that the life and energy of the farm had died with him. “When Desarae came bouncing out of that car, it was like she was being born into the family and the place came alive again.” Des, squealing in delight, ran from animal to animal while her little brother slept in his car-seat. Stewart and I had recently been told that we would not be able to have kids the old fashioned way. Suddenly, what had seemed like a curse became a blessing as we opened our hearts to two children who needed a mom and dad.

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June 2009

June 1, 2009

Is including locally grown food in your diet important to you? The “buy local” trend is growing and more Americans are frequenting farmers markets, joining CSA’s (Community Supported Agriculture) and looking for “local” sections in grocery stores and on menus.

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May 2009

May 1, 2009

Farmers are like artists. We are passionate about the work we do. Our canvas is the land, our medium is the plants we tend and instead of paint brushes, our tools are tractors, hoes, shovels and muscle. The landscape is like a painting that begins each season as a rough draft in the mind of the farmer who considers the best place to seed each crop. There are many considerations when creating the composition of this painting. Unlike the artist’s blank canvas, however, a farmer begins with a dynamic, living surface. My husband, Stewart, knows this land well and has shown me how there are sections that are sandy and not suitable for many crops. He knows where, long ago, a wash ran through a field as evidenced by a wide, rocky band of earth, near which he has unearthed matates and manos left by artisans of the past. Only the farmer with an intimate connection to his land knows the subtle slopes, climbs and dips of his canvas that dictate the flow of water. Crops that are heavy nitrogen feeders like corn, need to be planted where previously nitrogen fixing plants, like legumes grew, or, even better, these crops can be seeded alongside each other, working symbiotically to feed one another while one crop provides a natural trellis for the other. In considering the composition of the gardens, the farmer must recall what grew there before so as not to deplete the soil. Perhaps a hedge of sorgam should grow along the perimeter to buffer hungry deer from the vegetable garden. To make harvesting easier, alley-ways should be carved into the ground alongside heavy crops like melons, squash and pumpkins. Vegetables planted for customers to pick like beans, squash and cucumbers should be seeded as close to the farm stand as possible as should flowers which, in our case, double as a “butterfly garden” for kindergarten students here for field trips.

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