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.

Agua Linda Farm520-398-3218Stewart@AguaLindaFarm.netwww.AguaLindaFarm.netP.O. Box 975, Amado, AZ.85645

It was on a casual tour of the original 800 acres one day that Stewart told me that he had always wanted to farm his families’ property. He was showing me the old operation, pointing as he described the scene he recalled from his childhood “…the grain silo was over there… that was the office … these adobe walls were where employees lived…” He showed me old irrigation ditches, remnants of which went right into the Santa Cruz River bed. We bush-wacked through overgrown mesquites to find the foundations of structures long gone. It was fun, like we were archeologists recreating the past. But – a farmer?

Stewart had a hard time convincing me that farming was a good idea (sometimes he still does…). My distant memories of living in a farming community in Maine as a child had somehow engrained in me that farmers struggle. He had an even harder time convincing his parents. I thought the idea was ludicrous but I also believed that Stewart should follow his dream.

I arranged to do my student teaching in Rio Rico instead of Tucson and Stewart and I moved back to the farm. Stewart bought a variety of how-to books and started to pick the brains of the very few farmers left in the area. Unlike most folks who farm, he didn’t have knowledge passed down to him from his father, but his parents reluctantly helped him buy his first tractor and Stewart broke ground!

The first crop was the European lettuce in the raised beds commissioned by Regina. We harvested the greens with ridiculous care; leaf-by-leaf and carefully washed and spun dried the delicate greens. Since then, Stewart and I have grown a variety of vegetables – squash, cucumbers, beets, radishes, corn, watermelon, okra, kohlrabi, onions, garlic and much, much more, but our favorite crop continues to be those leafy greens!

It is this time of year – winter – when lettuce does best here. You can plant a little now, then wait a week or so and plant a little more and continue for the next eight weeks or so, therefore staggering the growth and prolonging the harvest. There are countless varieties that you can grow and it isn’t hard. If you have a pot in your yard or a little space in the ground, you can grow your own lettuce. We like having a nice mix of reds and greens. Arugula grows faster and will out-compete other lettuces, so plant it separately. You don’t need to cover the plants at night, but they will grow faster if you do. A piece of clear plastic tented over the seeds until they germinate, then a cloth white row cover over the plants once they have started is all you need if you choose to cover them. You can sow the seeds by sprinkling them lightly over loose soil, then gently rake the surface – they don’t need to be buried deep. Water frequently. Use a sharp knife to harvest the leaves when they are big enough, about four inches tall. This takes 4-5 weeks, depending on temperatures. Wait to wash lettuce until you are ready to eat it (and harvest it when it is dry) as water breaks down the leaves causing decay (this is why “table ready” lettuce in the grocery store turns slimy so fast). You can get 3-4 harvests out of each plant.

One of our favorite dinners is a big salad. By adding the additional ingredients, it can be very filling:

• Mixed European lettuce, about 1⁄4 pound, washed and dried
• 2 Green apples, sliced in bite-sized pieces
• 1 avocado, sliced
• 3 tablespoons or so of feta cheese (or gorgonzola)
• Hand-full of sharp yellow cheese, bite sized chunks
• A sprinkling of nuts (pine nuts, pecans or walnuts)
• 2 boiled, peeled, diced and chilled potatoes
• 3-4 hard boiled eggs, chilled and sliced
• 1-2 cans white tuna or 1 pre-grilled tuna steak, chopped or chicken breast, shredded pre-cooked

Toss all ingredients with a mild vinaigrette dressing. Pair with a crusty baguette.

www.AguaLindaFarm.net

Like so many little girls, I was crazy about horses.  According to my dad, when I was a baby we had a little pony.  I don’t remember Frisky at all, except for her smell.  Ponies smell different than horses.  If I bury my face in the neck of a pony, fur thick with a winter coat, and inhale deeply through my nose, I am transported to my earliest years – not with vivid memories, but subtle warm feelings that pass quickly and cannot be completely grasped, like trying to remember a faded dream or having someone’s name “on the tip of your tongue”.  We have a couple of ponies on the farm.  What were at first companions for our children, are now entertainment for their younger cousins and the hundreds of kids who visit the farm every year.  Bailey, who was born here two months after adopting Dez and Jesse, has been trained to pull a small plow, too and helps Stewart in the garden.  I don’t know that she makes a significant difference in the work, but I know she makes the mundane task more enjoyable because Stewart feels a sense of comradery with her as they work up and down the rows.  From time to time we bring Bailey in from the pasture, brush her down and saddle her up for a pony ride or hitch her to the plow.   At these times, I cannot resist nuzzling into that furry neck, closing my eyes and enjoying the brief flash of time travel, but I don’t overdo it – I believe that the whisper of a memory that her smell triggers is fragile and could change – I don’t want the pony scent to remind me of plowing.

Despite begging and pleading, I didn’t start riding horses until I was ten years old and living in the Bahamas.  My elementary school shared a fence with the pasture of about a dozen horses and at recess, that’s where I headed.  Daily I was reminded of what I had decided was my true calling and I passed this along to my parents who finally gave in.  My sisters and I started riding classes that fall.  My instructor was English and abrupt and impatient, but I was hooked.  For the rest of my pre-teen and teenage years, horses were my world.  When I wasn’t in school or at the stables, I was drawing pictures of horses, reading Walter Farley’s Black Stallion books over and over or studying in reference books to become an “expert” in horse care so that I would be prepared to fulfill my ultimate dream of adopting a wild mustang someday (a dream that came true five years ago).

My husband, Stewart was a horse lover, too.  As a kid he would spend hours trying to catch his old horse, Foggy back when the farm was 800 acres and having a horse “out to pasture,” meant you might not see it for days.  Then, at only nine years old, he would saddle up and ride all over the ranch and beyond by himself, sometimes into Tubac, ten miles away!  His mother, Regina had grown up horse crazy, too and shared her passion with her kids by footing the bill for English riding lessons, trainers and fancy jumping horses during the 1980’s.  When I moved back to Arizona in 1986 and met my future family, Stewart, his brother Morgan and sister Alex were riding daily and trailering their horses to shows as far away as New York!  When Stewart’s siblings went off to college, the old jumpers were retired from the ring and put out to pasture, and the English saddles became covered in dust in the tack room.

With the arrival of Dez and Jesse, (our kids were adopted ten years ago at ages 2 and 4) the saddle soap and currycombs came out.  Saddles were restored, torn leather replaced and the rest oiled to a safe suppleness.  I bought bicycle helmets for the kids and a small pillow for Jesse to make sharing the saddle with me more comfortable and we were off!  We spent hours riding the trails that first year.  I had taken a leave of absence from teaching to dedicate time to my new family and we bonded through horses.  Jesse was barely three years old when he started announcing “Cowboys and Ladies!” every time we were all mounted up and ready to ride.  It was like his own version of “They’re off!”  or “Ready-set-go!” and the phrase has stuck.  He was small and rode in front of me with his stubby legs straddling my hips and his arms around my waist.  This way he was positioned safely between my arms while we navigated hills, washes and thorny mesquites.  He continued to ride in front on his little pillow until one day, when he was about four he looked down at my chest and said, “Hey Mommy!  I can see your boobies down there!”   I halted my horse and Jesse officially graduated to the back of the saddle where the view was better (at least in my opinion).

Dez was an amazing rider from the start on Breeze, the former show pony that had belonged to Stewart’s younger sister.  She guided Breeze in and out of the Santa Cruz River and through cactus with confidence while either sucking her thumb or chattering incessantly.  Dez had a slight drawl in her voice that she has since grown out of and would say with her thumb in her mouth “I’m a real lady now, ain’t I mama?”
***
Today’s forecast calls for highs in the mid seventies.  It is winter in Southern Arizona, all is quiet on the farm and it is a perfect day for riding.

Wayne has been a loyal employee for a few years now. He does most of the tractor work on the farm, keeps our equipment running and is continually patching and re-patching tires that we should just replace. Every October he willingly transforms to the hayride man and totes endless pumpkin pickers around the fields for hours every day. He recently endured triple by-pass surgery but insisted that he come back to work three weeks later.

I marveled daily this year as to why Ryan and Tamara kept making the drive from Tucson to the farm, week after week to harvest, seed and cultivate. The work is hard and the pay not great, but they always arrived with a smile (and, often a 6-pack for the end of the day). In the spring, due to a miscommunication, Ryan planted about ten times as many radishes as we needed. It is a mistake that we will never let him live down – he became a good-natured target for teasing. I told him that he was responsible for promoting our first ever “Radish Festival” and needed to find a way to get our costumers to buy radishes in bulk. We refer to Ryan now as the Radish Farmer and defer all radish inquiries to him.

The onion and garlic harvest at the beginning of June must have taken its toll on these loyal workers. I know I got tired of the job. Mountains of alliums kept coming in from the fields for us to trim, sort, weigh, bag, pack and braid! Desarae and Jesse were out of school by then and worked along side us. Desarae, being 15 was really a major contributor to the effort this year. I could see that she was aware of the pace that I set and would try to match it. She would watch me out of the corner of her eye as I quickly sewed up burlap sacks of onions or cut three heads of garlic at once and she challenged herself to do the same. Her brother, on the other hand, spent more time telling jokes and playing pranks on Ryan than anything else… Still, with now 7 (or, perhaps, 6 ½) of us at work, the piles of onions and garlic were getting the best of us. We all had blisters on our hands and reeked of garlic!

Thankfully, we were able to recruit a couple of volunteers who seemed to enjoy pitching in. To those of us who had been doing this work day in and day out, the thought of processing onions and garlic for fun seemed ridiculous, but we spent no time trying to convince Diane, her son Jett, Brittany and Nancy that they were crazy. We are so grateful for their help!

This past September I was very nervous about getting the farm ready for the festival. Building the hay-bale maze, setting up lights and the dining tent, repairing fences – the “to-do” list for this month-long event is daunting. To the rescue came our friends and family. “Dinosaur Tom” and his buddy Joey spent two days here shuffling straw bales around to make a maze for kids and a straw-bale pyramid. Tom, an artist who constructs dinosaurs for parks across the country, had strong opinions on the best configurations of the straw bales. Stewart’s brother Morgan brought a crew to help put together the dining tent and place picnic tables around the farm. Scott and Selene Bell, who, along with their kids, have become our October “kitchen crew”, came in September to clean out the packing shed and convert it to the kitchen for the Garden Grill. They emptied out the whole space and scrubbed it from top to bottom to serve up hundreds of farm-raised burgers throughout October.

My sister Kristin gets down right giddy in October – she loves helping out! She moves in on the weekends and keeps track of the financial side of the event as well as anything else we need – and has declared October on the farm her “summer camp”. My mom has the tedious task of rolling out pie dough for pumpkin pies and helps run the store while my stepfather has joined Wayne in the pumpkin patch driving they hay wagon. My Dad gave up his fall break from teaching and flew out to lend a hand. He can do anything from teaching kindergarten kids about farming, to driving a tractor, to repairing a fence. My nieces, ages 11 and 8 ran Snack Shack during the festival!

Aside from the kitchen crew, my sister-in-law, Alex and daughter Desarae have the hardest job on the farm in October. They manage the pony rides. Alex insists that next year we need to harness the energy from the pony turn-style going around and around and run the electricity with it! They estimate that they walk ten miles a day in a twelve-foot circle but they do it with smiles and energy and a love of children and horses!

Thanks to our former high-school teacher, Steve for building the onion boxes, to Jesse for finally coming through and doing a good job at the petting zoo, to Nadine for filling in at the pony rides, to Diane and Jett, for selling pumpkins at the lonely outpost. Thanks to Russ, Rudy, Matt, Torey, Travis, Nan, John, Holden, Sean, Erin, Jen, Luis, Gloria and, of course, to Stewart’s Mom, Regina for maintaining such the beautiful, peaceful farm then allowing us to convert it to a bustling festival every year. Most importantly, thanks to the community for coming out and enjoying a day on the farm! Hope you had as much fun as we did!

We will resume normal Farm Store hours this month – Saturdays 9-3, Sundays 12-3. www.AguaLindaFarm.net

We planted our first pumpkins nine years ago.  Stewart had been reading about how small family farms across the country were luring thousands of visitors out to the country with a pick-your-own pumpkin patch.  We decided to give it a try.  We planted the seeds, hand drew some flyers (we didn’t even have a computer then), hung a scale from a tree branch in the front yard, stacked some hay bales onto a tractor drawn wagon for hayrides and put some signs on the roads with arrows.   I ran sales under the mesquite tree on Saturdays and Sundays that October while Stewart drove hayrides out to our first pumpkin patch.  We invited our kid’s teachers to bring their classes out for field trips.  Desarae – only six that first year, took off a few “work” days to conduct tours of the animals in the corral that had become the “petting zoo”.  A couple hundred people came to our farm on the weekends that year, including about ten groups of kindergarten kids for field trips.

After four years of our Fall Festival slowly gaining in popularity, Tucson Lifestyle Magazine featured our farm with a seven-page article that came out that September.  We had hoped that the exposure would bring more folks to the farm, but were overwhelmed with the response.  I recall curling up in bed at the end of the first weekend – exhausted from the day but too stressed to sleep.  I finally gave up, brewed a pot of coffee and stayed up all night with Stewart figuring out how we would get through the rest of the month.  Pacing the floor in our pijamas with a caffeine buzz, we determined that we needed another hay wagon – the old red one would do; another scale – that would set us back almost a thousand dollars, but what choice did we have?; I would call my sisters and get them down to pitch in, and we needed to order  more pumpkins from another farm.  Our Fall Festival was a hit!

Pumpkin festivals have come to the rescue of many small, family farms across the country.  According to Purdue University research, agricultural-based tourism is the fastest growing sector of the U.S. tourism industry, averaging a 30 percent increase since 1997.   Folks are looking for more than just pumpkins, though – they want a day on a farm – hay-rides, music, food, animals, mazes and more.  Although we have stuck to the original plan of growing a wide variety of vegetables to sell to consumers year round, our Fall Festival has become the annual “shot in the arm” that keeps us going.

Why do so many people flock to farms this time of year?  Stewart and I have our theories.  We believe that wholesome, outdoor activities are hard to find, especially if you live in a city.  Many people crave the old fashioned fun that a family farm offers.  Also, in recent years, the “buy local” movement has brought folks down to the farm to support what we do, rather than buying pumpkins from a big box store.  This year, we are hoping that families are looking for inexpensive ways to have fun and that our festival will be recession proof.

And, AMERICANS LOVE PUMPKINS!  The round, orange squash, which is actually a fruit, has become as recognizable as a symbol of American celebrations as the Christmas tree, the Thanksgiving turkey, Easter eggs and fireworks.   In fact, the Halloween industry has grown 25% a year for the past ten years.  While most pumpkins grown in the United Sates are processed for the food industry, those grown on small farms are primarily used for decoration.  (In fact, this has recently prompted some states to attempt, unsuccessfully, to tax pumpkin sales.)

The Origins of the Jack O’Lantern
The tradition of carving faces into pumpkins has been around for centuries. According to Irish myth, a man nicknamed “Stingy Jack.” invited the Devil to have a drink with him. Stingy Jack didn’t want to pay for his drink, so he convinced the Devil to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks. Once the Devil did so, Jack decided to keep the money and put it into his pocket next to a silver cross, which prevented the Devil from changing back into his original form. Jack eventually freed the Devil. The next year, Jack again tricked the Devil into climbing into a tree to pick a piece of fruit. While he was up in the tree, Jack carved a sign of the cross into the tree’s bark so that the Devil could not come down until the Devil promised Jack not to bother him for ten more years.

Soon after, Jack died. As the legend goes, God would not allow such an unsavory figure into heaven. The Devil would not allow Jack into hell. He sent Jack off into the dark night with only a burning coal to light his way. Jack put the coal into a carved out turnip and has been roaming the Earth with it ever since. The Irish began to refer to this ghostly figure as “Jack of the Lantern,” and then, simply “Jack O’Lantern.”
(source: The History Channel)

In Ireland and Scotland, people carved faces into turnips or other root crops.  Later, in North America, the pumpkin became the preferred crop to carve.

Pumpkin facts:
• Pumpkins are low in calories, fat, and sodium and high in fiber. They are good sources of Vitamin A, Vitamin B, potassium, protein, and iron.
• Pumpkin flowers are edible.
• The largest pumpkin pie ever made was over five feet in diameter and weighed over 350 pounds. It used 80 pounds of cooked pumpkin, 36 pounds of sugar, 12 dozen eggs and took six hours to bake.
• Pumpkins have been grown in North America for five thousand years. They are indigenous to the western hemisphere.
• Pumpkins were once recommended for removing freckles and curing snake bites.
• The largest pumpkin ever grown weighed 1,140 pounds.
• Pumpkins grown at Agua Linda Farm were planted in July.
The 9th Annual Fall Festival at Agua Linda Farm happens every weekend in October.  We now have a staff of up to twenty people helping us out and last year we had 3,000 school kids here for their field trip!  Hope we see all of you here!
www.AguaLindaFarm.net

Mama’s Pumpkin Pie
This recipe was my grandmother’s.  She makes the best crust!  In 2007, Better Homes and Gardens Magazine featured our farm in a beautiful article and published her recipe!  We will be serving slices of it at our festival!

one  5 to 6 lb pie pumpkin(s)
2/3 cup sugar
1 ½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground ginger
3 slightly beaten eggs
one 5-oz can evaporated milk
½ cup half-and-half
Mama’s piecrust

Cut pumpkin into wedges, remove seeds and bake or microwave or steam until tender.  Cool and remove rind.  Puree and set in strainer for liquid to drain for one hour.  You will need 2 cups of the puree for the pie.  Whisk all ingredients together.  Pour into unbaked, prepared crust.  Bale for one hour.

Mama’s Piecrust
5 cups all purpose flour
4 teaspoons salt
1 lb lard (or 1 cup unsalted butter and 1 cup shortening)

Mix flour and salt.  Use fork to mix in lard until pea size lumps and formed.  At this stage you can refrigerate the mix for up to 3 months.  It will make enough for 3 double crusts or 5 single crusts.

For 2 crusts:  Use 2 ½ cups of mix with ¼ cup milk.  Mix with fork.  Shape into a ball.  Divide in half.  On floured surface, roll out one ball at a time into a 12 inch circle.  Transfer to a 9” pie plate and crimp sides.  Repeat with 2nd ball.

My sisters-in-law are always perfectly groomed. They come down to the farm with manicured fingernails and salon fresh hair looking fabulous, and, although they would never intend to make me feel bad, I do. Suddenly, I am a country bumpkin, as I try frantically to find a pair of unstained pants and to dislodge the garden soil from my stubby fingernails so I can join the family in the main house for dinner appearing half civilized.

Three summers ago, Stewart informed me that two girls were going to be interning for the summer. Girls? I protested. When I met Tajare and Annica, I was floored. They were young, smart, funny AND attractive. “This is against the rules!” I complained to Stewart that first night, and many there after. Then I realized that I alone had made up the “no-cute-girls-can-work-on-the-farm” rule and that, although he had never disagreed to the rule – he had never agreed to it either. So, for the summer of 2007, I actually brushed my hair daily, wore my better fitting jeans, and washed my work shirts. I bought a new hat and, some days I even wore lipstick when I headed out to the garden. The girls were at least a decade younger, however, and Stewart insisted on daily “pool-time” for the whole summer when he was surrounded by 2 girls in their 20’s wearing bikinis and mixing us up mojitos with fresh mint. Who can blame him? Truth is, the girls were great to have around. They were tough and strong and were working on their PhD’s and were beautiful inside and out – a perfect influence on my own then pre-teen daughter. Worse for my insecure mind was a year or so prior when Stewart’s old buddy Pascal called from France. Pascal had met Stewart in high school when he had come to Green Valley as foreign exchange student and they had kept in touch all these years. (Can you imagine coming from Paris to Green Valley…?) Pascal had a friend whose daughter was looking for a family to stay and work with in the United States so that she could practice her English. “Are you kidding me?” I protested, “you want a twenty year old girl from France to live with us for a month?”

When we went to pick Jessica up at Tucson International Airport, our family stood in a little group with a sign spelling her name. I thought it might be hard to find her, but the airport is pretty small and there were very few young women traveling alone. I know I must sound very desperate and shallow, but when I saw this very large, unattractive young woman heading toward us, I held the sign up high for her to see. As she passed us, I turned with her, following her with the sign as she walked by. Obviously it wasn’t her, but, just in case I asked, hopefully, “Are you Jessica?” Then this very attractive, tan, petite blond appeared and with a killer smile and seductive accent said, “Halo – I am Jess-ee-ca.” Of course. I muttered to Stewart that she was going to have to get back onto the plane

My plan was to keep Jessica with me. It made perfect sense – what better way to learn English than in a 2nd grade classroom? She was bored out of her mind! Her English was almost non-existent so she could not follow my lessons. She spent the day yawning and re-organizing my desk. Fortunately for my fragile ego, she wasn’t interested in farm work either, so she spent most of her time either tanning by the pool alone or hanging out with my step-mother who wanted to brush up on her French. I don’t think she learned very much English and her biggest influence was not on my daughter, but on my then 10-year-old son who fondly recalls when she accidentally lost her bikini top after diving into the pool.

Since the last two summers have brought no more bombshells into the garden, I look like crap! I slide into the same mud-encrusted pants everyday for a week before they make it to the laundry and I only put on lip stick if we are going out or my husband’s brothers are coming down with their beautiful wives. Poor Stewart. For the most part folks who come to work on the farm are male. Somehow (sorry, guys) there have been no “bomb-shell” equivalents amongst the guys. I am certainly not looking to make Stewart jealous, but maybe if he was just a little he might appreciate my “no-cute-girls-can-work-on-the-farm” rule. One guy who worked here refused to change his clothes. I know that makes me sound like a hypocrite, but I’m talking NEVER changed his clothes, or showered or flushed the toilet. Another existed on a garlic diet that made the air around him impossible to breath. Another showed off his very hairy legs by wearing a kilt every day and puffed cigarette smoke into my face when I talked to him and, sweet Wayne, who has worked for us for years, just turned 70. Is this all a coincidence, or is Stewart filtering out the options…

The other day as my son Jesse and I were headed out the door for a quick run to the Amado Mini-Mart after a couple of hours of cultivating. He paused and looked at me – “Are you wearing that?” he asked, referring to my bag-lady uniform. I glanced over in the hallway mirror. Poor kid. I changed my shirt and put on some lipstick.

We are looking forward to the next round of beans, squash, okra and more that should start coming off this month. We are also getting ready for our annual Fall Festival coming up this October. See our website for details. www.AguaLindaFarm.net. The farm is open Sat. 9-3 and Sun. 12-3.

We were pretty clueless as to how young and helpless our kids were when they first came to us and made some mistakes. They were so savvy and street smart that we often forgot just how young they were. While working at the barn with only a half an eye on the kids, Jesse, who had barely turned 3, found an old bottle of fly spray and doused one of the barn kittens. It later died. About the same time, we let Desarae walk her brother around on one of the ponies by herself. She led him near some farm equipment and the pony spooked. Jesse fell off and broke his arm. He has been tentative around horses ever since.

Although I have always lived in the country, I didn’t grow up on a farm so there were no traditions or expectations to follow as to what my kid’s role in the family business would be. Should they be up before dawn feeding animals or is school their “job”? How long can a three year old ride in the cab of a tractor? How many hours of work is reasonable to expect from a 10 year old? Should kids witness the death of animals? I had no prior experience to make these decisions and it has not been easy.

We spent a lot of time that first year bonding through horses. Desarae, at 4 and a half, was a better rider than most adults and Jesse loved sharing the saddle with me. We explored the land beyond the farm on trail rides that would sometimes last hours. The kids learned the names of all the different kinds of cacti and Jesse and I would canter along to a song that we made up “Rocky, rocky Cody,” (Cody is my appaloosa). A month after Desarae and Jesse came to live with us, our miniature horse, Lady gave berth to Bailey. We woke the kids up at one in the morning to witness the miracle. We sat in the stall on fresh straw and took turns holding the newborn through the night. Many berths have followed – baby goats, sheep, cows, geese, chickens and piglets have come into their lives every year. Unfortunately, coping with death has also been a big part of farm life, too. Desarae has suffered most from the loss of animals on the farm, which, given the fact that she lost her mother at 4 seems terribly unfair. For a while we gently teased her, telling her to not name any animals or they would be jinxed. It isn’t something we joke about anymore. Her first pony was pretty old when she inherited her, so Breeze’s death was not surprising, yet it was devastating to poor Des. The pony’s replacement was a little gray gelding that was healthy and young and sure to be around for a while, but during a monsoon storm, he was struck by lightning. A lamb that was rejected by its’ mother became Desarae’s baby. Buddy followed her everywhere and drank from a bottle that she would mix up five or six times a day. It died of a bladder infection at 3 months old. And just last week, our whole “petting zoo” of pet goats, raised by Des, was killed by a mountain lion.

When we slaughtered our first steer, I was at work late at my teaching job. I knew the dirty deed was scheduled to take place that day and wanted nothing to do with it (raising animals for meat was new to me, too), so I found some extra papers to grade. When I got to the farm, I couldn’t find the kids who were already home from school and realized that they were at the barn witnessing the demise of “Chuck”. I was furious! I couldn’t believe that Stewart had exposed them to something so horrific! Truth is, Des and Jess were very practical about it. They helped in the skinning of the steer and the next day, enjoyed a juicy steak. In retrospect, I am glad that they participated in the process. They have assisted cows when they have had trouble calving, bottle fed one our two whose mothers could not, have helped feed, water, round up, brand, slaughter, cook and eat beef. They know exactly what happens and have made a very informed choice to continue to eat meat. The painful truth of dying is something we all wish we could avoid, so we shelter our children from that reality, but, ultimately, despite the pain, I think my kids will have a better understanding of life and death than most Americans.

My kids have also participated in the less exciting venture of vegetable growing. This summer, in fact, they have proven themselves invaluable as we harvested, trimmed, weighed and bagged acres of onions and garlic. Now that they are 12 and 14, they know the routine and Desarae, in particular, is almost as efficient as Stewart and me. She can recognize a squash plant amidst a sea of weeds and can run the store, make change, weigh and “schmooze” with customers. She even made half of the flower arrangements with me for a recent wedding on the farm.

To most Americans, this life is extraordinary, but it was not long ago that an agrarian life was typical. As Stewart and I blindly feel our way through parenthood – as every one does – we are happy that we are raising two typical kids who – given their experiences on the farm – will grow into extraordinary adults. Thanks to all of you who were here for our Garlic & Onion Festival! I was a great time! The farm stand is still well stocked with onions and garlic and is open Saturdays, 9am-3pm and Sundays, 12-3pm. I-10, Exit 42. www.agualindafarm.net, 520-398-3218

Unfortunately, the demand for organic, local and fresh has opened the door for deception at farmers markets, grocery stores and restaurants. People with very good intentions are being manipulated into thinking that they are buying local, fresh foods when they are not! Just recently a Santa Cruz Valley chef claimed that he includes local foods in his menu whenever possible – we have never met. Grocery store chains have told customers, through their advertising, that they are buying from local farmers. These same stores have told us that we would need to supply all the stores in their region (as in – the Southwest) the same crop year round, regardless of season. Being controversial and making waves is not my style, but we are working very hard to make our farm a viable business and the deception of others has a direct impact on our success.

Many of our regular customers ask why we don’t participate in more farmers markets. The truth is, we just can’t compete with market vendors. I have been to farmers markets in January after waking up at the crack of dawn to harvest, wash, weigh and pack our winter crops. Then, it’s off to market to set up our table and lay out our rather monochromatic green winter wares. Invariably, a vendor nearby is already assisting the long line of buyers that has formed at their table, attracted to the colorful boxes of bright red tomatoes, cucumbers and even pineapple. Some folks are probably aware that someone other than the vendor grew these vegetables. They may even know that the foods were grown in another country. Many, however, have no idea. They are at a farmers market after all. Some perhaps ask a question or two before committing to their purchases, but the answers, which aren’t actually lies, can be misleading.

Q: “Are you a farmer? ”

A: “Yes, I have acreage in _______. ”

Owning land doesn’t mean the produce you are buying came from that land. I know of one vendor who owns land and even refers to it as a “farm” but has no well on that land. In the dry desert, no water means no farm.

Q: “Is this organic? ”

A: “Yes. ”

Often “yes” is a truthful answer. There are perfectly legitimate organic farms in Mexico and maybe that is all you want to know, but, are you willing to compromise quality and freshness for the “organic” label? Usually produce warehouses in Nogales aren’t interested in selling vendors a couple of boxes of produce. They sell their produce by palletized truckloads. Stewart and I used to pick up produce from these same warehouses when we had pigs to feed. Every week the managers decide which pallets aren’t going to last in the shipping. Produce needs to be shipped before it is ripe. While in transit, the foods are kept in optimal temperature and humidity conditions so when they reach the grocery store shelves they are ready for the consumer. Food that has already reached its peek in the warehouse will not be shipped. This goes to the dump or to cattle ranchers and pig farmers. Sometimes, this is also the organic produce you are buying because vendors can pick up a few boxes instead of the whole pallet. It is still edible, and, great – let’s not let it go to waste, but were you really planning on buying the same produce you could have bought at a grocery store, often for a higher price? Again, if that doesn’t bother you, that’s fine. It bothers me. And what about post-harvest handling? Our fresh picked produce not only comes to you shortly after harvest, but we are able to store it in a walk-in refrigerator until we are ready to transport it. In fact, conventional produce was at least kept cool all the way through the shipping chain until you bought it. Many vendors don’t have refrigeration to store their produce, seriously compromising the quality of the product. Ever noticed how the bell pepper you just bought at a farmers market is already wrinkled when you get it home? These are the reasons why. My advice – If you want to buy bell peppers (or any other summer produce in January), go to the grocery store where at least you know they were handled properly.

Q: “Did you grow all this? ”

A: “We grow what we can and the rest we buy from our neighbors. ”

A vague answer and one that I have heard a vendor use over and over. This is a vendor who goes to the farmers markets almost everyday of the week, yet has no employees. Who’s doing the work; seeding, cultivating, harvesting, and washing….? Thing is, he is probably being truthful, but think of the leeway that answer gives. He could have grown six pots of basil on his front porch then bought the rest (tomatoes, peppers, pineapple, avocado, etc.) from his “neighbors” in Mexico or from a nearby warehouse.

Farmers markets are fun social events and bountiful, colorful tables overflowing with veggies make the experience more attractive, no matter where they came from. Keep in mind, however, that there are real farmers at these markets and there would be more real farmers if they didn’t have to compete with vendors. Even more, vendors retard innovational farming –why, for example, would we go through lengths to be the first farmer to showcase the season’s tomatoes if vendors have been selling them year round!

If you are looking for the “real deal” – organic, local, fresh and from the grower, I have the following advice:

Talk to market managers. Many farmers markets in other states do not allow food “vendors” and these growers must have an open door policy at their farms to prove that they are, in fact, farmers.

Keep asking questions. Don’t stop at “Is this organic? ” Here are questions you could ask.

1.     What organic growing practices do you utilize?

2.     How many acres do you have in production right now?

3.     What kind of post harvest handling systems do you have in place? (Refrigeration, washing, etc.)

4.     Do you re-sell? If so, which items and whom did you buy them from?

5.     When was this (pepper, tomato, etc.) harvested?

AND – THE BEST QUESTION OF ALL – 6.     When can I come to visit your farm?

Want to but local? You can come to the farm Saturdays 9-3, Sundays 12-3. Also, Melio’s Trattoria in Tubac has been consistently buying our arugula for years. Janos in Tucson has been a great client as has The Velvet Elvis and Red Mountain Foods in Patagonia. By far the client most dedicated to serving local is Primo Restaurant at the J. W. Marriott at Star Pass who changes their menu weekly to accommodate our freshest harvest!

Avalon Gardens (Tumacacori) and Forever Yong Farm (Arivaca) are two other very local farms. Both will be at our 2nd Annual Garlic and Onion Festival June 19 & 20 in the evenings from 5PM-9PM. Admission is free. Bring a blanket to lie in the grass and enjoy live music and great food!

All this Stewart considers as he plans the seeding year round. He asks my opinion (and sometimes takes it). And he paints his acreage with seed and sweat. Right now on the farm spring lettuce grow neatly in rows of bright and dark green, deep reds and purples, striping the earth with an edible rainbow. The tall, thin greens of garlic and onions are pointing to the sky waiting for an early June harvest. Small shoots of corn have peeked out of the ground between rows of beans that will soon reach inward and grab onto their taller neighbors. Sugar snap peas are fat and sweet, ready to be picked. Sunflower plants are only eight inches tall and to the untrained eye are unimpressive, but the artist knows that soon they will tower over our heads and huge blooms will trace the migration of the sun across the sky throughout each day. Arugula that has passed it’s time is tall and flowering, making seeds that will re-grow like weeds next year with or without the approval of the farmer and, in the meantime, create a habitat for ladybugs and other beneficial insects.

This year’s canvas is colored with more garlic and onions than we have ever grown. Right now we are “robbing” the plants of their delicious scapes – the green shoot that, if left alone, a flower would eventually grow. The shoots are a culinary delight – the onion greens are uses like a green onion and the garlic scape has a mild, sweet garlic flavor. We are also harvesting immature garlic called “green garlic”, celebrated for having that distinct flavor, without the bite. These are treats only enjoyed if you have access to a garden. Grocery stores don’t carry them. Soon – by the beginning of June – the tops the onions plants will signal harvest time by flopping over. The garlic leaves will surrender their green pigment and begin to yellow. The savory alliums will be harvested making the way for the repainting/replanting of those acres. Pumpkins, perhaps…

*This year’s garlic harvest will include stiff neck and soft neck varieties as well as elephant garlic (which isn’t actually garlic at all, but related more to an onion and leek). We also grew our famous sweet yellow onions and have added a red onion to the mix.

Roasted Elephant Garlic (Elephant Garlic will only be available at our Garlic & Onion Festival)
1 Elephant Garlic
1 t Olive Oil

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Peel the outer layers of papery skin from a full fist (cluster) of elephant garlic, leaving a small amount of skin behind. Cut the very tops off the cloves with a sharp knife – only about 1/4 of an inch, just enough to expose the individual cloves inside the skin. Wrap in aluminum foil, and drizzle some olive oil in with the garlic before closing the foil completely. Bake for 30-45 minutes, or until garlic feels soft when pressed. Allow to cool slightly, and carefully squeeze garlic out of the skins, or gently slice open the sides and remove with a fork.

Roasted Elephant Garlic is delicious eaten as is, or mashed into a paste and spread over warm French bread or toasted crostini. It is also delicious mixed with mashed or baked potatoes, or on bagels with sour cream.

The more the merrier for our garlic and onion harvest. Get in touch with us if you feel like getting your hands dirty the first week or so of June. Then, come to our Garlic and Onion Festival for the celebration. Other local farms will be here as well as some food and craft venders. We will have live music and a good time, June 19 and 20 in the evenings from 5pm to 9pm. www.AguaLindaFarm.net