Quieting Life

Making Good Dirt

In order to get and maintain organic certification, an organic farmer must adhere to a strict set of guidelines, which include a prohibition of synthetic chemical fertilizers and pesticides. Growing healthy plants organically requires building fertile soil through careful management – encouraging a healthy ecosystem of molds, fungus, bacteria, and insects that do the work of converting their surroundings into plant food. The best way to do this is to add natural (organic) material that breaks down into usable nutrients as it decomposes.

As a self-anointed organic home gardener, I have only myself to answer to – no one is testing my soil for chemical residue, no one would know if I were dosing my plants with Miracle-Gro (or spraying poison on the circus sideshow of bugs). I adhere to organic methodology as a matter of sustainability and self-sufficiency, and out of concern for my local environment and my own, and my loved ones', health.

After a Storm

Twice lucky. Aside from localized power outages, Vermont was spared Sandy's wrath. And thank goodness – there's no graceful way we might have taken a second hit. And when Irene came raging through a year ago, our home was left entirely unscathed, physically. Psychologically, not so much. It simply isn't possible to witness nature's full fury and not be deeply unsettled, to be reminded that (like that wicked witch) you have no power here.

But to then see your surroundings turned into a kaleidescope of unimaginable wreckage, to see entire towns swept away, friends' homes destroyed, bridges and miles of road washed away in a churning torrent – leaves behind a kind of warzone trauma. And it's hard to get a grip on because you haven't really lost anything. You start to feel like one of those idiot drama queens.

My solution was to tear myself away from the endless loop of recycled terror on my computer screen and to go out and help wherever I could. In the immediate aftermath, TJ and I went and helped neighbors tear out their sodden flooring and carpeting and move their remaining belongings to safety. I joined up with girlfriends to deliver a few truckloads of relief supplies to be ferried into a town completely cut off by the storm. On our way home, we stopped at a farm that had just watched their entire growing field sucked downstream; they still had their barn and their garlic harvest, which needed to be cleaned and packaged for an upcoming festival. So we spent a few hours prepping garlic, quietly chatting while the methodical trimming, batching, and bagging started to reset some internal rhythm. On another day, we helped at a little village market – a town hub – that had been badly flooded. We scrubbed and disinfected shelving and stacked it in the sun to dry. And then we raked and shoveled and righted their back yard, so the owners' kids would have a sane and ordered place to play.

I'm recounting all this, not because I think it makes me special or heroic, but because it's what made me start to feel 'normal' again. Connecting with neighbors and strangers alike, giving what I could where someone else needed it. It's basic humanity. And I'd implore anyone feeling stunned and overwhelmed in Sandy's wake: if you have the time and the ability, hand it out as freely as you can.

To those who've seen their homes or livelihoods damaged or destroyed, there is precious little I can say without feeling and sounding deeply insincere, having never suffered catastrophic loss myself. I can only offer this, gleaned from observation: it may be hard to ask for or accept assistance, but do. There's plenty out there. And it's the give and take that starts to put the world right again.

Winding it Down

Wasn't I just out showering under the stars? Still waiting for tomatoes to ripen? Now I'm on the back end of the gardening season, undoing a summer's worth of doing. 'Winding down' is really too gentle a way to describe it. If the beginning is a slow unspooling over the course of a few months – planting a little of this, trotting a favorite shovel out of the shed, adding another jug of something to the potting bench...staking this, pruning that – the putting to bed is more like a high-speed death spiral, a mad scramble to get everything put away, cleaned up, and battened down before the whole machine slams into winter.

It would be nice if I had pictures and prose to show for the last two months, but the reality of maintaining the garden and preserving its generous output while putting together a pair of training manuals for a bunch of new cars (my 'real' job) leaves little time or headspace for reportage. I've got a fine haul to show for my efforts, though.

Summer Showers

Showering in the open air is one of life's most delicious pleasures. We've had an outdoor shower in the 10-Year Plan pretty much since its inception – 11 years ago. And this summer, we finally made it a reality.

When Life Gives You Oyster Mushrooms

Our friend Rob is, if not an expert, at least a very accomplished mushroom forager. He's also a dry stone waller like my husband, and brought TJ on to help with a big project this summer. So he's been arriving for worker pick-up early every morning for the last few weeks – and delivering some of his precious haul. Two weeks ago it was a clutch of perfect chanterelles, which I turned into a fine risotto with some local sweet corn. Friday, he handed over a brown paper bag containing close to a pound of the most extraordinary (and gigantic) oyster mushrooms I've ever seen. He'd spotted a tree along the roadside that was covered with them; he harvested about 10 pounds, and claims there's easily that much remaining.

Now, there are all kinds of wonderful things you can do with oyster mushrooms, but given the unprecedented quantity and quality, I opted to go 'showcase' and make them the star of a crusty pizza.