Southern SAWG

Each year for the last fifteen or twenty years, a brochure from the Southern Sustainable Agriculture Working Group (SSAWG) arrives at our house. I could not have told you how our name got on their mailing list, but each time I read through the brochure announcing their annual convention and the descriptions of sessions related to organic gardening, I always wished that I could call in sick for a week and head out to wherever the farmers were meeting that year. This year, I got to do just that. Now that I am retired, there just wasn’t any excuse good enough to make me stay away from the convention, especially since it was being held in a city I love—Chattanooga, Tennessee.

My one worry about attending this convention was that I would have nothing in common with farmers that grow on such a grand scale as to be able to make a living from it. My efforts are totally geared toward feeding my family. I feel successful if I’ve managed to pick a few handfuls of green beans to garnish a plate of lettuce—how would I fit in with people who grow miles of green beans. I was afraid my efforts with a trowel and hand rake might be considered puny by those whose hands were calloused by years of work with tractors and harvesters and real farmer implements.

I should not have worried.

The first pre-conference session began at 8:00 a.m.—late, I suppose, for most farmers—and ended at 5:30 p.m. I could tell right away that this was not a conference for gadflies.  There were no buses for taking spouses to shopping malls, no after hours “hospitality” rooms for free drinks and hors d’oeuvres.  If you are at a SAWG conference, you are there to learn!

Daniel Parson and Cathy Jones were the instructors for ‘Beginning Organic Vegetable Production.’ (This session actually ran for a day and a half.) I cannot begin to tell you all of the useful information these two individuals provided, but I do want to tell you about Daniel and Cathy—yes, by the end of the conference we were on first-name bases.

Daniel has two acres under cultivation. With the crops he grows on these two acres, he feeds 48 families through CSA subscriptions. He hopes to increase his cultivation to three acres this year, and his goal is to have a 75 member CSA. What a guy! (He could surely feed 20 families with my four garden rows.) Cathy has approximately four acres in cultivation and grows enough vegetables and flowers to be a main draw at three farmer’s markets each week. Both of these people became my instant heroes!

On the afternoon of the second day, after we had finished our intense learning session with Daniel and Cathy, we toured the Sequatchie Cove Farm. It is a beautiful a place located in the shadow of Lookout Mountain, with forest and pastureland, a swift-flowing clear-streamed creek, and homes for the three generations of farmers who work there nestled among the trees climbing the hillside. Grazing animals, native plants, artisan cheese, and a strong ecological connection drive the work at Sequatchie Cove Farm. Be sure to visit their website.

All of the sessions we attended during the remainder of our time at SSAWG were so informative. We were like sponges soaking up water, trying to hold on to every bit of information. We learned about soil science from guru Joel Gruver and became more determined than ever to grow mushrooms after hearing Tradd Cotter from Mushroom Mountain.

But enough of all that we learned, now I am going to tell you one of the most astounding discoveries we made during our trip.

On the second day of the conference, Harvey stepped out of the meeting room to quickly get both of us a cup of coffee. He seemed to be gone for quite a while, but Harvey does sometimes get side-tracked if something grabs his interest. In this case, he was walking near the registration tables on his way back to the meeting room when he noticed a laminated page from a newspaper on one of the tables. He stopped to take a quick look, but then had to take a second look. On the table was the front page of the Daily Iberian, our hometown newspaper. Prominent on the page was a photograph of about thirty people, Harvey being one of them, who were in attendance at the first Southern Sustainable Agriculture Working Group. Yes, it was held right here in New Iberia; and no, I don’t know why Harvey attended without me!

   

The conference in Chattanooga was the twentieth gathering of small farmers, and the size of the gathering has grown to 1200 participants. I don’t know what kind of synchronicity is involved when things like this happen, but to put the icing on the cake, Harvey was invited to participate in the culminating video presentation that was shown at the closing banquet.

I think we were meant to be in Chattanooga for the 20^th SSAWG. We really did fit right in. 

Helen Vinton (far right) organized the first
SSAWG conference in New Iberia.

1200 participants in 2011!

Forks Over Knives

Forks Over Knives, a film scheduled for release March 11, 2011, documents the importance of a plant-based diet in preventing and possibly reversing degenerative diseases. The work of Doctors T. Colin Campbell (The China Project) and Caldwell B. Esselstyn, Jr. (Cleveland Clinic) is featured in the film.


Sight unseen, I'm recommending that you see this film and find out more about this topic. You can start by visiting the film's website. View the trailer and related videos. I know you will want to put this movie on your To-Do list--or your Netflix list.

The House That Jack Built

Every child quickly gets the connecting pattern in this old nursery rhyme. A similar one goes something like “the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone, the ankle bone’s connected to the leg bone,” etc. This morning, as I thought about the connections that brought me to this blog, I went through several of those childhood rhymes. Simple things, really, one thing connected to another. Just as in life--one simple event triggers a chain of events, sometimes leading to unimagined places and endeavors.  Never would anyone have guessed that in retirement I would be growing my own food and raising my own chickens—for eggs and for meat. But a simple event connected to another event, and then to others—and here I am.

A little more than a year ago, Harvey and I went on a two-week trip to Nova Scotia—a fabulous place where the Broussard forebears were part of a thriving farming and fishing community. As always, before we left home, I made lists of things to pack and do. One thing that skipped my attention, however, was a loaf of just-purchased whole wheat bread sitting on my pantry counter. Under usual circumstances, I would have put the bread in the freezer or fridge to keep it from molding while we were gone.

This hardly seems worth writing about, but what I discovered when I returned really shocked me (the first event in the chain). As I went about unpacking, I found the loaf of whole wheat bread I had left on the counter. Fully expecting it to be green with mold, I picked it up and started toward the trash bin, examining it as I went. I was shocked to find no mold on the bread! It had spent the last two weeks in the dark, in a warm place, and no mold grew on the bread! What kind of preservatives were going around disguised as bread? It was then that I decided I would not buy bread any more. I would make my own.  I wanted bread that would mold!

This event piqued my curiosity about the quality of food available to me through our Big Food supply chain. Every recall spurred me to find out more about our food industry and the dark secrets that have been hidden from most of us: the unsanitary conditions of feed lots, the concentration of antibiotics and hormones in animal products, the dangerous working conditions of the packing industry, the lack of nutrition provided by the processed food industry, the lack of government control over the food industry, the squeeze placed on farmers by Monsanto and other multinationals…and on and on and on. It is a frightening path to embark upon, and not everyone wants to follow it, but if you do begin to learn about where your food comes from and the deals that are brokered in getting it to your table, you are sure to end up as I did—looking for local farmers who sell real food.

There are many other connections related to this search for local, fresh, nutritious food, primarily connections that impact the health of individuals and our health-care system.  But those will be the topics of other posts. For now, I thought you might want to watch a short video that relates to my initiating event—bread that wouldn’t mold.

Bread That Won't Mold

Breaking the Rules

We don’t have a huge number of rules at our house. Sometimes the folded clothes aren't put away before we go to bed. Sometimes the clothes aren't even folded. Last night’s dinner dishes might still be found hanging out on the counter until after our morning cup of coffee. And, when the grandchildren are here, clothes, games, and art supplies can be found in every room of our house. None of those things have rules associated with them. So what is important enough for me to make a rule about it? Eating nutritious food, of course.

To make this rule work, I have stocked the house with wholesome foods: fruits, vegetables (homegrown!), whole grains, Oreo milk and yogurt, and Jim’s farm-fresh eggs (until our hens begin to lay). You have to really search to find the cans of condensed milk that I keep for making lemon ice-box pie or the chocolate bars that tide Harvey over when he is watching late night television. So is it any wonder that my granddaughter Kate was mystified when she saw a bowl of Momo Ruby’s Blackberry Dumplings set out for her breakfast? She couldn’t believe it.

I don’t know what happened this morning. I just decided to break the rule. Sometimes you have to do that to show your grandchildren you are still a real person. Kate came in from feeding the chickens with her hands and cheeks icy cold. I had just finished cooking the blackberries, and though I had every intention of fixing eggs before granting a taste of the berries, I decided to do something wrong. I put the warm bowl of berries in front of her and said, “Here’s breakfast.” Wide-eyed, and with a slightly disbelieving grin, she put her cold hands around the warm bowl and began to eat this wonderful treat that has been enjoyed by at least four generations of my family.

Foods like Momo Ruby’s Blackberry Dumplings are known as comfort foods. These are the foods that families incorporate into their history. They are the foods that each generation makes a point of passing on to the next. The recipes may or may not be found in books. Some are known to other families; some are unique to one family.

As Kate ate her berry dumplings, we talked about three recipes that she and her brother Joseph have as comfort foods. From their father, they have Charlotte’s Puffy Pancakes. From their mother, they have two family foods they will learn to cook:  Claire’s Cake-Topped Lemon Pudding (better known as “Sick Food” since it was always made for you when you were sick) and Momo Ruby’s Blackberry Dumplings. It is important that she and Joseph know these foods, and that they continue the tradition of connecting their lives and their children with all of the ancestors who kept these foods alive for them.

Maybe that was what happened this morning. Maybe it was time to put aside the rule, at least temporarily, so that the really important rule of honoring your elders and ancestors could be taught and understood. That’s a rule that is a pleasure to follow when it’s only requirement is that you eat and enjoy a bowl of warm blackberry dumplings like Momo Ruby used to make.

(Recipes for Momo Ruby’s Blackberry Dumplings, Charlotte’s Puffy Pancakes, and Claire’s Cake-Topped Lemon Pudding will be on the cooking page this week.)

Pot Pies, Biscuits and Hot Chocolate

Though I’ve never been to Minnesota, I know that winter in Louisiana cannot compare with winter there. Winter in Minnesota is horrendously cold; temperatures can actually go to –60 degrees F. As I sit at this computer with a blanket draped over my shoulders, I think about the coldest places I have lived. In rank order by degrees closest to freezing, the three that come immediately to mind are the bedroom in my childhood home, the second house I lived in as a newlywed, and, on some days, the house I am currently living in.

Some houses have a reason for being so cold. The cracks in the walls and floors of my childhood home were obviously to blame for my lying in bed on frosty mornings, covering my ears with quilts, and engaging in a game of pretend smoking—two fingers holding an imaginary cigarette to my lips, pulling cold air into my lungs, then exhaling a vaporous smoke that disappeared along with the warmth of my breath. In that house, if you were going to engage in any fantasies or do any philosophizing, you did it while you were in bed under a pile of covers. Once those were thrown back, the race was on to get to the kitchen or living room where you could cozy up to a space heater, squeezing between your older brothers who had already gotten the prime seats; or waiting until one of them stood to get coffee, and taking his seat in the never-ending game of musical chairs. 

The second house I lived in as a newlywed was an old Acadian house in St. Martin parish. The landlord told us the walls were well insulated with boussillage, a mixture of mud and Spanish moss. We moved there in August, just before the school year started and loved living in the old house. Then winter arrived. Boussillage or not, this house was a repeat of my childhood home, only this time my mother and father were not there to light the heaters so that at least one room would be warm before I had to throw the covers back. Now Harvey and I were the grown-ups, and neither of us were grown-up enough to do it without complaining, shivering, and saying, “I think it’s your turn this morning.”

The house I now live in has every convenience, including heating and air-conditioning systems that are supposed to keep every room evenly heated and cooled at whatever temperature I set. Only it doesn’t work that way. In summer, this house is always too warm, and in winter, it is always too cold. I’ve called the experts numerous times; and each time they assure me it is fixed, but it never is. I’m learning to live with it, and I have found that winter in this house does bring me fond memories of winter in the other two houses.

In my childhood home, on the really cold mornings, my mother would always come to my room with a tray of warm biscuits and hot chocolate. She would fluff up the pillow behind me, tuck the covers up under my arms, and put the tray on my lap. There I would have breakfast in bed, just as though I were a princess. This was not just a once-in-a-while event—she did this each school day during winter, while frost crystals were on the ground and the sun was just beginning to light the sky.

The memory of the Acadian house is not so poetic, but nonetheless, still one to cherish. We learned to cope with the frigid Acadian house by immediately turning on the oven and the electric blanket as soon as we walked in the door after school. The space heater in the bathroom was next. We’d leave the door open so that the heater’s meager warmth might register one foot-candle into the hallway. Then came the grand preparations for supper. Opening the freezer was not really a dreaded event since the air inside appeared to be the same temperature, if not warmer, than the kitchen. The freezer was filled with chicken pot pies (Swanson), and every day, Harvey and I would hurriedly shove two pies into the oven, then race to the bedroom, jump under the electric blanket, and wait for the pies to cook. When the timer rang, one of us would scurry to the kitchen and bring back the pies so that—you guessed it—we could eat under the electric blanket. We knew we were being ridiculous, yet we laughed, ate, and stayed warm with that same routine for one whole winter.

Being cold is a dreaded event for me. I could never live in Minnesota. My hands and feet would never warm up. But being here in Louisiana, being just cold enough, has brought more wonderful food memories to the fore. I’ve enjoyed sitting here thinking of those pot pies and Mama’s biscuits and hot chocolate. I might not have given them much thought if the heating system in this house worked right. 

Happy New Year!

This is not about resolutions. I stopped making resolutions about ten years ago when I found a list of resolutions from the 1980’s. The first item on the list was “to be more organized.” If I were making a list today, the first item on the list would be “to be more organized.”

This is simply a general update of where we are with our chickens, gardening, and cooking projects.

Chickens

On December 29, we separated our chickens into laying birds and meat birds. It was a day we had been dreading, but the bickering that was becoming a daily occurrence among the birds as they tried to establish a pecking order made our job easier.  We methodically got out the pet carrier (how ironic a name is that) and other equipment we thought we would need, ignored the emotional impact of our actions (except for placing carrot tops in the cage, you would never know we cared), and moved the meat birds over to Jim’s place. He lives outside the city limits on a few acres of land and has room for fattening up the birds destined for the table. Once the birds were in his chicken tractor, they went about their usual clucking and scratching routine like nothing had changed. They hardly noticed when we left.

Amazingly, the six who were left behind were traumatized. It could be that they thought the others had been given a better opportunity: they had been taken to a place where people didn’t hover over them and worry incessantly about them. Like any teen who yearns for independence, our six birds thought those who were missing had “gotten away.”

Our birds were in a stupor for a couple of days. They walked around in a daze. There was too much room now. Things were too quiet. Where were the bullies? Where were the jokesters? Who was going to be in charge now? They stayed inside the coop, quiet, for long periods. Only gradually did they begin to emerge. The first sign that they were returning to normal was the group dust bath that they stirred up after everyone decided life must go on. Any woman knows what a bath does to soothe a troubled heart. They lounged and scratched and plucked dirt from each other’s backs. It was hog’s heaven.

As of this morning, I would say that all is right for our pullets (laying-hens-to-be), as well as for the broilers (meat-birds-to-be). Life must go on—at least until butchering day.

Gardening

Yesterday Harvey, Kate, and I went out to the farm to see what might be ready to harvest. We brought home carrots, scallions, Swiss chard, collards, and two heads of cabbage. (We also brought home one of the few remaining insect riddled Chinese cabbages for the chickens.) Even though the cabbages are on the small side, I just had to have a cabbage I had grown from seed for this New Year’s dinner.

Now my seed catalogs are arriving, and I am making my list of the varieties I want to plant in the spring. My chief requirement in my gardening work is to plant old varieties (just as I raise heritage breeds of chickens). I look for seeds that are not classified as proprietary (seed company owns the patent) and for the ones that do not appear to be genetically modified. When crops are genetically modified, pesticides that used to be sprayed on a crop are now placed in every cell of the plant. In order to do this, the pesticide is given access to the DNA of the plant via a virus or bacteria—most commonly e coli.

[Just for your own information: The Big Food lobby has paid enough government insiders to keep any laws from being passed that would require labels on food that is genetically modified. Other countries, including all of Europe and Japan, have not followed the United States’ stance on this. The Japanese have declared that they will let the children of the United States be the guinea pigs for genetically engineered food. They will not use their children for this experiment.]

Cooking

Today is cabbage day, of course. Smothered cabbage is one of our favorites, and if we are going to eat any time soon, I’d better stop writing and get to it. Look for some new additions to the recipe section, including the Red Rooster cocktail that was a big hit at our Christmas gathering.

Happy New Year to all. My hope for the new year is that I will spend it doing the best that I can—a simple resolution with profound possibilities.