Harvest Season

This harvest Friday, we pulled in our fruits from the yard; watermelons, cantaloupe, honeydew, sweet potato, zucchini, leeks, cucumber, basil, parsley, tomato, squash, hot peppers, sweet peppers, eggplant, swiss chard, onions, pumpkins, ground cherries, cabbage, garlic, kale, beans, sweet corn, beets, carrots, potatoes, wild flowers and there was still more out there we didn't have time to bring in when the sun set at 8pm (lettuce, turnips,kohlrabi, dandelion greens). We're still not used to the sun setting a little earlier every day now. I go to bed at 10pm, wake to my cell phone alarm at 4:30 in the foggy dark morning, peculiarly warm and rainy after all the recent cold mornings lately. We pack up the trucks to bring to market and drive 40 mins westward to Fredericton Farmers Market. The drizzly weather at market doesn't put a damper on sales as a steady stream of people come between 7am and noon. The sales team smiles big and displays the vegetables to look their best, cracking little jokes, asking if they want anything else with their order (a Second Cup habit), trying to make them buy something more by flirting and making them like me and asking "Have you tried our melons?" The flavour of our melons astound people.

For lunch, I buy market samosas from the right-hand side of the ongoing samosa rivalry then shower at Michelle's house in Fredericton. I lay down on my back and close my eyes for twenty minutes before we drive out to help at an afternoon wedding, the dear friends of dear friends of the owner of the farmer, Mike. The 58 year old bride talks about how being single for so long made her reach out to the surrounding community for support and enabled her to build a loving community around her in Fredericton. We rush around serving our farm produce in different forms, roasted vegetables, homemade pasta and real Italian sauce, chicken and parsley with lemon, served family style, passing food around the table. The rainy day clears in the afternoon into a grey and glowing evening as we light the candles and the food keeps going out and dishes come back in. Oh my god the dishes that 48 people use for a fancy meal. It's dark by the time we pile in the truck to leave, stop in Fredericton en route on our drive back to see a few friends but too tired to make a night out of it, the stimulation of espressos after dinner getting crushed by the anvil of a seriously long day, elongating until we get home at midnight. I sleep like a rock until I can't sleep anymore and wake to the sound of bacon in a pan.

Mike's cooking breakfast and after a meandering conversation about the current debt crises ("Oh, they're just circling the drain,") and economic matters introduces me to the idea of potlatch. It's a Native Indian custom of communal gift giving, reinforcing ideas that the accumulation of wealth is not about numbers in a bank account but a show of status and a blanket of security. Potlatch means your status is determined by how generous you are. A beautiful idea.

I come back to the cabin, sit down and type this up. The sun breaks the fog and is pouring in right this minute, now, noon on Sunday, day of rest and refreshment, and I will now hit publish and go play outside.