I think I will become a consumer in 2016.
A kitchen farmer in 2016.
Herbs, sprouts, fast turn over flats. It’s taken more years than are logical to get here but life is not going to cooperate with our usual hope for cycles and seasons. I’ve never stood fully on the other side of the fence, the customer side of the fence and I have to admit I find it a little awkward. The trusting.
Because it is trust when I look at a product and believe what I am told about where it was grown. How it was grown. Who grew it.
I know the minutes that go into the final product. The planning and tending. The sacrifice and bending. Is it fair to expect that from someone else? Is it reasonable to assume that they are as carefully aware as I have been?
I have always nurtured a tactile relationship with what nourishes me. The loamy sent of earth. Hands stained, neck sweating under an August sun. Quiet barns in early mornings, eager faces welcoming the care you bring. The magic of birth. The magic of harvest. Contentment and joy at the knowing. The who. The when. The what.
To fill your pantry, to set your table is the deepest kind of gratitude.
I will miss the satisfaction. Exchange it for a new kind of understanding. The value of skill. The respect of product. But it will be unfamiliar, I think even in the practiced years it will be unfamiliar. And a kind of grief. I will miss the knowing. I will miss the life.
Knowing your truth. Sometimes it is hard.