A review of a blog on raw milk cheeses from Slow Food USA

Presidia Saving cherished slow foods one product at a time

Raw milk cheeses

The first American cheeses were modeled on English and Dutch products and later on German and Italian ones.

For 200 years, American cheese makers have 'domesticated' these cheeses by making versions of traditional European cheeses. In the past few decades, new American cheese makers, many of them women, have created a wide spectrum of innovative artisan cheeses. These products are as unique as the cheese makers themselves and they reflect as much persona as they do terroir. Hard, soft, cooked curd, washed rind, pressed, wrapped, they vary from huge 40 kilo wheels to tiny 100 gram forms, and are wrapped in leaves, sprinkled with ash, or crusted in salt.

The cheeses included in Slow Food's first American Presidium project have a few common denominators: The use of raw milk from either the cheese maker�s own herd or a local farm using sustainable agriculture and artisan production. Making cheese daily and selling the vast majority at a weekly farmers markets or directly to local restaurants, not through distribution networks.

The Presidium

In the United States, the sale of raw milk cheeses that are aged less than 60 days is illegal, and cheese makers are also at risk of losing the right to produce all raw milk cheese altogether.

Due to the lack of a regional identity and the difficulties in collaboration between different producers, the situation facing American raw milk cheese producers is challenging.

Small cheese makers feel isolated and, in addition to the problems involved in running a business, have to contend with the problems of uncertain and ever-changing health and food safety regulations.

To put the project on a firm base, Slow Food has had to reconsider the normal structure of a Presidium and focus on the objectives. The project involving over 30 producers connected but by common aims: to improve the quality of American raw milk cheeses and the create links between cheese makers.

A group of tasters, comprising Slow Food and cheese making experts, select the best raw milk farmstead cheeses each year. These cheeses will become the ambassadors of the project.

The Presidium has organized educational exchanges for cheese makers, as well as tastings and promotional events.

Raw Milk Cheese makers� Association

Members of the Raw Milk Cheese Presidium reconvened in August 2007, during the American Cheese Society Conference, to create a new independent Raw Milk Cheese makers� Association.

This new member based Association, open to raw milk cheese makers, will focus on promoting and protecting the right to produce raw milk cheeses of quality in the U.S, and provide a network to assist small-scale cheese makers with technical, regulatory and business resources.

The Raw Milk Cheese Presidium�s production protocol.

The human palate appreciates complexity. As artisan producers of raw milk cheese and as members of this Presidium, we are committed to making distinctive cheeses of complexity, high quality and safety, and with the depth of flavor that raw milk provides. We believe the following:

Cheeses attain the greatest complexity when they are produced through processes that stem from biological diversity;
Technology and scientific understanding can be used to guide and monitor rather than to control and dominate. By respecting the diversity in our soil, pastures and woodlands, our herds and flocks, and the raw milk from our animals, we can produce cheeses that are as nutritious, safe, and wholesome to consume as they are flavorful;
As makers of raw milk cheese, we assume responsibility for the safety of our product. We therefore endorse HACCP as a means to place such responsibility in our own hands. The specific processes, tests and frequency of testing will be determined by each producer and will evolve as our individual HACCP plans evolve. At a minimum, our HACCP plans will include the considerations and specific standards listed in Appendix A of this Protocol.
We are forming a Slow Food Presidium to preserve and advance the art of making raw milk cheese. The Presidium is a wholly voluntary association. As Presidium members, we work actively towards meeting the criteria listed in this Protocol. Each cheesemaker who becomes part of the Presidium commits to achieving all of the criteria listed in this document within six years of joining.

E-mail: info@rawmilkcheese.org

Move Over Medicine, Honey�s Here

A natural treatment might work better than over the counter cold remedies. By Katherine Tweed, posted December 4th, 2007.

New research from Penn State College of Medicine found that a small dose of what I like to call the molasses of honey � buckwheat honey � is better relief for a nighttime cough than dextromethorphan (DM), the ingredient found in many cough suppressants.

This study, which was funded by the National Honey Board, is published in December�s issue of Archives of Pediatrics and Adolescent Medicine. This is interesting in light of the FDA�s recent recommendation that children under six should not be given cold and cough medicine. Parents in the double-blinded study rated a bedtime dose of honey as more effective than no treatment and more effective than DM.

While buckwheat honey is not as sweet � or as easy to find - as the clover honey that squeezes out of the bear-shaped bottle, it is far better tasting than imitation grape or cherry anything, and could be worth a try to side-step the side effects of OTC medicines for young children.

Tom�s reply to blog on honey

Slowly but surely we are rediscovering the medicinal and health promoting qualities of food. My mom always gave me lemon and honey as a remedy for coughs and never gave me the narcotic stuff. Now this study show that honey is more effective than cough syrup with toxic pharmaceuticals like Dextromethorphan. I would like to add to the qualities to look for in honey. It should be unheated and organic if possible.

Cheesaholics Anonymous, by Nadia (New York, NY)

This Week at Saxelby Cheesemongers

Good morning cheese lovers. I'm here today to tell you the tale of a little mixed milk cheese from the great state of Maine. Olga is our newest arrival at the shop, and we are delighted to have her around. She hails from Seal Cove Farm, a gorgeous patch o' goat farm tucked into a pine tree festooned inlet in Lamoine, Maine.

I had the chance to make Olga's acquaintance this past September while up in Maine for the Common Ground Fair. Barbara Brooks, cheese maker extraordinaire at Seal Cove, was nice enough to let me come and stay for the day, helping her milk the goats and tasting not a little bit of yummy cheese along the way.

Olga is the fruit of a lovely experiment pioneered by Barbara and her Ukrainian intern, Olga. Much like newly discovered planets or elements on the periodic table, it's only appropriate that such a successful innovation be named after its creator! Olga (the person, not the cheese) was interning in the United States while completing her dairy science degree and got it into her head that Seal Cove should make a washed-rind cheese like the ones she was ogling in the scores of cheese books around the farm. Coming from a land of fresh cheese and kefir, this was a grand departure from tradition, but she and Barbara persevered and knocked out the first batch last winter.

Barbara herself said, 'It was during hunting season, and those cheeses could have protected many a hunter, they were such a bright shade of orange!' The vigorous washing of the cheeses had rendered the rinds uber-pungent, uber-orange and uber-sticky to boot... Yummy to say the least, but a bit too volatile for her taste. So, it was back to the drawing board to see what she could tweak to make the cheese a bit finer and milder mannered.

Enter the Olga that we now know and love. Made from a mix of goats' milk from her own herd and organic cows' milk from a neighboring farm, this Olga hits you with a one two punch of flavor, starting with a bright and buttery blast from the cows' milk and followed by the mellow musky flavor of late fall goats' milk. The aging of the cheese gives it a firm and dignified paste, with a lingering caramel-toned sweetness on the finish. And though Olga (the cheese not the person) is still washed during the maturation process, it is no longer stinky or as in-your-face as the first incarnation was. These Olgas are crusted with golden-hued rinds that taste of white pepper and pure goat goodness.

So, roll out the welcome wagon for good old Olga, and come on in for a bite!

http://cheesaholics.blogs.com
http://saxelbycheese.blogspot.com/

Biography of writer of cheesaholics

NADIA MUNA GIL studied finance at MIT and spent six years on Wall Street before her fascination with cheese pulled her into an entirely new career.

Nadia�s culinary career started at the French Culinary Institute in New York, where she completed the La Technique program. She went on to take classes in wine and cheese, and enrolled in the affineur apprenticeship program at the Artisanal Premium Cheese Center. Under the tutelage of cheese experts like Max McCalman, Daphne Zepos, Waldemar Albrecht-Luna and Alex Garcia, Nadia studied all aspects of affinage (cheese maturing), cheese service, and cheese and wine pairing.

Nadia worked as Fromager at the Artisanal Bistro & Fromagerie, and soon realized her passion was in teaching. She traveled to study cheesmaking and to observe retail store dynamics and customer reactions to cheese. Building on a weekly distribution list where she answers people�s questions about cheese, Nadia put together the Cheesaholics Anonymous blog.

tom's review on this blog and blog site.

This blog really is a slow food approach to the joy of gastronomy. The connection with the producers of this cheese is very intimate and appreciative of the labor of love that went into a new cheese creation.The description of the process of creating the cheese out of cow's milk and goat's milk and the tweaking of the flavor that was necessary gave me insight and appreciation for the gastronomy involved.The taste they created is described in delicious detail.

Letter to the editor

I Tom Lassota read the article �The limits of Will Power�, by Dr. Barry E.Levin, in the New York Times. http://www.nytimes.com/ref/health/healthguide/esn-obesity-qa.html

The presentation of the knowledge you have about the psycho-physiology and the complex feed back loops involved in our hunger response was very informative and useful to my understanding of the problem of dis-ease in our civilization today.

My opinion of the reductionist or magic bullet approach that you are tying to use to solve the problem of obesity will only be partly successful. I feel it will only increase the suffering of people who are innocent customers of our food corporation�s relentless drive for increased profits at the expense of our bodies and environment. The path is well marked with failed experiments on humans and animals and obesity, which increased dramatically with the introduction of cheap corn syrup into our diets in 1970�s is only one example. The approach of modern medicine to control our urges with drugs overlooks the reality that we are holistic beings responding to every change in our environment external and internal. The rising of the Sun signals our bodies to be more active and increases our appetite and also our ability to digest food. Our desire for certain foods is in response to the changes in the seasons. We crave more water, fruits and vegetables which are cooling to our body in the heat of the summer. As you mentioned in your article we humans have a reward system centered in our brains. Food is one of the joys of life and we have denied ourselves that pleasure in favor of the production of cheap tasteless food. I did not read anywhere in your article the reference to food as a simple basic pleasure enhancing experience. Dissatisfaction is everywhere and on every level and we have to move forward by making better choices in our socio-political landscape. The roots of obesity are in the choice we made unconsciously to favor industrial agriculture and to live in environments like concrete cities mostly isolated from the touch, taste, smell, sights, and sounds of nature. Q. What drives people to overeat? Everyone�s system strives to maintain a constant weight, or set point. The set point can be shifted upward, but only over time. If you overeat during a single meal � say, a big Thanksgiving dinner � your body goes into overdrive to try to get rid of those excess calories. But if you gain weight gradually, your body eventually will become accustomed to a higher weight and work to maintain it.

Q. What about the brain�s reward system?

A. The reward-based system, the part that responds to the tastes and textures of your favorite foods, and the joys of dining out with family and friends, is linked to many of the same metabolic pathways as the need-based system. But it plays by a different set of rules. We saw an example of its power in a series of experiments with obesity-prone animals who love a particular chocolate liquid supplement. When the supplement was available, the animals ignored the high-fat food that would normally have attracted them and ate almost all their calories from the supplement. But when the supplement was taken away � that is, the palatability of their diet changed � they cut their food intake by 50 percent. Within two to three weeks, their weight was back where it would have been if they had never eaten the supplement. When the supplement was reintroduced, however, the animals again ate with abandon, and their weight went right back to where it would have been if they�d never been off it. So this reward system seems to override everything, even normal signals of hunger and satiety. It drives many people to overeat and probably is responsible for much of the increase in obesity we�ve seen over the past few decades.

Q. Why don�t diets help? A. One problem is that when you lose weight on a diet, the amount of energy you expend at rest � part of the need-based system � goes down. Although dieting affects both the need and reward systems, it�s need that can�t be overcome. Built into every one of us, fat or thin, is a metabolic system that drives us to eat when the brain perceives that we don�t have enough energy stores. It�s this perception that can be skewed in an obesity-prone person, whose brain is less sensitive to signals to stop eating. When you fast, even for as little as 12 hours, levels of the hormone leptin drop like a shot, which is a way for the brain to know the body is hungry. When leptin levels go back up, the brain says, �I�m full.� But obesity-prone people are less sensitive to high levels, and don�t get the message to stop until levels are really, really high.

Q. Industry has spent a fortune trying to develop effective weight-loss drugs. Why don�t we have one yet? A. First, the brain is effectively wired to protect itself. We need to eat to survive, and we have redundant pathways developed over eons that keep us wanting to eat, pushing us to keep our energy systems filled. If you try to interfere with one, others take over. But a bigger problem is that the receptors these weight-loss drugs act on don�t just regulate food intake; they�re tied to a lot of other systems. That�s true of rimonabant, a weight-loss drug that the F.D.A. has refused to approve. It works on the brain�s cannaboid receptors, which are involved in eating and the reward system, but also in anxiety, depression and mood. And this ties into the biggest problem in treating obesity, which is that people are impatient. If someone responds to such a drug, he may lose a pound or so a week. And no matter what the doctor says, he�ll become impatient and take more pills. This may speed up weight loss, but because the drug is also acting on other brain centers, the increased dosage can also induce depression, anxiety, psychosis and suicide.

Book Report

Fields of Plenty

A farmer�s journey in search of real food and the people who grow it.

By Michael Ableman

The author writes short stories of his travels and encounters with many original thinkers on sustainability. Each farmer has a unique approach to life and farming that is every well integrated with the land and crops they raise. These new bred of land Stuarts are in line with Carlo Petrini�s Slow Food Movement and practices that are Good, Clean, and Fair. These farmers are returning to the age old traditions of rural farming life. This revival is in accord with natural law, living unboundedness within boundaries. The richness of the soil the maintainer of live on earth is now in the capable hands of a new generation. We are witnessing the rebirth of the Phoenix from the wasteland of the industrial age. I envision the spread of blissful food and living to overtake the whole world in our generation.

I have excerpts from the book of some of the farmers that interested me the most. They include Jennifer Greene�s grain farm in northern California who supplies CSA food to families in San Francisco, Bob Cannard�s farm in Sonoma California who supplies Chez Penisse restaurant in Berkley CA and our friend in Maine, Eliot Coleman whose example we follow here in Fairfield, the inspiration for the all season�s greenhouses.

Jennifer Greene�s grain farm

WE STOP SOUTH OF GASTON TO PHOTOGRAPH A BROKEN-DOWN HOME on an old farmstead. There is moss on the bits of roof that still remain, and sun�flowers grow where the kitchen once was. As we drive away, I think about who lived in that house, how many children they conceived and raised there, how many meals they harvested and served, and wonder if their dream has fallen down along this road or if life just moved them on to something else. I try to imagine what that could be, and I can't. I have farmed since I was nineteen, and I know I will never willingly stop, so every dilapidated farmhouse feels like it had to be a loss. As we drive away, I still feel it in my chest. On Highway 47, we whir past the Psalm i nursery, wheat fields dotted with huge oaks, and fields of hops and boysenberries. Machine-stacked hay bakes in the sun, rundown trailers and center-pivot water cannons pressure-blast columns of water onto fields of everything. School buses collect dust in storage, yielding the summertime road to the Winnebagos and Jet Skis that ride on trailers behind every truck and RV. Acres and acres of blacktop parking are full, servicing row after row of outlet stores, where the summer harvest is in full swing. Outside Salem, the huge Oregon Garden packinghouses lie dormant and ready to process fall apples. But apples no longer truly mark a season�the fruit will be graded and packed and placed in controlled-atmosphere storage where the oxygen is replaced with nitrogen gas, suspending all life processes, so that apples can be sent to market anywhere, anytime. Somehow, as I think about the marvels of modern food storage and distribution, another bit of summer drains out of the day, as if the logic of one season following another has been upended. Now, on this Oregon road, seasons are marked by RVs and school buses, and tied to turtle-necks and tank tops rotating through fields that have been paved over and planted with outlet malls. Near Roseburg, the first rain in months has turned the road into a slip slide, creating the conditions for a massive wreck involving a big rig. Passing the remains of these people's lives strewn across the highway, transformed by a momentary nod or swerve, reminds me how fragile our existence really is. I drive with awareness and caution. Just south of Ashland, we pass over Siskiyou Pass, at 4,ooo-plus feet above sea level. Just as we reach the pass, the oil-pressure light comes on, beeping its warning of impending engine doom. I freak out and wrench the van over into the brake-check area along with the big rigs that are preparing themselves for the long grade down into California. There is plenty of coolant in the reservoir, and all the belts look good, so I allow it to cool down and then start the engine. All seems well, but, with years of Volkswagen experience, I'm feeling uneasy. As we come down the grade and cross the border into California, we see the warning signs for the U.S. Department of Agriculture's checkpoint. The van is laden with vine-ripe tomatoes, blackberries, and garlic. I decide that I can relinquish the insipid organic pluots from an Ashland natural-foods market but will have to smuggle the blackberries and tomatoes. Aaron scrambles to stash the produce, but, instead of humans standing at the checkpoint, there are signs reading "No Inspection Today." I guess it's the budget cuts. It's hard for me to understand how funneling four lanes of interstate traffic into this checkpoint can do anything to keep out mad cows and gypsy moths. As the low concrete-block buildings of the checkpoint fall behind us, I settle into the arid expanse of the California landscape just as Mount Shasta appears in all of its glory, snowy peaks rising, dominating the world for miles around. Based on the area's natural ecology, the floor of the Scott Valley, just south of Yreka, should be blanketed with golden grasses of summer. Instead, it's an electric green that just doesn't seem possible from these native soils and stands in dramatic contrast to the understated dry hills of pine, oak, and chaparral that envelop it. This is hay country, carpeted wall to wall with alfalfa supported by wells that suck millions of gallons of water from deep within the earth into miles of giant wheel lines that shoot it into the hot, dry, evaporating air. We're on our way to see Jennifer Greene's grain farm, and I bet Aaron I can pick out her place without looking at the numbers on the mailboxes. In the distance, in a world of monochrome green, I spot an area of interlocking brown, red and gold. The lines, shapes, and scale are different, not flat or straight or perfect like everything else around it. As we get closer, it appears like a quilt, multicolor patches with shapes and heights that change every 40 or 50 feet. We turn in and drive up the lane that leads to the house. An Allis-Chalmers All-Crop combine sits beside the barn, a black chow chow patrols the driveway, and piles of garbanzo beans are drying on top of tarps and barrels and multicolore cotton bedsheets. I'm not sure what to expect. Most of the farmers we contacted over the last Fes months were thrilled to have us visit, but Jennifer was cautious, wanting to make sure that we would take the time to get to know her and the place, that we would work together for a while before I began photographing or taking notes. As we greet each other, seeing a face seems enough to dissolve any reservation Jennifer tells me not to worry, that she won't smash my camera if I take it out, am immediately launches into a high-energy tour of the farm. This is new territory for me�aside from a i5-acre planting of barley and oats I did when I was about twenty, I don't have much experience with grains and cereals. Jennifer moves fast and is throwing so much information at me that I'm having trouble keeping up. Jennifer's 3O-acre canvas is filled with one-third- to one-half-acre plots of amaranth, barley, millet, teff, heirloom wheats, blue and yellow popcorns, garbanzos, lentils and fava beans, pumpkin, sunflower, and poppy seeds, all merging and mingling together. There are ten families of crops and fifty-six cereals in a breath�taking rotation of pastures, grains, spring legumes, and dried beans. Picture agriculture in America and you see amber fields of wheat, soy, or corn fields that extend for as far as your eye can see with one variety of a single cereal or pulse. The sight before me blows all that away. This looks more like the grain production I saw in parts of Africa, Asia, and South America. The fields look like they were planted by a vegetable farmer turned grain producer. In fact, Jennifer started her farming career apprenticing and working on various vegetable farms. "Vegetable farming sucks," she tells me now. "I don't know how you people do it!" She tells me she doesn't like the "hustle" of vegetable farming, that she prefers "the slowness of grains."

In December 2002, eighty-five-year-old Floyd Evans handed Jennifer the keys to the house and drove off, having sold her the land he had lived on and farmed for thirty years. Before leaving, the old man apologized that he hadn't sprayed the alfalfa field that dominated the property. Jennifer had been farming grain on leased land 250 miles south in Yolo County. She was thrilled to find a place she could afford, with the water and climate that would support her chosen crops, and left behind the easy climate and politics of Yolo for the unknown. There is an American flag flying at the entrance to every farm in this valley. Jennifer tells me that many of her old friends would be hesitant to move to an area like this, seeing it as too redneck and right-wing. She tells me that she, too, is conservative and that her politics are "not that different from my neighbors'." Being conservative in the literal sense of the word is about knowing the limitations of one's resources, conserving and caring for them with an eye toward the future, a timeless concept that has somehow gotten a radical reputation.

Jennifer recites a point-by-point list of her guiding principles, in which life and work are one enterprise: the farmer should actually be hands-on, the working envi�ronment should empower people and welcome children, the work should scale to the environment and an appropriate aesthetic. If it seems dogmatic, I can't help but notice that Jennifer pursues these values in an atmosphere that is alternately fierce and deliberate, spontaneous and casual. Even basic. The house seems little more than a place to crash at night; all the important parts of life, including the cooking, are lived outdoors. Even with all her self-reliance, Jennifer seems to attract a parade of visitors�kids, neighbors who come to lend a hand, or folks who stop by to learn or just to hang out. Jennifer introduces her two dogs as mutts. The third "dog," a Toggenburg milk goat named Toggy, has the run of the whole place. I catch Toggy feeding on a pile of dry beans and start to chase her away. Julia, who lives and works here, tells me to leave her be. "The goats on this farm are like the cows in India," she says, "free to go where they want." We spend part of the afternoon harvesting poppy-seed heads and tossing them into buckets. Jennifer breaks a seed head off, turns it upside down and pours it out into her palm like pepper from a shaker with large holes. She eats the small pile of black seeds and invites us to do the same. The seed heads will become part of a monthly share for each of the one hundred member families of her CSA program. CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture, a program in which families pay at the beginning of the season for a weekly share of the year's harvest. Jennifer's San Francisco families will receive her grains along with fruits, vegetables, meats, and dairy from several other farms. Jennifers contribution includes freshly milled flours, polenta, cornmeal, pancake mix, beans, and seeds. Every share arrives in a handmade cloth bag with the family's name sewn on and recipes for graham crackers, and sprouted-wheat bread; it includes a newsletter with homegrown philosophy, farm stories, and current farm activities presented in an organic layout that mixes typefaces, handwritten messages, and pasted-in photos and stories. The newsletter feels like the farm itself. I photograph Jennifer at sunset standing in her wheat field. She complains about the location, reminding me that she is trying to get away from wheat domination and move folks toward some of the less known, less popular grains. "The wheat people have convinced everyone that there is only grain: wheat." We move into the millet and buckwheat. Later, as I head toward an old tractor sitting at the back of one of her fields, Jennifer stops me, telling me not to take pictures of the tractor. This is a horse-powered farm, and she doesn't want people to get the wrong idea. The tractor was brought over by a concerned neighbor to take some pressure off spring field preparation. Here, a pair of six-year-old Norwegian Fjord horses provide the traction, pulling an offset disc for soil prep and to cover seed, and powering a single-row cultivator through the rows of new plants in the spring and summer. When it comes time for dinner, Jennifer kneads Len hard red wheat sourdough into flat breads and slides them into a wood-fired oven that sits against the side of the barn next to a brick firebox covered with steel grate and griddle. She walks out to the field and returns with green beans, squash, and onions, which she rough slices along with a few potatoes. All this is thrown onto the griddle with a little sesame oil. Several ears of Painted Mountain corn, picked late at roasting stage, are placed alongside the vegetable mix, where they form a wall, keeping the veggies from falling off the edge. I find Aaron out in the grain fields covered in oil paint and soil, looking like a kid. He has been out here all afternoon recording his impressions of the place, mixing seeds and soil into the paint for texture. The light is almost gone, and I drag him back to the practical reality of dinner. We sit with Jennifer and Julia on bales of straw, eating warm, puffy flat breads, homemade hummus, and grilled vegetables by candlelight with a sliver of new moon hanging overhead, the dogs asleep underfoot and grain ripening over the fence. I ask Jennifer about her choice to farm alone. "Even among the organic-farming crowd, the women end up in the office or the house, with the men driven by the need to produce a cash crop," she explains. "It's really sad because that's not what many of them want to do. "I'm lucky�I'm on my own," she says with no trace of irony. I marvel at the magnitude of what she has taken on so independently. Later she tells me that if she were to get together with someone, it would have to be a nonfarmer, someone who would not try to take over the work that she loves. "Maybe a lawyer," she says. Early on our second morning, I find Jennifer milking the goats. I offer a cheery good morning, which she ignores. As I walk away I hear her mutter, "I love you, Toggy" to the goat, whose head and horns are buried in the grain bucket. I understand. I used to love to go out in the quiet and the cold of a winter morning, animals leaning into me warm and heavy as I squatted and milked. Milking was my quiet time, jets of milk rhythmically hitting stainless steel, buckets filling with milk and foam. It was one of the first farm chores I taught Aaron to do, and one of the gifts I could give him. I leave Jennifer's private goat space and head out and into the fields, camera in hand. There is heavy dew on everything, and, by the time I am called in for break�fast, I am soaked. I try to politely refuse, not wanting to be taken care of, but she insists, telling me that she's a big breakfast person and that we should come and join her. My hesitation ends when she tells me that she is making waffles. I go off to change into dry clothes, and when I return I find Jennifer in the grinding room, stones whirling as she selects from buckets and bags of whole grains, pouring a handful of Canadian hull-less barley, amaranth, and teff into the hopper. As the flour comes out, she runs her hands through it, delighted by its smooth texture and cream color. The resulting waffles are golden and light. I hold back from burying them in maple syrup and am pleased that I can still taste each individual grain variety. It is rare for most people to experience this. We often agonize over the quality of our vegetables or fruit, wax eloquently over cheese or wine, but accept flours, edible seeds, and cereals that are rarely fresh and come from a very limited diversity of plants. There is a remarkable difference in taste when seeds are grown well and served fresh and when flours are ground immediately prior to being used. After breakfast, Jennifer introduces us to eighty-three-year-old Howard Berry, who lives nearby. He and Jennifer co-own a plow. "She owns the handles," Howard says. "I own the blade." He keeps suggesting different men that Jennifer should marry, most of whom she says are too young. More to the point, Howard and Jennifer share an old, broken-down combine that had once seemed to be beyond repair. Jennifer and a friend spent several weeks restoring its beauty and usefulness, taking the old machine apart, feeding it gallons of grease, and putting it back together. These graceful, community-scaled machines were the norm fifty years ago, allowing a farmer to grow a wide range of seed and grain crops and providing freedom from hand cutting and threshing. Now, too many of these perfectly sized tools of self-sufficiency rust and decay along the fence lines of farms all across America. For Jennifer, it remains the right tool for her scale and diversity. But it also seems to be a symbol of restoration and preservation, an acknowledgment of a smaller-scale agriculture that once dominated this country and her desire to bring pieces of it back. With its functional beauty, it's one more element of what I'm coming to understand as Jennifer's personal aesthetic. I used to think I was one of the few individuals who came to farming more as an artist than as a farmer. I was a little shy about this, worried that my approach to the land as a canvas would somehow limit my ability to produce good food. Since that time, I have met many farmers who also go to great lengths to consider the artistic along with the agricultural. Although Jennifer comes off as being chop-chop practical, the fields and arrangement of crops reveal a great appreciation for the visual. In fact, having started off less than enthusiastic about being photographed, she now art directs my picture taking: "Why don't you try getting it from that angle?" or "You really should photograph the amaranth�it would be so beautiful against

the mountains." I normally would bristle at being directed like this, but there is a playfulness in her manner, and I'm having fun accommodating. I approached this farm with some misgiving, and I have now become caught up in a series of fresh and unfamiliar experiences both in the field and at the table. Last night's dinner�tortillas made with finely ground Oaxaca green-corn flour on the open fire grill, lentils, homemade feta cheese, and a frittata made with eggs from Jennifer's chickens�came late, when it was too dark to see, so each bite was a surprise. I realize I am used to being able to almost taste a connection between the vegetables, fruit, dairy, eggs, and even the meats we eat at home, and their source. I have not had that same relationship with grains. Although we buy oats, wheat, barley, and millet from organic sources, they come in jo-pound bags from large-scale producers growing on hundreds and thousands of acres someplace out there in the great middle of the country. It has always been the anonymous piece in our diet, and, for some reason, we have accepted that this is the way it has to be. And yet, grain is nutritionally so fundamental, so basic and necessary to our diet and to the diet of the animals we depend on for meat, milk, and eggs.

We probably could survive without another carrot or tomato, but could we survive without rice or wheat or quinoa or corn? These last couple days have demystified all of this, placed the possibility of regional small-scale grain production into my vision. I have played with the idea of growing some grain over the years, have tried to grow just about everything else, but now I am scheming in my mind: What fields, and where would they be? What equipment might be around my region, and how might I access it and resurrect it? Where are the seed sources, and what varieties will perform well on our island in the north? On my last morning, I look back and forth across the fence line that divides Jennifer's grain fields from her neighbors' alfalfa. In Jennifer's fields, hundreds of birds land atop the newly formed corn tassels, flitting from one to the next. As I walk through the millet and buckwheat and teff, a mouse scurries through, dodging the stalks. Where only alfalfa thrived just last year, new life is beginning to move in, supported by a greater diversity of plants and the dense cover and seeds that now exist here. Just across the fence, perfectly parallel rows of newly turned alfalfa lie fluffy above the vast mowed green. In its own way, alfalfa, too, is beautiful; the cut grass smells rich in my cultural memory. But even though alfalfa is a good neighbor� with its 3O-foot root system reaching deep into the hardpans, bringing up nutrients and fixing nitrogen in leguminous nodes�it's like having only one neighbor with one face, and no place for any of the wild things to be. The contrast is both subtle and dramatic, and I would love to see how Jennifer's Windborne Farm evolves, how the explosion of variety and diversity that comes from one woman's militancy will mature.

Bob Cannard's farm suppling Chez Pannisse Restaurant

I'm wondering whether Bob will have continued his unconventional system, whether his commitment to balancing nature's crop (the weeds) with humanity's crop (the vegetables) will have waned under the force of the market�place or just from society's pressure to conform. Not so. Aside from a few uncharacteristically well-groomed plantings near the buildings, things look more or less the same. There appears to be more abundance, the weeds and the crops seem larger and more robust, and there are more fruit trees planted everywhere. I greet Bob by telling him that his fields look a bit weedy, a comment that would place most folks in this part of the world firmly on the defensive. He smiles and shakes my hand. Cannard started working this land in 1976, when he was twenty-two. It had previously been home to one of the nation's premier turkey farms, where the standard broad-breasted white turkey was first bred. Forty thousand turkeys patrolled this land for almost thirty years as the topsoil washed away down its sloping surface with every rain. "There was a mind-set here of cleanliness and order," Bob recalls, explaining that the ground had been compacted and saturated in turkey shit and that even the creeks had been "straightened" with bulldozers. He was invited to do some landscape renewal, so he traded the labor for his first year's rent. He tells me that he deliberately chose a damaged place so he could learn nature's processes. He grew up in the nursery industry, where everything is forced and pushed and manipulated. He attended agriculture school and eventually dropped out when his most fundamental questions were not answered: Why are wild places naturally healthy, while the fields and orchards of commercial agriculture are a continual battleground? There had to be a way to build a truly healthy food-production ecosystem, one that somehow blends the will of the farmer with the will and wisdom of nature. Bob's first planting was a small patch of broccoli. "Everything died," he says, probably from the low level of soil life and nutrition after years of clean cultivation and heavy-handed control. "The land was compacted and anaerobic and had been sprayed to death with weed killers," he remembers. "There were no weeds or small birds�the mammal life was reduced to scavengers like ground squirrels, possums, and rats." Bob started in, using mechanical cultivation and cover crops to open the soil up. He introduced raw crushed rock and oyster shell for mineral nutrients and biological teas to inoculate the soil with beneficial microorganisms, slowly coaxing it back to life. Gradually it yielded hardy calendula, amaranth, and grasses, then clover and wild oats, and eventually some of the most sought-after salad greens in California. Now, there are turtles, salamanders, and fish in the creek, and wild turkeys and songbirds living on the land. And lots of weeds.Bob's fundamental less-is-more philosophy is based on the idea that the less you do, the less you will have to do. He likes to let nature take some responsibility. "I used to have to do many regular feedings for the plants, like light snacks. Now I only have to provide a bit of crushed rock or biological inocula occasionally. Now the energy is held in the soil, it's a steady-state food supply, and the soils are more wild than cultivated. "My dream is not to have to plant anything, and just wander around gathering," he says. When I see the rows of Florence fennel and radicchio that have been self-seeding and managing on their own for years, I can imagine that possibility. At first the restaurants didn't want Bob's radicchio. "It's too bitter," they told him; they were accustomed to the more pampered, watered, heavily protected brand of other growers. "But this stuff has suffered," Bob counters. "It has to rely on the rocks and the minerals and the more difficult conditions." Now, people want that full rich taste; bitter is okay, it's "in." It's another note in the evolving American palette. The majority of Bob's harvest goes to Chez Panisse restaurant in Berkeley, the celebrated mecca for foodies worldwide, the temple of the field-to-the-plate revival. Every Monday and Thursday, an unmarked white van pulls up the long drive into Bob's farm and winds its way down by the creek to a cluster of bay trees where small stackable white boxes of produce sit in the shade. The boxes are meticulously filled with squash blossoms, rosemary, thyme, savory, green beans, spring onions, red and white potatoes, red and yellow cherry tomatoes, and wild strawberries, all lined up on top of wooden benches. The driver, Dhondup Karpo, has worked at Chez Panisse since arriving from Tibet twelve years ago. When I finish stealing the spirits of the vegetables with my camera, Dhondup takes a stack of crisp, white linen cloths from the van and carefully covers and tucks in each of the fifty boxes of food. There is a preciousness about this, and I can imagine his rural relatives in Tibet chuckling to see him coddling these baby vegetables. He loads them in the van for the trip back to Berkeley, where they will be blended into the day's menu of roasted beet salad; wild nettle pizza; and turnip, sage, and cranberry-bean saute. "I want the people who eat my food to have vegetable dreams," Bob says. Bob's relationship to this piece of land is similar to the relationship I had with Fairview Gardens, the farm I ran for over twenty years in Southern California for the Chapman family, who in many ways except title let it be mine. Bob, too, has spent most of his adult life on land he doesn't own, renting it from the owners, who live on-site. "Ownership," he tells me, "is a manifestation of insecurity." I must be insecure. After more than twenty years nurturing someone else's land, after having been critical of private ownership, I purchased my farm in British

area. Above it, a family of barn swallows fly in and out of a nest attached to the ceil�ing, their droppings accumulating on one of the oriental rugs that cover the floors. There is no refrigerator that I can find, and I'm reminded of all the visitors at Fairview Gardens who were surprised to find our refrigerator empty. All the food was stored where it should be, safe and fresh in the fields. For me, most meals are planned on the fly in the fields, harvested right before a meal. Whenever I go out into the world, I am reminded of how lucky farmers and their families are to be able to eat so well. Even the foods we offer at the farmers' market, picked the day before, do not have the same energy and context they do when picked minutes before a meal. The first evening, Bob cooks dinner for us. Using leftovers from the day's farmers' market, he puts together a rapid succession of small plates of food. The first course is grated kohlrabi with a little parsley, a small amount of carrot, and a dash of apple-cider vinegar. He sautes potatoes, basil, and garlic in a little of his own olive oil and does a zucchini-and-green-bean stir-fry. Then he pulls out a piece of organic Angus beef, slices it paper thin, and smiles slyly as he explains that he just spent several days eating only vegetables with some Taiwanese Buddhists. He positions himself between a cutting board and a 19505 Wedgwood Monterey stove, moving back and forth, rapid knife strokes mixing with conversation, as he chops and stirs and tastes the contents of the cast-iron pan. We all eat from the same plate using our fingers. As Aaron and I eat ravenously, it becomes clear that Bob's vegeta�bles have thrived in their weedy surroundings. When people talk about Bob, they always bring up the weed thing; it's the best-known and most controversial aspect about him. We are all culturally programmed to believe a farm or garden should be made up of straight rows consisting of only what we put in them, that the farmer is lording over his or her land like a general on the battlefield. This attitude has created enormous heartache, resource depletion, and pollution, and it has fueled an industry that provides every imaginable machine and chemical to give us that ultimate sense of control and mastery over our farms and gardens. For the last fifteen years, Bob has passionately followed another vision. Rows of vegetables alternate with rows of weeds, or weeds and vegetables share the same field space. The weeds are kept in check until the planted crops dominate, and then the system is left to itself. As with cultivation, Bob also has his own version of soil chemistry. Each plant receives a top dressing of pulverized mineral-rock dust and compost. Every irrigation originates in a io,ooo-gallon redwood tank in which his home-brew compost tea is added; the composts are generated in wooden barrels that flank one side of the brewing area. Bob takes a handful of compost, a few pinches of crushed rock,area. Above it, a family of barn swallows fly in and out of a nest attached to the ceil�ing, their droppings accumulating on one of the oriental rugs that cover the floors. There is no refrigerator that I can find, and I'm reminded of all the visitors at Fairview Gardens who were surprised to find our refrigerator empty. All the food was stored where it should be, safe and fresh in the fields. For me, most meals are planned on the fly in the fields, harvested right before a meal. Whenever I go out into the world, I am reminded of how lucky farmers and their families are to be able to eat so well. Even the foods we offer at the farmers' market, picked the day before, do not have the same energy and context they do when picked minutes before a meal. The first evening, Bob cooks dinner for us. Using leftovers from the day's farmers' market, he puts together a rapid succession of small plates of food. The first course is grated kohlrabi with a little parsley, a small amount of carrot, and a dash of apple-cider vinegar. He sautes potatoes, basil, and garlic in a little of his own olive oil and does a zucchini-and-green-bean stir-fry. Then he pulls out a piece of organic Angus beef, slices it paper thin, and smiles slyly as he explains that he just spent several days eating only vegetables with some Taiwanese Buddhists. He positions himself between a cutting board and a 19505 Wedgwood Monterey stove, moving back and forth, rapid knife strokes mixing with conversation, as he chops and stirs and tastes the contents of the cast-iron pan. We all eat from the same plate using our fingers. As Aaron and I eat ravenously, it becomes clear that Bob's vegetables have thrived in their weedy surroundings. When people talk about Bob, they always bring up the weed thing; it's the best-known and most controversial aspect about him. We are all culturally programmed to believe a farm or garden should be made up of straight rows consisting of only what we put in them, that the farmer is lording over his or her land like a general on the battlefield. This attitude has created enormous heartache, resource depletion, and pollution, and it has fueled an industry that provides every imaginable machine and chemical to give us that ultimate sense of control and mastery over our farms and gardens. For the last fifteen years, Bob has passionately followed another vision. Rows of vegetables alternate with rows of weeds, or weeds and vegetables share the same field space. The weeds are kept in check until the planted crops dominate, and then the system is left to itself. As with cultivation, Bob also has his own version of soil chemistry. Each plant receives a top dressing of pulverized mineral-rock dust and compost. Every irrigation originates in a io,ooo-gallon redwood tank in which his home-brew compost tea is added; the composts are generated in wooden barrels that flank one side of the brewing area. Bob takes a handful of compost, a few pinches of crushed rock, area. Above it, a family of barn swallows fly in and out of a nest attached to the ceiling, their droppings accumulating on one of the oriental rugs that cover the floors. There is no refrigerator that I can find, and I'm reminded of all the visitors at Fairview Gardens who were surprised to find our refrigerator empty. All the food was stored where it should be, safe and fresh in the fields. For me, most meals are planned on the fly in the fields, harvested right before a meal. Whenever I go out into the world, I am reminded of how lucky farmers and their families are to be able to eat so well. Even the foods we offer at the farmers' market, picked the day before, do not have the same energy and context they do when picked minutes before a meal. The first evening, Bob cooks dinner for us. Using leftovers from the day's farmers' market, he puts together a rapid succession of small plates of food. The first course is grated kohlrabi with a little parsley, a small amount of carrot, and a dash of apple-cider vinegar. He sautes potatoes, basil, and garlic in a little of his own olive oil and does a zucchini-and-green-bean stir-fry. Then he pulls out a piece of organic Angus beef, slices it paper thin, and smiles slyly as he explains that he just spent several days eating only vegetables with some Taiwanese Buddhists. He positions himself between a cutting board and a 19505 Wedgwood Monterey stove, moving back and forth, rapid knife strokes mixing with conversation, as he chops and stirs and tastes the contents of the cast-iron pan. We all eat from the same plate using our fingers. As Aaron and I eat ravenously, it becomes clear that Bob's vegeta�bles have thrived in their weedy surroundings. When people talk about Bob, they always bring up the weed thing; it's the best-known and most controversial aspect about him. We are all culturally programmed to believe a farm or garden should be made up of straight rows consisting of only what we put in them, that the farmer is lording over his or her land like a general on the battlefield. This attitude has created enormous heartache, resource depletion, and pollution, and it has fueled an industry that provides every imaginable machine and chemical to give us that ultimate sense of control and mastery over our farms and gardens. For the last fifteen years, Bob has passionately followed another vision. Rows of vegetables alternate with rows of weeds, or weeds and vegetables share the same field space. The weeds are kept in check until the planted crops dominate, and then the system is left to itself. As with cultivation, Bob also has his own version of soil chemistry. Each plant receives a top dressing of pulverized mineral-rock dust and compost. Every irriga�tion originates in a io,ooo-gallon redwood tank in which his home-brew compost tea is added; the composts are generated in wooden barrels that flank one side of the brewing area. Bob takes a handful of compost, a few pinches of crushed rock. When the tea is finished brewing, Bob adds it to an open tank that looks like an algae-covered pond. He tells me that this soup is no different than what people make for their families out of the refrigerator each day. "You feed your kids with what you have on hand," he says, explaining that this material provides the "digestive support" for the plants. As with people, he says, most physical disorders in plants are associated with nutritional deficiencies, and, "if your digestion isn't working, you have a bad attitude." Bob hits his stride and channels on like some sort of plant rights advocate. "I don't like telling the plants what to eat. It's better to give them a choice." He prides himself on being the ultimate contrary farmer. Bring up any subject and he'll have a well-crafted thesis, normally one that flies in the face of conven�tional thinking. It's difficult at times to separate which parts of his rap are based on real experience and which are part of some musing expressed out loud.

I like to think of myself as fairly experimental, willing to implement even the most out-there ideas. The principles represented on Bob's farm make sense on an intellectual level, but when I see the fields, "weedy" and "unkempt," I find myself questioning, making judgments, even as Aaron seems to be grooving to Bob's philosophical beat. This is exactly the stereotype that people used to have of organic farmers�on the edge, rebellious, weird�especially if they're from California. Bob answers my doubts as he would anyone's�with food: potatoes and beets full of character, well shaped, colors bright and consistent, greens dark and turgid, onions and berries with a sheen, herbs and flowers fragrant and strong. I ask him whether fruit size suffers from this system, and he tells me that some crops adapt better than others. "Eggplants," he says, "don't like the competition." During our second morning, Bob throws an overnight bag in his truck and unexpectedly announces he's leaving us on our own. He tells us to make ourselves at home and stay as long as we'd like. In a strange way, I'm happy to have time to explore on my own. I wander as late-afternoon shafts of light stream over the hills that surround the farm, spotlighting the orchards and the fields of weeds and veg�etables. A wind moves down the canyon in sharp blasts, making the leaves and the branches of the trees and the plants dance in the dying light. I remember Bob telling me that some evenings he takes a glass of wine and a scythe and goes out to irrigate and to cut weeds. I'm reminded of those moments on my own farm when the crew and visitors are gone for the day and I go out alone to cultivate or graze in the fields. Those are the times when our farms speak to us, when all the conscious planning and scheming quiets down and is replaced with a knowledge that keeps us inspired and informs our best work. In those moments we merge with our land, assured that even though the world may view us as outsiders, on our land we truly belong. "I hope I survive long enough to see my soils so rich that I won't have to plant anymore�I'll just be able to go out and harvest," Bob told us before he drove away. "Wild potatoes and Swiss chards and kales and lettuces have already become weeds here. If I am lucky and get to be an old fart, I'm going to just go out and pick what I need."

Eliot Coleman and Barbara Damrosch�s Four Seasons Farm

AFTER AN AFTERNOON AND EVENING AT THE TUNBRIDGE COUNTRY FAIR, and a night camping on the streets of Barre, I make my way east, toward coastal Maine and Eliot Coleman and Barbara Damrosch's Four Season Farm. I'm carrying 4 quarts of Strafford Creamery ice cream�two vanillas, one coconut almond (do they grow coconuts and almonds in Vermont?), and my all-time favorite, black raspberry. It will be two days before I reach Eliot and Barbara's place, so this partic�ular sharing of foods proves to be a little challenging. An hour into the trip, I check my stash and discover that the ice has all melted and the cream is following suit. I buy some ice at a country store and repack the load.

I stop to take a rest an hour west of Bangor, Maine. I know I'm supposed to be saving the ice cream for Eliot and Barbara, but I've been living with this stuff ever since I left the Ransoms', and the black raspberry has been calling to me all day. I tell myself that someone should enjoy it if there's a chance that it might not survive the trip. I give in, eat some, and then lie down and fall into an ice-cream slumber.

In Maine's interior, fairy-tale villages give way to pulp mills, Wai-Marts, and run-down trailer homes. Along the coast, lobster traps and fishing boats and restored villages appear, and the wealth that has moved in from the south manifests itself in picture-perfect seaside homes.

The road into Four Season Farm passes in and out of rocky beaches and inlets. The soil looks like beach sand, and I wonder how anyone could be growing any�thing out here, much less the four-season harvest Eliot and Barbara are so renowned for. As I walk around the fields and greenhouses, I am struck by the exactness, the precision, and the consistency of each of the plantings. The beds are 30 inches wide, immaculately cultivated with laser-perfect straight lines of intense greens and reds, full rows from end to end. It is a level of technical skill and detail that reminds me of my visits during the eighties to see many of Europe's master farmers.

This land belonged to Scott and Helen Nearing, the extraordinary couple whose life and writings became the inspiration for thousands of young people across the country to take up the simple life, living lightly on the land. Scott and Helen moved to this i4O-acre plot in 1953 from Vermont, having left the farm they had started there when a new ski resort was approved in view of their land. Scott was seventy years old and Helen fifty when they moved to this land and started over again, developing water systems and putting in gardens that would feed the hundreds of visitors that came flocking for their wisdom.

Eliot talks about helping Scott start construction on a new house in the 19705. "We threw saws and axes into wheelbarrows and trundled down the driveway to where the new place was going to go in. Scott took this little bow saw out of his wheelbarrow and went over to the first sapling and cut it off and looked at it, and there was just a i-foot piece of firewood in there. He cut that off into his wheel�barrow and dragged the rest over and threw it over the bank. I was standing there thinking, 'Man, you're in your nineties. You're going to cut the driveway by hand? Come on, let's get chain saws and bulldozers, you know?' And the lesson from it was that the process is what you enjoy; the goal is meaningless. Scott enjoyed the process."

Eliot initially came here with his first wife in the fall of 1968 to visit the Nearings. Helen suggested that he buy the back half of their place. Scott wanted the same $500 for the 60 acres he had paid twenty years before. After all, he "hadn�t done anything to it," and he didn't believe in unearned income. Helen suggested $2,000 for the 60 acres. Eliot and his wife "bargained" upward and offered them $2,500 but she stuck to her $2,000. Years later, Eliot and Barbara sold off a few sections to friends for the same $33 per acre they originally paid. The Nearings' work and inspiration are carried forth by Eliot and Barbara, along with friends and neighbors who live along this stretch of Maine coastline. We walk along a system of footpaths that connect families and homes. As the woods open up into one homestead, Eliot yells out to announce his arrival. It feels like the Nearings are still alive and present here in the way folks are living, in the gardens, in the handmade buildings, and most of all through the strong sense of sharing and community.

"It's interesting how we are and we aren't children of the Nearings," Barbara is careful to point out. "The Nearings were militant vegetarians, especially Helen, but almost nobody in our gang is. We're all omnivores. The thing that is common, and this isn't any intentional community, mind you�because that would completely ruin the whole thing�is the fact that with incredible ease, without even thinking about it, we share equipment and services."

We visit the home where Scott and Helen Nearing lived, now established as the nonprofit Good Life Center. Young couples live here for a period of one to two years on a rotating basis, maintaining the gardens and keeping the Nearing lifestyle alive. Eliot tells me the Nearings were unusual because they actually walked their talk, and it is clear that they had a profound influence on his life and work. I can't help but reflect on those who have been mentors and influenced my life�David Brower, John Collier, Wendell Berry�and I remember that none of the genius, the ingenuity, the perseverance, the love of land that I have witnessed over and over on this trip stands alone. There is always some individual who came before whose life provided the model and the inspiration.

Eliot and Barbara describe the weekly ritual. Every Wednesday, there's a potluck dinner, and all the neighbors have a sauna together. Each neighbor has a hand-built sauna, so the gathering moves from farm to farm.

"We have a good friend who's an alternative rabbi," Eliot says. "I was telling him, 'Everett, nobody up here is religious.' And he said, 'Wait a minute, Eliot. Isn't it true that you and your friends, on one certain day a week, go into a certain building that is reserved for a special use, go through a certain ceremony, and partake of food afterward?' And I said, 'Yeah, sauna.' 'It's your religion,' he says."

"Ours is built next to our pond," Barbara says. "All winter we maintain a 3-foot-diameter hole in the ice at the end of our dock so we can plunge in.""The rest of the pond is for hockey," Eliot adds. "We have games every after�noon. A bunch of total loonies."

During the seventies, Eliot says, this was the perfect hippie farm. "We all worked naked," he reminisces. "I had a timekeeper to make sure that when the stand opened, we all had clothes on. At ten o'clock every morning, someone would scream, 'Pants dance!' and everyone would run around trying to figure out where they'd left their goddamn pants. One day Frank didn't hear the cry; he was down at the well, bunching carrots. They'd brought in a load, and he was tying and bunch�ing and washing them. He cut all but 4 inches of the tops off so they wouldn't wilt, and I wanted that for the compost. So Frank was sitting there naked with a whole pile of carrots, and he suddenly heard people coming in, so he picked up some more carrot tops, threw them over himself, and just sat there."

I observe as Eliot prepares one of his signature greenhouses for its transition out of summer crops and into winter greens. Barbara gleans the last of the basil just in time, just as plants are being pulled and loaded up for compost. I admire the speed with which Eliot works, and reflect on my own style of moving quickly through farmwork. This past summer, I watched in disbelief as an intern working with us sat with legs crossed next to a row of vegetables, pulling one weed at a time. When there are a million things to be harvested or cultivated, speed and efficiency can make the difference between economic success and failure. It's one of the more difficult things to explain to someone who has never worked in agriculture: the need to be thorough and detail-oriented but to move fast.

I watch and photograph as Eliot methodically pulls out each of the plants from the finished summer crop, lays a string line along the edges of the bed, broadforks the whole bed, applies compost, alfalfa meal, crab meal, and a little sul-po-mag, and rakes it all in. He then marks the newly prepared bed using a modified land�scape rake with alternating teeth extended. I love the meticulousness with which he finishes by transplanting a crop of Rouge d'Hiver lettuce. Standing by and silently watching someone else work is a little awkward, but it is such a refined and graceful performance, perfected by years of repetition, that I don't dare interrupt.

Everything in Eliot and Barbara's house seems to revolve around growing and cooking and eating. There are books everywhere, and Eliot's office contains one of the most extensive libraries on natural agriculture I've seen. I ask about his favorite books, and he hands me a sheet titled "The Fertile Dozen" that lists titles such as Make Friends with Your Land, published in 1948, The Stuff Man's Made Of, from 1959, and The Soil and the Microbe, from 1931. His deep respect for those indivi�duals who have paved the way is evident, as is his dedication to constant improve�ment of his craft. Our conversations are peppered with this endless quest to push our work as farmers to another level, to find just the right variety, hand tool, or way of planting or cultivating.

Eliot's own books have provided a generation of market gardeners with the tools and techniques to proceed on their own. His seminal New Organic Grower reveals in great detail the techniques for growing for market on a small scale. His Four-Season Harvest provides the template for growing food year-round, even in the harshest northern climates.

Eliot's techniques are rooted in his endless questioning, so, inevitably, discus�sion ranges over the many things that go into our chosen science�economics, poli�tics, even public relations. He expresses admiration that Fairview Gardens was able to achieve a measure of financial success on such a small piece of land. He tells me that on an acre and a half he is producing $100,000 per year. (Fairview grosses more than $700,000 per year on 12.25 acres.) When people are critical of my emphasis on economics, I remind them that the best land-preservation, food-security, and farm-ecology strategies lie in getting young people involved with farming. And the best way to do that is to show them that there is an economic incentive to do so. They've got to see that they can make a decent living. How else is anyone going to take us seriously, and how can we do what we do if we can't make it financially?

"You can say what you want about capitalism," Eliot says, "but economics is just a great way of keeping score. If you're a competitor in anything, you want to know whether you're playing up to your potential."

We continue our discussion over a lunch Eliot prepares�open-faced cheese sandwiches on a bed of turnip greens and spinach with tomato sauce on top. Barbara looks at our farmer's lunch, laughs, and refers to it as "boy food." "If you're an organic farmer, the hardest thing is the economics," Eliot says while we eat. "Across the road is a very high-priced development on 400 acres. These people'll say, 'Wow, we just love your produce, but it's so expensive.'

"I was curious about this, so I've been researching it, and it turns out that as recently as 1940, the average American spent one-third of their income on food."

"And we now spend less per capita on food than any other industrialized country in the world," Barbara puts in.

"It's 14 cents on the dollar," I add.

"What people are missing is that they now have the money to eat really good food," Eliot says. "If you want medical insurance instead of sickness-amelioration insurance, the best medical insurance you can buy is good food."

"This is the one thing that makes my blood pressure go up more than any other," I say. "It's one of the reasons at Fairview that I couldn't be at the produce stand or the markets anymore. Most people are pretty loyal and supportive, but you always get a handful who give you that 'too expensive' line�usually with the BMW keys in one hand�and what can you say?"

"Oh, I had the best line at our stand, years ago," Eliot replies. "I'd look out to the parking lot, and I'd say, 'What's that you drove in on? Oh, the BMW. How come you bought that instead of the Ford Fairlane?' And they'd say, 'Oh, God, Fords are made of tin. They're just shitty.' And I'd say, 'Well, you just answered your own question. We're selling BMW s. You know the difference in cars. There's just as much difference in vegetables.' And that was my most effective answer."

It always shocks me to realize how crucial communication and advocacy are becoming in the new agriculture. It's as if what we are doing is so foreign to twenty-first-century society that we have to become a voice for the land, be able to articulate what it's like to grow soil that is alive and food that carries that life. We've got to add writing and speaking to an already long list of required agricul�tural skills: welding and carpentry and plumbing and electrical, marketing and refrigeration and biology and botany.

"We had a produce manager at our local food co-op," Barbara says. "This guy was really dispirited. Somebody explained that his problem is that he really wanted to work for a more political cause. That amazed me. He just didn't get how politi�cal and powerful working with good food can be."

Today's politics have become even more complicated, as longtime members of the so-called organic movement find themselves at odds with some of their organic-industry colleagues. A movement that was based on the simple goals of regenerating soil and growing food for local communities has become an industry requiring a vast bureaucracy of organicrats to inspect, police, advise, and manage a compara�tively small handful of folks who are actually doing the work of organic farming. Once again, the marketers have taken over a grassroots movement and turned it into an industry. The impulses of social change and forward thinking must now share space with the economic priorities of industry, and, often, the balance seems unequal.

Ten years ago, organic farmers hardly qualified as a demographic, and we went unnoticed by anyone with something to sell. Now, my mailbox bulges with slick catalogs containing every imaginable product for the organic grower. For a long time, I just ignored it, but then I started to think, "Maybe I'm not doing a good job because I'm not buying some of these things. Maybe I'm missing something here; maybe this stuff will make me a better farmer." "We have set up a world where we are only interested in treating the symptom," Eliot says, "preferably with a product that you have to buy. Because someone makes money when you're treating the symptom. And that's why organic agriculture is never going to become the form of agriculture, because, when it's done right, it only makes money for the farmer. If I'm doing this correctly, I'm not buying anything."The bad guys are trying to re-create chemical farming in organic farming and make it an input system," Elliot continues with what he describes as his most current rant. "But this kind of farming is based on information input, not product input.""I've always said it's management intensive," I add, "rather than resource intensive."

The beauty of Eliot's system is that it is incredibly simple and self-determined. It requires none of the high-tech, fuel-intensive methods you would expect when you're talking about growing fresh vegetables in the winter in Maine. Simple green�houses run without dependency on nuclear power, coal, or foreign wars to ensure a steady supply of energy. In fact, he seldom requires any electricity to keep these winter crops warm and alive. Instead, cold frames and greenhouses act as the pri�mary protective shells. A layer of diaphanous floating row cover rests gently over the vegetables, providing additional protection and maintaining even temperatures while letting in light and moisture. The result is that, outside the cold frame, it may be coastal Maine in December, but, inside, it's Massachusetts in October, and, under the row cover, it's Pennsylvania. Propane heaters are in place to keep the houses just above freezing. It's all part of a system that requires the farmer to pay attention and think rather than buy.

Later, over a dinner of lamb stew, mashed potatoes, and yellow watermelon, we talk about chefs and how, despite the evolution in food awareness, farmers are not always given the credit they deserve. Sure, many amazing relationships have been forged between farmers and chefs, and many great chefs are providing critical sup�port for their local farming community. However, the end product almost always gets presented as the chef's creation, instead of a collaboration among the chef, the farmer, the soil, the sunlight, and the earthworms.

Eliot tells me that New York City chef Dan Barber makes fresh food taste even fresher. I can attest to that. Aaron and I spent a memorable evening at Dan's Blue Hill restaurant, partaking of a two-and-a-half-hour multicourse meal while sitting outdoors at tables lit by candles and Manhattan moonlight. I could taste the farmer's work in each of Dan's dishes. Rather than hiding the ingredients beneath an array of "here I am" disguises, Dan stood quietly behind each dish, placing the farmer and their food into the forward position. By the end of the meal, I felt as if I had taken a tour across the agricultural landscape of the Northeast.

I spend part of the last afternoon wandering alone, taking pictures out in the greenhouses and around the edges of Four Season Farm. At every farm, I like to have time on my own in the fields or with the animals. I'm amazed at how every place has been such a strong reflection of individual personalities. Here, it's as ifevery project has a question associated with it: "If I do this, will it create this result?" There is a personality type associated with what I see here; the work is pursued with precision, control, formal science, and discovery. This well-honed discipline is reflected in the continuous harvest and the way Eliot and Barbara address the evolving and overlapping needs of each season in a climate where the margin of error is nonexistent.

It's mid-September, and most folks in these parts are putting in their firewood, gleaning and canning and freezing the last of the summer's bounty, winterizing their homes, and turning in crop residues. Eliot, meanwhile, is out preparing ground and planting.

It's weird, like I'm in som

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