I step out of my car and throw my arms around Karen, who greets everyone she meets with a hug that exudes warmth. Today I am picking up my Thanksgiving turkey from the small farm she runs with her husband, Louis, who is also my colleague at the college where I work. They raise chickens and turkeys, which they sell at the amazingly low price of $2.75 per pound. I’ve put more than a few friends on to Louis’ poultry. Sometimes I call my sister and other pals and get a count of who wants what and come home with eight or nine birds to divvy up.
A Vermont Chicken House
Today, Louis and his family are at work in the slaughter area of their new barn, so I don’t have an opportunity to say hello to anyone except Karen and their daughter, Annie, who steps into the garage where the meat freezers are kept – where my freshly killed turkey resides. Annie has just finished her lunch break. Like her mother, she wears the long skirts indicative of the dress mode attached to their particular Christian religion (I guess Mennonite, but don’t know for certain,) and an apron stained with blood, but not much because Louis and his team work with precision and care. Annie wipes off her hand to shake mine. She calls me “ma’am” as we are introduced, and I feel surrounded by a kindness that highlights my own lunch hour. Thirty years ago, I might have thought their family ways, “weird.” I might have questioned their religion or the way that they dress, or the fact that they don’t think twice about eating meat they raised themselves, (I know plenty of people who prefer to think of the meat they consume as a commodity, a packaged good only vaguely related to the animal that made the food possible) but since I moved to Addison County, Vermont, my way of thinking about food and community has shifted.
I always thought that I ate well, but I never fully understood how the quality of the food I put into my body makes a difference in my well being, and that the manner by which I obtain and eat my food makes a difference in the condition of the earth. Now, when I make a beet salad or put together one of my baked sweet potato recipes, I am confident the vegetables were raised at Golden Russet or some other farm within thirty miles of my home. When I cook one of Louis Barnet’s chickens in the crock pot, I know it will be tender and delicious down to the bone, assured that his birds have been raised in a humane way. No schlepping chickens across the country or raising them in controlled monoculture farms – just simple, healthy food grown by a caring and skilled neighbor.
My feelings toward healthier eating correspond with an evolution of awareness that has occurred as I have aged, due in no small part to my Vermont neighbors who invest their hearts and souls into the production and distribution of good food and wine. I am grateful to them all.
Each weekday, I drive past the entrance to the Middlebury College Organic Garden on my way to work. I can see the garden shed and tidy rows from the distance of the road, but have also visited the garden up close. More than simply plots of vegetables, it is a masterpiece that the College students have tended and cultivated for over eight years. The students have created better ways to grow, including the design of innovative patterns for the rows, improved drainage systems, and refined wind control. It is homegrown state-of-the-art farming. Bumper crops are shared with the College’s dining hall and local food banks, an accomplishment in which the students take pride. They are eager to tell visitors about their garden, and always take time to do so. It’s all the same to them because they love what they do. This project is simply an overspill of the farming methods that have been part of Vermont’s agricultural tradition for many years.
A visit to the organic garden offers a glimpse into paradise. Time stands still. There is nothing to do but work the land and feel it, smell it, watch the sunflowers and the beans, and care for something that nurtures in return.
Middlebury Organic Farm
Each planted row is built on a diagonal to create better drainage; the patterns create a natural path, and as I walk, I am reminded of a labyrinth. The garden is far enough away from the road so that when I am there, I can easily imagine I am standing alone out in the middle of a remote farm field. Perhaps it is the immediacy of the growing vegetables and plants surrounding me that allows me to forget that the College science building looms a half mile to the east of the garden. I wonder how eating, growing or living could arise from any other source than such beautiful land combined with the generosity of spirit that comes from the people who make this garden possible.
The thing about Vermont is that we are a small state with only 623,000 people spread out across approximately 9620 square miles, which allows for a more simple process of raising good, local food.
Many of our neighbors also grow their own gardens. My husband, Charlie, and I grow tomatoes, squash, beans, peppers, and herbs. Before we moved to our new house on the hill in Cornwall, we lived next door in an old farmhouse where the land included open fields that received a good dose of afternoon sun. It took little effort to raise a big, mixed-bag crop of vegetables, but we have adjusted to our new, smaller land configuration by creating raised beds and a terrace, which is built into the south-facing hill. Charlie built the terrace himself with lumber and a delivery of fresh soil. He does the hard work while I serve as consultant and clean-up person. The terrace gets so overgrown by late July that I hesitate to climb down and pick the harvest because I am convinced some type of critter lurks in the underbrush, so if Charlie is away on work travel, I call my nephew for help. Apparently, my city blood runs thick.
I have made the occasional joke about my mother’s menu during my growing-up years, not out of disrespect, but because I marvel at the simplicity with which one can serve fresh broccoli versus canned peas. I’ve read that canned goods were touted after World War II as the most efficient and healthy way to feed a family, my mother being part of that culture. She served meals that included boiled potatoes and canned corn. I don’t think I ate fresh broccoli until I got married and left the house. My mother did use fresh carrots in her pot roast, but in the 1960’s, fresh often meant trucked into town from California on an eighteen-wheeler.
Gardening is a topic of conversation all year long in Vermont, and once March comes, we are pretty much frothing at the bit to get started. We’ve read our seed catalogs, we have dreamed our dreams of spring, and we are ready.
Each year my husband and I spend hours deliberating over which tomato we will plant. Should it be the “Mortgage Lifter,” or the Beefmaster,” for our sandwich type tomatoes? We always choose at least one cherry tomato plant, and Roma’s are essential for sauce.
Preparation for freezing our Roma’s in batches of eight or nine tomatoes is ritual. We get out the steamer, the big pot, the freezer bags and Sharpie pen for labeling, then go to work We repeat this process with green beans, so that well past the season on a wintry day we serve up fresh frozen from our very own garden. Squash cooked in our soup come mid-March conjures up summer memories.
Will Stevens has been growing food organically at Golden Russet Farm in Shoreham for over twenty-five years. Interns help Will in his mission to provide food to the people of Addison County and beyond. He, too, donates to the Burlington Food Bank. Community Supported Agriculture farms (CSA’s) are common in Vermont. Vegetable farms have established web sites where you can join for the season, choosing to purchase only summer vegetables, fall harvest, or both. It’s fun and economical to share the bounty with a friend. Will’s wife, Judy, runs the vegetable stand at their farm, our first and only shopping stop for end-of-May starter plants.
Will and Judy join the ranks of other farmers at the open air Farmer’s Market each Saturday near the center of Middlebury Village at the Marble Works, which is situated on Otter Creek and connected to town by an historical footbridge. Those who live in town often choose to walk though there is ample room for parking. Like mostly everyone, I opt to use a canvas bag for carrying the vegetables and cheese I purchase.
The outdoor Farmers Market runs from May through October. It’s the “in” place to be on a Saturday morning. Fresh produce lures me as does the lively atmosphere. I catch up with friends, my favorite vendors, and even my personal physician, Dayna, who greets me as she gathers her vegetables for the week. People bring their dogs and push baby strollers. The scene, infused with the sounds of bongo drums, guitars, and singers, reminds one of a Phish or Dead concert, only unplugged and way less crowded.
My sister has a table at the market, too. She sells her incredibly delicious baked goods made in her home kitchen with local butter, milk, cheese, herbs, and flour milled here in Vermont. If she happens to produce an over-abundance of cupcakes, no worries. I purchase one at full price, then go off to one of the marble benches by the Falls, and shamelessly consume in a lone (and happy) swift sitting because, of course, I can’t imagine a better way to support my sister.
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I have already mentioned my friend, Louis', farm. He raises goats along with turkeys and chickens. It is as his animals live at a resort. At least it seems like a resort compared to the conditions that most mass-produced chickens endure. His chickens are moved around the grounds in safe, sturdy coops, but they do run free much of the time. They eat healthy, natural grain, spend their days in sunlight and fresh air, and as a result, the meat is tender and delicious, not gamey and very lean, no growth hormones added. The best part of this process, and what makes me feel that eating meat can be a conscious, moral choice is that the birds do not suffer, not while they live, nor during the slaughtering process.
Louis’ wife and daughters hand mill soap and body lotion made from goats’ milk, which they supply to local vendors. His young son, Jon, participates in feeding and watering the birds. One of the geese was a particularly nasty fellow. Jon insisted that when the time came, he wanted to be the one to turn him into supper. Jon is learning early that to stare down one’s food is not only okay, it is an honorable manner by which to obtain sustenance, and actually, the only method Jonathan has ever known.
A few years ago, I took an English course that focused on farming and literature, and what I learned from the authors’ writings and laments about changing landscape informed my perspectives on personal integration with the land and helped me find a way to honor nature while I nurture my body.
My summer classmates and I were challenged by our instructor to prepare a localvore dinner. We committed to cooking with as many local ingredients as possible. The Saturday before our meal, I ran into my classmates at the co-op as they chose basil, tomatoes and local mozzarella for a fresh Capresi salad among other dishes. I prepared organic, local lasagna. I sautéed mushrooms, zucchini and spinach all grown in Addison County, the fragrance of these fresh vegetables a beautiful perfume that wafted through my kitchen. My husband made lasagna from King Arthur Flour, milled on the other side of the mountain. We ran the pasta through a machine then draped the pieces everywhere, scattered like laundry, until they dried.
Lasagna Drying
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One of my good friends, a runaway hippie, followed her musician boyfriend from Philadelphia to Vermont in 1970. A modern, fearless Vermont pioneer woman when it comes to taking care of her home and her life, she installs doors on her house, slaps up sheet rock, and tackles all painting jobs no matter the size.
Every spring she chooses a new flock of chicks at the Farm and Garden center, and raises them for meat. She and a friend go halves on the project. She cares for these birds, keeps them safe over late spring and summer months and participates in the slaughter when the time comes. This year, her ex-husband has volunteered to build her a chicken shack. She asked me, “Am I nuts?” If she is, then so am I because I don’t think any single woman in her right mind would turn down a free custom-built chicken coop, even if the offer is made by the “ex.”
My friend also practices extreme kitchen composting. She raises redworms, which she keeps in her basement in a container with moist bedding. What you get with the combination of worms and the micro-organisms arising from feeding the worms’ food waste is a rich compost. My friend lives the meaning of the word “granola” or “hippie” in the most authentic sense. She’s not really about free love any longer, but free compost; and cheap labor, too – her own.
The Middlebury Natural Food Co-op supports local agriculture offering a wide variety of whole, natural and organic foods. As a member, I receive a two percent discount on my purchases. A full member might stock shelves or wrap local cheeses with every hour worked equating to ten percent discount on ninety dollars’ worth of groceries, thus community involvement and membership contributes to the continued success of our co-op.
Farmers Market
I shop at the co-op nearly every day, often on my lunch hour. Located in the center of town not far from the Town Green, it’s an easy walk from my office especially in fair weather. The building itself is a lovely cottage-like structure with barn-red shingles and a charcoal-colored standing seam roof. I read the chalkboard near the entrance, featuring “what’s on sale.” During summer months, the welcome bins might feature local berries, baked tarts from a nearby bakery and heavy cream from Monument Farms located only four miles down the road.
The pleasurable scent of the co-op is a sense memory cultivated over time. The alchemic aroma arises from fresh vegetables, herbs and spices, and I swear as I walk through the store I fall under its spell. There is an abundance of natural health products and beauty aids for sale, mostly Burt’s Bees and Nature’s Gate products. I love when the lavender bath salts go on sale.
The produce department features the farmers’ photos alongside their produce. I learn the names of the people who supply my food and where their farms are located so when I prepare my soup or stew, I remember the face of the person who raised it, sending thanks. Their hard work provides sustenance, and by buying their produce, I, in turn, support their livelihood.
It is often assumed that buying one’s food locally costs more, but the quality of local, fresh, organic food means that, in theory, one can eat less thus, organic and local equates to money saved and better health. The Japanese saying, Oryoki, applies. Oryoki means "just enough." Modest-sized eating bowls encourage us to eat just enough to remain healthy and feel satisfied. Eating small amounts of quality food means less waste and lower cost, a model the co-op supports.
As I walk through the aisles, I pull out the note from my naturopath. She suggests I take arnica, a homeopathic remedy that will help with inflammation that may arise from upcoming dental work – it’s also helpful in calming muscles after a long, strenuous hike. The experts who work in the supplement and vitamin department are always available to answer any questions.
Mountain Arnica
The prepared food department rescues dinner on a busy day with its freshly made salads, pizzas and sandwiches. The co-op also carries a generous range of organic and local wine and beer. The co-op’s wine buyer possesses the expertise of a sommelier, always ready to recommend the perfect vintage of Syrah for my dinner party.
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It is now high summer. Fields and gardens yield crops of squash, tomatoes, and green beans, bounty lasting well into early winter. Vermont summers include music festivals, pick-your-own-berry farms, and Fourth of July parades. This year, Lincoln Peak Vineyard is hosting its one-year anniversary with a Grand Opening.
Lincoln Peak Winery
I’ve tasted these wines before, Black Sparrow, a gentle white, my favorite. Charlie and I stopped by for a private tasting during Lincoln Peak’s first vintage last year. The wine is very new, slightly sweet, so we agree that it needs some time, but we’re willing to sit with it for a while with hopes of giving over our palate to this new, locally cultivated wine, a concept unheard of until recent years when the vintner experimented with the grapes cultivated in the University of Minnesota’s cold-weather grape program.
The vintner grew apples and strawberries on this land prior to growing grapes. The land remembers the berries and apples, which affects the terroir, along with the other special characteristics that live within the soil. Geographical history integrates with the grapes and affects the flavors that result in this new wine. The vineyard is the realization of one farmer’s vision, and today the vintner shares his success with the community.
Charlie and I mingle with other guests, then join in on a tour of the winery. The vats and cask room are immaculate and organized, and our questions are answered about the process, the seasonal timetable, and the wine itself.
After the tour, I meander out front where others relax under a pergola laced with purple clematis while listening to a folksy Cajun band hired just for the occasion.
I stroll out beyond the perimeter of the little building and find an Adirondack chair where I rest for a moment. I feel comfortable as if sitting in my own backyard. From a distance, I watch others pass through the front doorway onto the patio and grounds. They speak to each other as Vermonters often do, with a sense of warmth and appreciation for living in the moment.
I fling my legs over the side of my chair, eye towards Mt. Abraham to the east. Today, Mt. Abe, the tallest peak in Addison County, stands testament to nature’s abundance. Vermonters do answer to deadlines and our days are full, but life moves a little slower on this Vermont summer afternoon. It just does.
