The Joys of Farm Lunch
On Why We Gather
It was late August 2021, almost two months since the farm had launched into precarious existence. As the summer heat creeped toward its most oppressive state, Jamie scrambled to build beds in garden blocks carved out by hand, then tarped and laid fallow for over a year—longer if you consider its previous life as a hay field. We were still figuring it out. There was no wash and pack area, so we made one of six-foot tables and wide metal washbins set up next to the only sure thing we had, a water source. We threw old sheets on a folding table and poured bins of salad greens on top for easy mixing and bagging, grateful for the pavilion erected by a couple of Amish men who dismantled and repurposed an old structure from a languishing patch of property once inhabited by Jamie’s sister and her family. The wash/pack area and pavilion were makeshift, but by god, it was all ours.
In 2021, the pandemic still wielded its influence over our small crew. We all wore masks in the house 24/7 and we took lunch under the outdoor pavilion/wash-pack area. Our idea for the farm always, always involved other people––old friends, comrades, young people, new people, food friends, and community members who, we hoped, would breathe life into our shared dream by sharing space with us, whether for a season or a single night.
Amidst the late summer hustle and a whirlwind of tomato pie production in the bakery, my dear friend Lauren rolled her big ass truck and vintage trailer onto the farm. She was passing through, as she does, a rather nomadic and well-traveled food professional. Fresh off her latest behind-the-scenes gig working on food television shows, Lauren came bearing crates full of ingredients and gourmet condiments– anchovies in spicy chili oil, jars of salt-cured olives, fancy tuna and delicate french lentils. I asked if she would be open to preparing farm lunch for our small five-person crew. Lauren, statuesque and easy with her loose bun and tank top, happily obliged.
Up until then, Jamie prepared lunch daily (which is crazy to think of now, considering his workload); usually a big farm salad and a pot of beans from our ample bean club stash. Having someone else prepare the midday meal was a treat for many reasons, not the least being that Jamie got a break (he’s the primary cook of the house) and we indulged the culinary sensibilities of another. Lauren, in her effortlessly Lauren way of doing things, slowly parboiled potatoes to tender perfection while she chopped herbs and watched a pot of lentils plump and mingle with their aromatics. We put wildflowers in old Coke bottles and dressed the table, just cleared of the morning’s harvest, with compostable plates and utensils, jars of chow chow, pickles, and salted yogurt. We flipped a pan of cornbread on a dinner plate, exposing its golden underbelly, and set a knife and soft butter within arm’s reach.
To me, this was a momentous occasion, something I had crafted in my mind’s eye––food friends on the farm, beloveds in the kitchen and simple meals together. Maybe it didn’t register as a historic moment to our small crew, but this was the beginning of the farm lunch tradition, which is to say, a demonstration of one of the primary ways we love on our people. Food as an act of care.
Nowadays, we take lunch under the covered front porch on a scuffed and well-loved six-foot folding table. We sync the farm and bakery schedule well enough to meet at the lunch table most days though the lunch table is a voluntary space, not a decree.
We share a big salad daily, but on Fridays Jamie cooks a full meal. Everyone pitches in, carrying napkins and plates to the table, using spare hands to grab a bottle of hot sauce or a jar of pickles. Someone holds the door while another person carries the main meal out. Around the table, we tell plenty of Dad jokes and catch up on the latest and greatest in everyone’s lives. We stay current and engaged. We celebrate birthdays with a roundtable of haikus. We discuss matters of the heart and new dating interests. If someone brings a problem to the group, we talk about it and offer solutions when asked. We download about farm events and we process loss. On the day Roe was overturned, we cried together.
Farm lunch isn’t fancy. We don’t aim to chef it up, although the farm lunch table is where I serve my freelance recipe testing assignments, which can be a welcome switchup. Most commonly, we eat a pot of beans and cornbread with all the fixins– sour chow chow, hot sauce, diced white onions, sweet jalapeño pickles, and my mother-in-law’s famous squash relish. Pantry stuff. As one would expect, there’s always a giant salad on the table. Vegetables are one thing we don’t lack. There’s usually a jar of vinaigrette stashed in the refrigerator. Sometimes there’s a loaf of good bread.
Farm lunch is a place we test out vegetable preparations for market and CSA customers. Most recently, Jamie had rapini from collard and turnip plants that we roasted, salted and tossed with vinegar for a side-by-side comparison. There are vegetable soups made with the remains of the market cooler, stir-fries with root vegetables and hearty greens, and other vehicles for maximum vegetable use. We’re not vegetarians, but our lunches are. It’s practical, economical, and inclusive. Farm lunch is a reflection of how we eat at home.
The first time Hailey Brown sat down to lunch she was visibly uncomfortable. The notion that we all stopped working and gathered together to eat and have conversation seemed foreign to her, almost wasteful. Her uneasiness juxtaposed with those around the table who lounged with ease, passing a bag of chips around the table, or doling salad from its giant metal bowl. I sensed the urge in her to get up quickly and return to the tasks on the bakery board. At her previous job, she said that lunch was usually “bites from a dead plate, or half a bag salad off a paper tray over a trash can, so it could be dropped at a moment's notice and work could continue.” She adds that she couldn’t square how much or how little to supplement with her own food during her one bakery shift each week and that made her feel anxious.
After her first holiday season in the bakery, Hailey took up the mantle of pretzel queen. Every Wednesday, we are treated to a plethora of grocery store snacks “harvested” by Hailey. She says she eventually found her voice in the lunchtime conversations, a snacky purpose, and ultimately, comfort at the lunch table.
As the farm evolves, so does the lunch table. Folks who were with us in the beginning are no longer here. And a slew of visitors have graced the table– a baker from New Hampshire, the entire Free Range Brewing crew, chef friends, flower friends, friend friends. Since Lauren’s inaugural meal, other beloveds have cooked for us too.
The farm lunch table is where we pause, albeit briefly, to connect. It’s a way of saying that people matter more than production and that we value care in the form of nourishment and attention to each other. Farm lunch is a small rejection of the capitalist system in which we live, the world that glorifies the grind and says there is no time for such things.
ON THE FARM: It’s not officially summer yet, but the summer workload is here. The garden beds are full and we’re marching toward daily harvests of zephyr squash and cucumbers. Tomatoes are in the field and in the tunnels, almost there. Jamie and his two-person team planted a new okra block. Four hundred fifty plants, five different varieties. I feel an okra supper coming on.
WHAT’S GROWING: Carrots, beets, garlic, summer herbs, nasturtium, basil, tomatillos, squash, cucumbers, fennel.
WHAT WE’RE EATING: Leftovers from an amazing Ghanaian feast prepared by Chef Awo Amenumey— Abom, Gari Fortor, and mackerel. It’s been mostly leftovers and our normal pots of beans, to be honest. I had a large recipe testing assignment so we made kuku sabzi, tamarind glazed kofta, roasted fennel and potato frittata, and really nice dandelion salad. We did make this fresh squash and fennel salad with the first of our summer squash harvest. Summertime eats involve lots of cold salads and raw vegetables.
What a beautiful ritual, on so many levels. Thank you for sharing this.