The Perils of Summer

the seasonal trudge of the small farmer

Summertime, for most folks, signals a break. School’s out, family vacations are in, and annual beach trips are afoot. The small farmer does nothing of the sort. Summertime is go-time. There is no break. For the enthusiastic market-goer, it’s prime time, but ask a farmer their favorite season and I guarantee you it’s not summer.

This time of year, I steel myself for the inevitabilities of the season– waking up before the alarm, early mornings that stretch into ultra-long days, rising temperatures paired with the absence and unpredictability of rain, dreaded houseflies and other insects, and, finally, my husband’s summer mood. 

From the beginning of June through the end of August, I tap into my reserves of grace and patience for my husband because summertime is tough on farmers. And by tough, I mean relentless. By mid-May the wonder generated by the greening of spring gives way to something more wide-eyed and terrified as the harvest cycle cranks up, bins upon bins of vegetables filling coolers to capacity, while seeding, weeding (the weeds!), planting, and bed flipping drone on. When temperatures creep into the nineties, plants bolt, young blossoms spontaneously fall off, and leaves curl inward, shrinking from the terrific heat. If the plant lives inside a tunnel, where temperatures intensify, the perils double. Watering is essential when rain is scarce, and becomes another task on the neverending to-do list, a schedule to mind with all the other schedules in motion. And if that’s not enough to worry about, summer is when it’s time to start fall and winter crops, another “must-do” task paired with the wee pressure of sustaining more life. You can see how this might affect one’s mood. 

Though I do my level best to empathize with my husband, who gets stretched phyllo-thin this time of year, the season eventually wears us all down. Our morning coffee, typically a sacred time for just us two, is pared down in lieu of earlier start times for the farm team, but mostly due to Jamie’s anxious compulsion to get to work. Our easygoing dialogue about the day ahead becomes rushed. Jamie, distracted, checks the clock repeatedly. His eyes dart between me and the door.  Everything about summer makes him feel like he’s already behind. No matter the season, I take my mornings slow. I need ample time to unfurl before the workday and I take being rushed as a personal affront. Plus, on our farm where we live and work, time alone together, untouched by the dealings of the day, is a luxury. 

During the day, Jamie rushes in and out of the house, his face a stone, his clothes drenched in sweat. I am amused by the waddle walk that ensues once the sweat soaks through his pants. He is humorless. The seriousness in his face is the same one he assumes in the kitchen when we’re in the weeds. I used to think he was mad, but this is just his resting “get shit done” face. And even though I know this about him, his big summer energy can fill a room. This is tough for a recovering codependent. I remind myself that this is Summer Jamie, the exhausted and overwhelmed version of the man I love, and do my best to let the energy pass as if through a swinging door. I ask for ways to be helpful, and sometimes I simply ignore it. 

Besides the seasonal curtness, there’s the subtle jealousy for those who get to work inside this time of year. “It’s always 72 degrees and sunny in the bakery,” Jamie chides during farm lunch. 

Of course, summertime for bakers who work a farmers market (or two!) is a grind of its own. I remind Jamie of this fact, lest his summer mood lead him to believe that I’m sipping lemonade on the couch and watching Netflix all day. 

Summer delivers fruit’s greatest hits in droves; blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, cherries,  peaches, and figs demand immediate attention. This is a blessing and a labor. Work weeks during the summer months loop like an episode of Russian Doll. I spend the early parts of the week on ingredient runs—an hour drive to the Restaurant Depot, trips to various farms for cases of fruit, a stop for eggs at another farm, and the miscellaneous pickup at the local grocery. Then it’s time for brain work: get a menu together, type a newsletter, pay employees for the previous week; and now the bake work: making dough, rolling dough, turning fruit into fillings, jam, and whatever else. Beginning Tuesday, the bakery trudges toward the Friday crescendo, our biggest bake day and the longest work day for both me and Jamie. 

While the bakery feeds the oven all day, Jamie and his crew harvest for CSA customers, pack  bags and aggregate vegetables for market the next day. After the last of the farm/bakery team leaves the house around 5pm on Friday, we take a small siesta before our second shift that evening. Jamie packs the cars for market (a skill!), makes quiche filling, and bakes off handpies until 1 AM. I try to get in bed by midnight so I can catch a few hours of sleep before my 3 AM alarm rouses me for the market day bake. Many weeks, the best I can do is lie in bed and vibrate until the alarm sounds. Saturdays, of course, are the big payoff and the end of our work week. Market customers, blessed market customers, buoy our sleep-deprived bodies with their bubbly weekend ease. They are the reason we smile on Saturdays. 

Week in and week out, this is the rhythm. Our heads hit the pillow each night with a collective moan. We blink and it’s time to wrench our stiff bodies out of bed to do it all over again. We know that our work life isn’t unique. Small farmers everywhere know this grind. Social media posts in solidarity with others who know the trials of summer offer small acknowledgement that we’re not alone. And still, there are commercial farmworkers all over the world who work in blistering, exploitative conditions to uphold the “false universality of the American supermarket.” We must think of them too. 

On the 4th of July, when most folks are firing up the grill, you can predictably find us on the couch catching up on rest. While families gather in their matching Old Navy shirts and slather sunscreen on one another, we’re taking advantage of a moment’s peace in an air conditioned house. Between movies and naps, we traverse from couch to bed and back again, stopping briefly in the kitchen for an ear of bicolor corn and a few spoonfuls of cold cucumber and tomato salad. If we’re in the spirit, we might cook a skillet hamburger. Mostly, we rest. 

After all, summer’s only halfway done and we haven’t even reached the hottest month. 

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ON THE FARM: The beginning of July marked our first full year growing on Old North Farm. Last Friday, we sat at the farm lunch table and marveled at the seven people gathered around the table. For so long it had been just us two. It’s taken almost ten years to get to year one, but we made it this far and intend to keep on. We got inspired listening to Tim and Caroline of Kitchen Garden Farm on the Winter Grower’s Podcast. They started small and have made big strides in 16 years.

WHAT’S GROWING: It’s hard to keep up with all the summer crops, they come in so fast and furious. The cucumbers are still plentiful. We especially love the Poona Kheera cucumber for its flavor and unique look. Fairytale eggplant showed up for the first big harvest, okra made its debut, and the tomatoes are on. Peppers are coming in— shishitos, Aleppo, Calabrian chili. Plenty of summer herbs— summer savory, many types of basil, and parsley. Fingerling potatoes are almost to size.

WHAT WE’RE EATING: Tomato sandwiches! None of that fancy shit. We like fat slices of tomato on bread with Duke’s. If we doll it up, it’s with a few slices of raw cucumber and white onion. That’s it! We’re snacking on summer berries and drinking homemade gatorade (will share this recipe on Friday for the first recipe post). We’re also deep into cold summer salads. Cucumber, tomato, and onion are in the rotation. Pasta salad with all the summer veg. Sherry vinegar in every vinaigrette. It’s corn on the cob season too. Last night we ate a piece of Rainbow Runner with corn on the cob, okra sauteed in bacon fat, and spears of cold, raw cucumber with salt, pepper and olive oil. Summer is simple.