bfm summer farm tour

Whoa, I knew I've been a slacker on posting, but damn, apparently, I've taken all of June off. Well, now I can comfortably tell you a bit about our 2010 BFM Summer Farm Tour:

So there we were, in the rain shadow of Mt. Diablo with Farmer Al out in his cherry orchard, talking about pheromone confusion tactics as a means of battling pests. Pointing out the cards in the trees, he explained how they emit female pheromones for several months time. (Sound expensive? Try $100 bucks an acre!) This means, that when the bad-boy bugs (literally) come in to mate, they home in on the female scent and before they know it whammo! find themselves spooning up next to this pretty white card. Maybe not exactly like described, but it must work here at Frog Hollow, because as their saying goes, it is home to legendary fruit.

I found myself oddly attracted to these white cards. I wanted to climb up into the tree and spoon up next to one, where I could hang out with the guys and gorge myself sick on cherries. Then I snapped out of my daydream and we had shifted gears, now talking how dwarf root stock was used. Prone to blowing over when mature, they thrive and produce a more reachable bumper crop. We moved on again, touring two "newer" varieties of early apricot (Apache and Kettleman) on our way back to command central.

Becky greeted us outside her magic kitchen. The fruit coming straight off the farm may be legendary, but it still takes an enormous amount of work to properly preserve the yummiliciousness of it all. Well, not all, as they sell the same varieties to the public. Still, certain varieties of favorites are immediately turned to jam. However, there is far too much fruit to make into jam at once, so a lot gets dipped into citric acid and frozen for a later date with this jamtastic cauldron. Have you tried their preserves? Wow! And the pastries? Oh my lord! Brilliant.

Lucero knows strawberries. Out here in the middle of the Central Valley, looking out at a second-year field of berries and listening to Ben, his quiet charm reminded me of yoda. He described past-pest problems and laughed. He mentioned that his favorite tractor, as old as he is, fires up right away. Then he turned the key for us and grinned. He pointed out how his berries still have their umbilicus. His partner Karen and son Curtis exhibited similar takes on the same light-heartedness and down-home kindness. Genuine. Hearing about their hopes of expanding, they pointed out the dire need for more available organic farmland. I wanted to somehow go get some and give it to these guys.

Walking through the oasis next to their home, they told of how depending on the time of year, you can meander through the bamboo and pick various fruit. Just at the bench here, you could reach up to a loquat, behind you to a pomegranate, take a few steps across the path to a fig. Our group wandered on, hearing something I surely missed, while I lingered another moment here, letting the serene scene pull me in. Calming indeed. Bound to help balance the work involved in nurturing, harvesting, and bringing such great produce to market.

At the first toes of the foothills, on the edge of the Central Valley, Jon and Cleizene Smit, much like their land, continue to evolve. After decades of being dairy farmers, they are now on their third decade of fruit farming. At a point in their lives where most folks are being taken care of by their own kids, these two are clearly still in charge of the family business. Having recently cleared a large plot with a ridiculously large bulldozer (a D-10 with 6 foot teeth for breaking up some of the hard-pan), we saw this little rig out digging holes. They grow a huge amount of apples here, yet they still have a need for more. And with their love and hard study, within 2 or 3 years, you'll see apples at the market from the trees that will fill these empty holes.

We made it over to the old milking parlor, and discovered it's modern usage. Converted to cold storage, and juice production, it now turns out a different liquid than milk. No animals involved, yet something is still getting squeezed inside. What you see here is a belt juicer. It "presses" apples by running them between two oppositely traveling belts. I'd love to see this baby run. Ever tried their cider? Mmmm. Fine stuff there. Treated correctly, it makes for some fine hard cider too.

We heard of trials with tree spacing, branch configuration and shape, trellising, and more of the miraculous dwarf root stock. And that was only apples. With cherries and grapes, pluots and who knows else up their sleeves, the Smits are a fine example of a couple who have divided the burden of work and knowledge evenly, and thrive. Sharp. I hope I'm half as spry and with it as these two when I reach their age. Wait, I'd be better off than now.

Leaving the farm, they offered up some paper bags and told us to go pick some cherries if we wanted. We loitered in the orchard awhile, gorging and picking. When someone mentioned they were beginning to feel greedy, we piled in the cars. The ride home went smoothly, and without delay we arrived a short pound and a half of cherries later.


Hope you enjoyed. For previous Berkeley Farmers' Market field trips, check out:
2009
2008
2007

strawberry pie

A comment on a post two years old reminded me of something; strawberry crack sauce season is upon us. Lo and behold, we've got a bunch of berries out front as the calendar predicts, so I whipped up a dough and chucked it in the fridge. Then I wrangled up the monkeys and put them to work. Giving them each an unbreakable container to collect with, we went out front and each chose a spot to start.


Asking the monkeys to show me what they picked revealed no big surprises. At 2 years, little dude is getting the hang of picking the ripe ones, yet still manages to eat the red ones first, while at 5.5 years big girl is just about an expert. Luckily for him, he seems to have an iron gut when it comes to eating well over a dozen strawberries. Red or not. For her, the years more experience means she has a touch of patience and a sense of delayed gratification. Or more simply put, she understands that just about any fruit is better with some sugar and dough wrapped around it.

I looked at the bounty, considered what I tasted while picking, and made a few mental notes. These don't seem as sweet as in the past, nor as big. I've heard that farmers plant fresh each year, since the young, new plants give the most robust, tastiest berries. Maybe, just maybe after 4 years or so, it is time to plant anew like the professionals do. I brought them inside, gave them a gentle wash and got out some in-gree-junts.

I tossed the berries with a touch of sugar and some runny rhubarb marmalade that I made sometime last year and canned. I rolled the dough out and put it in a tart pan. Plop goes the berry glop, then a little bakey-bake and voila! Nothing too fancy here, but damn satisfying. Yard fruit, 1/2 whole wheat crust, legal child labor and a new name. You see, when I put it on the rack to cool, little dude pulled at my leg and said "up peas." Then he took a look at the pie and said "peet-zuh." I laughed, gave him a little tickle and said it was some funny pizza then. He smiled, pointed at it, started nodding slowly and said "drawberry pizza Dada."

There you have it. Strawberry pizza. Well, technically, a strawberry tart with a touch of rhubarb and orange marmalade, but hey, who really cares. It tasted great, used an old canned good, and gave me a new food category.

Just think, dessert pizza!

strawberry crack sauce

The front of our tiny abode, has the most light for growing things. But it also has the highest proportion of concrete. I try to pretty it up by putting out some of my larger rocks from places I love. Also this year (better than most, I'd say) I have spent more time gardening. I think I'm starting to see some results, because concrete or not, things like strawberries do just fine in a pot, as these humble beauties demonstrate. This picture was on Tuesday morning, before heading out.

We met our friend K and her monkey over at their home and then proceeded to the beach. It was low tide; fantastic fun for squiggly little toes. We ran around, looking at little coils of pasty yarn, extruded from the muddy sand by some tidal critter. While we romped around, my eye caught a glimpse of a marble sized thing. What the.....is that some kind of bubble? My big toe probed the area around it and gained confidence for a brief contact. It is glass! I should pick that up, so no one steps on it. I begin excavating around it. It is a thin glass sphere, almost an inch in diameter, with a hole in the side, and a glass stem attached to it. Oh, I get it. Some loadie left his pipe on the beach. But wait, this thing is pretty clean, and from what I learned in college, isn't for smoking Humboldt county tobacco products.

K takes a look at it: "Dude! Is that a crack pipe?"
Uh, I think so.
There is no trash can nearby, and I don't want to leave this to be trampled on, so I put it in my pocket to dispose of properly.

While packing up, and discussing K's latest ice cream experiment, she mentions a strawberry rhubarb sauce that goes nicely with it. Well, nicely with just about anything, she then admits. I think to myself about those strawberries at home. And the rhubarb that I recently trimmed while wrapping a few of my tomato cages in plastic a few days earlier. Hmmmm. Deadly combination of yummy ingredients from my yard. I simply must try this. We talk about more ingredients, and it turns out I really only need some citrus. I will await an email for the recipe and proceed later.

Two days later, with nearly all the ingredients assembled, I was moving toward the front door to pick the berries when I remembered the crack pipe. I better recycle that thing. No, wait.

Turns out there is no corresponding category of which to ascertain its level of recyclability. Even here in Oakland, with what the majority of the World perceives as crack central. Now, I don't really want to condone the use of crack, so I opted for tossing it in the trash instead. Is this bad? Should I have more compassion toward crack users here? Naw, I mean, just from the basic level of someone littering and the pipe ending up at the beach, or another way, being washed down the storm drain somewhere and ending up there, I want to take it out of the loop. This item is not being treated properly. I think, let the sorters at the local transfer station decide.

Well, I did manage to pick the berries. With them back inside and on the counter, it looked like a basket at least. I was so proud that such a score could be had. It was time to get out the rest of the ingredients and get on down to saucing.



I look at ingredients such as these, and I get a glimpse of the reasons behind the raw food movement. I could easily just throw these things together and serve. Although I might treat the ginger different and not leave it in such large, easily-fished-out kind of chunks.

I cooked everything together at a low simmer for nearly half an hour. The smell coming off the pot was intense. Sweet and heady strawberry, sour rhubarb, floral vanilla and citrus, with earthy carmel sugar. It was good. Very good. At times like these I have no patience and must risk burning myself while trying a bit. I've been stocking the freezer, in anticipation of the arrival of our newest monkey, and recently put in a loaf of sliced honey whole wheat and oatmeal. Some sauce on toast was inevitable.

Just a little piece.

The recipe ended up making about three cups. Enough to put on the ice cream K gave us and enough to bottle up into storage for a later date. Or maybe barter, I haven't decided. You see, this stuff, especially if you like rhubarb, is like crack. You will want more and more and the cravings will never stop. You just might run up enormous debt and a very unhealthy appearance pounding down pint after pint of vanilla ice cream with this on top. That kind of crack. I figure bartering this stuff would have a lot of repeat customers.

I really did throw away the crack pipe. But its fitting that it coincided with my harvest of the small red fruits that go so well with red stalks, that when treated correctly, become strawberry crack sauce.

Thanks K. Now I'm an addict.