A Morning on the Farm...

Good okra, small and tender...

Bad okra, long and tough...

I had the day off, so I indulged myself and headed for the u-pick farm down in Bradenton my friend Holly had told me about to get okra to make up some spicy okra pickles. I had been meaning to make okra pickles for awhile, and somehow the season almost got by me. Not that I expected to find a place to go picking okra for 79 cents a pound; I figured I'd just buy a bunch at the farmer's market. By the time I got myself out to the farm early this morning--a cool, partially overcast morning so rare in Florida--most of the okra left on the plant was way too long. I did however manage to pick a couple pounds worth of tender little okra--much to the farmer's surprise--but it took me nearly an hour to find that much.

Actually, it was an absolute pleasure. The farm was out in the middle of nowhere and there were no other customers there yet. A Vietnamese couple with Ontario license plates pulled up to my row just as I was leaving--hope they weren't looking for okra! So there I was, for one hour, moving up and down the rows of vegetables, snipping okra off the plants, with only the sound of the birds, my snipping scissors, the breeze and my breathing, to break the silence. It was absolutely wonderful--so restful and restorative! I can't even remember the last time I was out of doors and it was that quiet!--not a single car to be heard, nor the buzz and whirl of air conditioners--as commonplace in Florida as oranges and snow birds! 

Of course, I got thinking about our artisans. Just before I got to the farm I took a wrong turn, and wound up on another farm--this one teeming with migrant workers. I got to practice my Spanish out on a shy but accommodating fellow who wasn't that good at Spanish himself, as many of the Mexican migrant workers are indigenous Indians for whom Spanish is also their second language. One of the reason we're helping the Vida Nueva rug weaving cooperative is because the women's village--and all the little pueblos surrounding their village, such as Benito Juarez, where we sent our dolls--are largely devoid of men. Many of them are in the United States working, and while many faithfully send funds back home to Mexico, many do not. The day to day struggle to make ends meet economically becomes "women's work" as it is in so much of the world... 

Today it was a pleasure to have the time to pick my own food. Most days, however, someone else--most likely someone poor, most likely someone far from their native country--is picking my food for me, and that's something I think we must never forget here in this country, where so many of us are removed from food production and harvest. It did not detract from the good of the day, nor the rest and inner peace I found being out in nature. Still, it's sobering to remember...