<a href="/cameraphone/archives/001667.html" title="Thursday Co-op "><img src="/images/legacy/weblog/cameraphone/images/200406241732/_t.jpg" alt="Thursday Co-op " width="120" height="146" class="pic" border="0" /></a>
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I nearly forgot to mention that all this spring, our farm has been on the website of the excellent Field to Plate program. We’ll be there all year long, but right now we’re featured.

<a href="/cameraphone/archives/001665.html" title="Giant Kohlrabi! "><img src="/images/legacy/weblog/cameraphone/images/200405221059/_t.jpg" alt="Giant Kohlrabi! " width="120" height="146" class="pic" border="0" /></a>
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<a href="/cameraphone/archives/001663.html" title="Satellite Internet "><img src="/images/legacy/weblog/cameraphone/images/200405190926/_t.jpg" alt="Satellite Internet " width="120" height="146" class="pic" border="0" /></a>
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“So, Eric,” I’m often asked, “what’s the worst thing about harvesting your vegetables for market?” Well, it’s not the crimp in my back caused by being bent over for several hours straight. That does remind me I’m getting older, though. It’s not the picking of salad greens, leaf by leaf, plant by plant. That’s really the only way to produce a high quality salad I can be proud of. It’s not having to wear a flashlight strapped to my head so I can work in the fields well past bedtime. With the darkness comes cooler air, which is good for both me and the vegetables. It’s not the cold rains that seem to always hit at dusk on harvest night. When it’s been dry the rest of the week, rains are always welcome. It’s not the staying up until the early morning hours, only to have to get back up a couple hours later. I attended New Mexico Tech, where such behavior was a daily occurance. Once a week is child’s play now. No, the worst thing is when my brain decides to start singing to me, when I’d rather be listening to the chickens clucking over roost space and the other natural sounds of farm life. My brain’s serenade selection, in infinite loop no less, this week was “Judy in Disguise (With Glasses)”. And even that might not have been so bad had my brain only known the words.

<a href="/cameraphone/archives/001661.html" title="Elvis! "><img src="/images/legacy/weblog/cameraphone/images/200405152101/_t.jpg" alt="Elvis! " width="120" height="146" class="pic" border="0" /></a>
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I was going to write an entry here, but then over the head phones came William S Burroughs singing R.E.M.’s “Star Me Kitten”. And now I can’t think of anything else.

<a href="/legacy/weblog/cameraphone/archives/001658.html" title="Another Market "><img src="/legacy/images/legacy/weblog/cameraphone/images/200405021544/_t.jpg" alt="Another Market " width="120" height="146" class="pic" border="0" /></a>
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My childhood circle of friends lost a mother this week. I’ve just been told her funeral is Saturday. I don’t think I can be there, and I hope I’ll be forgiven for that. Her passing is a terrible loss. My mind is awash with all of the wonderful memories I have of her – she was always so good to me when I’d spend time in her house. When I was there I wasn’t just Scott’s friend, over for the day or night. I was part of the family, with all the privledges and responsibilities that entailed. And as I grew older, I spent quite a lot of time there. She was my source for sweet tea, long before I moved to the south where it’s practically on tap in every kitchen sink. Her recipe for spaghetti sauce included just a hint of sugar, too. I don’t mean to make it sound like she fed her family suger cubes all the time, but at my house we didn’t eat much sugar (I still don’t, really), so the little bit here and there in her cooking was a welcome treat. By the time I was in high school, we had a running joke – it seemed every time I dropped by unannounced, she was making a pot of gumbo. Soon, my appearance was greeted with calls of “Eric’s here. Must be gumbo night!” Once she forgot to add the okra (one of the main thickeners in gumbo). I honestly didn’t notice, but she was embarassed by the soupiness of it. Each time thereafter, she made a production of adding the okra. I’ll miss that. I’ll miss her. I grieve. For her, for Scott, for the rest of the family, for me. Good bye, Mrs. Elder. If you ever see me coming, put on a pot of gumbo. But this time, I can bring the okra.

Two months or so of preparation and no small amount of work came to a head this weekend. As is typical, it took effort right up until the last possible moment, took away hours of potential sleep, and still I had to wonder if it was really ready to show to people. My latest play? Nope – it’s farmers’ market season! At slightly before the crack of dawn, I loaded up and headed off to the opening day of the Athens Green Market. The day was beautiful, and the crowds were plentiful. Even cyclist Lance Armstrong came by, very very quickly, on his way to winning the Tour de Georgia. I guess I was ready after all, since I set a new all-time sales record. Hopefully, the rest of the season will be as fruitful.