Farm Trail

Yesterday I found myself running in flip-flops with a bum ankle down a thin dirt path between crops of butter lettuce and arugula. The smell of rogue chamomile wafted up from between my steps from small white flowers I was forced to step on.

I was following a young man on a parallel strip riding a four wheeler. I was shouting, my ponytail was whipping in the breeze, dough encrusted the hips of my jeans from hours of cooking that morning, and I am clearly out of shape, so I looked a bit like the hunchback of notre dame. It probably wasn't pretty. I know it wasn't pretty.

"No necesario lavar" I shouted, but he had just reved the engine on the four wheeler to climb a small hill.

"10 minutes, 10 minutes" he kept saying with a wave behind his vehicle.

I had come to pick up produce, hours later than planned from a local farm for that super centric appeal at a small party I was cooking for.  On arriving I had found that the fennel I ordered wasn't ready. In fact, it wasn't even harvested yet.

"Un poquito fennel, un poquito," this was the beginning and end of my spanish.  I had hoped I got across that I didn't need it washed, and I only had hoped "lavar" meant wash because I have spent so much time working in restaurants and reading signs in english and spanish.

"No lavar, just fennel"  I pleaded, desperately out of time.

Give me the dirty fennel. I could see them picking it, but as soon as it left the ground, the guy on the four-wheeler whisked it up.

This was getting ridiculous.  My fennel was just a flurry of green tufts zipping away from me towards a farm sink way beyond my running ability. He zoomed over the horizon.

I didn't need that much. In fact, as the minutes ticked away and my tiny catering job of grilled veggies and lasagnas neared, I began to think I didn't need any. It was just one small part.  It was just an accent. A local kick of flavor.

"UN POQUITO!" I shouted without luck.

Soon, I'd say about 10 minutes later, a box was traveling back by four-wheeler, packed and perfectly washed.

It felt so odd. This box of miscommunication. This rapidly and somehow perfectly packed box.  I knew in that moment that my lack of understanding and skill in speaking spanish was much more a hindrance to me than anyone else.  I work in the world of food, and it has been negligible not to learn.  From farm to table this was a skill I needed.  It was one of those epiphany moments. "By Christmas" I whispered to myself.  By Christmas I needed a much more sound platform for speaking from.

"Muchas Gracias" I said as I took the box, though at this point I had begun to resent the fennel.  My ankle throbbed and what wasn't covered in dough on my pants was now coated in mud.

I drove back over the winding hills to the kitchen for prepping. I eyed the fennel tufts in my passenger seat and imagined how lovely they would taste marinating and then sizzling along side peppers, tomatoes and eggplant.

I sliced and whirred and made salad dressing. I prepped and preened and grilled all the veggies, and loaded the car. Delivery was set for twenty minutes from now. I checked on the kids by phone, swished away seasonal flies from the shipment and clunked down the road.

There, in my passenger seat next to the invoice I had just tossed in, was a box.  A perfectly packed box. Un poquito fennel. 

Still packed. Never grilled. But washed.

 

* Please note: Spanish words in this piece may be misspelled. I'm working on it. Thanks for your patience.

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