Tuesday, May 6, 2008 – I have hops

Our hops arrived today!!!! I was so excited to read about the looming/current hops shortage, what with the 10 acres of land we have sitting around, waiting to be planted. So I researched and called brew pubs and googled, and found out that there’s a farm in Sorrento (the Okanagan) that sells organic hops. Sweet. Poison-free AND sorta local. So I ordered four roots (they’re called rhizomes) and wrote my cheque and waited.

The thing about hops is: we’re running out. The world, that is. There’s a huge shortage looming/happening due to weird weather (ahem climate change ahem), and so all the big breweries like Coors and Molson and whatnot have bought up all the hops supplies for the next millenium. That leaves all the smaller breweries stranded and hop-less. Poor Vancouver Island Brewers. Poor Spinnakers. Poor Swans. What’s a local-beer drinker to do?? And therein lies my future fortune. Sort of. Funny thing about hops is that you can make $20,000+ per acre, but it costs about the same to get your acre planted, trellised, deer-fenced and irrigated. It’s like starting a winery. Not exactly a manageable hobby for a strawberry/vegetable farmer with a day job.

So my four rhizomes are a compromise. I will get them established (hopefully), and when they’re harvestable in a few years I might be able to supply one of my favourite local brewers. Or we can brew our own beer, and serve it to unsuspecting farm guests.

Be warned.

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Saturday, May 10, 2008 – Letting go of the babies

I’ve raised over 100 tomato plants from seed, and it’s time to plant them in the ground. I forgot about this stage. I became used to smelling their hot tomato smell when I visited our greenhouse, or transferred a baby plant from its 4-inch pot to a gallon tub at my potting table outside. I liked sitting on the couch, playing crib with Brock, and looking up to see that new yellow flowers had appeared on one of our in-home babies.

Last night Brock said he wanted to plant some of the tomatoes in the rows, since he was planting garlic and they’re companion plants. It was a difficult decision: stay inside and drink wine after a day of work, or take responsibility for the infants I’d brought into this world, and be with them when they left the safety of the greenhouse for the cold, hard reality of life in the fields. I reluctantly changed clothes and selected 10 plants to risk — all Early Girls, the only hybrid we’re growing. If I’m going to lose a plant, it’ll be my least favourite.

Planting went well, and today we decided to plant five more along our deer fence, since they’ll need the trellis support. I went for the Gardener’s Delight variety today: they’re vine tomatoes, and getting a little too floppy for their gallon pots. I planted with love, velcroed them to the trellis, and watered them well.

Also: a statement that I might revisit later this season, once my plants are actually producing tomatoes: I didn’t plant enough. Next year I’ll plant 10 or more varieties, instead of this year’s 6. Is it possible to have too many tomatoes?

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Sunday, May 11, 2008 – Stupidly happy

I realized recently that, if things go as planned, I will be (once again) repotting tomatoes, soliciting box program customers, mixing vermiculite & peat moss for new seeds, and living a dirt-under-the-fingernails life this time next year. And the year after. And the year after. Etc.

The thought excited me. I’ll get another season (and another, and another) to choose my tomato varieties! To mix planting mix with my hands in the weekend sunshine! To eat spinach straight from the raised bed, then peppermint, then a leaf of stevia just for the hell of it! And it will (knock on wood) just get better, adding future kids and an established farm infrastructure to the picture.

I’m so happy with this life that it makes me want to cry. Or maybe that’s the wine. I don’t mean to be obnoxious. I’m sure some/many of you are not this happy, and I don’t want you to hate me for finding my niche. I know most of you would NOT be happy with dirt under your nails and an unwashed farmer sharing your bed, or the uncertainty of a Vancouver Island mortage (aka way too high), or working from sunrise to sunset in the dirt.

And I would NEVER have suspected that I would respond so well to this life. I never liked dirt very much. Or bugs. My parents patiently built me a trellis and garden (they even brought in growable soil, since ours was poor) when I was a teenager: I grew pretty flowers, but lost interest when the aphids ate my peas and never really understood the concept of “watering.”

But whadyaknow, this life is giving me the happiest days I’ve ever had. My weekend wishlist has become: transplant tomatoes, plant seeds, sit with the bunnies for awhile, dig out pestilant thistles. If I had a spare hour, I would . . . harvest nettles and make soup. What the heck has happened to me??

Fact: in the past 48 hours, my hands have touched aged sheep manure, a slug, and numerous worms. I’ve also killed a wireworm by pulling it apart with my fingers — the only sure way to destroy the beasts. All in all, not the preferred way to spend a weekend. For most people

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Wednesday, May 28, 2008 – Random updates from the homestead

Being the capitalist entrepreneurial organic farmers that we are, we have a variety of schemes in mind to fund our farm life.

Firstly: roadside sales. We intend to exploit our primo location by offering farmgate sales of strawberries, corn, pumpkins, and whatever vegetables we have around. We’re so close to the Trans-Canada, and on the Dinter nursery / Whippletree Junction / golf course circuit, that we already get 1 vehicle per minute passing by our gate. Imagine what will happen when we’re offering fresh, field-grown organic strawberries . . .

Secondly: our Harvest Box program. We printed up 20 brochures and handed them out to a few people, and before we knew what had happened we had 13 families signed up to receive a weekly box of seasonal veggies.

Thirdly: sales to local restaurants, B&Bs, etc.

Oh! And fourthly, our Saturday booth at the Duncan Farmers Market. Almost forgot about that one. We start our booth June 28.

We were joking about being “SINKs on the Farm,” since Brock is now a full-time farmer and doesn’t have a weekly paycheque, but what with the enthusiastic response to our box program I think we’re safe keeping this domain name.

Maybe “FINKs on the Farm” (Farming Income, No Kids) . . .

ANYhoo. In other news, I’ve planted out almost all our melons. I didn’t know we could grow melons here, but Brock’s parents did back when they had their farm. I don’t even really like melons, but it’s pretty cool to think I can grow them. I’m planting the melons, tomatoes (all vining varieties) and cucumbers along our 10-foot high deer fence, which will hopefully act as a trellis and support massive fruit production. I also have my four hops varieties along the fence — and they’re up now, by the way! Exciting.

My brother Joe is visiting us these days. He’s a journeyman carpenter (age 24 – impressive) and is finishing our house for us: siding, soffits, gutters, patio and pergola in the back. He’s been crazy productive — until today, when he discovered Facebook. I noticed the other day, when we were eating BBQ burgers, that the things which fascinate me and Brock are actually quite boring to normal people. For example: our lilac cuttings are budding. The walnut tree finally blossomed. There’s a potato growing in our worm compost. All things that deserve discussion over dinner in a farm house . . . Poor Joe. If the family-discounted labour in the 25-degree heat doesn’t force him out, the crop productivity reports certainly will.

Having Joe around has also introduced us to David Allen Coe, a racist country singer from the Good Ol’ Days. We listen to him while staining the cedar board & battan siding for the house, and hum his songs incessently. Our favourite lines:

Where bikers stare at cowboys,
Who are laughin’ at the hippies
Who are prayin’ they’ll get out of here alive . . .
‘Cause my long hair just can’t cover up my redneck . . .

Classic.