When it’s 68 and sunny on a June morning, with the fields dew-spangled but not sodden, the breeze like a lamb’s breath, the meadowlarks belting our arias, the young basil perfuming the air — when all of these things conspire the farming experience sometimes seems especially enchanted.
Then there are days like Wednesday, when we wallow in mud.
It compels Pablo to use the tractor to haul a truck out of the muck.
It turns boots into anvils.
It certainly makes harvesting leeks and arugula messy!
And ditto on the messy description for our first-ever harvest of Belgian endive. (Look for it in the restaurants and the market).
But you know, mud means water. And after a dreadfully dry March, we welcome the water and, yes, the mud. At least for now.
The chickens don’t mind.