Day Two on the Farm

On the first morning of my European farming career, I woke up with the roster's call but not because of it. I dressed a made my way to the Auberge (the main dining area used for meetings and the like). I was told to make my self breakfast. I did this with a hesitation that indicated my uncertainty of what was and was not acceptable. I placed my jar of peanut butter from my travels in the fridge. I knew this would be a source of entertainment later. It marked my American cuisine and the express manner of dining that the farm was rallying against.

After breakfast, I helped Eku to prepare a few small items in the kitchen. She was preparing for both an afternoon pastry demonstration and a dinner with a group of visitors. It is amazing to see her work flawlessly through out the kitchen. Sometimes she would sneak to the garden to collect raspberries or other raw materials. I did not see any notes but rather assumed that the collection of events she was preparing for all exist solely in her mind.

After these small kitchen chores, Eku showed me my main responsibility here on the farm, feeding the pigs. There are five pigs in all. Four black (noir) pigs and one mix breed of black and pink. Each morning, accept for Sunday, I am to prepare a feast for my five young dependents. Usually, I would grind seven and a half scoops of barley but currently I am to use leftover flour from the bakery (le boulangerie). This provides approximately one and a half scoops of flour for each pig. I mix this with water, kitchen scraps and two big handfuls of stinging nettles. I know nettles all to well from my youth spent running and itching through the woods. Eku says they provide an excellent source of protein for the pigs.

All of the ingredients are mixed together to "cook for the pigs" as Eku calls it. I then wheel this gruel in a squeaky wagon to five excited squealing pigs. Each one of them is nosing the air and hip checking the other to get the prime bits of slop. I set up the two troughs in a new locations and begin to drop the slop in. Usually, a good portion lands not in the trough but rather on the anticipating diners. After a few trips the wagon is empty and I must perform the second task of feeding the pigs, checking the fence. I walk the perimeter of the pig pen checking to see if the electric fence is obstructed in any way.

With the pigs attention placed solely on their feast, I cart the wagon back to be washed. Here again, Eku surprises me with her willingness to practically crawl into the overturned wagon to scrub the bits of slop that cling to the edges. It is hard for me to understand the humility that allows her to transition from a position of envy, as a pastry chef, to the lowliest scrubber of the pig wagon. She looks up to see if I understand the cleanliness that is required.

When my lesson on the pigs is finished, I am sent to dig the remaining potatoes as Eku departs for some kitchen task. Digging potatoes always brings my reflection on this historic food. This food stuff transformed the world when it left its native land and landed on the shores of Europe. It is easy to see how the Irish could form the belief in an endless new supply of food as potatoes seem to fall out of the earth. This of course led to a huge population growth and famine with the introduction of blight. Only Jonathan Swift provided an intellectual solution to this "problem." The western landscape of America would prove to be the true solution. A bit of a return to the homeland for the potato and its offspring.

I quickly finished digging the remaining potatoes with my thoughts thankfully being interrupted by Eku's return to finish the task. My final task of the morning would be the biggest shock yet. It was simple but struck me with a great amount of fear. All Eku said was "you make lunch?"

Here I was on a new and novel farm with professional chefs who had prepared brilliant meals for me expecting the same in return. I quickly went into Iron Chef challenge mode. I needed to make something with lots of flavors, based mainly on vegetables and well enough to set perceptions of me in a positive light. I scanned my potential food stuffs. Tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, an eggplant, bell peppers, bread, ham and a collection of cheeses. I decided to based the main dish of my meal on a stir fry of the zucchini, eggplant and bell peppers. I hoped that I could use enough garlic to hide all of the dish's failings. I linked the bread and tomatoes into a brochette. I could not remember what exactly was in brochette but I knew that bread toasted in olive oil, the combination of vinegar and tomatoes and the bite of fresh garlic would serve me well. I also went out on a limb with one of my families notorious dishes. Growing up, I always loved a quick pickle that my Grandma Betty would make. Its reputation was marked with the poor breath that it endowed on those willing to consume.

As I began to cook, I gave Eku numerous looks of despair that I hoped would soften the criticism that I was certain would follow. I managed not to burn anything as most of my cooking time was spent searching for tools and foods in a kitchen that was new to me. I plated each of my creations with an intension of professionalism but I knew that they betrayed my intentionality. I also placed bread, ham and the collection of cheeses as a fail safe if they despised my creations.

Overall, each dish was given a nod of general approval. I knew that the eggplant in my stir fry was a overdone, the brochette had a different tang with the cider vinegar that replaced the traditional balsamic and the ham and cheese was a bit of a forfeit. I was surprised at how well the cucumber salad went over. It was one of the first things to disappear. I finished the stir fry as I realized it was the weakest dish. The brochette brought the biggest shock. Eku requested that I make it for the evenings guests. Pride swelled in my chest as I had been successful enough to overcome at least a few of my fears.

I was given the afternoon off with the request that I return to the kitchen at 7PM to begin preparing my prize brochette for the guests. A collection of Japanese folks were staying at the farm to observe local food production. When I arrived to begin preparation of dinner, I greeted each of the guests with one of my only phrases that I knew in Japanese, arigato. With each person that I met, I was certain to shake their hands with my finest arigato. This was met with an English "nice to meet you."

Food preparation began with inquiries into my actions from the few Japanese who spoke English. As a part of their experience, they each wanted to observe and help with all food preparation. This lead to the stereotypical Japanese practice of photographing everything. I always wonder how they view these multiple snapshots of what I see as insignificant details. I began my preparation with a misunderstanding of the number of guests that would be present. I thought that Eku said thirty but really there would be 13 of us dining. This reduction in number meant that I would in fact have enough bread but also ensured that I prepared too great of a quantity.

With everything prepped for my brochette, I asked Eku if their was anything else that I could do to help dinner production. She suggested salad. I grabbed a bowl and a knife and headed for the garden. I scanned many of the garden vegetables that I was familiar with but could only find a few underdeveloped lettuce plants. I knew that I could not depend of these for salad quantity and would reap the wrath of cutting the lettuce crop of the future with one venture. I asked Philippe to assist me in my search. He took up his crutches and hobbled to the garden. "Cut some of this." "Use the flowers as well." "This tastes like a combination of sage and pineapple." The salad soon unfolded with a collection of foreign plants revealed by his knowledge. I did my best to follow his guidance with bread for my brochette cooking in the oven still occupying my mind. I raced back to the kitchen certain to find a blaze caused by my absence. Not finding the impending disaster that I expected, I began to place the tomato compote on the bread. This task complete, I washed the salad in the bowl. Soon my salad task had been taken over by others willing to help.

We all sat down to diner. Shortly, I discovered a few of my downfalls of the evening. First, arigato means thank you in Japanese and not hello as I originally thought. I had greeted everyone with my finest thank you and a grin that clearly stated my ignorance. To their credit, no one allowed this mistake to change their opinion of this American idiot. My second big mistake of the evening was that I definitely did not wash the salad at an appropriate level. My first bite of salad was met with an improper crunch of dirt rather than the crispness of a fresh green. Completely embarrassed, I hoped that my failures would not eliminate me from the farm the next morning.

After dinner, I was sent to bed. I had an early morning planned for the next day. It was my day off. I had agreed to travel to Brittany for an Organic Fair with Philippe's brother Serge.