In the spirit of Labor Day weekend, I did manage to put in some hours of actual labor on the farm. Although, judging by the amount of dirt all over me and pouring out of my shoes afterwards, you would have thought that something else had gone on in those fields. No such luck. We weeded spinach, planted lettuce and basil, and that was all. I have witnesses.
Since there was nowhere to hide in the open fields, I finally had a chance to chat with the Farmer for more than five seconds. Chat and plant, plant and chat. Except chatting is something I find hard to do in combination with other things. I’m more of a one-activity-at-a-time kind of girl. Still, I think it’s important to stick your pinky finger out of your comfort zone twice, maybe three times a year.
That there was any dialogue at all was a miracle given the cacophony going on in my head:
Me: What’s he talking about?
Me: Pressure cookers, I think. Stop crushing the lettuce.
Me: I’m not. This is what he showed me.
Me: I’m quite sure he wasn’t pounding the lettuce into the ground with his fists.
Me: Shut up, I can’t hear. What’s he talking about now?
Me: How sungolds make the best pasta sauce ever.
Me: Mmmmm, I bet he’s right. I wonder if he peels them all. He couldn’t possibly. That would take freaking forever.
Me: Why don’t you ask him?
Me: No, you ask him.
Me: You better pick up the pace. If he gets too far ahead of you, he’ll start talking to that other guy.
Me: Right. I don’t think he’s talking anymore. He’s not. Crap. Say something.
Me: Comment on those weird-ass husk tomatoes you tried last week. Only make it sound like you really liked them.
Me: Okay, I just told him.
Me: What did he say?
Me: He thinks they’re gross.
I wonder what the odds are that any of my lettuce is going to survive?