The tomatoes are slowing down, and the rainy weather the last week hasn’t done them any favors. Bernard picked day before yesterday, and I canned a few more quarts yesterday. I’m not sure where the line falls between frugally using what I have and wasting my time, but I suspect I’m getting close! It takes about the same amount of time and energy for me to can five quarts of tomatoes or ten. Certainly the same amount of mess in the kitchen.

Bernard is going to go hang out with JD today, and ED and I are going to try to get a little something done around here—maybe shear the last two sheep, and work on a plan to simplify chores so things aren’t so overwhelming and unwieldy for our farmsitter when we’re gone to the beach.

Isn’t this Burgundy okra gorgeous? It doesn’t bear quite as heavily as Clemson Spineless, but it’s so beautiful, who cares? Actually, it’s quite prolific, but the pods are thinner walled and lighter weight, so the overall yield is lower. I love to eat it raw while I work in the garden: raw okra tastes like flowers.

DH and I worked on cleaning out the garden, and I planted collards and brussels sprouts. I had started a bunch from seed, but none of them made it, partly because it’s so hard for me to remember to take care of seedlings at this point in the gardening season, and partly because of the many, many bugs—flea beetles, cabbage moths, and some brightly colored beetle thingy (I should know what it is, but I’m too lazy to remember right now). So I bought a couple of flats of collards, cabbage, brussels sprouts and broccoli at Lowes. I’ve never found such a good selection and in such good shape—I guess I just lucked out. Of course, I paid a small fortune for them. Oh well.

I also planted beets tonight. We have a bed-full of gargantuan Chioggias, but after growing them for fifteen years, I’ve decided I don’t like them. I want nice red Detroit beets. The Chioggias taste fine and grow fine, and they’re beautiful when you slice them up raw, but they’re just so ugly cooked—all yellowish-beigey. I like pretty food.

A neighbor stopped by today—well, kind of a neighbor. He lives a little ways away in Spillcorn. He said he’s been meaning to stop ever since we moved in, but what with one thing and another….Anyway, he stopped ostensibly to see if we had a bull for his Jersey-Guernsey cross cow, but really to be neighborly and just to say hey. We chatted for a long time, about everything to do with farming, and I’m left with an odd feeling, which I’m still trying to put my finger on.

This guy farms because he loves it. Not because he thinks he should, or because he’s afraid of another great depression, or the end of the world, or whatever. He loves it, and he’s gung-ho about it, and he just goes for it and gets it done. As opposed to all us wishy-washy transplants. As a matter of fact, that seems to characterise a lot of local farmers—kind of a forward motion without the constant self-questioning. “Is this really what I should be doing? Should I really get a pig? Do I really want goats?” Etc. Etc. Etc.

I love farming. But it seems like I have to occasionally remind myself that I do, and I often have to field DH’s doubts and negativity. (A heads up: don’t raise meat animals with an ex-vegetarian partner. There’s just so much angst and soul-searching you have to talk them through!)

Anyway, I’m not even sure what it is I’m trying to express. I just know I felt a boost in morale after talking to this guy—kind of a little surge of energy; a little reduction in the inner questioning.

You don’t have to have a reason to farm, stupid! You just do it!

The garden is pretty overgrown right now, and it’s too wet to get out there and do anything after the last couple of days’ rain. Tomorrow should be the perfect time. I have two flats of fall brassicas to put out: collards, cabbage, broccoli and brussels sprouts, and I’d like to plant some lettuce and beets. I also have a couple of flats of leeks to plant, so maybe that’s what I’ll spend my Sunday doing.

Today I really need to pick and can more tomatoes.