October 04, 2004
Greenfields Gothic
"The sunchokes always flower just before the frost". I'm not kidding, that's what Lorenz said not two weeks ago. And they started flowering the last weekend of September. By Wednesday night, we had our first frost - but it was so light that I wasn't aware of it until people asked me how my garden had fared. It was just a touch, and did no real damage, either down here or up in the fields.
This past Saturday night, though, we had clear skies, no wind, and hard frost. I woke up just after seven on Sunday, looked out the window, and thought, "sparkly".
You only get one chance every year to take some of these pictures: perfect vegetables, frozen and frost-rimmed. Once the sun hits them, they turn to limp, black mush. So, even though I had not had my coffee yet, and even though it 
was really warm under my down duvet, and even though it was Sunday and there was no reason to leave my cosy little cocoon, I tossed a sweater (and then another sweater) over my pajamas, crunched over the grass, did a quick check on the garden (frost only along the edges, like the morning glory vine) and scurried on up to the field. If there was going to be frost-induced carnage, I wanted to see it.
In the grand scheme of things, this is the prettiest carnage I've ever seen. Delicate things like pepper leaves and basil plants turned to frost-rimmed still-life with vegetable motifs. The tomatoes, peppers and egglants looked fine, but Lorenz explained that this is only because they had enough residual heat in them that they didn't build frost on the surface but they 
are still affected and are pretty much done. Other things, like kale, only get better after frost since the cold sweetens them up (I don't know how this works, but I always think late kale tastes the best too). And then there are things like swiss chard which Lorenz wasn't sure about: he'd "have to see". He wasn't, however, eager to leave the couch and Coronation Street and see the fields beyond the images on my laptop computer before noon that morning.
You can't really blame Lorenz for choosing a soap opera over inspecting his fields on a sunny and pretty (sparkly!) Sunday morning. He's been battling a cold all week and HP was making crepes in the kitchen. Beyond these immediate comfort reasons, though, I suspect that vegetable farmers meet the first hard frost with mixed feelings: though it isn't exactly great that all this produce they worked so hard to grow is now sparkly (and, very soon after that, limp), weather like this also marks the time when things finally start to slow down.
It hasn't exactly been slow here of late. On Friday, I wandered up to the fields to find a frantic tomato harvest in progress. At the same time, Lorenz was motoring down a row of eggplants, filling his bucket with lightning speed. Even with all this harvesting, it was obvious to me that there were simply more tomatoes, peppers, basil plants and eggplants than could possibly be harvested by the crew. And some of these plants would have kept producing indefinitely, it seemed - so the frost sent them signal to stop, we're done with that nonsense now.
Of all the seasons, fall really is a drama queen: the first hard frost makes an entrance that you can't miss even if you're slumbering away under a down duvet. At the latest, you'll notice it when you go pilfering the fields for basil. The brilliant reds, oranges and yellow grab your attention, and don't lose it during the short time that the colours last. Fall, even more than summer, demands "pay attention to me now, I'll be gone in no time". I've already started scoping out the pumpkin patch, looking for that one perfect big pumpkin to turn into a jack-o-lantern. When I ride my bike up the laneway, there is a crunching of leaves under the wheel. In the middle of the afternoon, the air is crisp and the sun is warm enough to lounge in an Adirondack chair and drink cappucino (which is precisely what I did yesterday). When you lose the sun, you start looking for a wool sweater. In the evenings, Lorenz throws some wood into the furnace.
And sitting at her computer the next day, the Red Barn Troll departs from her usual flippant nature and starts waxing on about crunchy leaves, wood smoke, and the late sun on her face, at which point she realizes that she is veering dangerously close to "Greenfields Gothic": by painting this pastoral fall scene, I am reducing a working farm which is populated by real people with real lives into a picture book caricature of Life in the Country with a Pumpkin Patch. 
So, to interrupt this romanticized little interlude, let me catch you up on three other pieces of news: one, the brakes on the van failed last week, marking the third time this year thet the Turnip has had to go in for repairs, at which time it was discovered that the water pump also needed replacing; two, Minou, my favourite of all the cats in the barn, has disappeared for good. It's a coyote eat cat world out there Finally, sucky number three is that HP has worked his last farmers' market and is leaving us for good this week. Sigh.