by Lindsey Lusher Shute

Editor’s Note: The following is excerpted from Lindsey Lusher Shute’s talk, “Building a Future with Farmers,” that she gave on February 16, 2013, at the TEDxManhattan conference, “Changing the Way We Eat,” which examined how we think about food. Lindsey and her husband Benjamin own Hearty Roots, a community-supported agriculture (CSA) farm here in the Hudson Valley. They personify the new generation of young farmers – highly-educated, innovative, vocal and actively involved in and passionate about the development of local food systems and the future of sustainable food production. They represent our best hope for the future of farming and our nation, for as the popular saying goes, “no farms, no food.”

My great-grandfather, Henry Clerkus Sheets, was the last farmer in our family. He farmed in the foothills of Southeast Ohio and produced dairy, salt pork, and tobacco. Henry worked hard and earned enough to own land, eat well and get three of his kids (my grandmother included) to college. Those kids became a teacher, a principal, a welder and a gas station owner. None of them stayed on the farm.

The path my great grandfather was likely proud to put his children on is the same one that 99% of us find ourselves on today. For generations, farm families have been sending their kids away from the land–and all for good reasons: a dairy crisis; discriminatory federal policies that left families of color without a safety net; consolidation and vertical integration; skyrocketing land prices and plummeting incomes. Life has been difficult for many farm families and opportunities outside of the farm sector have grown.

That’s why today there are 28 million fewer farmers than there were in 1920, when my great-grandfather was farming, and that’s in a country with 200 million more people. And because a least two generations of young people left the farm, farmers over 65 now outnumber farmers under 35 by a margin of 6 to 1. As a 34-year-old farmer, I and my husband Ben, along with thousands of young people across this country, are bucking the trend by starting a new farm operation. These young farmers and ranchers represent an incredible opportunity for food, agriculture and rural America.

They are cultivating their crops by hand and with tractors that haven’t seen the outside of a barn in 50 years; they are putting cows and sheep and goats and chickens back on grass where they belong; they are creating jobs and opportunity in places that haven’t seen new industry in decades. They are demonstrating, as did generations before them, the more a farmer is able to care for the land, the more the land gives back. Not just to the farmer, but to everyone.

At our farm, Hearty Roots Community Farm, we grow 25 acres of vegetables and produce eggs for the members of our Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) program that feeds 900 households in the Hudson Valley and New York City. Our 25 acres is bringing in gross revenue of $425,000 per year, which is being spent mainly on creating jobs in our community. We employ nine other young people—some seasonal and some year round—who in turn spend their paychecks at stores in our town. Many of our supplies are purchased locally or regionally, and our contractors live down the road. The percent of our budget spent on fossil fuels is very small.

Compare that to commodity corn, which is what was being grown on our land before we transitioned it to vegetables. Twenty-five acres of corn produces about $25,000 in revenue; half of that is spent on inputs like fuel and GMO seed and machinery, and only about $750 goes to labor. That means our farm would need to grow over 5,000 acres of corn to produce the same number of jobs we offer producing 25 acres of vegetables. That is half the size of our town.

The more growers we have caring for smaller parcels and maximizing the land’s potential, the more benefits our town will experience. As I said before: The more a farmer is able to care for the land, the more the land gives back.

The challenge is putting more young people, more farmers in the position to do just that. What would our rural communities look like if we had 1 million more farms like Hearty Roots, like the Salad Garden of Missouri, the West Georgia Cooperative, Three Springs Farm in Oklahoma, Kilpatrick Farm of New York, Bucio Farm of California or Sauvie Island Organics outside of Portland? Just think of the social, economic and health benefits for the nation.

But a million new farms like these aren’t going to just come along. It’s not 1920 when Grandpa Henry was farming. Land is crazy expensive (it took us 10 years to find a permanent home for our farm). Banks forgot how to loan to us, and there is now something called a student loan that zaps hundreds of dollars from a bank account each month (for decades), supply chains are in shambles, research on new organic systems is behind the curve, and Federal Policy is largely written to perpetuate what we already have.

In 2010, I co-founded the National Young Farmers Coalition. We are a team of farmers and consumers that want at least a million new farms in this country, and know that big change is necessary to make that possible. We are working to create land agreements, policies and local networks that will create a permanent home for independent, diversified, family-scale farms in the United States.

In our national survey of 1,000 young and beginning farmers, we found that capital was the number one challenge to starting a farm. Of course banks and investors need to be engaged to help solve this challenge, but history teaches us that getting capital to farmers can’t be left to private interests. It is much too important for the nation’s security. That’s why the federal government makes low interest loans to farmers through the Farm Service Agency – and Republican President Theodore Roosevelt helped to start the cooperative Farm Credit system in 1908.

These institutions can do a lot more for young and beginning farmers. We were very proud to have worked with the Farm Service Agency to revise their rules to allow new farmer training programs, such as apprenticeships, to be considered as experience that would qualify them for a loan. And we helped the agency launch a new micro-lending program. But there is so much more that needs to happen.

Right now, Congress only allows the Farm Service Agency to loan a farmer $300,000 to buy a farm, when that amount of money can hardly buy a house in most regions. Also, they have no permanent funding from the Farm Bill. So each year they are at the mercy of the Appropriations Committee, and farmers are left to wait for months on loan decisions.

We need to give this agency more money and more stability, so that farmers can use it like a bank. If you want to go out and buy a house, you get pre-approved from a mortgage lender, then make an offer. If you want to buy a farm with help from the Farm Service Agency, you find the farm, hope that it’s under $300,000, and then beg the owner to slog through many months of bureaucracy while you both wait and hope that money will be available. This is no way to buy a farm, and no way for our most important farm lender to operate when 70% of all farm land is going to change hands in the next 20 years. They are more important than ever before.

And speaking of land, it is the second biggest challenge to getting started farming. Land is selling at prices that are many times what a working farmer can possibly afford. Just like you all have affordable housing in this town, we need to work with the land trust community to create affordable farms in ours. And out in the Midwest, we need to trade the subsidies that grow mega farms for incentives to sell or rent ground to beginners.

But the National Young Farmers Coalition is not waiting on Congress. We are rebuilding local support networks of farmers on the ground. We have local chapters made up of farmers that are helping each other overcome day-to-day obstacles. Our Hudson Valley chapter gathers together to share meals, put plastic on hoop houses, and uses their combined purchasing power to get a better price on animal feed.

We are getting a lot done, but we can’t do it alone. Even if every farmer in the United States stood with us, we would only represent less than half of one percent of the population.

I said before that we’re working in the same structural environment that led to the downfall of so many farms, but I didn’t point out the big difference between now and 20 years ago: you. You as consumers that buy our food. You as consumers that care deeply about the future of American agriculture. You as consumers that might still remember a family farm, even if you didn’t grow up on one. If we’re going to create a new path of opportunity for American farmers—one that helps them care for the land and helps us all experience the benefits that an independent farm can bring—then we need your help.

You can help us rebuild American agriculture by helping everyone buy locally-grown food, encouraging your kids to farm, helping transition farmland to a new generation, and joining with us to tell Congress that if we invest in new farmers, the entire nation will win.

I hope you will join us.

To learn more, visit http://tedxmanhattan.org; http://www.heartyroots.com; http://www.youngfarmers.org

by Brian PJ Cronin, photograph by Kristen Cronin

The big box bookstore near us was going out of business. We had a brand new bookshelf in the nursery, waiting to be filled with books. Books to be read under the covers with a flashlight, books to be read in unison, books to be spit-up upon, books. We got in the car and headed north. When we arrived, we realized that every single person in the Hudson Valley had the exact same idea.

The children’s section looked like the fall of Saigon. Shelves had been toppled. Books were strewn everywhere in no discernable order; Beverly Cleary next to Dr. Seuss, The Very Hungry Caterpillar next to The Guys of Twilight. We tried to get our bearings in this lawless wasteland of ripped pages and stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dogs. That’s when the bottle hit me.

It flew over what was left of the “Brain Puzzles and Teasers” display shelf and smacked me right in the head. Plastic, 20 ounces, Fanta. From the angle of the trajectory I knew it had been thrown by a child. Sure enough, a three year old girl immediately appeared, picked up the bottle and stared at me. I awaited an apology.

“THAT’S MY BOTTLE!” she screamed at me.

Somebody was going to pay.

I marched around the shelf, ready to lay into the girl’s parent. I would explain what happened. I would chastise them. I would tell them they should be ashamed for raising such a child. They would weep and beg for forgiveness before enrolling the child in some horrific Dickensian reform school where the only things the children are allowed to eat are gristle and black pudding.

And then I saw the girl’s mother. She was covered in writhing, screaming children of all ages. She turned and looked at me and it became clear that this woman had not slept more than four hours a night or had a meal in which the primary ingredient was not “cheez” in at least seven years. And that’s when it hit me: There, thanks to the grace of God, go I.

I handed her the girl’s bottle, smiled politely, and ran like hell.

For years I’ve gritted my teeth every time a baby on an airplane cried. When a child in a restaurant started screaming, I’d groan and wonder why the parents can’t just eat every meal at home until the kid turns 18. When, at the grocery store, a toddler would grab lemons by the handful and throw them toward the deli, I would shoot the parent a look that said You’re doing it wrong. And now I was a few months away from being that helpless parent. Did I really think I was going to someday raise a child who was going to behave perfectly in public every single time? Does such a child even exist?

I realized I needed to start building up some good parent karma. Like, quick.

I hold doors open for mothers with strollers, even if it means running across the street without looking both ways. When a child starts acting up in public, I try and shoot the parent my best Hang in there look. I let harried-looking mothers swamped with kids cut in front of me at the grocery store, even if I’m just getting a pack of gum and they’re dragging two carts and a cow. Kristen has gotten into the act as well, joining a mothers group that cooks and freezes meals for pregnant women who are fast approaching their due date, so that they won’t have to cook during those hectic weeks after giving birth.

But in Kristen’s case, that’s just her being the kind and generous person she’s always been. Me, I’m cramming for the final exam. And I’m running out of time.

Brian PJ and Kristen Cronin live in Beacon with their four cats and a baby on the way. View more of their photos at www.flickr.com/teammoonshine.

by Brian PJ Cronin photograph by Kristen Cronin

It is late August as I write this and the leaves on top of Mt. Beacon are turning red around the edges. This is what happens when you have weeks with no rain and the thermometer dips below 60 degrees. You get early fall. In August. This is not ok.

Fall? What happened to summer? What happened to summer squash? Wasn’t this going to be the summer we finally grew enough summer squash to get sick of it? We grew two. Two squash. We ate them while making dinner one night.

Our Facebook and Twitter streams are flooded with posts entitled “Summer Recipes!” “Now’s the time to use your bounty of garden fresh tomatoes to make cool, refreshing gazpacho!” Gazpacho. Gazpacho. It’s 56 degrees out. We just spent half an hour trying to find our jackets so that we could go outside and brush fallen leaves off of the withered and blighted tomato vines. Meet us by the bike racks after school, gazpacho, we’re going to settle this once and for all.

We would love to have a bounty of tomatoes. We planted 12 tomato plants in 6 different varieties so that we could spend the summer making panzanella, tomato sandwiches, tomato casseroles, and freeze enough tomato sauce to give Mario Batali a heart attack. Instead we got a few Early Girls and Pink Bertonas the size of golf balls, enough for a mouthful of bruschetta. And then they were gone. The Black Krims, our standout tomato from last year, the one we spent all winter dreaming about, swelled and cracked and burst open without ever ripening. They went from the vines to the compost pile. At least the worms got to eat them.

There’s a dark side to eating seasonally. Ideally, you are supposed to gorge yourself when something is in season and plentiful, so that by the time the first frost rolls down the mountain you never want to see a tomato again. But if you don’t overdose, if you don’t work your way through that entire stack of summer recipes that you have been looking forward to all year, then you wake up one morning with the leaves falling off the trees and an abundance of what the Japanese call mono on aware: the awareness that time is passing you by no matter how hard you try to stop the seasons in their tracks. Summer’s over. You want summer squash? You’ll find them at the grocery store, rubbery, limp, and exhausted. Knock yourself out.
The light gets softer. The air gets harder. We accept, adjust, embrace. We have no choice.

Massive and impenetrable winter squash arrive at the farmers market and we fill our bags. Olive oil gives way to butter. The Halloween candy returns to stores, in-between the pregnancy tests and marked-down baseball cards. We find ourselves craving pumpkin pancakes on the weekends, even though we’re not entirely sure those are something that exists, and if they do exist, we’re not entirely sure they should. The sweaters come down from the attic, the failed cucumber trellises go down into the basement, the cover crop seeds are ordered. And we go out into the ever-increasing dark, waiting for Orion to ascend Mt. Beacon once again.

Brian PJ & Kristen Cronin live in Beacon with their cats and garden. Check out their blog A Rotisserie Chicken and 12 Padded Envelopes at www.hvmercantile.com  and view more of their photos at www.flickr.com/teammoonshine.

by Luanne Panarotti

This fall, after a twenty-six year hiatus, I will return to school to begin work toward my M.Div. degree.  One could say I’m a late bloomer – a label I gladly embrace, knowing that there’s beauty in blossoming, whenever it may happen.

Coincidentally, late bloomers are exactly what my garden needs right now!  Perhaps yours does as well.  Years of falling for showy plants during the early part of the growing season have left my landscape lopsided, blooming from May through July, then falling into green monotone for the remainder of summer.

Rather than waiting until next year, fill in the bloom-time gaps in your gardens now, when your needs are most obvious and the proper plants are available. Garden centers stock plants when they are at their best, so a visit now will showcase the plants that reveal their true charm in late summer. The possibilities are numerous, and so tantalizing…

With the annual introduction of new cultivars, it’s hard to imagine ever tiring of the coneflowers (Echinacea). Deer resistant, drought tolerant and requiring no deadheading, this versatile genus also boasts an ever-growing range of colors and forms.  Try ‘Maui Sunshine’, with fragrant, bright yellow petals around orange centers, ‘Milkshake’, a creamy confection of off-white pompom blooms, or the fabulous ‘Big Sky Sundown’, whose broad petals in an ombre of rose, apricot and orange are reminiscent of a Western sunset.

If pink is more your preference, consider Sedum spectabile ‘Pink Bomb’, which forms neat mounds of drought tolerant, blue-green foliage and lovely blush flowers. Dwarf joe pye weed (Eupatorium dubium ‘Little Joe’) blooms from summer into fall, its large clusters of fragrant mauve flowers irresistible to butterflies and humans, but not to deer.  Allow flower heads to remain once they have gone to seed, as they provide both visual interest and nesting material for birds.

More in the mood to sing the blues?  Agastache foeniculum ‘Blue Fortune’ adds lovely texture and color to the garden, producing fuzzy, deep blue flower spikes from midsummer to early fall.  Crush its foliage to release a wonderful licorice scent.  Russian sage (Perovskia atriplicifolia) is a beautiful, resilient and long-blooming garden plant.  Its airy panicles of violet-blue flowers appear in mid-summer and continue into late fall, perfectly offset by lacy, fragrant silver foliage.

Sunny hues harmonize well with so many other colors in the garden. False sunflowers (Heliopsis helianthoides) are known for their long bloom season; the ‘Summer Sun’ cultivar has attractive, serrated foliage and semi-double, golden blossoms that make outstanding cut flowers. Legend has it that the first Helenium autumnale (Helen’s flower or sneezeweed) sprouted from soil watered by the tears of Helen of Troy.  From such mythical sadness has come a gardener’s delight, with silky fringed petals in a range of warm colors; try ‘Coppelia’ for rich, coppery-red blooms, or ‘Mardi Gras’, whose festive yellow petals are splashed with orange red, and whirled around deep brown centers.

Norbert Lazar, owner of The Phantom Gardener, is quick to remind us that flowers are not the only way to achieve color in the late summer garden. “Many plants have showy foliage in unexpected colors that can add interest well into fall.”  Thriving in both sun and shade, the Japanese blood grass Imperata cylindrical ‘Red Baron’ starts the growing season with sanguine tipping on green leaves, then deepens to rich red foliage as summer progresses. Golden sedge (Carex ‘Bowles Gold’) brightens any garden corner, its radiant yellow foliage edged in green.  Horticulturists have truly outdone themselves in developing new varieties of Heuchera, which enrich the garden palette with their foliage.  Interesting cultivars include ‘Caramel’, with gold, amber and pink-toned leaves, ‘Dark Secret’ with ruffled, midnight purple foliage, or the  sensational ‘Miracle’, whose young leaves emerge as bright chartreuse, then mature to brick red with gold edges and silver undersides.

Many shrubs offer color alternatives to the ubiquitous green backdrop for your perennials.  The Royal Purple smoke bush (Cotinus coggyria ‘Royal Purple’) sports oval, eggplant-hued leaves with red veins, margins and stems, turning scarlet in autumn. The dwarf golden threadbranch cypress (Chamaecyparis pisifera ‘Mops’) offers finely-textured foliage in vibrant gold throughout the year.  The leaves of the graceful Japanese variegated willow (Salix integra ‘Hakuro-nishiki’) are mottled in shades of white, pink and green, emerging from salmon-pink branches.

Perhaps the most wonderful thing about adding late-summer color to the garden is a secondary effect.  By extending the bloom season in your yard, you continue the feast for hungry bees, butterflies, moths and hummingbirds – especially important for those pollinators who store up reserves for the winter, or who need the energy boost as they prepare for migration.  In turn, they will add even more dynamic color to your landscape.

And people say “late bloomer” like it’s a bad thing….

Luanne Panarotti fills her days with work at The Phantom Gardener, preaching at area churches, mothering, cat wrangling, and cryptic crosswords.

by Laura Pensiero, photograph by Leonardo Frusteri

Wherever you live, try to source pastured beef from a local farm. There are numerous environmental and health-related reasons to do so, but let’s focus on flavor. Grass-fed or grass-finished humanely raised beef is untouchable in its level of quality. For burgers, look for ground chuck or round with 15 percent fat, 20 percent max; more is not better, it just drips into the grill. We buy our ground beef from Northwind Farm, where Richie, Jane, and their son, Russel, put enormous love and care into all their products.

Makes 4 servings

1 medium onion, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
11⁄2 pounds locally raised ground beef (antibiotic and hormone free)
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
1 tablespoon Old Bay Seasoning
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

In a medium skillet over medium heat, cook the onions and garlic in the olive oil until soft and lightly golden, about 7 minutes. Let cool. Mix the onions and garlic into the beef, Worchestershire, Old Bay and season with salt and pepper. Form four 6-ounce patties (larger burgers stay moist; suggest cooking them larger and splitting them if the portion is too large). Do not mash or press the patties together, simply wet your hands (to prevent the meat from sticking to them), then pat the meat together to 3⁄4-to-1 inch thickness. With your knuckles, make indented imprint in the center to help cook the burgers evenly and prevent the hockey puck look after cooking.

If grilling, thoroughly clean the grill rack and place it about 5 inches over the heat source. Preheat the grill to medium-high. With the grill covered and the vents opened, grill the burgers until nicely marked and cooked to your desired doneness (about 8 minutes total for medium-rare).

If pan cooking, heat a nonstick grill pan or cast-iron pan over high heat until very hot. Place the burgers on the pan, making sure there is space between them. Cook 4 or 5 minutes per side for medium-rare, or longer to the desired doneness.

Serving suggestion:
Enjoy hot off the pan or grill.

Variations:

• Summer: Garnish with sliced beefsteak or heirloom tomatoes, garden cucumber slices, roasted eggplant, or zucchini.

• Fall/winter: Try pickled vegetables or caramelized onions.

• Spring: Serve with baby lettuces, mache, watercress, caramelized leeks, or mushrooms.

• In any season: Offer great-quality breads or buns, onion slices, avocado, large crunchy lettuce leaves (bibb, Boston, Romaine), or locally made cheeses.

• Condiments for any season include locally made ketchups or BBQ sauces, gourmet mustards, tapenades, salsas, and pestos.

Nutrition:
Antibiotic- and hormone-free beef can fit into a healthy diet. It’s all about balance.

Economy: $$

Used with permission. Excerpted from “Hudson Valley Mediterranean” (pages 103-4) by Laura Pensiero, Chef/Owner of Gigi Trattoria in Rhinebeck and Gigi Market in Red Hook. Published by William Morrow, An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright 2009 by Laura Pensiero.

by Brian PJ and Kristen Cronin

We’re all familiar with the urban legend that Eskimos have dozens of names for snow; Webster’s Iñupiat Eskimo Dictionary alone lists 32. After that blizzard at the end of February, it’s safe to assume we all have a few more names for snow ourselves, and most of them couldn’t be printed in a family-oriented magazine such as this.

It started innocently enough with what the Iñupiats call nutagak, or powder snow. It quickly progressed to aniu (packed snow), then sillik (solid, crusty snow), before reaching the stage the Iñupiats call kimaugruk, the snow that cuts you off from the rest of the world. Trees came crashing down. Power lines sparked, died and fell into the street. The only lights around were the pale blue flashes from transformers blowing all over town. And the snow kept coming.

We grabbed the cats and the emergency weather radio and dove under the covers, determined to not go back outside until the snow had stopped. Then we looked out the window at the garden. The snow had already completely covered our two-foot-tall fence; if our homemade cucumber trellises hadn’t held on to act as lodestars, we would have had no idea where the garden even was. We worried about the perennials: the lavender, the rosemary, the creeping thyme. Would they be able to survive the sheer weight of all that snow?

We made one trip out to the garden, carefully pushing through the waist-high snow (mauya) until we hit the fence. Then we started scooping out handfuls of snow; when the snow began smelling like lavender and rosemary, we knew we were close. We uncovered the perennials and trudged back inside. An hour later, they were covered again.

lavender

In the end, we had to make the executive decision to let nature take its course. There are many areas further north that see three feet of snow all winter long; yet when the snow finally melts in the warmer months the wild vegetation returns all the same. If plants in the wild could survive this, then we had to assume ours could as well. We could only coddle them so much. When the snow finally melted two weeks later, the lavender was turning its branches towards the sun, ready to be pruned, its dried leaves still fragrant. On the first day of Spring there were new pale green branches working their way up from the earth.

Every year there is one last winter storm, ferocious enough to make you think that Spring will never return. And then a few weeks later you find yourself tripping over crocuses. Is there a word for this? The Inuit Eskimos of the Canadian Arctic famously never had a word for “robin” until climate change began bringing flocks of them to their villages, but the Nunamiut tribes of Northern Alaska have been spotting robins on their migratory paths for hundreds of years. Their word for them, koyapigaktoruk, carries with it an onomatopoeic sense of dumbfounded surprise that works well here. One day you wake up and find that Spring has come koyapigaktoruking along after all. Time to start the seeds.

Kristen & Brian PJ Cronin live in Beacon with their garden and cats. Kristen is the Communications & Marketing Associate for Safe Harbors of the Hudson in Newburgh, and Brian is the Development Associate for The Storm King School in Cornwall-on-Hudson. Check out their blog on this site, or visit flickr.com/teammoonshine to learn more

 
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