The Forager

by STEVE SPRINKEL

Kitty says: “Pause.”

Kitty looked at her field and said: “What You Got?” I said, “Not much, Catty. Stu ’s all small as kittens, ‘bout three inch tall.”

“Why’d you do that?” asks Catty, paws on hips, all saucy.

“I did not do anything nor did I nothing do, nor did a nothing do me.”

“I planted out as hoped, I asked plants as wanted. I husbanded as a mother.”

“But we still got we no crops for a short month.”

I got the plantings between rain storms and don’t expect me to moan about the rain because I will not bask in a sunny day and say it is wonderful. The only good weather is swirly clouds and showers, silver nimbus and then downpour wazoo. Will you people just park all that sunshine talk? I long again to be hubcap deep in a sticky quag, don’t you? I want to look at the dirt and instead have a murky puddle say back to me:

“Go home, Stucky-McMudtry. Pluck out your rubbers and marvel in the wee weeds breaking out in your crunchy paths.”

Pray then for water and FLOODED warnings. Gad, bring on the sandbags.

So we thus plan for mire in February. But the pause we promised has nothing to do with weather really, but the small near future.

And so we say: “No more the beautiful boxes of good we set Thursdays.”

The CSA program will cease in February and return in March. There is no gibberish in saying PAUSE plainly.

The money part explains that if you paid more dollars in advance then you should pay less in the short term of March, because February will not exist, at least as we know it. There will still be 12 months in a year, of course. I can’t change that, though I am tempted. I owe you or you owe me, maybe we’ll remember together. Don’t remind me about digging a divot as I pivot in a not-so-resilient whirl, revealing the true meaning of sustainability. I did not sustain. And this has little to do with true regeneration. Am I revealed as the human natural disaster, responsible for sudden food shortages, a boulder-strewn curve on the vegetable highway, a gas pump hung with a crooked sign scrawled “EMPTY,” dry electrical outlets that harbor no juice?

Oh what portent of doom! A day without lettuce!

And so we say: “No more the beautiful boxes of good we set Thursdays.” The CSA program will cease in February and return in March. There is no gibberish in saying PAUSE plainly. The money part explains that if you paid more dollars in advance then you should pay less in the short term of March, because February will not exist, at least as we know it. There will still be 12 months in a year, of course. I can’t change that, though I am tempted. I owe you or you owe me, maybe we’ll remember together. Don’t remind me about digging a divot as I pivot in a not-so-resilient whirl, revealing the true meaning of sustainability. I did not sustain. And this has little to do with true regeneration. Am I revealed as the human natural disaster, responsible for sudden food shortages, a boulder-strewn curve on the vegetable highway, a gas pump hung with a crooked sign scrawled “EMPTY,” dry electrical outlets that harbor no juice? Oh what portent of doom! A day without lettuce!

It’s been a good run, Hun. It’s been convenient to have something to do, even to look forward to, like beating the letter “A” so often with the ring finger on my left hand that you can’t tell what letter it is. The key is now a distant glowing supernova. My finger knows where in that galaxy “A” lives. The adjacent “shift” key is getting sort of vague too. At least “delete” seems safe.

The old farm patch calls for a shadow’s meaning every day. We swing out in the vaporous morning like a herd of cows heading for a taller pasture, nibbling dill and baby yukina on the side of the path, snapping that last broccoli stem before the flail nails it like giant hail.

You like a little spice, eh? How about that spiky arugula? This is the fourth cut if I don’t be wrong, and it’s a bit of a record, going back to the glory days of Angel Perea and the gory years of Texas trouble. There was plenty of Lone Star production until I got o my tractor one day and drove away. Don’t sanity feel good? Don’t you miss it, just a little? Some good old- fashioned lucidity with a dollop of trust?

If you can’t trust your own brain, what does that say about tomorrow?

That is one reason why I love Tuesday. Think about it. Isn’t Tuesday just about the nicest day in the whole weekly seven-card poker hand? Tuesday is so cool and a far cry from the rush of Friday or the playtime obligations of Saturday, which has become so fraught with impulse. Tuesday strolls about without the rev of Monday nor the insidious “hump” of Wednesday, and I have to say, Wednesday has grown tired of that nickname. He said it’s become pretty tiresome because recent research revealed that 35.7% of the people who mindlessly mouth the word “hump-day” immediately conjure a rather lascivious illustration. This is why, similarly speaking, that you so rarely run into someone named “Dick” any more. And that’s that Gwen! See ya later.

Story by Steve Sprinkel

www.farmerandcook.com