Organic in England

Mike asks me not to tell his pastor about the fartichokes. I don't think Peter would mind, really, given that he has most likely farted before (14 times a day on average or it comes out in your sleep, and that's science) and I bet, on occasion, he has even laughed at them. Ryan brings up this idea every now and again that Jesus' farts could have cured people. Sure, it's an odd area to focus on, but if God can forge the platypus as a final creation out of the dredge of evolution, if the Holy Spirit can work and grip my heart despite my often self-devouring narrative, and if–getting more Scriptural–Jesus' cloak can stop a woman from hemorrhaging, then I can only find it at least possible that his healing presence could be felt in that way, too.

So Mike is a big man, a farmer through-and-through, and we find him because we are hear to serve... whatever that means... and he needs a hand digging up fartichokes. To be more P.C., these are Jerusalem artichokes, though it is not P.C. because they have nothing to do with Jerusalem; rather, they are "sun-followers" whose scientific name sounds like "Jerusalem", and some historic record-keeper wrote it down wrong. Clifford is just as jovial as Mike, both about the same age, and both wearing the same fun British, paper boy-like hats that I totally cannot pull off, especially when I wore Kevin's much smaller clothes in addition to a hat like that and bothered Keri LaBrant at Stetson... fun, but not a shining moment for the history of those hats.

Anyway, Clifford is on the tractor, and he buries the nose of the artichoke digger in the snow and dirt. It's a smaller conveyer belt that I would have thought for such a big tractor, only about a foot across; the belt is made of metal rods which both yank the earth out and filter it out along the belt, leaving a trail of nicely-tilled earth with a bunch of little, knobby root vegetables on top. We follow behind, putting them into buckets, eventually eating three small ones for lunch, whereby Ryan and I, for the rest of the day, understand the reason for the nickname.

We experience a whiteout in all of the snow flurries, coming in when we finish what the tractor had dug, even though we could barely tell the artichokes from the frozen dirt in the snow. Our toes are frozen in our wellies, but we wish we could stay and get the whole crop into the wooden boxes which, when washed, become widened with sightless ice.

There is much triumph also in a different field. Ryan's snowman is coming along, and he makes one in front of the shop where Pam, Mike's wife, bakes for the Organic Farm Shop. We drop into the Shop and help prepare all of tomorrow's orders, should tomorrow's snow to be too difficult to drive in, for which we receive organic chocolate bars. We see many delicious vegetables, meats, and the 100% vegan dog food I've read about; though we determine that the dog on the front was probably smiling before it ate the dog food, and that only the owner was probably the only one made enthusiastic by the meal.

Finally, after a month of typing, the applications are done. Perhaps Columbia will be in the future, but for now it's the play, and the simple joy that, in light of the recession, Emerson has waived all application fees.