Let the record show...

...that during a recent three-mile run an oldish red Ford Taurus passed behind me with its window down. Honk. Honk. From the passenger side a young female voice declared with authority, "Nice booty!" and sped away. I can only assume it was some eastern european model as I did not get a clear look at my admirer.

That is all. Have a splendid day.

My Vegetative Domestic Kingdom

No, seriously. At some point I'm going to be a regular contributor to my own blog. Of course if you know me and know my upcoming schedule that's about to unfold, you're probably thinking of an acronym that goes something like GTFOH. But I'm trying. Sort of. A least a little bit.

Anyway, I've wanted to blog about Bertrand Farms for the past few months and finally got around to snapping some pictures of the root patch, which is my domain of beets, onions, radishes and other vegetables that people don't really like. Good thing we're such good producers because who wants more raspberries, peaches and strawberries, anyway? Oh wait, you do? And you? And you too? Figured. No offense taken. I don't even eat my own produce most weeks and there are a dozen beets that have turned into colorful paperweights in the fridge. Beets are the brussel sprouts of the vegetable kingdom.

You might notice that the picture on this post is not of beets or onions or radishes at all. That's because for how boring they are to eat, they do even worse in photographs. But if you're like to see a bunch of weeds mixed with crops that also might be weeds, I can post those pictures if you'd like. Until then, let me placate you with piglets. Everybody loves piglets. I have a couple small cows to call in as reserves if necessary. Or the horses eating carrots. There will be cooing, just not about beets.

At this point you may be wondering why a 31-year old sportswriter works on a farm, a.k.a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) when he could spend his summer golfing and repairing a house that's falling apart. Yeah, I wonder that too. But to combat the sometimes boredom and occasional listless of the college football off-season, I needed something to provide a little structure in my life. And considering I live in Indiana, I figured why not embrace my reluctant Hoosier roots. OK, so the farm is in Michigan, but whatever.

As you might imagine the kind of people attracted to work on at CSA usually read Esquire, drink gin and tonics and enjoy foreign films. Or perhaps they extoll the virtues or eating beef organs and poo-poo the use of toilet paper. Or maybe they worked as a vetrenarian in the Congo and had a child there while their wife had an infection in her leg, that turned out to be a maggot. Or maybe they're Mormons, lots and lots of Mormons. So you know, just your average American working the land. Food doesn't discriminate.

I'll save you a detailed description of how to rule the roots, where I'm known as "the expert" which is code for "you were here last year, right?" It's weeding. That's it. If you can weed, you can grow onions, carrots, kohlrabi and any other vegetable your mom made you eat before dessert. But when I say weeding, I don't mean popping out dandelions, I mean ripping out would-be shrubs. I mean getting down on your knees. I mean yanking until you can barely grip your steering wheel on the drive home. And most importantly, I mean weeding ALL THE TIME.

I once worked at a garden supply store, where part of my job was gathering shopping carts. I found this depressing work, whack-a-mole work that you never completed, you only took a break from when the store closed. Farm weeding has that perpetual-ness to it, just with dirt, rain and the threat that if you don't get those shopping carts fast enough they'll transform into Megatron and destroy the store. These weeds are vindictive, I tell you. They have dark souls. They haunt my dreams. They don't mind crowding out crops and denying the CSA patrons that sixth, seventh and eighth beet they deserved.

Then there's the fact I'm a beet farmer. And have a cousin Mose. And I wear short-sleeve dress shirts with ties. That took some getting used to.

By now I'm sure you're wondering how you can sign up for your local CSA. Don't worry, I have enough beets for all of us.