Hokkaido Fun

A leisurely stroll on the beach at Shikotsuko.

Last week took us up north to one of our favorite places - Hokkaido - to visit old friends and enjoy some time together in the snow. The trip did not disappoint. While we didn't make it to the Snow Festival, I didn't mind. We snow-shoed through deep woods and next to a river that poured out of a half-frozen waterfall and then slurped up steaming bowls of ramen. I took a long walk in the snow, enjoying that freezing feeling that invigorates me like nothing else and followed it up with a long soak in a local sento. While I'm glad to be home and excited to be going to Nepal, I'm so very grateful for those days of real winter.

Thursday Snapshot: Ume Blossoms

Ume blossoms to cheer any day.

This past weekend I went for a walk in the nearby mountains in search of snow and some solace. Winter is a hard time for me to be away from home. I pine for bitter cold weather that makes the landscape glitter and crackle, for stars that shimmer in a midnight blue sky. So when I saw snow clouds gathered in the west and beginning to shroud the nearby Tanzawa Range, I decided to bundle up and climb to meet an old friend.

I met just a few flakes, none of which stayed long, but I was grateful. For company I had the mountain birds, many of which are returning to start new families and sing their way through the daylight. I also met these lovely ume blossoms, which are not snow, but shimmer with a special life all their own. I was grateful.

My Essay at Elohi Gadugi Journal

A brilliant sunset over Silver Lake.
Portage, Wisconsin

I occasionally branch out from words on farming and gardening to write about my experience living abroad. Each year my husband and I journey home to the United States from our home in Japan. It is wonderful and arduous all at once. It is physically and emotionally exhausting, but I wouldn't trade the opportunity to meet family and friends face-to-face for anything in the world. You can read the essay here, and I hope you enjoy it.

Reprise: To market, to market

Planting garlic at Frog Holler.
I've no photos from the Ann Arbor farmer's market, so this will have to do!

As we pack up this chapter of our lives, I'm feeling a bit sentimental. Usually we go home in February to see friends and family, but this year we stayed put to have time to wrap things up. My farming life is changing once again, and so I ventured back in time to one of the places that truly inspired me and taught me a great deal about the everyday workings of this growing life. I'll always be grateful. Written in 2008 just before we came to Japan, this is a bit of a window into that time and what I was up to. It was such good fun! - JB

While it was still fresh in my memory, I wanted to recount a usual trip in to the Farmer's Market as a vendor. It's been a great summer, and market is easily one of my favorite parts. While I did tire at times of people asking for plastic bags to go in their canvas bags or wincing at a fair price for an organic potato, I still loved it and am a little sad I won't be going next week. It's an amazing experience and so much fun.

I get picked up a little bit after 5am in the rumblely truck, and we make our way in to the city. The soft glow from the dashboard gives a bit of light to our faces as we make our way from dirt to pavement, and then carefully calculate the turns so as not to spill things from the shelves in the back. Conversation is challenging at that time of the morning, and floats along streams of the ridiculous, mundane, or onto any random story that comes to mind. Anything to keep the driver and passengers awake enough to function when we finally arrive at the market.

Tall yard lights illuminate barns and buildings, and the occasional yellow of a lamp fills a farmhouse window. Old people who cannot sleep and young people who rise to do whatever chores need doing move in the light. We finally greet another vehicle when we hit pavement, but often only one or two. The closer we get to the Interstate, the brightness heightens signifying commerce – gas stations, billboards, parking lots – and the few homes that are visible are dark. The Interstate is busy with other morning travelers. Once we near the city, darkness becomes a soft roof supported by streetlights and stoplights. The mostly empty streets are visible.

As we turn onto the market street, the pavement fills with cars, large and small trucks, and people moving quickly and purposefully. The cobblestone street is narrow here and vehicles and people line both sides. The stalls are lit and the bustle of vendors setting things out and preparing for the customers that will hopefully find their wares and prices irresistible. We move slowly as we circle the block.

Each week backing the truck in presents a nuanced challenge. The puzzle of vehicles – trucks, station wagons, vans, and sometimes garbage and recycling bins left outside too far from the building by the restaurants inside the small shopping center the market rests against on one side - varies in difficulty. I leap out to help guide the driver all the way back to the corner, moving bins and helping position the truck for easy unloading and loading and to not block a footpath. After what feels like forever and always with my heart in my mouth, the ignition is switched off and unloading begins.

Boxes of lettuce, beets, cauliflower, broccoli, salad mix, three kinds of kale, collards, celery, peppers sweet and hot, potatoes, winter or summer squash, yellow and green beans, cucumbers, carrots, four different kinds of basil, two kinds of parsley, sorrel, arugula, dill, cilantro, sometimes mint, strawberries in June, corn in August and September, heirloom tomatoes from late June through early October, and average tomatoes, and Swiss chard. Oh, and garlic, leeks, onions green and storage. And cabbage – green, red, and Chinese. Bok choi, too.

Then come the tables, and the milk crates for making a main table, the side table when we need it, and the stocking table in back. Bags paper and plastic, and the scale. Two signs – one that hangs and one that sits behind against the tree – to signal our presence and our practices, and finally us. Pint and quart containers are filled with potatoes – red and white, tomatoes regular not heirloom, beans, summer squash, and carrots. Greens go on the far end with their bunched stems to the customer for easy picking – curly, dinosaur, then Russian kale, Swiss chard and then collards - followed by beets, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, and celery – plant or root, if we have it. Then quarts of beans nearly overflowing but not quite, line up and are stacked to tempt with their bounty, pints and quarts of potatoes red and white, large and small, followed by summer squash and cucumbers in season. The peppers jumble together here, too, with their greens, reds, and yellows, while the habeneros, cayennes red and purple, seranos, jalapenos, and tiny Thai burn quietly in a quart for 25 cents each. The watermelon sit heavily in back sending forward only one or two representatives.

Multiple varieties of lettuce heap onto the table and drip down the sides. Buttercup, oak leaf red and oak leaf green, rose lipped green ruffles, and romaines all ready for the taking. The herbs go next to them, sometimes identified with signs, and sometimes without. (Each Saturday Italian parsley has an identity crisis as many people assume it is cilantro, and then set it down again when they hear it is not.) The fish bowl of salad mix signals the freshly snipped tubs are still full, and then the garlic hugs the corner of the table. Heirloom tomatoes, stem end down, array themselves – Striped Germans, Brandywines, Roses, Purple Cherokees, Black Crim, Green Zebras, Amish Pastes, Voloklovs – to tempt and delight the curious and the connoisseur. (These are all but a bittersweet memory now.)

And then we wait. In the lull we greet those in the stall next to us, talk with other growers, and run to the restroom. We drink the last, cooling dregs of coffee or tea. In summer, the sky is already lightening, but now the darkness hangs over until nearly 8am.

As the light increases, so does the flow of people. Early morning shoppers are more intent, quiet, and tend to be a bit older. Later shoppers float along to find a good price and see what the market offers, but our regulars simply arrive and move along the table filling their bags. New buyers come when they see something interesting like celery or celery root, and they suddenly must have it. Beets enjoyed a burst of fame this summer after good press in the New York Times, and we still struggle to keep the table stocked with them. Carrots, too, fly off the table, and curly kale almost never returns to the farm. Garlic, onions, leeks, and broccoli are never seen again along with the beans and strawberries.

Our speed also increases as the morning moves along, until we do nothing but stock the table, tally numbers, fill bags, and make change. We hear how someone cooks something (like celery root, my latest mystery vegetable) or discuss how to cook something they have never seen before but are still drawn to purchase. But mostly we are steady movement, flowing from table to table, task to task, and somehow never much running into each other or knocking down boxes.

The light increases and the air warms. The sea of people flows around us with apples, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, peaches, pears, watermelon, flowers in bouquets or pots, coffee, pastries, eggs, and meat. They leave the stream to stop and look, ask for something to be identified and about prices. Some wince in what appears to be near physical pain, others voice their disgust at the cost. Others feel no qualms in telling us about their dissatisfaction with the appearance of a vegetables natural growth pattern – the bulging of a tomato so full of sun and rain that it’s skin can hardly contain it or the embrace of a carrot so vigorous in growth that it wrapped around itself – that I wonder what it is they hope for. Others laugh out loud at the potato that looks like a face and marvel at the brilliance of colors in the stalks of Swiss chard. Many return to say they never tasted a lettuce so wonderful or made such fine pesto. Many buy multiples to freeze or can so that the sweet taste of summer is carried to dinner on a cold winter evening.

Our stock dwindles and so one table and then two disappear. The last lettuce sits lonely and limp with a few stray parsley, and pints of potatoes and a small herd of peppers. Bits of the salad mix – stray violas, now flat radicchio, a last curling bit of endive – are scattered about the ground. The truck is again full, but this time of mostly empty boxes and tubs, unless the tomatoes are in full swing. Then the flats of tomatoes seem endless, and return to the shelves if they ever even left initially. Women with heavy accents come to barter. The food we grow moves on to be eaten and enrich the lives of those who purchase it. Ultimately, one of our goals is achieved.

Sleep scratches the edges of our eyes as we sweep up and begin the drive home. Conversation about the market, food, the day, and anything that springs to mind again fills the cab. Hot sunlight pours in to roast us and help sleep try to find an advantage. Turns are not always so carefully made and the spill of boxes is often audible. The tomatoes remain, mercifully, fixed in place and safe.

City streets turn to Interstate to state highway to country roads paved and then dirt. Finally, in a cloud of diesel and waking exhaustion, I spill out the door to the end of the driveway where it all began. Despite the late afternoon hour, I feel as though I just left and the day is just beginning.

Thursday Snapshot: My First Garden

A snapshot of my first garden in Michigan.
Spring, 2002.

We moved to rural Michigan in the spring of 2002 after I finished graduate school. An old farmhouse on family property stood in need of inhabitants, and we wanted to give country life a go. Family and friends supported my new-found interest in growing and preserving food, lending books and spending steamy afternoons preparing tomatoes for canning. I killed some seedlings and managed to see others through to the first hard frost. I learned to make pesto and dreamed about making jam. The next year the garden, literally, jumped the fence. I grew my first popcorn and squash and made forays into the world of canning. It was spectacular fun that I obviously haven't been able to give up.

Thursday Snapshot: My Dad and Gooby

Dad and Gooby.
February, 2011

I don't often share pictures of a personal nature here, but my Dad has a birthday this month. We haven't been able to be home with him to celebrate in a long time. If we were there, there'd be brats on the grill, euchre around the table, a fair bit of trash-talking, and best of all, my Dad's laugh. It's not a belly laugh, but there is a rather 'Ho-ho-ho' quality to it, and to see his face wide with delight is a lovely thing. He's quiet but full of stories, and if you get him at the right time he'll start telling them and not stop. I love that, too. I'm not going to wax on and on about memories of summer afternoons fishing (mostly trout and bluegills) or meals out (Friday Night Fish Fry) or anything of that nature. I'll just say he's a good guy and I'm glad he's my dad.

Here he's pictured with Gooby, our Kazakhstan cat who passed away this February. She was quiet too, but full of her own stories and fun. This picture captures both of their characters rather well, I think, and never fails to make me smile.

The Blogathon and My Writing Life

Inspiration blooms with the Blogathon.
Hanashobu as arranged by Mita-san's mother.

Each year, usually in May, I participate in the Blogathon. Organized by freelance journalist extraordinaire, Michelle Rafter, the Blogathon requires just one thing: a post every day. It's both as easy as it sounds and as difficult. There certainly were days where my Muse hid herself incredibly well,  but mostly the Blogathon got me rolling and writing. I elaborate on this in greater detail in a guest post on WordCount, Michelle's blog, about How the Blogathon Changed My Writing Career.

And that's what I wanted then and that's what I want now. The registration form asks participants what their number one goal is for this year, and I think mine is to push myself again this year, to find that nugget of interest that seems to appear each time. (The Blogathon is where the farmer's market calendar was born and where I found my usual three weekly post routine.)  Since that first one four years ago I've seen a number of changes happen in my writing life, many of them due to the Blogathon. Who knows what this year will bring?

What I Live For: All the Little Things

A good strong cup of coffee at the Kamakura Farmers Market.

Satya Robyn, a talented and prolific writer out of the UK, periodically poses a question or idea for writers to respond to that is often related to a recent book of her own. I participated in this global conversation previously when I wrote about my most beautiful thing. It was fun and thought-provoking, and helped me find the motivation I needed just then to get back to work in the garden.

Satya's most recent group write answering the question "What do you live for?" took place on Friday, May 10th. It clashed with my weekly publication of the Tokyo farmers market schedule, so it got pushed back. Those growers and producers and customers need each other more than I need to post on time. Now, however, the new week is underway. Time to share what I live for.

This question turned out to be a bit more difficult than I anticipated. When I really sat down to think about what it was that I live for, what gets me out of bed or puts the spring in my step, it was difficult to pin it down. My beloved spouse is an obvious choice and goes without saying. Writing and farming are the other two, of course, that I think about most, that I wake up in the night with ideas and worries about that I have to jot down before they disappear. But somehow those didn't seem like exactly the right answer, either.

I think what I really live for, other than the aforementioned, are the other moments. Like when the sky turns a certain shade of orange with blue gray clouds rippling through it or when I have a particularly good conversation with friends, old or new. Then there's the hour spent with a good book. The well-turned phrase, whether in a poem or an essay by Joan Didion or a chapter on beneficial soil bacteria, can make me catch my breath. And let's not forget the pure pleasure of a bubbling pot of jars bright with jam or pickles, the smell of a new recipe cooking away, the pleasure of the experiment and even the taste of failure.

And there's more. The satisfaction of working a new knitting pattern in fresh yarn or a favorite color. A walk in the woods or a mountain hike. Summer bike rides and new vistas and old vistas and deep snow and spring flowers and prairie grass golden in the fall and rhubarb's bright red fist next to the yellow crocus and blueberries fresh from the bush. A good run, a strong cup of coffee. The look, feel, and sound of the pen on this page. (I wrote this out long-hand early this morning with that strong coffee next to me on the table.) Phone calls with my parents and playing with cats. Good beer by a friends wood stove and board games with another one's two sons. Old photographs of family and that bittersweet feeling they always leave behind. The geranium blossom and a bird landing on the balcony rail. The neighbor's cat in the window watching the bird. Scrabble with Grandma and bonfires on the hill. Sharp cheddar cheese and my mother's ginger snaps.

The list is clearly endless. The bees in the norabo blossoms and laughing with my farmers as we work. Learning a new word. There isn't just one thing that I live for, but rather it's the whole of life in all its glorious color and texture. I live for all of it, all of those things that appear like pretty shells and stones on the beach after each roll of the waves. I have my dark days, of course, but I realize now that I'm surrounded by a beauty so rich and varied that I'm smiling as I write. (And again as I type out these words.) On and on it goes, and I'm so grateful for them all and all the things I can't write here because, Reader, you'd fall asleep. So, before I give in and carry one with my list, what is it, Reader, that you live for?

Happy New Year

Early bloom spotted on a recent hike.

The New Year has arrived, and we rang it in with a visit to a local temple, some tasty treats with friends, a good walk, lots of phone calls, and a round of candied yuzu peel from a recent batch of yuzu shu just before bed. Oh, and a little writing, too. (My advice? Always add in the water from the blanching for better flavor. These aren't bad, but they're not as yuzu-y as the first ones.) Hope 2013 brings much joy and peace and civil conversation. (As an American, that last one feels like the most important...)

Seasonal Jet Lag in the Garden

Bee in last of the basil flowers. Who am I to deny his harvest?

After three years of gardening and farming in Tokyo, I should be accustomed to the turn of seasons. I should know that these hot September days belie the fact that cooler temperatures are coming, but I just can't believe it. My Midwestern seasonal sensibilities tell me otherwise. Vaguely lower temperatures (88-degrees versus 90-degrees) don't seem much different in the blazing sun as I sweat similar amounts whether working in the fields or trying to write at home. Winter is a far-away land, a dream. To my Midwestern self, summer remains firmly entrenched. My beet and kale seeds will surely protest. My inner calendar remains out of sync. It's a sort of seasonal jet-lag.

Since returning from China I've gone to the garden every day. Four weeks off in total - two in Hokkaido and two in China - meant a long list of chores. My first day back, Takashi-san told me what I already knew: "It's time to get ready for winter vegetables. Summer is over."

Intellectually, I understand that he is right, but I still struggle each year, each season.

My biggest problem is that there are still viable plants in the garden. It goes against my inner grain to pull up a still blooming marigold or basil plant and toss it on the compost heap. I have the same problem in spring when my komatsuna and other greens bolt and blossom. Green life is a beautiful thing that my eyes and soul feast on in all forms. My garden is not a utilitarian space devoid of aesthetic pleasures, although tidier folks will heartily disagree. The bees and pollinators are so happy, the flowers so pretty (and edible) that it seems foolish and wasteful to remove them. Am I lazy? Am I just a poor planner? Does this make me a bad farmer? Am I just a gardener? (No offense intended by that last question. I'm having a green-thumb identity crisis.)

The corn and daizu were easy - they had finished up before we left for Hokkaido and I let them dry standing. I cut off the corn stalks before heading to China and laid them out to dry. The daizu I simply left standing. When we returned, the beans rattled in the pods (two plants of heirloom varieties still stand, though, as they are too green yet) and the stalks were pretty much ready to be chopped up and added to the rejuvenating layer of the lasagna bed. I'll plant the garlic in about a week or so.

Lone watermelon with sunflower and daizu in background.

The same was true of the watermelon. I returned to find eight luscious lovelies lolling about in their fruity and vegetative come hither way. I gave away four and ate one with friends. The remaining two are destined for my stomach and the tatami master who kindly passed me another seven old mats the other day to finish lining the path and cover over the newly topped up lasagna bed where the garlic will go. (My idea is that they'll prevent some erosion from promised rains and speed fermentation.) These final pushes of summer heat dried the vines in short order before I added them to the lasagna cum garlic bed.

Standing beside the row, I console myself with the fact that those marigolds and basil will mulch the rhubarb, and that the handful of green tomatoes will be a tasty dinner experiment. I think how beautiful and delicious the purple daikon will be and how happy I will be to cut fresh greens for our winter salads. I think of the seed tray I'll be starting this morning of kales and calendula, and how lovely they will be. I look at the nira blooming nearby and some tall graceful weed with lavender blooms going gangbusters in my wild west wall bed. "Those pollinators will be just fine," I think as I bend to cut and pull.

Marigolds beautifully mulching the rhubarb.

Then the butterflies arrive. Not the white cabbage moths that party like college freshmen on my lavender, but a majestic black and white fellow nearly the size of my palm lands on the basil flower. A smaller orange and black one drifts over shortly after to see what the marigolds have to offer. And now I see a busy group of tiny bees working away at those same blossoms, and I feel guilty and sad. Who am I to remove these things in the name of seasonal progress? What does that mean, anyway?

I let an afternoon shower shoo me home. I plan to go back and map out the winter beds. Surely, a concrete vision will give me the gumption to do what should be done. But here I am with no map yet drawn and butterflies on my mind.

Guest Post: Strawberry Season

Savoring the strawberry season - oh, yeah!

I was lucky enough to meet Dona Bumgarner during the course of the 2012 Blogathon. She writes of her experience and reflections on being a mother and a gardener at Aubergine. Today she shares her thoughts on raising a child with a taste for seasonal fare. Enjoy!

Oh, and you can see what I wrote about finding inspiration here, there, and everywhere over at her blog!

My daughter's first solid food was a yellow nectarine. I was eating it while I walked around the farmer's market on a hot August afternoon last summer and she rode on my chest in her Ergo carrier.

I didn't think she was paying attention to what I was eating until she reached up and plucked the fruit from my hand just as I was about to take a bite. She was six months old and had four teeth by then, but she wasn't really interested in food for nourishment yet.

She gripped it in both hands and held it to her mouth, sucking the juice and exploring the texture with her tongue. She loved it. There was no way I was going to get that nectarine back from her.

Our family is lucky to live on the central coast of California where the mild weather allows a usually long growing season and where organic farming practices are the norm rather than the exception. We have several year-round farmer's markets to choose from and more that run during the height of the growing season.

Our decision to eat locally-produced food came from a desire to reduce our carbon footprint as well as to invest in our own local economy. The unexpected benefit is that we eat mostly fruits and vegetables that are in season. Studies have shown that eating this way is best for our health, but we do it because it feels - and tastes! - really good.

Have you ever eaten a tomato straight off the vine in July, warm from the sun and bursting with juice? Compare that to eating one of the bland and unnaturally bright red tomatoes from the supermarket in December and you will understand what I mean.

During the first year my daughter was an eater I introduced her to new foods as they came into season. She mouthed the last of the stone fruits last summer. We ate slices of pear in the fall and I roasted winter squashes cut into large chunks that she could hold herself. In winter we discovered she loved mandarin oranges and my avkolemeno soup with the tang of lemon, but can't stand the texture of an avocado.

She learned how to use her new teeth to scrape clean the leaf of an artichoke when they were plentiful in January, and ate tender steamed asparagus spears by holding them in her fist like a breadstick in February. In March she samples fresh sweet peas straight from the pod in her grandmother's garden and in April she tried her first strawberry.

That first berry came from Windmill Farms. This Dutch farmer has land in the middle of an urban neighborhood and grows the best strawberries I've ever eaten. They are small and sweet and deep red all the way through. He sells out every week, even though he arrives with a tower of berry flats that seem endless.

I squatted down in front of her stroller with my prized basket of berries and offered her one. She took it from my hand and turned it over, examaning it. It was shiny and plump and a delicious shade of red. She took a tiny bite and raised her eyebrows like she does when she's excited about something. The she mashed the whole berry into her mouth and bit down so the juice ran down her chin. She chewed and swallowed and signed emphatically, "More, more!"

This is the kind of eater I want to raise: One who loves good food and understands where it comes from. One who will pick cherry tomatoes with me from the garden in July. One who will visit the market with me each week and get to know the farmers. One who will be excited for the best peaches when they come ripe in August and pick wild blackberries for jam in the last days of summer.

One who will sit with me on the curb on a sunny April day and gorge on the season's first perfectly ripe strawberries until red juice runs down both of our chins.

Leave a comment and tell me about your family's favorite seasonal treats.

Doña Bumgarner is a writer, mom, and gardener.  She is currently loving the bustle of the summer market and sunny days in the garden with her toddler. You can find her musings on motherhood in midlife, among other things, on her blog, Aubergine.

A Break in the Rain

Yama ichigo pre-devourment

The rain stopped yesterday long enough for us to haul the futons out into the sun, and then grab two good friends and head west into the mountains. My head is swimming at the moment with writing assignments, new responsibilities at old jobs, and trying to figure out my next step. A mountain trek full of steep inclines, smells of damp cedar, views of distant ranges, and a fair amount of sweat sounded perfect.

Stick bug or tobinanafushi.

And it was. I can't say I found answers or got any writing done, but it was a perfect day that regrounded me some. Plus, it reminded me that I better get off my duff and start training for our trip to Hokkaido this August. Oof.

Oh, and I should mention this is the same hike where I found charcoal for sale. This time I bought a bag!

Cool plant along trail. Know it?

Another 31 Done

Some of Koyasan's many moss-covered Buddhas.

It's hard to believe the Blogathon is over already. As always, there is some relief and some sadness. Relief that the pressure is off to post every day, and sadness that the other 250 (give or take) people I've been working with this month will wander off into their own electronic lives. There's also, to be frank, some sadness that the pressure to post every day is off, too. I work better with firm deadlines and the prospect of a stern tone. Perhaps that's the result of my Midwest upbringing.

And as usual I'm coming away with more than a few lessons learned over the course of the month. Here are the highlights.

1. I'm actually pretty good at this. 
OK, I usually don't toot my own horn quite so much, but I seriously find that I enjoy reading my own writing and that my content is good. I work hard to not put up fluff material just to fill the space, and I spend a fair amount of time researching my content. Crafting the paragraphs is getting faster, but I still work carefully to make sure the words flow well to produce an image or feeling I think readers can relate to and enjoy. I may only have a handful of followers, but if those folks are going to take the time to read what I've got to say the least I can do is give them my best.

2. I love writing this blog.
This goes with the first one, but I think it's important to say directly. Writing this blog helps me sort out the things I'm doing in the garden, on the farm, and in the kitchen, and tie them all together. I throw in a bit of travel now and again because everywhere is something to taste, to see, and to share. There are those that pooh-pooh blogging, but this month helped me clarify that I don't agree with them. I might just be another voice in the wilderness (of my garden, that is), but I'm creating community, sharing what I think is relevant, and hopefully offering a bit of enjoyment to boot.

3. Scheduling is invaluable.
I wrote about this earlier, but I've found it such a brilliant thing that it's worth mentioning again. Sitting down to write out a basic schedule of things I want to write about for the month was clarifying, fun, and helped me remember the many things I wanted to talk about here. Most of all it helped me and my Muse work out a balance in our schedules, and there's something to be said for that.

4. I'm not writing in a vacuum.
The community of blogging and writing is wonderful, and through the Blogathon I've met some really great people doing impressive things. Many of them have commented here, written guest posts for me, and helped me grow as a person and as a writer. That may sound trite, but it is true. Such encouragement and feedback has improved the quality of my writing, given me focus, and made this whole process more enjoyable. Others stop by to tell me they decided to visit a farmers market based on my recommendation or to say they like what they see enough to ask me to write for or with them. How happy a thing is that?

5. I suspect I could do this the other 11 months of the year.
While this month was challenging, it was not as impossible as I thought it would be at the beginning. And I enjoyed it. Now, I'm thinking that maybe I could do this the remainder of the year. Maybe. As I ponder upcoming travel plans to China (so excited!), Tohoku, and Hokkaido, I wonder if I'm crazy. But then, isn't that just more things to write about every day? Hmmmm...

Five Blogging Lessons Plus One

Mita-san's father's awesome chopstick rest.

I missed one of the Blogathon theme days while in America last week, and so I'm opting to share my thoughts on the group topic today instead. The question posed to the group was, "If you began blogging today, what would you do differently?"

I started this blog to prove to myself that I could still write a series of paragraphs in a compelling and meaningful way. I worked at a non-profit back then where most of my writing consisted of bullet points, brief emails, and letters to donors and volunteers. It was good work and I loved it, but I worried that I'd lost the one skill I truly loved: my ability to write. Since that day more than three years ago, I find myself writing nearly every day either here or in my journal. Articles, reviews, and more come pouring out and I'm grateful for each word as it emerges. I learn something new every day. And if I were to start today, here are a few things I might do a bit differently.

1. Use photos with every post. 
My earliest posts didn't always use pictures, and looking back over them now they simply look dreary. The information is pretty good, but without an enticing visual the posts lose me almost immediately.

2. Create a schedule and write regularly.
Writing is hard work and ideas don't come in a flash. Yet, a blogger needs to post regularly to get readers and keep their attention. Sporadic posts don't exactly inspire or impress. Even the most dedicated readers will stop checking back if the posts become too infrequent.

3. Schedule topics.
This Blogathon felt particularly daunting as my schedule is busier than ever with farming, other writing assignments and Japanese lessons. Let's not even think about the various fruit and vegetables ripening even as I type and crying out to be pickled, jammed, or shu-ed. I made a schedule that kept me focused, allowed me to write ahead, and didn't leave me crying out for my Muse in despair.

4. Focus.
Honestly, I still struggle with this one. I write about gardening, farming, food, and travel, which is about three topics too many. I should choose one and run with it, but then I always find something intriguing to write about in regards to one of the other three. I'm learning to narrow these things down, i.e. travel writing here about gardening and farming places I visit, but I still remain a bit scattered. If only the world wasn't such an interesting place!

5. Move to a more professional look.
I'm in the process of shifting things to a more official looking and sounding website, which is something I should have done much earlier. Better late than never.

6. Spend more time networking.
I know I'm only supposed to do five, but I always like bonus tracks. If I were starting out today, I'd spend more time reading and exploring other blogs. The Blogathon is quite good for that, but I should be doing it more the other eleven months of the year, too. I never regret it, and I often meet people and learn things I never would have discovered otherwise. Plus, it gets them reading and commenting on my blog, too. Heavens, what's not to gain?

Blogathon Theme Day: Five Movies that Influenced My Blog

Sake glass in Yanaka Cemetery, December, 2011

Just like last year's first theme day - Five Favorite Writing Books - I found myself a bit stumped for this post. We don't watch as many films as we used to, and I tend to doze off now when we do. (I'm not that old, but I am that busy, I guess.) When we moved to rural Michigan in 2002, theaters were a goodly drive away and we didn't have a television. (We haven't had one, actually, since 1995. No regrets.) The Clinton Theater opened a year or so later, and we gladly went along to support that historic venue's efforts. It was in those days, too, that this blog began. All this is to say that movies do influence my writing and my life now and again, and I'll share a few here that sprang to mind for this theme.

Big Night (1996) - This was the first movie I saw that told its story via food as well as culture. And the music was fantastic. I began to think about food in a whole new way - as part of heritage, as a beautiful thing, as something to be passionate about. Near the same time we joined our first CSA and I met Swiss Chard, burdock, and a bounty of other vegetables fresh from Henry's Farm. Henry's family shared recipes and the stories of how they came to be in a weekly newsletter that I still have in a box in America somewhere. Something in me woke up then, started stirring the pot of my imagination as I pored over those recipes and started experimenting on my own with growing things and food combinations.

My Neighbor Totoro (1988) - I saw this movie before we moved to Japan and loved it. We picked it up somewhat randomly from the library, I think, and were enchanted. The imagery, the sentiment, and the story were utterly charming. It's the kind of story that makes you wish it was true. It hurts to see it end, and then you're sure it must be true because how could something so wonderful not be? I think it made me even more determined to be an organic gardener, and probably even set me on the road to permaculture that I seem to be traveling now. A slightly disorderly looking space is full of cozy green nooks and crannies that Totoro would find inviting, and chemicals of any kind would only hurt him. Clearly, I could choose no other path.

Super Size Me (2004) - Eden Foods, headquartered in nearby Clinton, sponsored a free showing of this movie at the Clinton Theater in an effort to raise awareness of America's growing food crisis. Each showing was packed to the brim, and we, of course, went. Morgan Spurlock graphically illustrated what fast food was doing to us as a people, as individuals, and as a community. I was sick to my stomach and in my heart. I still can't eat at McDonald's, truth be told. The silver-lining of the evening, though, was a 'first date' with a couple who farmed nearby and remain among our closest friends to this day. There'd be no marmalade, eggplant pickles, or probably even much a garden if it wasn't for Ambry Farms and Morgan Spurlock.

The Secret Garden (1993) - I saw a BBC version of this when I was a kid still living at home with my mother. (We were big into PBS then.) I, unfortunately, hated gardening much to my mother's disappointment, but I loved books and reading and this was a great story. (I also had a budding passion for England based on a youthful enthusiasm for Sherlock Holmes and anything considered a 'classic.') I still remember Mary Lennox joyfully digging in the beds, seeing the first white snowdrops, and wandering about this green place that was all mysterious and a child's dream where anything seemed possible. I suppose, now that I'm writing this, that it's not so different than Totoro. I still want to shape my garden into something wild like Mary's was, so alive with possibility, dreams, and joy in the little things.

Big Fish (2003) - Ewan McGregor is cute as a bug's ear, I have to say, and that made this movie even more endearing, although I had no idea he was even in it when I walked through the door of the Clinton Theater that night. We were living in rural Michigan, and I needed to get out of the house. I went alone (a not unusual practice as solitude in those days didn't happen very often and I deeply craved it) and sat in the dark as the tale unfolded before me. I like a bit of fantastic realism (I think life is richer, really, for such fantasies and who's to say whether these things are any more or less real than what I see before me? I can't see the bacteria and fungi working away in my compost bin or soil, but they are there supporting my efforts to grow, literally and figuratively, and setting good food on our table daily.) and I'm not above a good romance, either. I cried like a baby as rich story-telling and beautiful imagery swept my heart away and helped me remember how vibrant life is. I suppose it is what I hope to give my readers a taste of, too.

Ok, so let's hear tell of a movie that influenced your writing, farming, gardening, or whatever it is that you do.

My Most Beautiful Thing

My garden this spring. Beautiful in a homely sort of way these days.

I've actually been thinking about this for a long time. And it was surprisingly hard to choose one most beautiful thing. Really, there are so many things - large and small, living and inanimate -  in my life that are beautiful, ranging from the tiny little bee I spotted in the calendula this morning to the blueberry blossoms on the patio to my rain-spattered violas. And then there are the people in my life, of course, beautiful in such a myriad of ways that it would be impossible to choose just one. (Although, surely, my husband will make a case for being at the top of the list.) In short, I realized as I mulled over this post inspired by Fiona Robyn over at Writing Our Way Home and her My Most Beautiful Thing Blogsplash, that I had enough most beautiful things to write about one every day for a month if not a year.

My final choice, of course, will be no surprise: my garden. Imperfect as it is at the moment (it is spring and it has recently been a bit neglected) it is without a doubt my most beautiful thing. The bright yellow blossoms on the haksai (Chinese cabbage) smell softly like honeysuckle, and the sight of so many bees and other friendly pollinators congregating there gives me pleasure beyond belief. The vivid red stems of the Swiss Chard glow with sunlight and I can almost taste Maan's soup as I gather a bundle to take home. The new leaves of the beans planted a little over a week ago harvest light in their little living solar panel way, and I look forward to seeing the orchid-like blossoms that come with summer's approach. The rhubarb stands tall and thick as it tries to get my attention near the blooming strawberry plants. "How about some jam?", they ask as I ponder my schedule and mentally tally the canning jars on the bottom shelf in the kitchen.

Below ground, too, is plenty to give me pleasure. The worms wriggling with shock at the sudden intrusion of sunlight as I planted seed potatoes (blue and pink varieties!) mean my soil is busy with life and that those nasty nematodes may be on their way out. The smell of the soil as I covered the potatoes over again and marked each spot with a broken off twig is equal to that of my mother's coffeecake on a Sunday morning for the happiness I feel at the first whiff. Both mean good things for the future that can be shared, and that's a source of pleasure all its own, too.

My garden in Japan is a joy, too, because of Takashi-san and C-chan, the farmers I work with and who let me carve a little growing space out of a corner of their fields. We work together at all hours over the course of the year in all seasons to plant, to harvest, to weed, and to prepare the fields for the next round. Tokyo is warm enough that the growing season simply never stops, so we carry on because the vegetables and the farm's faithful customers need us to. It's gratitude and happiness I feel to have such good companions and teachers.

Granted, my most beautiful thing doesn't fit in a drawer or pocket (although I seem to bring plenty of it home sometimes on trousers and gloves!), is always changing, and sometimes makes me want to pull out my hair, it is undoubtedly what I love best.

Back in the Garden

Early April, 2012 in my Tokyo garden.

A friend recently said that he thought some of my best writing was about gardening.

"It's when I really hear you," he said.

And for some time now I've not written much about the garden. The last year was intensely busy and the garden took a back seat. Truth be told the garden wasn't even in the back seat. It was in the trunk under an old blanket. I'd visit to harvest and then quickly leave. Spending more time than that meant thinking about chores I didn't have time to do, plants that were neglected, things I didn't have time to buy. Rather than a joy it became a sorrow to be there, and it seemed best to hurry away.

This year I'm still busy, but marginally less so. I'm making room for the garden again. And for marmalade. And reading. I need that dirt under my fingernails (and subsequently a new nail brush) and a few good rounds of weeding to bring me back around to the physical and metaphorical space I want to be in again.

So back in the garden I am with camera, notebook, pen, dirty fingers, and knees. Weeds and birds are all around this breezy spring afternoon, and I'm more than pleased to see the praying mantis egg cases in the mint and bamboo canes. Those damned aphids are back, too, but a good round of squishing paired with harvesting of my kale for ourselves and friends ought to improve air circulation and set them back a bit. A handful of winter greens - komatsuna, karashina, and mizuna - are flowering as usual, but the scent is thick and sweet and the yellow blooms bring in little pollinators for a feast I'm happy to provide. The mint and bergamont are running away with the show, and I've just managed to free one of the emerging rhubarb plants from their grip. Tulips stand at the ready with buds ready to burst into color at the first chance while crocus leaves gather fuel for next year nearby.

The tatami mats are decaying pleasantly in place, and I'm already plotting what little gift to take over to the master this year for a fresh round. Some of those broccoli side shoots with a few sprigs of lavender or mint? The lasanga bed remains unattractive and I feel a bit unsure of the wisdom of creating it although the garlic looks happy and the worms I saw earlier seem a testament to its soil-building ability. Although, as I work along I can hear a passerby comment that they don't know what it's all about. I've learned the blessing and the curse of urban gardening and farming is the audience. As much a part of my garden as the praying mantis, stray cats, aphids, birds, butterflies, and the occasional lizard, the public is there. I try to think of them as good language practice even if I don't always like what they have to say.

The afternoon light shifts to orange and the shadows grow long. I look up to see the full moon rising over the buildings lining the station street a block away, and I hear the five o'clock bell toll. There's lots of work to be done yet, and I know as I pack my tools away in one bike basket and a small harvest in the other that I'm already behind. The beans aren't in and if I'm going to plant those blue potatoes I bought at the Nippori Farmer's Market I'd best get busy. The compost bins need to be turned, a bed cleared and prepped for the popcorn, and the tomato seedlings need to come back in for the night.  But it's alright. It feels manageable. It feels good to be back.

A Few of My Favorite Moments

Erika Dreifus recently tweeted this blog post from Lisa Romeo that varied slightly from the usual year-end reflection concept. Rather than thinking solely about New Year's resolutions, the author suggests focusing for a moment on what was accomplished. The idea struck a chord with me as 2011 has been a busy one with extra teaching responsibilities and an increased effort on writing while still attempting to farm, garden, visit farmer's markets in Tokyo and beyond while studying Japanese and trying out new recipes while perfecting some old ones. It's all been good fun, but it's also no surprise that our winter Hokkaido vacation finds me leaning towards the nap as a favored activity.

Daizu Revolution and Takashi Watanabe Interview

I first met Takashi Watanabe in January at an eco+waza event at Earth Day Market headquarters in Tokyo. Intrigued by his story and the birth of Tozaiba, a non-profit organization bringing people together in fallow fields to grow heirloom varieties of daizu (soybeans) along with a little bit of community, I later followed up with an interview for a Real Time Farms blog post. I don't see soybeans the same way any longer.

Osaka's Odona Farmer's Market

We self-evacuated after the March earthquake to Osaka to take a break from the aftershocks and to see what might happen in those early days. I was on crutches from a dancing injury (don't ask), and it seemed like a safe choice. Not one to let earthquakes, nuclear disasters or a strained Achilles keep me away from vegetable exploration I bumbled my way over to a market I'd missed during our January visit. Wow. My visit to this rockin' market went up a few days later on Summer Tomato.

Satoyama

One of Japan's most unique farming practices is that of satoyama - a farming practice that leaves itself a buffer of half-wild, half-managed land between it and the surrounding wilderness - that offers a viable enough set of sustainable techniques that an international organnization, The Satoyama Initiative, began implementing and studying similar practices and projects around the world. My assignment from eco+waza to cover it was another eye-opener.

Blogathon Year Two

Perhaps one of the most formative blogging experiences I've had yet, participating in WordCount's annual Blogathon shaped my writing life and introduced me to a great community of fellow writers. The challenge of writing a post a day every day for the month of May always sounds easy, but it isn't. Inspiration occasionally runs dry, and a busy schedule of planting and teaching sometimes means a post written in the haze that settles over me just before bed. All that, and I'm looking forward to doing it again in 2012.

Ludlow and England

September found us tromping about with some of our favorite people in the world on their home turf: England. They introduced me to the Ludlow Food Festival, and I am nearly desperate to return in 2012 to sample, meet, sample, and learn. It was just amazing. The resulting pleasure of eating at The Talbot Inn after picking perry pears at Oliver's Cider and Perry were two unforgettable highlights that I shamefully have not written about yet. (I know. Focus on what was accomplished, but I loved doing those two things so much.) Next year, maybe a trip to the Eden Project, the RISC Roof Garden, and another day perry picking would be a dream. The four extra kilograms I put on are worth the risk.

Hokkaido Bike Tour

No big hiking trip this year due to that darn Achilles, so we opted to try biking instead. We folded up our bikes, packed them on a plane, and made our way north. After a glorious week of cat-sitting, we packed our backpacks, unfolded our bikes and hit the road for places like Akeshi, Nemuro, and Hamanaka. It was glorious, albeit exhausting, and I'm hoping to find myself doing it again this summer, too. (The leg was fine, by the way.)

Too Much Other Good Stuff

The list is getting too long, so I'm going to wrap up and get ready to greet the year of the Dragon on our current trip to Hokkaido. The year is ending well as I meet weekly with a good friend working on a first book to talk about writing and goals, and hope to visit farmer's markets again in Aizu Wakamatsu and Sendai to see how farmers in areas affected by the March 11th disaster are faring. See you then!

Got a few highlights of the year? Let's hear it!

Winter Thoughts: Reprise

We are in Hokkaido again satisfying our taste for winter. Three summer visits - two camping and hiking in Daisetsuzan and one very homemade bike tour - left us curious to see what those same landscapes might look like covered with snow. One day after our first cross-country ski at Asahidake, the island's tallest peak, we remain dazzled by the magic of the landscape. While it might be odd for a farmer-gardener type such as myself to adore this season of bitter cold and frozen landscapes, I most certainly do. Here's a 2008 post (pre-Japan and very early blogging days, indeed) setting out a few reasons why I feel this way.

Winter is easily my favorite season. A friend asked me recently as we set out on a cross-country ski adventure why that is the case. Was it because I'm originally from Wisconsin? I theorized that it is perhaps because my birthday is in Winter. (It seems logical that any season in which one receives presents could well be a favorite.)

I like the starkness of Winter, I confess. I like the cold air that freezes my throat and lungs a bit when I breathe it in. I like the contrasting colors of a gentle snowfall that sketches the texture of tree branches and bark so that I feel as though I see them all for the first time. I like the drifts that look like frozen time that the wind deposited. I like the snap of stars on a cold, cold night, and the squeak it makes when I walk. There is nothing so beautiful to me as a moonlit night of still, bitter cold on that white, blue, and black landscape. It thrills me with a sense of magic and life like no other moment.

Winter feels in its frozen grace like life. Perhaps it is the contrast with what we so often think of as representing life - green lush leaves, bright petals waving at passing bees - that appeals to me. It is the potential for life just under the ice and snow, the knowledge that these branches so clear to me now will be obscured by a bounty of green leaves in a few months.

Yet, that does not feel like the right answer, either. And perhaps it doesn't matter. The cold wind fills me with joy when I breathe it in, and comforts me as it sings me off to sleep. The glint of sun or moon on a hillside is pure happiness.

The Joy of Dirty Hands: Reprise

It feels like I'm rooting around in the attic these days, sorting through old photographs and trinkets for fun and nostalgia. The end of the year is almost always a time for reflection, and I seem to be hearkening back to our first days in Japan at the moment. (Early writing again, so bear with me.)  I'm also thinking hard about farming, gardening, food, and writing, and so re-reading posts like the one below (first appeared on this blog on December 19, 2009) and Farmwork Thoughts seems appropriate. Perhaps I'm taking inventory, reassessing, or just plain checking in with myself. Hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think. -JLB


Photo Note: This photo was taken in March, 2011 while I was on crutches and a few weeks after the earthquake. The garden was the only place I found peace in those days, so it seems a good fit here. 

When I was a kid I hated gardening. My mother asked me to help her in the garden, and I'm pretty certain I whined and was such a miserable companion that she finally found great relief in letting me just stay indoors to read or watch TV. It was too hot. It was boring. It was dirty. And tomato hornworms were just too gross for words.

Gardening is now something I find I can't live without. Our move to Tokyo in March of this year was only feasible in my mind because I had a chance to have a garden. (That first one fell through, but then another and even better opportunity presented itself.) I didn't even have a garden of my own until we moved into a farmhouse in Michigan more than five years ago. There, along an old fence, I dug out the sod in a strip about two or three feet wide and about ten feet long and planted my first tomatoes, beans, kale, swiss chard, basil, parsley, and beets. It wasn't long before nasturtiums and johnny-jump-ups, and a couple bush squash plants were added. The next year the garden jumped the fence - literally and figuratively - to become about four times larger. Popcorn, cardinal climber, morning glories, potatoes, cosmos, chives, and peas joined the green chorus.

Morning found me in dew soaked slippers with a steaming coffee checking the progress of seedlings or just soaking in the thrill of seeing those plants. Before heading into the house after a day at work I'd walk over to the garden to see how the day had gone, and more than once a nice skirt received a swish of dirt from an irresistible urge to weed "just a little bit" before even greeting my husband.

I found in gardening a chance to do something concrete. It put food on our table, in our freezer, on the pantry shelves, and made for some great gifts. Canning tomatoes, drying herbs, and whipping up batches of pesto for winter pasta remains satisfying work. And the task of eating them is work I tackle with relish.

I found great beauty. Thick veined cabbage leaves are one of the most beautiful things I think I've ever seen. Cobs of homegrown popcorn glinting in the sun thrill me to the bone. My own eye for color and composition is still developing, but I confess I don't work too hard at that. I like the increasing madness of my garden as the season progresses.

I made new friends. The praying mantis, the assortment of bees, the birds, and the occasional neighborhood cat are welcome visitors. Not to mention the instant bond that develops with a fellow gardener when we learn of each other's passion. There's nothing better than a good chat about growing vegetables. It's what bonded the Takashi's and I almost instantly despite a language barrier.

It's in my blood. I've written about this before (not for publication), and I think about it more often than not. I come from a long line of farmers (who doesn't, really?), and the joy I find in planting, weeding, harvesting, monitoring, eating from, composting, and viewing the garden (mine and others) courses through my veins. The rolling landscape of hay, corn, horses, wheat, and cows with woods, rivers, lakes, and kitchen gardens the same square footage as many homes in new developments is a part of my heritage of which I am most proud. As I tend my own small plot or work with the Takashi's to tend their fields, my mother and grandmothers and friends and family (here and gone) who've gardened and farmed before work beside me. The joy in that alone wheels me out to the garden and farm again and again.

Gardening and farming presents a chance to explore my own history, the history of others, to find common ground through food and the growing of it. It presents an intellectual and creative challenge each and every day of the year. And an element of surprise in the volunteer nasturtium, the sneaky fresh potato crop. I could write about this for hours, years, and thousands of words, and still not quite hit it right. But when I see dirt still stuck under my fingernails while at my office (I only have so much patience with a nail brush) it reminds me of who I really am and what I love best.

Inspired by the essay contest over at Gardens of the Wild Wild West. This is probably too long, but it was too much fun to stop.