Bolting Lettuce and The Village Rebels
Here in Ojo Sarco, the summer nights are still warm and long. After dinner every night, we take walks through our village, the sun casting shadows on our backs and the sunflowers standing as tall as we are. The four of us; Heathar, Andrea (our friend from Mexico), Jack and myself — we walk in a line together down the road, moving from one side to the other when the rare car passes by, waving to each person as they drive home for the evening. Each night, we forget to return the plate our neighbor gave us when she baked us rhubarb pie and we promise that we will remember the following night, but we never do.
As we walk, we take the streets back, challenged by no one. There are no other people out walking, no other hikers or roamers. We cruise through the neighborhood as if we have tasted freedom for the first time — adolescence coursing through our veins. We are the band of village rebels, the outlaws, the Breakfast Club and the Island of Lost Boys all rolled into one. We are here and we are taking all of summer that we can. There is a spontaneity in these evenings that only reminds me of childhood — wandering from house to house, accepting bites of desserts from generous families and watching the soles of our feet turn black from the residue of the asphalt we picked up along our route.
Each night, we pass our neighbor’s house who have four dogs. As we walk by, their dogs cannot contain themselves and must slip underneath the fence to run toward us, spinning around and around until we satisfy their urge for pets. Inevitably, the barking, swarm of dogs bring their humans out with them. We are ushered into their yard with smiles and urged to walk through their blooming gardens. They lift up the leaves of the squash and show us what is growing underneath. I almost feel like I should look away to respect the privacy of the squash, their vulnerable under layers revealed to complete strangers. They show us their tomatoes, the lettuce which is starting to bolt and the rows of red, yellow and orange wildflowers. They let us try the kombucha they are drinking and the local beer. I take a tiny sip of each and smile with delight. I savor the flavors of citrus and mint as I swirl the cold drinks around in my mouth. We walk home with armfuls of pale, yellow squash and green and purple romaine lettuce that we set into our already overflowing fridge. There is an abundance of food here, especially now as the summer is closing itself out. Our arugula patch has fed us all summer, our jalepeños are just starting to come in by the bushelful and the zucchini plants that have mysteriously grown in the compost pile are almost ready to eat.
As we walk on the road every night, we walk downwind of the pig pen and what we can smell makes all of us gag. We are those neighbors — the ones who have the animals that create an unbearable scent that wafts over from house to house when there is a strong wind. When we first got the pigs, their poop smelled kind of sweet. It was even cute — small, contained pellets. It’s not so bad we thought. We can handle this. What is everyone complaining about? Pigs don’t smell so bad. But as our pigs reach 150 pounds each, I can tell you with the utmost certainty that they smell horribly. AND, we clean their pen out twice a day. The worst part, is that the mud hole we have created for them seems to double for a urinal. When the pigs step into the mud hole, they cannot help themselves but pee in the very hole they also lie in. This creates a festering, still pool of mud and urine that churns together in the hot sun and seems to be just the right ratio of awful. Heathar’s dad says the pigs will be ready to butcher in November. I will be very sad to see our pigs go, but I will not be sad to let the winter overtake the mud hole and the stench of our pig pen. I will not be sad to see the snow wipe away and regenerate the ground when they stamp and stomp their poop into the earth, making it impossible to remove.
The coop that we have been building for our chickens is 75% of the way done. In fact, as I write this, our crew of men is here working on the glorious chicken coop. It’s a good thing because our chickens are starting to double up in their laying boxes. Meaning, we have so many chickens and so few laying boxes that oftentimes we find 2-3 chickens in the same laying box, sitting on top of one another trying to cultivate enough space to deposit their golden eggs. Our ladies are primed for a bigger space and we are desperately trying to get it ready for them before winter sets in. They are outgrowing the tiny potting shed they have been living in all summer and are ready to move into grown-up housing, complete with their own rooms and queen-sized beds.
I have to admit, I do have a favorite chicken. Not all chickens are created equal, some of them I have not even named because I cannot tell them apart. My favorite chicken is the one we call: Cher. I know I’ve mentioned Cher to you before. We are fairly certain that Cher has not ever and will not ever lay an egg. I have never once seen her in a laying box. That is not Cher’s purpose. Cher moves more slowly and is in her own head. I think Cher must have a couple of planets in Pisces because she is very spacey and doesn’t seem to mind that she loses track of time. Usually, when all the other chickens are out pecking in the yard, she stands on the doorstep of the coop and peers out into the great beyond. She seems to lose herself in a chicken dream world that none of us can access. She is our neruodivegent bird, the one who is different and I am perfectly content to let her be her, whoever that may be. I do not need her to lay eggs, I just need her to continue to inspire me to do whatever pleases me in each moment. Cher does not preform, she does not people-please, she does not overcompensate — she is simply Cher.
And finally, I want to say that we have a lot of exciting things happening here at Ojo Conejo. We are getting ready to launch our farm store where Heathar, Andrea and Jack will be making products that we will sell for our community on a weekly basis. We are kicking off the farm store by selling delicious chocolates made from real cacao and loaves of authentic sourdough bread brought to us all the way from Australia by the craft and creative genius of Jack. I don’t know how I got so lucky as to be constantly surrounded by amazing food, especially when cooking is not my gift, but somehow I have placed myself amidst a bounty of talented chefs. I am a lucky woman and I know it. We are also hosting our first farm dinner on October 1st and are so, so excited to finally be putting this out into the world. You can purchase tickets to our farm dinner right here. And as always, stay tuned for more to come.
