Off-Farm Feeding
Madeleine and I have been in D.C. for the past few days, while she takes part in a national youth choir. Right now, all is going well – Madeleine is soaking up the long hours of music, and I’m comfortably ensconced in the hotel lounge, quietly depressing my keys. But things were not so hunky-dory at first.
During the days leading up to our departure, I’m quite sure Madeleine spent much of her time imagining the thrill of the musical immersion awaiting her. She had done this sort of thing before and knew the delicious feeling of being in a room full of kids singing beautiful, challenging music together. I, on the other hand, spent a good part of the same time imagining the terrors of the off-farm food immersion soon to come. I’ve done this before, too, and I cringed at the thought of subjecting my farm-spoiled digestive system to a city full of beautiful, challenging food.
The day before the trip down here, I took pains to think of all I would need to survive the week. From our farm, I would take our own milk, butter, yogurt, honey, and eggs; from the Co-op, I’d bring the best dried fruit, nuts, and rice crackers I could find. Thanks to a fairly touchy case of Celiac Disease, I can eat no wheat, no rye, no barley, no oats – and nothing highly processed. I’m embarrassed to say I’ve become something of a hothouse flower, a condition I hate but don’t normally have to think much about, thanks to the food Dave can provide me almost every day.
“Every day,” I should say, except the day I had to leave the farm for six days. T-minus-one day, we ran out of yogurt, and I asked if he could please make some more for me. He quickly obliged, but decided to explore a different, energy-efficient method of warming the cultured milk. Unfortunately, his flight of experimental fancy coincided with a restocking issue at the grocery store, leaving him – and me – at the mercy of some sub-optimal starter culture.
The morning of our ten-hour car ride, I took the time to cook up my usual, farmwife breakfast, but almost balked at the sight of the new supply of yogurt greeting me. Fresh from a lukewarm night spent on a heater vent, the stuff was no more solid than the milk it had come from, and there was a curious, clear layer of whey between the cream and the skim. When I opened the lid, I might’ve taken the time to appreciate the interesting striation, but I was too preoccupied with the yeasty sourness emanating from within.
I wrinkled my nose up tight, stirred the stuff into a thin, lumpy mush, and poured a few tablespoons into my bowl of fruit and nuts. I took a taste and then poured my white-coated clumps into a colander. I rinsed and rinsed and decided to go with straight milk instead, trying to think of my new dish as a grain-less granola cereal.
Troubled and scarred by this routine-shattering incident, I packed up my things, wondering how I would fare for so many days without my husband’s yogurt. So distracted was I that I left the house and the state of New Hampshire without the rest of the good farm food still available to me – the milk, the butter, and the honey. I did remember the eggs, thank goodness. I had told myself they’d be a gift to our hosts in D.C., knowing full well I’d probably eat them all myself. The crackers and nuts and fruit made it, too, thank goodness.
Once in D.C., I figured I’d rely on our hosts’ larder for whatever I lacked. My friend and her roommate were fairly health-conscious, I was sure, and I went to bed trusting in a decent morning experience. Unfortunately, the new day brought me the sad news that my optimism had been founded on naught but silly dreams. When I opened the refrigerator, I discovered “spread” – and skim milk. I stood chewing on my lip for a few minutes. Finally, I poured some of the thin, blue liquid on my apricots and walnuts and ate it.
A bit more searching turned up a promising bottle of olive oil, but by the time I found it, I had to quit the charade and leave the apartment with Madeleine for a morning tour of the Capitol. Besides, a breakfast without heaps of dairy fat seemed best forgotten and quickly laid to rest. I promised Madeleine and myself an early lunch at the Capitol cafeteria after the tour.
The cafeteria was a good one, I was pleased to find, filled with a delightful bounty of food choices. There was no real farm food, but how could there be? I lowered my expectations a reasonable degree and headed for the mile-long salad bar.
It was all so fresh! I had grown accustomed to cellar vegetables – potatoes and squash and such. We still had a few survivors left from the flooding of the December ice storm. But here, I piled my plate with shockingly green lettuce and bright red grape tomatoes. They seemed indecent, but I ate them anyway. I added a hard-boiled egg, but gave it to Madeleine when my knife revealed a pale yellow interior. She knows the difference, too, but isn’t as fussy as I can be.
Of course, I’m not all that consistent in my principles, as anyone who knows me well can attest. I know all about the factory farming that produces the meat found in most restaurants, but I still eat it sometimes. This day, however, I was in hyper-vigilant overdrive, fixing myself in an ideological stranglehold that threatened to squeeze the life out of my lunch.
I looked at the BBQ chicken on offer and could only imagine our own fluffy birds pecking happily away at the grass and bugs supplementing the organic grain hanging inside their portable coops. I had no doubt the flesh in front of me had not lived such a life. I didn’t want to think about their deaths.
Winding myself up for even more sanctimony and virtue, I looked at the cheese selections. There were none labeled “organic,” let alone “raw milk.” And so what if there had been such an option? Under current U.S.D.A. regulations, could I really be sure the cows supplying the milk had ever enjoyed the moist chew of real grass or felt the warming touch of sunlight on their hides? I’d have to e-mail the company first. (I have done this.)
Finally, stomach still rumbling, I mournfully walked by the luscious pasta and the loaves of bread and turned to a pile of feta in the middle of the salad bar. Surely, I thought, a goat farmer isn’t the type to lock up a flock of does. But maybe I was just getting really hungry.
Somehow, I got through the lunch; Madeleine gamely listened to me mutter on and on about “real food.” After, we headed back to my friend’s neighborhood and found a natural food store. I piled my little cart high with everything I thought could approximate what I had negligently left at home.
I brought it to the cash register. “We have our own farm!” I wanted to say. “And our food is so much better than this, I’m sure!” Fortunately, I kept my mouth shut. Madeleine and I carried our bundles back to the apartment and prepared for a better day to come.
