It's CSA sign-up time

Well, we're at it again. We've signed up for a Spring and an Autumn share in a local Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] farm. I've wasted more time than is reasonable trying to figure out how CSA prices compare to local supermarkets or farmers markets. Such comparisons aren't easily made, although I just found a report that I've not had chance to review yet (Trends in U.S. Local and  Regional Food Systems). It looks promising if slightly dated. Much of the USDA ERS data can be filed under a heading of "ask what time it is and being told how to build a clock." Then again, I was surprised to see how consistent the numbers show that "middle income" American families spend almost half of their food budgets to eat away from home.

our local farmers market

Photo by J. Harrington

We also discovered a couple of additional sources on why folks might want to spend more on local and/or organic foods. One is provided by the Mayo Clinic and the other on WebMD.

our CSA pickup location

Photo by J. Harrington

Our first "Spring Greens" CSA share won't be ready for pick-up until May 1, almost three months from now. We're planning on splitting our share with the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law. One of my complaints about almost every CSA we've tried is that we end up with more than we can reasonably consume and throw out more than makes me comfortable. (According to Project Drawdown, the food we waste is responsible for roughly 8 percent of global emissions.)

The Farm

By Joyce Sutphen

My father’s farm is an apple blossomer.

He keeps his hills in dandelion carpet

and weaves a lane of lilacs between the rose

and the jack-in-the-pulpits.

His sleek cows ripple in the pastures.

The dog and purple iris

keep watch at the garden’s end.

His farm is rolling thunder,

a lightning bolt on the horizon.

His crops suck rain from the sky

and swallow the smoldering sun.

His fields are oceans of heat,

where waves of gold

beat the burning shore.

A red fox

pauses under the birch trees,

a shadow is in the river’s bend.

When the hawk circles the land,

my father’s grainfields whirl beneath it.

Owls gather together to sing in his woods,

and the deer run his golden meadow.

My father’s farm is an icicle,

a hillside of white powder.

He parts the snowy sea,

and smooths away the valleys.

He cultivates his rows of starlight

and drags the crescent moon

through dark unfurrowed fields.

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