In the Pines: A bounteous September

It’s a beautiful September morning in Sisters Country. The sun is out but it’s not too hot yet. The sky is brushed with a hint of smoke, nothing much compared to the last few summers.

The forest is quiet, other than some loud equipment, a dog barking, and a small plane flying low. OK, not really that quiet. Compared to a city, though? The forest is heavenly.

It’s a good life, in a good place. I am one of the lucky ones and I totally know it. But by late afternoon I may have forgotten that. There will be work, which, as every freelance writer knows, consists of sitting down at the computer, getting up to make coffee, sitting back down at the computer, raking pine needles, doing laundry, and maybe, finally, jamming out my latest assignment.

There will be fun times and not-so-fun times with my family, a friend having a tough time, with phone calls about my aging relatives. The general hustle and bustle of co-managing a household and all its attendant bureaucratic duties will absorb and sometimes annoy me.

I was recently reminded just how nourishing it is to step away from the daily routine and revel in the bounty of our special spot in Central Oregon. Not just the natural beauty here, but the inspiring infrastructure our community members have created in the realm of sustainably grown food.

On Saturday I drove pleasant, pastoral Holmes Road, past the alpacas, out to Rainshadow Organics. There I met a friend for a delicious on-farm brunch. The meal ranged widely, from pork to eggs to concoctions made from vegetables. Every bit of it was grown or raised on this local farm. Being close to such dedication and commitment to real food, grown locally, is a blessing.

A few days later, I dropped by Seed To Table farm a few blocks from downtown. There I ran into folks I knew and got into conversations with folks I’d never met. We perused the almost overwhelming selection of veggies: Carrots that taste nothing like the ones from the grocery store, hot peppers, herbs, cucumbers, delightfully mixed greens for salads, and bursting ripe heirloom tomatoes.

It seems ridiculously great that my family can wander over to this farm every Wednesday, seven months out of the year, and choose our enormous bag of veggies. The farm even offers this CSA produce share on a sliding scale, enabling people to pay what they can afford for their fresh groceries.

I’ve been known to volunteer or work under contract for the nonprofit Seed To Table and Sisters Farmers Market, which the organization now runs. Even if I hadn’t gotten involved, I’d still be blown away by their particular blend of compassion, productivity, and community spirit.

Later that week we ran out of eggs. I popped over to The Stand, run by our friends at Mahonia Gardens. Here I got into an interesting conversation about home-schooling and educational reform, found more produce, and browsed a freezer full of local meats.

Having bought eggs from Well Rooted Farms at the farmers market before, I knew they’d be huge and full of flavor compared to the wan eggs from conventionally raised chickens, who live their lives in a torturous environment. These eggs were, indeed, big and luscious.

When I got into an argument online later — as one does — I found myself explaining to big-city vegans that it is possible to eat meat and eggs responsibly. That we can support regenerative agriculture, visit the farm or ranch to see how all our food is being grown and raised. Sure, we pay more for grass-fed and well-treated animals, and sure, we should drastically reduce how much meat we eat, on behalf of the environment and sometimes our health.

But for heaven’s sake, I don’t want to give up meat entirely. The urban vegans, I realized, may have little contact with the source of their foods. They’ve never raised cattle or milked goats. They’ve never worked on an organic farm, dutifully planting vine after vine into the earth under a hot sun.

I have. It makes me appreciate all the more the bounty and goodness we have right here, raised organically by farmers with grit, determination, and a moral compass pointing true north.

I hope I will manage to remember these beautiful late summer days and toothsome locally grown foods when I find myself stressed out, leashed to my laptop like some hypnotized dog. I hope I’ll remember this time during the cold winter months (when I will thaw out my stash of roasted tomatoes, which I froze last week) and the vexing, biting winds of spring.

And while harvest season lasts, I hope I will remember to cherish every precious bite.