Death jam

As you are beginning to learn, little Bridgette on the farm is a means of free labor, particularly when it comes to the garden. I had never even seen a legitimate garden before I came out to the country with James. Where I am from we get our fruits and veggies from the grocery store. The thought of actually picking something up off of the ground, rinsing it off, and eating it for free was totally foreign. At my house, the only thing we planted were landscaping flowers, and unless it was a boxwood, it usually died.

When James and I started working on the garden at the farm it was like being in the second grade all over again. We would walk through the rows and I would point to different blobs of leaves and stems and ask, "What's that?"

"That's broccoli".

Weird. Have you ever seen broccoli growing? It doesn't look like something I would ever pick up and eat. I have learned so much since my first summer in the garden. One of the things I have learned is that broccolis are always home to special tiny little broccoli-colored worms. Awesome surprise. Anyway...

After a few summers I decided to give my input in the garden planning. I wanted strawberries. James had always talked about how they used to grow strawberries and he and his sister would pick them and sell them, and that would be their allowance. I love berries of all kinds. I wanted some strawberries. Like, now.

So we got to planting. Apparently it takes about three years for strawberry plants to really kick out some produce, not cool for my patience. So I waited. We watered the stupid little vines every year. We picked the one or two berries that sprouted out, if we got to it before the birds did.

Then, finally! Last year we had berries. About damn time, nature. The garden was exploding with strawberries that first weekend. There were TONS of them. We filled baskets and buckets and came back for more over and over again. It was berry heaven. They looked just like the ones at the grocery store but they tasted even better. I was even so bold as to start sneaking them as I picked them, naughty me. I would pick a few handfuls then if I found one that wasn't near any bugs and off the ground enough to not be dirty I would pop it into my mouth. I caught James doing the same thing... but he was a little more aggressive. He would pick one, eat two, pick one eat two... Regardless, we had plenty.

After one weekend picking and pruning and tilling the garden, his parents lose their steam. It is a lot to keep up with, and they only have so much time. So the garden became my project, "You wanted these things, now you take care of them", kind of project. I even used a rototiller for the first time.

So, every weekend we were out at the farm, while James would help his dad work on the tractor or bale hay, I would wander over to the garden and get to picking. I would pull a few peppers off the vine, dig up a few potatoes, and then start gathering the berries.

One weekend I went up there to get to work. I felt bad because James was out, with his friend and his dad, baling hay. It was over 100 degrees, again, that day. I felt like I needed to put in my time, too. Plus, it probably wouldn't hurt to sweat off a few pounds before I ate the inevitable pie we were going to have after dinner.

I headed to the garden with my buckets and got to work. I was all by myself and hunched over the strawberries. Picking and picking. I would eat one or two, but they were piping hot from sitting in the sun. I worked on the rows and rows of strawberries for probably over an hour. I would spend some time hunched over them, picking, before I would take a break and stand to straighten out my back.

Sweat was poring down over my face and arms, and even though I was only wearing gym shorts and a tank top, I was woozy from the heat. I was determined to get the garden taken care of, though. I still hadn't heard the tractor come in from the fields so I kept working.

At one point I stopped picking to stand and stretch my back out. I looked up, and there above me, circling, were ELEVEN buzzards. Seriously. I told you these damn things know I don't belong out there. They saw me standing in the garden and, anything stupid enough to be out in the heat for that long without water or a break will die soon enough.

I shouted at them and waved them off, only for them to come back again, swooping lower every time. Obviously they were trying to get a good look at my juicy little eyeballs. I wonder if blue eyes taste any different?

I needed to get the damn garden picked. I hunched back over and started picking, rapid-fire. Any glint of red I saw I grabbed. I was almost done when I heard, "Damn..."

James' dad had come up from the house. He took one look at me and threw me the bottle of water he had been carrying. I guzzled it immediately. Ugh. He couldn't believe I was standing there in the sun that whole time. I had close to a 5 gallon bucket full of berries by that time. He looked up and counted the vultures, teetering above me. Ok, it was time to go. He grabbed a few more berries to throw into the bucket and we headed back to the house.

Oh, thank God. Air conditioning. Sweet tea. Water. Ice.

James and his friend had come back in from the fields, just as worn and wet as I was. We sat around the table and sifted through the garden's surplus.

That night we ate a strawberry pie. The whole thing. Then we had strawberry jam. James' mom showed me how to make it with my pickings. We ate the jam for days. There was so much of it! It was a little disheartening to see all of my little berries ground up into a paste, but damn... it tasted so good. Don't they make some sort of farm machinery for this kind of work? I'll have to check for a strawberry picker this Valentine's Day.