farmophile

Field notes from California's North Central Valley

Nut job

“I’m going to show you the real way to crack a walnut,” said Susan Hassett.

She should know, she’s been growing certified organic walnuts on her farm, Buzzard’s Roost Ranch, for about 20 years in Winters, Calif.

“You don’t use a nutcracker,” she said, as rule number one. Nutcrackers make fishing out the meat from the shell a pain in the neck.

She took out a small, lightweight ball pein hammer, held a walnut against a hard surface, and struck it. In one quick motion, she removed the shell as if she were opening a tiny book and popped the entire nut out, whole, like a brown little brain.

We were at Hassett’s farm to pick walnuts from two of her Franquette walnut trees—each one more than 140 years old.

The last English walnut to leaf out, the Franquette is a French variety that’s been grafted to a California black walnut tree, explained Hassett over the sound of her Chesapeake Bay retriever, Dawn, happily cracking walnuts between her teeth.

The Franquette is also less vulnerable to frost and one of the few varieties you can harvest at this time of year.

In fact, when I mentioned to my husband that I’d like to pick walnuts on my birthday, I had no idea the task I’d set before him.

The Sacramento and San Joaquin valleys produce 99 percent of the nation’s commercial walnuts, and California is the world’s largest exporter (though China produces more.) So I assumed that finding a farm where we could pick them wouldn’t be difficult here.

But Grant soon discovered that most local walnut farms are larger commercial productions, which do mechanical harvesting and don’t offer u-pick to the public. Of those who do welcome the public to pick their own walnuts—mostly Hartley and Chandler varieties— they had just wrapped up their harvest by the time Grant called to set up a visit in early November.

So he was relieved to hear that Buzzard’s Roost Ranch was not only in the prime of their certified organic walnut harvest, but they’d appreciate our help—free labor for them, a great day on the farm for us.

Before the Hartley walnut—a cross between a Franquette and Mayette walnut—came on the scene in 1925, Franquettes were the darling of the commercial walnut world. But now, Hartleys, and the locally developed Chandler varieties, are most likely what you see at the grocery store.

The Franquette is a darker, more savory walnut than the slightly sweeter Chandler and Hartley varieties. Hassett says it’s also an ideal walnut to grow organically because the hard, tightly sealed shell makes it impervious to most pests. But, like white flour, white bread, and white meat, Americans tend to like lighter walnuts in the marketplace. The Franquette’s yields can also be smaller than those desired by high production farms.

Walnuts in general have been touted for an array of nutritional benefits, from limiting the ability of “bad” fats to harm the arteries  to increased sperm production.

“Walnuts are a completely underrated nut,” said Hassett.

According to the California Walnut Commission, walnuts have the highest total level of antioxidants, more so than almonds, peanuts or hazelnuts, and are one of the few plant-based foods rich in healthy, omega-3 fatty acids .

Admittedly, I wasn’t thinking much about my health the day we went. I just wanted to spend a beautiful fall day in the country, reliving some good walnut-picking memories and hopefully creating some more for me and the family—Grant, Lily, my mom, brother-in-law Eric and his friend, Anya.

Before Hassett showed us how to crack walnuts, she demonstrated how to get them off the tree: With a hefty “walnut rake”—any large, hardy stick will do – you “knock” a branch, take cover, and wait for the wholly satisfying sound of walnuts raining onto the ground.

Then rake them into a pile, pick them up and toss them in a bucket. Simple enough.

I tend to think nearly any u-pick experience is good for kids, but there are some that have not always been ideal—fruit too high for Lily to reach, berries too deep in prickly brambles to pluck. But picking freshly fallen walnuts is one task perfectly suited to a 2-year-old. She even got in on the knocking action.

On the kid-friendly front, I should mention that Hassett fertilizes around the walnut trees with horse manure. So don’t be surprised if you reach for a walnut on the ground and find it sitting right next to some horse poop. The way I figure it, that’s why we wash our hands (and our walnuts), and it sure beats chemical fertilizers. But some may find it off-putting.

A couple of hours later, we hauled about 40 pounds of certified organic walnuts to Hassett’s back porch to be weighed and split among us. Hassett only charges $2/pound—several dollars cheaper than what I find at the store—but still… 40 pounds!

What on Earth will we do with 40 pounds of walnuts? Well, we have a big Thanksgiving family reunion coming up, and many of them will be transported there—along with a small hammer—for candied walnuts, pumpkin bread, oatmeal, baked sweet potatoes, salads and general mindless nut-cracking while talking turkey. Then, of course, there are freezer bags, and Hassett said walnuts freeze very well, which I’m counting on. At least we’ll know how to crack them.

IN A NUTSHELL

Farm: Buzzards Roost Ranch, 8290A Pleasants Valley Road, Winters, Calif.

U-Pick: walnuts and olives, by appointment only

Other offerings: horse and carriage rides; venue for weddings, special occasions; equine programs, horse boarding

Side trip: You’ll pass Lake Solano Park on your way in; consider stopping for a picnic.

Contact: (530) 795-4084, bzzroost@dishmail.net,  website

Pick a patch of pumpkins

The other day, I was in the grocery store, and I watched a woman wander over to a big bin piled high with bright orange pumpkins. She looked at them for a minute, reached in, unceremoniously put one in her cart, and wheeled along her merry way.

I couldn’t help thinking to myself, “That’s no way to pick a pumpkin.”

Judgmental? Perhaps. After all, I’ve had my share of grocery store pumpkins, too, and likely will again.

But I rate picking a pumpkin a bit lower than choosing a Christmas tree, but a good deal higher than buying a box of cereal. It’s just not supermarket fare, in my mind–especially when we live in a place besieged by pumpkin patches.

One of the area’s biggest patches is in Dixon: Cool Patch Pumpkins. The place boasts a giant corn maze that landed itself in that bible of superlatives, the Guinness World Record,  in 2007, when it was 40 acres. Now 53 acres, it’s only grown since.

But we weren’t there to run ramshackle through the corn, or to shoot the pumpkin launcher, or even to have Lily ride tricycles through the Kid Zone, though all of that sounds fun. We came for the pumpkins.

     Lily and Uncle Eric find a pumpkin.

Cool Patch provides wagons for visitors to carry their finds–and their children– on. We brought our own wagon, and while it wasn’t necessary, some of the Cool Patch wagons didn’t have side on them, so we were glad to keep Lily secure in ours.

 

See? “Secure.”

Row after tangled-vine row, Cool Patch offers dozens of pumpkin varieties–from “Cannonball” to “Flying saucer.”

The trusty old Jack O’Lantern variety has been a loyal staple of most of my Halloweens. With a face eager to be carved and insides that offer up seeds perfect for toasting, I’m not ready to leave Jack in the dust just yet. That said, these varieties that perhaps were served at the first Thanksgiving but are new to me, are pretty appealing. White pumpkins, blue pumpkins, green and orange striped ones–it’s a wide world out there, kids.

Rather than give lengthy descriptions, I’ll just tell you the names I’ve given ours and you can use your imagination. Tiger stripe, Cinderella, Ghost, Blue, Popcorn, Warty, Warty Jr. They were all fairly big, and, after wheeling them into a fast-moving line, we paid $30 for the lot of them.

The pumpkins now have a new home on our front porch, and there they will remain until it’s time for us to shovel their rotting remains away. Happy Halloween, everyone.

 

Some extra tidbits that may help your travel plans: Cool Patch has plenty to eat and drink: a coffee shop, tri-tip sandwiches, soft serve ice cream, sodas and water. An ATM and restrooms are on site.  And the farm’s owners are  well aware that pumpkin patches are a major photo op for families. They’ve set up several haystacks with pumpkin displays ideal for this purpose. 

Location: Milk Farm Road  Dixon, Calif. (~10 minutes drive west from Davis)

For more information, call (530) 304-0163 or visit www.coolpatchpumpkins.com.

At the Hoes Down

For many  of the past few years, my husband and I have gone to the free Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival in San Francisco during the first weekend in October. The lineup is always awesome; the crowds sometimes are not. This year, we opted for something more low-key, more family friendly, and closer to home: The Hoes Down Harvest Festival at Full Belly Farm in Capay Valley.

I’d been hearing about this annual “celebration of rural living” since we moved here about a year ago. We found it to be intensely family-friendly, dialed in with the crowd management, and a place where you can contra dance, listen to Americana music, swim in the creek,  learn how to raise chickens, make mozzarella, paint a gourd, and have a lot of fun all in a spectacular setting for a good cause. (Proceeds benefit future farmers, sustainable agriculture and community organizations.)

By the end of our visit, we’d helped Lily climb a giant hay stack,

petted some cows and sheep,

watched a sheep shearing, painted with Lily,

 

carved a pumpkin,

and lay in the grass down by the river and listened to some sweet harmonies from The Driftless, and Paige Anderson and the Fearless Kin.

We also took a horse-drawn trailer ride around the farm, where I heard a father say to his kids while they oohed and aahed over some ginormous pumpkins: “See guys, when we get our food baskets every week? This is where our food comes from. Remember that.”

But we felt like we didn’t fully take advantage of all that was offered. Looking at the schedule, how could anyone, really? There was so much to do, from workshops  on soil building to melon tastings, wine tastings, farm tours, apple bobbing, story time in a tipi, a circus, lots of music, and even a manure pitch-off. Good times.

 

They also offer camping in the orchard for people who already knew they couldn’t fit it all in within, say, 5 hours. And while the main festival ended Saturday, today offers another round of workshops, though visitors have pre-registered for them.

I could go on and on, but then I’d miss what’s remaining of this beautiful weekend. Suffice to say, we’ll be back next year — with our swimsuits and tents.

Core strength: Apple Hill

My father was born 68 years ago on what’s often one of the most beautiful days of the year: October 1.  It’s typically a day of browns and golds, chili in the crockpot, cornbread in the oven, soft shadows and autumnal glows. It marks a season that seems to encompass my Dad – warm, thoughtful, comforting.
Dad died of lung cancer five years ago on a colder, darker fall day. But October is when I most like to celebrate him. My family and I do that each year for his birthday, and it usually involves an apple pie—his favorite. It’s a day when his girls—me, Mom and my sister—and now his granddaughter and son-in-law commit to being together.

With the mecca of all apple picking just over an hour away, this year we decided to celebrate Dad’s birthday weekend with a trip to Apple Hill.

Apple Hill, it should be clear, is a region, not one particular orchard, as some mistakenly think. It’s a loop of you-pick farms, pumpkin patches, bakeries, and wineries along a two-lane highway in the Sierra foothills of Placerville and Camino, Calif.

Think Napa – but substitute apples for wine; corn dogs for bacon-wrapped rabbit roulade. OK, so maybe it’s less Napa and more country fair.

But it is a place where something grows extremely well and visitors are encouraged to see it, pick it, and enjoy it in all forms—be it fried and frittered, coated in caramel and stuck on a stick, or tossed in sugar and enveloped in a pie crust.

Fried  apples
Despite my idealistic notions of autumn — crisp fall days and whatnot — it was really friggin’ hot last weekend. About 95 degrees — weather for picking peaches, maybe, not apples. By 1 pm, we were sweltering.

This put a damper on the day — especially because the Kerlin girls do not do well in the heat. “It’s like a bunch of Rain Men in here,’ my husband said at the end of the day, driving us home when we were all on the brink of dehydration and at a high level of inane chatter and bickering and repeating ourselves.

“I think Apple Hill is a  really lovely place – if it was about 20 degrees cooler,” said my sister from the back of the car. (I envy visitors for this weekend, when it is supposed to be about 20 degrees cooler.)

Despite the weather, it really was a beautiful place. As we arrived, pulling off Highway 50 and onto the Apple Hill loop,  we drove past Christmas tree farms, patches of orange pumpkins peeking beneath their leaves, donkeys in a forest clearing, signs pointing to various wineries, and, of course, apple trees.

It’s easy to get sucked into the commercialized aspects of Apple Hill. The Apple Hill Growers Association and several visitors before us have sung its praises on websites, news articles, Yelp, Chowhound and the like as a place where apple cider donuts and apple milkshakes are worth the battle of traffic, crowds and serpentine lines.

The traffic and crowds weren’t actually too bad. Arriving around noon, we started our visit at Rainbow Orchards. We walked past families beginning their picnics on benches under some apple trees. Others sat on hay bales beneath a shaded area. But we headed straight past the wagon full of pumpkins and gourds, around bins of apples, and lined up for the fabled cider donuts ($1 each). They came out hot and sweet, with a slight crunch on the outside. I’d like to say I noticed a cidery tang in them, but I didn’t. They were a good little donut, all the same.

We grabbed a map of the Apple Hill area (available in brochure form at nearly every stop in town  and also here) and sat down on a hay bale to figure out where to go next. We were all hungry. While apples are in no short supply, it’s slightly harder for new visitors to discern the best places to eat “real” food. (One cannot live on apple crisp alone.) I had heard Boa Vista orchards served lunch, so we headed there next.

Boa Vista is a popular tourist stop. Too large to be called a farm stand, it offered bins of apples, but also plums, winter squash and other seasonal produce. There were tastings for apple butter, jams and wine at the back of the building. Preserves, salsas, apple juice and cider lined the shelves. An adjoining grill served some basic American food: Among our group, we had a chili dog, veggie burger, grilled cheese, fries and an apple fritter, which we ate at a picnic table in the shade. Boa Vista also has a bakery full of pies and other pastries. Craft vendors sold their soaps and jewelry outside. After lunch, I bought a caramel apple covered in nuts, some apple cider and we were on our way.

Down to the core
We’d saved the best for last: apple picking.

There are several you-picks at Apple Hill, though I’ve heard that there are fewer than in years’ past. I was looking for a laid-back, organic farm, and Willow Pond Organic Farm appeared to fit the bill. (UPDATE: On a return visit in 2014, I was sad to see this farm is no longer active.)

After pulling in to this farm, where children ate apples in the shade next to a pond, I wished we’d come here first. Just brought a picnic lunch and headed straight here.

A small farm stand welcomed us at the Willow Pond entrance, featuring raw honey, peppers, yellow watermelon, and other produce grown on the property. Dried sunflowers in the fields stood behind late-summer crops, and zinnias lined vegetable plots. After grabbing some green baskets, a sign pointed our way to the you-pick apples.

These farm trips always come with a lesson in preconceived notions: My sister had her heart set on picking red apples. But most of the reds were covered with black spots and blemishes — a visual assurance of the organic methods used on this farm; no pesticides here. Despite their appearance, the reds still tasted pretty good, but the yellow apples fared far better.  And at $1 per pound for organic apples, we couldn’t complain about either variety.

Lily, who’s 2,  was a bit disappointed she couldn’t reach the apples herself. I put her on my shoulders and she stretched her arms up to grab them. This was fun and cute for about 10 minutes until the heat got to me, and her dad took a turn.

I walked between the rows of trees. A tension I hadn’t realized was there all day was released as I single-mindedly searched for some good apples. The sun glinted gold across the leaves. I tossed an apple high up into a tree, a failed attempt to knock loose the bigger apples clustered at the top. I tossed my hair back, opened my chest and let in the day. This was what I’d come for.

All of the little markets and bakeries with their value-added products, pony rides and fresh-pressed cider help support a rather charming local industry here. But I hope Apple Hill will always be a place where we can walk into an orchard, reach up into an apple tree and fill our baskets.

I looked up and saw my mom and sister walking toward me with Lily, refreshed after a diaper change.

I took a small apple, held it above my head, and let it drop. “The sky is falling! The sky is falling! Let’s run and tell the king!”

My daughter thought this was absolutely hilarious and insisted I do it about 6 more times. Then she found an apple and continued to play “Chicken Little” with her daddy and then her auntie, plopping apples on their good-natured heads.

   

We all sat down in the shade of the trees, Lily laughing and tumbling over us. My mom started fantasizing wildly about buying a farm. We let the late afternoon breeze cool us as the leaves shook and we looked through the green and gold of the branches.

When I was growing up, Dad was always a good sport on family outings — patiently waiting while his girls insisted on going into this or that shop, this or that restaurant. But in the end, the simple stuff always won out with him – just sitting in an orchard, feeling the breeze, eating an apple, being together.

Southern send-off

It’s not often that I write an immediate follow-up to a blog post, but I haven’t been able to get R. Kelly Farms‘ cranberry beans out of my head. When I cooked them after posting an entry a couple of week’s ago, I had the sense that I’d posted too soon.

First of all, while undertaking the pleasantly mindless task of shelling them, I was smitten with the dainty pink freckles dotting their pods and shells. Then, after cooking them using this recipe, along with a little bacon, herbs and garden tomatoes, I was reminded of the transportative–if not transformative– power of food. (Unfortunately, I was too busy eating and reminiscing to photograph the meal.)

Biting into these beans took me back to Mississippi and the night I helped my mom move the last of her boxes out of the house she’d shared with my father for 11 years until that year, 2007, when he died.

It was the night before I was to drive her and her cats, Franklin and LB,  more than 2,000 miles across forests, prairies and deserts to her new life in the West.

You might think I wouldn’t want to be transported to such a time and place, yet beans similar to these cranberry ones comforted us that evening.

With the house an empty shell, we were taken in by Mom and Dad’s next-door neighbors, Billy and Faye. My parents didn’t really know these neighbors very well for most of their time at the house–just passing hellos and “how’re the grandkids?” exchanges. That changed when Faye had a bout of sickness, and my parents helped with meals and such. Then when Dad got sick, they more than returned the favor — helping with odds and ends around the house when the chemo dragged him down, and — most importantly– being the sort of support my sister and I couldn’t be while we were so far away.

So on that late-summer night, Faye cooked us a simple but outstanding Southern dinner. Several other Southern dinners I’d had during previous visits to Mississippi were more of the processed cheese + gelatinous cream-of-x-soup variety, bless their hearts. But this meal’s ingredients came largely from Faye and Billy’s sizable garden.

Strangely, I can’t remember if Faye served us meat that night, though I’m sure she must have — it’s sacrilege not to in Mississippi. But I do remember the beans. I think they were butter beans. And, like the beans I recently ate, they had never seen the inside of  a can and had never been dried, resulting in a wholly different–and in my opinion, better– flavor. With the beans, she also served cornbread, collard greens, crispy fried green tomatoes, and bright red tomatoes. It was the perfect Southern send-off — one of hospitality and heart at the end of a summer, at the end of one life for our family and the beginning of another as my mother moved West and into a great unknown.

These foods that grow right outside our doorsteps and that go straight from garden to skillet, remind us of where we’ve been. It’s why local foods are more than just a mile-radius number or a label slapped on a package of produce. The real local foods carry with them the flavor and histories of the people who grow, serve and eat them. They comfort us and take us back as we keep moving forward.

Full of beans

I stumbled across R. Kelley Farms online while looking for watermelons in the Sacramento area.

And while R. Kelley does offer a variety of sweet melons—from your standard watermelon to the petite French savoy, ambrosia, and Crème de crème—it quickly became apparent that R. Kelley’s specialty crop is beans.

Image

Not just green beans and yellow wax beans, though he has them, too. But what draws many of his customers to his acreage near Clarksburg, Calif. are beans and peas more often found in cuisine from the American South and East India—black eyed peas, purple hull beans, crowder peas, speckled butterbeans and cranberry beans.

When my husband, daughter and I arrived there this weekend, several families were choosing produce from bins within R. Kelley’s on-site farm stand, where in addition to beans, you can find okra, tomatoes, corn, peppers, onions and huge garlic heads perfect for roasting.

Others were piling into a tractor to be driven out into the bean fields. They would return with mesh sacks bursting with beans, for which they’d be charged 78 cents per pound. (Picking the produce yourself results in a discount of about 30-40 percent.)

The farm’s namesake is owner Ron Kelley. An agricultural production consultant, this farm is his “hobby,” and he was hard at work in the fields the day we visited. But his great niece Iisha Leftridge, who was cashier that day, explained that several of their customers from East India and Fiji are vegetarians and vegan, so beans provide a large source of protein in their dishes. They’ll often add them along with peppers and eggplant to curries.

Iisha told me her favorite way of preparing the beans, which I intend to do this week: Shell and sauté them in olive oil with onion, garlic, thyme, and a jalapeno pepper. Add some turkey sausage, a touch of broth, and serve it over rice.

Iisha says the purple hull beans are sweeter than the crowder, and the cranberry are similar to a pinto bean but with a pink speckled hull.

Visitors to R. Kelley can choose from the farm stand offerings or grab a bucket and wander into the fields, where blossoming okra flowers, vines of beans, tomatoes, corn and more await.

We gave a go of it, but with a 2-year old fussing in the mid-day sun (“Sure, blame the kid.” Ok, so we were hot, too!), we didn’t get far.

After picking a few beans, a pepper and an eggplant, we decided to take advantage of the farm stand after all. We made off with a couple of sweet melons, a bunch of beans, and the other fixings we needed to execute Iisha’s favorite bean dish.

THE NUTSHELL:

R. Kelley Farms is at 1120 Scribner Road in South Sacramento. Open July –October, Wednesday through Sunday, 8 a.m.- 6 p.m.

Services: u-pick, we- pick, farm stand, pea shelling and delivery.
Crops: Black-eye, purple hull and crowder peas. Also green beans, speckled butter beans, garbanzo beans and cranberry beans. Other items include tomatoes, okra, sweet corn, peppers, squash, cucumbers and sweet melons.

Watch a video and learn  more at http://www.rkelleyfarms.com.

Sunflower harvest

Russian Mammoth Sunflower, preparing for backyard harvest. Davis, Calif.

Why I never pick artichokes from my garden

Its flower is just too pretty.

Mission Impossible Acres

Past fields of bursting sunflowers …

… and down a county road, Impossible Acres sits in West Davis, just 4 scant miles from Davis’ downtown core.

My family and our friend Max had come there because I’d heard (see “Summer’s sweet spot”) that we could pick peaches at Impossible Acres. And a good peach is what I’ve been craving ever since the calendar flipped to July.

I have one of those golden childhood memories of picking peaches with my mom at a pick-your-own farm in Missouri, where the yellow fruits were the size of my fist, and their fuzzy skins were almost bursting. I don’t remember what Mom made with them, but I do remember eating them at that farm, standing in the shade of peach tree branches, juice dripping down my chin and neck, so good I licked the palms of my hands to get every bit of stickiness into my mouth.

But California isn’t Missouri. I’m still learning what grows here, and when. I heard the peach season in Yolo County is late June through early August, so I thought the first week of July might satisfy my craving.

Impossible Acres is a popular little farm. When we arrived this past weekend, about 15 couples and families were also there, slathering kids up with sunscreen in the parking lot and affixing sun hats.

The young woman at the entrance gave us the lay of the land, most helpfully with a hand-drawn photocopied map of the place that we could take with us. She pointed out where the berries were (marrionberry, raspberries, boysenberries and ollalieberries)—also mentioning the berries had a rough year due to fickle weather. She indicated our path to the peaches—past the cherry trees, past the rows of apricots and plums, and on to the peaches and nectarines. We got a couple of flat boxes to fill and were off.

We shot past the berries—as the young lady had noted, there were very few worth picking. The apricot trees were loaded with fruit begging to be picked, and we did grab a few.

But we moved quickly onward. (Note to parents and those who care for their feet: Don’t wear sandals, like I did, because some weeds along the path are prickly.)

Then we got to the peaches. They were nice.

Medium-sized, sweet, with several ripe and ready. The nearby nectarines were just as good, though there were fewer of them. We filled our boxes, satisfied that we had enough to make the tasty peach shortcake and peach-glazed pork chops I’d been fantasizing about, as well as plenty left to pop into our mouths.

But I admit, I was a little disappointed. I began to think that the peaches inflating my dreams may not be suited to the North Central Valley. But after talking with Fred Manas, owner of peach orchard Manas Ranch in Yolo County, it turns out I am just being impatient.  (I was unable to get ahold of the Impossible Acres owners in the days that followed our visit to ask them.)

“We have friends from Georgia that moved here and they say they are nothing like my peaches here,” said Manas.

The peach season, he said, runs from about mid-June through mid-October. Each variety has its own season. And there is a tendency for  bigger varieties to peak later in the summer, around August.

But, Manas wondered, what’s all the fuss about “big?”

“Big does not make it better,” he said with the kindly insistence of a man who has spent more years than I’ve been alive growing and eating peaches.

Manas Ranch grows seven different varieties, ranging from the smallish Cassie peach to the more robust O’Henry in August.  So if I want to stubbornly hold on to my vision of a giant peach, I need to wait a little longer.

And by the way, that childhood memory of mine on the peach farm with Mom? She told me later that we picked those peaches right before school started, which would have made it … late August.

Back at Impossible Acres, Mom wandered off into other fruit trees. I found her in the shade of an apricot tree, happily munching away.

“These are amazing!” she said.

I looked at her hand, and her apricot was something I didn’t think apricots could be: juicy. Apricots are a nice enough fruit. I like them in a good Middle Eastern couscous, in scones, I know I’d like them wrapped up in bacon, and  I love them dried. But most of the time I’ve eaten them, well, I can understand why they’re usually sold dried. But here was this one, dripping all over Mom’s hand and plastering a smile on her face.

It made me take a second look at those apricot trees—and at the whole farm, really. I realized that when looking for what’s in season, it’s best to look down. The fruit newly dropped and beginning to rot on the ground is a telltale sign of fruit ripe and ready up above.

With that in mind, I went a couple of rows over to visit the plums—dark, black beauties that were also covering the ground around the tree trunks.

This was what I was looking for, though I hadn’t known it. This was that “jackpot” moment I love to feel when hitting a harvest at just the right time. I plucked one after the other and took them back to my husband and Max, who were, ahem, fruitlessly still looking for magic peaches.

“Come get these plums, guys. They’re awesome.”

Somewhere between picking a plum and sucking the juice off my fingers,  I was reminded of something: Sometimes what you get isn’t quite what you set out for, but it can still be pretty sweet.

THE NUTSHELL

Impossible Acres
Location:26565 Road 97 D, Davis, CA
Hours: Wed.-Sun, 9a.m. -6 p.m.
U-pick:  During the summer, they offer apricots and peaches ($1.99/pound), and berries ($2.99/pound). Cherries in late May-early June. August brings apples. Pumpkin patch in October.

Growing method: Not organic, but they spray when the trees are dormant.
Farm stand and animals: To be located at nearby Grandpa’s Barn, 37945 County Road 31, Davis, CA

Summer’s sweet spot

In July, the answer to the question “What’s in season?” seems like a given: Everything. Right?

But I’ve gotten so spoiled here in this place with a year-long growing season. Yes, summer squash, green beans, sweet corn, berries and even tomatoes seem fresh and easy to find these days. But the closer I look, the more I eat, and the more I learn about the 100-mile-radius of land in which I’m now living, “in season” to me is more about what is, at this moment, dripping off vines or trees or plants, particularly in Yolo County. Not rotting, not budding, but ready. Food that has never been and will never be as good as it is right now. That perfect sweet spot can change within a week or two—I’m bummed to I think I’ve missed the cherry-picking boat–making summertime eating nothing to take for granted.

With that in mind, and an eye toward finding what food is having its perfect moment, my family and I visited the Saturday Davis Farmers Market. Here are some snapshots of what we found.

 

Long, fat green beans.

Heirloom and other tomatoes beginning to come on.

You can’t have 4th of July without berries, right?

But what really seems to be in season—and I have to say, I knew this from just riding my bike around the neighborhood and watching my neighbors picking them like it was their job—is stone fruit in general, and apricots in particular.

Apricots are everywhere right now. Some great local ones can be found at Good Humus Farm, which sells at the farmers’ market and provides apricots in their and partner CSAs.

I asked farm owner Annie Main if her farm does u-pick, which they don’t. Another farmers’ market customer overheard me and mentioned that Impossible Acres in West Davis has u-pick apricots, peaches, berries and other stuff.

 Wa, wa, wait. Did she say peaches? That is what I would REALLY love to pick. So with visions of peach shortcake, peach salsa, peach-glazed pork chops, and peach cobbler in our heads we decided right then to make Impossible Acres our next farm trip.  Stay tuned, as the search for the hyper-seasonal continues.

And this, I just have to add in: Ever since the temperatures have crept above 90 degrees, I can’t go to the Davis Farmers Market without ending the trip with a popsicle at the Fat Face booth.

These guys are very creative, turning a summer standby into a gourmet treat. Last time I tried their hibiscus mint. This time I went with the thai tea+sweet potato. It was like thai iced tea on a stick. Awesome. Next time, kaffir lime+avocado.

(What, you thought I’d go a whole post without throwing in a photo of my kid?)

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