I’ve spent the last two weeks as chief cook and bottle washer, farm Uber driver, agrarian Door Dasher, vehicle ferry pilot, meteorological consultant and occasional finder-of-lost things (the Gator wasn’t actually lost, it just wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Or maybe I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. It’s hard to tell sometimes.) In other words, harvest in the Midwest is in full swing.
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Finding the Gator is a popular activity. It is usually followed by the four-legged passenger screaming all the way home because Gator rides are the Most. Fun. Thing. Ever. (Photo by Melinda Wichmann) |
My job is simple: keep everyone fed and drive things from Point A to Point B, with or without passengers. This is no small undertaking since farmers and their partners often operate in different dimensions of time and space.
Me: Do you need any help this morning?
Farmer: Yeah, but first I have to unload the semi at the other farm, then I’ve got to move the grain cart to that other field and fix a tire on the combine, and I’ll need a ride back to get the other pickup, but I have to check the dryer first.
Me:
Farmer:
Me: Just call me.
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Moving from one field to another. Iowa Township, Iowa County, Iowa. (Photo by Melinda Wichmann) |
Food is a big deal this time of year. The bucolic scene of a harvest meal in the field is one of the iconic images of the American farm family. Everyone is clean and smiling while they enjoy a spread that looks like it was catered by a five-star chef. The combine in the background is polished to a high gloss and the pickups parked strategically to accommodate the photo shoot could have just rolled off the showroom floor.
The reality of field meals is trying to park the pickup upwind of the moving dustball that is the combine chewing through dry stalks and releasing a choking cloud of field dust, grain dust, bugs and chaff so thick you can’t see through it.
Sometimes, the first reality of meal delivery is finding the right place, but once I get in the general vicinity, it’s easy to locate the field crew by the dust cloud. And just forget about anything being clean or shiny. It’s not. Get over it. I call it a success if the paper plates don’t blow away and I remember to bring a serving spoon for the sloppy joes.
When the Farmer and I were first married, I lived in terror of delivering food to the wrong farm. It took several seasons to cement in my mind exactly where he meant when tossed out the farm and section names that he’d grown up with but had no meaning to me. There were a few initial hiccups, but we reached an agreement that directions like “east of the pond at the Maas farm” or “west past Immanuel Church and south at the first stop sign” was more likely to yield good results than “down by the creek” or “north of Dad’s 80.” Figuring those locations out was a skill that came with time. By the way, there are multiple fields “down by the creek.” They are in no way, shape, or form close to one another. Ask me how I know. We’re still married.
Ditto when it comes to needing a ride. The problem isn’t so much poor directions by either the giver or the receiver, it’s that trying to locate farmers can be like herding cats. Plans change, paths get diverted, and “be there in ten minutes” is a rather liquid interpretation of time. The sense of relief I feel when a rig pops over the hill is palpable, especially when I’ve started second-guessing whether I was supposed to go to the north gate on the east road or the east gate on the north road. Farm wives develop their own GPS after years on the job.
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(Photo by Melinda Wichmann) |
In terms of food, I’m not of the generation that delivered fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade dinner rolls and pie to the field. (I know ya’ll are out there and I’m seriously awed by the magnitude of your skill, but that’s not me.) Field dining is about convenience and speed for both cook and diner. The food has to taste good and be transportable in a way that ensures it’s still hot when it gets where it's going, or if it has to wait a while when it gets there. My Crockpots are still my go-to favorite kitchen gadget.
Best case scenario: hot casserole. The skinny end of things: cold meat sandwiches. Dessert: always. I love this time of year because I get to bake some favorite recipes I’ve put on the back shelf because they’re too much for just the Farmer and I, but work great for field meals. It’s amazing how fast a big pan of brownies or an entire sheet cake disappears.
IN OTHER NEWS
At the risk of sounding like a broken record, things ARE moving forward with “Ghost.” The text is in the hands of the second-to-last proofreader, and my cover designer said he’d have an initial design concept for me this week. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve!
And I’ve had some great authors who were generous enough to write blurbs for me—those little marketing devices on the cover of books that say delicious things like, “This stunning debut novel is a haunting, sensual blend of friendship, love and danger.” Well, okay, none of mine actually say that, but you get the idea.
Thanks for reading!
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