After a long week of driving, aided by visits to friends and audiobooks from Cracker Barrel, I finally made it back North. It’s been sleeting and gray, but I’m still so happy to be home.

This afternoon, my mom and I took this injured canada goose to the New England Wildlife Center, a wildlife veterinary clinic south of the city. He was admitted and diagnosed with a lacerated right wing, and the future looks bright - he was active and responsive, not very aggressive for a canada goose but alert enough to object to being scooped up and carried through the wards.

I worked for the wildlife center as a teenager. It was a very different place. The old facility was a ramshackle concrete building that may or may not have once been a military bunker. Dimly lit, half sunken below ground, with narrow hallways and low ceilings. It stank to high heaven, of bird poop and raccoon piss and everything in between. Space was at a premium. I think there was an iguana who lived in a tank on the radiator. Piles of laundry constantly threatened to tumble into the aisles.

But I loved it. The constant stream of new patients, the proximity to the animals, the company of the talented and dedicated techs and interns I worked with. They did wonders with limited resources. It was entirely worth spending time in such a stink hole, to have access to what the clinic had to offer.

A few years ago they finally completed a new facility a few towns over. Embarrassingly, I hadn’t seen it until today. It’s incredibly nice, with teaching space and real treatment rooms and surgical suites, all with large windows to allow observation. Even the resident llama got some sweet new digs. I think the goose is going to be real comfortable during rehab.

Saturday is harvest day. Usually fairly mellow. Greens in the morning (usually asian mix and herbs for me), tougher stuff once the heat of the day comes on, pack the truck in the afternoon to be ready for market in the morning.

But today, we went on an adventure, down the road in Margie’s blue minivan to fetch the season’s first load of loquats.

Steve, the grower, gave us a few tall ladders and walked us through the grove, past lychees and longans and tangerines, to the loquat trees growing along the fenceline by the neighbor’s abandoned avocado grove.

These trees were some serious business, very tall, nothing like the fastidiously pruned apples, plums, peaches, and pears I worked with back north. And of course, the ripest clusters had a way of being clustered waaay up on tree, just out of reach. But we easily managed to pick what we needed.

Which brings us to the real question-

What the hell is a loquat?

Until this afternoon I had not seen a loquat, eaten a loquat, or even heard anyone say ‘loquat’ (it’s such a funny word, I’m sure I would have remembered). So I may not be the best person to answer that question. But considering how many we ate while picking, popping them like grapes in the shady grove, i can give it a shot.

They are small, about the size of a dried fig, and the skin has a little bit of fuzz to it, like a peach, but not so much that you can’t stand to eat it, like a kiwi. The seeds are big, they take up about half the cavity space, and very smooth, fun to spit. They grow on the tree in clumps and snap off easily when ripe.

The taste varies depending on the level of maturity. Loquats that are still pale yellow with a touch of green have this addictive citrusy acidity thing going on, tasting sort of like a peach and sort of like an orange. Ones that are dead ripe, orange with brown spots, taste a lot like apricots.

Luckily for us, the ones that taste the best are the ones that people are not inclined to buy - they’re mottled and wrinkly, brown spotted, homely. We saved them for the crew to eat, and maybe to cook with.

Picking loquats was my last harvest at Bee Heaven Farm. Bright and early Monday morning, Homer and I are getting in the truck and heading North, back to the land of ice and snow.

Perhaps foolishly, I can’t wait to leave tropical paradise. I’ve loved my time here, but I am so excited for the season to come on the island, I am so ready to start a farm, to run the show. Not apprentice. Not intern. Not manage. Not share crop.

Farm. I just want to farm.

There are plenty of things that are inconvenient about the gypsy apprentice life. Living without heat, indoor plumbing, or mold-free upholstery. Picking up stakes and moving every six months or so. For all that I’ve learned from it, for all that I’ve loved parts of it, when I say that I’m ready for it to end, I mean it.

But one thing that I’ll truly miss is the people. I’ve met some phenomenal people on the different crews I’ve worked with. Sarah is one of them. We spent the fall together at Garden of Eve in 2008, harvesting beets and making pizza on Sunday nights in the little beach shack on Sound Shore Drive.

Sarah is now living and farming in France, which she records on her blog, and occasionally we’ll catch one another on gchat. It’s kind of funny and kind of great, to be living in a barn where i sleep with hot water bottles on cold nights and hang my clothes from the rafters, and yet be able to just shoot the breeze in real time with a friend a world away. The wonders of wireless internet.

So she asked me the other day to name my five favorite seed varieties I’ll be growing. Here they are, in no particular order:

Matts Wild Cherry: A tiny red currant tomato, pictured above, both in my shirt hem and on the vine. Margie is growing them here, they do well in South Florida. In fact, they seem to do well just about everywhere. The farmer who turned me onto them, Phil Barbato of Biophilia Farm in Greenport NY, said that for him they are always the first to bear in the spring and the last to die in the fall. They’re also pretty darn cute. I had a tough time getting them to germinate at Mermaid last spring, and then didn’t trellis the plants, so it was a little bit of a shit show, but I think I can get it right this year.

Karma Dahlia: Everyone at the ASCFG conference this fall was in love with this series. The karma dahlia is vegetatively propagated and copyrighted. So you buy plugs (for the non-growers out there, plugs are baby plants in plastic trays) in the spring, plant them in the field, and enjoy a long and super-productive harvest. The traditional way to do dahlias is to plant these giant tubers in the spring and then dig them out again in the fall, which is a ton of work, and you need somewhere to store the tubers for the winter. So I’m going to try these instead, probably in the hoophouse to max out the yield.

Hulk Aster: Pictured above. How excellent is that? I love green flowers. This one’s really weird - it has no petals. I guess you either love it or you hate it. But if you can’t see the appeal of a cut flower named HULK, well, I’m not sure I can help you.

Fairytale Eggplant: An old favorite of mine. Small. Striped. Cute. There’s not much more I want in an eggplant. The plants are somewhat dwarf too - I think I’m going to put a few in three gallon pots and try selling those as well.

Purple Haze Carrot: A hybrid carrot, also a 2006 AAS winner. Sometimes with the non-orange carrots you have to lose both the traditional color and the traditional taste, and the carrots are runty to boot. Not so with Purple Haze. Interesting to look at, sizes up pretty well. Expensive seed, but if I can get them to germinate it’ll be more than worth it.

No, it is not an optical illusion. And no, it is definitely not a product of photoshop.

It is simply a carrot that grew through a rock.

Here’s a different angle-

It’s a highly unlikely event, this carrot, but not impossible. Carrots have a peculiar and particular growth habit. They first send out a long tap root, thin as a strand of baby hair. The tap root is weak and flexible, which is why carrots grown in rocky soil often turn out twisty and gnarled - in its early days of life, the taproot will snake and bend around whatever lies in its way.

This carrot threaded through a hole in this piece of limestone, and then began to expand, filling the hole and otherwise developing a normal taproot. What are the odds that the limestone would be angled just so? That the carrot seed would be perfectly centered above the opening?

It doesn’t really matter. We’re all enjoying the carrot.

I’ve never been a huge fan of canning. It’s a sort of sore spot - farmers are supposed to be food preservers. It’s a homesteading skill right up there with milking cows and making yarn.

But come on, admit it - isn’t canning kind of a pain in the ass? The giant cauldron of hot water, the fussy metal rack, moving everything with tongs. Is it clean? Did it seal? Can you say botulism?

Since coming to Homestead, I’ve been introduced to natural fermentation, and am pretty much completely hooked. It’s dead easy and the food is delicious. Once Muriel coached me through my initial hesitation (you just put the food in salt water? really? that’s it?), i went on a little fermentation spree - radishes, beets, turnips, and kimchi. I love watching the bubbles rise to the surface, the colors change, the brine stain purple and pink, the mason jars lined up on a shelf in the cooler.

It’s addictive.

Don’t get me wrong - Bee Heaven’s stand at the Pinecrest market is always pretty nice. But this past weekend, it was a new level of abundance.

In the picture above, Margie is holding a slice of calabaza. The squash itself was huge, pushing thirty pounds. You can see a picture of it on the farm scale over at Marion’s blog, redland rambles.

This was also the first week we brought carrots to market, riotously colored in yellow, white, purple, and orange. The weirdo colored ones are growing quite well - surprisingly, the white ones lead the pack in terms of size and vigor. I’ve never seen the specialty carrots do that well up north. I was the lucky one who got the harvest task of collecting and washing them. There’s nothing quite like pulling a nice carrot. The firm tug, the dramatic reveal, a blip of color in a sea of green fronds. Especially gratifying after many hours of tedious weeding in December.

There was lots of fruit as well - perfectly ripe canistels, green baskets of strawberries, a wooden box of passionfruit, soft black sapote. It’s a good thing lots of people showed up. Sunday is a long day, and I was not keen on the idea of loading full crates back onto the box truck in the afternoon.

It was also the first market of the season that involved a serious amount of heirloom tomatoes, and despite all the other flashy offerings the tomatoes were probably the darling of the ball. Not shocking. I guess there’s nothing quite like a real tomato, especially when it’s been a while since you had your last one.

Dearest reader-

You may be thinking to yourself-

What the hell is that?

It is not the inner workings of a songbird or cotton rat.

It is not evidence of life beyond our blue planet.

It is a fruit - the mamey sapote.

Or, as Jamie dubbed it, “fetus fruit.”

They typically come into season sometime in March in Southern Florida, and are very valuable, in large part because of the time commitment for each crop. From flower to fruit, a mamey sapote requires between 13 and 24 months. For every two harvests a starfruit grower gathers, the sapote farmer may get only one.

The skin of the fruit is positively homely, a rough sandpaper brown. The flesh, on the other hand, is a revelation - creamy and sweet, with a texture something like an avocado, with the most incredible gradations of orange, red, and salmon pink.

The slices reminded me of raw tuna sashimi.

We processed a whole box on Saturday for dehydrating. Margie’s friend Sal brought them over. They, too, were a casualty of the frost, dropped from the trees before fully mature.

“Don’t sell these fresh,” he warned. “They’re not right.”

He had a point - they weren’t perfect. But they were still incredibly delicious.

Remember the nighttime visitor? He froze. I found him out by homer’s hutch, on the limestone gravel. In the palm of my hand, he was light as a feather, stiff as a board, toe pads like brittle paper over his heart.  I showed him around to the rest of the crew, but they didn’t seem to find his corpse so moving.  I put him under the pidgeon peas, and in the morning he was gone.

RIP little man.

Last week one of Margie’s partner farms sent us the biggest collard greens I have ever seen. Anyone seen that movie Avatar? It looked like something out of that - cartoon tropical. We sold a fair amount of them at market, but most people seemed rather intimidated. Honestly, I can’t blame them. They’d take up a whole shelf in the fridge, if they even fit. I like greens and everything, but I don’t own a pot big enough to take those on.

Muriel spotted this little guy on the floor of the barn the other night. Frogs bring out the five year old in me, and I scooped him up to check out his little buggy eyes, his sweet toe pads. After parading him around for the farm crew I plopped him outside under the pidgeon peas, and lo and behold, he was back in the barn five minutes later. I have no idea why our cold cement floors were so appealing. Maybe he was in the market for a snack.