So I got a text from my cousin today. We call him Flick. Our relationship is an odd thing for people to understand. He's my brother, father, my social addiction, my worst enemy, my greatest ally,...He's not my other half...but he's a solid third. And in the way only men can manage love...I hate that mother fucker. There is another piece to our little clan...he is The Burch. But we will visit that another day. Today, we talk about the farm. And how it relates to the following text...slightly.
"The county came by the house today about that 12 gauge."
Well Goddamn.
There is a lot of talk out there about slow food, farm to table, organics, and all that jazz. And I'm a so happy that it's now chic to be reasonable when it comes to food. But, I find it fascinating that the farm community that I come from is for the most part completely removed from this movement.
This band of goons listed above and myself ran a farm. It was called Serenity, and it was sometimes serene indeed. But for the most part it was a train full of booze, guns, liquor, and bad decisions. The plan was one that fell from the sky...into the brush fire that was our lives. We all worked full time, we all lived like life was almost over, and we wanted to do both of these things in unison. So we set off to be the new American dream. In our own personal America that sat on 170 or so acres in the Georgia country side. Flick's family had been farming this land for a few generations. Mostly chickens, cows and the things you grow to sustain those arms of the farming business. There was land aplenty for corn...Silver Queen Corn to be exact. Still one of the finest flavors God has allowed on the planet. It grows in Georgia like it grows nowhere else on earth. No scientific fact will ever convince me otherwise...as long as I live. Flick's grandmother died and left him a house that has since been renovated by Flick himself. It’s beautiful. But back then it was 150 years old and either the hottest or coldest goddamn house in the fucking universe depending on the season. We called it home...and I still do in the deep corners of my heart that have life left.
The thing with that kind of farm though...is that with the type of machinery we had access too (tractors and such) tending corn was quick business. Sure, there were other things to do, clean out the chicken house after pickup, feed the cows, all that normal farm shit. We did all that too. We went to our jobs every day only to return to work that we loved.
The thought was to one day wake up and not leave Serenity...unless for grain. We started making our own moonshine, soap, food, etc, etc... And the oddest thing started sinking in. All of our neighbors knew we were "good ol boys"...but cutting hay with war paint made form soaked flowers while blaring James - Laid or any cut from a Beck Album seemed to clue them into the fact that we were fucking nuts. We made moonshine like their dads use to, so we had our place in their hearts. But we were the exception when it came to their perceptions of anything progressive at all. This organic shit was to them a bunch of liberal trash. It didn’t make a FUCK of difference to anyone within 50 miles what the fuck went in anything. The cow feed was made in part from chicken shit for Christ sake. No fucking around...I've made it.
As I've been drug down more and more into the world of food and beverage I can assure you that the majority of the chicken you eat, the steak you cut, or the pork you fry is produced in a factory. Some of it however, is from the land of some yokel that looks back on those years of my life and wonders things like "I bet them fucking boys are six feet a under and smilin or locked in a goddamn cell...fuckin lunatics". It’s an odd thing for me to reflect upon tonight, sitting at a bar in Raleigh feeding my face with beer. The outlook here is so different. The food is looked upon with respect in this community...or at least the origins of the ingredients are. The farmers are held in great respect. And I just want to thank you dear Triangle. Because in an industry where the wrong things are cared about almost all the time, you're getting this part right. I wonder what would happen if Atlanta’s produce respect caught up with its cooking. I think some of those guys out in the Georgia hills would start holding their head a little higher. Might even hit the shine a little less....well...probably not that. But they might not look at us with disdain when we remind them were coming back some day.
And about that text message...I don’t know nothin about nothin.
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