THE ART OF REFUELING.
I had a chef once who often told me something––many things, really––that I've never forgotten. It was simple and anytime I've employed it, it has served me well. I would come down after a long day of work, or before one, and he would be flipping through a book in his office. Tired though we all were, he would remind us a professional should read for no less than fifteen minutes a day on his profession.And I realize that may seem like a small thing, but let's break it down:I don't know how many pages you read a minute, but I'm going to pretend (for my own morale) you're a painfully slow reader like me. I read, depending on what it is, around 1 to 2 pages a minute. So, let's just say 1.5 pages on (generous) average. That means I can theoretically read 22.5 pages everyday, only spending 15 minutes reading. That's 157.5 pages a week. That's 8,190 pages a year. And if you say the average book is what? 250 to 300 pages? That's roughly 30 books a year. Or hundreds of articles. I don't know about you, but I used to read a lot more than I do now. I don't always get to thirty books a year anymore. Sadly. Because what parent, what farmer/parent no less, has the time to read book after book these days? Few of us. Fifteen minutes a day, though? That, we may be able to find. I mean, when it's a good enough read, you will struggle to only spend fifteen minutes with it.Reading, though, is important. Because output––farming, writing, whatever you love––needs input. Fuel. Energy. You need something constantly coming in to influence all you have going out (and notably, vice-versa). To inspire it. To inform it. To craft it. To add perspective. To keep it coming.Personally, I find lethargy and repetition in my writing, and in my farming, when I slack on reading. I need to read a sentence that challenges me to challenge my own sentences. I need to see how someone else manages their weeds to reimagine my own management. Art, to me, has always been about inspiring other art. So when I am always just creating, eventually the tank runs dry. I need fuel. I need to stop, take at least fifteen minutes every day, and fill up.How does one define "on your profession"? Well, for me last week it was a book called "Grass, Soil, Hope" by Courtney White about carbon farming. This week was Melissa Coleman's memoir "This Life is in Your Hands" about growing up the daughter of famed farmer Eliot Coleman. Now it's The Atlantic's latest edition coupled with "Unseen City", by Nathaniel Johnson. So, obviously, it's a pretty wide spectrum. Anything really. It could be technical garden stuff, or fiction, whatever. My feeling is the diversity is as important as the dedication to it.So of course I'd love to know how you insert reading into your busyness (or business)? And what's on the nightstand these days?-Jesse.
MANAGING INSPIRATION.
I recently had a rare, unmitigated evening to spend with Netflix. And it was outstanding––for lack of a more accurate word. This is probably old news to normal humans, but I discovered that Netflix had done an original series called "Chef's Table" which was, to put it mildly, the most inspiring thing.For those of you who don't know, I used to cook professionally. You can read about this in my smash hit series of memoirs Bringing Wine Home (Book Three out next year... maybe), but I actually moved to New York to cook professionally. After a while, though, I realized what I'd truly moved to NYC to do was drink, so I did that professionally for a few years instead to, ahem, staggering success.That being said, I still have a deep affection for, and a personal interest in, cooking. In chefs. In kitchens. As a farmer, I'm always looking to better understand the modern chef. As an ex-cook, I enjoy seeing how the world of cooking is changing. And few things have more throughly updated me than this series.Indeed, all of the featured chefs and restaurants in this series left me feeling profoundly inspired about food, about farming, about cooking and how these world's can collide. And it has also left me with this giant douse of inspiration with which I have no idea what in the world to do.One thing is for certain, Chef's Table definitely italicized, underlined and put in bold my desire to grow the most flavorful, most nutritious food I can. There is moment in one episode where chef Dan Barber asks a plant breeder if he can breed a smaller, more flavorful butternut squash for him. The breeder looks back at Barber, wipes his glasses––his own glasses, not Barber's––and says something to the effect of, "In all my years of plant breeding, no one has ever asked me to breed for flavor." And suddenly, a million loose chords in my brain connected themselves and the resulting light will not turn off.We really don't think enough about flavor as consumers, nor as farmers. We think about yields. We think about symmetry, gloss and appeal. We grow in greenhouses and under lights to better control the environment and push for food out of season––flavorful or not, perfect looking food. And although Hannah and I completely understand the need for this kind of farming, and have nothing against anyone who grows this way, we have no real interest in it for ourselves. We want to grow healthy food, outdoors. Even if it's harder. Even if it's less profitable. Even if it's uglier. As Masanobu Fukuoka put it in One Straw Revolution, "...proper nourishment is inseparable from good flavor." Great flavor, that's what we're after––that's where the health is.
Anyway, from time to time I run into something as inspiring as this series and my whole view of the world changes. It happened when I first read Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential, and decided to be a chef. It happened again when I read Kermit Lynch's Adventures on the Wine Route, and my entire perspective on what wine could be––nay, should be––shifted. Then of course, The Omnivore's Dilemma, by Michael Pollan, planted the seed that ultimately grew into farming. What the seed from this documentary will turn into is hard to say. But it's germinating. I can feel it. And I'm curious––if I may lightly abuse the analogy––to see what fruit it will bear. I'll bet it will be tasty.- Jesse
BRINGING WINE HOME: UPDATE!
If you aren't able to make it to the Kentucky Green Living Fair to get one in person, Jesse's book Bringing Wine Home is now availabe on Amazon or as a digital download!
IDEA FARMING.
Yesterday on the blog we announced that I wrote a book, and I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has purchased it so far or who plans to at the fair. At a time when all our farm has to sell is our ideas––be it the t-shirts or the book––we're greatly appreciative of the support. You're helping to plant our farm, so thank you.Hannah and I will be moving onto the farm in a week. For keeps. I've been really excited about this fact, but knew it meant I would not have much access to electricity––or free time––over the next six months or so. Not enough to finish editing an entire book. So I decided to divide and conquer, starting with the first third––Book One––which is available now through print copy (and hopefully digital soon). Book Two will be available in the fall, completed when I can steal some time and sleep from myself, and Book Three will be ready the following winter. The books are practically complete now, they just need extensive editing which, for Book One, was graciously provided by Erin Breeding of The Breedings. It would not be the same book without her guidance (thank you, Erin!).I would also like to add how inspired I've been lately by the self-publishing world which, just five or so years ago, would have probably been a pretty hilarious thing to say. But now the quality is great, and the options limitless. For writers like me who write books about how natural wine introduced them to vegetable farming, which suddenly turns into a love story, it just makes sense. Especially when the writer then decides they want to release it in three parts. Self-publishing is just more flexible in that way.Thank you again for you support––you all are amazing. If you have any questions about the book, please let me know!- Jesse.