Posted by Elizabeth

The elusive ABF

My friend, Marc, better known to you LiP Readers as ABF, invited me to his grandfather’s farm to help him harvest grapes last Friday.  A psychic that Heidi and I visited in Sedona last May predicted that I’d be “getting back to the earth,” to which I promptly rolled my eyes and declared myself “not an outdoorsy person.”  Until last March I had never pierced a shovel into the ground, but lately life keeps presenting opportunities to work the land.  It looks like Phoenix Rising Star is having the last laugh.

This turkey was WAY heavier than it looked

I had been to Mr. Jobe’s property once before, earlier in the spring, when we went to select the tomato and chile pepper starts that were just crowning through the sandy soil.  (He wouldn’t accept payment for the plants, simply the promise that I’d bring a juicy melon by when the harvest was ready.)  We ended up spending hours on his little homestead, which I can best describe as a Midwestern farm satellite, a piece of Iowa (where Mr. Jobe is, in fact, from) plunked down in Albuquerque’s South Valley.  Stands of fruit trees lined the front yard, and a giant bell from Mr. Jobe’s childhood schoolhouse stood proudly in the backyard.  A sweet red barn crouched in a shady corner at the back of the property, where wild turkeys, shaking and fanning their tail feathers at us, roamed the yard.  The house felt like stepping into the Midwest of a bygone era, with its fading photographs, simple pine furniture, antique farm tools, and an old telephone propped on the wall.  I was enchanted by this place, and jumped at the opportunity to go again.

As we pulled up to the farm, Mr. Jobe sat sorting tart green apples and pears blushing rosy pink, the victims of a nasty storm that blew through last week.  We immediately set to work, clutching five gallon pails as we made our way out to the grape vines that swooped like leafy bunting from the fence.  Mr. Jobe pointed out the different grape varieties, showing us how to identify the unfortunately-named Hemrods that we would be picking that day, the small clusters of champagne-colored fruit glowing translucent in the early morning light like marbles.  “Squeeze ‘em, and if they’re hard, they ain’t ready,” said Mr. Jobe, which sounded like as good of advice as any.  I plucked a small handful and popped them in my mouth, their velvety skins slipping easily away to reveal a soft center.  They were like candy, the sweetest grapes I’d ever tasted.

Like a kid in a candy store

I snapped off clusters with my fingers, stopping from time to time to gorge myself, the sticky-sweet juice coating my hands.  I quickly filled three buckets, totally oblivious to the bees swarming around my head, caught in a fruit-picking trance where time seemed to melt away.  Mr. Jobe puttered by on his scooter on his way to get more buckets.  “Hop on, Liz!” he called, and we took a very short, very slow ride back to the homestead.  When the picking was done, we wheeled the grapes to a cleaning station in an ancient wheelbarrow, the grapes splayed out on a series of mesh wire grates.  After gently hosing down the fruit we transferred them in great handfuls to a contraption that looked like a medieval vice, which was actually a press to squeeze juice from the grapes, and Mr. Jobe indulged me by letting me turn the lever on the press.  (I assume that Marc wasn’t jealous, having had the good fortune of working on the farm from the time he was a little boy.)

The system didn’t work very well, so the grapes were ferried to the house for the (apparently) tried-and-true steaming method of juicing grapes, a process that was completely foreign to me.  Two massive steamers were assembled, a series of interlocking metal trays towering over the stovetop with a tube protruding from the bottom where the juice was siphoned off, affecting a complicated mousetrap.  After 45 minutes the trays were emptied, more grapes were added, and Mrs. Jobe began ladling the beautiful blush liquid into thick glass canning jars; my favorite was a giant circus tent rendered in glass.  I was impressed by how deftly they moved through what seemed to be a complex series of steps, as if it lived in their bones, and this process was repeated many times as we worked in the steamy kitchen.

Needless to say, this was a slow and tedious process.  It was nearly one o’clock and we hadn’t even started canning yet.  Putting up the fruits of your labor is a task from another time, when the world spun at a slower pace.  Perhaps this is why the activity was so satisfying:  it could not be rushed.  Shortcuts and multitasking would have spelled disaster.  While we waited for the juice to finish expressing, we sat down to a proper lunch.  Fresh-baked lasagna bellied up next to sourdough bread (“Normally I make my own”, apologized Mrs. Jobe, later showing me her antique grain mill), which we slathered with great spoonfuls of amber-colored peach preserves.  Crisp rings of farm-grown cucumbers floated in an icy bowl alongside ribbons of alabaster onions.  A rustic jar of grape juice from last year’s harvest was served in tall cobalt glasses, a tangy-sweet concoction that I’d never tasted the likes of.  “I’ve got homemade chocolate cake and pound cake for dessert,” announced Mrs. Jobe.  I helped myself to a slice of each, and thought Marc was completely insane when he declined, patting his stomach and declaring that he was stuffed.

A treasure trove

Bloated but happy, we made our way out to Mr. Jobe’s prolific garden, where we picked gigantic tomatoes, long fingers of green beans, lavender-tinged turnips shouldering themselves out of the soil, saffron zucchini, fat cylinders of bristly cucumbers, waxy yellow peppers, and those fallen apples and pears.  “Take more, hon, take more,” urged Mr. Jobe, pushing more bags into my hands.  Little did I know that this was my payment for a morning of hard work.  After loading me down with a pint of fresh grape juice, a jar of pear sauce, and, of course, a heaping bag of grapes, I could barely lift the box.

Upon arriving home, I all but panicked as I surveyed the massive haul of produce.  But I slowly began picking my way through cookbooks, unearthing clever ways to make use of this bounty.  I reworked my dinner menu, settling on a small cut of filet mignon and a roasted green bean and tomato salad, since Marc urged me to use the beans as soon as possible after harvesting.  The deep, earthy flavor of grill-roasted beans, topped with the bright, clean taste of balsamic-laced chunks of sun-warmed tomatoes, was a revelation.  Alongside a bottle of solid merlot, it was one of the most sublime meals I’ve eaten in a long time.  I suddenly felt exhausted, the kind of tired you feel when your labor has been physical and honest.  I don’t feel this way very often, but it feels good.

We talk a great deal about “living simply,” a phrase that’s been become fraught with cliché and often equates to adopting complicated practices in the search for simplicity.  I fear that living simply has become segregated from the rest of our lives, the destination we arrive at after moving quickly through the rest of our day.  But true simple living requires us to move slow, and by moving slow there simply isn’t enough time to do as much.  Being a part of the Jobe’s world, if only for a day, provided some clues as to what living simply really means.  It is about connecting with others; having a sense of season and place; knowing your purpose; making use of what you have; actively engaging your mind, body, and spirit in equal measure; and looking to ritual and tradition.  It is about being deeply attuned to life around you.  As I sat and reflected upon the day, I couldn’t remember the last time my spirit had felt so light, my soul so full.  I hope I can feel this way more often.

Roasted Green Bean and Tomato Salad
Adapted from The New Vegetarian Epicure by Anna Thomas
Serves 2-3 as a side dish

1 pound green beans, trimmed
1 large or 2 small very ripe tomatoes
2 Tablespoons olive oil, divided
Generous splash of balsamic vinegar
Pinch of salt
A sprinkling of fresh-ground pepper
5 garlic cloves, peeled and divided

Preheat grill to medium-high heat.  Toss green beans with four garlic cloves, 1 Tablespoon of olive oil, salt, and pepper.  Place in a grill basket over grate, grilling for 6-7 minutes or until blacked spots appear on the beans (this is to taste – grill less time if you like less char, more time if you like them more blackened).  Meanwhile, dice the tomatoes in generous chunks, retaining their juices.  Place in a bowl with the remaining Tablespoon of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and remaining garlic clove, minced.  Crush gently with the backside of a fork or potato masher.  When beans are done, transfer to large platter and top with tomato mixture.  Bon appétit!