Rooting and Fruiting

One pleasant Spring day as the family was otherwise engaged with gadgets, I came across a new concept - Food-mile. It apparently refers to the distance your food has traveled to reach the plate. And the shorter it is, the better it is for oneself and also the ecosystem. This is a kind of re-emphasis on the 'Eat Local' phenomenon.

As someone who grew up in a tropical developing country, I remember all the fuss over 'exotic' food. For many it was a sort of social status, to be able to afford and source those ingredients that for many years had only been read about or seen in photographs. In fact, for the longest time the most expensive vegetables were English vegetables, like carrots and beets, 'French' beans (?!)  fresh peas and cauliflower blooms. My parents often speak about piling their plates with vegetables that have almost disappeared from the markets today. It is with wonder that I think of red and black corn that served as after-school snacks for them, lotus stem fries that went well with 'rasam' rice and the coconut flower that was a delicacy,not to mention red okra, a plethora of wild greens and berries all of which constituted their diet. I can only vaguely remember the taste of desi corn before the craze for American sweet corn took over. As a teenager, I tasted the succulent coconut flower (bought from a roadside cart), which resides inside a sprouted coconut, is off-white and refreshingly coconutty. 

With near-lost native vegetables and fruits, we have also lost a part of our culinary heritage. But on looking closer, we see that most of our ancient cookery books as well as medicine all stress on the importance of eating locally available and home-grown food, which is something that Western science has reiterated. And so, with the new luxury of having a back as well as a front yard, I decided to exercise my green fingers, thereby attempting to shorten the food-mile. Two pumpkin vines merrily flowered in the front garden as potatoes and peas plants were gaining height behind. As their growth pace was that of the snails that I fought to keep at bay, I knew that they would only be ready when the autumn strikes. And so I brainwashed a friend to go with me to a farm that promised fresh produce, fun experience and photo sessions.

On a sunny day, we drove through the Dutch countryside to Plukkerij Framblij, a family-run farm and a Facebook-famous spot. Walking through a greenhouse we each picked up small buckets to fill with fruits. Rows and rows of strawberry bushes welcomed us. I have never understood the popularity of this sour little fruit which were very few in number. Next, we walked through aisles of raspberry plants, richly laden with fruit. I ate while filling my bucket, only to realise that I was singularly responsible for almost all of the raspberry harvest this season. The children's excitement vaporised upon plucking a few handfulls of produce. And so, leaving them in the play area with their fathers for security, we moved on.The series of interconnected greenhouses meant that we could pluck fresh aubergines, capsicums, tomatoes, beans that even a picky eater like me wouldn't fuss about. (I understood later that it was simply the high of plucking fresh veggies and that I really couldn't make myself eat them :P)

It was amazing how they could tame grape vines that yielded green, red and black grapes, cherry and apricot trees, blackberry gorse and red currants when I have so much trouble in getting my few plants to behave. 

In addition, they had farm fresh honey, home made jams and preserves, all of which caught my fancy but no one else's. 

With fruits that started to weigh more than they did an hour back, we trooped into their cafe shushing the children's hunger for ice creams. I use the word cafe here for the lack of an apt term. It was a dingy little space that kept out the sun and was a combination of few mismatched tables, chairs and sofas that seemed to be picked up at the local recycling centre. All of them had a layer of dust and the sofa also had a rip, adding to the antique feel. Thanks to Corona times, we each had a supply of sanitizers and tissues, so could clean up one rickety table and feed the kids. Hurrying outside, I was again able to enjoy the experience, more so when I saw a pony giving rides to squealing children.

 

I was amazed at how the family commercialized such a simple concept. A creative business venture. True, farming is no mean feat, but for a small farm which cant really deal with scaling up in order to profit enormously, they have done well. From charging an entrance fee and charge per 100g of produce, they have planned their profits efficiently. Also, they seem to have friendly old men (brothers/cousins) stationed near every type of fruit, who gladly help us in choosing the best fruits available. 

This seems like a very doable and adaptable concept, even for India. The tropical weather is bound to be best for our native plants, the only glitch may be water procurement. If that is managed, with so much attention being given to organic, local produce; it might turn out to be a money spinner for our poor farmers. 

Meanwhile, the summer has come to a spluttering end. I haven't managed to do as much or as well with my garden, but am glad that I haven't inflicted much damage to my crops. Feeding them with kitchen scraps and rice water diligently, I am now the proud mother of a bunch of potatoes, some peas and two dwarfed pumpkins! 

Birds and Bees

The last time I saw bees in India was when I was 19 years old. My engineering college like several others stood right in the middle of a God-forsaken piece of land. The wild bees built massive hives that hung off precarious edges of the college buildings, that too within a matter of hours. That’s when we saw how skilled they really are, putting civil engineers to shame.

As a child, I remember being let loose in an overgrown garden that was a haven to creepy crawlies and the (now not so) common garden sparrows. That was perhaps my first brush against Dame Nature. I spent glorious summer afternoons exploring in the shade of the lemon tree as the rest of the family snoozed. A child’s curiosity helped further by the absence of adults led to several discoveries. Wriggly earthworms that were given shelter in the sand ‘hills’, the grasshopper who jumped against his will as I gave him chase, the ants that were constantly annoyed to have their discipline disturbed, the colorful butterflies that were always eluding my fingers as they skimmed over marigolds and the angry wasp who stung me on two occasions as I dug through his hole in the coconut tree.  

Add to this the tiny sparrows that were brave enough to hop closer in the hope of finding bits of grain, green parakeets that often nicked the best guavas and the rare blue kingfisher who perched on the powerlines ever so fearlessly.

As my formative years were spent close to the ground, the next decade was spent living within the pages of several books, along the likes of Enid Blyton. I was transported to the English countryside. That was the time anything foreign was considered fancy, a time when we only saw strawberries in picture books, we could only imagine what oak and maple trees looked like. Ladybugs, beetles, water lilies, honeysuckle, hedgehogs, blackbirds, hillside cottages and snow were only alive in imagination.

Fast forward another decade and a half, my Enid Blyton dreams have come alive, albeit in Holland. While the country is grey half the year, summer is pure magic. It is almost impossible to keep life from blossoming. The empty trees now are clad in beautiful green tunics, ferns and bulbs push through the earth to smell the sweet summer air. Lush green carpets of grass sprout and tiny wildflowers bravely open their petals despite trampling feet. Even weeds that grow in cracks blossom into pretty, little flowers, all awaiting the buzz of the bees. Like this isn’t sufficient, every garden, every balcony and every windowsill overflows with flowers of every shade and shape possible.

Back home, as our cities take over forests and turn into concrete jungles, the Hague has its own artificial forest, a space filled with solitude, peace and dog poo - part of the natural experience, I suppose.  Every neighbourhood is blessed with at least a few yards of nothingness that acts as a harbor for insects which, we now understand are the beginnings of the food chain. Even as biologists worldwide clamor to revive bees, most developed as well as developing nations seem to concentrate only on reviving their economies at the expense of nature.

Holland is a happy and robust picture of healthy outdoors. The bee population alone has observed a spike of almost 45% since 2000. The efforts of the government in banning insecticides and planting native wildflowers along the highways, railway tracks and even on top of bus stops has paid off. Spotted ladybugs in red, yellow and orange hues bask in the sunshine filled gardens, grasshoppers and frogs hop about in my shady backyard, butterflies flit in and out as they deem right and the drone of bees has become a constant.

This multitude of insects brings birds to houses. People help by taking active interest in nature and gardening. Most houses sport bird houses, bird baths and insect hotels. Sparrows and tits are aplenty as are the magpies and robins. They come at dawn break to gobble sleepy little insects and present us with a lovely waking-up concert. Afternoons are reserved for blackbirds that sit just above reach in the dark shade of the trees, singing in their piercing, yet beautiful voices. As evening stretches into night, we sometimes see a mud brown bird with a brilliant teal tail, that has been nicknamed as “we-don’t-know” bird by my daughter.

Like typical NRI parents, our vacations are always in India for our daughter to spend quality time with the extended family. And it can’t be more different there. Honking has replaced calls of birds. The motor sound has driven away the buzz of bees. Every inch of available space is being scaled up to become buildings. The human presence asserts itself raucously, just about everywhere. The only insects that have learnt to live with our devious ways are mosquitoes that come in hordes at sunset, frightening the daylights out of everyone. Not to forget the midnight visitors - the cockroaches that feast on filth.

While the kids of my friends are mini scientists, I wonder if they have ever been left to discover nature the way many of us did. Do they know the feeling of running through dewy grass early in the morning? The feel of velvety moss? The flutter of butterfly wings on your nose when you get too close to it? The thrill of plucking Crossandra flowers and tasting the nectar in its bulging end? It is disheartening to think that the average city-bred toddler in India is a stranger to these sensations.

When I see Dutch children, I realize how in tune with nature they are. They run unhindered and barefooted through grass and scalding sand. They make bouquets of wildflowers. Collecting shells, pine-cones and autumn leaves are favorite activities. Feeding the obese ducks in the canals is a national pastime. Biking through photogenic cycling routes and picnicking in fields of tulips and daffodils is another adventure. These are simple pleasures of life that the Dutch children are constantly exposed to, which in turn make them respect and conserve nature as adults.

Even as most four-year-olds attend online lessons, Ira and I spend our days in the backyard or taking long walks, stopping by to smell flowers, marvel at insects and blow dandelions. Should I spend this time teaching her alphabets and numbers? Perhaps. But I prefer to make our way outdoors while the sun shines.

And then, despite the Corona virus the world still seems like a happy place.