Author: Isabel Montclaire

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A Glimmer of Hope

My faith in the American government has been somewhat restored. And it feels invigorating, like a breath of fresh, floral spring air filling up my senses. I haven’t felt such a glimmer of hope about our government in years. Oh my, did I ever need that!

Why am I feeling optimistic? Because of the Bayer/Monsanto/Roundup trials (please see previous post). Apparently there are 11,200 other similar cases waiting to go to trial. So, we can expect this topic to be circulating in the news for quite sometime.

But this is more than just a news story. The stories reveal a deeper truth: that the United States’ judicial system is inadvertently taking on the role of protecting the public’s health, because the appropriate regulatory agencies have failed to do so. Everyone plays a role in this current situation. The regulatory system holds regulators in a vice-like grip of science versus politics, and economics versus health. The public’s demand for inexpensive food and the government’s desire to decrease hunger by making cheap food available contributes to the problem. Ethical considerations prohibit testing pesticides on humans. Regulatory agencies around the world are infiltrated with executives from the agribusiness industry so there are conflicts of interest. All this results in an ineffective and fundamentally flawed regulatory system.

The primary regulatory bodies that oversee the public’s health – the Environmental Protection Agency, the Food and Drug Administration, and the United States Department of Agriculture – have all been emasculated to one degree or another because the corporations greatly influence government functions at every level. The fact that 11,200 cases are now working their way through the courts reflects the failure of our regulatory agencies.

The cases are also a testament to the brilliance of our founding fathers. Their genius created a checks and balances system that preserves the integrity of our government. The trials demonstrate the moderation of power in action between the judicial, legislative and executive branches of government. Unfortunately, the regulatory agencies are under the jurisdiction of the executive branch so they can, and have become, highly politicized.

The downside of the judicial system acting as regulator is that they can respond only after the fact, after the damage has already occurred. Judiciary is reactionary, not proactive.

But who was it that said “better late than never“? I’ll take that breath of fresh air and hopefulness over nothing at all.

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Supercide Me, Bayer/Monsanto!

“I read the news today, oh boy” (to quote the Beatles).

“Monsanto Ordered to pay $80 Million in Roundup Cancer Case” (The New York Times)
“Bayer Keeps Roundup Faith After Losing Second Trial” (Bloomberg)
“Jury Awards Over $80 Million in Roundup Exposure Case” (Wall Street Journal)

In case you haven’t read the story, here’s my annotated version:

In a trial against Bayer/Monsanto, a US jury awarded $80 million to a man who developed Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma after prolonged exposure to Roundup. The jury found glyphosate/Roundup to be a substantive factor in causing the cancer. They also found Bayer/Monsanto to be negligent by failing to warn the public of the weedkiller’s cancer risk and failing to properly research the safety of its product. The trial is thought to be a bellwether case, helpful in determining the fate of 11,200 similar, pending cases. This and a similar case last August are historic and precedent-setting cases.

Or, an even shorter version: Bayer/Monsanto has been taken to the whipping post. The American judicial system is increasingly taking on the role of protecting the public’s health.

Bayer/Monsanto is not entirely at fault here. Over the past 40 years since regulators approved glyphosate/Roundup, the company has responded to the public’s demand for inexpensive food and the government’s desire to prevent hunger. But as so often happens, greed sets in, ethics go out the door, and corruption takes hold. The company has clearly crossed a line, or several lines.

My physician, Steven Rotter, MD and I wrote a short, free, downloadable book called “Supercide Me: how pesticides are making us sick and what we can do about it”. Our goal was to quickly give readers the back story of the glyphosate/Roundup issue to expand their understanding of it. Then we will be better equipped to mobilize and create the kind of change we’d like to see. We are introducing a new word – “supercide” into the English language. This word describes the chronic, low-dose exposure to pesticide residues in food and the environment. This word will make it easier for people to talk about pesticides’ effects on health and to warn others about it. When you read this short book, you will understand why eating organic food has become mandatory, not optional. You can download it here: https://www.isabelmontclaire.com/books/supercide-me/

Please let me know how you like it! I’d love to hear from you.

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My Grinch Story

Something profound happened recently on my quest to make the high-quality food necessary to maintain optimal health affordable for more people.

One misty December morning, I was writing away at my desk, tortoise Kat on lap and red china teacup in hand, wearing what I always wear when I write: my long black velveteen housecoat, leggings, and a puffy down jacket (I live in a cozy but sometimes drafty cottage). I hadn’t taken a shower yet and barely combed my hair. From my desk I can peer out a small window that frames the lane in front of the house.

That morning from my small window I see a sheriff’s car pull up in front of the gate. Two officers step out of the car, and I step out onto the porch. After brief and polite introductions, they inform me that they have a warrant for my arrest.

Oh.

I was allowed to make one phone call (to my neighbor, “I’ve been arrested, please feed Kat.”) I hurriedly put on my shoes, grab a coat and my purse, am escorted to the car, put into handcuffs and buckled into the back seat. The officers were firm but kind. I did not feel threatened or afraid; no adrenalin was shooting through my body that I was aware of. Along the way, they read me my Miranda rights.

After a twenty minute drive, we arrived at the county jail. And there I had a razor sharp view into a world I had not ever seen up close and personal, no, not in the bubble of my insulated life. A world I had been increasingly curious about because it seems to be expanding in the landscape now.

I spent nearly thirty hours there (time crept by slower than forever), going in and out of various cells, and talking with at least fifteen young women, maybe more. These were some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, despite the fact that some had missing teeth, unkempt hair, scars on their thin arms. Wearing our prison blues, there we were stripped down to our raw, sincere and humble true selves.

Over and over, I heard different versions of the same story. Of inmates who had suffered severe abuse or trauma as a child or young adult. A friend offers drugs to ease the pain, addiction sets in. Somewhere along the line they are abandoned by friends and family who have done all they can to help and can do no more.  Many have young children, placed with relatives or in foster care. Some are homeless. Several were there because they had missed a court date (which results in another charge). I heard of the logistical difficulties a homeless person has of getting to court. No money or a way to charge a phone to get a bus schedule.

The dialogue was sincere and honest. “Have you ever been in love?”, a young woman thoughtfully asks. In a split second I wonder, “If I thought I was, but then decided I wasn’t, does that count?” After a long pause, I reply by saying “Yes, once, but he died.”

“My child was my only hope. And they took her away.” ”My father murdered my mother when I was three.” “My mother drank when she was pregnant; I was born with fetal alcohol syndrome.” “I was caught stealing food after my food stamps ran out.”

An inmate going through withdrawal wails with piercing screams. “Get the doctor!”  But “medical” is busy that day. I sit beside her, reassuring her that she is not alone, feeling helpless like she does. Many inmates tell me they wish they could do better; some are tired of the long wait to get into treatment facilities.

At night in a dorm with about 15 bunk beds, I attend a Narcotics Anonymous meeting with four other inmates, all of us sitting on a lower bunk. They want to know what I’m addicted to. After giving them the annotated version of my story, one of them says, “Oh, it sounds like you are addicted to helping people.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way.

No words describe the tenderness and care these women showed to me during my stay there. The experience was rich with intense connection and sharing. With no cell phones or other distractions such as superficial social media, there was a certain level of presence that I don’t often experience in my day-to-day life. Yes, I’ll take that.

Two days after I’m released, I’m driving down the freeway. Suddenly a primal scream accompanied by a flood of tears gushes up from the empty space deep inside of me. It’s explodes with that “hurts-so-good” kind of pain. Am I the Grinch whose heart grew three times that day? And then found the strength of ten Grinches more, plus two? Or am I the tin man, who knows he has a heart because it is breaking?

I’ll definitely take both.

Thank you, Santa.

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Afternoon Delight

 

Yesterday I fell in love with a carrot.

It happened when I picked up my first share of winter vegetables provided by a CSA (community-supported agriculture) farm down the road. What a lovely surprise it was to walk into the old barn and see a gorgeous display of unusual vegetables, some that I have never eaten before, such as a black radish and kohlrabi.

I couldn’t resist the temptation to try a shiny, freshly dug carrot. This exquisite carrot was like no other I have ever tasted. Suddenly the world stopped as this sweet carrot catapulted me into a total being experience. All my senses were filled with excitement and joy. (Later that night, I found myself feeling sorry for all the people in the world who would never be able to experience a carrot like this. Then I wished everyone could.)

Laura, the farmer, mentions that the variety is Hercules. Oh. That explains it. A divine, God-like carrot. A perfect infusion of firm, strong flesh, smooth skin and indescribable taste mingled with spirit. If paradise had a flavor, this would be it. Sweet, like heaven! As I devour this carrot, it leaves me wanting more … and more … and more. Carrot, you’re my hero!

The carrot’s sweetness, Laura tells me, comes from the winter’s cold. Do they sit in the soil trembling? Is this why I felt a shiver go up and down my spine with the first bite? Do they store the summer sun and, in their resting state, concentrate energy? Yes! Every cell of my body knows this.

I will toss a few into a Greek salad tonight, to commemorate this awakening. And my body will delight in this incredible gift of nourishment and bounty of blissful sensations.

PS The Latin name for carrots  is Daucus carota and you can get the seeds here:  http://www.johnnyseeds.com/vegetables/carrots/main-crop-carrots/hercules-f1-carrot-seed-2735.html

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The Disappearing Bolognese

Over the years, I’ve dialed back my expectations about Christmas and unplugged from all the frenetic rushing around that often accompanies it. Ironically, the more I do this,  the more I enjoy it. I love to create spaciousness around the holiday, which gives me the time and inner peace to notice the procession of simple, quiet pleasures that are plentiful this time of year. Joyful little things such as light in all its softer forms: flickering candles, twinkling lights and sparkling glitter. The darker days encourage me to slow down and this gives me time to notice and savor these small moments.

My favorite holiday tradition is making a double batch of Marcella Hazan’s classic slow-cooked bolognese sauce in my big copper kettle. https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/member/views/marcella-hazans-bolognese-sauce-50063585. When served over quinoa pasta or spaghetti squash and topped with genuine parmigiano-reggiano cheese, it makes a splendid, easy meal to serve guests. I purchase the parmesan via The Joy of Plenty way at half the retail price and buy the beef directly from the farmer. I use organic ingredients too, which definitely kicks the eating experience up a notch. This is six-star cooking at its best.

My favorite memory of this sauce occurred in 2007. I assembled it in the early afternoon and instructed my then 16 year old son to stir it every 30 minutes while I was at a wine tasting party. William had just purchased the very first iPhone and set the alarm to ring every 30 minutes. So, I left confident knowing that the sauce was going to bubble away in good hands.

When I came home at five, I checked the sauce. It was two-thirds gone!! Apparently every time William stirred the sauce, he ate some. Oh oh. Lesson learned: don’t leave sauce stirring in the hands of a hungry teenager!

I don’t quite remember what happened next. I have a vague recollection of going to the grocery store and buying cooked prawns and cocktail sauce or something.

To this day, this memory frequently drifts across my mind and I still chuckle. Ho Ho Ho.

Merry Christmas to you, dear readers!

 

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The Great Stuffed Pumpkin

Most of us know by now that it’s quite difficult to find poultry, especially turkeys, that have been fed organic feed and raised in healthy, spacious conditions. Grocery stores tend to sell only genetically modified turkeys that eat genetically modified food – food that has been modified to withstand large concentrations of pesticides. Ugh. Yet a beautifully browned bird coming out of the kitchen on a platter is a festive centerpiece that’s difficult to top.

My associate, Dianne Ruff, created a wonderful alternative. She calls it “The Great Stuffed Pumpkin.” Like most good cooks, she doesn’t use a recipe but she did manage to write this one down for us. Thank you, Dianne!

Over time, Dianne has contributed many fine ideas to help create The Joy of Plenty. She loves all things food and farming. She’s been the Executive Director of the Portland Farmers Market, founding member of the Oregon Farmers Market Association, a member of the Multnomah Food Policy Council and currently teaches for the Food Matters Program sponsored by the Oregon Food Bank.

Dianne Ruff

Her recipe is an excellent example of the freedom a person can experience when they cook using The Joy of Plenty way. Mix and match the ingredients, use what you have on hand. Improvise and discover the music of food and be a symphony conductor in your own kitchen.

Here goes, in her own words:

This “recipe” makes an impressive centerpiece for a special meal and is a great choice for a vegetarian holiday option. You can find most of the ingredients in your pantry. Use your favorite stuffing recipe or follow my suggestions. If you aren’t serving vegetarians, a pound of browned sausage or some bacon make a great addition. If you want to make it vegan just omit the cheese and use coconut milk instead of cream. I’ve even made it with gluten free bread, but my favorite is with an artisan loaf of peasant bread.

Select an heirloom winter squash. The Rouge D’Etampes or Cinderella squash makes an especially beautiful presentation. I’ve also used Kabocha and Hubbard. The amounts listed here make enough to fill a 5 pounder. If you can, pick one with a stem – it will make a charming cap for your masterpiece. Be sure and save yourself some grief and ask the nice person in the produce section (or the farmer at the market) to cut the top off for you. Cut it just like you would to make a jack-o-lantern.

On the day before you want to make the stuffing, rough cube a loaf of artisan bread. Spread the cubes on cookie sheets. You should have enough to lightly cover two sheets and still have a piece or two to munch while your working. Pop the sheets into a 150-200-degree oven and let them dry out. After an hour, turn the oven off and leave the cubes to continue drying until you’re ready to use them. Just don’t forget and turn the oven on high for some other project (like I did). Your kitchen will still smell like burnt toast the next day when your guests arrive.

Time to get serious – dice a large onion, 5 or 6 stalks of celery, and a poundish of white mushrooms or if you have them on hand, you can use dried. Sauté in a little oil until the onions are translucent and the mushrooms cooked. (Along in here, if no one is looking, I toss in a half a cube of butter.) Add a generous tablespoon of fresh minced sage. Some dried poultry spice is also good.

While things are sautéing chop a cup of your favorite nuts – walnut, pecan, or hazelnut – whichever you have in the pantry – and toast in a dry skillet until they start to smell yummy. Do you have some olives on hand? A cup of sliced olives tastes great in your stuffing. Another great pantry item to add is dried cranberries, a generous half-cup will punch up the flavor. What about some chestnuts?

In a large mixing bowl add the sautéed mixture, the nuts, olives and cranberries. To make the stuffing really special, add 8 ounces of cubed Gruyere cheese. Don’t be shy with the salt, pepper and fresh parsley. Taste and adjust as needed.

Here’s where you need to make a judgment call. The mixture needs to be moistened. You don’t want it mushy, but you do want it wet enough to slightly hold together when you squeeze a handful. Start with a half a cup of stock (and a splash of white wine if you’re inclined) and work your way up.

Before filling your squash, scrape out the seeds and strings. Smear some butter or olive oil around the inside and generously salt and pepper.

At last, you’re ready to stuff your masterpiece. Really pack it in there. Top it off by drizzling ½ cup of cream over the stuffing. Replace the lid and transfer to a parchment covered cookie sheet or low baking dish. Now’s the time to think about how you’ll get the cooked squash to a serving platter. After all this, I want to display mine on a pedestal cake plate in the center of the table. Alas, sometimes the squash becomes too soft and will need to be served from a low bowl or straight from the baking dish.

Bake in the center of a 350-degree oven for ninety minutes (more or less – the time depends on the size of your squash). Poke the squash with a fork and when it offers no resistance it’s done. About half way through baking remove the lid so the stuffing can brown.

Allow the squash to cool for a few minutes before transferring to a serving dish. Replace the cap at a jaunty angle and stand back and admire your handiwork. Mushroom gravy and cranberry sauce make the perfect accompaniments. Anyway you serve your squash, it’s an impressive and delicious dish – and it’s even tastier the next day.

Try it, you’ll like it!

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Thank-full

With Thanksgiving and the holidays upon us, I’ve been asking myself what I am most thankful for. There are so many things, it’s difficult to narrow down the list. But one category stands tall above the rest.

It’s the continuous string of divine sensations I experience throughout the day, every day. Who says heaven is somewhere else? Maybe it is, but it’s here and now, too – I experience heaven infused deeply into my flesh.

Heaven is in the velvety fur of Kat’s ears, the soothing purr of her kitty motor, and her warmth on my lap as she helps me write every morning. It’s in the deep, glossy orange-red of my morning breakfast tea as it reflects the light from the lamp, the tea’s sweet and astringent flavors, and the music of the kettle as it lovingly heats up my water.

It’s in the warm tickling of the shower spray as it cascades down the back of my neck and shoulders. Try it. Notice.

No matter what is or isn’t happening in my life, heaven presents itself in these small moments of fleeting, yet continuous pleasure. Together, they knit a thick blanket that warms me with joy and comfort, especially on those days when I feel jangled or out of sorts. I experience one lovely sensation after another and then look forward to the next. For those moments, the whirring busy-ness of life steps back and the richness of the “now moment” steps forward. Love expresses itself this way, baby.

And then there’s food. Who says you can’t eat chocolate for breakfast? Certainly not me! I dip 85 percent organic chocolate into freshly ground peanut butter. The contrast of crunch and creamy is a lovely way to start the day, along with the rush of all that feel-good stuff that’s embedded in the chocolate. And I give thanks for the complex flowery licorice taste of fennel pollen that I sprinkle like fairy dust onto a simple cauliflower dish. This transforms the humble vegetable into a meal fit for a king or a queen. Don’t know any royalty? Maybe you do! Because when you are following the Joy of Plenty way, everyone eats like royalty. So invite yourself or a friend for dinner and be a king or a queen.

Isabel Montclaire

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Introducing the Hive Food Network

The first question I get asked about The Joy of Plenty is “If I’m not going to the grocery store to get food, where do I go?” 

Where you go is The Hive Food Network. It answers that question, and I guarantee it will make the whole subject of buying food much more fun. And you’ll look back someday and wonder how you ever got along without it.

The Hive Food Network is:

  • The Joy of Plenty pantry partners and groups connecting with wholesale and  farm-direct food suppliers.
  • A way for farmers to tap directly into organic food markets.
  • A community based on respecting others and sharing connections,        knowledge, and kindness.
  • A way to improve pollinator health by increasing the demand for organic food and decreasing the need for toxic pesticides.
  • An avenue of creative reform for the current food system.

The Hive gives you the ability to leapfrog over intermediaries, and this increases your purchasing power. Buying food via The Hive stretches your food dollars by about 40 percent, so you can afford to buy more organic food. If you are already eating mostly organic, you can use the money you save for something else – or you can just save it! In some cases, the food won’t cost less, but the quality will be much higher. And it’s like going on a treasure hunt – you can sometimes find items that seldom appear in grocery stores. 

When you’re in The Hive, you’ll be able to eat as if you are dining at a five-star restaurant because you will be buying the same kind of food famous chefs buy. Except by doing it yourself, you can kick up your eating experience from five stars to six stars. Think six-star cooking and six-star kitchen. Why not? I have done it – I know you can do it, too. 

Over time, we have experienced inflation in the cost of food. This is the result not only of higher prices, but also of the lowering of the quality of food. Many of us don’t even know what we are missing – that incredible sensual pleasure of extraordinarily high-quality, “high-vibe” food. The kind of food that not only tastes utterly fabulous, but also feels good to eat. The kind of food that has an aura, which puts a whole other spin on the idea of soul food. And you can be free from worry that the animal you are eating was treated inhumanely and raised in slavery. You can be free from worry that the produce you are eating was heavily sprayed with pesticides that are weakening the bees and that those residues are accumulating in your body.

Protecting the bees is probably the best reason to participate in The Hive. Overuse of agricultural pesticides has been linked to the decline in the bee population, so the sooner we can reduce our society’s dependence on pesticides, the better. The more organic food we buy, the greater the likelihood that there will be bees around to pollinate food for future generations. Or, as Elise B.C. says, “We once grew food without chemicals. We never grew food without bees.”

The Hive Food Network will be built by everyone who participates, friends joining with friends and friends joining with farmers, in a spontaneous and creative uprising. The blueprint for The Hive is in my book, The Joy of Plenty. 

In The Hive Food Network, food is love. What could be better?

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A Dream Come True

Late one evening a few weeks ago, I read the letter I had written to my dear friend Lolita a couple of years earlier when she was on her deathbed. Out of left field, I broke down and cried uncontrollably for several hours. It was the kind of crying that went straight to the jugular, the intensity so great there was no doubt I was fully alive. This wasn’t the painful, bleak, black, broken-hearted kind of crying, but rather the kind that felt like a thunderous, pounding rain.

Over the next few days, I reflected on this experience. Why had I grieved her death more than I had grieved any other person’s, even those whom I had known far longer and who were much closer to me? This didn’t make any sense.

But then it dawned on me. She made my lifelong dream come true. And she gave it to me in grand style, served up on a silver platter. What greater gift can a person give to others than to help them realize their deepest dreams? The tears were the thankful kind, The Joy of More Than Plentiful kind.

The tears were also an ode to that mysterious hand that had so serendipitously delivered the gift to me. Yes, the universe was listening to me – and my dream just got happened. What was my dream? To ride safely with freedom, ease and perfect balance through the countryside with a seat so secure it felt glued to the saddle. I wanted to feel as if my horse and I had dived deep into the beauty of a Monet painting.

And beautiful the countryside was – everywhere. I rode in one fabulous painting after another. Like the day we rode just after a freezing rain. The sun was out and thousands of icicles hanging everywhere reflected shimmering, prismatic light against a cloudless, bright blue sky. The clear, cold air blowing on my face and filling my lungs felt as pure as pure could be.

Or the day when we stopped at sunset after an invigorating gallop around the “big daddy field” and witnessed the sun and the full moon exactly opposite each other, perched on the horizon. It seemed we were caught in the pull of a tender love song, whose title could have been “Come Closer, I’m Here for You.” Quincy, my paint quarter horse, was the drummer. He grew impatient and pawed his hoof in a rhythmic request to get moving.

Then there was the time when a murder of cawing, black crows swirled against a background of charcoal clouds while majestic Mt. Hood, freshly dusted in pristine white snow, held court in the distance. In the foreground, the Hood’s shoulder touched the holly tree’s bright red berries and shiny green leaves. The color palate was beyond exquisite. Monet would have loved it.

Even Quincy was part of the special beauty that surrounded me. He had the most beautiful patches I had ever seen, as if they were outlined with a paintbrush. He had one blue eye and one brown eye, and it seemed as if a highly skilled makeup artist had painted black eyeliner around his eyes. No matter how many times I brushed his face, I always laughed.

Isabel Montclaire

I’ve experienced my ultimate dream – so what do I dream of now? I dream that millions of people throughout the world will join together to repair our broken agricultural system through a face-to-face social network where people will actually talk to each other. I dream that we will join forces to create radiant health for people, pollinators and our planet through affordable organic food. I dream that this network will be created through a spontaneous and loving uprising. I’ve heard this kind of network called a “decentralized autonomous organization.”

I dream of food as life. I dream of better food for a better future. I dream that organic food is the norm, not the exception, and that it becomes our national medicine. I dream of no back-of-mind worries about all the pesticides I am eating or about what those pesticides are doing to the bees. And so on. You get the idea.

I’ve named this network “The Hive Food Network.” If you dream of eating a diet consisting solely of organic food, I’m here to help you because my dream now is to make your dream come true. Just like Lolita did for me.

Let’s dream together and enjoy the beautiful ride.

*Portrait by Eve Holloran

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Nirvana in the Real World

My next riding experience offered me the opportunity to witness chemical-intensive agriculture, or stated another way, to repeatedly see the huge amount of chemicals used to grow crops and raise animals.

After rehabilitating injured racehorses, I rode my paint quarter horse, Quincy, with my friend Lolita on her family’s 480-acre working farm. The land had been in her family since 1912 – that’s five generations. According to Lolita, the farm had a lot of stories to tell. At the time, they were leasing the land to a hazelnut orchardist, a grass seed farmer and a cattle rancher. It is oddly ironic that although the farm met the acreage definition of a small farm, large-scale industrial agriculture practices were used to cultivate the crops.

A perfectly manicured trail meandered throughout the farm. Spectacular vistas of Mt. Hood and its rolling foothills framed the farm’s bottomland pastures. A river ran through it. A lone white swan occupied a pond in the middle of a wood and would make a point of spooking our horses by swiftly flying straight up when we rode by. Having lived in England, I often had the feeling I was riding through a beautiful English country estate. Once in a while, Lolita and I would see a coyote and pretend it was a fox and chase it around, minus the hounds. No matter how fast we galloped, though, it would always elude us.

My experience was perpetually the same – on every ride, every cell of my body overflowed with wonderment and gratitude that I was able to ride there. I’d pinch myself and think, This is too good to be true. I learned that nirvana does exist: It’s right here, right now, not some other where on some other day.

While we rode, Lolita and I would discuss the world’s problems and try to figure out solutions. Chemical-intensive agriculture was a frequent topic because we were seeing it firsthand. The farmers used a constant procession of pesticides and synthetic fertilizers, and it seemed like every couple of weeks during the growing season something or other was being applied. Countless times, Lolita called me to cancel our ride because some big machine was out there spraying pesticides, and we didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire of pesticide drift. Lolita was constantly concerned that the chemicals were damaging the soil. The harshness of it all was difficult to ignore. Death, death, death. There must be a better way, I thought.

I learned the cattle that grazed on the lush grass of those pastures had time-released bovine growth hormones clipped to their ears. Yes, grass-fed cows can be pumped full of hormones. Buyer beware.

My horse went lame and Lolita was diagnosed with brain cancer all in the same year. The letter I wrote to her when she was on her deathbed remains to this day the best writing I have ever done. Someday I may publish it. When I return to the farm for a visit, I break down and cry. The emotions are a potent, soupy mix of sadness, joy, and gratitude, and they are slow to fade with time.

Deep love hides behind the curtain of grief.