Gene Logsdon and Friends

Two Peachy Economies 

In Gene's Weekly Posts on August 26, 2015 at 9:28 am


I cheer for the local food movement  every chance I get, but I’m a little uneasy with the word “local.”  Just as all politics are local, as someone famous has said, all food is local. And like politics, just because it’s local does not necessarily mean it’s good.  I recently ran into an example that addresses this conundrum.

I got a phone call from a friend in Kentucky and she was all excited because what she referred to as “the peach truck” was in town. She had just come home from buying peaches from The Peach Truck (first letters all capitalized), the best peaches in the world, she declared. “There were 40 people lined up in front of me to buy peaches and just as many behind me. I counted them,” she said. Pause. “Guess what they were selling for.”

I had no idea of course and nearly dropped the phone when she told me. “Thirty nine dollars  a HALF bushel.”

She thought that they are worth it. They come from a specific farm in Georgia, the Pearson Farm, that has been raising them for years. (You can find this all on Google.) The Peach Truck is the brainchild of a couple in Nashville, Tenn., Stephen and Jessica Rose, who knew about those peaches. They are picked just before they are fully ripe, loaded on The Peach Truck, More…

Basket-less In the Garden

In Gene's Weekly Posts on August 19, 2015 at 10:06 am



Carol ambled in from the garden recently with enough vegetables balanced on her left arm to feed us for a week. A cabbage head, a cauliflower, a swatch of lettuce, four carrots, and a zucchini tucked up under her arm. For some reason we all resist taking a basket to the garden to gather stuff. Or we forget. Or we go there with the intention of bringing back a tomato and end up with eight ears of corn teetering on a forearm. It is the eighth ear that causes the problem. It falls off on the ground. As you grunt your way down to pick it up, ear number seven falls off. You stoop down again for it and six and eight both fall off.

One time-honored way of avoiding a basket is to use your shirt front as a sort of shopping bag to tote produce in from the garden. This works okay except that it renders you one-handed and as you use the other to gather in food, you have no way to swat at mosquitoes and flies. Moreover you end up with a dirty shirt.

A hat balanced in a hand makes a fairly good basket substitute but leaves you even more vulnerable to bug attack with a bare head when the other hand is busily occupied, searching out pea pods or some such. Also if you reach a bit beyond a sturdily balanced stance, a hat full of pea pods or some such tends to cascade into the jungle below and retrieval is almost as time-consuming as picking them in the first place. More…

Nature’s Rush To Brush

In Gene's Weekly Posts on August 12, 2015 at 9:17 am



There’s a stealthy invasion creeping up on us from all directions, but if you don’t live in an environment like mine, you may not be aware of it. It is called brush but not the kind you use to rearrange your hair.  Brush is thicket composed of bristly weeds, thorny bushes, and bloodthirsty or poisonous vines speeding along  toward us at about two inches per hour. Within the armies of brush are poison ivy, blackberry canes, wild grapes, multiflora rose brambles, autumn olive and saplings of honey locust, bamboo, mulberry, and, well, any tree fighting its way up through the jungle of shorter plants. If brush can’t get you any other way, it dries up, sets itself on fire, and attempts to toast whole states to a crisp. We don’t have to worry about that in Ohio. We just have to make sure little children do not wander too close to the thickets lest a vine of multiflora snake out and snatch the poor tyke into the underbrush, never to be seen again.

You can observe the green monster’s advance easily enough by driving down any highway where rainfall amounts to 35 inches or more a year. The median, ditches, fence boundaries, even the border evergreen trees planted with so much naive innocence, are now festooned with brush. Every year the brush tries to edge closer to the pavement. More…