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1856 Saturn Boulevard, San Diego CA 92154
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Did you know Suzie’s Farm delivers in San Diego five days a week? Not only that, several acres of our farm in San Diego’s Border State Park is dedicated to custom growing for the specific needs (and imagination) of our local chefs. Can you say boutique and convenience all in one breath? You don’t have to. Just say Suzie’s Farm. Visit our Chef's Page to view our delivery schedule and learn more about our partnership with restaurants.
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A few months ago our landlord came to us with a proposition. A juice company in Oregon was looking for someone to grow organic celery for their summer production. The celery harvest ends in Salinas in June and they needed a fill in. It seemed like solid money. We would simply plant an acre and a half and sit back. We were vulnerable. We had just taken on Bear Barranca. We pay our rent in February and August. Harvesting this celery in July would bring us the rent money just in time.
Our landlord is also the previous tenant of the property. He grew radicchio and celery here for years, until he had too many bad years in a row. My understanding is that his wife said, no more farming. She would rather absorb the cost of the unrented land than the cost of the rented land, and the water and the seeds and the labor and the insurance and the tractors and the drip lines and the seedlings and the boxes and the black plastic and the port-a-potties. Plus, any time he was working in the field he was not working as a heavy machine operator. Last year he came to us and offered us this 100 acre property. At the time we accepted 40 and have since tacked on another 18.
He wants us to succeed. He really does. But often he looks at us and shakes his head. We certainly frustrate him. I think sometimes we make him angry. We don’t take care of things the way he would. It is a normal reaction. So he came to us with this offer to grow celery. He had previously grown it. On this land. It did well. With his help it could do well for us. We agreed.
So we scheduled a forward contract with the juice company. It essentially says we agree to grow for them a designated quantity of product due on a pre-determined date. Once the delivery is made, we get paid.
We planted the celery in Bear Barranca about five months ago. It was the only thing in Bear Barranca for a long time. We joked that the celery was in a Time-Out all by itself at Bear Barranca while we harvested and planted the last rounds at Kiki Town. It wasn’t too long before we joined the celery in Bear Barranca.
Melons stand to the east of the celery, popping corn to the west. The celery sits smack center of the northernmost portion of the field, near the drainage ditch, occasionally shaded by the stand of eucalyptus.
Celery is a water hog. Its ribs swell with water in the last few growing weeks. It makes sense, no? Celery is the negative calorie food. It contains so much water, the urban legend goes, that it takes more calories to consume than it contains. It is perfect for a pre-bottled juice, providing a good percentage of the water.
Here we are in July. The time has come to harvest the celery.
Robin requires a macho crew. Robin took a few practice swipes at the celery earlier this week. He cut himself three times. The girls marvel at the bandages. Bringing in an entire acre and a half of celery - 100,000 plants - is macho work. Its not lighthearted. It is not for the faint hearted. With the weather up, it is exhausting, bad-ass, Herculean work.
The guys are out there, coffee-colored and slick with sweat. They stuff bandanas into the brims of their hats to protect their necks from the sun. Bent over at the waist, they grasp the top of the plant with one hand and swing down with their knives.
The celery knife is unique, developed exclusively for celery. Shaped like a T, the tip is angled for cutting the head from the root. Along the side other blades even the top of the plant.
I drive past our orange Kabota tractor, and park near the pizza oven. As I pull my boots on, a dove coo coo COOS in the eucalyptus. Two Harris hawks screech and dive behind me as I retrieve my knife. I’ve heard we have blackheart. I’m here to see it for myself.
I walk past the melons - probably an acre worth - already dusted, like donuts, with powdery mildew. These will be sweeter than the ones we are currently harvesting. The heat will convert those sugars. I come upon the celery.
It’s magnificent. Cocked. Proud. An acre and a half. As I approach the harvest crew there are pallets with cardboard bins scattered among the 6 rows they’ve already harvested. These bins are Mini-Cooper-sized and will eventually hold the harvested celery. Water pools between the rows.
As I walk through the already harvested section, flies jet and crawl from the detritus and standing water. It is ugly here. Scattered celery ribs litter the mud. To fetch the filled cardboard bins of celery, the tractor has driven in and out several times mushing the rows, tearing black plastic mulch, splaying drip lines.
It doesn’t look good.
I approach an unassuming head of celery. Mimicking the crew, I bend down and gather the ribs at the top, raise my knife in the air and send it swinging toward the root. Two cuts sever it. I pull some outer ribs away, tossing them with the rest of the mess, and look at the center.
Blackheart.
The central leaves of the celery begin to break down. They shrivel and dry up, turning black. The exterior ribs are perfect. Some say the disease comes from irregular water relations (?!). Others say excessive Nitrogen or Calcium Deficiency. Whatever the reason, we’ve got it.
Because of the prolonged contact with water, the center of the celery in my hand looks like butterscotch pudding, brown and custardy.
I approach the crew and Don Julio. “How are you? How are things?”
Not meeting my eyes, Don Julio replies, “Fine.” He continues loading celery into a bin.
“What do you think?” I ask. “Things are a mess, no? All of our work. All of this money, for what?”
Don Julio finally turns to me and asks, “Why didn’t you spray? As soon as you saw the first bit of black heart, why didn’t you spray?”
My answer is weak, flimsy, timid. There is nothing to spray. No control.
Instead of cleanly cutting the celery and tossing each head into the box, the crew cuts each head of celery, and then cut the rotten ribs from the good ribs. They separate the good ribs and place them on a tarp on the ground where another person comes around with a wheelbarrow, loads it with loose ribs, and heaves them into the bin. Three times as many cuts, and a reduced yield. The futility of it all is upsetting.
Robin has been pacing the field with a calculator. Bad sign. Another acre and a half of hopes dashed.
I thank the crew for their work. Twice. Five times. It is as disheartening for them as it is for us. I walk toward the road, sliding among the celery stumps and slipping in the water. As I drive away, the dust swirling around the van, I finally exhale. My breath leaves my body ragged and rough.
Before I left the crew I told them, “I don’t know what this disease is called in Spanish, but in English it’s called blackheart. Corazon negro.”
And that’s how I feel right now. I have a black heart.