From the November 2008 issue of the Ester Republic.

Walking across the border from San Luis, Sonora, Mexico into San Luis, Arizona, United States, returning from my last trip to La Cienega de Santa Clara, I noticed a sign that read “No Transport of Agricultural Products.” I tried to take a picture, but apparently no photos are allowed of the border crossing—breech of national security. That the border agent asked me nothing about myself other than whether or not I had any agricultural products on ‘my person’ apparently wasn’t a breech of national security, however. As he asked me this I thought back to the miles of agricultural fields that line both sides of the main road that runs south from San Luis to the Gulf of Santa Clara, at the top of the Sea of Cortez. Fields as full of onions and maize and lettuce as they are of hard workers, workers who leave their homes as early as 2 AM for the chance of work. I looked past the custom’s agent and through the glass wall behind him, into a waiting room full of men and women applying for work papers that would most likely be denied. Apparently ‘No Transport of Agricultural Products’ should be taken to mean agricultural workers too.

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I like eating greens. Spring greens, collards, kale, beet greens, fennel greens, turnip greens, brussel tops, you name it. Each June I relish the first few pick-ups of my CSA, eating much of the sweet and spicy salad mix before I get home. By the end of the year I’m sad to see them go—you might recall that last year around this time I shared with you the ritual end-of-season recipe for a “farewell to greens” salad. Well, this year something I thought was impossible has happened: I am absolutely sick and tired of eating greens. 

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Just as it takes a unique character of person to make a home here in the Last Frontier, those of us who have turned a spade in this soil know that it takes a certain kind of plant as well. They need to thrive (or at least manage) with thin and often acidic soils, a short growing season and unpredictable frosts. Perennials need a hearty tap and a diligent steward to survive the extreme over-wintering. Add to these difficulties the great regional climatic variation, and it is no wonder that so many Outsiders still express a mix of disbelief and awe when I tell them about gardening in Alaska. 

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The curse of rainy weather notwithstanding, fair-time is a cracking-good time of year in Fairbanks, one I’ve looked forward to eagerly every year since attending my first way back in 2005. Yeah, I’m a relative new-comer to Alaska, for those who didn’t know. But that first fair made a pretty big impression on me, especially coming from a place and culture so diametrically opposed to Alaska as South Florida. To be fair, there are certainly county- and state-fairs there as well, that is, annually-held carnivals which somehow pass for state fairs. The agricultural aspects of these, though still touted if you dig deep enough on their websites, seem to barely extend beyond petting-zoos and cartoon cows seen on billboard advertisements. Thus, not only did my first Tanana Valley Fair reinforce my certainty that the move to Alaska had been a proper one, it also consoled much personal skepticism that there is still great hope for our food future to be a bright, healthful, and local one.

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