From Consumers to Producers: The Homestead Atlanta

On a chilled morning in late fall, The Goat Farm in Atlanta feels deserted. Twisted vines climb old brick walls and the only sign of life is the droplets that coat windowpanes, hinting that some warmth dwells inside. Stepping through a white unmarked entryway, a metal cage reveals itself. Eight students stand alert at their anvils, watching the instructor etch in chalk the details of today’s lesson. 

Mark Hopper is teaching a beginner’s metalsmithing class this morning.  It’s part three of a campfire cookery series offered by The Homestead Atlanta, a roving hub for affordable workshops that explore practical sustainability and forgotten heritage skills.

Kimberly Coburn started The Homestead Atlanta in early 2013 with the goal of creating a network of skill-based experts and a community of people eager to reconnect with their hands.

“I don’t have a background in any of this. I just love it all,” Coburn says. “Part of the reason I started this is because I wanted access to it.”

Classes are available in a range of subjects from knitting to foraging and aromatherapy to rainwater harvesting. The diversity keeps it interesting, and the level of knowledge required to sign up for any class is zero.

“One of the biggest things all of these [programs] are about is reintroducing people to their capacity for creation,” Kimberly says. “Our birthright as humans is the ability to create and be problem solvers and make things that get us by. Reminding people that they can be producers instead of just consumers is key.”

Jessica Collins is a student and an assistant to Mark Hopper at the GoatnHammer metalsmithing shop. She’s seen that moment of change in people that Kimberly hopes to cultivate — she watches participants realize they can do something now that they couldn’t do before, and it’s powerful.

“Did everyone get that down in one heat?” Hopper asks as his students hammer with speed and deliberation, hoping to make the next curve before the iron cools. “That’s okay. You’re using caution. Saturday morning and the coffee hasn’t kicked in.”

For all the hammering clamor, this kind of work requires finesse. Intentional force and a delicate aim are required to succeed in the process of bending and shaping metal.

“Be sympathetic to the form you are creating,” Hopper urges. It’s critical to follow the line of the anvil.

Coburn seeks out experts like Mark Hopper to teach the wide range of classes she offers. She also seeks to connect future apprentices to their teachers.

Hopper stands tall in steel-toed brown leather boots. His pants are held up by black suspenders coupled with a belt fastened by an anvil-etched brass buckle. In his pockets are a blue kerchief for sweat and a knife in holster, around his neck an intricate silver choker. The details give tell to a deep respect for metal.

Hopper never succeeded in school, so when he was 15, he decided to start travelling the world. He apprenticed with blacksmiths across the globe, only to return to Atlanta seeking the purpose and the community he would later establish at The Goat Farm.

Hopper and Collins became acquainted while pursuing separate passions at The Goat Farm. One day Hopper came to her with a revelation.

“I think I found my life’s work and that’s to develop a very concise and lineated curriculum for blacksmithing,” Hopper says.

The GoatnHammer launched about 3 years ago. The curriculum Hopper offers in collaboration with The Homestead Atlanta takes a less precision-oriented, more object-oriented approach to metalsmithing. Fittingly, it’s more the approach of an agriculture-smith, one who makes only the objects he needs on the field to get by.

“Only 40 to 50 percent [of students] had swung a hammer with intent before,” he says. The students are most often people who work in offices, not carpenters and builders.

“It’s people who don’t get a lot of time to work with their hands. I think that working with our hands is something that humans really have to do,” says Collins. “They crave it. They need it. And this is an outlet for that.”

One older student came to the class because his father and grandfather were both trained blacksmiths that had to become house painters instead to support themselves. They encouraged him to do something else, so he became a professor of math and statistics. Now he finds himself drawn back into the work of his elders.

Another student’s wife encouraged him to take the metalsmithing course after she attended weaving courses offered by The Homestead Atlanta.

“I kind of joke that I’m brainwashing people one craft at a time,” Coburn says.

Creating a community based in cultivating human skills is the goal The Homestead Atlanta hopes to achieve.

“I want to make sure that people don’t think this is nostalgic, you know, or backwards looking. Just because something was done two hundred years ago doesn't mean it’s any less relevant today. There’s that element of trying to protect those [practices] from being lost because people don’t have to do them anymore,” Coburn says. “[These skills] are going to move us all into a more sustainable future.”

Overhill Gardens: A Place to Grow

Alissa was in love the first time she heard Avi Askey’s voice. 

She’d seen an ad in the paper that he was hiring help at his plant nursery. She was on her way to a job in Canada teaching kids how to survive in nature, the whole bit, but she needed quicker cash than a trip to the depths of the Canadian wild could yield. So she called him. 

Avi didn’t answer. But there was something in his tone and his candor, even on the machine, that she couldn’t resist. 

“I heard his voice and I was just like I. Love. You. I hung up the phone and was like I am going to marry this man!” she says. “I went and wrote a banjo song about him and I was just obsessed.” 

He returned her call days later, and this time she missed it. He left her a message asking her to come in for an interview.

“I played that message like a hundred times. I’d be at a party and go into the back of my van, and I’d crouch down real low and listen.”

Arriving in Vonore, Tennessee the day before her interview, she drove around and past the nursery, searching for signs of a man she already knew she loved. 

When she met Avi finally the next day, he wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. 

“But his voice and the way he walked, it was just like I was hooked,” she says.

She was immediately hired upon interviewing. They made an arrangement that she’d stay in the barn loft on his verdant holler property, but she never spent a night without him. Just as soon as she’d committed to working his land, they were talking marriage and children. Three weeks later, she was pregnant with their first boy, Jonas. 

Life quickly changed for all of them. 

“It was quick, it really was, and it was a heck of a way to meet somebody, but we’ve done alright,” she says.  

Avi was drawn to Tellico Plains through similarly supernatural means. 

He felt drawn to go South from Pennsylvania, and he trusted his gut as he wound through mountain roads without direction. He knew he wanted land. He knew somewhere down here he’d find it. He turned left when he felt he had to. He turned right as his instincts instructed. He found land for sale on Citico Road; he made a bid, and he bought it. 

Avi Askey was far from the first person to discover this fertile Eden. It was a mecca of Cherokee history. They flocked to the land after being displaced in every direction by 18th century European settlers, only to be forced onward again years later. 

Alissa’s own Cherokee heritage is in Tennessee, a place she never imagined herself (and a fact she didn’t know) until she was there. Her great, great grandad was the Raven of Choctaw. Now she finds arrowheads and remnants of Cherokee pottery every time they till.

In his first two years of living on the land he called Overhill Gardens, Avi lived in a teepee. He wasn’t unaccustomed to living less-than-conventionally. His parents are self-described “back-to-earthers.” 

“You wouldn’t call them hippies, because politically they weren’t hippies at all,” Alissa says, “but they were into that whole back to the roots kind of thing, you know?” 

His mom is the kind of woman who made cheese everyday from scratch. His parents raised cattle and grew their food. They bought a dilapidated farm house and made it their own. They believed in knowing where their food came from long before it was a thing to do. 

“[Avi’s mom] is a hard woman to live up to,” she says. “This woman is getting double knee replacements, and she’s working 50 hours a week here in the nursery squatting and doing all kinds of stuff -- she will not complain at all, and if she ever does complain, you need to be looking at ERs or something. If she’s like, ‘yeah i’m not feeling that great,’ I’m like ‘we’re going to the hospital.’”

Avi’s parents joined them on the rolling Overhill property, first in a trailer and now in a home that sits just up the dirt road from their children and grandchildren. 

In the face of whatever intimidation Alissa is confronted with, she continues to move forward. Together, she and Avi envision more for their family and their property. The two are intertwined.

In time, she’d like to create more space for other people to stay, in renovated airstreams, teepees and a cabin that has its foundation already laid. 

“Sit for a second and dream with me,” she says, tucked into the booth of the bright red Shasta airstream that sits on the pathway from her house to the woods. Her boys play sweetly in the loft. “Everybody thinks this is a dream,” she says, “but you have to beat back the land all the time.”

The work at Overhill is ceaseless; that’s the catch of a “simplified” life. With no one to rely on but yourselves, there’s a big, less-than-glamorous difference between simple and easy; the Askies know that first hand. 

“Avi’s work is non-stop -- he works until he goes to bed,” she says. “It’s so exhausting and there’s no money in it. You have to love the lifestyle or you’ll just go crazy.”

And for where there is challenge, there is sincerity. The Askies do what they do because they believe in it, not because they think someone might be looking or maybe because fate had a hand in it.  

When Alissa and Avi met, she’d been an adventurer, traversing from her home in Florida to the Pacific Northwest, searching for anything but permanence. She’d grown lavender and raised alpacas, biked the coastline into Canada and traveled to island farms by sailboat. 

When she heard Avi’s voice for the first time, she wrote down her dreams: that she’d live on a farm, raise children and love the man on the other side of the line. 

After she came to the holler, she never left. 

Now she’s surrounded by three growing boys, Jonas (age 6), Asa (age 4) and Callum (age 2), and a husband she loves, respects and admires. They fill her life with purpose and beauty that can’t be described but only experienced. She and Avi aren’t sure what they want for their boys -- whether one or all of them will take the land as their own, or even if they want them to. 

"Our kids spend May through October foraging for wild foods (many of them in our yard),” Avi says. “And it’s one of our biggest joys as parents – to have them grow up with that being the norm."

Believe it or not, there’s a school bus that makes its way out to Overhill Gardens. Alissa cried when she watched her oldest boy step onto the bus as it pulled him away with dust swelling in its stead. 

Story & photographs by Jodi Cash

Oasis in the Wild

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Robert Rankin first laid eyes on the Snowbird Mountain Lodge in the 1970s. An avid hiker, he had emerged from the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest in serious need of a bath. The innkeeper charged him five dollars for a bar of soap and the use of an outdoor shower.

“I fell in love,” he said. And the love affair has not since ended.

In 1941, the Wolfe brothers established the Snowbird Mountain Lodge just outside of Robbinsville, North Carolina, and their original vision remains strong under Robert’s proprietorship. They created a space designed to surprise with every aspect, to exceed expectations, to be an oasis in the wilderness.

Today, lodges built on mountaintops are rare.

The original drive ascends in a curve that mimics the feeling of climbing a mountain. As you are about to crest, all that appears in your view is a pure blue, wide-open expanse of sky. It’s not until you round the final bend that the majestic Unicoi Mountains and the lodge itself are revealed in full form.

It’s been 21 years now that Robert has owned the Snowbird Mountain Lodge. “The Lodge was condemned when I bought it,” he said.

From that moment on, he has handpicked every detail in the place. The authenticity gained from that care is felt by each guest, from the first step onto the mountaintop property until the final goodbye, assured they must return.

Robert says about 80% of his guests come every year. And that is a sign that he is doing his job right.

“I think people are looking for something authentic,” Rankin says as he hunches over his well-stocked bar. He is highly engaged in conversation, but you can tell he is attuned to everything happening in the room. He cannot and will not let service falter.

The Snowbird Mountain Lodge exists somewhere between elegant and rustic. Truly, it is comfortable, and it is a retreat.

We are always connected in the modern world, but Robert questions to what. He says we are instead assaulted by the technology that rests readily at our fingertips and surrounds the daily human experience. We are tethered to a digital world.

“There’s a peace that descends on me when I enter these mountains,” he says.

Robert floats around the Lodge most days because his presence is part of his philosophy. He wants guests to know that the person that did all of this is actually here.

“With inns and bed and breakfasts and the like, you’ll find that if the owner fits the place, it’s phenomenal,” he says. “If the owner doesn’t fit the place it’s kind of like that missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle that kind of looks like it fits but it doesn’t really fit.”

Tonight, Robert is bartending. As he expertly tours a guest through his large bourbon selection, she coyly asks,  “How did you become such a connoisseur?” He frankly replies, “I drink a lot!”

Every convenience has been considered at the Snowbird Mountain Lodge.

Offering 23 private rooms that are equally historic and modernized, the Lodge can host a maximum capacity of 46 guests. The whole experience is designed for couples to connect and for people to enjoy a retreat to nature.

It’s the level of service that allows that freedom.

Not only are all meals included, but they are first class. Your packed lunch order is taken at the seated dinner you’ll reserve personally with maître-d at check-in. They source food locally, even though it’s not the easy way, nestled deep in rural Southern Appalachia in a large county with only 7000 people. 

“We know everybody and we depend on everybody,” Robert says.

That means that tonight’s menu will be completely different from yesterday’s. The trout comes from local rivers regarded for fly-fishing, beef from Brasstown Valley, and pork from Nantahala Meats. Robert finds himself in Asheville twice weekly scouting produce at farmers markets if the two local farms he sources from—or the neighbors’ front yard garden—cannot supply his needs.

“We take pride in that we know who we are buying from,” says Robert.

Robert also takes pride in his staff of 24 – 30 employees who receive a yearly salary despite the two months of winter closing. The genuine care for service is felt from the top down, and the drive to be the best possible, in life and in work, is a mantra that resonates throughout the Lodge.

In the early nineties, when Robert found himself at a crossroads in his professional life, he found himself fly-fishing on the Nantahala River with his father. Standing on the bank with this man who had worked passionately at his career for his whole life, Robert was given the best gift a parent could give. His father said, “whatever your passion is, you find it, you follow it,” because money will never lead to happiness, just stuff.

“I told him I’d always wanted to own an inn and be of service,” Robert said, “and he laughed and said, ‘well, when are you gonna do that?’”

In the Snowbird Mountain Lodge, Robert has found career and solace. His idea of success lies in the guests he serves, and the small things, like watching a couple drink coffee in their pajamas in the lobby or taking off their shoes because this place feels like home.

“Being able to reconnect with each other on this level and with nature and the ground and the earth that we walk on and the food we eat is really important and that’s what this place is about.”

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Story by Erin Wilson
Photographs by Jodi Cash

Drawing Closer the Farmer: An Evening with Outstanding in the Field

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In the brightest sunlight of the day, a crowd of strangers approaches a piece of unfamiliar farmland. There will be a tour of a barn most likely, maybe a look into a greenhouse, certainly a walk around a property that has seen hard work, and the definitely the opportunity to hear from the voice of a farmer.

This is an event outside the norm. As instinctive unease wears off and the hunger for a good meal grumbles, the table is revealed.

“From the artistic perspective, I’m always thinking of the composition of the table in the setting, like an artist looks at a canvas or a piece of music,” says Jim Denevan, founder of the travelling open-air pop-up dinner series Outstanding in the Field. “I go way overboard with placing the table in the environment.”

Jim Denevan is a chef and an artist in his own right, and those creative pursuits feed directly into his work with Outstanding in the Field .  

“My artwork is about place, and especially time, where the compositions would be erased by tide or waves or the rain and the wind,” he says. His art is large format, temporary and tied inextricably to place.  

In the 1990s, Jim worked as a chef in his hometown Santa Cruz, California, just five miles from his brother’s organic farm. Riding his bike to work everyday along the ocean, he simultaneously became excited about sharing the stories of ingredients’ origins and about drawing in the sand.

“I quickly became obsessed with making artwork on the way to work as a chef,” he says. “I was late to work a lot.”

But once Jim made it to work, he was fiercely dedicated to telling the stories of local agriculture. At his tiny restaurant Gabriella Café, the menu was handwritten daily with the names of the farmers written beside their produce. He invited the farmers to the restaurant.

“I just sort of sprung them on [the customers]. I wanted to make farming as interesting as it could be. I wanted to tell a story through the menu,” he says.

Thus, Outstanding in the Field was born in 1999.

Jim’s menus as a pioneering chef at Gabriella Café and the collaborative menus between guest chefs and host farmers at Outstanding in the Field dinners have always spoken to the season and the growers. The food on the table lingers on the meaningful relationship between the natural world and the social world that is easily lost.  

“When we started there was no phrase farm to table, it didn’t really exist,” Jim says. “We had a lot of convincing to do.”

In 2015, Jim and his team will serve almost 12,000 people. In the history of the project, they have now traveled to over 10 countries and all 50 states, setting the table almost 100 times each year on the beach, under the apple orchards, on the hillside—where ever the food beckons.

Outstanding in the Field personally hosts the farmers, winemakers, foragers and artisans who are purely connected to the ingredients on the table. These are the stewards of the land that the general public must reconnect with; this is the point of it all. Being able to invite farmers to sit at the table alongside the general public is a built-in component of the price.

“It’s incredible to hear the stories of farmers across the country,” Jim says. “It’s very personal when someone is talking about the land they’ve worked on.”

Jim recognized from the beginning that there are more and more people, especially young people, who are getting into farming, and he needed to be part of supporting that growth. Outstanding in the Field set out to pay farmers just as much as share their stories.

“We were going to pay everybody for everything,” Jim says.

He is firm in his stance that this is not a charity. When farmers can’t feed themselves even though their work is about growing food, he sees a wrongdoing.

It’s all about getting more people, more consumers, to devote their dollars to small organic farmers. “You don’t have to convince anyone to participate anymore. That’s a cool change in culture,” he says with some pride. “There was a whole period of time where people were taken away from direct experience and simultaneously technology gained power.”

People are finally pushing back; there is an upsurge in yearning to be present. In the groups that dine with Outstanding in the Field, there is a tangible desire to use their senses in the physical world and to really know about the places where they live, from the best route to walk downtown to the farmers that supply their food locally.

Jim has seen this deeper sense of connection ignite in his guests. It’s the building of communities of diverse yet like-minded individuals that makes his events powerful for people across the globe.

“The interesting thing is that [Outstanding in the Field] does translate to other countries and that is related to greater questions of why people want this right now in our culture,” Jim says. “[The Japanese] love sitting communal style with strangers, finding that they have common humanity. Real connection really touches people.”

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Story by Erin Wilson

Photographs provided by Outstanding in the Field

To attend an Outstanding in the Field dinner, visit the website here.

A look at real life at white oak pastures

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You can gain a glimpse into the life of a farmer without quitting your day job and buying a plot of land. Visiting a fully operational farm-for-profit opens your eyes to the realities of the job—the harsh and the beautiful, the rigorous and the peaceful—and it gives you a depth of perspective and appreciation for the people who grow your food.  

At White Oak Pastures in Bluffton, Georgia, the average person can see firsthand how a large-scale farm can flourish while raising animals humanely on pasture and growing vegetables organically.

“I think it’s important for [people] to see it,” said Jodi Harris Benoit, White Oak’s Farm Events Manager. “I appreciate those customers and want our customers who already buy from us to see it, to see where [the animals] are raised. Hell, they can stay right by the chickens. I want them to experience it.”

It’s a place worth seeing for many reasons. It’s the largest organic farm in Georgia, one of the most prominent sustainable and humane animal producers in the country, and the only farm in the nation that has USDA approved abattoirs on the premises to process the animals they raise.

Jodi and her sister Jenni Harris are the daughters of Will Harris and the fifth generation of the Harris clan to run the farm.

A visit to White Oak Pastures begins with delivery to one of a few cabins tucked away on the property. The largest dwelling, the Pond House, was the modest starter home for Will and his wife Yvonne as newlyweds many years past. At that time, it was a simple cinderblock building with little in the way of adornments or décor. Now it’s decked out with rustic interiors and all of the White Oak value-added products you could desire for a very comfortable, yet retreat-focused stay.

In the last year, Jodi Harris has taken on the task of making White Oak an agrotourism destination.

“We didn’t anticipate the tourism thing,” she said, “it just kind of happened.”

The Harrises opened White Oak Pastures up to the public for the sake of admirers and critics alike. It’s a chance for anyone to see ten species of animals living in natural symbiosis, a sight that differs drastically from a large scale, corporatized single-species beef or poultry farm. Any given visitor has access to every aspect of the farm—from baby sheep frolicking through the beautiful fields to the surprisingly sterile, calm and systematic slaughter of a cow.

“I think transparency is the best marketing tool,” said Jodi, while walking us (literally) through each aspect of production on the farm.

And that’s perhaps the most charming aspect of visiting White Oak Pastures. There was not an ounce of pretense from anyone. The Harris family is warm and open, as were the doors to each operation at the farm.

If you’re lucky, Will Harris will crank up his Ford pickup truck and assume the role of tour guide. He personally drove us around the property and laid out the full scope of White Oak Pastures with uninhibited commentary and references to his own colorful family history.

“We’re fiercely proud of what we do,” said Will. It’s one of his signature lines, but that only goes to show that he’s serious. He spent an afternoon pointing out rare Iberian pigs buried deep in puddles of mud, goats roaming the forest and cows freely grazing sloping pastures of fertile ground.

He’s a busy man. He’s a full-time farmer. But he’s on a mission to showcase his success to anyone who will listen. He’s not looking for a pat on the back or more plaques to hang on his already crowded wall of accomplishments—he wants to prove to the world that sustainable, moral farming is not only possible, it’s necessary.  Not only that, his business is profitable, even if the majority of revenue goes straight back into his operation that continues to morph and grow.

White Oak Pastures has been in the Harris family for more than 150 years. Passed down through five generations, the farm saw only the hooves of cattle. Today, the property sprawls over 2,500 acres (most owned, some leased) with 10 species of animals and organic produce.

Will took the leap to turn to sustainable practices with little guarantee that it would be profitable. In what onlookers might have called a mid-life crisis, he decided that he wanted to find more value in what he was doing. He wanted to consider the welfare of the animals he raised and the welfare of the land he stewards.

It dawned on him that he had to do better.

“Saying that our old idea of animal welfare was right is like saying raising your kids in a closet with only a mattress, but it’s 72 degrees and you keep plenty of crackerjacks in there for them to eat and you leave the light on, is good parenting,” he said.

So he made changes. Through hard work, diligence, and a small army of people, he learned to raise nine new species of animals, to process them on-site, to grow organic produce and to incorporate value-added products. The learning curve was steep, but he’s brought on good, smart, honest workers to turn a lofty ambition into a reality.

While driving us around, Will pulled over to introduce us to every employee we came across, and without fail, each one happily showed us his or her pet project—a man named Jay Barrows let us taste the goat’s milk he’d harvested that day, Jenni’s partner Amber Reece showed us the cow hide dog treats that are a customer favorite, Mary Bruce gave us a tour of the organic farm (complete with a snack from the garden), and John Benoit, Jodi’s husband, let us peep at hogs that were being readied to mate.

But the most charming part of the visit was sitting down for lunch and dinner each day with the Harris family and the extended family made up of the people who work at White Oak. At The Pavilion we got a pure glimpse into what matters to them.  A sign is painted on the wall of this restaurant that Will built to feed his people—it reads, “We pray for plenty of good, hard work to do and the strength to do it.”

The essence of White Oak Pastures is evident in how hard the people work to do the right thing; to be right by each other and right by the living things they raise and harvest. Being there was not a glamorous trip to a precious farm-to-table experience; it was real.

Jodi, Will and Jenni Harris.

*A version of this story appeared first in Flagpole’s Locavore column. 

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Story by Jodi Cash

Photographs by Paige French

Full Moon Farm: A Delicate Subject

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Iwalani Farfour stands tall in her relaxed denim overalls. Her warm face is flanked by two thick, dark braids and marked by pensive eyes that exaggerate the composure of a wise woman. Her hands take care in movements, as if in deep thought, but their dusty tan reveals hard time spent with the sun and the earth—and all are better for it.

Iwalani is first and foremost a good steward to the land. Second, she is the manager of Full Moon Farm, an organic, family-operated farm in Winterville, Georgia.

Full Moon Farm was born of the local food movement in and around Athens, Georgia. In 2005, farm-to-table restaurant Farm 225 was supplied almost exclusively by the network of sister farms collectively known as Full Moon Coop. For everyone interested, you might say the farm system reached celebrity status, or at least the degree of name recognition for a farm that was unheard of 13 years ago.

Today, the restaurant has closed, but Full Moon Farm remains in abbreviated form as one acre of farmed land within about five acres of the property formerly known as Roots Farm.

“But we’re able to pump it out on this little space,” says Iwalani, manager at Full Moon Farm, especially with the combined power of her new multi-farm CSA, Collective Harvest.

Considering the population, Athens-Clarke County is surrounded and supported by a large number of small organic farms. Along with the Collective Harvest President Alex Rilko, Iwalani recognized the power of the cooperative model she had experienced in the past. Collective Harvest unites Full Moon Farm with Front Field Farm and Diamond Hill Farm to provide a larger bulk and a wider variety of vegetables, fruits and eggs.  

“Our three farms are coming together to do this CSA to hopefully be able to serve more people and to make it a larger thing,” Iwalani says. “Alex…approached us all with this idea—why don’t we just work together instead of all three of our tiny farms trying to compete against one another.”

In March, just before the CSA launched, the field was empty save for a corner of covered crops and blackberries in the distance, already trellised. Much of a farmer’s work throughout the year involves strategic planning, especially in preparation for the bounty of spring and summer. In fact, farming outside of the industrial arena is fairly quiet. It’s a lot of cleaning and keeping organized.

“It’s pretty tedious work too, which is not your typical man’s work,” says Iwalani. “Farming is such a nurturing thing. It’s totally growing from babies, and there’s a lot of cleaning that happens.”

Her assistant Sarah Thurman echoed a similar experience—as a young girl, farming was never presented to her as a career option.

Sarah says, “When I went to Brazil and I was finally out of adults telling me what I could do with my life, I went (whispers) ‘I want to be a farmer’.”

Today, in the organic and small-scale market in particular, the number of women in agriculture has increased. According to the USDA, nearly one-third of domestic farmers, those that list farming as their primary occupation, are women. But nationwide, still, not a lot of women are farm operators and managers like Iwalani and Jacqui Coburn of Front Field Farm. The 2012 Census reports that 18 percent of organic farms are lead by a female farm operator, as compared to 16 percent in agriculture overall. You still see a lot more women as laborers.

“Men like to use the tools, but when it came to anything that had to do with being delicate…I was always seeding, I was always preparing the food to be sold. Making sure it looks good,” says Sarah. “If we were harvesting delicate things, I would end up doing the delicate harvests.”

To understand the value of organic and sustainable practices, there must be a drive to protect and improve land and resources for the future.

The Full Moon Farm property has been organically managed for over 20 years. Before Roots Farm even, the owners of the land had the foresight to avoid chemicals, put in trees and start a sustainable infrastructure.

“It’s just been building since then. We’re not certified organic yet, but this property has been managed in that way for a while, making it easy for us to transition,” said Iwalani.

And perhaps that’s where a return to small-scale and organic farming ties into a reemergence of women in farming.

Organic farming principles require a more intimate relationship with the land and the cycles of nature that then inform the cycles of the farm. It’s a hands-on approach to growing food and sustaining the earth that requires patience. It relies on a personal investment in the future.

“Knowing how to grow your own food is knowing how to provide for your family,” said Sarah. “We might struggle to get by or not make a lot of profit but I know my family can eat food or you know your kid has the best food in world and that’s going to give him what he needs to grow.”

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Story by Erin Wilson 

Photographs by Paige French

Salt of the Earth: The Life of a Georgia Shrimper

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Tybee Island came to J.B. in a childhood dream. As a Midwestern boy, he saw a vision of a lighthouse and the tide, long before laying conscious eyes on the ocean.

When J.B. Riffle arrived on the island as a young man pursuing his place in the world, it was déjà vu.  

He moved to Tybee in the early 70’s, travelling by Harley. Working on a railroad in South Dakota didn’t suit him; it was too damn cold. And when the Wounded Knee Incident occurred a mere 60 miles away, he knew he had to find a new home.

He drifted from job to job, town to town, traversing much of the country. He thought himself “too sorry” to make anything stick. 

Until he stepped foot on a shrimping boat and realized work was not the problem—it was people. 

He was taken on as a crewmember by a man named W.G., a man much akin to his own spirit. 

Together they built the Agnes Marie, one of the last wooden shrimp boats on Southeastern seas, and aboard it they worked together for 30 happy years. W.G. taught J.B. all that he knew—from driving a boat and casting nets to running a business and chasing women. 

In their time together, they watched the industry fluctuate through extreme highs and lows. In a good year they’d make as much as $200,000, and the next they’d be lucky to break even. When J.B. began his shrimping career there were 1,400 certified shrimpers in the state of Georgia. Last year there were around 300.*

It’s not easy work and there are no guarantees. Since Riffle entered the industry in the 70’s, the cost of fuel has skyrocketed, alongside the cost of basic needs like nets and a boat.

“Everything has went up 10 times… yet we’re getting the same price for our shrimp that we was gettin’ 40 years ago,” he said. “But if you’re in it for the money, you’re in it for the wrong reasons.”

W.G.’s greatest gift came to J.B. in his final moments. 

J.B.’s son had just graduated college and was working on the boat while looking for another job. W.G. intended to retire soon and had already sold the boat to J.B., who planned to carry on his legacy. 

While at sea, W.G. was overcome by a heart attack and died miles away from the dock. J.B. stayed calm and took over the wheel. He steered the crew to shore and called the police. But he didn’t want to see his mentor carried off of the boat in a body bag. At the thought of it, he was crippled by grief. He didn’t want to see the man who gave him a skill, a passion and a purpose become a nameless corpse, cargo to be disposed of, tucked into a zippered bag. 

“’Bout that time, my son come up and put his hand on my shoulder and said ‘dad, I got him,’” said Riffle, “The last present that old man give me is I watched my boy become a man right in front of my eyes.”

Parenthood is the only pursuit J.B. has loved more than shrimping. As a single dad, he raised a daughter and a son. Much of their upbringing was spent on the boat. It was a vivid exercise for the children in hard work and determination, and it instilled a deep appreciation for the ocean’s power and splendor.

J.B. watched his marriage deteriorate over money when the mother of his children inherited a fortune she refused to share. But he considers this no loss—he’s surrounded by the riches of the life and children that he loves. 

“The evilest thing in the world is money. It changes peoples’ hearts, ya know?” he said. “And if you really love somebody, you’d live under a bridge in a tent to be with that person.”

J.B. isn’t the only one to be unlucky in love—it’s considered to be a family curse. His brother has been married eight times and his sister has been married nine. 

For what romance was lost on the island, J.B. found friendship, and in no shortage.

“Tybee used to be the kind of place that if you didn’t fit in anywhere else in the world, you fit in down here,” he said.

It was the kind of place where his arm would grow tired of waving as he drove the shrimp from the boat to market everyday. 

In the name of loyalty, Riffle doesn’t like for the shrimp he catches off of the South Georgia coast to leave Tybee Island. He likes to provide for his own, and he looks forward to driving his shrimp to friends at Bowie Seafood or enjoying them at his favorite restaurant, Sundae Café.

These relationships define the life Riffle built for himself on the island. But in recent years, his business has been increasingly threatened by shrimp imported from across the globe. He knows that even on the island, restaurants desperate for tourist traffic will sell imported shrimp and pan them as local. 

Last summer the tide shifted in his direction. Much of the Asian shrimp population was wiped out by disease, and he was one of few men around with the delicacy in great supply. This year, legislation is being passed in his favor. The FDA is refusing to let masses of imported shrimp contaminated with banned antibiotics cross U.S. shorelines. And if the Trade Facilitation and Trade Enforcement Act passes, Riffle and other U.S. shrimpers may finally receive fair prices for their shrimp. 

With little interest in the price he’s paid, J.B. will board the boat before sunrise every morning. He will cast his net as he did the day before, and he’ll turn back to shore before he’s depleted his spot. 

“It’s a zen thing,” he said.

Once his pastor challenged him for missing church every Sunday. Riffle compelled the man to come out on the ship. 

“He said, ‘J.B., I want to tell you something, he said I owe you an apology,’ and I said ‘what’s that for,’ he said ‘you’ll never ever be any closer to the Lord than you are right now.’”

Riffle has no problem appreciating his lifestyle day to day; he only wishes that those visiting the island would change their clocks to Tybee Time, that they’d watch the sunrise and the sunset. 

In the houses that used to hold neighbors, he now finds visitors. His kids are grown. W.G. is gone. But he begins and ends every day just the same. He loads onto the Agnes Marie, and he sets out to see what the ocean presents to him. 

“Everything has changed, and I just haven’t.”

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Story by Jodi Cash

Photos by Paige French

Sources:

*Data verified by John Wallace of the Wild Georgia Shrimp Association. 

Southern Shrimp Alliance

spring studio day

Our director of photography and design, Paige French, is inviting readers to join her, along with Rinne Allen and Eve Nettles, to spend a morning together: creatives, sharing our processes and our work.

We'll begin the day with coffee and refreshments, and then venture into the woods with Eve to gather natural elements for styling. We will then work with those elements, making light drawings with Rinne, whose aesthetic and skill as an artist embraces all genres. Her work has a broad span, and she is truly a gift to the creative community. Rinne's process is deeply influenced by nature, and light drawings are a perfect example. Her own light drawings can be seen here, and you'll have the opportunity to learn this traditional art form. These prints will be a beautiful take-home to be passed through generations.

Eve has a distinct gift for discovering and creating beauty wherever she goes, and will share her unique perspective on the use of otherwise unnoticeable materials to make art. Eve is a skillful stylist, and will discuss her approach to sculpture, installation art, and crafting well-formed scenes to be photographed. 

Paige will share her perspective as a self-taught photographer, what she has learned about the art form, and making use of natural materials to create beautiful photographs. You can see Paige and Eve's collaborative project, Nettles + French, here. We'll also discuss the value of cultivating your own distinguishable voice as you pursue the craft of photography in the digital era.

Lastly, our time together will conclude with a light lunch and an opportunity to talk about what we've learned. 

The Seed & Plate is excited to offer our readers this opportunity to experience so much of what we are passionate about, what inspires our content. Spring Studio Day is May 9th, 2015, located just outside of Athens at The Brick House, historically a home for local artists. The Brick House is nestled in the beautiful woodlands between Athens and Crawford, and is a lovely, eclectic space. Our hope with Spring Studio Day is that we will rediscover a strong sense of rootedness, connection to nature, the beauty of traditional methods of using light to make art, and how these things translate into making photographs in the digital age. We chose to limit the group to twelve people, and there are still a few seats left. We would love to have you join us! To learn more and book your seat, please click here. 

The Shot Provides Itself

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The primitive yells of my hunting partners distracted me from the briar in my boot that was digging into my ankle for over an hour. I’m pretty sure my ear was bleeding, but I couldn’t tell if it was blood from my ear, my nose, or the game in my pouch. Of course, I chose to do this on purpose, this self-mutilation. Diving into an eight-foot tall briar patch with a loaded shotgun. All in the name of good taste or good times or good manners.

Some liken it to being Southern, I, on the other hand, enjoy the cold air, walking with friends, drinking gas station coffee in the car, and of course, the resulting sweet meat. I tolerate the brief discomfort and my weathered face and hands because I think that a meal is incomplete without a source of protein—preferably of the meaty persuasion. However, the cost of meat and its short shelf life at home can make it difficult to maintain a carnivorous diet.  Fortunately, the opportunity to obtain your own organic, free range meat is easier than you think.  

Hunting is a classic way to enjoy nature, promote sustainable eating, exercise in the outdoors and ensure that your food was never living in a cage. Most people assume they can’t get into hunting because of cost, accessibility, or knowledge, but with a little research and practice, you can become a conscientious provider for your family and friends.

The months of January and February bring one of my favorite hunting seasons and one of the most accessible for new hunters—rabbit season. Rabbit is a delicacy that is hard to find in restaurants, despite the fact that it was once a staple for Depression era families across America.

During the early and mid 20th century, much of the southern United States was heavily farmed and routinely clearcut. In the years of the Great Depression, when the financial security of the United States and funding for farmers was in jeopardy, there was an abundance of fallow farm fields and early regrowth forests. Fortunately for poor folks, rabbit, quail and other game birds prefer this type of habitat, making for an abundant source of cheaply obtained protein. Originally caught with thriftily assembled rabbit boxes and snares (unfortunately minimal information can be given on the rabbit box here as it is deserving of its own complete piece), rabbit hunting was also as simple as driving or walking down dirt roads with a .22 rifle and sharpshooting rabbits near the road. Eventually the most practiced and fruitful rabbit hunting was with the assistance of some briar resistant beagles or hounds. The dogs are trained to trail and essentially run the rabbits for optimal shot opportunities for hunters with shotguns, thus, lessening the necessity for people to jump into the thickest of brambles. However, if, like me, you don’t have time to train beagles, you must dive into the sea of briars yourself.

The first step of a successful rabbit hunt is to find a clearcut to hunt. The natural succession of regrowth from a bare clearcut forest shows grass and forbs sprout first, followed by small woody vegetation and early successional trees, and finishes out with pines dominating the former plants to forge the way for large hardwoods and pines—your apex forest. Rabbits happily live in these first few environments. Their preferred habitat is thick undergrowth that is composed of fennel, various blackberry varieties, ragweed, broomsedge, panicgrass, and a wide variety of other native plants.

Once you have found your habitat, gather a few friends (all of whom must be licensed to hunt), shotguns and thick clothes. The process of rabbit hunting is preferable for those who are turned off to the idea of sitting in a deer stand in 30 degree weather waiting for a deer to meander by at its own leisure. You and your group get in a line and walk in a line, wading through the thick undergrowth and brambles that hold our furry delicacies.

Rabbits are difficult to shoot. As you can probably imagine, they run fast. They are small. And they are very elusive. As you are walking, or more accurately pushing through, thicker growth and vegetation, the rabbits are disturbed and scatter. Once they run, the shot provides itself. If you have not been completely shredded by the brambles and your chilled fingers still operate, these opportunities can occur many times during a long morning of walking in the brisk winter air. Be alert though! Rabbits can appear simply as a flash of brown and it can take a few sightings to adjust your focus.

A successful rabbit hunt can provide anywhere from one to twenty rabbits depending on your goal at the onset and the hunting restrictions in your state. In Georgia, hunters are limited to 12 rabbits per hunter per day. As rabbits are known to reproduce quite efficiently, the opportunity to reach that limit lies explicitly with the group of people most willing to dive into that human shredder and sacrifice their comfortable Saturday morning.

Enjoying eating rabbit is quite rewarding after you have learned to hunt, clean, butcher and cook them. One rabbit provides 5 primary cuts of meat, and a successful hunt can provide an enjoyable solution to feeding a lot of people. Depending on what you prefer, you can fry, roast, slow cook, or grill these tasty morsels. If your palate is more refined, you can try your hand at sausage, terrine, rillettes, or pâté.

If by some chance your hunt has no kills, you had the opportunity to exercise as the Neanderthals of old and to spend a crisp winter day with some friends. And that is what is most important—but the true “other white meat” sure is good eatin’.

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Story by Gresham Cash

Photos by Paige French 

Ruminations for the Change of Season

Muscadines and scuppernongs remind me of being on the way somewhere, on a summer trip towards a desirable destination, or mostly the interruptions getting there.

As a family, we picked them up at roadside stands en route to the lake or the river or the Carolina coast. We kids would be mostly annoyed at our parents for stopping the smooth ride and the air conditioning in the car on a hot summer day for some delicacy we didn’t quite understand. Mom would wax nostalgic about summers as a kid in South Georgia and Dad would relish the juice, spit the seeds out the window and chew the fruit joyfully as we rolled our eyes. I would turn the R.E.M. back up on my headphones.

In recent years I’ve grown more interested in these native grapes of the American South. They exist in a light and sunny realm between summer and the earliest hints of fall, like they were created as a coping mechanism to help get you through the maddening heat. In flavor, they’re somewhere between sweet and sour and a bit bitter. There’s a process involved in the finding and eating of these southern grapes, and there’s a mystery of flavor and finesse waiting beneath their varied skins.

Over 300 different muscadines have been catalogued, but Southerners know there are two that matter, muscadines and scuppernongs, and that these can be distinguished by color—purple or bronze. Yet, does anybody really know the difference between a muscadine and a scuppernong? If you ask around, as I have, you usually get more confusion or indifference or the occasional know-it-all who points out that the muscadines are the red ones. Upon further investigation and reflection, there’s both more to the story and less, which in my mind makes the grapes all the more fun to play with.

Genetically, they seem to be pretty much the same. A scuppernong is a muscadine, though not all muscadines are scuppernongs. Both start green and tiny, and it can take some time for them to turn red at all, leaving a period mid-summer when you’re not sure which way they will ripen.

Clearly, there are differences. The scuppernong is known for its golden brown skin in maturity. They usually taste somewhat less sweet, at least in the juice if not also the fruit. There’s a floral quality. A deep burgundy muscadine can still have a tart fruit but when you bite through the tough skin, the juice flows sweetly, like Welch’s. Scuppernongs are named for a river in North Carolina, where they are also the state fruit. The mother scuppernong vine allegedly still produces grapes on Roanoke Island, which, of course, adds to the allure.

As I’ve grown more interested in these wild grapes, I’ve found a place for them in my ever-present desire for drink. Two summers ago, I tried a variation on the Pimm’s Cup. I muddled and pressed the ripe fruit for juice and bitter skin flavor, then mixed them in a tall glass with gin, lemonade and ginger beer. With a straw, these went down quickly.

For a later “up” version, I added a few dashes of homemade dry-hopped grapefruit bitters to coat the glass, substituted fresh-squeezed lemon for lemonade and cut out the ginger, still muddling a mixture of muscadines and scuppernongs for bitter, earthy skin flavor. The bright hop citrus nose opened the sweet and tart of juice and fruit and mixed well with the herby-dry Pimm’s-gin blend, then finished with a nice bitter bite of grapefruit. Spearing a few more grapes of varying size and color over the concoction, I felt like I’d accomplished something.

Last summer, I went bourbon. I’m always looking for a way to drink whiskey in the summer, and the sweetness of the muscadine has always made it a great way to cut the heat in August. I was at least discovering a different variation on the theme. I added lemon juice because it helps brighten most things, and a bit of sherry for good measure, then, following the hoppy nose from the previous summer, I eventually floated a barspoon of Islay Scotch on top of the cocktail as a subtle promise of the cool-weather campfires to come. Some called it Smokey Bourbon Sherry Grapes, others the Grapes of Wrath.

This summer, time is ticking, as grapes are ripening. We have to use what we can and save what’s left for warm fall days. Heavy end of season vines call for a shrub. The preserving elixir comes from shared time between mashed fruit and apple cider vinegar, both cooled and simmering, with a bit of added sugar. It can serve as an old-fashioned health remedy, fruit preservative, or simple drinking vinegar. It lasts forever in the fridge, they say. The color is an earthy red, deep pink and purple, and it’s that particular hue that defines this year’s end of summer/early autumn refresher.

The recipe is a simple take on a Gin Fizz, muddling both muscadines and scuppernongs for sweetness and skin flavor with the tart shrub, lemon juice, and a splash of simple syrup, then shaking it cold with Aperol and Gin and topping the mix with soda water, which has a nice balancing effect on the all the strong flavors. With this drink, I got somewhere, tapped into the duality of these wild southern grapes, welcoming their similarities and differences even when I couldn’t tell which was which.

So after all these attempts and creations and concoctions and trips to a nearly abandoned grape grove, I still find myself back to my first musings. On a warm sunny day, early fall now, a wicker satchel full of grapes of various colors, shapes, and sizes and flavors already in hand, thinking about family trips while spitting seeds at my friends’ kid, I was wondering what the difference was between a muscadine and a scuppernong, really, and whether it mattered at all.

I submit that you really can’t always tell what’s what when you’re picking from the vine. And varied grapes become the vine for living. Sure, if you go to a big produce company with labeled fruit at the grocery store, the red ones are the muscadines, dummy. But on the vine, there is more variation, gradation, ingratiation, inspiration. Every corner of the wild grove can have a different mix, a different ripening, a different skin and juice—like most things that are really alive and worth enjoying. Part of the fun is finding a place where you can spend some time picking fruit, welcoming the ambiguity and not worrying about the details. Best to enjoy what’s ripe while it lasts and preserve what you can for posterity, or at least for the fall.

View from the Hill: An Afternoon with Lee Epting

“Everybody’s looking for the Garden of Eden,” says Lee Epting. “You’re not gonna find it. But if you’re lucky you’ll get little glimpses of it.”

For Epting, a master party-thrower and the founder of Epting Events, it’s all about creating a memory and a feeling that his clients can keep for the rest of their lives. And this mentality, paired with a keen attention to aesthetics and genuine hospitality, is reflected from his business to his own kitchen table.

Epting has been catering unofficially since his time managing fraternity house kitchens in college. When people came into town, he would arrange a party.

“I didn’t know it was called catering then,” he chuckles as he checks on cornbread and country ham warming in the fireplace. “I started not cooking but giving parties, entertaining people. The whole essence of what we do now is making people happy. That’s the business I went into.”

These days, Epting Events throws at least one wedding every week and up to seven over a weekend in the spring. Many of these celebrations are held on Epting’s own land, The Hill.

The Hill is only four miles outside of downtown Athens, Ga., but driving up the gravel path to what Epting calls his “orphanage for old homes” feels like another world.

For more than 40 years, Epting has cultivated and curated his property to pay homage to an era that has long since passed. The property was originally divided into the Phinizy and Gillian Plantations. When Epting’s grandparents lost their Prince Avenue home after the Depression, they purchased the Gillian Plantation and moved out to the country.

“Thank goodness,” Epting says, reflecting on his ancestor’s move. To this day he feels a deep sense of relief to be coming home when he pulls onto the land.

The yellow house that Epting calls his home was hauled to The Hill from Williamston, SC. It was a family home built in 1785. As he pieced the transported home together room by room, he saved the heart of the home, the kitchen, to be from an 1830’s home from Athens. The small rock house out front was built in the 1920’s by a grandson of the slave that originally inherited the Phinizy plantation, the half of the land that Epting first acquired. Everyone in the family has lived in that small house.

Epting is a man of full intention in every endeavor, a set designer and historian in many ways. At The Hill, he has crafted a space that honors the abundance of the South—from the region’s handmade furniture and art that fill the houses to native fruit trees and a seasonal garden that dot the land. Even the structures themselves were collected from different Southern states and restored. The people that move out to The Hill appreciate dirt roads, and Epting is very protective of that.

He’s creating a living museum, although he wouldn’t want you to call it that. Nothing lingers on a shelf collecting dust. Each room has a sense of place, both in history and in the present. He uses the collection of artifacts and antiques that decorate his historical home to preserve an old way of life and to share it with a modern age.

As lunchtime approaches, Epting heats a cast iron pan on the stove, grinds a few pepper pods with a pestle and gingerly turns a piece of battered steak with a hand-carved wood-handled fork and knife.

“It gives me great pleasure to turn the meat with that fork. It’s got a little style to it. It’s got a story to it,” he says. “I don’t know if it tastes any better, but it just feels good.”

Polished sterling silver and fine china are for everyday use in this home. This breathes new life into them. So do the people who come to share in Epting’s own personal Eden.

“When [these homes were] built, it was a lonely time. We weren’t industrialized, we weren’t up north, we weren’t cities,” Epting says as he removes his worn gardener’s hat. “You know, in the South we were rural. Plantation to plantation or just farm to farm was a long ways away, so when people came, you had to feed them.”

Epting treasures the opportunity to bring people into his realm whom he would otherwise never meet. He never holds back when given the chance to share his life and resources with a passerby rumbling up the drive or with a bride and her groom on the day that means the most. He indulges in the chance for conversation and the ability to feed.  

“No one wants to live exactly how I live,” Epting says. “It’s cold in [this house], and the smoke does get in, and the wind does blow through the place. No one wants to live that way all the time, but they love to experience that just for just a little while.”

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Story by Erin Wilson

Photographs by Paige French

Heritage and Hospitality Across the Atlantic

On the banks of the Cumberland River, tucked away from the bustle of Music City, USA, Peter Nappi Studio is at once a luxury leather goods store, a music venue and a respite for anyone who walks through the doors.

“When people come to our studio, we want them to feel welcome, obviously,” said Dana Nappi, the president of the company. “We want them to get a sense of authenticity.”

Dana’s husband, Phillip, launched the brand in 2011 after learning that his interest in designing shoes reaches generations into the past.

“My husband has been passionate about shoes and footwear his whole life,” said Dana, “and we got to a point where now’s the time to start something new and let’s see what we can do in the footwear industry.”

Eager to pursue a dream, the couple and their infant daughter left their home in America for Italy.

While living in Florence, they immersed themselves in the craft of shoemaking. They researched leather and production facilities, and they learned about the exceptional attention to detail that sets handmade shoes apart.

But artisanship wasn’t all that Phillip and Dana Nappi learned in Italy— they also discovered that the Nappi family had a long history in shoemaking. Phillip Nappi lost both of his parents as a child; he grew up knowing little about his heritage. But while doing research in Italy, he found out that his grandfather, Peter, whom he never met, was also a shoemaker.

Peter Nappi came to America from Italy in 1904 with the title of “shoemaker” declared on his passage papers. He and his brother made their way to Columbus, Ohio, where they settled and opened a shoestore.

“When we uncovered this, it was truly like a calling from beyond,” said Dana. “It went from a hobby and a passion to alright this is a business, this is something that I’m doing that was in my family, and I’m continuing to build my family around it.” Armed with expert craftsmanship and a new sense of purpose, the Nappi family moved back to the U.S. and set to work out of their home in Nashville. Phillip designed the shoes and their team in Italy made them and sent them to Tennessee to
be sold.

The operation quickly grew too big to be executed in their house. They sought out a space that could be all that they needed it to be—a place to stock and showcase their products, a place to design new products and do business, and most importantly a place that could foster a sense of family, creativity and hospitality.

They stumbled upon what proved to be the perfect space by chance. The building was at the end of a dead-end road, beyond railroad tracks and tattered with ‘Do Not Enter’ signs. But the space had just enough promise, and it evolved from their office space and small-scale showroom into a fully functional retail store. It continues to fulfill their dreams as a community hub.

The Nashville community quickly latched on, and the shoes found their way onto the feet of country stars and people with an appreciation for high quality footwear and classic, enduring style.

The skill, passion and products that came from Italy didn’t gain traction in the South simply by chance. Instead, similar values make for likenesses in taste. “There’s a lot in the Southern heritage that almost echoes the Italian culture,” said Dana. “Family is very important in both, heritage is very important in both cultures as well. So when you build a product on those two platforms as the foundation, it
has similar aesthetics.”

For all of the support the Peter Nappi company has seen from their community, Philip and Dana have given back. They host regular, intimate musical performances with members of their exceptionally talented city and are eager to point visitors in the direction of their favorite restaurants and bars. They also hope that people will spend time in their store casually, and guests receive complimentary espressos and comfortable seating—a kind of hospitality that resonates with their roots on both
sides of the Atlantic.

“We want to be that kind of cultivator of creative energy,” said Dana. “It’s abou sharing knowledge and sharing contacts and really helping each other grow. That’s a part of what has turned Nashville into the great city that it is.”

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Story by Jodi Cash

Photographs by Emily B. Hall

Creating Access: People Subsidizing Good Food

“Everyone wants good, healthy, fresh food,” Jan Kozak protested. “It’s not just a desire of the rich and the affluent, it’s everyone.”

Access is the issue.

As program director at Wholesome Wave Georgia (WWG), Kozak works to facilitate access to locally grown food through partnerships with farmers markets statewide. The organization’s flagship Double Value Coupon Program (DVCP) doubles the value of all federal and state nutrition benefit dollars spent at participating farm-to-retail venues. Essentially, this initiative is leveraging existing government food nutrition programs to encourage the consumption of wholesome food within underserved communities.

Since WWG was founded in 2009, the organization has doubled $350,000 in food stamp dollars across the state. That value equates to $700,000 in fresh food for those who need it most—not to mention directly raising the income of small-scale, local farmers.

Today, EBT cardholders account for 20 percent of sales at the Athens Farmers Market—one of the markets to show the greatest success with DVCP— and that percentage has increased every year since the program’s launch.

“But it’s just a drop in the pan. There’s so much more work to be done,” Kozak insists.

Although nationally Wholesome Wave programs are viable in 28 states and at over 400 farm-to-retail venues, only 0.012% of Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits are spent through DVCP.

While statewide divisions work locally to increase awareness, the national nonprofit organization, founded in 2008 by Chef Michel Nischan, is focused on food policy, including the contentious Farm Bill, which directly affects government nutrition programs. They are also developing new programs.

These innovative initiatives are creating infrastructures that are “so simple but they make so much sense,” said Kozak.

Their Fruit and Vegetable Prescription Program (FVRx) was designed to fight diet-related disease in at-risk overweight and obese children. It fosters partnerships that enable healthcare providers to prescribe vouchers to farmers markets in place of blood pressure or diabetes medication, for example. The Healthy Food Commerce Investments (HFCI) initiative functions to create “food hubs”—essentially centralized facilities where local farmers or food producers can receive assistance with storage, processing, distribution and marketing of regional goods. All farmers struggle with excesses of perishable product; this program can extend that product beyond a Saturday at the local farmers market.

Ultimately, the power of Wholesome Wave’s work is that it’s people giving back to people. As a 100 percent privately funded organization, the producers, consumers and financial supporters involved with these programs are creating a food system outside of the national system.

“We’re kind of counter-cyclical. We’re outside the commoditized, large-scale, multi-national system,” Kozak said with pride. Fortunately for all, Wholesome Wave has shown growth throughout the years of economic struggle.

When the economy turned south in 2008, the government’s Recovery Act temporarily increased SNAP benefits. This year, benefits returned to prior levels, but the fact is that the economy hasn’t truly recovered.

“When you go from $4.50 a day to $3.50 a day per person, that’s significant,” Kozak said.

By doubling the value of SNAP benefits, Wholesome Wave is working to resolve financial access to good food. But there are many hurdles to contend with yet. Many people who would benefit from the program still struggle with physical access to the market. Others lack education about unfamiliar produce and how to consume it once back in the home kitchen. Still, some may be uncomfortable with the often skewed demographics of a farmers market and the change from the anonymous grocery store.

According to one of Kozak’s favorite sociological studies, ten times more conversations take place at a farmers market than in the grocery store. “It’s sort of like an opening process, like opening up yourself to that experience and completely shifting the way you think about shopping for food, ” he said.

Illona Stewart is a mother, a vegetarian and a SNAP benefit recipient in Athens, Ga. She values spending her money locally, and she values the cross-socio-economic connections her family makes with the community at the market.

“We don’t ever plan to stay the whole time, but we always do. It’s a revolving door of people we’ve known from all parts of life,” Steward said in her speech at the WWG Harvest Feast fundraiser this year. She has become a community leader for the organization.

It is powerful to see a person who has struggled with hunger and food insecurity change their perspective on food. For a large segment of the population, it can be a luxury to view food as an element of the good life, as something that can add pleasure and fun instead of merely as a part of survival.

“You see the looks on their faces when they taste something that they either haven’t tasted in a long, long time, like maybe when they were growing up and their mom had a garden, or they just haven’t tasted it at all before, and you are giving them a whole new experience,” Kozak said with promise.

It’s these experiences that inspire him to keep his head to the ground and continue working to spread the word. This organization doesn’t have an endgame.

Wholesome Wave has always been about the producers and the eaters, the underserved and the affluent, the chefs and physicians, the community as a whole. It’s critical for everyone to be contributing, benefiting and participating to make it all work. A diverse, vibrant market leads to a more sustainable market—and an increase in access to fresh, healthy, locally grown food for all.

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Story by Erin Wilson

Photographs by  Paige French

Community Meat Co

Meg Grevemberg believes that the key to improving a community’s well-being is food.

That’s why she and partner Gus Darnell started Little Flock, a chicken farm dedicated to sustainably raising organic and pastured poultry. They’re the brains behind Community Meat Company, a cooperative for locally-raised beef, chicken and pork. The farm and meat co-op are  the products of their passion for quality food. It’s also an effort to engage with a larger movement to establish healthier communities, both through the well-being of people and the health of the local economy.

The Community Meat Co. is a sustainable meat co-op operating under a Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) model. When a customer joins the CSA, they help fund the operation by contributing to upfront costs. In turn, customers receive a share of the meat each month. Once a month, shareholders meet Meg and Gus on the patio behind Normal Bar, a favorite Athens watering hole. They come with insulated bags and coolers, then tote home a selection of meats, ranging from prime cuts of steak to everyday eats like ground beef and sausage. The element of surprise keeps shareholders busy finding ways to cook unfamiliar cuts of meat. One shareholder, Amy Bramblett, has jumped into learning new cooking techniques after fourteen years as a vegetarian. “It's been really interesting for my husband and me to learn about cooking meat,” she said. “It's like watching The Three Stooges do a science experiment in our kitchen. We are both pretty good veg cooks, so we are having lots of fun learning to grill, roast, braise, etcetera.”

If you don’t know how to roast a whole chicken, here’s your opportunity to learn. Meg and Gus will even dole out tips on how to prepare and cook the meat.

Little Flock started when Meg and Gus returned from nine months in Indiana, where they worked on a farm raising cattle, hogs, turkeys, chickens and rabbits. Here they saw firsthand the benefit of following the seasonality of pastured animals and the struggles that come with raising animals as your livelihood.

So as first time entrepreneurs, Meg and Gus knew their success would depend on equal parts farming chops and business savvy. They’ve learned to work around the unexpected obstacles. Because of the cold weather continuing into March, there was a delay bringing the chicks out into the pasture. This meant that without the extra time to graze, the chickens didn’t reach their full weight in time for the first meat pickup. Meg and Gus had to tell customers that there wouldn’t be any chicken in their first shares.

“That gives us an opportunity to say, ‘well chicks can’t survive the cold’,” he says. Gus sees this as a teachable moment as a progressively minded farmer and entrepreneur. Customers are able to learn about the constraints of farming humanely raised poultry, such as weather, temperature, and grazing needs. Understanding that our favorite foods aren’t available locally year-round garners a certain level of appreciation for the diversity of meat and produce available in each season.

Although considerations of cost and convenience deter many people from buying locally grown food, the CSA model offers a new way for people to participate. You gain assurance for your dollars—the prices are comparable to what you might find for organic meat in the grocery store, but you achieve the peace of mind of knowing precisely where the food came from. Still, not everyone prioritizes locally grown, grass fed and pastured meat over conventional grocery store offerings that come at a cheaper price.

If consumers look at the long-term benefits of spending money on good, local food, they may change their minds. When consumers buy food grown locally, they support healthier economies and communities.

Local food is often healthier environmentally and nutritionally. The Harvard School of Public Health estimates that most of our food travels about 1,500 miles to our grocery stores. The distance and time traveled results in an increased carbon footprint and lasting environmental impact. Our food can also lose nutrients in the process. Because local food is handled by fewer hands, the FDA has even advised consumers to buy produce at local farms because it would reduce the risk of food-borne illness.

“It goes back to education,” Gus said, “trying to switch people’s priorities so they value food.” Meg has seen a change in perspective for many the Community Meat Co. shareholders who have grown more invested in their food.

“This is it,” she said, looking around to the open pasture of Little Flock farm, “One by one, each person that comes into the CSA, sees our card downtown, or has a friend that joins...when it’s happening where you’re at, people that you know start getting involved, it makes you care more.”

Amy is one of the shareholders spreading the word about the CSA to her friends and family, promoting the idea that we should support local food.

“Local farming is so important!” Amy told us. “Not only is the money we spend going directly back into our community, we know where the meat is coming from and are assured of its top quality. It doesn't have to travel far to get to us. The animals are treated well. It's good for us because we get to partake in a wonderful product, and we want our community to thrive.”  

“We need more farmers,” Gus said. “The more farms there are, ideally the more customers you’d get. The more variety you have, the more options you have, the more people feel like they get to choose.”

Meg and Gus know that not everyone can grow their own food or raise their own meat. But we can make choices about what we eat and the kind of farming we promote in our local communities. For those who want the freshest meat with solid animal welfare and quality standards, there’s Community Meat Co.

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Story by Alyssa Stafford

Photographs by Paige French

http://www.worldwatch.org/node/4540
http://chge.med.harvard.edu/topic/local-and-urban-agriculture
http://georgiaorganics.org/news-center/smarter-food-system
http://www.usda.gov/wps/portal/usda/newfarmers?navid=newfarmers

Tybee Island Social Club

Sarah and Kurtis Schumm knew what Tybee Island needed. While this small island off of the coast of Savannah, Ga. had amassed a surplus of fried seafood fish options and restaurants decked out with pirate and dolphin themed décor, it was missing a great taqueria. The locals and tourists alike deserved a place that felt like more like everyone’s favorite beach house than a kitschy beach motel. 

The idea came to them before their romance began. 

When he met Sarah, Kurtis was taking a reprieve from his career in country music and living on the island with his girlfriend. Sarah, a Savannah native, had just moved her interior design business from Tybee Island onto the mainland. She was also seeing someone. As fate had it, both of their relationships dissolved, and they began a friendship. 

“It took me restoring her family’s beach house for her to fall in love with me,” said Kurtis, “and I brought her flowers everyday.”

As their relationship blossomed, they got the idea for another new beginning. 

“We would ride our bikes at the end of the night and we would peek in this place. It was available for months, and it was considered a cursed building because so many different restaurants had been in and out and not made it.” 

But where others saw impossibility, they saw potential. 

The building had last housed a University of Georgia-style sports bar, and everything was coated in red and black. 

“Before, it was mismatched and didn’t have any identity,” said Sarah. “It was like, oh my God, knock all these walls down, paint it white, let it breathe.”

The couple combined their versatile talents to give the building the new life it deserved. With Sarah’s penchant for good design, Kurtis’ construction skills and the help of veteran restaurant employees, they opened Tybee Island Social Club. 

The restaurant is now a striking exhibition of Sarah’s eye for interior design and her strong sense of the island. The walls are whitewashed and the space wide to capture a feeling of beach tranquility. Accented with white linen curtains, lanterns and twinkling lights, the atmosphere is as warm as it is festive. The walls are adorned with Kurtis and his mother’s paintings alongside subtle, tasteful nods to southern culture. 

The menu is the result of both creative forces too. Kurtis was trained by an Italian chef years ago, and he channels this knowledge to create innovative fusion dishes. Sarah plays the important role of taste-tester. 

“He’s always pairing these unique flavors together, like kind of random stuff--like our fish has the chorizo with the pear puree and a crispy strip of bacon,” she said. “It’s so odd, but it’s so addictive.”

As a wine connoisseur, Sarah and Beverage Director Matt Daniel keep the bar stocked with excellent wine. 

“Because we are a small family business, we seek out small family production boutique wines, and it’s worked out really well for us,” Sarah said.

House cocktails like blood orange sangria and the jalapeño margarita are also popular options after a long, salty day on the beach. 

The name ‘Social Club’ reflects activities like gypsy brunch, blues and bingo, an infamous Kentucky Derby party and Chihuahua races on Cinco de Mayo that confirm the restaurant’s dual purpose as a meeting place. Kurtis performs his music frequently and books local and visiting acts most nights of the week. 

“Tybee is a funny little island,” Sarah said. “It’s quirky and whatever goes.”  

After seeing great success with Social, the Schumms opened Tybee Island Fish Camp in the early summer months. The new restaurant is also tastefully thematic and offers beautifully plated, creative seafood dishes that continue to stand out on the island.

Together the Schumms have raised the standard of dining and entertainment on Tybee Island, making it a glorious place to visit and to seriously consider never leaving. 

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Story by Jodi Cash

Photographs by Paige French

Cultural Gravity: 3 Porch Farm

“It’s all a big experiment,” said Steve O’Shea, as he and his wife, Mandy traipsed through their 9-acre farm just outside of Athens, Ga.  While they identified the trappings of their land, two cool blue guineas paraded across the lawn near their house, stopping occasionally to pluck at the ground.

When the guineas are not crowding and making a ruckus outside the O’Sheas’ bedroom, they eat deer ticks, other bothersome insects and small rodents.  Occasionally, they kill a snake.  

The guineas are one of many variables in the 3 Porch Farm experiment.  They are an alternative that allows the O’Sheas to remain true to their virtue of organic farming and to further exemplify the potential for effective green solutions.

These progressive environmental values are what brought Steve and Mandy together years ago.

The couple met at a vegetable demo in Athens.  At the time, Steve was at the tail end of his national tour on a biofuel-converted school bus with environmental activists Woody Harrelson and Julia Butterfly. Mandy was studying horticulture at the University of Georgia and working on local farms.  

“She was the first peer I knew who was farming,” said Steve, “And I was inspired by her and what she was doing.”

Steve returned to California and began work as an apprentice on a farm.  Mandy also moved to continue her farm work through WWOOF, or World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms.  

Soon came a time when they were ready to apply their skills to land that was their own, but the option to purchase and work land in California was meager.

“The competition is huge,” said Mandy, “and the price of property is grand.”

Readily armed with new skills and big ideas, they headed South.

They were prepared to face a major change from agriculture in California, which leads the nation in organic farming.  They hoped to promote a wave of change in Georgia, where organic farms account for less than 1% of the state’s agricultural acreage despite a 2,000% increase in the state’s certified organic farms since 2003*.

They returned to Athens determined to set an example with all that they had learned, but soon came to realize there are many reasons why the organic farming movement is slow to catch on in the South.

“There’s like a ten year lag here,” said Steve. “There’s a lot more cultural gravity here. There’s heritage.  You have to fight harder to break out of old ways here. Out [in California], it’s a lot more transient, so you’re free to question without pressure from your peers or people to tell you that you’re going to Hell or whatever.”

Not to mention the difference in climate.  Insects prefer the subtropical temperatures and humidity that the deep south is known for, making pest control a daunting task.  Plus, the weather itself is more unpredictable in Georgia than under the consistent California sun.  

But even in the face of swarming bugs and farmers rooted in their ways, the couple bought land from a former UGA horticulture professor in Comer, GA and started the renovations and buildings that have been an ongoing project.   

Their progress was prolific.  Already, 18 solar panels at 250 watts each line the roof of a shed and provide energy to the farm.  Last year they produced 4.5 kilowatts and used 60 %, and the excess went back into the grid. They are making a valiant effort to be carbon neutral with the use of Steve’s background in green energy and biofuels.  Their truck runs on grease from the kitchen of World Famous, a popular bar and restaurant in downtown Athens.  

Their effort to be self-sustaining is not limited to energy production and use - they’ve learned a lot about construction, plumbing and mechanics too.

“You have to know a little bit about a lot of things, because we couldn’t afford to hire people to fix or build things.  We just don’t have the finances, and there’s always shit that needs to be built or fixed,” Steve said.

Although their innovations and green ventures have been increasingly successful, it isn’t always easy.  

Steve remembered spending the first spring on the farm, squatted, hunched and shuffling next to Mandy as the two picked what felt like a never ending field of strawberries.  The work was so physically tolling that he recalls curling into the fetal position at night and wondering whether it would always be that hard.

While chopping down a tree, Steve misjudged its path and crushed the pump house he’d arduously built.  He had no choice but to rebuild from splinters.

They recently applied Surround, a broad spectrum crop protectant made of kaolin clay, only to find it washed away in one of the rainiest summers the state has ever seen.  

But in the face of mishaps and setbacks, they’ve learned to be resourceful.  

“There’s a lot of thinking on your feet,” said Mandy, “because you can’t be that structured when you come into farming, because you’re depending on nature, which is incredibly variable, especially here with the weather changing the way it is.”

So they figured out ways to add value to crops that would otherwise be tossed. They are now able to make, package and market almost all of the products coming off their farm, including some of their best-known items: honey pops, seasonings, preserves and syrups.  

“I have this dogged determination to figure stuff out,” said Steve, “and she often times comes up with the creative ideas."

The couple also makes and sells value-added products for the good of the community.  Oversaturated markets mean less profit for all local farmers, and Steve and Mandy didn’t want to step on any toes.  So, rather than competing with nearby farmers to sell traditional, seasonal row crops at restaurants and farmer's markets, they offer these value-added commodities that aren’t being sold elsewhere.  

Using this mutual ingenuity and Mandy’s keen sense for finding beauty in the ordinary, the O’Sheas also hope to specialize in organic flowers.

“Organic flowers are about 10 years behind in terms of public awareness,” said Mandy, as she walked through a small shed, beautifully adorned by flowers hung from the rafters to dry.  Mandy will cut and arrange the dried flowers to sell for events and decor at restaurants including Five & Ten in Athens, GA.  

Store-bought, cut flowers are routinely dipped in methyl bromide, a pesticide deemed toxic by the EPA*.  

Yet, the fields of flowers growing on 3 Porch Farm grow tall and richly colorful, unscathed by toxic chemicals.  

Their success is a testament to their creativity, determination and indomitable teamwork.  And on both the best and worst of days in the field, the plight of this progressive farm is noble.  

“If nothing else,” said Steve, “we just want to set an example.”

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* - http://georgiaorganics.org/2013/08/59191/

* - http://www.epa.gov/ozone/mbr/qa.html

Story by Jodi Cash

Photographs by Paige French

From Ecuador to Athens: The Story of Condor Chocolates

Chef and restaurateur Peter Dale’s latest venture, Condor Chocolates, is a family affair. He and his brother Nick were inspired to open up Athens’ first specialty chocolate shop by lifetimes of taking regular trips to their mother’s native country of Ecuador.

“We would go to Ecuador to visit family and would want to bring back gifts for people,” Peter says. “I’ve always loved their chocolate, and they grow a lot of cacao, so it was a natural to want to bring back chocolates as gifts. Several years ago, I had a really hard time finding a nice Ecuadorian cacao that was of high quality and packaged nicely. That had been on my mind for a long time, and actually in the years since then.”

In the time that he considered the gap in high quality Ecuadorian chocolate production, Peter also noticed the changes in the country’s cacao industry. More cacao is grown in Ecuador than anywhere else in the Americas, and the country recently overtook Brazil as the South American cacao industry’s leader. But most of what’s grown gets mixed from various growers and goes straight to big producers of commodities like Nestle chocolate products. As Ecuadorian cacao production has flourished, it’s begun to diversify.  

“There is starting to be a movement where smaller operations are growing things in a more thoughtful way,” Peter says. “Instead of it going into the commodity market to become a blend with all the other beans from Ecuador, they’re focusing on organic farming practices and single-origin sourcing.”

Once the brothers determined that they were going to begin a chocolate operation, their father helped lay the groundwork for their relationships with growers in Ecuador. The Dale parents spend half of each year there, making it an easy trip for the brothers. It was important that they meet their growers face-to-face and search carefully for the right beans. 

“Chocolate’s a lot like coffee or wine, meaning that there’s definitely a flavor profile that you can find throughout Ecuadorian cacao, but depending on the province and the weather and the soil conditions and all that stuff, there’s variations,” Peter says. “So even though it’s the same bean grown throughout the country, there’s really a lot of nuances.”

The Dales hope to highlight these nuances in chocolate to come. They’ll also be using the chocolate to feature local products. The first chocolate bar they’ve produced is made of milk chocolate with Georgia pecans, and it has flown off the shelves already. As they perfect their process and grow, Condor Chocolates will have more bars, new truffles, other products like gelato in the summer and hazelnut chocolate spread this week.

Among the ingredients they’re excited to feature is merken, a smoked chili pepper from Chile. “Our dad was in the Peace Corps in southern Chile, and he lived with a tribe of Native Americans. They’re the ones who make that chili," Peter says. "And so while it’s not Ecuadorian and it’s not from Georgia, it’s certainly part of our family story.”

Although the brothers had never worked together professionally, they’ve found now that they make a great team. Nick brings to the table experience and a love of making chocolates and a proficiency with the kind of machines involved in making the chocolate. Peter adds his creative culinary sense and years of running restaurants. 

The Dale brothers opened up Condor Chocolates in the last days of the Christmas shopping hustle, just in time to make it into stockings across Athens and elsewhere. As they get established, they’re hopeful for what their chocolate endeavors can do for the Athens food scene at large—that perhaps it could serve an ambassadorial role for what Athens food has to offer. 

“I think the food scene in Athens has grown so much, but typically it requires someone to come to Athens. This is an Athens food product that is easily transported, and we can take what’s going on in Athens’ food scene to other places, to people who aren’t in Athens,” says Peter. “With Creature Comforts beer and Terrapin beer, there are starting to be food manufacturers that could take the idea of what’s going on here and export it, and it’s cool to be a part of that avenue.” 

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Story by Jodi Cash - First published in a Flagpole Magazine series called The Locavore

Photos by Paige French

To the Table: Foodways of the South with Chef Peter Dale

What is southern food to you, and how does your style of cooking fit into that cuisine?

For starters, I think, I did a lot of training in the Mediterranean and I have a lot of family influence from the Mediterranean. But what I love is that so many of the ingredients that you think about when you think about Mediterranean food are really abundant here in Georgia, like tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant. And then when you start to think a little further afield, like to the Middle East and India, I mean okra and onions and potatoes, everything you need to cook that food grows here too. The only thing that wasn’t really growing here were olives, and now that’s starting in South Georgia. So I think you can cook food that’s seasonal and local, but that may have different spices and different combinations from what you would traditionally think of in the South.

Most importantly the South is really a melting pot, it always has been.  I think the coast, the Low Country, particularly Savannah and Charleston, are really great examples of that, where you had colonists from England mixing certainly with slaves from Africa and the Carribean. There was a lot of trade between Europe and the Carribean and Africa and the American South. So there are dishes in the Low Country, such as Country Captain that has curry in it, which predated Indian immigrants to America by a long long time. I like finding those pockets. With southern food there’s a lot of things we focus on like fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits and that sort of thing, but there’s a lot more to it. There’s a lot of nuances because it’s a big melting pot of cultures and cuisines. I think that’s what makes Southern food really unique. Other cuisines in other parts of the country are very focused on what is abundant in that particular region, whereas in the South it’s really a melting pot of other cuisines. In other parts of the country, in traditional American food, there isn’t a lot of spice. That element came into Southern and Creole and Cajun cuisine because of that interaction with the Caribbean and with Africa that other parts of the country didn’t have. I think that’s what makes it different. The South is not a static place. It’s changing and evolving. I mean I love the story of Buford Highway in Atlanta with every kind of Asian cuisine and Mexican and Latin Cuisine, and how those are becoming part of the conversation here. Those people are Southerners: they live here and are becoming part of our community. I think people are slowly starting to embrace those cuisines into what is our culinary landscape.

I think [Southern cuisine] has the most stories to tell.  Of course I’m biased, but I really do. Actually, my dad used to say patriotism is memories of the food you ate as a kid. That’s where a lot of that comes from. You know, people are proud to be from the South for many reasons, but one of those things is that we love bringing things to the table, literally. I don’t know that other parts of the country have this really evolved cuisine.

What do you think most contributed to the inventiveness of Southern cuisine?

Except for the few people that were very, very wealthy, traditionally the South was not a rich place. There were a lot of poor people who had to make do with what they had, so I think they were pretty creative with food preservation and using everything they had. Pig is a great example. Probably the wealthy people were eating the pork chops, but the poor people were cooking in the pork fat and eating chitlins, using all the parts that we may not even think about these days. And slowly now, creative chefs are revisiting these parts that aren’t thought of as highly. I think there’s a resourcefulness for sure.

How has the relationship between farmers and restaurants developed over your time in the industry?

When I first started cooking at Five & Ten, there were only two farmers that we got products from, Woodland Gardens and one other farmer, and a kid who would bring us chanterelle mushrooms. And that was it. There wasn’t a farmers market. Now I use 15 or 20 different local farms and producers. And when it rains in the summer, there’s three people every day coming with mushrooms.  Just in ten years there’s been a huge proliferation of farms around here…We have so many more farms than other communities our size. It’s chicken farmers and lots of pigs and people making cheese, and of course all the produce. It’s pretty cool. We have a lot to work with. What’s awesome is that, for example Michael McMullen in Hart County grows potatoes specifically for us. He knows that we’re going to buy all his yellow German potatoes, so he has dedicated rows for us. What’s great about the rapport is that they ask, "What do you want us to grow?" That’s how the Pimientos de Padron started.  I said I really want these peppers from Spain and Celia found the seeds and started growing them. Now they’re a huge hit.

What new directions are you looking forward to as we transition into fall?

One thing we are working on is having more dishes that are focused on the vegetable. There may be meat and it’s going to be a flavor enhancer but not necessarily the center of the plate. Vegetables have a low carbon footprint. It takes a lot less resources to grow a butternut squash than a pig. And not that pigs aren’t delicious, and they can be raised in a really beautiful way that’s sustainable. But I love highlighting the vegetables, rather than being sort of the second fiddle in a dish, letting them be the star. [In our roasted butternut squash salad we use] lamb breast, a cut that’s usually ground into ground lamb. It’s a cut that isn’t really utilized a lot, but it has a lot of flavor. You may not want to eat a whole entrée of lamb breast, so this is a great way to use it to add a little fat, a little meaty flavor to the butternut squash. But really, the squash is what sings in this dish. Starting this fall we are going to have a number of dishes like this. I hope people get into it. The way I like to eat is order a lot of small plates and maybe share an entrée. These vegetable-centric dishes make great share plates.

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Story by Erin Wilson

Photographs by Paige French

Sundance Farm

On a cool October morning at Sundance Farms in Danielsville, Ga., Ed Janosik and his long-time employee Uriel look forward to harvesting their peanut crop. It’s a welcome bounty that arrives just after the rush of summer crops has slowed. They stack the tubers one by one onto overturned yellow buckets arranged around a stake in the ground; this is the peanut pile. Every dig draws eager snorts from the pigpen—they are anticipating a snack just as much as Ed and Uriel. 

The peanut plant first grows upward, showcasing its sunny yellow flowers to pollination suitors. Following success, the plant drops to the land to set down pegs into the soil. Each peg will, hopefully, become a peanut. A quick shake of the uprooted plant reveals the peanut shells, like wrapped presents. Tiny nodules on the roots indicate the underground process of nitrogen fixation performed by this hardworking legume over the last 120 days.

At Sundance Farms, they grow Tennessee Redskins, a varietal commonly dried and roasted for peanut butter. These peanuts are “real sweet,” says Ed, reminiscent of the peanut butter in Reese’s Cups.  They also grow a varietal they call “Sundance Striped.” This second peanut came to Ed in a seed swap years ago; he cannot remember from whom or what they called it then. The peanut is intricately striped, electric purple against bright white. 

Eagerly, Ed fiddles with the tough shell of his first raw peanut. He brushes away remnants of red clay as he squeezes and prods, knowing the effort will be worthwhile. The just-harvested nut boasts a complexity of flavor that is lost in a dry, roasted peanut; it offers a deep rich nuttiness brightened by a freshness more reminiscent of its legume heritage. At harvest, some of the crop has started sprouting already, and to these, Ed smiles. These early bloomers, with their sprouts peaking out from the shell, offer the most lush green quality of a raw bean and an appetizing crunch. Others are not quite mature, but in this case, that’s a bonus. These special underripe peanuts, whose shells have not fully hardened, can be boiled and eaten whole in one satisfying bite. 

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Story by Erin Wilson

Photographs by Paige French

For the Price of a Cup of Coffee

Durham, N.C.: Counter Culture Coffee

For Counter Culture Coffee, a roaster based in Durham, N.C., a coffee farm’s involvement in the fair trade system is only so meaningful.

 “I think that [fair trade] is an important baseline to have in place. I think smallholders who are part of those organizations are strong and important,” said Kim Elena Ionescu, the company’s coffee buyer and sustainability manager. “I respect fair trade for building that capacity and empowering small farmers.”

Still, Ionescu likens praising fair trade coffee economics to celebrating paying minimum wage to your employees. 

“The fair trade certification of a [coffee-growing] co-op would be one of many things that would make us feel good about using that co-op, not the only thing,” said Ionescu.

Of course, Fair trade was a concept built with good intentions.

In 1988, a Dutch developmental agency called Solaridad began purchasing coffee from Mexico to be sold in the supermarkets of Holland. Named Max Havelaar after a hero of Dutch fiction who disputed his country’s exploitation of their colonies, the coffee was sold at rates high enough to justly compensate its Mexican growers. This marked the birth of the first fair trade label.

In the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, coffee was selling for increasingly low prices.  Due to unstable governments in the countries producing coffee, overreaching corporate power, an excess in coffee supply, and a lack of quality control, coffee prices sank too low to compensate for the cost of production.

It was the fair trade coffee system that ended up salvaging a crumbling coffee market.  

The fair trade certification process offered a way for farmers to distinguish their products in the global market. It gave farmers the tools to create high quality harvests through sustainable means. It allowed them to join co-ops with nearby farms for more support and offered education about more economical means of coffee farming. Most importantly, fair trade certified products were purchased and sold at higher prices.

Marketing for fair trade certified products relies on the positive effect the program has on participating farmers. This leads consumers to buy fair trade coffee with the intent and expectation that they are helping marginalized farmers in developing countries.

But that’s not always the case.

Oftentimes, the strict quality enforcements for fair trade certification increase the overall input cost and decrease the yield of coffee beans for farmers. And this cost increases again drastically when the product must also be certified organic—a process, both in certification and growing time, that is substantially more expensive and generally lower yielding than conventional coffee farming. A 2011 study1 found that certified organic fair trade farmers are more frequently living below the absolute poverty line than conventional coffee farmers.

And as markets for sustainable coffee mature, even lower prices are paid to producers.

The debate between critics and supporters of fair trade aside, it cannot be denied that the concept launched the conversation about what really amounts to rightful compensation for coffee farmers.

Counter Culture Coffee uses the idea of fair trade as a launching pad for their own certification initiative, Direct Trade Certification.   

Counter Culture sources coffee from more than 15 different countries across South America, Africa and Asia. In their Direct Trade Certification program, the company maintains compliance with four measures: personal and direct communication with coffee farmers, fair and sustainable prices paid to farmers, exceptional cup quality and supply chain transparency. 

“Our relationships and the way that we work with people is what differentiates us,” she said. 

By working directly with farmers, Counter Culture builds trust in their partnerships and ensures mutual benefits.  The direct contact allows Counter Culture to help producers strengthen their own brand of beans by giving publicity to the farmers and by improving the quality of the farmers’ coffee with new information about growing techniques. Plus, the roaster always encourages the growers they buy from to use ecologically conscientious methods of farming.

Counter Culture openly holds themselves accountable to the consuming public. They produce and publish a yearly transparency report, which documents the coffees they’ve purchased, the prices they paid and the quality scores from each coffee. On top of making information about what they’re doing widely available, they teach people how to do it.  At their various locations, Counter Culture offers classes to people interested in learning more about the industry. 

Counter Culture is shifting the paradigm of coffee sourcing with a commitment to straightforward values.

“We will communicate well, we will pay high prices and ensure quality,” said Ionescu. 

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1Beuchelt, Tina D., and Manfred Zeller. 2011. "Profits and poverty: Certification's troubled link for Nicaragua's organic and fairtrade coffee producers." Ecological Economics 70, no. 7: 1316-1324. Academic Search Complete, EBSCOhost (accessed February 12, 2014).

Story by Jodi Cash

Photographs by Paige French