A Taste of Chamomile

A harvesting story

I usually cover real, sometimes difficult, news from the front lines of our food system. Today, this is a personal essay. Thanks for reading. Sign up here for weekly posts, or keep reading…

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Several years ago, I took my kids on a “vacation” to a farm I’d been working with.

There was PLENTY of work to do, as there always is around a farm. (Apparently, my idea of vacation is doing other people’s hard work instead of my own...?)

It was mid June, yet we were far enough north that it was uncomfortably chilly in the evenings and mornings.

A few days in, we’d gotten into the rhythm of things.

“What’s on the agenda today?” I cheerfully asked one chilly morning, too early for most people.

“Harvesting chamomile,” came the farmer’s response in a tone I couldn’t quite place.

“This has to be done in the morning, ideally.”

So I followed her out to the field, ready for the adventure!

She had large steel kitchen bowls in hand, and small clippers. Those would be my main tools for the day.

I got a quick lesson on harvesting just the buds of the chamomile. These would be dehydrated and stored the rest of the year for teas and other herbal uses.

As the farmer turned around to walk away, I paused for a moment to take in the beauty around me…

Big skies glowed with the early morning sun while the light danced off the grasses, flowers, herbs and tree leaves wet with the morning dew.

Budding flowers popped color in the planted herb garden, while the variety of leaves and plants etched lines of diversity through the beds.

I breathed in paradise, filled with whimsical plans.

“Oh, this will be FUN,” I thought, smiling.

My little one was with me, maybe 5 or 6 at the time. Old enough to not be carried everywhere, but I didn’t expect much help from her.

I began carefully snipping chamomile, finding the flowers and cutting them at the base…

After about 10 minutes, I felt it in my back first.

The constant bending and cutting, bending and cutting was starting to put a certain stress on my lower back.

I studied my bowl. Barely the bottom was covered.

“How could that be?!?!” I thought.

My mind wandered to ghosts of farms past…

I saw vast fields of American slaves and their endless days of cotton or tobacco.

Bend and pick, bend and pick.

Then scenes of migrant farm workers out in fields of strawberries, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, melons–all so low to the ground, there is only one way to harvest–bend and pick, bend and pick, heat bearing down on their bent bodies, clay dust from the fields boiling up into their faces.

I saw myself as a child visiting my friend. Her family had a small, diverse farm, filled with ripe cantaloupes, tomatoes bursting with juice, honey bees, and many vegetables that slip a child’s awareness.

But next door to them was a larger farm, less diverse.

Migrant workers came every year and harvested the prickly cucumbers right next to the field we played in.

My child self, playing hide-and-seek in the corn fields, had no idea what I was seeing, what they went through.

I watched them, out in the fields, bandanas covering their necks to protect from the vicious summer sun, and thick gloves on their hands in 90+ degree heat to keep those horrid cucumber spines from impaling their calloused hands..

They had a mesmerizing rhythm to it.

Bend and pick, bend and pick….they picked as fast as they could–perhaps they were paid by the bushel–loading handfuls of cucumbers into baskets.

A pickup truck followed them. Once the basket was full, they would swing it up onto the truck bed and the truck would then roll ever-so-slowly to the next spot.

Their clothes were soaked with sweat, even early in the day.

I jerked back to the moment from a cramp in my leg—

“No one should have to do this grinding work day in and day out,” I thought for the millionth time, as I put another small handful of chamomile blossoms in my bowl.

A mere 30 minutes in, I was ready to quit.

My back was screaming at me. The glorious morning sun was annoying now, and my task took all my concentration to the exclusion of the beauty around me.

My legs hurt and, frankly, I was bored.

My little one was off in her own imaginary world, close enough to be safe, far enough to not even contribute a single flower to the bowl.

The whimsy from earlier had evaporated with the dew on the leaves.

This was simply hard, boring work. But, unlike that of the slaves or migrant farm workers, it was work I could choose or not.

I looked into my bowl of chamomile flowers and saw how few there still were and how many little bobbing heads of white blossoms surrounded me…now grinning at me evilly.

I was embarrassed by my own slowness and lack of expertise.

I groaned inside.

I rallied my spirit resolved to not give up so easily—there must be a second wind, or another thing to enjoy about it, I thought.

So I trekked on, cutting just the good flowers.

To be sure, there WAS beauty all around me.

Bees were humming along, sipping from the blossoms surrounding us. This was a full and robust herb garden—not just chamomile.

I saw the walking onions dipping down to the ground, and the mints and lovage swaying in the gentle  breeze.

All kinds of flowers abounded.

The beds were ALIVE with diversity.

Yes, it WAS beautiful.

But my body was aching.

A very long hour in, I took my haul into the farm kitchen for the next step of processing. The flowers would be laid out on a drying rack, dried, and added to the tea jar.

I handed over my loot, with which I was impressed, but the farmers had a knowing look on their faces, a smile, a thank you nod, but no comment.

I understood the tone from earlier…

They’d done this a few times themselves.

I had to wonder if I’d even met their low expectations. But knew better than to ask a question I might not want the answer to.

In those moments, I questioned myself: Did I truly value the food that appeared before me? Did I appreciate or even acknowledge the invisible-to-me hands and bodies planting, cultivating, and harvesting that food?

Suddenly I understood value in a way I hadn’t before, as ghosts of bandana-clad migrant workers pulling cucumbers in 95 degree summer sun cascaded through my mind.

It was time for a well-earned breakfast.

As we prepared, blessed, and ate the meal–together–I started pondering how we could cultivate small-scale, community gardens, home herb gardens, and little farmettes that could meet our needs so we could all share in the labor and fruits of the harvest.

And just maybe, then we could all understand and truly appreciate what it takes to bring that food to our tables.

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About Raw Milk Mama: I believe that we can reclaim our food systems through direct action. But it takes your participation whether you’re growing food, processing, or willing to support those who are. And sometimes, it takes taking direct action or calling on your state or federal elected officials.

I’m dedicated to helping people understand our food system and how we each fit into it..

Here’s how you can be part of it:

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