Farmer's Market Madness

When I first came to California all those years back (Winter of 2004, to be exact), I have only a few jet-lagged memories of my first few days here. There was meeting Christine (a real stand-out in the memory stakes), the bigness of American roads and advertising thereo, and the Davis Farmer's Market. Christine (in the photo, left) helped one of the vendors, Jim Eldon of Fiddler's Green Farm. Of course I went with her on my first big outing in Davis, hence my first Saturday in the US I spent working with them both.

I quickly came to realise that this place was magical. Here was a social space, not just a place to buy veggies. People would stop and chat, admire babies, compare notes on the past week and generally support and encourage one another. The magic is in the people, you see.

Since then, I have often gone down to spend a little time with Jim and his customers, some of whom have become my friends, and support during the long months of Christine's cancer treatment. When I started working at the Davis Food Co-op, I'd still go down on my days off, to schmooze with people, learn about my new country and its ways, and occasionally baffle people with my British English.

My English accent came in handy sometimes (though Christine points out that I'm frequently chatted up!) in starting conversations, though occasionally there were moments of confusion. For example, I had to learn that what I'd known in England as a courgette was in fact a zucchini, the French loan word swapped for an Italian. Coriander herb was suddenly cilantro, and even basil was different - not the word this time, rather the pronunciation (we say ba-sil, Americans say bay-sil). Of course, this soon became part of my lexicon, though while I am quite happy to use a different word, I stick to my British English pronunciations. You may say tomay-to, I still say tomah-to.

Then,over time, as the seasons changed, I watched the progression of vegetables. Winter squash gave way to melons, the huge variety of summer squashes. There was far more than just the plain courgette, of course - here were crookneck, Romanesco, Zephyr and their kin. There were peppers of all shapes, sizes and heats; likewise heirloom tomatoes with real old-fashioned flavour and a bewildering pallette of colours.

Oh, and the people. They fascinated me. I'd talk and learn, about America in general, California in particular. I learned about the history of the West, about farming in different parts of the country, about a dozen family histories, about their holidays and customs. In turn, they'd learn from me. I told people about the three-cent piece, about why the US pint was a different size from the Imperial pint, about British ways and language. It was a wonderful time, and you know,it still is.

Here's a piece of real America, the social marketplace, the gossip fence, the cultural exchange built on what colonised America in the first place - a place to farm and live in peace. Long may it last.


I wrote this after reading a customer's blog. She stopped by on Saturday as I was having a bit of a laugh with Jim. There are good words, and a good picture too, here.

Better you than me?

When Christine was newly diagnosed with cancer four years ago, we talked, as many couples must in such circumstances, about the injustice of it all. One of the things she found so hard to deal with was that, after years of looking after her body so well, it nonetheless rebelled against her. The body she'd honed through being active (she was a firefighter and forest ranger) and fed (lots of good fresh food) let her down. I remember saying that it would be more just had I had the cancer, having abused my body with drinking to much, smoking and not exercising. But we play the hand we're given, and play it as best we can. "If wishes were horses", the saying goes, "then beggars would ride".

So it goes. Christine suffered the indignities and discomfort of chemo and radiation therapy, and I stood by and watched, supporting her and Tess by doing shopping, cooking, laundry and all those little things. But it's hard to be a carer. It exacts an emotional and mental toll that is seemingly unending. Worthwhile? Of course. But a toll nonetheless.


The worst part of it was watching her pain get worse over the long months. Spring meant recovery from surgery, watching violated tissue knit, heal and scar. She mourned the loss of her breast and I could only watch, in my widow's weeds, crying my own silent and hidden tears over her poor lopsided body. We married in May, the weekend her hair really fell out, so our wedding pictures are of my scraggily-bald bride and I together.

Summer was for chemotherapy, and trying to keep her mind and spirit active and healthy while the poisons stripped not just the rebellious cancer, but her hair, skin and energy. When she couldn't face a full meal, I'd cook up rice, potatoes; bland foods for easy digestion. When she could barely stir from the couch, I'd hold her and comfort her with touch and words. She'd cry as she watched Tess and I playing and forging our relationship in the heat of the California summer; crying because she no longer felt alive, shackled in the house, separated from the real world by a veil of pain and fatigue.

Autumn meant radiation, the third dreadful blow. This was the cruelest time for me, watching her go every day for treatment. Each day a new horror on her tired flesh, each day the burns flushing brighter until they wept. And we wept too. She with the pain of happening, I with the pain of watching. She'd cry in her sleep each time she turned, a childlike whimper that belied her daytime stoicism; she'd cry, and my heart cried with her.


Our honeymoon had been the baptism of fire. Of course, we still talked; talked of how things should have been, how we wished it had been otherwise. I of course talked of the injustice I felt, and oft said that, in the words of the song, "it should have been me". But the cards were dealt, and Christine would often say that we had the right cards, that I would have been a far worse patient. I don't suffer well.

Now, years along, that is still true. At this moment I'm in bed with a cold, and I hate it. I hate being weak and in pain, and I'm assured that I'm a poor patient. I moan and make demands, and Christine, despite her own problems, fusses over me in a reversal of roles that she adapts to far better than do I. She of course, reminds me of this whenever I moan about my poor, pathetic lot. I may have been a hero to come and support her years ago, but now, struck by my own viral Kryptonite, I have to admit that she's right.

Sometimes it's like housework...

"It's not all beer and skittles", they say, and it's true. Sometimes, life is harder than we'd like it to be, the cards we are dealt are not the cards we'd like. I was talking to a poker-playing friend once, and I wondered aloud how the heck anyone could want to play a game where the odds are apparently stacked against you. His response was fairly simple. He said that in poker you get to fold, take a little loss, and come back in the next hand. That and you can work out the odds, or you can bluff and still win with a poorer hand.

The hand I currently hold doesn't seem to be entirely a strong one. I have an Ace of hearts in Christine, a Queen of hearts in Tess (who is 10½), but for the most part, I feel that I have dross in the rest of my hand. Not that I'm going to fold, not that I'm going to lose entirely, but playing the hand right is important for me and the rest of the family.

Christine is treatment-weary, the chemo is hard on her both physically and mentally. I'm treatment-weary too, just in a different way. One of the things that I am finding as a carer is that I feel I should always be doing stuff. If it's not making drinks, or meals, or juice, it's laundry or housekeeping or shopping. If I'm not doing one of these things, I tend to feel guilty. I fret if I'm sitting and relaxing. I agonise if I sit down to write.

I was talking with my sister-in-law a few days ago, and she came up with an expression that I'm going to share here. To put it into its proper context, we were talking about why some doctors really seem to enjoy their jobs, and some don't. Part of her reply was this - I think lots don't enjoy it because it isn't what they thought. They thought they would make people better. But it turns out to be messy and complex and the person gets sick again, damn it. It's like housework.

Well, what do you know. That's just like looking after someone with cancer. You do a thing, and do it well, only to have to do it all over again soon afterward. Chemo is like dusting. While it's going on, it seems never to end. There's always more tiredness, always more painful and inconvenient symptoms, always the fatigue. What respite there may be after a few days is too short-lived. The dust will be back on the bookcase all too soon, and out comes the feather duster once more.

This is how it is - if Christine stays in, I stay in unless there's an errand to run. Once she goes out, then I feel free to go out myself.

That's the tiring bit, that doing it all over. So why do we do it? I don't know about doctors, but I do know this. Looking after Christine (and Tess too) is a lot more rewarding than you might think. We know right now that Christine has no evidence of disease (NED, nice acronym from her oncologist), and the last round of three sessions is an insurance policy. Whilst it's expensive (in terms of the short-term suffering), it's worthwhile in the long term. Even if all this means just a few years (and we're hoping to beat all the odds), it will be worth it.

I am starting to realise that the way to tackle this is not to try and do it all at once. Vacuum the living room carpet, have a cup of tea. Tidy those books away, sit and read a few chapters. Make the bed with clean sheets, treat yourself to a wee snooze, not forgetting to set an alarm. For the love and the pride and the honour and the joy, I carry on. I just need to remember to take some time to look after me, too.

Spit or Swallow? Truly a beer to cheer.

So here's a funny thing. I recently wrote an article on the topic of American beer, having sampled many exotic beers in the past few years. Imagine my was utter delight when I stumbled upon (I avoided saying "came across") this delightful label in the Davis Food Co-op.

Now I'm not normally given to judging a book by its binding, any more than I buy a beer based on the label. This time, however, the New York Shmaltz Brewing Company did it for me, with one of their "Freak Beer" brews.

Now did I say "exotic" or "erotic" earlier? Because here's a practically pornographic freak snake blow-job fetishist beer label from Hell, that manages to hide a beer that is almost certainly from Heaven.

Thankfully, the label is not the only thing that stands out. The beer itself is reminiscent of Hoegaarden, a weissbier-styled lager with a sweet and slightly spicy finish. It's malty enough for me, and hoppy enough to stay balanced from the first sniff to the last swallow, and with a 22-ounce bottle, there is, thankfully, plenty of swallow to go around.

I managed to procure the last two in the store, one of which I gave as a birthday gift to a friend (Hi, Tom!), one of which four of us demolished at home. Sadly, that wasn't enough, and I eagerly await the arrival of the next batch at the Co-op, so that I may chase the snake to my heart's content.

Fingernails and whatnot; it's all about the chemo

So we're down to the last round of three chemo treatments, which will start in a little over a week. Meantime, Christine gets a week off (no chemo this Friday!) and I will be taking three weeks of leave to nurse her through those last few dreadful days.

Chemotherapy is hard, let no-one deceive you by saying otherwise. In addition to the reduction in skin growth (tender skin and a painful and less-effective digestive system), there's neuropathy (a reduction in peripheral nerve sensation), hair loss and now, to cap it all, painful fingernails. Yes, her fingernails are not growing properly. Her nail beds are painful, so picking things up, cooking, typing - all these things are now painful. Oh, and did I mention mouth sores? Shame on me.

It's hard to be a carer. Watching the one you love suffering because everything hurts, there's a lot of emotional pain that goes along with that. Coupled with the fact that the medical bills are flowing in at a time when the State of California has enforced two furlough days a month to save money, and everything's under stress.

What could be worse? Well, how about my being suspended from work for three days? Yes, that's what's happened. This was after I had been called into work on my day off for the disciplinary meeting. Truly it was Saint Bastard's Day. So now I have a few days to kick about at home, wondering what happens when the disciplinary action is re-opened, and what happens when (if?) I am able to return to work. Time to worry about paying bills, putting food on the table, time to worry about Christine's future (both health- and job-wise). Time to make a new start? Possibly. Watch this space.

On the upside, the trees are starting to show green, shoots and flowers are appearing all over the oche, and life is rearing its delightful head. Hope? Always.