Frozen Broccoli. Musing on the heartbreak of farming.

Frozen Broccoli. Musing on the heartbreak of farming.

26 degrees.

That’s what the car thermometer read when I darted out this morning to be at the gym at six.

An hour later after working out, sunlight bled through black tree outlines on the way home.

Still 26 degrees.

I needed to check my broccoli. Armed with a knife, I headed out.

It looked okay.

Then I cut the stalk.

Frozen. All the way through.

How does that happen in just six hours? For pity’s sake. What to do?

Last year, we had killer ice and any broccoli I tried to eat after that was mealy. You don’t want mealy broccoli. You want tall, green, firm crunchy stalks with tight, flowery heads. (I’m into broccoli.)

I quickly gathered my wits along with a few grocery bags and began hacking away at the largest heads.

Rather like surgery without the blood.

And tried to bag as much as I could and stick in the freezer.

Rather like Dexter. Without the blood.

Kept thinking about those poor orange growers I remember from growing up in Central Florida. When the temperatures dipped below freezing just for a few hours, entire crops could be ruined. They’d be out lighting pots in the dead of pitch and cold saving their trees.

I should have been out in the howling wind last night throwing a blanket or two on my babies.

Ugh.

Better stop blogging and head back out to save a few more for the freezer.

Why, oh why is this the lot of farm life?