4. DIANE
CHAPTER 4
DIANE
Without even trying, I end up with a lunch invitation and continue to film Ethel as she effortlessly whips up a meal for a hungry crowd like it’s her mission in life. Without batting an eye, she welcomes each new arrival into the fold and makes them feel at home by giving them a job to do.
“My husband and I were only able to have one child, so when our grandchildren came to live with us, I had to learn how to stretch a meal real quick. After all, I had five growing kids to feed, plus half of their friends too,” Ethel grins as she pulls jars from the fridge. “I don’t get to do it as often these days, but when Lia and Molly said they wanted to go over some things for tomorrow's strawberry picking, I said I’d make lunch for everyone.”
First, a petite redhead stops in with fresh eggs and milk. Ethel sets her up beating eggs next to Colleen, who slices some of the tomatoes harvested earlier. And just before the skies open up with the predicted thunderstorm, a tall man who looks slightly familiar ushers in a beautiful brunette. As they enter, the woman lifts a cloth from the basket she’s carrying. “Brought my latest batch of gluten-free sourdough rolls.”
As Colleen introduces me, she explains that her older brother Ethan runs the family soybean operation, the brunette is his girlfriend Lia, and the redhead, Molly, works at a dairy farm down the road as well as at the Bedd’s weekend strawberry picking operation. I’ve suddenly got ideas for new videos, from the challenges facing field crop producers like Ethan to the added value of pick-your-own offerings. The subjects are outside the scope of my original purpose for the channel, but as I meet more and more people and learn about the trials growers go through, it feels right to keep listening.
There’s something about this family too. The way they treat each other—whether they’re a blood relation or not—is a complete one-eighty from the way I was brought up, and I just want to spend more time with them and soak it all in.
I put my camera away when we gather around the table. Everyone dives into the simple but amazing meal: ham, goat cheese and herb frittata with pickled vegetables and Lia’s rolls on the side. I can only imagine the way my mother would turn up her nose at the menu, but it’s not like she actually eats. She’ll do everything in her power to get a reservation at a Manhattan restaurant just because everyone’s talking about the chef, and then only eat two bites of her meal.
Once everyone’s been served, Colleen turns the tables on me. “What prompted you to start a YouTube channel? Didn’t you study something to do with sustainable development?”
“I did, but I minored in communications. After I graduated, I went to work at a non-profit focused on seed libraries.” Went to work is what I always say because people treat you differently if you tell them you funded a nonprofit with your trust fund. “We ran into some roadblocks at the end of last year when the state passed new regulations on sharing seeds.”
“I remember that,” Ethel says. “Some of my friends got skittish about sharing seeds in public because they didn’t want to get fined. Did the nonprofit fold?”
“Oh, it’s still going. And our advocacy helped to get the laws altered. But I pivoted to doing evangelical work.”
A few utensils clatter, all other conversation stops, and everyone stares at me.
Finally, Colleen clears her throat. “Do you mean, like, selling Bibles? We’re not, uh, religious.”
“Oh, not that kind of gospel. I’m spreading the word of local varieties, like your grandmother’s strawberries. At first, I just wanted to give farmers a platform, but it’s really taken off. I’m raising money, learning, and teaching all at the same time.”
“Do you ask for money?” Lia asks.
“I do link to the nonprofit, but I also make money from ads.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Throw in enough shots of shirtless farmers, and people will listen to anything, turns out. Hashtag FarmPorn for the win.”
Ethel makes a noise, and I worry that I’ve offended her, but when I catch her eye, it’s twinkling with humor as she points a fork at Ethan. “I’ve got three other handsome grandsons besides the one at the table.”
Colleen snorts. “Maybe you can”—she breaks off to make air quotes—“‘interview’ all four of them. ”
Ethan rolls his eyes, but his girlfriend claps her hands. “I vote for that!”
“Are they all farmers?” I ask.
“Two of us are,” Ethan says. “Besides me, Alex manages Udderly Creamy down the road.”
I point to the now-empty frittata pan. “Let me guess: the milk and eggs are from there?”
“Yes.” Molly grips my arm, drawing all of my attention. “Diane, they have baby goats. Baby. Goats.”
“Aw,” I say. “I bet they're cute.”
She leans into me, face serious but a twinkle in her eye. “They are beyond cute. They will melt your viewers’ brains. Brace yourself.” With a flash of a grin, she lets my arm go.
“That is tempting,” I say, going over my upcoming schedule in my head and wondering if I can make some adjustments so I can stay longer.
“You really should get a look at what Ethel’s got going on in the basement,” Lia says. “With the innovations she’s come up with–”
“Ethan perfected them,” Ethel cuts in.
“It was a collaboration,” Ethan concedes.
“Anyway,” Lia says, with a quick kiss on the cheek to Ethan, making the burly farmer blush. “The amount and variety of food she’s able to grow in a single season is truly astounding. And that’s all due to what she’s got going on down there.”
Raising my brows, I look over at Ethel.
“This basement sounds like a must-see.”
She waves a hand in the air. “I’d planned to take you down there after lunch, don’t worry.”
“Plus we’ve got a slew of local vendors coming tomorrow to sell their wares to the folks that come to pick strawberries,” Molly says. “There’s a woman who sells honey, a potter, a guy who makes organic pet treats… it’s a fun variety.”
“Any of those baby goats coming?” I ask. “That’d get me there, for sure.”
“Nooo…” Molly taps the tip of her nose with a finger. “But I like how you think.”
“Where are you staying?” Colleen asks. “You don’t live nearby, do you?”
“I’m a bit of a rolling stone at the moment, going wherever the next interview takes me. Sometimes I camp out of my car, sometimes I find a hotel.”
“You won’t find a hotel in Fork Lick,” Lia says. “You’d have to get to Climax for that.”
My expression must reveal my confusion because Colleen laughs. “Climax is the nearest real town. Not, you know, that kind of climax.”
“R-right. Of course,” I stammer, almost knocking over my water glass as I reach for a drink, hoping to cool my heated cheeks. “I think I saw it on the map.”
Before I can ask if they have any recommendations, Molly peppers me with questions about my camping experiences and tells me all about her tricked-out van.
“Vanlife is definitely outside of my channel’s purview, but I’d love a tour.”
“You’re welcome to stay here,” Ethel says. “We’ve got plenty of room.”
I meet Ethel’s gaze. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t want to impose.”
“The attic bedroom is empty,” she says. “We’d love to have you. ”
Secretly happy to get to spend more time with this fun-loving family, I gratefully accept the invitation. “What about your other two grandsons? I’m guessing they don’t live at home since you’ve got so many available bedrooms.”
“The youngest, Jackson, is some kind of music genius,” Ethel says, her eyes shining with pride. “He’s in a rock band. He’s on the Spotify and everything.”
“Wait.” I grab Colleen’s wrist. “Jackson Bedd is your brother? How did I not know this?”
Colleen scoffs. “First of all, he wasn’t ‘Jackson Bedd Superstar’ when we were in college. He was just my annoying little brother.”
Deciding it’s best to not dwell on the celebrity, even though an interview with him would be amazing, I ask, “And the other one?”
“That’s my twin, Sam,” Colleen says.
Sam. I can’t stop the memories that flash through my mind. Through my entire body. The best night of my life followed by the worst morning. When I fell for the enemy. When I realize everyone is staring at me, I muster the manners drilled into me. “What does Sam do?”
“He’s an extension agent. He’s been working in the western part of the state, so he hasn’t been around much.”
So it can’t be the same guy. My Sam was a suit working for the enemy. He couldn’t be a member of this family, anyway. One, it would be too crazy of a coincidence. Two, they’re much too nice. Three, his last name is Lansdowne.
Funny thing is, I’m not sure whether I should be relieved, or disappointed.
After lunch, once the kitchen’s spick and span, I follow Ethel down to the basement. The stairwell is horror-film creepy, but once we turn the corner and she flicks on the lights, I feel like I’m in a whole other movie: The Martian .
Hopefully, minus the human poop fertilizer.
“Wow,” is all I can say, half expecting to see Matt Damon peek out from behind one of the racks. Wishing I had my camera, I whip out my phone instead. Without setting up a lighting or anything, I start filming. “Tell me about what all you’ve got going on down here, Ethel.”
“Let’s start at the end, shall we?”
She flicks on another light, and I follow her past shelves tricked out with grow lights to the other side of the basement where, like Vanna White in a stained apron and sturdy shoes, she gestures at row upon row of jars stuffed with fruits and vegetables in every color of the rainbow.
“This is going to make people go nuts. Jars in kitchen pantries are all the rage these days.”
“What goes around comes around, I guess. I’ve had some of these jars for twenty or thirty years. Get ’em in bulk at the Feed n’ Seed or the Price Chopper if I need to restock—which, come to think of it, I’ll have to do soon since we’re selling more than trading this summer.”
She pulls a tiny little spiral notebook and stub of a pencil from her apron pocket and makes a note. Next, she shows me her pickling and canning set up: a cooktop and sink, a freestanding stainless-steel counter piled with cutting boards, utensils and pots hanging overhead. “We use every bit of what we grow. If I’m not canning it, I freeze it. If we can’t eat it, we compost it.” She points to a freezer and a garbage can in turn.
Walking back toward the stairs, she points at one of the racks filled with seedling trays. “This is where my starts acclimate before we take them outside. These are the autumn varietal strawberries you were asking about. We’re planting them this week.”
Pointing at a roll of plastic, she adds, “In the winter, we wrap the racks and turn them into little greenhouses.”
Looking around the efficiently laid out basement workspace, where Ethel seems to literally take food from seed to table, I ask, “What made you think to do all this?”
“I saw something like it on YouTube.” She leans on the central table, tapping its surface. “At first I was only growing down here, but then I figured out that it’s also the perfect place to dry seeds. We just run the dehumidifier.” After tipping her chin toward the machine humming in the corner, she lifts a paper towel covering a metal baking tray. “These are from early summer crops.”
“It all comes full circle down here,” I say as I shoot a closeup of the tray of seeds. “It’s beautiful.”
Not only is it beautiful, but Ethel is the most progressive farmer I’ve met of her generation, and it makes me wonder how much input she has in the soybean operation, which seems more conventional. We’re too busy to delve into these questions, however. I spend the next hour toggling between shooting footage and jotting down Ethel’s many ideas for videos, which include people to interview as well as topics that hadn’t occurred to me. From a neighbor who’s growing black cohosh—“I wouldn’t have made it through menopause without her tinctures”—to another who grows twenty different varieties of winter squash, some I’ve heard of, like Hubbard and Spaghetti and others that I can’t wait to see, like Cinderella and Honey Bear.
By the time we wrap, I’m convinced. “If you’re sure it’s not an imposition, I’d love to stay. For another few days at least.”
“I’m so happy to hear it.” Ethel clasps her hands in front of her soft bosom, her smile lifting her cheeks into bright pink apples reminiscent of my own grandmother’s crops. “Let me show you your room.”