On very rare occasions, we make plans and then execute them. What a rush!
Given the infrequency of this sort of simple, linear process, you’d think that I would always have a plan B in the wings. It would be a good idea, I agree. Maybe next year…
Plan A this year was to submit information about our farm to the Washington Post’s annual Thanksgiving Turkey guide, and then sit back and wait for the turkey orders to roll in. We figured that, with our new market location in Bethesda, delivery would be simple, and we’d probably sell turkeys through our stand as well. With such a foolproof plan, I made other plans–to visit my family in Georgia and introduce everyone there to Sylvan. Besides that, my first farm boss had gotten hitched and was throwing a celebratory party in Georgia on Friday, and a friend from my second apprenticeship was getting married on the Eastern shore on Saturday. It was shaping up to be a fabulous November, I told myself as I headed South.
Lesson one: don’t count your turkeys ’til they’re sold.
The plan began to unravel when the turkey list went to press without us. After my requisite brow-beating and hair-tearing, I set my sites on the market. Surely, with a great sign and big smiles, we’d sell the turkeys, right?
On Wednesday the next wrench arrived, in the form of a Buick through the wall of the market. (Ok, so I’m not sure that it was a Buick, but it was driven by a little old lady who confused Drive and Reverse). No one was hurt, thankfully, and the fire marshall graciously allowed the power to be kept on (as, frankly, I don’t know where we would have put all the meat that currently resides at market if it all needed to come home.). Still, until a structural engineer could sign off on the building’s safety, the market would be closed to the public. For Friday. And Saturday. Precisely when we had planned to sell some turkeys.
And so, down in Georgia, I began frantically brainstorming, flyer-designing, emailing, Facebook-posting. Every home in America eats Turkey one day of the year–surely we could find 125 of them?
Meanwhile, our robust, never-so-much-as-a-cold baby had plans of his own. Having caught wind of my plans to leave him with a babysitter on Friday while I partook of nuptial festivities, he began projectile vomiting. Ah, parenthood. To be honest, other than the 1.5 seconds in which food rapidly exited his body, he seemed utterly unperturbed, but I didn’t want to risk anything worse happening with me AWOL. (Andrew would kill me) I stocked up on Pedialyte and began feeding him a teaspoon every 10 minutes. Eventually, after a small snack of milk (which is so far still where we want it, rather than on the floor) he conked out.
So here we stand–deep in plans B, C, and perhaps even D. It feels annoyingly like home.