InFARMation (and Beer!)

I left Oregon back in 1995, just around the same time Portland seems to have gotten snagged in some bizarre pocket of the space-time continuum. Similar to the way my dad's hometown of Greenville, South Carolina continues to exist in the alternate universe of the 1950's, (a Cleavers meets Stepford reality), Portland's grungy 90's eco vibe has bloomed into a thick quantum moss, covering the city's future, and trapping urban Portlanders deep inside the bowels of magical forest time where stationary bicycles power organic brew pubs and high heels don't exist.

This permaculture agri-fog has me continually baffled, taking pictures of smart cars with bike/ski racks and wondering aloud what happened to the warmer half of the color spectrum. I have become an accidental hoarder, putting used cups back into my purse rather than decipher the myriad of passively judgmental bins that collect in cafe corners like so many environmental lobbying committees. I long for ecologically simpler times, when the messages on my refuse receptacles were merely ones of bold gratitude. "Thank You" stated those big friendly cans of yore. "My pleasure," I used to think, imagining it was enough to treat people kindly, donate to a local charity, and keep the restaurant floors clean. No longer the case in "new" Portland, where even the trash cans are nerdy, and rather than determine whether my styro-corn cup is compostable or recyclable, I resign to make art out of it and join a co-op/glitter grunge band.

About a week into my visit, I check the web for entertainment and find a farming-related event that looks promising. Holocene, a hipster hangout where just last week I watched 1960's Czech art house cinema, scored and accompanied by floaty synthesized local bands, was promoting a monthly meet-and-greet called "InFARMation (and Beer!)" designed to bring urban consumers (read: foodie hipsters) together with rural producers (read: people I recognize as normal) to discuss "issues facing local organic farmers" (read: stuff that apparently increases the social value of foodie hipsters and that I should probably brush up on). I wonder if the same art house crowd will show up for this event,i.e. if farming can pull the loitering masses of bored 20-somethings in schlubby Mr. Roger's sweaters and faux furry-eared hat-scarves who sip raspberry gin balsamic cocktails and speak a secret band language that even urban dictionary can't track. I note the start time, and plug the date into my phone.

I mention the event later to a couple of my Portland friends, (their daughter makes fused glass art in pre-school), and one inquires about the speaker. I can't remember his name, but say he's "a seed guy" at which point my friend gets all googly eyed and exclaims "not Steve Solomon! He's amazing!" Fascinating. I figure this speaker must be some sort of seed rock star. Later on, I check the website and learn the speaker isn't rock star Steve Solomon but his seed bass player equivalent, Anthony Boutard. I'm initially disappointed until it hits me that here in Portland, there's enough interest to support B-list farming celebrities. I want to be one. The homesteader's answer to Kathy Griffin. The Kate Gosselin of sheep.

I arrive late to the event, and by the time I get there parking is scarce and the bike rack beside the door is full to overflowing. Over 200 people are collected inside the stylish industrial artspace, listening, rapt, to a balding, middle aged guy who looks a lot like my dad. I have a technology nostalgia moment when he tells his assistant to "go to the next slide," that is, until she thumbs across her iPad, and we all turn our attention to the brushed concrete wall to find an enormous projected image of Anthony's tomatoes.

The lecture goes something like this: Anthony Boutard, Seed Bass Player: "Here's my tomato/sweet potato/ear of corn. It grew, some stuff happened, then I kept the seeds." I actually find what he's saying rather interesting, noting the plants that perform easily in the region and blacklisting the ones he says he's had to struggle with. None of this, however, is nearly as fascinating as the fact that the rest of the still growing audience seems so patently engaged in his vegetable lecture. When the talk is over, the whole room bursts into applause and I think "man, Portland is weird." A bubbly facilitator introduces the question/answer portion of the evening, and rather than relay all the details, I've created a brief synopsis of the discussion here: Foodie hipsters: "Mr. Boutard, I know you do this big scale farming thing for a living and everything, but I grow this one awesomely obscure vegetable in my windowsill flowerbox and I was wondering if you've ever heard of it/want my advice/I don't actually care since I'm earning hipster foodie points (redeemable for non-gmo livestock in facebook farmland) just by asking you this question". Anthony Boutard: "practical farm fact".

When the entertainment is through I wander over to the "Friends of Family Farmers" diorama table to do some networking, and instantly get hipsterly profiled. Another gentleman who looks a lot like my dad (review right) is standing beside me, both of us reading the tri-fold posterboard display and fondling the free magnets. A young girl working the table sizes the two of us up,steps around me, and excitedly asks the man if he's an organic farmer. Turns out he's not, and while she goes down the list of alternatives, I note the pecking order. Organic Farmer #1, Non-Organic Farmer #2, Hobby Farmer #3, Future Hobby Farmer #4, Possible Future Hobby Farmer #5, Shops at Farmer's Markets #6, Shops at Target #682. Not on the list: Wal*mart shoppers and black people. Actually, that's not fair, black people may very well be on the list; I just haven't seen any since arriving in Oregon. PS, if you were offended by that statement and you're not black, congratulations, you've just earned bonus lesbian-feminist points, redeemable at any bookstore on Hawthorne for your choice of either a batik sarong or wiccan bumper sticker.

I leave the club that night with a fistful of networking brochures, a "Friends of Family Farmers" t-shirt, and a renewed sense of excitement about this whole crazy notion. I recall briefly, a moment earlier in the evening, when the sign-in clipboard was passed around and I checked the box marked "farmer" just to see how it felt. I'm still smiling when I cross the street.