The room is dim. My upper lip is damp. The dog is dead.

Welcome back, summer.

We’ve closed the blinds and battened the hatches, making our house feel like the hole of a reclusive marsupial.

But while we chill in our hovel, the plants aren’t so lucky. They’re out there enduring the hottest day in forever, struggling to keep themselves cool through transpiration and avoid the ‘thermal death threshold’.

(Somebody start a botanical metal band called Thermal Death Threshold.) 

That’s why on Saturday night, before temperatures were tipped to soar, we trundled off to our backyard farm in Fawkner to rig up shade cloths and old sheets like some kind of shanty town, providing small slivers of safety for our adolescent crops. 

George at the farm with makeshift shade cover.

And as we did, I thought about all the shitty meteorological events that farmers have to endure.

Hail that blasts holes in apples.

Wind that flips equipment and rip trees from the ground.

Stinking hot days that suck the living daylight out of crops on the cusp of harvest.

Droughts that last decades.

These uncontrollable forces of nature make feeding people at scale rather perilous.

Then of course, there’s plain bad luck.

Recently, the farm where we buy our eggs and supplementary veggies endured a total clusterfuck.

A tiny spark set their barn alight, cremating hundreds and thousands of dollars worth of equipment, stored produce and confidence. 

They were at the farmer’s market the very next day, looking beaten, with a skimpy assortment of greens and eggs. The survivors.

I saw one of the market staff walk up to Paul the farmer, hold him by the shoulders and look into his face like, mate, I don’t know what to say.

Most shoppers, unaware of what had happened, gave the stall a wide berth.

It looked mean and meagre, lacking the leafy abundance that draws a crowd.

Insult to injury. 

In our current food system, farmers carry all the stress and risk of growing food.

They cop the fall on climate change. They withstand the wrath of the market. They go the extra mile to be organic, sustainable and regenerative even when it doesn’t make economic sense. 

They get burned by bad luck.

We go somewhere else. 

That’s why models like CSA (community supported agriculture) or co-ops (owned and controlled by members) make a whole lotta sense. 

Rather than one person/family/farmer taking it on alone, risk is distributed evenly among a group of invested individuals.

You pay upfront or commit to buying whatever the farmer can produce that week on an ongoing basis. Maybe you won’t get zucchini flowers every time, but when growing’s good you’ll receive more tomatoes than you know what to do with. Meanwhile, the farmer gains a secure income and peace of mind. 

Sharing the ebbs, flows and explosions of produce is an act of camaraderie and something everyone with the means to do so should consider.

As a bonus, many CSA schemes give members a say in what crops are planted; hold working bees and open days; and share ‘behind the scenes’ intel that’s better than any blog post or book.

Mmmm. Skin in the game.

(And yeah, I hear you. Joining a CSA can be financially prohibitive, which is why we need to reimagine our food system so that even the lowest-cost produce is good for farmers, eaters and planet. Ethics shouldn’t have a price tag. Healthy food is a human right. Don’t ask me how to go about making this happen. My job is staring wistfully at the sky.)

So, I’d love to hear from you: Are you all over CSAs, or never-bloody-heard-of-them? 

Extra question: Have you built a relationship with a farmer/s where you live? Tell me about that. 

Supermega overachiever question: What are your thoughts on cultivating a fairer food system?