Farm Fresh Fun

by Veera Hiranandani

  “It’s like a big cooking party!” I said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “It looks like a lot of work to me,” Sage said, his eyes wandering over the room.

  I sighed loudly because sometimes I just have to sigh at Sage.

  “Phoebe, don’t make sighs at me,” Sage said and crossed his arms.

  “I wasn’t,” I said. “I was just catching up on my breath.”

  “Let’s get in line,” Camille said, and walked over to where Mrs. B and the parents were dividing people into groups. We followed.

  “Don’t worry,” Mrs. B said. “Everyone will get to do everything.”

  Sometimes Mrs. B can read my mind.

  Camille pulled me toward the salad group, but Sage wanted me to come to the applesauce group. I wanted to try the goat cheese first.

  “Guys, I only have two hands,” I said, because my mom says that a lot to me and Molly. Sometimes when you have two best friends, you have to be firm.

  We all decided to try different things first. I went in the goat-cheese group. First we put lemon juice in the goat milk while it was cooking on the stove and it became bumpy, kind of like weird, watery oatmeal. Then we poured all that weird, bumpy goat milk into some bowls, each with cloth covering the bottom and the sides. After we finished pouring, the farmer lady tied up the cloth pouches and hung them on hooks. Then all the liquid dripped out and the cheesy part stayed in.

  “It really is a magic trick,” I said. Mrs. B gave me one of her special winks.

  Then Camille ended up in the applesauce group with me. We chopped the apples into tiny pieces and put them in a pot with some water and sugar, just like in the movie we saw in school. The apples smelled good, but I knew something was missing.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the farmer man, raising my hand.

  “Yes?” he said. He did not have a hat on, but he did have overalls, which looked sort of farmer-ish.

  I coughed a little to make my voice very smooth and polite. “My friend’s dad who is a chef of desserts from France says that apples and cinnamon are meant to be together, which is very romantic. Do you happen to have any growing on the farm? Like maybe a cinnamon orchard somewhere?”

  The farmer man looked up and blinked. Then he laughed.

  “No, we can’t grow cinnamon here. It’s too cold, but that’s a nice idea. I think we might have some in this closet,” he said, opening it and rummaging through. I felt for the cinnamon I had in my pocket, just in case.

  “I think we’re out of luck,” he said after a minute. “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay. I brought some for emergencies!” I said, pulling out the baggie and showing it to him. Camille’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head. Mrs. B was watching in the back.

  “Well, aren’t you prepared,” the farmer man said, and after he took a sniff of my cinnamon, he let me sprinkle some in the pot. The smell changed from good to extra wonderful.

  “Oh my, Phoebe,” Mrs. B said, coming up to me and looking in the pot. “I should have expected you might have something for us up your sleeve. Or rather, in your pocket!” she said, smiling.

  After a long time, the applesauce was done, and all the water dripped out of the cheese pouches, leaving little balls of magical goat cheese. The salad was made, too, and the whole room smelled like cinnamon. We finally got to make the goat cheese and spinach omelets in a little pan. We mixed the eggs with spinach, salt, and pepper. Then we spread a little goat cheese on at the end while it was cooking. Jenna even knew how to flip the eggs over in the pan and fold them in half. After we cooked enough omelets for everyone, we set the table with paper plates, and each person got some omelet, salad, and a dish of applesauce.

  “Wow,” Jenna said to all of us, standing at the head of the table. She had taken her hat off and just looked like a regular person. “I’ve never seen a harder-working bunch of farmers! This is what we call farm-to-table eating, but I just like to call it farm fresh fun! We harvested our apples, spinach, and lettuce. We collected our eggs and milk. Then we made it into a wonderful meal. Now you see all the work that goes into just one lunch.”

  I took a bite of omelet. The warm goat cheese melted in my mouth. Then I had a forkful of crunchy salad and a spoonful of the sweet, cinnamony applesauce. The tasty buds on my tongue were about to explode in a happy way.

  “Sage, isn’t this the best cooking party you’ve ever been to?”

  “It’s pretty good,” Sage said. “But I think it’s much easier to buy hot dogs at the grocery store.”

  Camille and I just shook our heads at him. “Sage, I might have to sigh at you,” I said. He shrugged, but then I didn’t even sigh, because the taste of more goat-cheese omelet distracted me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After lunch, we were going to look at the greenhouse that wasn’t green to see the way farmers are able to grow things even in the winter. Then, we would go back home on the bus. As we walked down the hill with our bags of apples to take home, I saw Ginger and her baby goats again. Ginger started baaaa-ing really loud. Then the cute babies did the same.

  “What’s wrong, little goaty goats?” I asked. Ginger started chewing on the gate lock. The babies copied whatever she did. Sage stopped with me, and we watched them for a minute while the rest of the class went on ahead.

  “Maybe they need some exercise,” Sage said.

  “Well, what can we do?” I said and watched the goats paw at the gate.

  “We could let them out for a minute. They could walk around a little and then go back in. No one will even notice.”

  “What if they run off?” I asked, wondering how easy the latch was to open. I lifted it up just to see, and before I knew it, Ginger had pushed her way out.

  “Oh no!” I screamed as she practically ran me over, with the babies trotting quickly behind. Suddenly all five goats were running up the hill.

  “Look!” Sage said. “They’re going toward the chicken coop!”

  We were about to run after them to try to chase them back in when Mrs. B came down the hill, calling us.

  “Phoebe, Sage, you need to stay with the group,” she said.

  “The goats got out!” Sage blurted. I just nodded very fast.

  “What?” Mrs. B seemed very surprised. “How did they get out?” she asked slowly.

  Sage shrugged, which is what Sage does when he doesn’t know what to say.

  “Phoebe?” she asked.

  “Um, well, they pushed through the gate?” I said, feeling my face get very hot.

  “How did they push through the gate? Did you help them?”

  Sage shrugged again.

  “I don’t know?” I said. For some reason, everything I said came out as a question. “They kept baaaa-ing and chewing on the gate and—”

  “Okay,” Mrs. B said. “We’ll talk more about this, but we need to go tell Jenna right away.”

  Sage and I stood there nodding. I glanced up the hill and could see Ginger and the babies walking far away.

  “Now, guys!” she said sternly, and I swallowed hard. We followed her over to the greenhouse.

  “Jenna,” Mrs. B said as we walked into the not-green greenhouse. “I’m so sorry, but Sage and Phoebe told me the goats got out of the barn. I think they have more to say, but I figured you’d want to see about the goats first.”

  Jenna’s mouth opened and closed. Then she whipped out her phone.

  “Tim, the goats from barn two are free. I think a couple of kids let them out.”

  Sage and I glanced at each other. “We just . . . ,” Sage started, but Mrs. B put her finger on her lips.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “Just stay right here with the group.”

  All that yummy food I ate started to feel like a big heavy blob in my stomach, and I thought maybe Sage and I had made a big m
istake.

  Camille came up to me. “Did Mrs. B say you and Sage let the goats out?”

  “Um, well, they sort of escaped,” I said.

  Mrs. B came over. “Phoebe and Sage, it looks like Jenna wants to talk to both of you now,” she told us. Uh-oh.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sage and I sat in Jenna’s office with Mrs. B. I didn’t know farmers even had offices. The parent chaperones had stayed with the rest of the class while they toured the greenhouse.

  “The goats are wandering around the houses across the street. We’ve got a guy stopping traffic and a farmer with our sheepdogs out there trying to get them back,” Jenna said, staring at us.

  “Are they going to be okay?” I asked, thinking of the babies crossing the road. This wasn’t feeling like farm fresh fun anymore.

  She kept looking at us. “I laid out the rules pretty clearly. Why on earth did you let them out?”

  Sage and I sat quietly for a few seconds. Then Sage shrugged. He turned to me and shrugged once again. I was getting mad at Sage. He ruined the best farm trip ever! If he didn’t want to talk, then I would.

  “Sage said we should do it.” I spoke in a squeaky voice.

  Sage’s mouth dropped open. “You opened the lock!”

  “I did not!” I yelled. “Or at least I didn’t mean to,” I said more quietly.

  “Well, guys, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know whose fault it was, but I do know those goats can’t get out unless someone lifts the latch.”

  The tears started to make my eyes blurry. I rubbed my face a few times to chase them away. I looked at Sage. He stared at his boots with his arms crossed. His bottom lip trembled.

  “I just played with the latch. I didn’t know they would push through like that,” I said.

  “I understand how accidents can happen, but I expected better behavior from you,” Mrs. B said. “You need to apologize to Jenna.”

  We both croaked out, “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” Farmer Jenna said as she stood up and nodded back at us, but she didn’t smile. Then she gestured toward the door.

  When we got outside, Sage yelled, “Look!” and pointed up the hill. I could see the goats running toward the barn. A black-and-white border collie ran after them, with the farmer man following behind. We all stood and watched.

  “Go, goats, go!” Sage cried, jumping up and down.

  They scattered a bit, and the mama goat started making a turn toward a different field up ahead. The babies followed.

  “Now they’re heading the other way!” I exclaimed. My heart pounded through my shirt. Then another sheepdog came barking down the hill, nipped at the goats’ heels, and chased them right inside the barn. The farmer quickly locked the gate after them.

  “Thank goodness!” Mrs. B said.

  I let out my breath and wanted to hug Sage. But when I looked at him, he looked away.

  Mrs. B turned to Jenna. “Again, I’m so sorry about this. Sage and Phoebe are good kids. I’m not really sure what got into them.”

  I’m not sure what got into us, either.

  “Well, it’s not the first adventure we’ve had on this farm,” Farmer Jenna said as she straightened her big floppy hat and smiled a little. Then she looked serious again. “But one we could have done without.”

  Mrs. B led us back to the bus. I saw everyone carrying their bags of apples. I gulped. My apples! I must have lost them during the goat incident. Not only would Mom and Dad be mad at me, but I wouldn’t have any apples to give them. Back on the bus, I sat next to Camille. Sage sat with his friend Will. I told Camille the whole story, and she listened extra carefully.

  “Are you okay?” Camille asked when I finished, in her soft French way that made everything seem better.

  “No,” I said. “But I think I’ll feel better someday. Maybe when I’m, like, thirty-two.”

  “I think you’ll feel better at least by the time you’re sixteen,” she said, and put her long French arm around me. Then she pulled some things out of her pockets and handed them to me.

  Apples!

  “I took too many, anyway,” she said.

  “Oh, Camille. You’re the best French friend I’ve ever had!” I said. That’s another great thing about having two best friends. If one is mad at you for a ridiculous reason, and you are mad at him for a good reason, you can be with your other friend and not feel so mad.

  When I got home, Mom was waiting for me at the door. She had her trying-not-to-be-too-angry face on, where she scrunches her eyebrows together and bites her lip.

  “Hi, Phoebe. I spoke to Mrs. B,” she said as I walked in the door.

  I dropped my backpack on the floor.

  “She told me that you and Sage might have let some goats out?”

  “I think so,” I said, kicking my boots off.

  “You mean you don’t know if you did?” she asked, squinting at me.

  I shook my head. I was all out of energy to explain it. “Only the goats know the truth,” I whispered.

  Mom stared at me for a second and put her hands on her hips. “Mrs. B is not too happy about this. I think you need to go to your room and think very hard about what happened. When Dad comes home, hopefully you’ll remember the details.”

  Mom is always sending me to my room when she thinks I did something bad, but I actually didn’t mind this time. I just wanted to lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Who knew farms were so exhausting?

  CHAPTER SIX

  As I lay on my bed, I wrote a list of facts about the trip so I wouldn’t forget. In not much time, Dad called me down for dinner. He had made his famous spaghetti, which used to be called regular spaghetti and tomato sauce, but we made up a recipe where we added black olives, broccoli, and feta cheese, and then it became famous. When we sat down to eat, I showed Mom and Dad my list.

  FIVE TRUE FACTS ABOUT HOW THE GOATS GOT OUT

  1 Their barn was smelly and they needed more exercise.

  2 They kept baaaa-ing and chewing at the gate, which made me feel bad for them.

  3 Sage felt bad for them, too.

  4 Sage was the one who said that we should let them out, so it’s really his fault.

  5 I might have lifted the latch on the gate, and they might have pushed their way through, but if you want to know exactly what happened, you’ll have to talk to the goats.

  I handed the note to my dad, who read it and showed it to Mom.

  “Pheebs,” Dad started.

  I looked at him.

  “I’m glad you cared about the goats. But the farm has rules for a reason, and goats don’t mind smelly barns the way you and I might.”

  “It really was an accident. I just touched the latch, and then they pushed their way through. It was actually Ginger’s fault.”

  “Who’s Ginger?” Dad said.

  “The mama goat.”

  Mom took a deep breath. “Well, next time you’re at a farm and you’re worried about an animal, tell the farmer. It’s their farm, their animals, their rules. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I said quietly.

  “And just because Sage says you should do something, it doesn’t mean you should. If Sage told you to jump off a bridge, would you?” Mom asked.

  I thought about it. I remembered a camping trip we took with Sage’s family, and there was a little bridge over a creek. Sage said, “Let’s jump!” And we did. But our parents said it was okay.

  “How high is the bridge?” I asked.

  “That’s not the point!” Dad said.

  “You promise never to do anything like that again,” Mom said. “Right?”

  “Right.” I nodded.

  “And no TV or computer time for a week,” she said.

  I knew that one was coming. I nodded slowly. “Can I call Sage?” I asked.

  �
��Now?” Mom asked.

  I nodded. “I want to tell him if he asked me to jump off a bridge, I wouldn’t do it.”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other and back at me.

  “Okay,” Mom said. “Right after dinner.”

  As soon as I finished eating, I dialed Sage’s phone number. He answered right away, since we have our phone numbers on caller ID.

  “Hi, Phoebe,” he said.

  “Sorry I tattled on you,” I said very quickly, so I wouldn’t not say it.

  “Sorry I said we should let the goats out,” he said with a funny sound in his voice, like he was embarrassed.

  “It’s okay. Maybe that’s why we’re best friends. We’re good in the same ways and bad in the same ways,” I said.

  “I never thought of it like that,” he said, and we were quiet for a second or two.

  “Sage?” I asked, making the quiet go away.

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you ever tell me to jump off a bridge?”

  Sage was quiet again. Then he said, “How high is the bridge?”

  I smiled. Even though I had to sigh at him sometimes, I smiled at him a lot more times.

  After dinner, I saw Molly sitting at the kitchen bar, twirling on a stool, which was very strange. She was usually talking to her friends on the phone, doing her homework, or practicing her clarinet.

  “How come you’re just sitting there?” I asked. “Don’t you have lots of thirteen-year-old stuff to do?”

  She turned around. “Not really,” she said and laughed.

  “Oh,” I said, and sat on the stool next to her, looking at my feet.