Lentil Underground

by Liz Carlisle

  Like it or not, standardized “factories in the fields” have become firmly ensconced in US policy, institutions, culture, and, indeed, our very psyche. Diversifying the American food system—not just the organic vegetable suppliers on the urban outskirts, but mainstream farms too—requires changing all those things. It is not going to happen overnight. We’ve spent decades building rural life around industrial logic: annual returns, simplification, and efficiency. It will take a lot of work and creativity to reshape it according to biological logic: multiyear cycles, diversity, and flexibility.

  Perhaps the most insidious thing about monoculture is that getting out of the habit of working with other species has also gotten us out of the habit of working with one another. We’ve bought out the neighbors with whom we used to share tips, tractors, harvest help, and good old-fashioned moral support. Getting back in touch with ourselves as biological farmers rather than industrial ones isn’t just a technical matter. It’s a wholesale shift. Entire farm communities need to adopt the ways of the dynamic world underground, where the long haul is what really matters and a shared prosperity is the only kind there is.

  In other words, to have a healthy belowground ecology in our soils, we need a parallel one in our rural society. And, for that matter, in our urban foodsheds. From the looks of all the kale-enamored soccer moms and overall-clad hipsters, it would appear that such a transformation is well under way. But unfortunately, the good-food craze sweeping American cities hasn’t been as helpful for the lentil underground as you might think.

  While this highly gastrocultural moment has boosted the fortunes of artisanal cheese makers and suburban vegetable growers, it’s actually a tough time to be an organic lentil marketer, given the food movement’s recent turn toward locavore diets. Timeless Seeds, much like fair trade businesses in the developing world, has always relied on a strategic partnership with affluent consumers in population hubs like San Francisco. Such consumers understand that their purchases support ecologically appropriate land management and sustainable livelihoods in economically disadvantaged rural Montana. There’s even a growing movement promoting such partnerships—domestic fair trade. The ten-year-old Domestic Fair Trade Association counts several retailers, manufacturers, processors, and nongovernmental organizations among its thirty-eight members. But the DFTA is swimming upstream, as a far greater share of North American foodies pledge to reduce their “food miles” and eat within a 100-mile radius of their homes.

  Sustainability analysts have long since discounted the “food miles” approach as overly simplistic. When you break down the source of greenhouse gas emissions in the global food system, transportation to the final point of sale accounts for only about 4 percent. What we ought to be worried about are things like synthetic nitrogen, which generates 300 million metric tons of CO2 emissions a year—and several marine dead zones. Even if lowering your carbon footprint is all you care about, you’d be much better off supporting legume-based nitrogen fertility in Montana than buying conventionally fertilized local food. As a team of international researchers calculated in a recent review paper, legume crops and legume-based pastures use 35 to 60 percent less fossil energy than chemically fertilized grains, and the inclusion of legumes in cropping sequences reduces the average annual energy usage over a rotation by 12 to 34 percent. Of course, there are many other social and environmental reasons to support businesses like Timeless Seeds, but with grocery stores and restaurants increasingly posting the food miles of their products, it’s been hard to sell consumers on a more nuanced approach to a righteous diet. Plus, local fruit and vegetables—those charismatic megafauna of the supermarket—benefit from decades of cultural and commercial associations with health. Everybody knows an apple a day keeps the doctor away and that leafy greens are a superfood. But lentils? Most Americans don’t even know what they are, let alone how or why to eat them.

  The real problem, though, isn’t knowledge. It’s money. Even in decidedly nonepicurean central Montana, Timeless growers have found a surprising number of people who are excited about eating organic lentils. They just can’t afford them. “What can we tell people when they say our food costs too much?” Courtney Cowgill asks earnestly. “That we’re going to leave our land better than when we found it, or water quality is going to be better because of us, or maybe fewer people are going to get sick because we don’t use chemicals or pesticides? It’s just really hard to quantify that for people when they’re on a limited budget.”

  So long as they have to operate within a cheap-food economy that externalizes its social and environmental costs, both farmers and eaters will be forced into the false choice between a healthy environment and their own bottom line. Timeless Seeds has prepared fertile ground—and an incredible demonstration of what’s possible. But they can’t fix the food system alone. That’s a job for all of us.

  EPILOGUE

  If you walk into the Timeless plant today, you’ll get a glimpse of two other projects the company is currently incubating. Their equipment and distribution network support a fair trade business that imports heirloom rice from 2,000-year-old terraces in the Philippines. They’re also hosting a small mill that aims to replace industrial hybrid corn with more nutritious, sustainable varieties. The organic feed venture that got its start at Timeless has graduated to a larger facility in nearby Fort Benton, where the screenings and surplus of the lentil underground become a nutrient-packed meal of heritage grains and legumes for livestock and backyard chickens across the West. And Prairie Heritage Farm, the community supported agriculture operation that began on Dave Oien’s land, is just down the road in Power.

  Here, in sleepy central Montana, is a snapshot of what the future of food could look like. Unlike the food system we’ve got now, it wouldn’t be focused on one crop or one strategy. Instead of a few massive farms, we’d have lots of them, in several shapes and sizes. Urban gardeners would grow local produce and raise chickens. Rural growers and researchers would go back to breeding nutritious, ecologically adapted grains, instead of eking out marginal-yield gains at the expense of human and environmental health. Fair trade distribution would allow city dwellers to support responsible farmers who take care of our planet’s support systems—whether those farmers happen to live just across the mountains or halfway around the world. We’re still a long way from the widespread belowground network that will be required to realize that kind of food system. But this little victory in Montana proves that it’s possible, one seed at a time.

  As for Timeless Seeds itself, and the characters in this book, here’s where things stood when I went back to visit in February 2014, just a few months before Lentil Underground went to press:

  A quarter century after four central Montana farmers dreamed of an agricultural revolution, Timeless Seeds had nearly closed the loop between farm and fork. Back in 1986, when they started a small seed business, Dave Oien and his three farmer friends had made their first foray into the rest of the food system beyond their own fields. Over the years, they’d linked their renegade farms to other parts of the food chain, diversifying into processing, wholesale distribution, and branded marketing. And this spring, they were taking the final step: a retail packaging facility. Bud Barta had just sent Dave a set of plans for the new packaging room at Ulm, which would be constructed by Barta Built in April and ready to roll by September.

  Twenty-five years after he’d drawn his last paycheck from Timeless Seeds, Jim Barngrover was also back in action: as a grower relations and procurement representative. With the company poised to triple its contracted acreage, Dave was short staffed, so he’d handed over the best part of his job to his longtime friend. In a few weeks, Jim would be headed out for preseason visits with the seventeen folks who’d agreed to grow for Timeless this year.

  Tom Hastings was the only one of the original Timeless partners who wasn’t involved in the business anymore. Tom had left the company a decade ago, but he’d held on to one piece of it: an abandoned grain elevator that Timele
ss had purchased in the early 1990s for a dollar. Dave still went by the old elevator a couple of Saturdays a month to visit his former business partner’s quirky pop-up, Timeless Tom’s Second Hand.

  Jim Sims, the cowboy scientist who’d helped Timeless launch its first product, had called it quits as well. After a thirty-year career at Montana State University, Sims had retired in 1996 to a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Bozeman. His Canadian counterpart, Al Slinkard (aka Dr. Lentil) had retired from the University of Saskatchewan in 1998. Meanwhile, the lentil underground had found a new academic champion: MSU nutritionist Alison Harmon. Harmon, a driving force behind the university’s Sustainable Food and Bioenergy Systems program, had teamed up with Dave and the Crabtrees, and she was putting together a resource guide for chefs and food service professionals. Playing on Montana’s mining history and official nickname, Harmon had devised a catchy title for the project: “Lentils: Gems in the Treasure State.”

  Sharon Eisenberg, just two years away from drawing Social Security, was ready to pass the buck to the next generation too. Already overburdened with tax-season work for her private clients, Timeless Seeds’ CFO had spent many hours this winter studying the new health care options available under the Affordable Care Act. Obamacare had survived its Supreme Court challenge, but Sharon wasn’t particularly impressed with the new menu of expensive insurance plans. “The dental coverage is a little better,” she sighed, “but we should have just done single payer.” Hopefully, it wouldn’t be her problem for much longer, Sharon told me. Dave and the Timeless Seeds Board had started interviewing candidates for a new general manager position, which would relieve Sharon of some of her duties and help Dave with some of his. Timeless hadn’t advertised, but people had been calling Dave out of the blue, asking if the growing company had any job openings. The inquiries came from surprising places—the Montana Department of Agriculture, a much larger processor in Great Falls, even an enormous grain plant in eastern Montana. “I was astonished when that guy called me about working here,” Dave said. “He was earning more than the entire staff of Timeless combined.”

  While deeper-pocketed admirers knocked on Dave’s door, Timeless Seeds original financier, seventy-four-year-old Russ Salisbury, was still farming, as was his eighty-one-year-old partner, Elsie Tuss. The couple had gone to Arizona for the winter in one of their most roadworthy vehicles, but they’d be back soon, Sharon Eisenberg told me. She had to file their tax returns.

  Tuna McAlpine had already called Sharon about his taxes. He had two fewer dependents this year: His oldest son had earned his bachelor’s degree and landed a job as a farm appraiser, and his oldest daughter had graduated from the University of Montana with an MS in speech pathology. Tuna wasn’t contracting with Timeless for any crops this season, but he and his wife, Anne, occasionally saw Dave and Sharon when the two families picked up groceries from their buying club.

  The Alternative Energy Resources Organization—the nonprofit that had introduced Timeless Seeds’ four partners and recruited Tuna McAlpine to join its Farm Improvement Club program, was entering its fortieth year as the northern plains’ voice for renewable energy and sustainable agriculture. AERO no longer sponsored Farm Improvement Clubs, but the model had been taken up by others: the Center for Rural Affairs, Iowa State University, even the Ecological Farmers of Ontario.

  Blu Funk was still serving Montana-grown Black Beluga lentils at ShowThyme, the restaurant in Bigfork that had first picked up Timeless Seeds’ signature crop in 1998.

  Jerry Habets had renewed his lease on the Oien place, and he’d also started custom hauling for Timeless and several of his fellow growers. Jerry was planning to plant his triple intercrop again this year, and Dave had promised to buy the understory: Petite Crimson lentils. Jerry’s “Montana Milpa” wasn’t the greatest thing from a processing standpoint, Dave admitted, since it was a bit of a hassle to separate everything out. But it sure was great for the land.

  Casey Bailey had a Timeless contract too—for 100 acres of French Green lentils. He was still transitioning his parents’ place to organics, 200 acres at a time, and he’d grown his cattle herd to 150, so he could rotate into alfalfa more often and let the cows graze down his cover crop.

  Doug Crabtree and Anna Jones-Crabtree had welcomed their first apprentice the previous season, and they were planning to hire two for 2014. Doug had left his position at the Department of Agriculture to farm full-time, and Anna was doing most of her day job remotely. Still, the busy couple didn’t seem to have enough hours in the day. Despite swearing to pare down their sixteen-crop repertoire, the Crabtrees had seeded twenty-one in 2013. Now they were considering a whopping two dozen for the coming season, including 238 acres of Black Belugas for Timeless Seeds. Timeless still wasn’t quite as organized as the Crabtrees would have liked, but they were delighted that the company had finally obtained a line of credit in December, so it could pay farmers more promptly. Meanwhile, the Crabtrees had made some modest progress initiating cooperative projects with fellow growers: They were planning to grow some heritage grains for Jacob and Courtney Cowgill’s CSA and they were already sharing a semi truck and trailer with their Havre neighbors Jody and Crystal Manuel.

  The Manuels had three Timeless crops ready to go in the ground for 2014: chickpeas, emmer, and Purple Prairie barley. They had decided to take the Whole Foods distribution deal for their grass-fed beef, but they were still selling directly to local individuals too, including a few members of Crystal’s church group. Two years ago, some of those ladies had been taken aback when Crystal invited them over for hors d’oeuvres in the pig pasture. But apparently, those brave enough to take her up on it had spread the word, and the Manuels’ farm-to-fork ranch tour was well on its way to becoming an annual Havre tradition.

  Having narrowly won reelection in 2012, second-term US senator Jon Tester was contracting with Timeless too. He still had some seed from the bumper lentil crop that had funded the down payment on his house, and he was planning to grow it out for the first time in years. Dave had a buyer who was interested in that variety—Sunrise Reds—so he’d asked Big Jon if he thought the old seed was viable enough to generate a commercial yield. Somehow, the senator had found time to do a germination test, and it had turned out well. “I’m dancing,” he wrote Jim Barngrover, who had asked the senator whether he wanted to “tango” with Timeless.

  Brandon and Mariah O’Halloran had nearly quit farming at the end of 2012, after Brandon’s relatives sold the family’s land in the Shields Valley. Although they’d seen it coming, Brandon and Mariah hadn’t quite let go of their dream of somehow, someday turning the place into an organic farm. When the door had shut firmly on that possibility, it had taken a bit of the wind out of their sails. But when a café had come up for sale in downtown Lewistown, the opportunity gave the O’Hallorans a second wind—and a new dream. The couple had turned the Rising Trout into a local food showcase, featuring organically raised meat, eggs, and produce from the area, as well as fresh-baked bread made from their own grain. To complement all that nitrogen-feeding grain, which they were still raising at Mariah’s parents’ place, they needed some legumes. So they were contracting with Timeless to grow several acres of chickpeas.

  Thirty-three miles up the road in Power, life was busy for Dave’s former tenants Jacob and Courtney Cowgill. The owner-operators of Prairie Heritage Farm hadn’t slowed down on veggies, turkeys, and ancient grains. On top of that, they’d added a thirty-nine-tree fruit orchard to their operation, in partnership with extension researchers at MSU. And the previous season, the couple had also formed a seed co-op, with the idea of collaborating with other farmers to develop locally adapted vegetable varieties. Life beyond the farm was eventful for the Cowgills too. They’d had a second child in May, and Courtney was working part-time as an editor while teaching a distance education class for the University of Montana. Jacob was also teaching online for UM, and he had two other side jobs too: substitute rural mail carrier and lobbyist for the
Farmers Union. Given the historic volume of snow, it looked as if 2014 would be an unusually intense year for Jacob’s postal service job, but that was nothing compared to the firestorm about to hit his other one. The lentil underground had made some progress on federal policy—the recently passed Farm Bill had authorized money for pulse crop nutrient analysis and incentives to add more pulse crops to school lunch. But closer to home, a familiar battle was brewing: genetically modified organisms. Monsanto had been purchasing land near Great Falls for wheat-variety trials, and few locals trusted the corporation’s assertion that none of the seeds planted there would be GMOs.

  At the Timeless plant in Ulm, OSHA-savvy operations manager Leni Yeager was still holding court in her pink hard hat, watching over Loren Nicholls and Jason Roberts like a mother hen. But things were hardly the same. “You remember then,” Loren welcomed me dramatically, as I walked into the bustling facility. “Well, this is now.” When he swung open the doors to the hard-hat zone, the tidy warehouse that greeted me bore little resemblance to the falling-down elevator Timeless had left behind just eight years ago. Neatly stacked pallets of legumes and grains were inventoried, in crisp printing, on a shiny new whiteboard. On the processing floor, a new decorticator was removing skins from a batch of Petite Crimson lentils. A supportive buyer had helped Timeless finance this machine, Loren reminded me, which meant they no longer needed to contract this job out to a larger processing plant. Once Bud finished the retail packaging line, Loren continued, Timeless would have its whole supply chain in-house, right up to the final point of sale. That meant more work, of course, so the Timeless plant had added a second shift, bumping its workweek hours to six A.M. to eleven P.M. “I don’t think Dave will ever add a graveyard, though,” Loren said, with a knowing wink. What Dave had added, though, were two new employees: office manager Heather Hadley and plant foreman Mike Ferrara.