So New Yorkers are now beginning to fetishize farmers the way we once did chefs. We’re increasingly conscious of how our food is produced, and where-and who-it comes from. But we’ve come to realize that dinner originates in the planting row, not on the prep line. Back then, the food chain extended only as far back as the restaurant kitchens we viewed-sometimes literally, at, say, the Mercer Kitchen or Café Gray-as staging grounds. Just a few years ago, only a celebrity chef could have stirred up so much epicurean excitement.
Cult of the lamb coop full#
She was full of energy-“I’m flying so high!” she announced-and the room was smitten. Too feisty to give a lecture, Hepworth bounced around and mimed various elements of her work (mowing, spraying, bolting out of bed at dawn) she gnawed on a wild, untreated apple and identified the pests she was swallowing (“That’s codling moth”). She is best known for her apples-spicy Ginger Golds, sweet Cand圜risps, Stayman Winesaps with dungaree-tough skins. Hepworth supplies the Coop with an astonishing variety of produce: 111 varieties of vegetables and 53 types of fruit. She was wearing a chambray shirt, faded jeans, and suede boots, and she had her pet dog, her same-sex partner, and two bags of wormy apples beside her. Amy Hepworth, a seventh-generation farmer from up near Poughkeepsie, sat in front, her legs splayed, her grin huge.
The mood was anticipatory: fans before the big event. The crowd was a typical mix of Coop types: a white-haired woman in clogs, a baby cooing in a carrier, a shaved head under a kufi cap, many hip-serious eyeglasses. One night last fall, a few dozen people filled an upstairs room at the Park Slope Food Coop, cramming into rows of stackable chairs and squeezing past a potluck buffet.
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