Maine Certified

The potatoes of September

In fifteen years or so of farm forays I have watched potatoes come and go in the gourmet revival of heirloom everything. Novelty candy stripes and blue or purple potatoes appear one season and vanish the next, as growers learn which kinds best suit their soil and cooks realize that color seldom indicates better flavor. Chefs discover that the secret of the best puree they ever tasted was not the Ratte variety that Parisian chefs swear by but the equal weight of butter whipped in before serving. In my experiments dark-horse varieties have often turned out to taste far better than touted ones. As always, variety counts less than climate and the care the farmer takes.

I was always puzzled, though, as to why so little potato news came from Maine, which for even longer than Idaho has been synonymous with potatoes in this country. It is also part of my heritage: my grandfather traveled every fall from Connecticut to northern Maine, where he bought the state's famous seed potatoes to sell to southern New England farmers. I learned on a recent visit to Aroostook County, one of my grandfather's destinations, that Maine has kept its reputation among the country's most reliable suppliers of disease-resistant seed potatoes even as the state's potato industry has otherwise diminished.

Few small farmers have stepped in to claim Maine's unused potato fields and grow the old varieties for which chefs and home cooks pay a premium. But on my trip I did find what might be the country's best source of those heirloom potatoes worth growing and eating: a strictly organic farm in the heart of what was once traditional potato-growing territory. It is run by an earthy, sympathetic couple whose entrepreneurial spirit and canny respect for the land my grandfather would have appreciated—even if their founding philosophy, and their hairstyles, would have baffled him.

When I drove into Wood Prairie Farm, a few miles from the several potato cooperatives remaining along a stretch of Route 1 in northern Aroostook County, Jim Gerritsen was leaning over a curious tractor painted pea green. He had rigged its trailer as a potato planter, with a few homemade parts jutting from the base and sides. "Two eyes apiece," he said, cutting a long seed potato into four chunks. "It's the eyes that sprout." He laid the chunks, some of which had already sprouted, on a black rubber conveyor belt at the back of the planter. "We put this on," he said, pointing to a spade-shaped length of metal at the front, "because our soil is so rocky it could break an ordinary potato planter."

Aroostook hardly resembles the Maine that draws tourists from all over the world, the Maine of lobster boats and evergreen-dotted seascapes. The county is vast, as big as Connecticut and Rhode Island combined; it has sky-wide open plains, and hills covered with pines. It's easy to see why some New Englanders have an almost visceral annual longing to go north, for the hunting, fishing, and fresh air. It's easy to see, too, why the farmland appealed to English and Irish settlers, who recognized that the cool, damp climate would be ideal for growing potatoes. They also discovered that the soil, however rocky, was better than what they had left behind; "caribou loam," as in the native reindeer that once lived in the Maine woods, has just the right mixture of clay, silt, and sand. Through the 1940s Maine was the country's largest potato producer, and Aroostook County produced 90 percent of Maine potatoes.

Today the Maine woods are being methodically logged by Canadian and American timber companies, and the chief planting in what once was the chief agricultural county in New England has become trees. The acreage devoted to potatoes shrank from 200,000 in the late 1940s to 64,000 in 2000, a loss of nearly 70 percent. The soil is still just as good for potatoes. But the big buyers don't want Maine potatoes anymore, because, like all potatoes grown without steady, controlled irrigation, they are uneven in shape. The widespread use of irrigation in the West—and, especially, the standards of uniformity that McDonald's set in the 1950s for its french fries—made the industry move.

Running a farm in Aroostook County was an unusual career choice for a young man who grew up in San Francisco. But farming ran in Gerritsen's blood: both his parents had been raised on farms and were part of the postwar migration from country to city. ("My grandfather kept telling my dad that farming was hard, that there wasn't much money in it," Gerritsen told me. "My dad listened.") While studying forestry at a California college, Gerritsen decided that his place was on a farm, not in school. From the look of him today, that decision was inevitable: his craggy features, deep-set green eyes, and wind-etched face immediately identify him as a man of the land. The gray-white beard and shoulder-length hair identify him as a child of the 1960s.

The decline of potato farming in Maine was what made Gerritsen think he could afford good farmland there, and get a head start on the organic farming he intended to practice. Land was cheap, and Aroostook County was too remote to attract developers. Farmland was still clear: former potato farmers had not yet planted it all with trees, a low-maintenance crop, and new-growth forests had not yet covered abandoned farmland. The lapsed time without any kind of planting meant that much Aroostook farmland would more than meet the requirements of organic farming. Gerritsen told me that he was also drawn by Maine's reputation for having "good, friendly, down-to-earth people living an outdoor tradition."

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Corby Kummer's work in The Atlantic has established him as one of the most widely read, authoritative, and creative food writers in the United States. The San Francisco Examiner pronounced him "a dean among food writers in America." More

Corby Kummer's work in The Atlantic has established him as one of the most widely read, authoritative, and creative food writers in the United States. The San Francisco Examiner pronounced him "a dean among food writers in America." Julia Child once said, "I think he's a very good food writer. He really does his homework. As a reporter and a writer he takes his work very seriously." Kummer's 1990 Atlantic series about coffee was heralded by foodies and the general public alike. The response to his recommendations about coffees and coffee-makers was typical--suppliers scrambled to meet the demand. As Giorgio Deluca, co-founder of New York's epicurean grocery Dean & Deluca, says: "I can tell when Corby's pieces hit; the phone doesn't stop ringing." His book, The Joy of Coffee, based on his Atlantic series, was heralded by The New York Times as "the most definitive and engagingly written book on the subject to date." In nominating his work for a National Magazine Award (for which he became a finalist), the editors wrote: "Kummer treats food as if its preparation were something of a life sport: an activity to be pursued regularly and healthfully by knowledgeable people who demand quality." Kummer's book The Pleasures of Slow Food celebrates local artisans who raise and prepare the foods of their regions with the love and expertise that come only with generations of practice. Kummer was restaurant critic of New York Magazine in 1995 and 1996 and since 1997 has served as restaurant critic for Boston Magazine. He is also a frequent food commentator on television and radio. He was educated at Yale, immediately after which he came to The Atlantic. He is the recipient of five James Beard Journalism Awards, including the MFK Fisher Distinguished Writing Award.

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