To Market, To Market: The Farmers Of Puget Sound

As the only vendor at the Vashon Farmers Market on a cold, gray day in late winter, George Page has a captive audience.

By summer, he’ll have ditched the knit cap drawn tightly around his ears, and this market—as well as others throughout the Puget Sound region—will have a full docket of farmers selling many varieties of produce, as well as eggs, cheese, baked goods, meats, seafood and other locally produced food. But Page is a maverick. No matter what the weather, year-round, he’s all about keeping the farm-to-table channels open.

Page is the founder, owner, supervisor, accountant, truck driver, builder, recipe developer, marketing director and chief bottle-washer for Sea Breeze Farm on Vashon Island. The farm, at the north end of the island, spreads out over 10 acres, much of it pasture land. And Page manages another 30 acres or so of orchards and farmland in other island locations. He trades in eggs, milk and cream (a pint of his milk made a cameo appearance in a recent New York Times article about artisanal dairy operations), cheese made from the farm’s cow’s milk, and grass-fed lamb, pork, veal and chicken. And he makes wine, too.

More and more locals are doing at least some of their weekly shopping at the dozen farmers’ markets in Seattle (and many more in suburban cities); sales at some have seen double-digit increases in the last year. In all, roughly 150 farmers from around the state earn their primary income from selling at Seattle’s neighborhood markets. While some come from families rooted in the soil for generations, a surprising number have found their calling almost through serendipity. These new rural pioneers are discovering a career path—the small family farm—that not long ago seemed on the verge of extinction.
 
Buying local farm products may be what drives some customers to the markets—but it’s not the only reason. The  merchant farmers cultivate a convivial shopping experience that even our most upscale grocery stores can’t replicate. There’s an intimacy in the market experience—in the shopper-farmer interaction and in the vendor’s direct connection to the products they sell. Every time we fill a bag with arugula or pick up a pint of strawberries, we’re just one degree away from the land where that food came from.

On this February day at the Vashon market, Page slices off slivers of tomme-style cheese for a couple to taste and sleuths out the last four pork chops for a regular. He breaks the bad news to more than a few repeat customers that he’s sold out of eggs for the day. A slice of pâté here, a pound of sausage there, a couple of bottles of wine: In small doses, the products he worked so hard to raise, feed, tend, age, cook, ferment and/or butcher make their way home with customers.

His day at the market is a snapshot of what countless farmers go through to provide us with such amazing food. Where the day before there was a parking lot, markets come to life with the Brigadoon-like appearance of bright white tents and produce-laden tables. But it’s hard to grasp how much time it takes behind the scenes to make that magic. Page estimates that he spends about 11 to 12 hours per market, and he personally works two markets each week. Those hours go to packing up bins with products, loading the truck, unloading at the market site, setting up tents and signs. Then, after the four hours or so of being the merchant farmer, the routine goes in reverse.
 
“I don’t much like leaving the farm,” Page says. “Even selling at the farmers’ markets was hard at first, but the market scene has been growing on me. It takes a lot of emotional energy; I’m personally wrapped up in every product I have at the markets.” He goes on to explain that his father was a pastor. “I think I’ve got some of that evangelizing in my blood. I find myself evangelizing about my products with market customers.” He recognizes in himself the fatigue his dad showed on Sunday evenings, but says the effort is worth it. “This allows me to connect directly with my customers. It’s a very direct reward; it affirms the work that I do.”

Most farmers whose products appear at local markets come from Skagit, King and Snohomish counties on the wet side of the mountains; from the dry side, they drive in from Yakima, Chelan and even the wilds of the Okanogan to bring their pristine products to our doorstep. Those farmers are working 5,000 acres of Washington farmland, up from 1,000 acres 15 years ago.

The Neighborhood Farmers Market Alliance (NFMA) oversees seven of the city’s most active farmers’ markets: University District, Columbia City, West Seattle, Lake City, Magnolia, Broadway (Sunday) and Phinney Ridge. NFMA’s 2007 end-of-season vendor survey responses included reports of double-digit sales growth leading to investments farmers have made in their facilities, and of increased customer interest in their foods. The number of shoppers has topped 250,000 annually for the last few years, with more than $5 million transacted last year—a 17 percent increase over 2006 figures (though part of the increase reflects the new Phinney Ridge market). Likewise, the Seattle Neighborhood Farmers Markets, which manages Ballard, Madison (known as Mad/Cap), Wallingford and Queen Anne markets, saw nearly $2.5 million in vendor sales last year and 280,000 shoppers.
 
Like many of the farmers, Page didn’t grow up on a farm. Instead, this career path snuck up on him. He earned a degree in physics from the University of Washington (with a minor in music), then worked in the software department of a medical device company. Not the most obvious path to farming, but who knows? Perhaps that is just the kind of background one needs today to tackle the wild and wooly world of small farming.

The transition from software to farm tools happened slowly. With a passion for food and cooking, he was always on the hunt for artisan food experiences. He made pasta from scratch and dabbled in cheese making. European travel opened his eyes to the cheese and charcuterie traditions there, and soon he expanded his cheese repertoire and worked on his own cured meats. Living on Queen Anne, he considered having a goat or two there—though it wasn’t legal then (now it is). He was clearly a man who needed land on which to sow his latent farmer impulses.

In 2000, Page and his wife, Kristin, moved to Vashon Island, where she grew up and still has family. The couple started with 4 acres and a few chickens, adding goats to make cheese, and more chickens. Page learned the ropes by reading voraciously, doing research, then jumping in to learn on the job. “I had no intention of creating a business; I just made stuff that I like to eat,” he explains. “Before long, I was making more than we could eat. I started giving things away, began selling eggs to neighbors—it all just grew from there.” Word spread, demand followed.

In 2002 Page began selling eggs, goat milk, goat cheese and savory tarts at the Vashon Farmers Market, expanding to the Ballard and West Seattle farmers’ markets in 2006, and now also sells at the University District market. He works some of the markets personally—others are overseen by his staff (which numbers seven), which helps with tasks on the farm and at the markets, where about 95 percent of Sea Breeze sales occur.
 
Page and others who are part of the current generation of farmers didn’t get into this because they like the business side of farming. They live for the visceral satisfaction they get from being outdoors and tending animals and crops, from the tactile pleasure of making cheese or tending row crops, and from having a hand in cultivating food that sustains their customers. They often are torn between the roots they have in their own farms and the tug they feel from the satisfying interaction they get from customers and fellow farmers when at the farmers’ markets.

Brent Olsen, owner of Olsen Farms, which specializes in gourmet potatoes, is one who feels that conflict. Olsen, who has lived in eastern Washington his entire life, farms on land tucked up in the far northeast corner of the state, near Colville. When his new-season potato digging begins in mid-July, you’ll see his Russian Banana fingerlings, rich German Butterballs, pretty Huckleberry potatoes and delicious Desirees at local markets. You may also pick up a bag of his “spud nuts,” a blend of tiny potatoes of different colors and types. (Just toss them in olive oil and roast them with a sprinkle of salt—perfection.)

“I want to be here farming,” laments Olsen. “But I also really want to be in Seattle, seeing the markets in action, meeting the customers.” He relishes that they “really want to understand my world.” He in turn gets to learn about theirs, trading stories in between sales on market day.

“I get big bang for the buck at the farmers’ markets,” he says. “It’s expensive in time and effort relative to wholesaling, but I’ve still got a sour taste from a wholesaling experience I had a while ago. They kept nickel-and-diming me, wanted me to knock a dollar off a case of potatoes so they could make more profit. All I do is direct marketing now.” About two-thirds of his sales are at farmers’ markets, up from one-third in recent years; the rest are split between small store outlets in eastern Washington and a handful of restaurants.

Like many people in this demanding business, Olsen has always loved gardening, and loved growing things as a kid. When it came time to decide his own career path, he knew two things: He wanted to work for himself and he wanted to work outside amid growing things. Once he had settled on farming, he focused on products that he could market year-round. His sister Nora, who was working on her Ph.D. in potato science at Washington State University, helped spawn the idea of potato farming. He’s been at it for 15 years now, starting with 1 acre, now farming on about 25. He makes a 700-mile round-trip to be part of the Seattle markets.

A number of years ago Olsen branched out into beef—the result of a trait you’ll find in most successful farmers: resourcefulness. With margins at most farms slim, farmers must make the most of every gallon of gas, every hour of labor, every pound harvested. A few years ago, Olsen took a step back from his operation and put some pieces together. He had a nice chunk of pastureland available; he was cutting lots of hay to sell for horse feed (and for peanuts); at harvest time, he was culling potatoes that were damaged or otherwise unsalable—and tossing them into the woods for the deer to eat. A light bulb went on. If he got some quality cattle, he could raise them on the pastureland he already owned, and feed them the hay, grass and potatoes he was already growing.

He’s been overwhelmed by the response to his pasture-raised beef. Last year he had 30 head; he upped the herd to 45 this year, and it may be as large as 70 head next year. He markets the beef fresh in season (May to November), with enough frozen supplies to carry over to the next season. This summer, he’ll also begin selling fresh lamb.

Steve Hallstrom was an early pioneer at the University District farmers’ market—the oldest of the city’s neighborhood markets. Now owner of Let Us Farm in Oakville, southwest of Olympia, he worked for about 20 years in the computing department at the University of Washington. Even then, he was an active proponent of farmland preservation, appealing to the King County Council—as an individual and as part of community groups—to ensure that farmland in the Snoqualmie Valley would not be developed. He had long argued that a person can make a living farming and that farmland needed protection to preserve those livelihoods.

When early retirement became an option in 1993, he acted on his beliefs. With his partner, Cecelia Boulais, Hallstrom jumped into his second career of farming. They began selling produce at the University District market in 1994, “a wonderful part of my business success is thanks to that market,” Hallstrom says. They joined Columbia City farmers’ market in its first year, 1999. Those two markets account for most of his sales. He also sells about 20 percent of his production to the Olympia Food Co-op.

Hallstrom and Boulais cultivate many organic vegetables on about a dozen acres each year, but they’re famous for their lettuce: green and red butterhead, black seeded Simpson, red oakleaf, romaine. Boulais also orchestrates a “lettuce of the week” and other rotations throughout the season, such as more exotic merlot, galisse and oscard. Hallstrom chuckles a bit when confirming that lettuce has an “exceptional” profit margin relative to many other crops. When he had just a few acres to till early on, he picked a crop that would make the most of the small farm space—both in density of planting and price at market. Compact heads of lettuce were the perfect fit, and still are.

Hallstrom is happy with his operation. Expanding would mean hiring more people and becoming more of a manager. “I’m not interested in growing more; that’s never been the goal,” he says. “If I wanted to make a whole bunch of money, I would have stayed in computing,” he says with a laugh. Though he does make a decent living, he’s in it, he says, for “the joy of farming.”

The farmers’ market boom is not without its challenges—and among the biggest, according to the NFMA survey, is securing permanent market locations, followed closely by reaching a broader consumer base. Despite appearances—many markets are at the same location year after year—the only permanent market space in the Seattle area is the venerable Pike Place Market.

Markets require a large open space for the vendor stalls, plenty of room for customer flow and ample space for truck off-loading and parking. School or bank parking lots are great, but ownership changes, construction or development plans can displace them.

In April, the Seattle City Council approved a broad food initiative to begin to address some of these issues. Presented by council president Richard Conlin, the 10-page resolution has ambitious goals that touch on the city’s “interrelated goals of race and social justice, environmental sustainability, economic development and emergency preparedness.”

“Other cities are looking at many of the same issues we address in this resolution, but Seattle’s is one of the most comprehensive approaches. And the city can’t do this alone,” Conlin says. “We’re hoping to extend this initiative regionally, building connections across the Cascades as well.

The resolution’s extensive to-do list, dubbed the Local Food Action Initiative, includes finding permanent locations for existing farmers’ markets. Among the resolution’s many statements is this: “WHEREAS, according to research conducted by Sustainable Seattle, the returns to our local economy for each dollar spent at a local farmers’ market are more than two times greater than the return on each dollar spent at a grocery chain.” That’s some pretty powerful ammunition for keeping farmland intact and farmers’ markets in permanent business.
 
What’s a really good day of work for a farmer? Most say being on the farm. “The sun’s shining, but not too hot,” says Hallstrom, “maybe I’m on the tractor tilling soil or we’re out picking beans.” Page, thoughtful and quiet for a bit, eventually says, “Well, they’re all good days,” but also describes the end-of-the-workday meal with his crew, sitting at the picnic table, looking out over the farm property and enjoying the fruits of their labor: a stew made with lamb shoulder, cheese, sips of wine, vegetables they’ve raised.

Olsen’s idea of a great day involves the right kind of weather at the right time—important since he doesn’t irrigate. “If we get a good old-fashioned thunderstorm in July, I’ll drive out to the field in my pickup truck and just sit there watching the storm roll through. That’s money-making weather.”

Those perfect moments don’t come every day, but there is a richness to the lives of these people, summed up by Olsen. “I think I’m one of the luckiest people. I’m very fortunate to be doing what I do, to have the life that I have.” They’re dedicated, hard-working, multitasking, good-natured gluttons for a life that can seem punishing from a distance. But up close, it’s all about the joy of the earth and of the seasons; of growing things and feeding people. Feeding us.