Cameron munched on a small handful of the grain from his cup as we walked with Kate and her Afi (did I spell that right? Grandpa, in Icelandic?). I declined Cameron’s sharing offer. Wheat turns gubby, with a hint of sweetness, if you chew it long enough, but just has a texture that makes me gag. But that’s not what matters. He knows that those were wheat seeds, that we grind them up to make flour (he tried smashing some with rocks), or we plant them to grow more wheat.
At a clearing in the woods, maybe the size of a living room, the kids started throwing their wheat on the ground. Handful after handful from the cups they carried, then they’d refill from the bucket I carried. My job was to keep them from trying to grow wheat between the trees in the undergrowth, to keep it off the road, and to rake the ‘field’ so the seeds had a light covering of soil.
Somewhere in that clearing is K-A-T-E in wheat, and a large C.
We chatted about what the seeds will need to grow, about how tall the wheat will grow, about what people could make with the wheat. Bread, cake, doughnuts, pasta, pancakes. And more wheat.
Last I talked with Leif’s dad, the wheat was several centimeters tall, nice and thick. Can’t wait to see how it’s growing when we’re up there next!