Mark Scherzer's guest appearances

Mark Scherzer

AGRICULTURE

Mr. Media Interviews by Bob Andelman

ROBIN HOOD RADIO ON DEMAND AUDIO

Barack Obama

Sarah Marshall

John Doe

Sam Jones

Scott Cooper

Bethenny Frankel

Barbara Corcoran

Ryan Barton

Rob Paulsen

Keith Morrison

Brian Johnson

Ken Blanchard

Guy Kawasaki

Mary Ewing-Mulligan

Ed Droste

OwlTail

There are four individuals in our household with very different dietary preferences and food aversions, but it appears we are all united in our love of brassicas — cabbage, kale, brussels sprouts, broccoli, etc. It is a love I now know we share with the ground hogs who live among us, and who keep marauding our garden. I have been assiduously cultivating a patch of kale in various varieties, from the familiar curly-leafed light green to the straight leafed dark blue-green lacinato to mixed Siberian and Russian greens and reds, since the earliest days of the garden this season. It’s started with a mix of left-over seedlings Victoria kindly brought from the farm where she’s working and a packet of mixed exotic seeds I got from the Hudson Valley Seed Company. They were doing pretty well up to about two weeks ago, when I noticed that the big leaves of those furthest along were disappearing. Every day I would come out and find more of the plants decimated. Thankfully, the grazing just took the bigger leaves — the stems and smallest new leaves were generally left behind, so the plant would regenerate. Still, it was frustrating that whatever began to look like it would soon be harvestable was disappearing, when we should have already been eating home grown kale. I realized we were dealing with a decided taste for brassica when one morning I found the kale without new damage, only to see that a similar munching pattern had been replicated in the nearby bed of brussels sprouts. Two days later, it was the bed of broccoli (see picture). Unlike the kale patch, which I’d assiduously weeded and mulched so the kale plants were the only thing to eat, the brussels sprouts and broccoli patches were pretty weedy, with the young brassicas I had seeded not that easy to discern. Nonetheless, whatever was eating them was doing so selectively. The amaranth, gallant soldier, lambsquarter, purslane and chickweed among which my seedlings were growing remained untouched, but the brassicas were continuously reduced to one or two leaves. The thought of adding further interior garden fences to a fenced garden, or of hiring a trapper as I had in the past, or reverting to what had always to me seemed a futile effort to poison the groundhogs through putting smoke bombs in their tunnels, was highly discouraging. I felt I was looking forward to an endless war. And my discouragement turned to near rage the other morning when I came out to water a row of sugar snap peas (not even brassicas!) I had planted along the garden fence, and which were in flower and staring to produce pods. I found virtually the entire 50 foot stretch of pea vines gone. In some cases, the tops of the vines were still twined in the fence, shriveling, allowing me to see that the eating was done from ground level. And I kicked myself for having just weeded around those peas, as I saw that the few vines that were spared were those made invisible behind blackberry canes. Such was my anger that the same afternoon, when we found Eric’s dog, Lillie, in confrontation with a large groundhog, I relished the battle that ensued. The groundhog was snarling, Lillie was barking loudly and incessantly, and while she was frequently picking up the creature and swinging it around, it was biting back. Even as Troy objected that allowing Lillie to fight with a wild animal was no way to address our ground hog problem, my blood lust was such that I asked Eric to let it continue. And he did for a little while, until it was clear that the stand-off was exhausting her and she was not going to win the fight easily. I wonder if my perhaps irrational response simply reflects the larger environment in which we are living. We escaped to the farm as Covid-19 ravaged the City for what we thought would be a couple of weeks. That turned into a three month continuous stay which, if I am determined to keep staying safe while not feeling imprisoned, looks like it

There are four individuals in our household with very different dietary preferences and food aversions, but it appears we are all united in our love of brassicas — cabbage, kale, brussels sprouts, broccoli, etc. It is a love I now know we share with the ground hogs who live among us, and who keep marauding our garden. I have been assiduously cultivating a patch of kale in various varieties, from the familiar curly-leafed light green to the straight leafed dark blue-green lacinato to mixed Siberian and Russian greens and reds, since the earliest days of the garden this season. It’s started with a mix of left-over seedlings Victoria kindly brought from the farm where she’s working and a packet of mixed exotic seeds I got from the Hudson Valley Seed Company. They were doing pretty well up to about two weeks ago, when I noticed that the big leaves of those furthest along were disappearing. Every day I would come out and find more of the plants decimated. Thankfully, the grazing just took the bigger leaves — the stems and smallest new leaves were generally left behind, so the plant would regenerate. Still, it was frustrating that whatever began to look like it would soon be harvestable was disappearing, when we should have already been eating home grown kale. I realized we were dealing with a decided taste for brassica when one morning I found the kale without new damage, only to see that a similar munching pattern had been replicated in the nearby bed of brussels sprouts. Two days later, it was the bed of broccoli (see picture). Unlike the kale patch, which I’d assiduously weeded and mulched so the kale plants were the only thing to eat, the brussels sprouts and broccoli patches were pretty weedy, with the young brassicas I had seeded not that easy to discern. Nonetheless, whatever was eating them was doing so selectively. The amaranth, gallant soldier, lambsquarter, purslane and chickweed among which my seedlings were growing remained untouched, but the brassicas were continuously reduced to one or two leaves. The thought of adding further interior garden fences to a fenced garden, or of hiring a trapper as I had in the past, or reverting to what had always to me seemed a futile effort to poison the groundhogs through putting smoke bombs in their tunnels, was highly discouraging. I felt I was looking forward to an endless war. And my discouragement turned to near rage the other morning when I came out to water a row of sugar snap peas (not even brassicas!) I had planted along the garden fence, and which were in flower and staring to produce pods. I found virtually the entire 50 foot stretch of pea vines gone. In some cases, the tops of the vines were still twined in the fence, shriveling, allowing me to see that the eating was done from ground level. And I kicked myself for having just weeded around those peas, as I saw that the few vines that were spared were those made invisible behind blackberry canes. Such was my anger that the same afternoon, when we found Eric’s dog, Lillie, in confrontation with a large groundhog, I relished the battle that ensued. The groundhog was snarling, Lillie was barking loudly and incessantly, and while she was frequently picking up the creature and swinging it around, it was biting back. Even as Troy objected that allowing Lillie to fight with a wild animal was no way to address our ground hog problem, my blood lust was such that I asked Eric to let it continue. And he did for a little while, until it was clear that the stand-off was exhausting her and she was not going to win the fight easily. I wonder if my perhaps irrational response simply reflects the larger environment in which we are living. We escaped to the farm as Covid-19 ravaged the City for what we thought would be a couple of weeks. That turned into a three month continuous stay which, if I am determined to keep staying safe while not feeling imprisoned, looks like it

AgriCulture: Chafing at the Long Haul, by Mark Scherzer

There are six adorable greenish yellow puffballs paddling out on and marching around our pond. Since they hatched Wednesday, these goslings have been carefully shepherded at all times by their extremely protective parents, a couple of Canadian geese. It seems remarkable to me that these goslings can swim so soon after hatching, given their lack of mature feathers and the extreme cold of the water. When we used to raise domesticated Toulouse geese, it seemed water was the enemy of the day-old hatchlings we got in the mail. If they got too wet, and did not dry quickly under the heat lamps, they often didn’t make it. But then, they didn’t have an extremely large and protective feathered mother to get under. Our pond’s role as a hatching ward for Canadian geese started nineteen years ago, the very first year after it was dug and filled up with water. It seems the tiny island in the middle of the pond is an ideal spot for brooding, as it is not readily accessible to large land based predators, and is an easy location to monitor. When the eggs are first laid the geese can go to the nearby pasture to graze without losing sight of the island. Once the eggs need incubating, one of the pair can sit on them while the other patrols the perimeter, the pond’s shoreline. When potential threats, like humans, come near, the safety patrol can see us coming and try to deter our approach. I’m pretty sure it’s the same pair of geese who come each year. When they first started this annual ritual, we thought we needed to do something to discourage it, as we had images of the pasture and nearby lawns slick with goose poop, as happens in suburban parks where large flocks of geese perpetually congregate. The way they tried to attack us, when we were simply going down to slop the pigs housed nearby, was bothersome. But it did not take long for us to realize that their sojourn was temporary. Once the goslings could fly, the whole goose family moved on. As we viewed the geese as less of a threat, so, I believe, did they view us. In the last few years, after a few introductory hisses each spring to remind us to keep our distance, they haven’t much chased us. They know where we’re going when we come down with the slop bucket and they are confident we’re not coming to get their eggs. The suspension of mutual hostility in favor of an unstated social distancing pact is partly what convinces me it’s the same pair of geese visiting us year after year. They will leave, they will return. There was a time when I could say the same about myself. Regular as clockwork, every Monday I would leave. Regular as clockwork, on Friday I’d be back. Now, however, I’ve been here for an unprecedented, nearly unbroken stretch of nearly six straight weeks. I’ve been living comfortably without the City I thought I could never live without. I’ve discovered that it’s possible to work effectively, remotely. I’ve realized how much I’ve missed here in past years while away mid-week. There are a surprising number of trees and flowers whose peak bloom lasts only a few days. The ornamental apple along our driveway, the nectarine out back, some of the blue and yellow patches of bloom in the rock garden Peter planted whose names I don’t even know. Sometimes these periods of peak bloom in past years coincided with my weekend presence, but often I only saw the remnant of them or heard about them from Peter. This year I’m getting to see the whole magnificent progression. I’ve also realized how much I miss about my life in the City. Walking lively streets. Eating the world’s cuisines in lively restaurants with friends. Theatre. Jostling for produce at Union Square. How easy it was to meet someone at the drop of a text and a hop on the subway. But on the whole I’ve been content here; the craving for those activities has not yet gotten intense. And I’ve considered whether I ought to just stay here full time a good bit long

There are six adorable greenish yellow puffballs paddling out on and marching around our pond. Since they hatched Wednesday, these goslings have been carefully shepherded at all times by their extremely protective parents, a couple of Canadian geese. It seems remarkable to me that these goslings can swim so soon after hatching, given their lack of mature feathers and the extreme cold of the water. When we used to raise domesticated Toulouse geese, it seemed water was the enemy of the day-old hatchlings we got in the mail. If they got too wet, and did not dry quickly under the heat lamps, they often didn’t make it. But then, they didn’t have an extremely large and protective feathered mother to get under. Our pond’s role as a hatching ward for Canadian geese started nineteen years ago, the very first year after it was dug and filled up with water. It seems the tiny island in the middle of the pond is an ideal spot for brooding, as it is not readily accessible to large land based predators, and is an easy location to monitor. When the eggs are first laid the geese can go to the nearby pasture to graze without losing sight of the island. Once the eggs need incubating, one of the pair can sit on them while the other patrols the perimeter, the pond’s shoreline. When potential threats, like humans, come near, the safety patrol can see us coming and try to deter our approach. I’m pretty sure it’s the same pair of geese who come each year. When they first started this annual ritual, we thought we needed to do something to discourage it, as we had images of the pasture and nearby lawns slick with goose poop, as happens in suburban parks where large flocks of geese perpetually congregate. The way they tried to attack us, when we were simply going down to slop the pigs housed nearby, was bothersome. But it did not take long for us to realize that their sojourn was temporary. Once the goslings could fly, the whole goose family moved on. As we viewed the geese as less of a threat, so, I believe, did they view us. In the last few years, after a few introductory hisses each spring to remind us to keep our distance, they haven’t much chased us. They know where we’re going when we come down with the slop bucket and they are confident we’re not coming to get their eggs. The suspension of mutual hostility in favor of an unstated social distancing pact is partly what convinces me it’s the same pair of geese visiting us year after year. They will leave, they will return. There was a time when I could say the same about myself. Regular as clockwork, every Monday I would leave. Regular as clockwork, on Friday I’d be back. Now, however, I’ve been here for an unprecedented, nearly unbroken stretch of nearly six straight weeks. I’ve been living comfortably without the City I thought I could never live without. I’ve discovered that it’s possible to work effectively, remotely. I’ve realized how much I’ve missed here in past years while away mid-week. There are a surprising number of trees and flowers whose peak bloom lasts only a few days. The ornamental apple along our driveway, the nectarine out back, some of the blue and yellow patches of bloom in the rock garden Peter planted whose names I don’t even know. Sometimes these periods of peak bloom in past years coincided with my weekend presence, but often I only saw the remnant of them or heard about them from Peter. This year I’m getting to see the whole magnificent progression. I’ve also realized how much I miss about my life in the City. Walking lively streets. Eating the world’s cuisines in lively restaurants with friends. Theatre. Jostling for produce at Union Square. How easy it was to meet someone at the drop of a text and a hop on the subway. But on the whole I’ve been content here; the craving for those activities has not yet gotten intense. And I’ve considered whether I ought to just stay here full time a good bit long

AgriCulture: Six Weeks, Six Goslings, by Mark Scherzer

Keith Fenimore

2011: If I were you, and you were interested in getting a job in the entertainment industry, I’d listen to today’s interview with writers Mark Scherzer and Keith Fenimore. Then I’d order their new book, Hire Me, Hollywood: You Behind-the-Scenes Guide to the Most Exciting—and Unexpected—Jobs in Show Business. Trust me, it’s that good. Frankly, even if you don’t have stars in your eyes, this book is a great read.

1075 Keith Fenimore, Mark Scherzer, co-authors, "Hire Me, Hollywood"