how much water and grow lights to use based on weather. I measure the size of the starter plants. Then I use her chart to tell how many drops of her fertilizer to use. She calls it the secret sauce.”
“Sounds like Cassie has lots of secrets,” I said.
Paco nodded. “Our organic tomatoes are the best in the valley. Our Cassie’s Amazements are the best of the best.”
“Is that what Cassie says? Best of the best?”
“Yeah. It’s true. And our Cassie’s Vipers are the hottest peppers in the world.”
“How do you know what pepper is hotter than another? Do you just taste it?”
Paco shook his head. “They measure it. Scoville Units. They put the pepper stuff into sugar water. And tasters try to taste it. You can put ours with over a million times as much water, and you can still taste it.”
“Ah,” I said. “So you measure it by diluting it. The more dilution it can take, the hotter the pepper.”
Paco shrugged.
We took 88 across the Central Valley. The two-lane highway crawled through dense orchards and fields of vegetables and vineyards and small farm towns. The world thinks of California as beaches and L.A., Disneyland and Hollywood, San Francisco and Silicon Valley. But it is also the most productive agricultural state, and this huge expanse of flat farmland is its quiet epicenter.
To pass the time, I put in a CD of Oscar Peterson’s Night Train. As the evocative piano jazz came on, Paco sighed.
“What’sa matter?” I said. “You don’t like jazz?”
“Ol’ man music,” Paco said.
I switched out the CD for Mozart’s Oboe Concerto. As the opening lines began, I said, “Classical music has enchanted people for centuries. Hard not to like, right?”
“Ol’ lady music,” he said.
I hit eject and put on The Beatles Sgt. Pepper and hit random play. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds started playing. “Not ol’ man and not ol’ lady,” I said. “Just right, right?”
“Just old,” Paco said.
I pointed at my CD box. “You’re welcome to find something you like.”
Paco ejected the CD, hit the radio button, and dialed a rap station. He turned it up loud, and we listened to a young man shout out a stream of angry words that were a mix of Marxist rage about the oppressor class and misogynist rants about ‘emasculating bitches.’ If there were a test for music like there is for peppers, it would be as hot as Cassie’s Vipers. I had to roll down my window to dilute it with wind noise.
Paco didn’t nod to the beat or show any other sign of connection to the music, but I could understand how a driving beat and angry lyrics could permeate a young boy’s consciousness. It didn’t seem like healthy inputs. But even as I had the thought, I realized that there was a time when adults fretted about all those long-haired groups that were polluting the minds of kids in the ’60s, groups that are now the gold standards of classic rock.
After the rap rage was over, I turned down the radio and asked, “You get paid for your work on the farm?”
Paco nodded. “Cassie pays me eighty bucks a week if I do all my chores.”
“What do you spend it on?”
“Cassie will only let me spend twenty-five bucks a week. I have to save the rest.”
“So you’re saving fifty-five bucks a week. That’s over two hundred bucks a month which is, what, pushing three grand a year.”
Paco shrugged.
“How long have you been working like this?”
“Since I started living with her. But she only paid me sixty-five a week back in the beginning.”
“That means you’ve been getting merit raises. Good job. Your bank account must be pretty fat by now.”
“I don’t have a bank account. Cassie says banks aren’t safe.”
“Ah,” I said. “Where do you put your money?”
“In a hiding place. You could never find it.” Paco said it with pride.
Outside the Jeep window was a stretch of what seemed like endless orchards. Then came endless vineyards. I remembered the statistic that Napa, Sonoma,
“Sounds like Cassie has lots of secrets,” I said.
Paco nodded. “Our organic tomatoes are the best in the valley. Our Cassie’s Amazements are the best of the best.”
“Is that what Cassie says? Best of the best?”
“Yeah. It’s true. And our Cassie’s Vipers are the hottest peppers in the world.”
“How do you know what pepper is hotter than another? Do you just taste it?”
Paco shook his head. “They measure it. Scoville Units. They put the pepper stuff into sugar water. And tasters try to taste it. You can put ours with over a million times as much water, and you can still taste it.”
“Ah,” I said. “So you measure it by diluting it. The more dilution it can take, the hotter the pepper.”
Paco shrugged.
We took 88 across the Central Valley. The two-lane highway crawled through dense orchards and fields of vegetables and vineyards and small farm towns. The world thinks of California as beaches and L.A., Disneyland and Hollywood, San Francisco and Silicon Valley. But it is also the most productive agricultural state, and this huge expanse of flat farmland is its quiet epicenter.
To pass the time, I put in a CD of Oscar Peterson’s Night Train. As the evocative piano jazz came on, Paco sighed.
“What’sa matter?” I said. “You don’t like jazz?”
“Ol’ man music,” Paco said.
I switched out the CD for Mozart’s Oboe Concerto. As the opening lines began, I said, “Classical music has enchanted people for centuries. Hard not to like, right?”
“Ol’ lady music,” he said.
I hit eject and put on The Beatles Sgt. Pepper and hit random play. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds started playing. “Not ol’ man and not ol’ lady,” I said. “Just right, right?”
“Just old,” Paco said.
I pointed at my CD box. “You’re welcome to find something you like.”
Paco ejected the CD, hit the radio button, and dialed a rap station. He turned it up loud, and we listened to a young man shout out a stream of angry words that were a mix of Marxist rage about the oppressor class and misogynist rants about ‘emasculating bitches.’ If there were a test for music like there is for peppers, it would be as hot as Cassie’s Vipers. I had to roll down my window to dilute it with wind noise.
Paco didn’t nod to the beat or show any other sign of connection to the music, but I could understand how a driving beat and angry lyrics could permeate a young boy’s consciousness. It didn’t seem like healthy inputs. But even as I had the thought, I realized that there was a time when adults fretted about all those long-haired groups that were polluting the minds of kids in the ’60s, groups that are now the gold standards of classic rock.
After the rap rage was over, I turned down the radio and asked, “You get paid for your work on the farm?”
Paco nodded. “Cassie pays me eighty bucks a week if I do all my chores.”
“What do you spend it on?”
“Cassie will only let me spend twenty-five bucks a week. I have to save the rest.”
“So you’re saving fifty-five bucks a week. That’s over two hundred bucks a month which is, what, pushing three grand a year.”
Paco shrugged.
“How long have you been working like this?”
“Since I started living with her. But she only paid me sixty-five a week back in the beginning.”
“That means you’ve been getting merit raises. Good job. Your bank account must be pretty fat by now.”
“I don’t have a bank account. Cassie says banks aren’t safe.”
“Ah,” I said. “Where do you put your money?”
“In a hiding place. You could never find it.” Paco said it with pride.
Outside the Jeep window was a stretch of what seemed like endless orchards. Then came endless vineyards. I remembered the statistic that Napa, Sonoma,
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