The farm is full of ironies, oxymorons, absurdities. The permanent Argentine farmworker who stopped shoveling dirt to read and respond to a text message. The fresh milk to put in the instant coffee. The completely organic, biodynamic (more about what that means later) cow sticking its head into the front seat of the truck while its radio played bad pop music from the U.S. The Swedish high school teacher - we’ll call her Tall Swedish Teacher - working here during her sabbatical who smokes and chews tobacco constantly. Everything happens fast and slow, at the same time. The weeds we pull from the garden become that day’s food for the goats. When we need salad for lunch, I take a bowl from the kitchen to one of the permanent Argentine farmworkers, who cuts lettuce out of the garden. But, of course, that lettuce didn’t come to our lunchtable quickly. The garden was weeded recently. The compost was started a year before it was mixed with the soil. The sheep and cows have to be fed in order to make the manure for the compost. Two out of every three years the field lays fallow. It’s dusk now; the sky is gray disappearing into orange disappearing into purple. A German woman who grew up on a farm, an Englishman fresh from six months teaching English in Bolivia and TST are brushing the cows while the only temporary worker from Argentina is playing guitar along to some ’90s music from the U.S. I don’t recognize.