The Art of Making the Bed

Today I've come closer to mastering the art of making the bed. You might be saying to yourself, "Gee, it sure took this kid a long time." But if you're thinking of the bed in which humans sleep, you'd be wrong.
A more appropriate (if somewhat verbose) opening sentence would be:
Today I've come closer to mastering the art of constructing (from dirt) the raised growing platforms in which we grow our phenomenally delicious and whole foods (I'm biased, I know).
These beds are the building blocks of our Murray Farm on High Mead Circle.
According to a small Bay Area company specializing in this technique, the raised beds we construct are in a style of gardening (or my preference, small-scale farming, I'll get into why later) technique called French Intensive kitchen gardening.
The rationale behind the raising of beds, a somewhat arduous process, is quite simple. The idea is based on the fact that a plant will send roots as deep as the soil density will allow. In other words, the more loosely the soil is compacted, the deeper a plant's roots will be able to plunge. Otherwise, a plant will send its root system horizontally, putting them in competition with other plant's roots nearby in the search for nutrients.
But, by piling soil in long mounds and raking them flat to a height of around on foot, we create a deep reservoir of loose soil in which a plant can send vertical roots. This way, the gardner can harvest "4 to 6 times more produce than from a similar sized conventional garden."
So now you and I both understand the technicalities behind what has become a Murray tradition. It's taken me this long; we've been making beds like these and planting them for as long as I can remember. And I've been making them myself since I was first able.
The part of this process that invites mastery is the raking flat and widening of the bed. This is where things can get tricky, and time consuming. The bed-raker must learn to be very patient. Especially when it comes to the beds that hit 100+ feet. And keep in mind, we're still talking about a small-scale farm.

Let's look at that label for our creation.
We have about an acre of land, with almost as much actual growing space (we have some citrus trees and other vegetation). I feel like it's too big to call a "garden." Not to mention that just the word garden conjures and image of a quaint cottage kitchen garden; a kindly elderly man and woman hunched over working their crops. I like to think our operation has a slightly more sophisticated aura to it. Of course, there's nothing wrong with the aforementioned setting. In fact, I think it sounds like a rather wonderful way to spend my older years.
Nonetheless, the commonalities remain. Both a garden and a (small-scale) farm produce food, and that's what ours is doing. Maybe I'll just use the terms interchangeably; a compromise.

It's so exiting to be growing food. I've begun to understand the true meaning of what we're doing from many perspectives (political, biological, ecological, socio-anthropological, and economic) through the study of current literature on food culture in the US and the rest of the developing world. The result is that my basic interest and desire to be in the garden/farm is increased ten-fold by the passion of an informed activist. And the adventure has just begun. I forsee my young-adulthood to be filled with similar experiences.

That's all for now. Lovely handmade burgers on Spelt buns for din din. Looking forward to that one.
Until next time.