Whenever we return from a trip somewhere, my family and I come home with two kinds of souvenirs: the real, hold-in-your-hands kind that you pick up along the way (from polished stones gathered for free on a beach in Wales to that expensive Mickey sweatshirt bought from a Disneyland tourist shop) and the intangible kind.
The log cabin, dimly lit by oil lamps and a few small windows, bustles with activity: girls dressed in matching aprons and bonnets (and a few boys, definitely not in aprons and bonnets) kneading bread dough, churning cream and grinding corn.
When Brett and I moved to the country two decades ago, we envisioned having a sunny little orchard where we would harvest bushels of apples, pears and other delicious tree treasure each year.
I’m sorry to have been out of touch for so long, but several weeks ago my husband and I decided to unplug from our computers, TV and coffee-maker (oh, the agony) to embark on an off-farm backpacking adventure.
This four-part celebration of biodiversity on my farm wouldn’t be complete without mentioning the heritage livestock breeds and heirloom plants that live and grow here.
Last summer, after much squinting to make out the smaller print in magazines and books, and much denial about how the ruthless passage of time was again messing with my once-accute vision, it finally dawned on me: I needed new glasses.
I noticed a few days ago that some of our herb stores were getting dangerously low—especially dried oregano, a critical ingredient for the homemade pizza we often make on pizza/movie nights.